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Title: Operas Every Child Should Know

Author: Mary Schell Hoke Bacon

Release date: May 7, 2009 [eBook #28711]

Language: English

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Transcriber's Notes:
Click on the [Listen] link to hear a midi file of the music.
Lyrics appearing in the music image are set out below the
image.
Obvious typographical and musical errors have been corrected.
The cover image was scanned from the 1914 edition published
by Doubleday, Page & Company.
The original frontispiece is a poor-quality reproduction of a
detail from Arthur Rackham's 1910 painting of Brünnhilde. A
better-quality reproduction has been used in in its place.

CONTENTS

Brünnhilde the Valkyrie

Operas

EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW

DESCRIPTIONS OF THE TEXT AND MUSIC OF
SOME OF THE
MOST FAMOUS MASTERPIECES

BY

DOLORES BACON

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N.Y.

FOREWORD

In selecting a few of the operas every child should know, the editor's
greatest difficulty is in determining what to leave out. The wish to include
"L'Africaine," "Othello," "Lucia," "Don Pasquale," "Mignon," "Nozze di
Figaro," "Don Giovanni," "Rienzi," "Tannhäuser," "Romeo and Juliet,"
"Parsifal," "Freischütz," and a hundred others makes one impatient of
limitations.
The operas described here are not all great compositions: Some of them are
hopelessly poor. Those of Balfe and Flotow are included because they were
expressions of popular taste when our grandfathers enjoyed going to the
opera.
The Nibelung Ring is used in preference to several other compositions of
Wagner because the four operas included in it are the fullest both of musical
and story wonders, and are at the same time the least understood.
"Aïda" and "Carmen" belong here—as do many which are left out—
because of their beauty and musical splendour. Few, instead of many, operas
have been written about in this book, because it seemed better to give a
complete idea of several than a superficial sketch of many.
The beginnings of opera—music-drama—are unknown; but Sulpitius, an
Italian, declared that opera was heard in Italy as early as 1490. The Greeks,
of course, accompanied their tragedies with music long before that time, but
that would not imply "opera" as we understand it. However, modern opera
is doubtless merely the development of that manner of presenting drama.
After the opera, came the ballet, and that belonged distinctively to France.
Before 1681 there were no women dancers in the ballet—only males. All
ballets of shepherdesses and nymphs and dryads were represented by men
and boys; but at last, the ladies of the court of France took to the ballet for
their own amusement, and thus women dancers became the fashion.

Even the most heroic or touching stories must lose much of their dignity
when made into opera, since in that case the "music's the thing," and not the
"play." For this reason it has seemed necessary to tell the stories of such
operas as "Il Trovatore," with all their bombastic trimmings complete, in
order to be faithful in showing them as they really are. On the other hand, it
has been necessary to try to treat "Pinafore" in Gilbert's rollicking fashion.
Opera is the most superficial thing in the world, even if it appears the most
beautiful to the senses, if not to the intelligence. We go to opera not
specially to understand the story, but to hear music and to see beautiful
scenic effects. It is necessary, however, to know enough of the story to
appreciate the cause of the movement upon the stage, and without some
acquaintance of it beforehand one gets but a very imperfect knowledge of
an opera story from hearing it once.
A very great deal is said of music-motif and music-illustration, and it has
been demonstrated again and again that this is largely the effort of the ultra-
artistic to discover what is not there. At best, music is a "concord of sweet
sounds"—heroic, tender, exciting, etc.; but the elemental passions and
emotions are almost all it can define, or even suggest. Certain music is
called "characteristic"—anvil choruses, for example, where hammers or
triangles or tin whistles are used, but that is not music in its best estate, and
musical purpose is best understood after a composer has labelled it, whether
the ultra-artistic are ready to admit it or not.
The opera is never more enjoyed than by a music lover who is incapable of
criticism from lack of musical knowledge: music being first and last an
emotional art; and as our emotions are refined it requires compositions of a
more and more elevated character to appeal to them. Thus, we range from
the bathos and vulgarity of the music hall to the glories of grand opera!
The history of opera should be known and composers classified, just as it is
desirable to know and to classify authors, painters, sculptors, and actors.
Music is first of all something to be felt, and it is one of the arts which does
not always explain itself.
Dolores Bacon.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Balfe: The Bohemian Girl 3
II. Beethoven: Fidelio 35
III. Berlioz: The Damnation of Faust 51
IV. Bizet: Carmen 69
V. DeKoven: Robin Hood 95
VI. Flotow: Martha 105
VII. Humperdinck: Hänsel and Gretel 135
VIII. Mascagni: Cavalleria Rusticana 152
IX. Meyerbeer: The Prophet 163
X. Mozart: The Magic Flute 191
XI. Sullivan: Pinafore 218
XII. Verdi: Rigoletto, Il Trovatore, Aïda 238
Wagner: The Nibelung Ring, The Mastersingers of
XIII. 306
Nuremberg, Lohengrin

OPERAS EVERY CHILD
SHOULD
KNOW

BALFE

T HE story of The Bohemian Girl is supposed to have been taken from a
French ballet entitled The Gipsy, which was produced in Paris in 1839.
Again, it is said to have been stolen from a play written by the Marquis de
Saint-Georges, which was named La Bohémienne. However that may be, it
would at first sight hardly seem worth stealing, but it has nevertheless been
popular for many decades. Balfe, the composer, had no sense of dramatic
composition and was not much of a musician, but he had a talent for writing
that which could be sung. It was not always beautiful, but it was always
practicable.
The original title of La Bohémienne has in its meaning nothing to do with
Bohemia, and therefore a literal translation does not seem to have been
especially applicable to the opera as Bunn made it. The story is placed in
Hungary and not in Bohemia, and the hero came from Warsaw, hence the
title is a misnomer all the way around. It was Balfe who tried to establish
English opera in London, and to that purpose he wrote an opera or two in
which his wife sang the principal rôles; but in the midst of that enterprise he
received favourable propositions from Paris, and therefore abandoned the
London engagement. When he went to Paris, The Bohemian Girl was only
partly written, and he took from its score several of its arias for use in a new
opera. When he returned to London he wrote new music for the old opera,
and thus The Bohemian Girl knew many vicissitudes off, as well as on, the
stage.
The first city to hear this opera, outside of London, was New York. It was
produced in America at the Park Theatre, November 25, 1844. The most
remarkable thing about that performance was that the part of Arline was
sung in the same cast by two women, Miss Dyott and Mrs. Seguin: the
former singing it in the first act, the latter in the second and third. When it
was produced in London, Piccolomini (a most famous singer) sang Arline
and it was written that "applause from the many loud enough to rend the
heavens" followed.

Because of this inconsequent opera, Balfe was given the cross of the Legion
of Honour from Napoleon III., and was made Commander of the Order of
Carlos III. by the regent of Spain. This seems incredible, for good music
was perfectly well known from bad, but the undefined element of
popularity was there, and thus the opera became a living thing.
A story is told of Balfe while he belonged to the Drury Lane orchestra.
"Vauxhall Gardens" were then in vogue, and there was a call for the Drury
Lane musicians to go there to play. The "Gardens" were a long way off, and
there was no tram-car or other means of transportation for their patrons.
Those who hadn't a coach had no way of getting there, and it must have cost
Balfe considerable to go and come each day. He decided to find lodgings
near the Gardens to save himself expense. He looked and looked, on the day
he first went out. Others wanted the same thing, and it was not easy to place
himself. However, by evening, he had decided to take anything he could
find; so he engaged a room at an unpromising looking house. He was kept
waiting by the landlady for a long time in the passageway, but at last he was
escorted up to his room, and, being tired out, he immediately went to bed
and to sleep. In the morning he began to look about, and to his horror and
amazement he found a corpse stowed away in a cupboard. Some member of
his landlady's family who occupied the bed had died. When he applied for
the room, he had been made to wait while the previous occupant was hastily
tucked out of sight. After that, he never hired lodgings without first looking
into the cupboards and under the bed.
Balfe was a good deal of a wag, and his waggishness was not always in
good taste, as shown by an incident at carnival time in Rome. His
resemblance to a great patroness of his, the Countess Mazzaras, a well-
known woman of much dignity, induced him upon that occasion to dress
himself in women's clothes, stand in a window conspicuously, and make the
most extraordinary and hideous faces at the monks and other churchmen
who passed. Every one gave the credit of this remarkable conduct to the
Countess Mazzaras. Balfe had pianos carried up to the sleeping rooms of
great singers before they got out of bed, and thus made them listen to his
newly composed tunes. He sometimes announced himself by the titles of
his famous tunes, as, "We May Be Happy Yet," and was admitted, and
received as readily as if he had resorted to pasteboard politeness.

In short, Balfe was never a great musician, yet he had all the eccentricities
that one might expect a great musician to have, and he succeeded quite as
well as if he had had genius.
Balfe was born May 15, 1808, and died October 20, 1870.

THE BOHEMIAN GIRL

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST

Arline Miss Romer.
Gipsy Queen Miss Betts.
Thaddeus Mr. Harrison.
Devilshoof Mr. Stretton.
Count Arnheim Mr. Borrani.
Florestein Mr. Durnset.
Scene laid in Hungary.
Composer: Michael Balfe.
Author: Alfred Bunn.
First sung at London, England, Her Majesty's Theatre, Drury Lane, Nov. 27,
1843.

ACT I

Many years ago, when noblemen, warriors, gipsies, lovers, enemies and all
sorts and conditions of men fraternized without drawing very fine
distinctions except when it came to levying taxes, a company of rich nobles
met in the gardens of the Count Arnheim to go hunting together. The Count
was the Governor of Presburg, and a very popular man, except with his
inferiors.
They began their day's sport with a rather highfalutin song sung by the
Count's retainers:

"Up with the banner and down with the slave,
Who shall dare dispute the right,
Wherever its folds in their glory wave,
Of the Austrian eagle's flight?"

The verses were rather more emotional than intelligent, but the singers were
all in good spirits and prepared for a fine day's sport.
After this preliminary all the party—among whom was the young daughter
of the Count, whose name was Arline, and a girlie sort of chap, Florestein,
who was the Count's nephew—came from the castle, with huntsmen and
pages in their train; and what with pages running about, and the huntsmen's
bright colours, and the horns echoing, and the horses that one must feel
were just without, stamping with impatience to be off, it was a gay scene.
The old Count was in such high feather that he, too, broke into song and,
while singing that
"Bugles shake the air,"
he caught up his little daughter in his arms and told how dear she was to
him. It was not a proper thing for so young a girl to go on a hunt, but Arline
was a spoiled young countess. When a huntsman handed a rifle to
Florestein, that young man shuddered and rejected it—which left one to
wonder just what he was going to do at a hunt without a rifle, but the others
were less timid, and all separated to go to their various posts, Arline going
by a foot-path in charge of a retainer.
These gay people had no sooner disappeared than a handsome young
fellow, dishevelled, pursued, rushed into the garden. He looked fearfully
behind him, and stopped to get his breath.
"I can run no farther," he gasped, looking back upon the road he had come;
and then suddenly at his side, he saw a statue of the Austrian Emperor. He
was even leaning against it.
"Here I am, in the very midst of my foes!—a statue of the Emperor himself
adorning these grounds!" and he became even more alarmed. While he
stood thus, hesitating what to do next, a dozen dusky forms leaped the wall
of the garden and stood looking at him. Thaddeus was in a soldier's dress

and looked like a soldier. Foremost among the newcomers, who huddled
together in brilliant rags, was a great brigand-looking fellow, who seemed
to lead the band.
"Hold on! before we undertake to rob this chap, let us make sure of what we
are doing," he cautioned the others. "If he is a soldier, we are likely to get
the worst of it"—showing that he had as much wisdom as bravado. After a
moment's hesitation they decided that caution was the better part of valour,
and since it was no harm to be a gipsy, and there was a penalty attached to
being a robber, they nonchalantly turned suspicion from themselves by
beginning to sing gaily of their gipsy life. Frequently when they had done
this, they had received money for it. If they mayn't rob this soldier chap, at
least he might be generous and toss them a coin. During this time, Thaddeus
was not napping. The Austrian soldiery were after him, and at best he could
not expect to be safe long. The sight of the vagabonds inspired him with
hope, although to most folks they would have seemed to be a rather
uninspiring and hopeless lot. He went up to the leader, Devilshoof:
"My friend, I have something to say to you. I am in danger. You seem to be
a decent sort—gay and friendly enough. The Austrian soldiers are after me.
I am an exile from Poland. If I am caught, my life will be forfeited. I am
young and you may count upon my good will. If you will take me along
with you as one of you, I may stand a chance of escaping with my life—
what do you say?"
The gipsies stared at him; and Devilshoof did so in no unfriendly manner.
The leader was a good-natured wanderer, whose main fault was stealing—
but that was a fault he shared in common with all gipsies. He was quite
capable of being a good friend.
"Just who are you?" he asked, wanting a little more information.
"A man without country, friends, hope—or money."
"Well, you seem able to qualify as a gipsy pretty well. So come along." Just
as he spoke, another gipsy, who was reconnoitering, said softly:
"Soldiers are coming——"

"Good—we'll give them something to do. Here, friend, we'll get ready for
them," he cried, delighted with the new adventure.
At that the gipsies fell to stripping off Thaddeus's soldier clothes, and
exchanging them for a gipsy's smock; but as this was taking place, a roll of
parchment fell at Devilshoof's feet.
"What's this?" he asked, taking it up.
"It is my commission as a soldier of Poland—the only thing I have of value
in the world. I shall never part with it," and Thaddeus snatched it and hid it
in his dress and then mixed with the gipsies just as the Emperor's soldiers
came up.
"Ho, there! You vagabonds—have you seen anything of a stranger who has
passed this way?"
"What—a Polish soldier?"
"That's our man."
"Young?"
"Yes, yes—where did he go?"
"A handsome fellow?"
"Have done there, and answer—where did he go?"
"I guess that may be the one?" Devilshoof reflected, consulting his
comrades with a deliberation which made the officer wish to run his sword
through him.
"Speak up—or——"
"Yes, yes—that's right—we have the right man! Up those rocks there,"
pointing. "That is the way he went. I shouldn't wonder if you might catch
him."
The officer didn't wait to hear any more of this elaborate instruction, but
rushed away with his men.

"Now, comrade," Devilshoof said to Thaddeus: "It is time for us to be off,
while our soldier friends are enjoying the hunt. Only you lie around here
while we explore a little; this gipsy life means a deal of wear and tear, if a
fellow would live. There is likely to be something worth picking up about
the castle, and after we have done the picking, we'll all be off."
As the gipsies and Thaddeus went away, the huntsmen rushed on, shouting
to each other, and sounding their horns. Florestein came along in their
wake. He was about the last man on earth to go on a hunt. He made this
known without any help, by singing:

Is no succour near at hand?
For my intellect so reels,
I am doubtful if I stand
On my head or on my heels.
No gentleman, it's very clear,
Such a shock should ever know,
And when once I become a peer,
They shall not treat me so——

That seemed to suggest that something serious had happened, but no one
knew what till Thaddeus and a crowd of peasants rushed wildly in.
"The Count's child, Arline, is attacked by an infuriated animal, and we fear
she is killed,"—that is what Florestein had been bemoaning, instead of
hurrying to the rescue! The Count Arnheim ran in then, distraught with
horror. But Thaddeus had not remained idle; he had rushed after the
huntsmen. Presently he hurried back, bearing the child in his arms. The
retainer whose business it was to care for Arline fell at the Count's feet.
"Oh, great sir, just as we were entering the forest a wild deer rushed at us,
and only for the bravery of this young gipsy,"—indicating Thaddeus—"the
child would have been torn in pieces. As it is, she is wounded in the arm."
The Count took his beloved daughter in his arms.
"Her life is safe and the wound is not serious, thank God. Take her within
and give her every care. And you, young man—you will remain with us and

share our festivities—and ask of me anything that you will: I can never
repay this service."
"Humph! Thaddeus is a fool," Devilshoof muttered. "First he served his
enemy and now has to stand his enemy's thanks."
Thaddeus refused at first to remain, but when his refusal seemed to draw
too much attention to the gipsy band, he consented, as a matter of
discretion. So they all seated themselves at the table which had been laid in
the garden, and while they were banqueting, the gipsies and peasants
danced to add to the sport; and little Arline could be seen in the nurse's
arms, at a window of the castle, watching the fun, her arm bound up.
"Now," cried the old Count, when the banquet was over, "I ask one favour
of all—and that is that you drink to the health of our great Emperor." He
rose and lifted his glass, assuming that all would drink. But that was a bit
too much for Thaddeus! The Emperor was the enemy of Poland. Most
certainly he would not drink—not even to save his life.
Florestein, who was always doing everything but what he ought, walked up
to Thaddeus and pointed out his glass to him.
"Your fine acquaintance, uncle, is not overburdened with politeness, it
seems to me. He does not respond to your wishes."
"What—does he not drink to the Emperor? My friend, I challenge you to
drink this health." The old Count filled Thaddeus's glass and handed it to
him.
"And thus I accept the challenge," Thaddeus cried; and before Devilshoof
or any one else could stop him, the reckless chap went up to the statue of
the Emperor and dashed the wine in its face.
This was the signal for a great uproar. The man who has dared insult the
Emperor must be punished. The nobles made a dash for him, but the old
Count was under an obligation too great to abandon Thaddeus yet. He tried
to silence the enraged guests for a moment, and then said aside to
Thaddeus:

"Go, I beg of you, your life is not worth a breath if you remain here. I
cannot protect you—and indeed I ought not. Go at once," and he threw
Thaddeus a purse of gold, meaning thus to reward him, and get him away
quickly. Thaddeus immediately threw the purse amidst the nobles who were
threatening him, and shouted:
"I am one whom gold cannot reward!" At that the angry men rushed upon
him, but Devilshoof stood shoulder to shoulder with Thaddeus.
"Now, then, good folks, come on! I guess together we can give you a pretty
interesting fight, if it's fighting you are after!" A scrimmage was just in
Devilshoof's line, and once and forever he declared himself the champion of
his new comrade.
"Really, this is too bad," Florestein whimpered, standing at the table with
the bone of a pheasant in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. "Just as
a man is enjoying his dinner, a boor like this comes along and interrupts
him." But by that time the fight was on, and Thaddeus and Devilshoof were
against the lot. The old Count ordered his retainers to separate the nobles
and the gipsies, and then had Devilshoof bound and carried into the castle.
Thaddeus was escorted off by another path.
The row was over and the nobles seated themselves again at the table. The
nurse, who had Arline at the window, now left her nursling and came down
to speak with the Count.
Immediately after she left the castle chamber, Devilshoof could be seen
scrambling over the castle roof, having escaped from the room in which he
was confined. Reaching the window where Arline was left, he closed it. The
nurse had been gone only a moment, when she reëntered the room.
Whatever had taken place in her absence caused her to scream frightfully.
The whole company started up again, while the nurse threw open the
window and leaned out, crying:
"Arline is gone—stolen—help, help!" All dashed into the castle. Presently
some of the nobles came to the window and motioned to those left outside.
It was quite true. Arline was gone. Out they all rushed again. Every one in
the place had gone distracted. The poor old Count's grief was pitiable. At

that moment Devilshoof could be seen triumphantly mounting the rocks,
with Arline in his arms. He had avenged his comrade Thaddeus.
All at once the crowd saw the great gipsy leaping from rock to rock with the
little child in his arms, and with a roar they started after him. Then
Devilshoof seemed fairly to fly over the rocks, but the crowd gained upon
him, till they reached a bridge which spanned a deep chasm; there
Devilshoof paused; he was over, and with one tremendous effort he
knocked from under the structure the trunk of a tree which supported the far
end of the bridge, and down it went! The fall of timbers echoed back with
Devilshoof's shout of laughter as he sped up the mountain with Arline.
The old Count ran to the chasm to throw himself headlong into it, but his
friends held him back.

ACT II

Twelve years after that day of the hunt in Count Arnheim's forests, the
gipsies were encamped in Presburg. In those strange times gipsies roved
about in the cities as well as in the fields and forests, and it was not at all
strange to find the same old band encamped thus in the public street of a
city. There, the gipsy queen had pitched her tent, and through its open
curtains Arline could be seen lying upon a tiger's skin, while Thaddeus, who
had never left the band, watched over her. There were houses on the
opposite side of the street, and the gipsy queen's tent was lighted only dimly
with a lamp that swung at the back, just before some curtains that formed a
partition in the tent.
It was all quiet when the city patrol went by, and they had no sooner passed
than Devilshoof entered the street, followed by others of the gipsy band, all
wrapped in their dark cloaks.
"The moon is the only one awake now," they sang. "There is some fine
business on foot, when the moon herself goes to bed," and they all drew
their daggers. But Devilshoof, who was a pretty decent fellow, and who
didn't believe in killing, whispered:
"Fie! Fie! When you are going to rob a gentleman, you shouldn't draw a
knife on him. He will be too polite to refuse anything you may ask, if you

ask politely"—which was Devilshoof's idea of wit. There was a hotel across
the street, and one of the gipsies pointed to a light in its windows.
"It will be easy when our fine gentlemen have been drinking long enough.
They won't know their heads from their heels." They stole off chuckling, to
wait till they imagined every one to be asleep, but they were no sooner gone
than Florestein, that funny little fop who never had thought of anything
more serious than his appearance, reeled out of the hotel. He was dressed all
in his good clothes, and wore golden chains about his neck—to one of
which was attached a fine medallion. Rings glittered on his fingers, and
altogether, with his plumes and furbelows, he was precisely the sort of thing
Devilshoof and his companions were looking for. He was so very drunk that
he could not imagine what a fool he was making of himself, and so he
began to sing:

Wine, wine, if I am heir,
To the count, my uncle's line;
Wine, wine, wine,
Where's the fellow will dare
To refuse his nephew wine?

This excellent song was punctuated by hiccoughs. There was another stanza
which rebuked the boldness of the moon—in short, mentioned the
shortcomings of most people compared to this elegant fellow's. Altogether,
he was a very funny joke to the gipsies who were waiting for him and
peering and laughing from round a corner as he sang. Then Devilshoof went
up to him with mock politeness. He bowed very seriously.

My ear caught not the clock's last chime,
And might I beg to ask the time?

Florestein, even though he was drunk, was half alive to his danger. He
hadn't enough courage to survive a sudden sneeze. So he braced up a little
and eyed Devilshoof:

If the bottle has prevailed,
Yet whenever I'm assailed,
Though there may be nothing in it,
I am sobered in a minute.

One could see that this was quite true. Florestein was a good deal worried.
He took out his watch, and assured Devilshoof that it was quite late.

I am really grieved to see
Any one in such a state,
And gladly will take the greatest care
Of the rings and chains you chance to wear,

Devilshoof said still more politely; and bowing all of the time he removed
the ornaments from Florestein's person.

What I thought was politeness, is downright theft,
And at this rate I soon shall have nothing left,

the unfortunate dandy moaned, clutching his gewgaws hopelessly, while all
the gipsies beset him, each taking all he could for himself. But Devilshoof
having secured the medallion, made off with it. He was no sooner gone than
a dark woman wrapped in a cloak came into the street and, when she was
right in the midst of the squabble, she dropped her cloak and revealed
herself as Queen of the band. All the gipsies were amazed and not very
comfortable either!—because, strange to say, this gipsy queen did not
approve of the maraudings of her band; and when she caught them at
thievery she punished them.
"Return those things you have stolen," she commanded, and they made
haste to do so, while the trembling Florestein took a hurried inventory of his
property. But among the things returned, he didn't find the medallion.
"I'm much obliged to you, Madame, whoever you are, but I'd like a
medallion that they have taken, returned."
"That belongs to the chief—Devilshoof," they cried.

"I'll answer for your safety," the Queen said to Florestein, who was not
overmuch reassured by this, but still tried to make the best of things. "Now
follow me," she called the band, and went, holding Florestein and dragging
him with her.
They had no sooner gone than Arline, who had been awakened by the noise
outside the tent, came out into the street. Thaddeus followed her. She was
greatly disturbed.
"Thaddeus," she said, "I have had a strange dream":

[Listen]

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls,

That I was the joy and the pride.

I had riches too great to count;—could boast
Of a high ancestral name;
But I also dreamt (which pleased me most)
That you loved me still the same.

I dreamt that suitors sought my hand,
That knights upon bended knee
And with vows no maiden heart could withstand
They pledged their faith to me.

And I dreamt that one of that noble host
Came forth my hand to claim,
But I also dreamt (which pleased me most)
That you loved me still the same.

When she had ceased to sing, Thaddeus embraced her tenderly and assured
her that he should love her always, "still the same."
Arline had often been troubled because of some difference between herself
and the gipsies, and she had also been curious about a scar which was upon
her arm. So upon that night she questioned Thaddeus about this, and he told
her of the accident in the forest twelve years before, when she got the
wound upon her arm. However, he did not reveal to her that she was the
daughter of a noble.
"Thou wert but six years old when this accident befell thee," Thaddeus told
her. But Arline was not yet satisfied.
"There is more to tell! I know that I am not of this gipsy band—nor art
thou!—I feel that this is true, Thaddeus. Wilt thou not tell me the secret if
there is one?" and Thaddeus had decided that he would do this, when the
curtains at the back of the Queen's tent were parted and the gipsy Queen
herself appeared.
"Do you dare throw yourself into the arms of this man, when I love him?"
the Queen demanded angrily, at which Arline and Thaddeus were thrown
into consternation. But Arline had plenty of courage, especially after what

had just happened; hence she appealed to Thaddeus himself. He declared
his love for her, and the two called for their comrades. All ran in and asked
what the excitement was about.
Arline declared to them that she and Thaddeus loved each other and wished
to be married—which pleased Devilshoof mightily. All life was a joke to
him, and he knew perfectly that the Queen was in love with Thaddeus.
"Ho, ho," he laughed. "Now we shall have everybody by the ears. Come!"
he cried to the Queen. "As queen of the gipsies, it is your business to unite
this handsome pair. We are ready for the ceremony," and they all laughed
and became uproarious. The Queen's pride would not let her ignore the
challenge, so she advanced haughtily and took the hands of the lovers.

"Hand to hand and heart to heart,
Who shall those I've united part?"

she chanted; and with this gipsy rite, they were united.
Then the band sat down in groups and made merry; but the Queen began to
plot revenge against Arline.
While they lounged about, prolonging the revel, a gipsy entered and told
them that day was dawning, and that already the people of the city were
awake and wending their way to a fair which the gipsies were bound for;
and if they were to make anything by their dances and tricks they had better
be up and doing.
"Up, all of you!" cried the moody Queen, "and meet me in the public
square; while you, Devilshoof, stay behind for further orders." Whereupon
all went down the street, Thaddeus and Arline hand in hand.
As soon as the last gipsy had disappeared, the Queen turned on Devilshoof.
"Now, then—that thing you are wearing about your neck—that medallion
you stole! hand it over; and as for what has just happened, I shall not forget
the part you had in it—it was you who urged the marriage and compelled
me to perform it or else betray myself! You shall pay for this. Meantime,
see that you take nothing more that doesn't belong to you," and she snatched
the medallion from him. This did not endear her to Devilshoof, and he
determined to have his revenge.

"Now be off and join the rest!" she cried; and while she left the square by
one route Devilshoof departed by another.
After going a little way, Devilshoof was certain to come up with those who
had gone before and who were dancing along, in front of Arline and
Thaddeus, singing gaily about the wedding.

Come with the gipsy bride,
And repair
To the fair.
Where the mazy dance
Will the hours entrance.
Come with the gipsy bride,
Where souls as light preside.

Thus they pranced along having a fine gipsy time of it till they arrived at the
fair, which was held in a great public square in the midst of the city. The
courthouse was on one side, and over the door there was a sign which read
"The Hall of Justice." Everybody seemed to be at the fair: peasants, nobles,
soldiers, and citizens; rope-dancers, quack doctors, waxworks, showmen of
all sorts, and bells rang and flags flew, and altogether it was just the thing
for a gipsy's wedding day.
The quack doctor blew his horn, and everybody surged about him, and
while all that movement and fun were taking place, Devilshoof and
Thaddeus formed a sort of flying wedge on the outskirts of the crowd and
forced a passage for the gipsy band. At that moment Florestein came along,
taking part in the day as all the rest of Presburg were doing, and the first
man his eye lighted upon was that miscreant, Devilshoof. There stood the
man who had stolen his medallion! There were several gentlemen with
Florestein, and he called their attention to the gipsy group. Meantime
Arline, like any gipsy, had been going about selling flowers and telling
fortunes, and while those things were taking place the old Count Arnheim
and some officers of the city entered and tried to pass through the group to
the courthouse, where the old Count presided as judge. Florestein stopped
him.
"Uncle, just stop a bit and look at those gipsies! Do you see that pretty girl?
I am delighted with her. Even an old gentleman like you should have an eye

to a girl as pretty as that," he laughed. This was not in very good taste, but
then, nobody ever accused the little idiot of having either good taste or good
courage.
"I have no eyes for beauty since my Arline was lost to me, nephew," the old
man returned sadly, and passed to his courtroom. But Florestein pressed
through the crowd till he reached Arline's side.
"You are a pretty girl," he said boldly, ogling her. "Come! you are teaching
others" (Arline had been telling a fortune), "teach me."
"A lesson in politeness, sir?—you need it," and Arline slapped his face; not
at all the sort of thing a countess would do, but then she had been brought
up a gipsy, and couldn't be expected to have all the graces of her ancestors.
The Queen, who had been watching, ready to make trouble, called
Thaddeus's attention to the incident, and Thaddeus shouldered his way
through the crowd just in time to slap Florestein's face from the other side,
as he turned about. The fop was somewhat disturbed, while Arline and
Thaddeus burst out laughing at him. The Queen, watching this episode,
recognized in Florestein the chap to whom she had restored the trinkets. She
herself had the medallion, and instantly a malicious thought occurred to her:
it was her opportunity to revenge herself on Arline for loving Thaddeus.
She approached Arline, and held out the medallion.
"You should be rewarded, my girl, for giving this presumptuous fellow a
lesson. Take this from me, and think of it as my wedding gift," and she left
the medallion with Arline. The girl was very grateful and kissed the Queen's
hand.
"Now we must go! call the band together," she commanded, leading the
way; and slowly they all assembled and prepared to go. Thaddeus hung the
medallion on Arline's neck and, with her, came last of the band. Now
Florestein, smarting under their blows, saw the medallion on Arline's neck
and at once drew the attention of his friends to it. They recognized it as his.
He then went up to Thaddeus and Arline and pointed to the trinket.
"You may stay awhile, my girl. How about that medallion of mine which
you have on your neck? My friends here recognize it!"

"The Queen has given it to me—only now," she replied in amazement; but
as she looked about she saw that the Queen was gone, and Devilshoof, who
had witnessed all, was then sneaking off.
"That is a good story. We have all heard that sort of thing before. Come
along," and he would have arrested her instantly, but Thaddeus sprang
forward and took a hand in the matter. When Florestein saw the affair had
grown serious he ran into the Hall of Justice, and returned with a guard who
arrested the girl. Arline, in tears, declared her innocence, but everything
appeared against her. She had only Thaddeus to stand by her, but at this
crisis the other gipsies ran back, hearing of the row, and tried to rescue her.
There Thaddeus, too, was seized, and a free fight took place in which the
gipsies were driven off; finally, Arline, left alone, was marched into the Hall
of Justice. The Queen then returned, and stood unseen, enjoying the young
girl's peril, while Thaddeus threatened everybody concerned.
Now before the guards reached the Count Arnheim's apartment where
Arline was to be tried, the Count had been sitting before a portrait of his
lost daughter, which pictured her as she was twelve years before. He had
never known a happy hour since her loss. As he looked at her portrait he
sang:

[Listen]

The heart bow'd down by weight of woe,
To weakest hope will cling,
To tho't and impulse while they flow,
That can no comfort bring, that can,
that can no comfort bring,
With those exciting scenes will blend,
O'er pleasure's pathway thrown;
But mem'ry is the only friend,
That grief can call its own,
That grief can call its own,
That grief can call its own.

The mind will in its worst despair,
Still ponder o'er the past,
On moments of delight that were
Too beautiful to last.
To long departed years extend
Its visions with them flown;
For mem'ry is the only friend
That grief can call its own.

Thus, while the old Count's mind was lingering sadly over the past, calling
up visions of the hopes that had fled with his daughter, she was being
brought to him charged with a crime of which she was innocent. Soon the
Count heard a noise near his apartment, and the captain of the guard burst in
to tell him a robbery had been committed in the square. No sooner had
Arnheim seated himself in his official place than the people hustled in
Arline. Florestein was in the midst of the mob; going at once to his uncle he
cried:

"Your lordship, it is I who have been robbed!"
"Ah! some more of your trouble-making. Why are you forever bringing the
family name into some ill-sounding affair?"
"But, uncle, it is true that I am a victim. There is the very girl who robbed
me!" he cried, pointing to Arline. The Count looked pityingly at her.
"What—the pretty girl I saw in the square? So young and innocent a face!"
"However that may be, she has stolen my medallion: we found it upon her!"
"Can this be true, my child?" the Count asked gently.
"No, your lordship. I have done nothing wrong; but alas! there is no one to
help me."
At that the Count became more distressed. The thought of his own child
returned to him. She might be somewhere as hardly pressed and as helpless
as this young gipsy girl.
"We can prove her guilty," Florestein persisted.
"Tell me your story, my child. I shall try to do you justice," the Count urged,
looking kindly at Arline.
"The Queen of our tribe gave me that medallion. I do not know how she
possessed herself of it, unless——" Arline suddenly remembered the scene
at her wedding, and half guessed the truth. "Your lordship, I cannot prove it,
but I believe she gave me a medallion which she knew to be stolen, in order
to revenge herself upon me for giving her displeasure last night!" The old
Count gazed thoughtfully at her. He believed her story: she looked truthful,
and her tone was honest.
"I believe you," he answered, at last, "yet since you cannot prove this, I
have no alternative but to hand you over to justice."
"Then, sir, I can deliver myself!" she cried, drawing a dagger, and was
about to plunge it into her heart when the horrified Count sprung forward
and stopped her. As he seized her arm, he glanced at the scar upon it: then
started and looked closely at her face. Again the face of his lost daughter

was before him. He looked at the painting of the little girl upon the wall,
and again at Arline. They were so like that he could doubt no longer.
"Tell me—how did you come by that scar upon your arm—speak the truth,
because my very life hangs upon it, my child." By this time the whole mob
had gathered excitedly about the girl and the old judge.
"When I was six years old a wild deer wounded me—" the Count nearly
fainted with hope—"I was saved and—" at this moment, Thaddeus, having
shaken off his guard, rushed in to help Arline. She cried out happily and
pointed to him. "It was he who saved my life," she said. "It was Thaddeus!"
The Count recognized the man who had refused to drink the health of the
Emperor at the banquet years before! Clearly it was his own child who had
been brought before him!
With a joyous cry he clasped her in his arms, but she did not know the
meaning of his joy or of the excitement, and, frightened and bewildered, she
ran to Thaddeus. Thaddeus pointed sadly to the Count:
"It is thy father, Arline. It is true," and he buried his face in his hands. He
must now give her up. Since she had found a noble father he could not hope
to be near her again, and while he stood with his face in his hands, and
Arline was again in the arms of the Count, Devilshoof made his way in
through the crowd, and tried to drag Thaddeus away. He loved his comrade
of twelve years, and he saw that harm might come to him in the new
situation.

ACT III

After leaving the Hall of Justice, Arline returned with her father to the
home of her childhood, for her dream had come true: she "dwelt in marble
halls, with vassals and serfs at her side." Yet she was far from happy:
Thaddeus had left the hall with Devilshoof on the day of Arline's arrest, and
she had not seen him since. Gorgeously dressed in a ball gown, she was in a
beautiful room in her father's house. Her father entered with Florestein and
begged her to think kindly of her silly foppish cousin.
"You have every reason to be resentful toward Florestein," he said, "but if
you can think kindly of him for my sake it would make me very happy. I

have always intended you to marry each other."
At that Arline was very wretched; and after a moment she said: "Father, I
should like to please you, but I cannot think affectionately of my cousin,"
and before the argument could be carried further, a servant entered to tell
them that the palace was filling with guests, and that the Count was needed.
Florestein and the Count then went to meet the company, leaving Arline
alone to recover her self-possession. She became very sad for she was
thinking of Thaddeus and of the days she had spent wandering over the
world with him and the gipsies. Suddenly she went to a cabinet, took her
gipsy dress from it, and looked at it, the tears streaming from her eyes.
While she was lost in the memories of other days, Devilshoof jumped in at
the window and Arline nearly screamed upon seeing him so suddenly.
"Don't scream! Don't be frightened," he said quickly. "I have come to say
how we all miss you, and to beg you to come back to the tribe. I have
brought with me one whose powers of persuasion are greater than mine," he
added, and instantly Thaddeus appeared at the window, while Arline, unable
to restrain herself, rushed into his arms.
"Ah, I feared you would forget me in the midst of so much luxury and
wealth," he said happily.
"Oh, Thaddeus, did I not also dream—which pleased me most—that you
loved me still the same?" she reminded him.
"I came only to entreat you sometimes to think of me," he now said with a
lighter heart, "and also I came to tell you—" he paused, kissed her, and then
sang:

[Listen]

When other lips and other hearts
Their tales of love shall tell,
In language whose excess imparts
The pow'r they feel so well:
There may, perhaps, in such a scene,
Some recollection be
Of days that have as happy been,
And you'll remember me,
and you'll remember,
You'll remember me.

When coldness or deceit shall slight
The beauty now they prize,
And deem it but a faded light
Which beams within your eyes;
When hollow hearts shall wear a mask
'Twill break your own to see:
In such a moment I but ask
That you'll remember me.

The song only added to Arline's distress. She could not let Thaddeus go.
"You must never leave me, Thaddeus," she cried.
"Then will you fly with me?" he begged.

"It would kill my poor father; he has only now found me. I would go if it
were not for love of him, but how can I leave him?" And while the lovers
were in this unhappy coil Devilshoof, who had been watching at the
window to warn them if any one was coming, called out:
"Your doom is sealed in another moment! You must decide: people are
coming. There is no escape for you, Thaddeus."
"Come into this cabinet," Arline cried in alarm. "No one can find you there!
and you, Devilshoof, jump out of the window." No sooner said than done!
Out Devilshoof jumped, while Thaddeus got into the cabinet. The great
doors were thrown open and the company streamed in to congratulate
Arline on being restored to her father. The old Count then took Arline by
the hand and presented her to the company, while Florestein, as the suitor
who expected to be given her hand in marriage, stood beside her, smiling
and looking the coxcomb. Everybody then sang a gay welcome, and
Florestein, who seemed born only to do that which was annoying to other
people, picked up the forgotten gipsy dress, declaring that it was not
suitable to such a moment, and that he would place it in the cabinet.
That was the worst possible thing he could do, and Arline watched him with
horror. If he should go to the cabinet, as she was now certain he would, he
could not possibly help finding Thaddeus. She watched with excitement
every moment; but in the midst of her fears there was a great noise without,
and the gipsy Queen forced her way in, to the amazement of the company.
She went at once to the old Count, who it seemed was never to have done
with surprises.
"Who art thou, intruder?" he asked angrily. Upon this the Queen lifted her
veil, which till then had concealed her face.
"Behold me!" she cried, very dramatically, "heed my warning voice! Wail
and not rejoice!" A nice sort of caution to be injected into a merrymaking.
"The foe to thy rest, is the one you love best. Think not my warning wild,
'tis thy refound child. She loves a youth of the tribe I sway, and braves the
world's reproof. List to the words I say, he is now beneath thy roof!" This
was quite enough to drive the entire company into hysterics.
"Base wretch," the Count cried, "thou liest!"

"Thy faith I begrudge, open that door and thyself be the judge," she
screamed, quite beside herself with anger. Of course everybody looked
toward the door of the cabinet, and finally the Count opened it, and there
stood Thaddeus.
He staggered back, the Queen was delighted, but everybody else was
frightened half to death.
Everybody concerned seemed then to be in the worst possible way. Arline
determined to stand by Thaddeus, and she was quite appalled at the
wickedness of the Queen.
"Leave the place instantly," the Count roared to Thaddeus.
"I go, Arline," Thaddeus answered sorrowfully.
"Never!—unless I go with thee," she declared, quite overcome by the
situation. "Father, I love thee, but I cannot give up Thaddeus," she protested
sorrowfully to the Count. Then the Count drew his sword and rushed
between them.
"Go!" he cried again to Thaddeus, and at the same time the Queen urged
him to go with her. Then Arline begged to be left alone with her father that
she might have a private word with him. Everybody withdrew except
Thaddeus, wondering what next, and how it would all turn out.
"Father," Arline pleaded when they were alone, "I am at your feet. If you
love me you will listen. It was Thaddeus who restored me to you; who has
guarded me from harm for twelve years. I cannot give him up, and to send
him away is unworthy of you." The Count made a despairing gesture of
dismissal to Thaddeus.
"But, father, we are already united," she urged, referring to the gipsy
marriage. At that the Count was quite horrified.
"United?—to a strolling fellow like this?" This was more than Thaddeus
could stand, knowing as he did that he was every bit as good as the Count—
being a Polish noble. True, if he revealed himself, he might have to pay for
it with his life, because he was still reckoned at large as the enemy of the

Emperor, but even so, he decided to tell the truth about himself for Arline's
sake.
"Listen," he cried, stepping nearer to the Count. "I am not what you think
me. Let this prove to you my birth," and he took the old commission from
his pocket where he had carried it for years, and handed it to the Count.
"This will prove to thee, though I am an exile, that I am a noble like thyself;
and my birth does not separate me from thy daughter." The Count read the
paper tremblingly and then looked long at Thaddeus. Tears came to his
eyes.
"The storms of a nation's strife should never part true lovers," he said softly,
at last: "Thy hand!"—and taking Thaddeus's hand he placed it tenderly in
that of Arline. As they stood thus united and happy, the Queen appeared at
the window, pointing him out to a gipsy beside her. The gipsy was about to
fire upon Thaddeus at the Queen's command, when Devilshoof knocked up
the gipsy's arm, and the bullet meant for the lover killed the revengeful
Queen.
"Guard every portal—summon all the guests!" the Count cried. "Suspend
all festivities," at which the music which had been heard in the distant salon
ceased, and the guests began to assemble. Arline rushed to the arms of
Thaddeus. The Count explained all that had occurred, the danger Thaddeus
had just been in, that he had been given the Count's daughter, and that
congratulations were in order.
As you may believe, after so much fright and danger, everybody was
overjoyed to find that all was well—everybody but Florestein, and he was
certain to be satisfied presently when the banquet began, and he got some
especially fine tit-bit on his own plate!

BEETHOVEN

T HE most complete, at the same time picturesque, story of Beethoven
and his "Fidelio" is told in "Musical Sketches," by Elise Polko, with all
the sentimentality that a German writer can command. Whole paragraphs
might be lifted from that book and included in this sketch, but the substance
of the story shall be told in a somewhat inferior way.
"Leonora" (Fidelio) was composed some time before it was produced.
Ludwig van Beethoven had been urged again and again by his friends to put
the opera before the public, but he always refused.
"It shall never be produced till I find the woman in whose powers I have
absolute confidence to sing 'Leonora.' She need not be beautiful, change her
costume ten times, nor break her throat with roulades: but she must have
one thing besides her voice." He would not disclose what special quality he
demanded; and when his friends persisted in urging the production of his
first, last, and only opera, Beethoven went into a great rage and declared if
the subject were ever mentioned again, he would burn the manuscript. At
one time friends begged him to hear a new prima donna, Wilhelmina
Schröder, the daughter of a great actress, believing that in her he would find
his "Leonora."
This enraged him still more. The idea of entrusting his beloved composition
to a girl no more than sixteen years old!
His appearance at that time is thus described:
"At the same hour every afternoon a tall man walked alone on the so-called
Wasserglacis (Vienna). Every one reverentially avoided him. Neither heat
nor cold made him hasten his steps; no passer-by arrested his eye; he strode
slowly, firmly and proudly along, with glance bent downward, and with
hands clasped behind his back. You felt that he was some extraordinary
being, and that the might of genius encircled this majestic head with its
glory. Gray hair grew thickly around his magnificent brow, but he noticed

not the spring breeze that played sportively among it and pushed it in his
eyes. Every child knew: 'that is Ludwig van Beethoven, who has composed
such wondrously beautiful music.'"
One day, during one of these outings a fearful storm arose, and he noticed a
beautiful young woman, whom he had frequently seen in his walks,
frightened but standing still without protection from the weather. She stared
at him with such peculiar devotion and entreaty that he stopped and asked
her what she did there in the storm.
She had the appearance of a child, and great simplicity of manner. She told
him she waited to see him. He, being surprised at this, questioned her, and
she declared she was Wilhelmina Schröder, who longed for nothing but to
sing his Leonora, of which all Vienna had heard. He took her to his home,
she sang the part for him, and at once he accepted her.
It was she who first sang "Fidelio," and she who had the "quality" that
Beethoven demanded: the quality of kindness. It is said that her face was
instinct with gentleness and her voice exquisitely beautiful. It was almost
the last thing that Beethoven heard. His deafness was already upon him, but
he heard her voice; heard his beloved opera sung, and was so much
overcome by the beauty of the young girl's art that during the performance
he fainted.
Of all temperamental men, Beethoven was doubtless the most so, and the
anecdotes written of him are many. He was especially irascible. His
domestic annoyances are revealed freely in his diary: "Nancy is too
uneducated for a housekeeper—indeed, quite a beast." "My precious
servants were occupied from seven o'clock till ten, trying to light a fire."
"The cook's off again—I shied half a dozen books at her head." "No soup
to-day, no beef, no eggs. Got something from the inn at last." These
situations are amusing to read about, decades later, but doubtless tragic
enough at the time to the great composer!
That in financial matters Beethoven was quite practical was illustrated by
his answer to the Prussian Ambassador at Vienna, who offered to the
musician the choice of the glory of having some order bestowed upon him
or fifty ducats. Beethoven took the ducats.

Beautiful as the production of "Fidelio" was, it did not escape criticism
from an eminent source. Cherubini was present at the first performance at
the Karnthnerthor Theatre in Vienna, and when asked how he liked the
overture (Leonora in C) he replied:
"To be honest, I must confess that I could not tell what key it was in from
beginning to end."

FIDELIO

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Marcelline (jailer's daughter).
Leonora (under name of Fidelio).
Florestan (her husband and a state prisoner).
Jaquino (porter of the prison).
Pizarro (governor of the prison).
Hernando (the minister).
Rocco (the jailer).
Chorus of soldiers, prisoners and people.
Scene is laid in Spain.
Composer: Beethoven.

ACT I

Marcelline, the jailer's daughter, had been tormented to death for months
by the love-making of her father's porter, Jaquino. In short, he had stopped
her on her way to church, to work, to rest, at all times, and every time, to
make love to her, and finally she was on the point of consenting to marry
him, if only to get rid of him.
"Marcelline, only name the day, and I vow I'll never make love to you
again," said the soft Jaquino. This was so funny that Marcelline thought he
was worth marrying for his drollery; but just as she was about to make him
a happy man by saying "yes," some one knocked upon the door, and with a
laugh she drew away from him:

Oh, joy! once again I am free;
How weary, how weary his love makes me.

Quite disheartened, Jaquino went to open the door.
There had been a time—before a certain stranger named Fidelio had come
to the prison—when Jaquino's absurd love-making pleased Marcelline, but
since the coming of that fine youth Fidelio, she had thought of little but
him. Now, while Jaquino was opening the door, and she watched his figure
(which was not at all fascinating), she murmured to herself:
"After all, how perfectly absurd to think of it! I shall never marry anybody
but Fidelio. He is quite the most enchanting fellow I know." At that moment
Jaquino returned.
"What, not a word for me?" he asked, noting her change of mood.
"Well, yes, and that word is no, no, no! So go away and let me alone," she
answered petulantly.
Now Fidelio was certainly a most beautiful youth, but quite different from
any Marcelline had ever seen. Fidelio observed, with a good deal of anxiety,
that the jailer's daughter was much in love with him, and there were reasons
why that should be inconvenient.
Fidelio, instead of being a fine youth, was a most adoring wife, and her
husband, Florestan, was shut up in that prison for an offence against its
wicked governor, Pizarro. He had been placed there to starve; and indeed
his wife Leonora (Fidelio) had been told that he was already dead. She had
applied, as a youth, for work in the prison, in order to spy out the truth; to
learn if her dear husband were dead or alive.
There was both good and bad luck in the devotion of the jailer's daughter.
The favourable part of the affair was that Leonora was able, because of her
favouritism, to find out much about the prisoners; but on the other hand, she
was in danger of discovery. Although the situation was tragic, there was
considerable of a joke in Marcelline's devotion to the youth Fidelio, and in
the consequent jealousy of Jaquino.

Love of money was Rocco's (the jailer) besetting sin. He sang of his love
with great feeling:

Life is nothing without money,
Anxious cares beset it round;
Sad, when all around is sunny,
Feels the man whom none hath found.

But when to thy keeping the treasure hath rolled,
Blind fortune thou mayest defy, then;
Both love and power their secrets unfold,
And will to thy wishes comply, then.

Rocco was also a man of heart; and since hiring Fidelio (Leonora) he had
really become very fond of the young man. When he observed the
attachment between Fidelio and Marcelline, he was inclined to favour it.
Don Pizarro had long been the bitterest enemy of Don Florestan, Leonora's
husband, because that noble had learned of his atrocities and had
determined to depose him as governor of the fortress prison.
Hence, when Pizarro got Florestan in his clutches, he treated him with
unimaginable cruelties, and falsely reported that he was dead.
Now in the prison there had lately been much hope and rejoicing because it
was rumoured that Fernando, the great Minister of State, was about to pay a
visit of investigation. This promised a change for the better in the condition
of the prisoners. But no one knew better than Don Pizarro that it would
mean ruin to himself if Fernando found Don Florestan in a dungeon. The
two men were dear friends, and so cruelly treated had Florestan been that
Pizarro could never hope for clemency. Hence, he called Rocco, and told
him that Florestan must be killed at once, before the arrival of Fernando.
Rocco refused point blank to do the horrid deed; but as a dependent he
could not control matters, and hence he had to consent to dig the grave,
with the understanding that Pizarro, himself, should do the killing.
Thus far, Fidelio had been able to find out nothing about her beloved
husband, but she had become more and more of a favourite with the

unfortunate old jailer, and was permitted to go about with a certain amount
of freedom.
Upon the day when Pizarro had directed Rocco to kill a prisoner in a certain
dungeon, she overheard a good deal of the plot, and she began to fear it
might be her husband.
She went at once to Rocco:
"Rocco, I have seen very little of the prison. May I not go into the dungeon
and look about?"
"Oh, it would never be allowed," Rocco declared. "Pizarro is a stern and
cruel governor, and if I should do the least thing he did not command, it
would go hard with me. I should not dare let you do that," he said, much
troubled with the deed that was in hand.
"But wilt thou not ask him, Rocco?" Fidelio entreated so determinedly that
Rocco half promised.
"Fidelio, I will tell thee. I have a bad job to do. It is to dig a grave in one of
the dungeons." Fidelio could hardly conceal her horror and despair. Her
suspicions were confirmed. "There is an old well, covered by a stone, down
there, far underground, and if I lift the stone that covers it, that will do for
the grave. I will ask Pizarro if I may have thee to help me. If he consents, it
will be thy chance to see the dungeons, but if not, I shall have done all I can
about it." So he went away to discuss the matter with Pizarro, while Fidelio
waited between hope and despair.
Meantime, Pizarro was gloating over his triumph. Soon his revenge would
be complete, and he sang of the matter in a most savage fashion:

Ha! what a day is this,
My vengeance shall be sated.
Thou treadest on an abyss!
For now thy doom is fated.

The words mean little, but Beethoven's music to them means much:

Remember, that once in the dust I trembled,
'Mid mocking fiends assembled;
Beneath thy conquering steel,
But Fortune's wheel is turning,
In torments thou art burning,
The victim of my hate.

The guards told one another that they had better be about their business, as
some great affair seemed afoot.
Rocco entered again.
"I do not see the need for this killing," he urged. "The man is nearly dead as
it is. He cannot last long; but at least, if I must dig the grave, I shall need
help. I have a youth in my service who is to marry my daughter—thus I can
count upon his faithfulness; and I had better be permitted to take him into
the dungeon with me, if I am to do the work. I am an old man, and not so
strong as I used to be."
"Very well, very well," Pizarro replied. "But see to the business. There is no
time to lose." And going back to Fidelio, Rocco told her the good news: that
Pizarro had consented. Then she sang joyfully of it:

[Listen]

Oh Hope, thou wilt not let the star of sorrowing love be
dimm'd for ever!
Oh come, sweet Hope, show me the goal,
However, however far forsake it will I never,
forsake it will I never,
forsake it I will never, etc.

"But, Rocco, instead of digging a grave for the poor man, to whom we go,
couldst thou not set him free?" she begged.
"Not I, my boy. It would be as much as my life was worth. I have not been
permitted even to give him food. He is nearly dead from starvation already.
Try to think as little as you can of the horrors of this place. It is a welcome
release for the poor fellow."
"But to have a father-in-law who has committed a murder," Fidelio
shuddered, trying to prevail upon Rocco by this appeal. But he sang:

[Listen]

My good lad, thou need'st not fear,
Of killing, of killing him I shall be clear,
Yes, yes, I shall be clear,
My lord himself, my lord himself will do the deed.

"Nay, do not worry—you'll have no murderer for a father-in-law. Our only
business is to dig the man's grave."
In spite of herself Leonora wept.

"Come, come. This is too hard for thee, gentle boy. I'll manage the business
alone."
"Oh, no! No! I must go. Indeed I am not afraid. I must go with thee," she
cried. While she was thus distracted, in rushed Marcelline and Jaquino.
"Oh, father! Don Pizarro is frantic with rage. You have given the prisoners a
little light and air, and he is raging about the prison because of this. What
shall we do?" Rocco thought a moment.
"Do nothing! He is a hard man, I—" At that moment Pizarro came in.
"What do you mean by this? Am I governing this prison or are you?"
"Don Pizarro," Rocco spoke calmly. "It is the King's birthday, and I thought
it might be politic for you to give the prisoners a little liberty, especially as
the Minister was coming. It will look well to him." At that Pizarro was
somewhat appeased, but nevertheless he ordered the men back to their cells.
It was a mournful procession, back to dungeon darkness. As they went they
sang:

[Listen]

Farewell, thou warm and sunny beam,
How soon thy joys have faded,
How soon thy joys have faded!

While they were singing, Rocco once more tried to soften Pizarro's heart.
"Wilt thou not let the condemned prisoner live another day, your highness?"
The request enraged Pizarro still more.
"Enough! Now have done with your whimpering. Take that youth of thine
who is to help, and be about the job. Go! and let me hear no more." With
that awful voice of revenge and cruelty in her ears, the unhappy Leonora
followed Rocco to the dungeons, to dig her husband's grave.

ACT II

Down in the very bowels of the earth, as it seemed to Leonora, was
Florestan's dungeon. There he sat, manacled, despairing, with no ray of
light to cheer him, and his thoughts occupied only with his visions of the
beautiful home he had known, and of his wife, Leonora. When Leonora and
Rocco entered the dungeon, Florestan had fallen, half sleeping, half
dreaming upon the floor of his cell, and Leonora groped her way fearfully
toward him, believing him to be dead.
"Oh, the awful chill of this vault," she sobbed. "Look! Is the man dead,
already, Rocco?" Rocco went to look at the prisoner.
"No, he only sleeps. Come, that sunken well is near, and we have only to
uncover it to have the job done. It is a hard thing for a youth like thee. Let
us hurry." Rocco began searching for the disused well, into which he meant
the body of Florestan to be dumped after the governor had killed him.
"Reach me that pickaxe," he directed Fidelio. "Are you afraid?"
"No, no, I feel chilled only."
"Well, make haste with the work, my boy, and it will warm you," Rocco
urged. Then while he worked and urged Fidelio to do the same, she

furtively watched the prisoner whose features she could not see in the
gloom of the cell.
"If we do not hurry, the governor will be here. Haste, haste!" Rocco cried.
"Yes, yes," she answered, nearly fainting with grief and horror.
"Come, come, my boy. Help me lift this great stone which closes the mouth
of the well." The despairing Fidelio lifted with all her poor strength.
"I'm lifting, I'm lifting," she sobbed, and she tugged and tugged, because
she dared not shirk the work. Then the stone slowly rolled away. She was
still uncertain as to the identity of the poor wretch who was so soon to be
put out of existence. She peered at him continually.
"Oh, whoever thou art, I will save thee. I will save thee," she thought. "I
cannot have so great a horror take place. I must save him." Still she peered
through the darkness at the hopeless prisoner. At the same time her grief
overwhelmed her, and she began to weep. The prisoner was roused, and
plaintively thanked the strange youth for his kindly tears.
"Oh, whoever this poor man may be, let me give him this piece of bread,"
Fidelio begged, turning to Rocco. (She had put bread into her doublet,
thinking to succour some half-starved wretch.)
"It is my business, my boy, to be severe," he said, frowning. He was sorely
tried, for his heart was kind and yet he dared not show pity. But she pleaded
and pleaded, and finally Rocco nervously agreed.
"Well, well, give it, boy. Give it. He will never taste food again," and again
the prisoner thanked Fidelio through the darkness of his cell. When he
spoke she felt a strange presentiment. Suppose this should be the beloved
husband whom she sought!
"Oh, gentle youth! That I might repay this humane deed!" the prisoner
murmured, too weak to speak loudly.
"That voice—it is strange to me, yet—it is like some remembered voice,"
Fidelio said to herself, and she clasped her hands upon her heart, because it
seemed to beat so loudly that Rocco might hear it. While she wavered

between hope and fear, Don Pizarro entered the dungeon. He had come at
last for his revenge.
"Now, thou dog," he said to the prisoner, "prepare to die. But before you
die, you are to know to whom you owe the deed." At that he threw off his
cloak and showed himself to be Pizarro.
"It is Pizarro whom thou hast insulted. It is he who shall kill thee."
"Do not think I fear a murderer," Florestan replied, with what heroism his
weakness would permit. At that Pizarro made a lunge at him with the knife,
but Fidelio threw herself in front of him, suddenly recognizing him as he
spoke to Pizarro.
"Thou shalt not kill him, unless thou kill his wife as well," she screamed.
Rocco, Florestan and Pizarro all cried out in amazement.
"Wife!" Florestan clasped her weakly to his heart. Pizarro rushed at Fidelio,
becoming frantic with rage. He hurled her away and shouted:
"No woman shall frighten me! Away with ye! The man shall die." Instantly,
Fidelio drew a pistol and pointed it at the murderer.
"If he is to die, you shall die also," she cried, whereupon Rocco shouted in
fright, since it was a dreadful thing to try conclusions with the governor of
the prison. Pizarro himself drew back with fear.
Then a fanfare of trumpets was heard, announcing the arrival of Fernando,
the Minister.
"Hark!" Pizarro cried. "I am undone! It is Fernando!" The assassin began to
tremble. But Florestan and Fidelio knew that liberty was near. One word of
the truth to the Minister, one word that should tell him of the governor's
awful cruelty for a personal revenge, would set Florestan free and bring
punishment to Pizarro. Then Jaquino hurried in:
"Come, come, quick! The Minister and his suite are at the gates."
"Thank God," said the kind-hearted jailer, under his breath. "The man is
surely saved now. We're coming, my lad, we're coming," he answered. "Let
the men come down and bear torches before Don Pizarro. He cannot find

his way out." Rocco's voice was trembling with gladness, Florestan was
almost fainting with weakness because of the sudden joy that had come to
him. Fidelio was praying to heaven in gratitude, while Don Pizarro was
horrified at the thought of what his punishment would be.
The jailer and Don Pizarro ascended, and soon Fernando ordered all the
prisoners of the fortress brought before him. He had come to investigate the
doings of the governor who had long been known as a great tyrant. When
the unhappy men, who had been abused by starving and confinement in
underground cells, stood before him, the Minister's heart was sorely
touched, and Don Pizarro was more and more afraid. Presently, Rocco
fearlessly brought Fidelio and Don Florestan in front of Fernando.
"Oh, great Minister, I beg you to give ear to the wrongs of this sad pair," he
cried, and as Fernando looked at Florestan his eyes filled with tears.
"What, you? Florestan? My friend, whom I have so long believed was
dead? Thou who wert the friend of the oppressed, who tried to bring to
punishment this very wretch?" he said, looking at Pizarro; and his speech
revealed why Pizarro had wanted to revenge himself upon the unhappy
noble.
"Yes, yes, it is Don Florestan, my beloved husband," Fidelio answered,
while the good Rocco pushed her ahead of him, closer to Fernando's side.
"She is no youth, but the noblest woman in the world, Don Fernando,"
Rocco cried, almost weeping in his agitation and relief at the turn things
were taking for those with whom he sympathized.
"Just let me be heard," Pizarro called, becoming more and more frightened
each moment.
"Enough of thee," Fernando answered, bitterly, in a tone that boded no good
to the wretch. Then Rocco told the whole truth about the governor: how he,
himself, had had to lend a hand to his wicked schemes, because as a
dependent he could not control matters; and then all the prisoners cried out
for Pizarro's punishment.
Fernando commanded Pizarro to give Fidelio the key of the prison, that she,
the faithful wife, should have the joy of unlocking the doors and giving her

husband his freedom. All the other prisoners and Fernando's suite, the jailer,
his daughter, Marcelline, and Jaquino rejoiced and sang rapturously of
Fernando's goodness. Pizarro was left, still uncertain of his punishment, but
all hoped that he would be made to take Florestan's place in the dungeon
and meet the fate he had prepared for the much abused noble.

BERLIOZ

“T HE Damnation of Faust” was first produced as an opera, by Raoul
Gunsburg, in Monte Carlo, about 1903. Before that time it had been
conducted only as a concerted piece. Later it was produced in Paris, Calvé
and Alvarez singing the great rôles. That was in the late spring of 1903.
In Europe the opera was produced with the dream scene (the dream-
Marguerite) as in the original plan of Berlioz, but in this country this dream-
Marguerite was omitted, also the rain in the ride to Hell; otherwise the
European and the New York production were much the same. At the
Metropolitan Opera House, in New York, there were three hundred people
upon the stage in the first act, and every attention was given to scenic detail.
This piece is meant for the concert room, and in no sense for the operatic
stage, but great care and much money have been spent in trying to realize
its scenic demands. As a dramatic production, it cannot compare with the
"Faust" of Gounod, but it has certain qualities of a greater sort, which have
made impresarios desire to shape it for the stage.
Berlioz was probably one of the least attractive of musicians. As a man, he
was entirely detestable. He despised (from jealous rather than critical
motives) all music that was not his own; or if he chose to applaud, his
applause was certain to be for some obscure person without ability, in order
that there might be no unfavourable comparisons drawn between his own
work and that which he was praising. Beyond doubt he was the greatest
instrumentalist of Europe, but he was bizarre, and none too lucid.
His method of showing his contempt for other great composers like
Beethoven, Mozart, and the like, was to conduct their music upon important
occasions, without having given himself or any one else a rehearsal. He
called Haydn a "pedantic old baby," and refused as long as he lived to hear
Elijah (Mendelssohn). In short, he was one of the vastly disagreeable people
of the earth, who believe that their own genius excuses everything.

The story of his behaviour at a performance of Cherubini's Ali Baba will
serve as an illustration of his bad taste.
Cherubini had become old, and was even more anxious about the fate of his
compositions than he had been in his youth, having less confidence in
himself as he declined in years, and on the occasion of Ali Baba he was
especially overwrought. Berlioz got a seat in the house, and made his
disapproval of the performance very marked by his manner. Finally he cried
out toward the end of the first act, "Twenty francs for an idea!" During the
second act he called, "Forty francs for an idea!" and at the finale he
screeched, "Eighty francs for an idea!" When all was over, he rose wearily
and said, loud enough to be heard all over the place, "I give it up—I'm not
rich enough!" and went out.
There is hardly an anecdote of Berlioz extant that does not deal with his
cynicism or displeasing qualities, therefore we may more or less assume
that they pretty correctly reflect the man. One of the stories which well
illustrates his love of "showing up" his fellows, concerns his Fuite en
Egypte. When it was produced he had put upon the programme as the
composer one Pierre Ducré "of the seventeenth century." The critics, one
and all, wrote of the old and worthless score that Berlioz had unearthed and
foisted upon the suffering public. Some of them wrote voluminously and
knowingly of the life of Pierre Ducré, and hinted at other productions of his,
which they said demonstrated his puerility. Then when he had roused all the
discussion he pleased, Berlioz came forward and announced that there
never had been any such personage as Ducré, and that it was himself who
had written Fuite en Egypte. He had made everybody appear as absurd as
possible, and there is no sign that he ever did that sort of thing for the pure
love of a joke. He was malicious, born so, lived so, and died so. However
great his music, he was unworthy of it.

DAMNATION OF FAUST

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Faust.
Mephistopheles.

Brander.
Marguerite.
Sylphs, students, soldiers, angels.
Composer: Hector Berlioz.

ACT I

One lovely morning, in a Hungarian meadow, a scholar went to walk before
he should begin his day's task of study and of teaching. He was an old man,
who had thought of little in life, so far as his associates knew, besides his
books; but secretly he had longed for the bright joys of the world most
ardently.
While he lingered in the meadow, possessed with its morning brightness,
and its summer dress he heard some person singing not far away:

[Listen]

The shepherd donned his best array,
Wreath and jacket and ribbons gay,
Oh, but he, but he was smart to see,
The circle closed round the linden tree,
All danced and sprang,
All danced and sprang, all danced and sprang;
like madmen danced away.
Hurrah, hurrah, huzza
Tra la, la, la, la.

At first a single voice was singing, but soon the song was taken up by a
joyous chorus, and Faust, the scholar, stopped to listen.
Alas! It spoke of that gaiety he had so longed to enjoy. A group of peasants
were out for a holiday, and their sport was beginning early. While he
meditated on all that he had lost, the merrymakers drew near, and he
watched them dance, listened to them laugh and sing, and became more and
more heartsick. It was the youth of the revellers that entered into his heart.
There was he, so old, and nearly done with life; done with its possibilities
for joy and with its hardships!
Then, in the very midst of these thoughts the sound of martial music was
heard. Faust shaded his eyes with his trembling old hand:
"Ha! A splendour of weapons is brightly gleaming afar: the sons of the
Danube apparelled for war! They gallop so proudly along: how sparkle their
eyes, how flash their shields. All hearts are thrilled, they chant their battle's
story! While my heart is cold, all unmoved by glory." He sang this in
recitative, while the music drew nearer and nearer, and as the army passed
by, it marched to one of the famous compositions of history:

[Listen]

Then the scene changed, and Faust was once more alone in his study. He
was melancholy.
"I left the meadow without regret, and now, without delight, I greet our
haughty mountains. What is the use of such as I continuing to live? There is
no use! I may as well kill myself and have done it." And after thinking this
over a moment in silence he prepared himself a cup of poison, and lifted it
to his lips. As he was about to drink and end his woes, the choir from the
chapel began to sing an Easter hymn.
"Ah!" he cried, "the memories that overwhelm me! Oh, my weak and
trembling spirit, wilt thou surely ascend to heaven, borne upward by this
holy song!" He began to think of his happy boyhood, of his early home;
then as the glorious music of the choir swelled higher and higher, he
became gentler and thought more tolerantly of life.
"Those soft melodious strains bring peace to my soul; songs more sweet
than morning, I hear again! My tears spring forth, the earth has won me
back." He dropped his head upon his breast and wept. As he sat thus, in
tender mood, a strange happening took place. A queer, explosive sound, and
a jet of flame, and—there stood the devil, all in red, forked tail, horns, and

cloven hoof! He stood smiling wickedly at the softened old man, while
Faust stared at him wildly.
"A most pious frame of mind, my friend. Give me your hand, dear Doctor
Faust. The glad Easter ringing of bells and singing of peans have certainly
charmed you back to earth!"
"Who art thou, whose glances are so fierce? They burn my very soul.
Speak, thou spectre, and tell me thy name." From his very appearance, one
could hardly doubt he was the Devil.
"Why! so learned a man as you should know me. I am thy friend and
comfort. Come, ye are so melancholy, Doctor Faust, let me be thy friend—
I'll tell thee a secret: if you but say the word, I'll give ye your dearest wish.
It shall be whatever you wish. Eh? Shall it be wealth, or fame?—what shall
it be? Come! Let us talk it over."
"That is well, wretched demon! I think I know ye now. I am interested in
ye. Sit, and we shall talk," the poor old Doctor replied, despising that which
nevertheless aroused his curiosity. He, like everybody else, had heard of the
Devil, but he doubted if any other had had the fortune actually to see him.
"Very well; I will be thine eye, thine ear. I will give thee the world; thou
shalt leave thy den, thy hateful study. Come! to satisfy thy curiosity, follow
me."
The old man regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, and then rose:
"Let us go," he said, and in the twinkle of an eye they disappeared into the
air.
They were transported over hill and dale, village and fine city, till the Devil
paused at Leipzig.
"Here is the place for us," he said; and instantly they descended to the
drinking cellar of Auerbach, a man who kept fine Rhenish wine for jolly
fellows.
They entered and sat at a table. By this time the Devil had changed Faust
the scholar, into a young and handsome man, youth being one of Faust's
dearest wishes.

All about them were coarse youths, soldiers, students, men off the street, all
drinking and singing gaily. Faust and the Devil ordered wine and became a
part of the company. They were all singing together at that moment:

Oh, what delight when storm is crashing,
To sit all the night round the bowl;
High in the glass the liquor flashing,
While thick clouds of smoke float around.

The rest of the words were not very dignified nor fascinating, and Faust
looked on with some disgust. Presently some one cried out to a half-
drunken fellow named Brander to give them one of his famous songs, and
he got unsteadily upon his feet and began:

There was a rat in the cellar-nest
Whom fat and butter made smoother;
He had a paunch beneath his vest
Like that of Doctor Luther;
The cook laid poison cunningly,
And then as sore oppressed was he,
As if he had love in his bosom.

He ran around, he ran about,
His thirst in puddles laving;
He gnawed and scratched the house throughout,
But nothing cured his raving;
He whirled and jumped with torment mad,
And soon enough the poor beast had,
As if he had love in his bosom.

And driven at last, in open day,
He ran at last into the kitchen,
Fell on the hearth and squirming lay
In the last convulsion twitching;
Then laughed the murd'ress in her glee,
"Ha, ha! He's at his last gasp," said she,
As if he had love in his bosom.

"Requiescat in pace, amen!" the Devil sang, and all joined on the "amen."
"Now then, permit me to sing you a ballad," the Devil cried, gaily, and he
jumped upon his feet.
"What, you pretend that you can do better than Brander?" they demanded, a
little piqued.
"Well, you see, I am expert at anything nasty and bad; so let us see:

There was a king once reigning,
Who had a big black flea,
And loved him past explaining,
As his own son were he.
He called his man of stitches,
The tailor came straightway,
'Here, measure the lad for breeches,
And measure his coat, I say.'

In silk and velvet gleaming,
He now was wholly drest,
Had a coat with ribbons streaming,
A cross upon his breast.
He had the first of stations,
A minister's star and name,
And also his relations,
Great lords at court became.

And lords and dames of honour
Were plagued awake and in bed.
The Queen, she got them upon her,
The maids were bitten and bled.
And they did not dare to brush them,
Or scratch them day or night.
We crack them and we crush them,
At once whene'er they bite."

"Enough!" said Faust; "I want to leave this brutal company. There can be no
joys found where there is so much that is low and degrading. I wish to go."

And turning angrily to the Devil, he signified that he would leave instantly.
"Very well," said the Prince of Darkness, smiling his satirical smile. "Away
we go—and better success with thee, next time." At which he placed his
mantle upon the ground, they stood upon it, and away they flew into the air
and disappeared.
When next they stopped, it was upon a grassy bank of the Elbe River.
"Now, my friend; let us rest. Lie thou down upon the grassy bank and close
thine eyes, and dream of joys to come. When we awake we shall wish again
and see what new experience the world holds for us. Thus far you do not
seem too well satisfied."
"I will sleep," Faust answered, reclining upon the bank. "I should be glad to
forget some things that we have seen." So saying he slept. No sooner had he
done so, that the Devil summoned the most beautiful sylphs to dance before
him, and thus to influence Faust's dreams. They began by softly calling his
name. Then they lulled him to deeper sleep, and his dream was of fair
women. In his dream he saw the lovely dance, the gracious forms, the
heavenly voices of youthful women. The Devil directed his dream-laden
eyes toward a loving pair who walked and spoke and loved apart. Then
immediately behind those lovers walked, meditatively, a beautiful maiden.
"Behold," the Black Prince murmured to Faust; "that maiden there who
follows: she shall be thy Marguerite. Shall it not be so?" And Faust sank
back in his sleep, overcome with the lovely vision. Then the Devil motioned
the sylphs away.
"Away, ye dainty elves, ye have served my turn to-day, and I shall not
forget." They danced to exquisite waltz music, hovering above Faust, and
gradually disappeared in the mists of the air.
Slowly Faust awakened; His first word was "Marguerite!" Then he looked
about him in a daze.
"What a dream! What a dream!" he murmured. "I saw an angel in human
form."

"Nay, she was a woman," said the Devil. "Rise and follow me, and I will
show her to thee in her home. Hello! Here comes along a party of jolly
students and soldiers. They will pass her home. We'll move along with
them, join their shouts and songs, and presently we shall arrive at her
house." Faust, all trembling with the thought that at last he had found that
which was to make his life worth living, joined the crowd and followed.
The soldiers boisterously sang a fine chorus as they went. No sooner had
they finished than the students began their song. It was all in Latin and
seemed to Faust to echo that life which had once been his. Then the soldiers
and students joined in the jollity and sang together.
This fun lasted what to Faust seemed too long a time. He was impatient to
see and speak with the dear maiden Marguerite; and at last, his wish was to
be granted. The Devil set him down without ceremony in the young girl's
house. There, where she lived, where her meagre belongings were about, he
sang rapturously of her. He went about the room, looking at her chair, her
basket of work, the place where she should sleep, examining all with
rapture. Then the Devil said in an undertone:
"She is coming! hide thyself, and frighten her not." Then he hid Faust
behind some curtains and took himself off with the parting advice:
"Have a care not to frighten her, or thou wilt lose her. Now make the most
of thy time." Faust's heart beat so with love that he feared to betray himself.
Then Marguerite entered. She was as lovely as a dream. She was simple and
gentle, and very young and innocent. She had never seen any one outside
her little village. She was so good that she could fairly tell by instinct if evil
influences were about her. She no sooner entered the chamber than she was
aware of something wrong. She felt the presence of the evil one who had
but just gone. She paused and murmured to herself:
"The air is very sultry," and she felt stifled. "I am trembling like a little
child. I think it is the dream I had last night" (for the Devil had given her a
dream as he had given Faust, and in it she had seen her future husband). "I
think it is because I expect every moment since my dream, to see the one
who is to love and cherish me the rest of my life." The simple folk of
Marguerite's time believed in dreams and portents of all kinds.

There she sat in her chair and recalled how handsome the lover of her
dream was, and how truly she already loved him. Then she decided to go to
bed, and while she was folding her few things, putting her apron away,
combing out her long and beautiful hair, she sang an old Gothic song, of the
King of Thule:

[Listen]

There was a king in Thule
Was faithful till the grave
To whom his mistress, dying,
A golden goblet gave.
Naught was to him more precious,
He drained it at ev'ry bout.
His eyes with tears ran over
As oft as he drank thereout.

When came his time of dying,
The towns in his land he told;
Naught else to his heir denying

Except the goblet of gold.
He sat at the royal banquet,
With his knights of high degree,
In the lofty hall of his fathers,
In the castle by the sea.

There stood the old carouser,
And drank the last life-glow,
And hurled the hallow'd goblet
Into the tide below.
He saw it plunging and filling,
And sinking deep in the sea,
Then his eyelids fell forever,
And never more drank he.

There was a King once in Thule,
Faithful was he—to the grave.

Then the Devil, who was watching all, summoned his imps. This time they
took the form of Will-o'-the-wisps.
"Come! dance and confuse this maiden, and see what we can do to help this
lovesick Faust," he cried to them, and at once they began a wonderful
dance. Marguerite watched them entranced, and by the time Faust appeared
from the folds of the curtains she was half dazed and confused by the unreal
spectacle she had seen. Then she recognized the handsome fellow as the
one she had seen in her dream.
"I have seen thee in my dreams," she said, "and thou wert one who loved
me well." Faust, entranced with her beauty and goodness, promised to love
her forever; and as he embraced her, the Devil suddenly popped in.
"Hasten," he cried. "We must be off."
"Who is this man?" Marguerite cried in affright.
"A brute," Faust declared, knowing well the devilishness of his pretended
friend in whose company he travelled.

"Nay! I am your best friend. Be more courteous," the Devil cautioned,
smiling.
"I expect I am intruding," he continued. "But really I came to save this
angel of a girl. Our songs have awakened all the neighbours round, and they
are running hither like a pack of hounds to see what is going on. They know
this pretty girl has a young man in here talking with her, and already they
are calling for her old gossip of a mother. When her mother comes ye will
catch it finely. So come along."
"Death and Hell!" Faust cried, not knowing how near he was to both.
"There is no time for that. Just come along. You and the young woman will
have plenty of time hereafter to see each other. But just now we must be
off."
"But she——"
"It will go hard with her if we are found here, so ye had better come on, if
only for her sake."
"But, return, return," Marguerite cried, looking tenderly at Faust.
"I shall return, never to leave thee," he cried, and then, interrupted by the
noise made by men and women in the street, who were coming to find out
what he was doing there, Faust left hurriedly. Every night thereafter for a
time they met, and Marguerite was persuaded by the Devil to give her old
mother a sleeping potion to keep her from surprising them. Then one day
the Devil again lured Faust away.
"Now thou shalt never see her again," the Devil said to himself, gloating
over the sorrow Faust was sure to feel; and away they fled, the Devil sure of
tempting Faust anew.
After that Marguerite, left quite alone, watched sadly, each day for the
return of her lover, but alas! he never came. One night while she was
leaning out of her casement, the villagers were singing of the return of the
army.
"Alas, they are all making merry, soldiers and students, as on the night
when I first saw my lover, but he is no longer among them." And then sadly

she closed her window and kept her lonely vigil, ever hoping for his return.
Away in a cavern, in the depths of the forest, was Faust. He had never
returned to Marguerite's village, and neither had he known any peace of
mind. He had immediately found other pleasures which had for a time made
him forget her, and then, when he was far away and it was too late to return,
he desired again to be with her. Now, sitting apart in the wood, mourning,
the Devil came to him.
"How about that constant love of thine? Do ye never think of that poor child
Marguerite, lonely and far away, awaiting thee month after month?"
"Be silent and do not torture me, fiend," Faust cried bitterly.
"Oh I have a lot to tell thee," the Black Prince replied. "I have been saving
news for thee. Dost thou remember how, on those nights when thou didst go
to see that good maiden, she was told to give her old mother a sleeping
draught, that she might sleep soundly while ye billed and cooed? Well,
when ye were gone, Marguerite still expected ye, and continued to give the
draught, and one night the old dame slept forever, and I tell thee that
draught killed her. Now thy Marguerite is going to be hanged for it." Upon
hearing that, Faust nearly died with horror.
"What is it ye tell me?" he cried. "My God! This is not true."
"All right. All right. Believe it or not, it is the same to me—and to her—
because that poor maid is about to die for killing her mother."
"Thou shalt save her, or I shall kill—" But he stopped in his fury, knowing
that none could kill the Devil. He wrung his hands in despair.
"Now if thou wilt keep thyself a bit civil, I may save her for thee, but don't
forget thy manners."
At that Faust was in a fury of excitement to be off to Marguerite's village.
"Not so fast, not so fast," the Devil said "Now if I am to save thy love, I
must have a little agreement with thee. I want your signature to this paper.
Sign, and I promise to save her, without fail. But I must have that first."

"I will give thee anything," Faust cried, and instantly signed the paper. That
paper was really an agreement to give the Devil his soul when he should
die, so Faust had abandoned his last hope on earth or hereafter. Then the
Devil called for his horses—his black horses upon which damned souls
rode with him to Hell.
"Mount," he said to Faust, "and in a trice we shall be with thy Marguerite
and snatch her from the gallows." Instantly they mounted and then began
the fearful ride to Hell.
Presently they came near a crowd of peasants kneeling about a roadside
cross.
"Oh, have a care. Let us not ride upon them," Faust cried.
"Get on, get on," the Devil cried. "It is thy Marguerite we are hastening to,"
and the poor peasants scattered in every direction, some being trampled
upon and little children hurt.
"Horrible, horrible," Faust cried. "What is that monster pursuing us?" he
whispered, glancing fearfully behind him.
"Ye are dreaming."
"Nay! and there are hideous birds of prey now joining us. They rush upon
us. What screams? Their black wings strike me." And then a bell tolled.
"Hark ye! It is the bell for her death. Hasten," the Devil urged.
"Aye, make haste, make haste." And the horses, black as night, were urged
on and on. "See those ghastly skeletons dancing!" Faust screamed, as the
fearful spectres gathered round them.
"Think not of them, but of our Marguerite!" the Devil counselled.
"Our horses' manes are bristling. They tremble, the earth rocks wildly. I
hear the thunders roar, it is raining blood," Faust shrieked. Then the Devil
shouted:
"Ah! Ye slaves of Hell, your trumpets blow. I come triumphant. This man is
mine!" And as he spoke, the two riders fell headlong into the abyss of Hell.

Then all the fiends of Hell began to sing wildly. The scene was one of
damnation.
Then, grandly above Hell's din rose a mighty chorus. It was a heavenly
strain. Marguerite had not been spared the horror of execution; but dead, the
saints forgave her. In Heaven, as her soul ascended, they sang:
"Ascend, O trusting spirit! It was love which misled thee. Come, let us wipe
away thy tears. Come, come, and dwell forever among the blest."
And thus Faust met his end, and Marguerite her reward for faith and
innocence.

BIZET

W HEN Bizet wrote his music around Prosper Mérimée's story of
Carmen, he reflected his familiarity with Spanish life and his long
living in the Pyrenees mountains. The character of Michaela is not found in
the novel, but the clever introduction of it into the opera story adds greatly
to dramatic effect, since the gentle and loving character is in strong contrast
with that of Carmen.
Bizet's name was Alexandre César Léopold, and he was born on October
25, 1838, at Bougival, and died June 3, 1875. He with Charles Lécocq won
the Offenbach prize for the best operetta while Bizet was as yet a youth, and
from that time his art gained in strength and beauty. In those days it was a
reproach to suggest Wagner in musical composition, but Bizet was accused
of doing so. Thus he was handicapped by leaning toward an unpopular
school at the very start, but the great beauty of his productions made their
way in spite of all. He wrote, as his second composition of importance, an
opera around the novel of Scott's Fair Maid of Perth—in French, La Jolie
Fille de Perth—and this was not a success, but that same opera survives
through his Carmen. The Bohemian dance in that opera was taken from it
and interpolated into the fourth act of Carmen.
Bizet died only three months after the production of this last opera, but he
had lived long enough to know that he had become one of the world's great
composers. He wrote exquisite pastoral music for "l'Arlésienne"—whose
story was adapted from Daudet's novel of that name. In short, Bizet was the
pioneer in a new school of French opera, doing for it in a less measure what
Wagner has finally done for the whole world.
This genius left few anecdotes or personal reminiscences behind him. The
glory of his compositions alone seems to stand for his existence.

CARMEN

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST, AS
PRESENTED
AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCE

Don José, Corporal of Dragoons M. Lhérie
Escamillo, Toreador M. Bouhy
Zuniga, Captain of Dragoons M. Dufriche
Morales, Officer M. Duvernoy
Lillas Pastia, Innkeeper M. Nathan
Carmen, Gipsy-girl Mme. Galli-Marié
Michaela, a Village Maiden Mlle. Chapuy
Frasquita Mlle. Ducasse
Mercedes Mlle. Chevalier
El Dancairo
El
Remendado
} Smugglers.

A guide.
Dragoons, gypsies, smugglers, cigarette-girls, street-boys, etc.
The time of the story is 1820, and it takes place in and near Seville.
Composer: Georges Bizet.
Book: H. Meilhac and L. Halévy.
First sung at the Opéra Comique, Paris, March 3, 1875.

I knew a boy who once said: "That soldier thing in 'Carmen' is the most
awful bully thing to whistle a fellow ever heard; but if you don't get it just
right, it doesn't sound like anything," which was a mistake, because if you
don't get it "just right" it sounds something awful. That boy's whistle was
twenty per cent. better than his syntax, but his judgment about music was
pretty good, and we shall have the soldier song in the very beginning, even
before learning how it happens, because it is the thing we are likely to
recall, in a shadowy sort of way, throughout the first act:

[Listen]

With the guard on duty going
Marching onward, here we are!
Sound, trumpets merrily blowing!
Ta ra ta ta ta ra ta ta.

On we tramp, alert and ready,
Like young soldiers ev'ry one;—
Heads up and footfall steady,
Left! right! we're marching on!

See how straight our shoulders are,
Ev'ry breast is swell'd with pride,
Our arms all regular
Hanging down on either side.

With the guard on duty going,
Marching onward, here we are!

Sound, trumpets merrily blowing,
Ta ra ta ta ta ra ta ta!

That is the way it goes, and this is the way it happens:

ACT I

Once upon a time there was a pretty girl named Michaela, and she was as
good as she was beautiful. She loved a corporal in the Spanish army whose
name was Don José. Now the corporal was a fairly good chap, but he had
been born thoughtless, and as a matter of fact he had lived away from home
for so long that he had half-forgotten his old mother who lived a lonely life
with Michaela.
One day, about noontime, the guard, waiting to be relieved by their
comrades, were on duty near the guard-house, which was situated in a
public square of Seville. As the soldiers sat about, or walked with muskets
over shoulders, their service was not especially wearisome, because people
were continually passing through the square, and besides there was a
cigarette factory on the other side of the square, and when the factory hands
tumbled out, about noon, there was plenty of carousing and gaiety for an
hour. Here in the square were little donkeys with tinkling bells upon them,
and donkeys carrying packs upon their backs, and gentlemen in black velvet
cloaks which were thrown artistically over one shoulder, and with plumes
on their hats. Then, too, there were ragged folks who looked rather well,
nevertheless, since their rags were Spanish rags, and made a fine show of
bright colours.
Just as Morales, the officer of the guard, was finding the hot morning rather
slow, and wishing the factory bell would ring, and his brother officer march
his men in to relieve him, Michaela appeared. She had come into the city
from the home of José's mother, which was somewhere near, in the hills.
His old mother had become so lonely and worried, not having heard from
José for so long, that at last the girl had undertaken to come down into the
city, bearing a note from his mother, and to seek him out at his barracks.
She had inquired her way till she found the square where the guard was
quartered, and now, when she entered it, Morales was the first to see her.

"That is a pretty girl," Morales decided as he watched her. "Seems to be
looking for some one—little strange in this part of the town, probably. Can I
do anything for you?" he called to her, as she approached.
"I am looking for Don José, a soldier, if you know him——"
"Perfectly. He is corporal of the guard which is presently to relieve us. If
you wait here, you are certain to see him." Michaela thanked him quietly,
and went away. The soldiers were strange to her, and she preferred to wait
in another part of the square rather than where they were idling. She had no
sooner disappeared than the music of the relief guard was heard in the
distance. It was the soldiers' chorus: a regular fife and drum affair. It came
nearer, nearer, nearer, till it arrived in full blast, fresh as a pippin, the herald
of all that was going to happen through four acts of opera. There was to be
fighting and smugglers: factory-girls in a row, and Carmen everywhere and
anywhere, all of the time.
With the new guard comes first the bugler and a fifer with a lot of little
ragged urchins tagging along behind; then comes Zuniga strutting in, very
much pleased with himself, and after him Don José, the corporal, whom
Michaela has come to town to see. The street boys sing while the new guard
lines up in front of the old one, and every one takes up the song. It is the
business of every one in opera to sing about everything at any time. Thus
the guard describes itself in song:

On we tramp, alert and steady,
Like young soldiers, every one!
Head up, and footfall steady,
Left, right! we're marching on!

See how straight our shoulders are,—
Every breast is swelled with pride,
Our arms all regular—
Hanging down on either side.

There is not much poetry in this, but there is lots of vim, and the new guard,
as bright as a new tin whistle, has formed and the old guard marched off
during the singing. Meantime, while things have been settling down,
Morales has had a word with Don José.

"A pretty girl is somewhere near here, looking for you, José. She wore a
blue gown and her hair is in a braid down her back; she's——"
"I know her; it is Michaela," José declares: and, with the sudden knowledge
that she is so near, and that she comes directly from his old mother, he feels
a longing for home, and realizes that he has been none too thoughtful or
kind toward those who love him. As everybody finds himself in place,
Zuniga points across to the cigarette factory.
"Did you ever notice that there are often some tremendously pretty girls
over there?" he asks of José.
"Huh?" José answers, abstractedly. Zuniga laughs.
"You are thinking of the pretty girl Morales has just told you of," he says.
"The girl with the blue petticoat and the braid down her back!"
"Well, why not? I love her," José answers shortly. He hunches his musket a
little higher and wheels about. He doesn't specially care to talk of Michaela
or his mother, with these young scamps who are as thoughtless as himself:
he has preserved so much of self-respect; but before he can answer again
the factory bell rings. Dinner time! José stands looking across, as every one
else does, while the factory crowd begins to tumble out, helter-skelter. All
come singing, and the girls smoking cigarettes, a good many of them being
gipsies, like Carmen. They are dressed in all sorts of clothes from dirty silk
petticoats, up to self-respecting rags. Carmen is somewhere in the midst of
the hullabaloo, and everybody is shouting for her.
Carmen leads in everything. She leads in good and she leads in bad. She
makes the best and the worst cigarettes, she is the quickest and she is the
slowest, as the mood moves her; and now, when she flashes on to the stage
in red and yellow fringes and bedraggled finery, cigarette in mouth and
bangles tinkling, opera has given to the stage the supreme puzzle of
humanity: the woman who does always what she pleases, and who pleases
never to do the thing expected of her!
The first man she sees when she comes from the factory is José. The first
thing that she pleases to do is to make José love her. It will be good fun for
the noon hour. She has her friends with her, Frasquita and Mercedes, and all
are in the mood for a frolic. They sing:

[Listen]

Love is like any wood-bird wild,
That none can ever hope to tame;
And in vain is all wooing mild
If he refuse your heart to claim.
Naught avails, neither threat nor prayer,
One speaks me fair—the other sighs,
'Tis the other that I prefer,
Tho' mute, his heart to mine replies.

While Carmen sings, her eyes do not leave Don José, and he is watching
her in spite of himself. The racket continues till the factory bell rings to call
the crowd back to work. Carmen goes reluctantly, and as she goes, she
throws a flower at José.

This little flower gave me a start
Like a ball aimed fair at my heart!

he says, half smiling, half seriously, as he picks it up. While he stands thus,
looking toward the factory, holding the flower, thinking of Carmen,
Michaela comes back into the square. They espy each other, and a sudden
warmth and tenderness come upon José: after all, he loves her dearly—and
there is his old mother! His better self responds: José, in imagination, sees
the little house in the hills where he lived as a boy before he went
soldiering. He recalls vividly for the first time in months, those who are
faithful to him, and for a moment he loves them as they love him. They
speak together. Michaela gives him the note from his mother. There is
money in it: she has thought he might be in debt, or in other trouble and
need it. José is surprised by the tears in his own eyes—it is a far cry from
gay Seville to the little house among the hills!
"Go back to mother, Michaela, tell her I am going to get leave as soon as I
can and am coming back to her and you. I am going to play fair. There's not
much in life, otherwise. Go home and tell her I am coming, and I mean to
make you both as happy as once I meant to."
His sudden tenderness enraptures the young girl, and kissing him she sets
out to leave Seville with a glad heart. José, left alone, on guard, his life and
thought interrupted by this incident of home and faithfulness, leans
thoughtfully upon his musket.
"It hasn't been quite right, and I am not happy. We'll change all this," he
meditates.
As the afternoon sun grows hot the citizens begin to creep within doors for
the siesta, as all Spanish life seems to grow tired and still in the burning
day. Suddenly the silence is broken by a scream from over the way. José
starts up and looks across.

"Hey, there! what the devil!" Zuniga shouts from the guard-house, and runs
out. "Hello, hello! José, look alive there! What's gone wrong?—what the
——" And the men start to run across the square.
"Help, help!" comes from the factory. "Will no one come? We're being
killed—the she-devil—look out for her—Carmen! Look out for her—she
has a knife!" Every one is screaming at once and trying each in his own
way to tell what has happened.
"Get in there, José, and bring out the girl. Arrest the gipsy; and you men
here get into this crowd and quiet it down. Make those girls shut up. Why,
what the devil, I say! one would think a lunatic asylum loose. You've got
the girl, José?" he calls across as the corporal brings Carmen out. "Bring her
over," and Zuniga starts across to meet them, clattering on the cobblestones
with his high heels.
"She knifed one of the girls, did she? All right—clap her into jail. You're
just a bit too ready with your hands, my girl," the captain cries as José takes
her into the guard-house.
José is set to guard her; which is about as wise as setting the cream where
the cat can dip her whiskers.
If it pleased the girl a moment before to stab a companion, it pleases her
best now to get out of jail. She begins ably.
"I love you," she remarks to José.
"It does not concern me," replies the heroic José.
"It should," Carmen persists.
"Ah!" replies José, noncommittally. This is unsatisfactory to Carmen.
However, she is equal to the occasion. When is she so fascinating as when
quite preoccupied?—she will try it now. She will sing:

[Listen]

Near to the walls of Sevilla
With my good friend Lillas Pastia
I'll soon dance the gay Seguidilla
And I'll drink manzanilla—
I'll go see my good friend Lillas Pastia!

José is disturbed. Carmen is conscious of it. She continues to sing,
meanwhile coquetting with him. Before he is aware of his own mood, he
has cut the cord that he bound her hands with, and has disgraced himself
forever. In the fascination Carmen has for him, he has forgotten that he is a
soldier. Presently Zuniga enters. Carmen is to be transferred in charge of

José, with a guard detailed to go with him. It is arranged. Carmen also
makes some arrangements.
"When we have started, and are about to cross the bridge, I'll give you a
push. You must fall—you could not see me locked up—one so young and
gay!—and when you fall I shall run. After you can get away, meet me at
Lillas Pastia's inn." José seems to himself to be doing things in a dream. He
has earned a court-martial already if it were known what he has done. A
corporal's guard start under José; the bridge is reached. Carmen makes a
leap; down goes José. The others are taken unawares and she rushes at
them. They too fall, head over heels, one down the bank. Carmen is up, and
off! She flies up the path, laughing at them as they pick themselves up.
"This is a good business, eh?" Zuniga sneers. "On the whole, Don José, I
think you will shine rather better under lock and key, in the guard-house,
than you will as a soldier at large. Men, arrest him!" he orders sharply, and
José has made the first payment on the score Fate has chalked up against
him.

ACT II

Flying to Lillas Pastia's inn, as she had agreed with José, Carmen is joined
by her old comrades—smugglers and gipsy girls, chief of whom are
Mercedes and Frasquita. It is late at night, and a carouse is in progress.
Among those in the inn is Zuniga himself. As a matter of truth, he has fallen
in love with Carmen on his own account, and has kept José under arrest in
order to have him out of the way. There they are, all together, the gipsies
playing on guitars and tambourines. The girls are mostly dancing. Carmen
is coquetting with every man present, and the fun becomes a riot, so that the
innkeeper has to interfere.
"It is so late, I've got to close up," he says. "You'll all have to clear out."
Zuniga looks at Carmen. He wants to have a talk with her.
"Will you go with me?" he asks.
"I've no good reason for going with you," she answers, tantalizingly.

"Perhaps you're angry because I have locked José up," Zuniga suggests. "If
you will make yourself agreeable, I don't mind telling you I have had him
set free."
"What's that? Not in prison?" she asked. "Well, that's very decent of you,
I'm sure," she sneers. "Good-night, gentlemen, I'm off!" she cries, and runs
out into the night. Everybody follows her but Zuniga, who knows well
enough he cannot trust her. They have no sooner disappeared than Zuniga
hears shouts and "hurrahs" outside. He runs to the window and leans out.
"Hello! They are going to have a torch-light procession, eh?" and he leans
farther out. "By the great horn spoon," he presently exclaims—or something
which is its Spanish equivalent, "it's that bull-fighting fellow, Escamillo,
who won that fight in Granada! Hello, out there, old friend! Come in here
and have something to drink with me. To your past success and to your
future glory!" Motioning to the bull-fighter outside, Zuniga goes toward the
door. In he comes, this Escamillo, all covered with the glory of having
killed some frisky and dangerous bulls—with all the chances against the
bulls, nevertheless. Everybody else enters with Escamillo and all stand
ready for refreshments at Zuniga's expense. Carmen comes back, and of
course is to be found in the thick of the fun.
"Rah, rah, rah!" everybody yells, calling a toast to the bull-fighter, who is
dressed up till he looks as fine as a little wagon. The toast suits him
perfectly and he says so. He squares himself and strikes an attitude of
grandeur without the least doubt that he is the greatest thing in the world,
and while he is singing about it, half the people in the opera house are likely
to agree with him. Here he goes:

[Listen]

For a toast your own will avail me,
Señors, señors!
For all you men of war,
Like all Toréros, as brother hail me!
In a fight, in a fight we both take delight!

'Tis holiday, the circus full,

The circus full from rim to floor:
The lookers on, beyond control,
The lookers on now begin to murmur and roar!
Some are calling,
And others bawling
And howling too, with might and main!
For they await a sight appalling!
'Tis the day of the brave of Spain!
Come on! make ready!
Come on! Come on! Ah!

Toréador, make ready!
Toréador! Toréador!
And think on her, on her, who all can see:
On a dark eyed lady,
And that love waits for thee, Toréador,
Love waits, love waits for thee!

While Escamillo is singing the refrain of this song he is about the most self-
satisfied fellow one ever saw. He hasn't the slightest doubt about himself
and neither has any sensible person a doubt about him; but Carmen is not a
sensible person.
The bull-fighter has been trying the same trick upon Carmen that she tried
upon José. She is not indifferent to his fascinations, but—well, there is
trouble coming her way, Escamillo's way, José's way, everybody's way, but
it is some comfort to know that they all more or less deserve it.
When Escamillo has finished singing of his greatness, he asks Carmen what
she would think of him if he told her he loved her, and for once in a way she
is quite truthful. She tells him she would think him a fool.
"You are not over-encouraging, my girl, but I can wait," he returns.
"I am sure there is no harm in waiting," she answers him.
Now Carmen's familiar friends, the smugglers, have an enterprise in hand,
and it has been their habit to look to Carmen, Frasquita, and Mercedes for

help in their smuggling. When they find an opportunity, they approach
Carmen.
"We need your help to-night."
"Indeed! well, you won't get it," she declares.
"What! you won't attend to business?"
"I won't."
"What's the matter now?" El Dancairo, chief of the smugglers, demands.
"If you particularly want to know—why, then, I am in love—for to-night
only," she hastens to add, as the smugglers stare at her in disgust.
"Well, we wish you joy; but you'll show better sense to come along with us.
If you wait here, your lover is likely not to come, and you'll lose the money
in the bargain."

When any sly intrigue is weaving,
Whether for thieving,
Or for deceiving,
You will do well if you provide,
To have a woman on your side—

they sing—which shows what the smugglers think of their sisters and their
cousins and their aunts.
When they insist upon knowing for whom Carmen is going to wait at the
inn, she finally tells them she is waiting for José, and pretends to some very
nice sentiments indeed, on his account; says he got her out of prison, has
been locked up for her sake, and of course she must treat him nicely.
"Well, all we have to say about it is that you had better have a care. Very
likely he'll not come, and——" El Dancairo is interrupted by a song in the
hills. It is José's voice signalling to Carmen.
"Think not?" she asks, nonchalantly.

When José enters, she really is glad to see him: he is very handsome indeed.
After her comrades have gone outside the inn, she tells José of her regret
that he has suffered for her, and starts to entertain him.
There, in the dingy inn, she begins a wonderful dance, shaking her castanets
and making herself very beautiful and fascinating once more to José. In the
midst of the dance they hear a bugle call. José starts up.
"Carmen, it is my squad going back to camp. It is the retreat that has
sounded. I must go."
"Go?" she stares at him. Then, realizing that he is going to desert her for
duty, she flies into a rage, throws his shako after him and screams at him to
go and not come back. This puts José in a bad way, because he has been
able to think of nothing but Carmen ever since she escaped and he went to
prison in her place. Meantime, she raves about the inn, declaring that he
doesn't love her, whereupon he takes the flower she once threw him, now
dead and scentless, from his pocket, and shows it to her. He has kept it
safely through all that has happened to him.
"That is all very well, Don José, but if you truly loved me, you would leave
this soldiering which takes you away, and go live with me and my
companions in the mountains. There, there is no law, no duties, no——"
Don José nearly faints at the idea.
"Disgrace my uniform!" he cries.
"Let your uniform go hang," she answers. She never was any too choice in
her language. Poor José! poor wretch! he buries his face in his hands, and
cries several times, "My God!" and looks so distracted that one almost
believes he will pull himself together, take his shako, and go back to his
men. Presently he decides that he will go, and starts toward the door, when
there comes a knocking.
"What's that?" he whispers, pausing; but almost at the moment, Zuniga,
looking for Carmen, opens the door.
"Fie, Carmen! Is this your taste?" the captain laughs, pointing to José. José
is only a corporal, while Zuniga, being a captain, feels in a corporal's
presence like a general at the very least.

"Come on, get out," he demands of José.
"No," José answers. "I think not," and there is no doubt he means it. Then
the men begin to fight. Carmen, desiring to have one of them to torment,
throws herself between them. Her screams bring the gipsies and smugglers.
"Seize the captain," she cries, and Zuniga is seized and tied. He roars and
fumes and threatens, but the smugglers carry him off. This puts José in a
truly bad way. How can he return and tell Zuniga's men what has happened?
and then when Zuniga is free he will be tried by court-martial and suffer the
worst, beyond doubt.
"Now then, José. What about it? You can't go back to your company, eh?"
"This is horrible," he tells her. "I am a ruined man."
"Then come with us and make the best of it," she cries, and Fate scores
again.

ACT III

Disgraced, there is nothing left for José but to go away to the smugglers'
retreat in the mountains. There, in a cave looking out to sea, well located
above the valley for smuggling operations, all the gipsies and the
smugglers, headed by El Dancairo, lie waiting for the hour when they can
go out without being caught. There, too, is Don José, sitting gloomily apart,
cut off from all that is good, dishonoured and so distressed that he is no
longer a good companion. Carmen looks at him, and feels angry because he
seems to be indifferent to her.
"What do you see, that you sit staring down there into the valley?" she asks.
"I was thinking that yonder is living a good, industrious old woman, who
thinks me a man of honour, but she is wrong, alas!"
"And who is this good old woman, pray?" Carmen sneers.
"If you love me do not speak thus," he returns, "for she is my mother."

"Ah, indeed! Well, I think you need her. I advise you to return to her." Don
José needed her more than he knew.
"And if I went back—what about you?"
"Me? What about me, pray? I stay where I belong—with my friends."
"Then you expect me to give you up, for whom I have lost all that I had in
life!" Realizing that he has given so much for so little, his bitterness
becomes uncontrollable, and though he says nothing, Carmen surprises a
horrid look on his face.
"You'll be committing murder next, if you look like that," she laughs. "Well,
you are not very good company. Hello, there! Mercedes, Frasquita—
anybody instead of this fool—let's amuse ourselves. Get the cards. Let us
tell our fortunes, eh?" The three girls gather about the table; the other two
shuffle and cut. The cards turn out well for them. Carmen watches them.
After a moment she reaches for the pack. She is very nonchalant about it,
and glances at José as she shuffles the cards. Then she sits half upon the
table and cuts. A glance! a moment of sudden fear! she has cut death for
herself! The blow has come to her in her most reckless moment. After an
instant's pause she sings with a simple fatalism in voice and manner:
In vain to shun the answer that we dread.
She cuts the cards again and yet again. Still her dreadful fate appears.
"There is no hope," she murmurs to herself, as El Dancairo starts up and
cries:
"'Tis time to be off. The way is clear. Come."
The others, headed by Remendado and El Dancairo, file down the path,
leaving Don José alone in the cave. It is a dismal scene: the loneliness of
José, the menace of death in the air!
While José sits with bowed head, a girl's figure rises behind the rocks, and
almost at the same moment there appears the form of a man, as well. José
hears the rolling of the stones beneath their feet and starts up, musket in
hand. Just as he rises, he sees the man's head. The girl cries out as he fires
upon the man, and misses him; then she crouches down behind the rock. It

is Michaela, come to find José wherever he may be. She knows of his
disgrace; it is killing his mother. The lonely old woman is dying. Michaela
has come to fetch him, if he has not lost all memory of gentler hours. As
José fires, the man shouts.
"Hey, there! what are you about?"
"What are you about? What do you want up here?"
"If you were not so ready with your gun, my friend, you are more likely to
find out. I'm Escamillo the Toreador."
"Oh, well, then come up. I know you and you are welcome enough, but you
run a fearful risk, let me tell you. You haven't sought very good company, I
suppose you know."
"I don't care particularly; because, my friend, I am in love, if you want to
know."
"Do you expect to find her here?"
"I am looking for her," Escamillo returns, complaisantly.
"These women are all gipsies."
"Good enough: so is Carmen."
"Carmen!" José cries, his heart seeming to miss a beat.
"That's her name. She had a lover up here—a soldier who deserted from his
troop to join her—but that's past history. It's all up with him now." José
listens and tries not to betray himself.
"Do you know that when a rival tries to take a gipsy girl from her lover
there is a price to pay?" he tries to ask with some show of tranquillity.
"Very well, I am ready."
"A knife thrust, you understand," José mutters, unable to hide his emotion.
He hates Escamillo so much that he is about to spring upon him.

"Ho, ho! From your manner, I fancy you are that fine deserter. You want to
fight? Good! I fight bulls for pleasure; you used to fight men for business.
Evenly matched. Have at it," and the men fall to fighting. The fight grows
hotter and hotter. Escamillo's knife suddenly snaps off short. José is about
to kill him when Carmen and the men are heard running back. They have
encountered some one in the valley below and have returned just in time to
interrupt the quarrel.
"José," she screams, and holds his arm. Then he is set upon by the others
and held in check. Escamillo throws his arms about Carmen and taunts the
helpless fellow. José rages.
"I'm off, my fine dragoon," he cries, "but if you love me you will all come
to the bull fight next week at Seville. Come, my friend," to José, "and see
what a really good looking fellow is like," he taunts, looking gaily at
Carmen. He goes off, down the path, while José is struggling to free
himself, and at that moment, Michaela, nearly dead with fright, falls upon
the rock, and is heard by the men. El Remendado hears her and runs out. He
returns bringing the young girl with him.
"Michaela!" José calls.
"José! your mother is dying. I have come for you. For God's sake——"
"My mother dying," he shakes off the men. Then the voice of Escamillo is
heard far down the mountain singing back at Carmen the Toreador's song.
Carmen rushes for the entrance to the cave. She will follow Escamillo. José
goes wild with rage. He bars the entrance.
"My mother is dying. I am going to her—but your time too has come," he
swears, looking at Carmen. "I have lost friends, honour, and now my
mother for you, and I swear you shall reckon with me for all this wrong.
When we meet again, I shall kill you," and he disappears behind the rocks
with Michaela.

ACT IV

Back in gay Seville, not near to its cigarette factory and the guard-house,
but at the scene of the great bull-fight, where Escamillo is to strut and show

what a famous fellow he deserves to be! The old amphitheatre at the back
with its awning stretched, the foreground with its orange-girls, fan-girls,
wine-pedlars, ragged idlers and beggars, fine gentlemen, mules—all eager
for the entertainment! Escamillo is the man who kills bulls and makes love
to all the pretty girls he sees. Everybody wants to get a peep at him. The air
is full of excitement. Everybody, wine-sellers, orange-girls, all dance and
twirl about, and donkeys' bells tinkle, and some are eating, and some are
drinking. The Alcalde is to attend, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen of
Seville. Here comes Zuniga.
"Here, bring me some oranges," he orders, in his old at-least-a-general
fashion. The smugglers had let him loose, of course, as soon as Carmen and
José had got away from Lillas Pastia's inn, that night. He sits to eat his
oranges and to watch the gradually assembling crowd. Frasquita and
Mercedes are on hand, and there is a fair sprinkling of smugglers and other
gipsies.
"Here they come, here they come!" some one cries, and almost at once the
beginning of the bull-fighting procession appears. First the cuadrilla, then
the alguazil, chulos, banderilleros—all covered with spangles and gold lace;
and the picadors with their pointed lances with which to goad the bull.
Every division in a different colour, and everybody fixed for a good time,
except the bull, perhaps. After all these chromo gentlemen have had a
chance at him, Escamillo will courageously step up and kill him. Yes, Spain
is all ready for a good time! Now at last comes Escamillo.
"Viva Escamillo!" If one ever saw a beauty-man, he is one! He might as
well have been a woman, he is so good-looking. He has a most beautiful
love song with Carmen, who of course is in the very midst of the
excitement, and in the midst of the song, the great Alcalde arrives. Nobody
wants to see the bull-fight more than he does. He was brought up on bull-
fights. His entrance makes a new sensation.
In the midst of the hurly-burly Frasquita forces her way to Carmen.
"You want to get away from here. I have seen Don José in this crowd. If he
finds you there will be trouble——"

"For him maybe." Carmen returns, insolently looking about to see if she can
espy José. The girls urge her not to go too far; to keep out of José's way, but
she refuses point blank.
"Leave the fight and Escamillo? Not for twenty Josés. Here I am, and here I
stay," she declares. Everybody but Carmen thinks of the fortune in the cave:
death, death, death! But gradually the great crowd passes into the
amphitheatre, and Carmen has promised Escamillo to await him when he
shall come out triumphant; and Escamillo has no sooner bade Carmen
good-bye than José swings into the square in search of Carmen.
Carmen sees him and watches him. He does not look angry. As a matter of
fact he has gone through so much sorrow (the death of his mother, and the
jeers of his friends) that he has sought Carmen only with tenderness in his
heart. He now goes up to her and tells her this.
"Indeed, I thought you had come to murder me."
"I have come to take you away from these gipsies and smugglers. If you are
apart from them you will do better. I love you and want you to go away
from here, and together we will begin over and try to do better."
Carmen looks at him and laughs. Suddenly she hears cheering from the
amphitheatre and starts toward it. José interposes.
"You let me alone. I want to go in——"
"To see Escamillo——"
"Why not—since I love him——"
"How is that?"
"As I said——" At this, a blind rage takes possession of Don José. All his
good purposes are forgotten. For a moment he still pleads with her to go
away, and she taunts him more cruelly. Then in a flash José's knife is drawn,
another flash and Carmen's fortune is verified: she falls dead at the entrance
to the amphitheatre, just as the crowd is coming out, cheering the victorious
Escamillo. José falls beside her, nearly mad with grief for what he has done
in a fit of rage, while Escamillo comes out, already fascinated by some
other girl, and caring little that Carmen is dead—except that the body is in

the way. José is under arrest, Carmen dead, and the great crowd passes on,
cheering:
"Escamillo, Escamillo forever!"

DeKoven

S MITH and DeKoven, who have made countless thousands laugh, are
living still, and will very likely continue to do gracious things for the
comic-opera-loving public.
The very imperfect sketch of the opera, "Robin Hood," given in this book,
is lacking in coherence and in completeness in every way, but a prompt-
book, being necessary properly to give the story, is not obtainable. Rather
than ignore an American performance which is so graceful, so elegant, and
which should certainly be known to every child, an attempt had been made
to outline the story.
Little idea can be had of the opera's charm from this sketch, but the opera is
likely to live, even after the topical stories of "Pinafore" and "The Mikado"
have lost their application, because the story of Robin Hood is romantic
forever, and the DeKoven music is not likely to lose its charm.
"Robin Hood" was first produced at the Chicago Opera House, June 9,
1890, by the Bostonian Opera Company. In January, 1891, under the
management of Mr. Horace Sedger, the opera was produced, under the title
of "Maid Marian," at the Prince of Wales's Theatre in London. The cast
included Mr. Haydn Coffin, Mr. Harry Markham, Miss Marion Manola, and
Miss Violet Cameron.

ROBIN HOOD

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Robin Hood Edwin H. Hoff
Little John W.H. Macdonald
Scarlet Eugene Cowles
Friar Tuck George Frothingham
Alan-a-Dale Jessie Bartlett Davis

Sheriff of Nottingham H.C. Barnabee
Sir Guy Peter Lang
Maid Marian Marie Stone
Annabel Carlotta Maconda
Dame Durden Josephine Bartlett

ACT I

In Sherwood forest, the merriest of lives,
Is our outlaw's life so free!
We roam and rove in Sherwood's grove,
Beneath the greenwood tree.
Through all the glades and sylvan shades
Our homes (through the glades) are found;
We hunt the deer, afar and near,
Our hunting horns do we sound.

And thus begins the merriest tale of the merriest lives imaginable. It is on a
May morning: every young sprint and his sweetheart in Nottingham are out
in their best, for the fair—May-day fair in Nottingham; and near at hand,
Alan-a-Dale, Little John, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, and the finest company
of outlaws ever told about, are just entering the town to add to the gaiety.
Now in the village of Nottingham lived Dame Durden and her daughter,
Annabel. Annabel was a flirtatious young woman who welcomed the
outlaws in her very best manner. She assured them that outlaws of such
high position would surely add much to the happiness of the occasion; and
they certainly did, before the day was over. The outlaws came in, as fine a
looking lot and as handsome as one would wish to see, and joined the
village dance. It was an old English dance, called a "Morris Dance," with a
lilt and a tilt which set all feet a-going.

[Listen]

Fa la, fa la,
Trip a morris dance hilarious,
Lightly brightly,
Trip in measure multifarious,
Fa la la, fa la la,
Trip a morris dance hilarious,
Lightly and brightly we celebrate the fair!

If anything was needed to add to the gaiety of the day, the outlaws furnished
it, because, among other things, they brought to the fair a lot of goods
belonging to other people, and they meant to put them up at auction.
Friar Tuck was an old renegade monk who travelled about with the merry
men of Sherwood, to seem to lend a little piety to their doings. He had a

little bottle-shaped belly and the dirtiest face possible, a tonsured head, and
he wore a long brown habit tied round the middle with a piece of rope
which did duty for several things besides tying this gown. He was a droll,
jolly little bad man and he began the auction with mock piety:

As an honest auctioneer,
I'm prepared to sell you here
Some goods in an assortment that is various;
Here's a late lamented deer
(That was once a King's, I fear)
Killing him was certainly precarious.

Here I have for sale
Casks of brown October ale,
Brewed to make humanity hilarious;
Here's a suit of homespun brave
Fit for honest man or knave;
Here's a stock in fact that's multifarious.

And so it was!
His stock consisted of the most curious assortment of plunder one ever saw
even at a Nottingham fair in the outlaw days of Robin Hood.
While all that tow-wow was going on, people were coming in droves to the
fair; and among them came Robert of Huntingdon. The name is very
thrilling, since the first part gives one an inkling that he beholds for the first
time the future Robin Hood. However, on that May morning he was not yet
an outlaw. He was a simple Knight of the Shire.
The Sheriff, who was a great personage in Nottingham, had a ward whom
he had foisted upon the good folks of Nottinghamshire as an Earl, but as a
fact he was simply a country lout, and all the teachings of the Sheriff would
not make him appear anything different. Robert of Huntingdon was the
Earl, in fact, and the Sheriff was going to try to keep him out of his title and
estates. The merry men of Sherwood forest were great favourites with
Robert and they were his friends. During the fair a fine cavalier, very dainty
for a man, fascinating, was caught by Friar Tuck kissing a girl, and was
brought in with a great to-do. She declared that she had a right to kiss a

pretty girl, since her business was that of cavalier. Robin Hood discovered
her sex, underneath her disguise, and began to make love to her.
Among other reasons for Robin Hood being at the fair was that of making
the Sheriff confer upon him his title to the Earldom. When he boldly made
his demand, the foxy Sheriff declared that he had a half-brother brought up
by him, and that the half-brother, and not Robert, was the Earl.
"You are a vain, presumptuous youth," the Sheriff declared. "You are no
Earl, instead it is this lovely youth whom I have brought up so carefully."
And he put forth Guy, the bumpkin. This created an awful stir, and all the
outlaws who were fond of Robin Hood took up the case for him.
"A nice sort of Earl, that," Little John cried.
"You think we will acknowledge him as heir to the estates of Huntingdon?
Never!" Scarlet declared.
"Traitor!" Robin Hood cried to the Sheriff. "In the absence of the King I
know that your word is law; but wait till the King returns from his Crusade!
I'll show you then whose word is to prevail."
"My friend!" Little John then cried, stepping into the middle of the row,
"take thou this good stout bow of yew. You are going to join us and make
one of Sherwood's merry men till his Majesty returns and reinstates you as
the rightful Earl of Huntingdon. Come! Say you will be one of us." All the
outlaws crowded affectionately about Robert and urged him.
"You shall become King of Outlaws, if you will," Scarlet cried. "Come!
accept our friendship. Become our outlaw king!"
After thinking a moment, Robert turned and looked at the gay cavalier
whom he knew to be his cousin Marian, in masquerade, and whom he
loved. Then he decided he would go and live a gay and roving life in the
forest till he could return and marry his cousin as the Earl of Huntingdon
should.
"Farewell," he sang to her. "Farewell, till we meet again," and he was
carried off amid the uproarious welcome of the outlaws of Sherwood forest,

to become their leader till the King returned from the Crusades to make him
Earl.

ACT II

Away in Sherwood forest the outlaws were encamped—which meant
merely the building of a fire and the assembling of the merry men. Robin
Hood had become their leader.

Oh, cheerily soundeth the hunter's horn,
Its clarion blast so fine;
Through depths of old Sherwood so clearly borne,
We hear it at eve and at break of morn,
Of Robin Hood's band the sign.
A hunting we will go,
Tra-ra-ra-tra-ra!
We'll chase for the roe,
Tra-ra-ra-tra-ra!
Oh where is band so jolly
As Robin's band in their Lincoln green?
Their life is naught but folly,
A rollicking life I ween!

Now the merry men gathered about their fire, and while the old monk was
broiling the meat, they all lounged about in comfortable ways and Little
John sang to them:

And it's will ye quaff with me, my lads,
And it's will ye quaff with me?
It is a draught of nut-brown ale
I offer unto ye.
All humming in the tankard, lads,
It cheers the heart forlorn;
Oh! here's a friend to everyone,
'Tis stout John Barley-corn.

So laugh, lads, and quaff, lads!
'Twill make you stout and hale,

Through all my days I'll sing the praise
Of brown October ale!

While the outlaws were lounging thus, in came the Sheriff, Sir Guy, the
spurious Earl, and a lot of journeymen tinkers. Immediately they began a
gay chorus, telling how they were men of such metal that no can or kettle
can withstand their attack, and as they hammered upon their tin pans, one
believed them. Of all the merriment and nonsense that ever was, the most
infectious took place there in the forest, while the tinkers sang and
hammered, and Friar Tuck made jokes, and the other outlaws drank their
brown October ale: but soon Maid Marian, the dainty cavalier, wandered
that way, looking for Robin Hood—Robert of Huntingdon. She had missed
him dreadfully, and finally could not refrain from going in search of him.
She was certain she should find him thinking of her and as true to her as she
was to him.
Robin Hood found that she had come to the forest, and sang to her a
serenade which was overheard by the other outlaws. Alan-a-Dale, who was
in love, became jealous, and the Sheriff came on to the scene, and the
outlaws, finding him on their ground, took him prisoner, and Dame Durden,
who secretly had been married to the Sheriff, and from whose shrewish
tongue the Sheriff had fled, came to free him. She declared that if the
Sheriff of Nottingham would acknowledge her, she would get him free from
the stocks, into which the outlaws had put him, and would take him home.
But the prospect of having to stand Dame Durden's tongue was so much
worse than the stocks, that the Sheriff begged the outlaws to take him
anywhere so long as it was away from his wife.

Woman, get thee gone,
I'd rather live alone!
If Guy should come with the King's men,
I'd turn the tables on them.

the Sheriff cried, trying to plan a way to get free.
At that all the outlaws danced gaily about him, gibing at him and making
the pompous Sheriff miserable. They were trying to pay him for his
mistreatment of Robin Hood, their beloved leader.

In the height of their gaiety in rushed Sir Guy with the King's men.
"We're lost," all cried.
"You are," Sir Guy recklessly shouts, "because we're brave as lions, all of
us, and shall make short work of you."

We're brave as lions, every one,
We're brave as lions—for we're two to one,

all cried, and immediately they marched the gay outlaws off to prison and
set the Sheriff free.
As it turned out, Maid Marian, the cousin and beloved of Robin Hood, had
been commanded by the King himself to become Robin's wife, or rather the
wife of the Earl of Huntingdon. As the false Earl, Guy had tried to make
love to the maid, and to win her, but the cousins loved each other, and all
Guy's efforts were quite hopeless. But now that the outlaws, and Robin
Hood with them, were all in the power of the Sheriff again, the case looked
serious. As outlaws, the Sheriff could hang them, every one. Little John and
the leading outlaws pleaded for their friend, reminding the Sheriff and Sir
Guy that, since Robin must, by the King's command, marry Marian, the
Sheriff dare not kill him.
"Don't count upon that," the wily Sheriff cried "The King's command was to
the Earl of Huntingdon—and he is my ward, Sir Guy; not your outlaw
friend! Robin Hood shall go to the gallows and Guy shall marry the Maid
Marian." At that everybody sighed very sadly. It really began to look as if
the wicked Sheriff was going to get the best of them.

ACT III

Among the outlaws, the strongest and also the cleverest, perhaps, was Will
Scarlet. He had not been captured with the others of the band, and so he had
come into Nottingham, whence the prisoners had been taken, to spy out the
ground and to see if he could not help to free his comrades. He had set up a
blacksmith's shop and had set about forging a sword. All the while he was
watching what took place about him, and hoping to get news of his friends.

Friar Tuck was finally discovered locked up in a tower, and with his dirty
face at the window. It would have been a shame for so dirty and merry a
gentleman as the Friar to have his life cut short, and of course he was freed,
but before this happened he had plenty of chance to get scared half to death.
At the very moment when Maid Marian was distracted because she feared
that her lover, Robin Hood, was to be led to the gallows, a message came
from the King, pardoning all of the outlaws. Some one had revealed to his
Majesty the doings of the Sheriff, and the King had hastened to look into
matters. When everybody's life seemed to be in danger, the King rushed
back from the Crusades and saved them all, and put the temporary outlaw
into his rightful place, and forgave all the other merry men because they had
befriended Robert of Huntingdon.
In the midst of the rejoicing, Robin bade the foresters farewell, clasped his
cousin in his arms, the Sheriff was properly punished, and the merriest of
operas came to an end.

FLOTOW

T HERE has never been more uncertainty and disagreement about the
production, composition, and source of any opera than about the opera
of "Martha." Among the reasonable guesses as to its source is one that
Flotow found the theme for the story in a French ballet named "Lady
Henriette, ou la Foire de Richmond," also, "Lady Harriette, ou la Servante
de Greenwich." Among the German titles we find "Martha, oder der Markt
zu Richmond," and "Martha, oder der Mägdemarkt zu Richmond." When
all is said and done, it is still a German opera.
Flotow belonged to the petty nobility of Mecklenburg. He was destined for
the diplomatic profession and his art work was continually interrupted by
revolutions in his own country and in France.
He had already written a number of unimportant pieces before he undertook
"Martha." This opera was made under particularly interesting
circumstances, being originally the work of three composers. The Marquis
Saint-Georges—the librettist of the day—asked Flotow to undertake the
music of one act only, as the other two had already been assigned to two
different composers. This proved to be on account of a contract made by the
manager of the Grand Opéra with the French Government to produce a new
ballet in three acts every year—and the Marquis had tried to evade the
contract on the ground that it would bankrupt him. The manager's Première
heard of this appeal, and she in her turn went to headquarters, asking that
the manager be compelled to put on the piece as agreed. The next day he
received an offer of 100,000 francs to mount the new ballet if he would put
the dancer, Mlle. Dumilatre, into the leading part, and do it in an incredibly
short time. This was how three composers brought into being the piece that
one day was to become the "Martha" with which we are now familiar. After
Flotow had written "Stradella" he was asked to write an opera for the court,
and remembering the peculiarly carpentered piece, "Martha," he went to
Saint-Georges's ballet for his court-opera theme. When finished it was
"Martha."

The librettist for "Martha" and another Flotow piece was Reise, but he
wrote under the name of W. Friedrich. Balfe used the story for an opera
which he called "The Maid of Honour." The opera was about ten years in
gaining popularity outside of Germany. It was perhaps somewhat longer
than that in reaching Paris and London. It was known in New York, having
been presented at Niblo's Garden, before it was known in Paris or London,
and Madame Anna Bishop sang it. The great singers who have appeared in
the cast are Anna Bishop, Mario, Lehman, Nilsson, Patti, Brignoli, and
others.
Flotow's best claim to distinction lies in this opera of "Martha." He was not
a special favourite nor a genius, but in "Martha" he turned out a number of
fascinating tunes of a humable sort. One of them has been adapted to sacred
words, and is much used in churches, but for the most part "Martha" is
made of a series of jiggy choruses. Berlioz, who especially hated Flotow,
declared that the "introduction of the Irish melody ('Last Rose of Summer')
served to disinfect the rottenness of the Martha music."
Flotow was born April 27, 1812. Died January 24, 1883.

MARTHA

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST AS
PRESENTED
AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCE

Lady Harriet Anna Zerr
Nancy Therese Schwarz
Lionel Joseph Erl
Plunkett Carl Formes
Sheriff of Richmond, three servants of Lady Harriet, three maid servants.
Chorus of ladies, servants, farmers, hunters and huntresses, pages, etc.
The story is enacted in England during Queen Anne's reign.
First sung at Vienna Court Opera, November 25, 1847.

Composer: Friedrich Freiherr von Flotow.
Author: W. Friedrich (F.W. Riese).

ACT I

One morning during fair time in Richmond the Lady Harriet, maid of
honour to her Majesty Queen Anne, was sitting in her boudoir at her toilet
table. She and all her maids and women friends who were attending at her
toilet were bored to death.
"Did any one ever know such a stupid, dismal life as we are leading?" they
declared. "In heaven's name, why doesn't some one think of something to
do that will vary the monotony of this routine existence? We rise in the
morning, make a toilet, go to her Majesty, make a toilet, breakfast, read to
her Majesty, make a toilet, dine, walk with her Majesty, sup, unmake a toilet
and go to bed! Of all the awful existences I really believe ours has become
the most so."
"It is as you say, but we cannot improve matters by groaning about it. Lady
Harriet, Sir Tristram has sent you some flowers," Nancy, Lady Harriet's
favourite, cried, handing them to her ladyship.
"Well, do you call that something new? because I don't! Why doesn't the
cook send me some flowers—or maybe the hostler—somebody, something
new? Take them out of my sight—and Sir Tristram with them, in case he
appears."
"Look at these diamonds: they sparkle like morning showers on the flowers.
The sight of them is enough to please any one!"
"It is not enough to please me," Lady Harriet declared petulantly,
determined to be pleased with nothing.
"Who is that? There is some one who wishes an audience with me! I'll see
no one."
"Ah," a man's voice announced from the curtains, "but I have come to tell
you of something new, Lady Harriet!"

"You? Sir Tristram? Is there anything new under the sun? If you really have
something to suggest that is worth hearing, you may come in."
"Listen, ladies! and tell me if I haven't conceived a clever thought. The fair
is on at Richmond——"
"Well—it is always on, isn't it?"
"Oh, no, ladies. Only once a year—this is the time. There is a fair and there
are cock-fights——"
"Ah—that sounds rather thrilling."
"And donkeys——"
"Oh, there are always donkeys—always!" the ladies cried, looking
hopelessly at poor Sir Tristram.
"I mean real donkeys," the poor man explained patiently.
"So do we mean real donkeys," they sighed.
"And there are the races—and—well, if you will come I am certain there
are several new attractions. Let me take you, Lady Harriet, and I promise to
make you forget your ennui for once. Cock-fights and——"
"Donkeys," she sighed, rising. "Very well, one might as well die of donkeys
and cock-fights as of nothing at all. It is too hot, open the window——"
"I fly."
"Oh, heavens! now it is too cold—shut it——"
"I fly," the unhappy Sir Tristram replied.
"Give me my fan——"
"I fly." He flies.
"O lord, I don't want it——"
"I fl—oh!" he sighed and sank into a chair, exhausted.

[Listen]

Come away,
Maidens gay,
To the fair
All repair,
Let us go,
Let us show
Willing hearts,
Fair deserts!

"What is that?" Harriet asked impatiently, as she heard this gay chorus sung
just outside her windows.
"A gay measure: the girls and lads going to the fair," Nancy replied.
"Servant girls and stable boys—bah!"
"Yes—shocking! Who would give them a thought?" Sir Tristram rashly
remarked.
"Why, I don't know! after all, they sound very gay indeed. You haven't very
good taste, Sir Tristram, I declare." And at this the poor old fop should have
seen that she would contradict anything that he said.

"Oh, I remember now! Fair day is the day when all the pretty girls dress in
their best and go to the fair to seek for places, to get situations. They hire
themselves out for a certain length of time!—till next year, I think.
Meantime they dance in their best dresses and have a very gay day of it."
"That sounds to me rather attractive," Lady Harriet remarked thoughtfully.
"A foolish fancy, your ladyship," the unfortunate Sir Tristram put in.
"Now I am resolved to go! Get me that bodice I wore at the fancy dress
ball, Nancy. We shall all go—I shall be Martha,—Nancy, and old Rob."
"And—and who may be 'old Rob,' your ladyship?" Sir Tristram asked,
feeling much pained at this frivolity.
"Why, you, to be sure. Come! No mumps! No dumps! We are off!"
"Oh, this is too much."
"What, Sir Tristram, is that the extent of your love for me?"
"No, no—I shall do as you wish—but," the poor old chap sighed heavily.
"To be sure you will—so now, Nancy, teach old Rob how the yokels dance,
and we'll be off."
"This is too much. I can't dance in that manner."
"Dance—or leave me! Dance—or stay at home, sir!" Harriet cried sternly.
"O heaven—I'll dance," and so he tried, and the teases put him through all
the absurd paces they knew, till he fell exhausted into a seat.
"That was almost true to nature," they laughed. "You will do, so come
along. But don't forget your part. Don't let us see any of the airs of a
nobleman or you shall leave us. We'll take you, but if you forget your part
we shall certainly leave you," and they dragged him off recklessly.
At the fair, ribbons were flying, bands were playing, lads and lasses were
dancing, and farmers were singing:

[Listen]

Bright and buxom lasses,
Come, the fair shall now begin,
Show your rosy faces
And our hearts ye soon shall win.

Fleet of foot, and clad with neatness,
Come and let the master choose;
Sweet of temper, all discreetness,
Who a prize like this would lose?

Done is the bargain if the maid is trusty, blythe and willing;
Done is the bargain if she accepts the master's proffered shilling!

Thus, the farmers who had come to the fair to choose a maid-servant, sang
together. The maid-servants were meanwhile singing a song of their own,
and everybody was in high feather.
Now to this fair had come two farmers in particular; one being farmer
Plunkett, and the other, altogether a handsome fellow, named Lionel, who
was the foster-brother of Plunkett. As a matter of fact, he was left in his
babyhood on the doorstep of Plunkett's father, who adopted him and

brought him up with his own son. The baby had had nothing by which he
could be identified, but there was a ring left with him, and the instruction
that it was to be shown to the Queen in case the boy should ever find
himself in serious trouble when he grew up. Now both these gay farmers
had come to secure maid-servants for the year, and Plunkett came up to
inspect the girls as they assembled.
"What a clatter! This becomes a serious matter. How on earth is a man to
make a choice with such confusion all about him?"
"Oh well, there is no haste," Lionel replied leisurely.
"No haste? I tell you, Lionel, we can't afford to lose any time. There is that
farm falling to pieces for need of a competent servant to look after it! I
should say there was haste, with a vengeance. We must get a good stout
maid to go home with us, or we shall be in a pretty fix. You don't know
much about these things, to be sure. You were always our mother's
favourite, and I the clumsy bear who got most of the cuffs and ran the farm;
but take my word for it, if we don't find good maids we shall soon be
ruined, because you are of no more use on a farm than the fifth wheel is on
a wagon."
"Oh, come, come, brother, don't——"
"That's all right! I meant no harm. You are my brother and I'll stick by you
forever, but you aren't practical. Leave this maid-servant business to me,
and take my word for it we must hurry the matter up and get home. Some
day you'll be giving that fine ring of yours to Queen Anne, Lionel, and then
heaven knows what will happen; but I suspect that whatever it is I shall find
myself without a brother."
"It shall never happen. I shall live and die quite contented beneath the roof
where we have grown up together and where I have been happiest."
"Ohe! Ohe! Ohe! the fair begins! Here comes the sheriff with his bell. Ye
maids, come forth now, both young and old! Come forth, come forth! Make
way there for the Law!" bawled a crier, clearing the way for the sheriff, who
had come to preside over the business of contract-making between the
serving maids and the farmers.

I the statute first will read,
Then to business we'll proceed,

the burly sheriff called at the top of his voice; and all the yokels laughed
and crowded about him while he mounted a box and began to read the Law.
"'Tis our royal will and pleasure—' Hats off! Rustics, look at me! Loyal
feelings let us cherish! 'We, Queen Anne, hereby decree to all subjects of
the crown, dwelling here in Richmond town, whoso at the fair engages, to
perform a servant's part, for a year her service pledges; from this law let
none depart.'"
When the earnest money's taken, let the bargain stay unshaken!
"Now, then, ye have heard? Stick to the bargains ye make—or the law will
get ye!"
"And now what can ye do, Molly Pitt?"

I can sow, sir,
I can mow, sir,
I can bake and brew,
Mend things like new,
Can mind a house, and rule it, too,
There's naught I cannot do.

"She's worth four guineas. Who will hire her?"
Molly was at once hired by a farmer.
"And now you, Polly Smith?"

I can cook, sir,
By the book, sir,
I can roast and toast,
And 'tis my boast
That nothing in house
That I preside in yet was lost.

"Polly's worth five guineas. Who wants her?"

Polly was immediately hired by a farmer. After half a dozen buxom girls
had told what they could do, and had found places for the year—none of
them satisfying Plunkett and Lionel, however, who are feeling almost
discouraged at the outlook—Lady Harriet (who called herself Martha) and
Nancy and Sir Tristram came pushing merrily into the crowd. Lady Harriet
(or Martha) was certain to want to see everything. Old Sir Tristram was
protesting and having a most dreadful time of it.
"This way, Rob," Martha called, dragging him by the hand and laughing.
"What! must I lead you?"
"Come, good, good Rob," Nancy mocked, entering into the spirit of it and
poking the old beau ahead of her. Sir Tristram groaned.
"Oh, I am just like a lamb led to the slaughter."
"Look, brother," Plunkett now said, nudging Lionel. "What pretty lasses!
Theirs are not like servants' faces."
"Let's inquire," Lionel replied, a good deal interested and staring at Nancy
and Martha.
"Do you see how these disgusting rustics are staring? Let us fly, Lady——"
"Martha," Lady Harriet reproved him. "Don't forget I'm Martha."
"Well, 'Martha,' let us go——"
"Not I! I am having the first moment of gaiety I have known in a year. No,
ye'll not go." Then in bravado and to torment Sir Tristram she set up a cry:
"No, here in the open fair, I refuse you for my master! I won't go with you!"
By that outbreak she had attracted the attention of everybody about. Nancy,
too, set up a screech and everybody crowded about them. Sir Tristram dared
not say a word to help himself, because if he should really displease Lady
Harriet he knew it would be all up with him.
"Nonsense, nonsense," he said, confused and tormented.
"Well, you can't force her, Master Rob," the frolicsome Nancy joined in.

"Force the girl? No, I think not, old fellow," Plunkett now cried, coming
forward with Lionel. The two of them had been watching the quarrel. "No
farmer can hire a maid against her will. There are servants to spare here;
take your pick and let these alone," and the tricky Martha and Nancy nearly
fainted with trying to suppress their laughter as they witnessed Sir
Tristram's plight.
At that moment all the unhired serving maids rushed to Sir Tristram and
crowded about him and began their eternal, "I can bake, sir, I can brew, sir,"
etc., and begged him to hire them. Now this was the last straw, and Sir
Tristram looked for Martha and Nancy to come to his assistance, but they
only shrieked with laughter and urged the girls on. Meantime, Plunkett and
Lionel had approached them, and, when Martha noticed that they were
about to speak, she became a little frightened.
"Oh, see how they are looking at us!" she gasped to Nancy.
"Well, I can't say I mind it. I am willing to be seen," Nancy laughed, still
more giddily than Lady Harriet.
"I'd like her to do the cooking," Plunkett remarked aside to Lionel and
pointing to Nancy.
"I think it would be best to hire them both."
"Well, that might be a good plan. Go up and bargain with them."
"I do not dare," Lionel answered, hanging back.
"Pooh! Then I must show you, now then—er—now then—er—ahem!"
Plunkett, too, found himself embarrassed. In fact, the women did not seem
at all like the other serving maids, though their clothing was that of the
others.
"Pooh, they'll never dare ask us!" Nancy told Martha.
"No, come on! Let's go!" and they turned away. At that Lionel became
excited.
"We shall lose them altogether! They are going!"

So then Plunkett got up courage and went to them.
"Damsels, listen! We would hire you. Have you ears? If your floors and
platters glisten, ye shall stay with us for years!"
"Yes—for—for years," Lionel managed to say.
"What, as your servants?" Lady Harriet gasped. Nancy laughed.
"You are laughing?" Lionel said. He was very anxious to hire them. They
were quite the handsomest serving maids he had ever seen.
"No trouble about that," Plunkett declared. "If she laughs, she will certainly
be good-natured about her work."
"What work?"
"What work?" Lady Harriet and Nancy said in one breath.
"Oh, you are for the farmyard," Plunkett replied, reassuringly to Lady
Harriet, "to keep the house and stable clean, you know. And you," to Nancy,
"are to do the cooking."
"You don't mean that this tender creature is to clean stables, brother?"
Lionel demanded impulsively.
"Well, she might work in the garden instead if she prefers it. Fifty crowns
shall be your wages; and, to be brief, everything found! Beer and cheese for
supper on week days; and on Sundays, good roast beef."
Lady Harriet tried to control her laughter.
"Who could resist so splendid an offer," she asked of Nancy. Nancy for her
part was nearly dying of laughter.
"Not we, not we, Martha."
"'Tis done, then; we will go."
"Then by the powers, here's the shilling to bind the bargain," Lionel cried,
fearful lest after all he and Plunkett should lose them; so he handed over the

shilling to Lady Harriet, who, not knowing that this bound her to their
service for a year, took it as a part of the fun.

Was there ever so droll a situation?
I began to feel not quite at ease,

the girls then said to each other, and they began to look about for Tristram.
He had got away, trying to rid himself of the maids, but now he came back
again, still followed by the whole of them. He was the image of despair.
"Here's a pound to pay the forfeit," he cried to the maids, giving them
money. "And now for heaven's sake let me go. But—but how is this—all so
friendly," he gasped in amazement, observing Plunkett and Lionel, Lady
Harriet and Nancy.
"Who are you?" demanded Plunkett in a threatening manner.
"Oh, good-bye," Harriet cried now to the farmers, and she went to Sir
Tristram. They had had enough of it now, and decided to go home.
"Good-bye?" cried Plunkett. "Are you demented? Did ye not hire to us?
Good-bye?"
"Hush! O lord! That wasn't our intention. What if it should be heard of at
court?"
"Really we must go," she repeated, starting again to go to Tristram while
Plunkett held her back.
"I guess you go no place but home with us! You're hired, do you
understand? You took the shilling. You are hired to serve us for one year.
Now no more nonsense. Here, sheriff, tell these girls about this."
"Why, if you have taken the earnest money, ye are bound to go," said the
sheriff. "So go along and make no more trouble, or I'll look after ye." Now
the women were in a pickle. If they persisted, of course they would be set
free when it was known they belonged to Queen Anne's court; but they
could never live down the disgrace of their prank. Plainly there was nothing
left for them but to abide by their arrangement and go with Plunkett and
Lionel. Everybody now set up an indignant howl at their behaviour.

Tristram could not help them. The angry farmers pushed him aside, and
Lady Harriet and Nancy were taken by their arms by the two farmers, and
walked back to where the wagon waited.
"Now then! no more nonsense, girls! Ye are hired to us and ye will go,"
Plunkett declared, lifting the women into the wagon, while Lionel got up
beside them, and then amid the shouts of the crowd and the laughter of the
other girls, and the noise of the hurdy-gurdies and the dancing and the calls
of the people, Lady Harriet, Nancy, and Lionel were driven off to the farm
by Plunkett.

ACT II

"Now, damsels, get to bed," Plunkett said to Martha and Nancy as he
opened the door of the farmhouse upon their arrival. "Get to bed, because
ye must get up at dawn." The two giddy young women looked about them.
There were doors at the right and left of the big room which they first
entered, and they doubtless led to bedrooms. On the table a lamp was
burning and there were a couple of spinning wheels to be seen. As they
came in they noticed a bell hung on a pole just outside the door. Not a bit
like the palace of Queen Anne! and altogether the lark didn't appear to have
the advantages it first had.
"O heaven! What shall we do?" Martha said to Nancy. "We must get out of
this soon, in some way."
"Well, the main thing is to get to bed now," Nancy declared, and so the girls
turned to say good-night to the two farmers.
"Good-night? Not so. There are your duties to be done first."
"Our duties?" Martha exclaimed, looking blank.
"Oh, don't disturb them to-night," Lionel interrupted, speaking to his
brother. Lionel was more and more impressed with both of them, especially
with the beauty of Martha. "They are very tired. Don't disturb them to-
night."
"But you will spoil them to begin with," Plunkett insisted. "And by the way,
what are your names?" he asked.
"Mine is Martha," Lady Harriet answered dolefully.
"Mine is—Julia," Nancy said impatiently.
"Ho, ho! Too grand to please me!—but, Julia, my dame of fashion, pray, put
my cloak away," Plunkett returned, handing it to her.
"Upon my life! What impertinence!" she cried, throwing the cloak upon the
floor. "Put away your own cloak."

"What—what?" Plunkett shouted, enraged, and starting up.
"Now, pray be lenient with them, brother. They are quite strange to our
ways, perhaps—and then they are very tired, you know. Probably
overworked by their last master. Leave matters to me. I'll put them quite at
their ease;" whereupon Lionel took his hat and held it out to Martha.
"Martha—take it, if you please," Martha looked at him haughtily, and
turned her back on him. Poor Lionel was distracted and abashed.
"Well, really, I don't—I don't know just what to do myself," he declared, as
his brother snorted with satisfaction at Lionel's discomfiture.
"Well," said Lionel, hesitating a moment; then he took his hat and hung it
up himself; then Plunkett picked up his cloak and waited upon himself.
"A pretty kettle-of-fish, I should say," he muttered. "Well, then, to your
spinning!"
"To our spinning?" they cried in unison.
"Yes, yes, to your spinning," Plunkett returned testily. "Do you expect to do
nothing but entertain us with conversation? To your spinning, I said." Then
all at once the women burst out laughing.
"Are ye good for nothing?" Plunkett shouted, in a greater rage. "Come,
we've had enough of this! You go and bring those spindles," and Plunkett
shouted this so loudly that the girls were downright frightened at last.
"Oh, do not scold us," Martha entreated, shrinking back.
"No, no, brother, let us be gentle."
"Stuff! Now, girls, you get at that spinning wheel as I tell you."
The two girls looked at each other. They no longer dared carry matters with
a high hand, and yet how could they spin? They knew no more how to spin
than did a couple of pussy-cats. After going up to the wheels and looking at
them in wonder, they exclaimed:
"I can't."

"What?" yelled Plunkett.
"We—we don't know how."
"Well, upon my soul!" Plunkett cried. "Now you two sit down there as
quick as you can." They sat as if they were shot. Plunkett seemed very
much in earnest. "Now turn those wheels!"
"They—they will not turn," they cried, trying and making an awful botch of
it.
"Twist the thread," Lionel instructed with much anxiety.
"O Lord! It won't twist, they won't turn. Oh, good gracious! We can't! we
can't do it at all."
"Now then, look at this," Plunkett cried, and he took Nancy from the chair,
and seated himself at the spinning wheel; and Lionel unseated Martha—
gently—and took her place, and then the fun began. "Now watch—and we
will teach you something about this business."

This way set the wheel a-flying,
Set it whirring, set it flying.
Work the treadle with a will.
While an even thread you're plying,
Never let your wheel be still.

Come, you will not lose by trying,
I can see you have good will.

And while the girls joined in this gay spinning song, the men buzzed an
accompaniment of "Brr, brr, brr," and the fun waxed fast and furious, the
men spinning faster and faster every moment, the girls becoming more and
more excited with watching and trying to learn—because they now saw that
there was nothing for them but to begin business; and more than this, they
began almost to like the farmer chaps. After a moment, first one began to
laugh, then another, till suddenly they all dragged off into a merry "ha, ha,
ha!"

Look! How the busy task he's plying,
Hercules is at the wheel;
Look, I too can set it flying,
Scold me if I do it ill

Nancy—or rather Julia—sang, as she took a turn at it. All had turned to fun
and frolic, and now even Lady Harriet—or Martha—could not withstand
the temptation to try her hand; so down she sat, and away she went
spinning, and singing with the best of them. Suddenly Nancy upset her
wheel, Plunkett gaily threatened her, and away she ran, with Plunkett
chasing after her. In a minute they had disappeared, and Martha was left
alone with Lionel.
"Nancy—Julia—where are you? here! don't leave me—" Martha cried.
"Have no fear, gentle girl," Lionel said, detaining her. "There is no one who
will hurt you." Martha regarded him with some anxiety for a moment, then
became reassured.
"No—I will not be afraid," she thought. "This stranger has a kind way with
him. True, they are strange in their ways—to me—but then I am strange in
my ways—to them."
"Come! I'll promise never to be impatient with you nor to scold you if you
do not get things right. I am sure you will do your best," he gently insisted,
trying to put her at her ease. "To tell the truth—I am desperately in love
with you, Martha."
"Oh, good gracious—it is—so sudden——" she gasped, looking about for
some chance of escape. "Don't, sir! I assure you I am the worst sort of
servant. I have deceived you: as a matter of fact, I know almost nothing of
housework or farm work—I——"
"Well, at least, you know how to laugh and while the time away. Never
mind about the work—we shall get on; we'll let the work go. Only sing for
me—come, let us be gay."
"Alas! I do not feel gay——"

"Then sing something that is not gay. Sing what you will—but sing," he
urged. He was more in love with her every moment, and not knowing what
else to do Martha sang—"'Tis the Last Rose of Summer!"
By the time the song was sung, Lionel had quite lost his head.
"Martha, since the moment I first saw thee, I have loved thee madly. Be my
wife and I will be your willing slave—you may count on me to do the
spinning and everything else, if only you will be my wife. I'll raise thee to
my own station." This was really too much. Martha looked at him in
amazement.
"Raise me—er—" In spite of herself she had to laugh. Then, with a feeling
of tenderness growing in her heart, she felt sorry for him.
"I am sorry to cause you pain, but really you don't know what you are
saying. I——" And at this crisis Nancy and Plunkett came in, Plunkett
raising a great to-do because Nancy had been hiding successfully from him,
in the kitchen.
"She hasn't been cooking," he explained; "simply hiding—and I can't abide
idle ways—never could—now what is wrong with you two?" he asks,
observing the restraint felt by Lionel and Martha; but before any one could
answer, midnight struck.
"Twelve o'clock!" all exclaimed.
"All good angels watch over thee," Lionel said impulsively to Martha, "and
make thee less scornful."
For a moment, Plunkett looked thoughtful, then turning to Nancy he said
manfully, while everybody seemed at pause since the stroke of midnight.
"Nancy, girl, you are not what I sought for—a good servant—but some way,
I feel as if—as if as a wife, I should find thee a good one. I vow, I begin to
love thee, for all of thy bothersome little ways."
"Well, well, good-night, good-night, sirs," Nancy cried hastily and
somewhat disconcerted. To tell the truth, she had begun to think kindly of
Plunkett. Plunkett went thoughtfully to the outer door and carefully locked

it, then turned and regarded the girls who stood silently and a little sadly,
apart.
"Good-night," he said: and Lionel looking tenderly at Martha murmured,
"Good-night," and the two men went away to their own part of the house,
leaving the girls alone.
"Nancy——" Martha whispered softly, after a moment.
"Madame?"
"What next?—how escape?"
"How can we go?"
"We must——"
"It is very dark and the way is strange to us," she said, sadly and fearfully.
"Well, fortune has given us gentle masters, at least," Martha murmured.
"Yes—kind and good——"
"What if the Queen should hear of this?"
"Oh, Lord!" And at that moment came a soft knocking at the window. Both
girls started. "What's that?" More knocking! "Gracious heaven! I am nearly
dead with fear," Martha whispered, looking stealthily about. Nancy pointed
to the window.
"Look——" Martha looked.
"Tristram—Sir Tristram!" she whispered excitedly. "Open the window. I
can't move, I am so scared. Now, he'll rave—and I can't resent it. We
deserve anything he may say." Nancy opened the window, and Sir Tristram
stepped in softly, upon receiving a caution from the girls.
"Lady Harriet, this is most monstrous."
"Oh, my soul! Don't we know it. Don't wake the farmers up, in heaven's
name! Things are bad enough without making them worse."
"Yes, let us fly, and make as little row about it as we can," Nancy implored.

"Then come—no words. I have my carriage waiting; follow me quickly and
say good-bye to this hovel."
"Hovel?" Lady Harriet looked about. Suddenly she had a feeling of regret.
"Hovel?"
"Nay," Nancy interrupted. "To this peaceful house—good-bye." Nancy, too,
had a regret. They had had a gleeful hour here, among frank and kindly
folk, even if they had also been a bit frightened. Anything that had gone
wrong with them had been their fault. Tristram placed a bench at the
window that the ladies might climb over, and thus they got out, and
immediately the sound of their carriage wheels was heard in the yard.
Plunkett had waked up meantime and had come out to call the girls. It was
time for their day's work to begin. Farmer folk are out of bed early.
"Ho, girls!—time to be up," he called, entering from his chamber. Then he
saw the open window. He paused. "Do I hear carriage wheels—and the
window open—and the bench—and the girls—gone! Ho there!
Everybody!" he rushed out and furiously pulled the bell which hung from
the pole outside. His farmhands come running. "Ho—those girls hired
yesterday have gone. Get after them. Bring them back. I may drop dead the
next instant, but I'll be bound they shan't treat us in this manner. After them!
Back they shall come!" And in the midst of all this confusion in ran Lionel.
"What——"
"Thieves!—the girls have run off—a nice return for our affections!"
"After them!—don't lose a minute," Lionel then cried in his turn, and away
rushed the farmhands.
"They are ours for one year, by law. Bring them back, or ye shall suffer for
it. Be off!" And the men mounted horses and went after the runaways like
the wind.
"Nice treatment!"
"Shameful!" Plunkett cried, dropping into a chair, nearly fainting with rage.

ACT III

Plunkett's men had hunted far and wide for the runaways, but without
success. The farmer was still sore over his defeat: he felt himself not only
defrauded, but he had grown to love Nancy, and altogether he became very
unhappy. One day he was sitting with his fellow farmers around a table in a
little forest inn, drinking his glass of beer, when he heard the sound of
hunting horns in the distance.
"Hello! a hunting party from the palace must be out," he remarked, but the
music of the horn which once pleased him could no longer arouse him from
his moodiness. Nevertheless an extraordinary thing was about to happen. As
he went into the inn for a moment, into the grove whirled—Nancy! all
bespangled in a rich hunting costume and accompanied by her friends who
were enjoying the hunt with her. They were singing a rousing hunting
chorus, but Martha—Lady Harriet—was not with them.
"What has happened to Lady Harriet?" some one questioned of Nancy, who
was expected to know all her secrets.
"Alas—nothing interests her ladyship any more," she replied! Nancy knew
perfectly well that, ever since their escapade, Harriet had thought of nothing
but Lionel. For Nancy's part, she had not thought of much besides Plunkett;
but she did not mean to reveal the situation to the court busybodies. Then
while the huntresses were roaming about the inn, out came Plunkett! and
Nancy, not perceiving at first who he was, went up to him and began to
speak.
"Pray, my good man, can you tell—Good heaven!" she exclaimed,
recognizing him; "Plunkett!"
"Yes, madame, Plunkett; and now Plunkett will see if you get the better of
him a second time. We'll let the sheriff settle this matter, right on the spot."
"Man, you are mad. Do not breathe my name or each huntress here shall
take aim and bring you down. Ho, there!" she cried distractedly to her
friends; and she took aim at Plunkett, while all of the others closed round
him. It was then Plunkett's turn to beg for mercy.
"They're upon me, they've undone me!" he cried. "This is serious," and so
indeed it was. "But oh, dear me, there is a remarkable charm in these girls,
even if they do threaten a man's life," and still looking back over his

shoulder, away he ran, pursued by the girls. They had no sooner gone than
Lionel came in. He was looking disconsolately at the flowers to which
Martha sang the "Last Rose of Summer." He himself sang a few measures
of the song and then looked about him.
"Ah," he sighed, thinking still of Martha:

[Listen]

None so rare,
None so fair,

Yet enraptur'd mortal heart;
Maiden dear.
Past compare,
Oh, 'twas death from thee to part!
Ere I saw thy sweet face
On my heart there was no trace
Of that love from above,
That in sorrow now I prove;
but alas, thou art gone,
And in grief I mourn alone;
Life a shadow doth seem,
And my joy a fleeting dream,
A fleeting dream.
None so rare, etc.

And after he had sung thus touchingly of Martha, he threw himself down on
the grass, and remained absorbed in his thoughts. But while he was resting
there, Lady Harriet and Sir Tristram had also wandered thither. At first they
did not see Lionel.
"I have come here away from the others, in order to be alone," Harriet
declared impatiently.
"Alone with me?" Sir Tristram asked indiscreetly.
"Good heaven—it doesn't matter in the least whether you are here or
elsewhere. I am quite unconscious of you, wherever you are," she replied,
not very graciously. "Do go away and let me alone!" and, finding that he
could not please her, Tristram wandered off, and left her meditating there.
After a while she began to sing to herself, softly, and Lionel recognized the
voice.
"It is she!—Martha!" he cried, starting up. Harriet recognized him, and at
once found herself in a dreadful state of mind.
"What shall I do? It is Lionel! that farmer I hired out to!" Well! It was
Lionel's opportunity, and he fell to making the most desperate love to her—
which she liked very much, but which, being a high-born lady of Queen
Anne's Court, she was bound to resent. She called him base-born and a

good many unpleasant things, which did not seem to discourage him in the
least, even though it made him feel rather badly; but while he was still
protesting his love, Tristram returned, and at once believed Harriet to be in
the toils of some dreadful fellow. So he called loudly for everybody in the
hunt to come to the rescue—which was about the most foolish thing he
could do. Then all set upon Lionel. Plunkett, hearing the row, rushed in.
"Stand by me!" Lionel cried.
Nancy appeared. "What does this mean?" she in turn demanded in a high-
handed manner.
"Julia, too," Lionel shouted, recognizing her.
"Bind this madman in fetters," Tristram ordered.
"Don't touch him," Plunkett threatened.
"I shall die," Nancy declared.
"I engaged these girls in my service," Lionel shouted, "and now they wish
to break the bargain!"
"What?" everybody screamed, staring at Nancy and Harriet. Tristram and
the hunters laughed, Tristram trying to shield the girls and turn it into a
joke.
"Have compassion on this madman"; Harriet pleaded wincing when she saw
Lionel bound and helpless. Lionel then reproached her. She knew perfectly
that she deserved it and felt her love for him growing greater. Everybody
was in a most dreadful state of mind. Then a page rushed in and cried that
Queen Anne was coming toward them, and immediately Lionel had an
inspiration.
"Take this ring to her Majesty—quick," he cried, handing his ring to
Plunkett.
A litter was then brought for Lady Harriet. She, heartbroken, stepped into it.
Lionel was pinioned and was being dragged off. Plunkett held up the ring,
to assure him that it should straightway be taken to the Queen.

ACT IV

After the row had quieted down and Nancy and Harriet got time to think
matters over, Harriet reached the conclusion that she could not endure
Lionel's misfortune. Hence she had got Nancy to accompany her to the
farmer's house. When they arrived some new maid whom the farmers had
got opened the door to them.
"Go, Nancy, and find Plunkett, Lionel's trusty friend, and tell him I am
repentant and cannot endure Lionel's misfortunes. Tell him his friend is to
have hope," and, obeying her beloved Lady Harriet, Nancy departed to find
Plunkett and give the message. In a few minutes she returned with the
farmer. He now knew who the ladies were and treated Harriet most
respectfully.
"Have you told him?" Lady Harriet asked.
"Yes, but we cannot make Lionel understand anything. He sits vacantly
gazing at nothing. He has had so much trouble, that probably his brain is
turned."
"Let us see," said Harriet; and instantly she began to sing, "'Tis the Last
Rose."
While she sang, Lionel entered slowly. He had heard. Harriet ran to him and
would have thrown herself into his arms, but he held her off, fearing she
was again deceiving him.
"No, no, I repent, and it was I who took thy ring to the Queen! I have
learned that thy father was a nobleman—the great Earl of Derby; and the
Queen sends the message to thee that she would undo the wrong done thee.
Thou art the Earl of Derby—and I love thee—so take my hand if thou wilt
have me."
Well, this was all very well, but Lionel was not inclined to be played fast
and loose with in that fashion. When he was a plain farmer, she had nothing
of this sort to say to him, however she may have felt.
"No," he declared, "I will have none of it! Leave me, all of you," and he
rushed off, whereupon Harriet sank upon a bench, quite overcome. Then

suddenly she started up.
"Ah—I have a thought!" and out she flew. While she was gone, the farmer
and Nancy, who had really begun to care greatly for each other, confessed
their love.
"Now that our affairs are no longer in confusion, let us go out and walk and
talk it over," Plunkett urged, and, Nancy being quite willing, they went out.
But when they got outside they found to their amazement that Plunkett's
farmhands were rushing hither and thither, putting up tents and booths and
flags, and turning the yard into a regular fair-ground, such as the scene
appeared when Lionel and Harriet first met. Some of the girls on the farm
were assuming the rôle of maids looking for service, and, in short,
everything was as nearly like the original scene as they could possibly make
it in a short time.
"What, what is all this?" Plunkett asked, amazed. Then he learned it was all
done by Harriet's orders, and he and Nancy began to understand. Then
Harriet came in, dressed as Martha. Nancy ran off and returned dressed as
Julia, and then all was complete.
"There is Lionel coming toward us," Nancy cried. "What will happen
now?" and there he came, led sadly by Plunkett. He looked about him,
dazed, till Plunkett brought up Lady Harriet and presented her as a maid
seeking work.
"Heaven! It is Martha——"
"Yes, is this not enough to prove to thee that I am ready to renounce my
rank and station for thee? Here I am, seeking thy service," she pleaded.
"Well, good lassies, what can ye do?" Plunkett asked, entering into the spirit
of the thing, and then Nancy gaily sang:
I for spinning finest linen, etc.
Lady Harriet gave Lionel some flowers and then began "'Tis the Last Rose."
Then presently, Lionel, who had been recovering himself slowly while the
play had been going on, joined in the last measures, and holding out his
arms to Lady Harriet, the lovers were united. Nancy and Plunkett were

having the gayest sort of a time, and everybody was singing at the top of his
voice that from that time forth there should be nothing but gaiety and joy in
the world; and probably that turned out to be true for everybody but old Sir
Tristram, who hadn't had a stroke of good luck since the curtain rose on the
first act!

HUMPERDINCK

T HIS composer of charming music will furnish better biographical
material fifty years hence. At present we must be satisfied to listen to
his compositions, and leave the study of the man to future generations.

HÄNSEL AND GRETEL

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Peter, a broom-maker.
Gertrude, his wife.
Hänsel
Gretel } their children.
Witch, who eats little children.
Sandman, who puts little children to sleep.
Dewman, who wakes little children up.
Children.
Fourteen angels.
The story takes place in a German forest.
Composer: E. Humperdinck.
Author: Adelheid Wette.

ACT I

Once upon a time, in a far-off forest of Germany, there lived two little
children, Hänsel and Gretel, with their father and mother. The father and
mother made brooms for a living, and the children helped them by doing
the finishing of the brooms.
The broom business had been very, very bad for a long time, and the poor
father and mother were nearly discouraged. The father, however, was a

happy-go-lucky man who usually accepted his misfortunes easily. It was
fair-time in a village near the broom-makers' hut, and one morning the
parents started off to see if their luck wouldn't change. They left the
children at home, charging them to be industrious and orderly in behaviour
till they returned, and Hänsel in particular was to spend his time finishing
off some brooms.
Now it is the hardest thing in the world for little children to stick to a long
task, so that which might have been expected happened: Hänsel and Gretel
ceased after a little to work, and began to think how hungry they were.
Hänsel was seated in the doorway, working at the brooms; brooms were
hanging up on the walls of the poor little cottage; and Gretel sat knitting a
stocking near the fire. Being a gay little girl, she sang to pass the time:

[Listen]

Susy little Susy, pray what is the news?
The geese are running bare foot because they've no shoes!

The cobbler has leather and plenty to spare,
Why can't he make the poor goose a new pair?

This sounded rather gay, and, before he knew it, Hänsel had joined in:

Eia popeia, pray what's to be done?
Who'll give me milk and sugar, for bread I have none?
I'll go back to bed and I'll lie there all day,
Where there's naught to eat, then there's nothing to pay.

"Speaking of something to eat—I'm as hungry as a wolf, Gretel. We haven't
had anything but bread in weeks."
"Well, it does no good to complain, does it? Why don't you do as father
does—laugh and make the best of it?" Gretel answered, letting her knitting
fall in her lap. "If you will stop grumbling, Hänsel, I'll tell you a secret—it's
a fine one too." She got up and tiptoed over to the table. "Come here and
look in this jug," she called, and Hänsel in his turn tiptoed over, as if
something very serious indeed would happen should any one hear him.
"Look in that jug—a neighbour gave us some milk to-day, and that is likely
to mean rice blanc-mange."
"Oh, gracious goodness! I'll be found near when rice blanc-mange is going
on; be sure of that. How thick is the cream?" the greedy fellow asked,
dipping his finger into the jug.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself! Take your fingers out of that jug, Hänsel,
and get back to your work. You'll get a good pounding if mother comes
home and finds you cutting up tricks."
"No, I'm not going to work any more—I'm going to dance."
"Well, I admit dancing is good fun," Gretel answered him reluctantly. "We
can dance a little, and sing to keep us in time, and then we can go back to
work."

Brother, come and dance with me,
Both my hands I offer thee,
Right foot first,

Left foot then,
Round about and back again,

she sang, holding out her hands.
"I don't know how, or I would," Hänsel declared, watching her as she spun
about.
"Then I'll teach you. Just keep your eyes on me and I'll teach you just how
to do it," she cried, and then she began to dance. Gretel told him precisely
how to do it, and Hänsel learned very well and very quickly. Then they
danced together, and in half a minute had forgotten all about going back to
their work. They twirled and laughed and sang and shouted in the wildest
sort of glee, and at last, perfectly exhausted with so much fun, they tumbled
over one another upon the floor, and were laughing too hard to get up. Just
at this moment, when they had actually forgotten all about hunger and
work, home came their mother. She opened the door and looked in.
"For mercy's sake! what goings on are these?" she cried.
"Why, it was Hänsel, he——"
"Gretel wanted to——" they both began, scrambling to their feet.
"That will do. I want to hear nothing from you. You are the most ill-
behaved children in the world. Here are your father and I slaving ourselves
to death for you, and not a thing do you do but dance and sing from
morning till night——"
"It would be awfully nice to eat, too," Hänsel replied reflectively.
"What's that you say, you ungrateful child? Don't you eat whenever the rest
of us do?" However harsh she seemed, the mother was only angry at the
thought of there being nothing in the house to eat, and she felt so badly to
think the children were hungry that she made a dive at Hänsel to slap him,
when—horrors! she knocked the milk off the table, broke the jug, and all
the milk went streaming over the floor. This was indeed a misfortune. There
they stood, all three looking at their lost supper.

"Now see what you have done?" she screamed angrily at the children. "Get
yourselves out of here. If you want any supper you'll have to work for it.
Take that basket and go into the wood and fill it with strawberries, and don't
either of you come home till it is full. Dear me, it does seem as if I had
trouble enough without such actions as yours," the distracted mother cried;
and quite unjustly she hustled the children and their basket outside the hut
and off into the wood.
They had no sooner gone out than the poor, distracted woman, exhausted
with the day's tramping and unsuccessful effort to sell her brooms, sat at the
table weeping over the lost milk; and finally she fell asleep. After a while a
merry song was heard in the wood, and the father presently appeared
singing, at the very threshold. Really, for a hungry man with a hungry
family and nothing for supper, he was in a remarkably merry mood.
"Ho, there, wife!" he called, and then entered with a great basket over his
shoulder. He saw the mother asleep and stopped singing. Then he laughed
and went over to her.
"Hey, wake up, old lady, hustle yourself and get us a supper. Where are the
children?"
"What are you talking about," the mother asked, waking up and looking
confused at the noise her husband was making. "I can't get any supper when
there is nothing to get."
"Nothing to get?—well, that is nice talk, I'm sure. We'll see if there is
nothing to get," he answered, roaring with laughter—and he began to take
things out of his basket. First he took out a ham, then some butter. Flour and
sausages followed, and then a dozen eggs; turnips, and onions, and finally
some tea. Then at last the good fellow turned the basket upside down, and
out rolled a lot of potatoes.
"Where in the world did all of these things come from?" she cried.
"I had good luck with my brooms, when all seemed lost, and here we are
with a feast before us. Now call the children and let us begin."
"I was so angry because the milk got spilt that I sent them off to the woods
for berries and told them not to come home till they had a basket full. I

really thought that was all we should have for supper." At this the father
looked frightened.
"What if they have gone to the Ilsenstein?" he cried, jumping up and taking
a broom from the wall.
"Well, what harm?" the wife inquired, "and why do you take the broom?"
"What harm? Do you not know that it is the awful magic mountain where
the old witch who eats little children dwells?—and do you not know that
she rides on a broomstick. I may need one to follow her, in case she has got
the children."
"Oh, heavens above! What a wicked woman I was to send the children out.
What shall we do? Do you know anything more about that awful ogress?"
she demanded of her husband, trembling fit to die.

An old witch within that wood doth dwell,
And she's in league with the powers of hell.
At midnight hour,
When nobody knows,
Away to the witches' dance she goes.

Up the chimney they fly,
On a broomstick they hie,
Over hill and dale,
O'er ravine and vale,
Through the midnight air
They gallop full tear,
On a broomstick, on a broomstick
Hop, hop, hop, hop, the witches!

And by day, they say,
She stalks around,
With a crinching, crunching, munching sound.
And children plump, and tender to eat,
She lures with magic gingerbread sweet.
On evil bent,
With fell intent,

She lures the children, poor little things,
In the oven hot,
She pops the lot.
She shuts the door down,
Until they're done brown—all those gingerbread children.

"Oh, my soul!" the poor woman shrieked. "Come! We must lose no time:
Hänsel and Gretel may be baked to cinders by this time," and out she ran,
screaming, and followed by the father, to look for those poor children.

ACT II

After wandering all the afternoon in the great forest, and filling their basket
with strawberries, Hänsel and Gretel came to a beautiful mossy tree-trunk
where they concluded to sit down and rest before going home. They had
wandered so far that they really didn't know that they were lost, but as a
matter of fact they had no notion of where they were. Without knowing it,
they had gone as far as the Ilsenstein, and that magic place was just behind
them, and sunset had already come. As usual, the gay little girl was singing
while she twined a garland of wild flowers. Hänsel was still looking for
berries in the thicket near. Pretty soon they heard a cuckoo call, and they
answered the call gaily. The cuckoo answered, and the calls between them
became lively.
"There is the bird that eats up other birds' eggs," Gretel said, poking a
strawberry into Hänsel's mouth; and Hänsel sucked the berry up as if it were
an egg. Then in his turn, he poked a berry into Gretel's mouth. This was
very good fun, especially as yet they had had nothing to eat. They began to
feed each other with berries, till before they knew it the full basket was
empty.
Foolish children, who by their carelessness got themselves into all sorts of
scrapes! Now what was to be done? They surely couldn't go home and tell
their mother they had eaten up all the berries!
"Hänsel, you have eaten all the berries. Now this time it is no joke—this
that you have done. What shall we do now?"
"Nonsense—you ate as many as I. We shall simply look for more."

"So late as this! We never can see them in the world. The sun is going
down. Where can we have got to? We are surely lost."
"Well, if we are, there is nothing to be afraid of. Come, don't cry. We shall
sleep here under the trees, and, when morning comes, find our way home,"
Hänsel replied, no longer blaming her, but trying to be very brave,
notwithstanding he was nearly scared to death with the shadows which were
then gathering quickly.
"Oh, oh! do you hear that noise in the bushes? I shall die of fright."
"It—it—is nothing, sister," Hänsel answered, his teeth chattering, while he
peered all about him uneasily. "I'm a boy and not afraid of anything, and
can take care of you wherever we are."

What's glimmering there in the darkness?
That's only the birches in silver dress.
But there, what's grinning so there at me?
Th-that's only the stump of a willow tree.

Hänsel tried to answer heroically. "I'll give a good call," he said, going a
little way toward the Ilsenstein. Then putting his hands to his mouth, he
called loudly:
"Who's there?"
"You there,—you there,—you there," the echoes came—but they seemed to
come from the Ilsenstein.
"Is some one there?" Gretel timidly asked.
"There—where—there—" the echoes from the Ilsenstein again replied. "I'm
frightened to death," Gretel said, beginning to cry.
"Little Gretelkin," said Hänsel, "you stick close to me, and I'll let nothing
hurt you;" and while they huddled together, a thick white mist slowly
gathered and spread between the children and the Ilsenstein.
"Oh! there are some shadowy old women, coming to carry me away,"
Gretel sobbed, hiding her face, as the mist seemed to sway and assume
strange forms. Then while her face was hidden, the mist slowly cleared

away, and a little gray manikin with a little sack upon his back came out of
the shadows. Hänsel held his breath with fear and sheltered Gretel beside
him as best he could.
"It is a shadowy queer little manikin, Gretel dear, with a little sack upon his
back, but he looks very friendly." Then addressing the little manikin, "Do
not hurt us, sir—and will you tell us who you are?"

I shut the children's peepers—sh!
And guard the little sleepers—sh!
For dearly I do love them—sh!
And gladly watch above them—sh!
And with my little bag of sand,
By every child's bedside I stand;
Then little tired eyelids close,
And little limbs have sweet repose;
And if they are good and quickly go to sleep,
Then from the starry sphere above
The angels come with peace and love,
And send the children happy dreams, while watch they keep.

All the while the little sand-man was telling them who he was, the children
got sleepier and sleepier and nodded upon each other's shoulders.
"The sand-man was here?" little Hänsel asked, trying to rouse a bit.
"I guess so," said Gretel; "let us say our prayers," and so they folded their
hands, and said a little prayer to the fourteen angels which guard little
children. They prayed to the two angels who should stand at their head, to
the two at their feet, two upon their right hand and two upon the left, and
two should cover them warm, and two should guard them from harm, and
two should guide them one day to Heaven; and so they sank to sleep.
As they slept, a beautiful light broke through the mist, which rolled up into
a glittering staircase down which those angels came, two and two. They all
grouped about Hänsel and Gretel as they had been prayed to do; and as they
silently took their places the night grew dark, the trees and birds all slept,
and Hänsel and Gretel were safe until the morning.

ACT III

The night had passed, the angels had disappeared again in the mist which
still hung over the forest at the back, and now as dawn broke, the dew-fairy
came out of the mist as the manikin and the angels had done; and from a
little blue bell she shook the dewdrops over the children's eyes. Just as they
began to stir, away ran the dew-fairy, and when they were quite wide awake
they found the sun rising and themselves all alone.
"Hänsel, where are we?" little Gretel asked, not recalling all that had
happened to them since the day before. "I hear the birds twittering high in
the branches. We certainly are not in our beds at home."
"No—but I had a fine dream," Hänsel answered—"that the angels were here
looking after us all night, the entire fourteen. But look there!" he cried,
pointing behind them. The mist was gradually lifting and revealing the
house of the Witch of Ilsenstein. It looked very fine, with the sun's bright
rays upon it; very fine indeed! A little way off to the left of that queer little
house was—an oven. Oh, dreadful! It was well Hänsel and Gretel did not
know in the least what that oven meant. Then, on the other side of the
house, was a cage—and heaven! it was certainly well that they had no idea
of what that was for, either. Then, joining that cage to the house, was a
queer-looking fence of gingerbread, and it looked strangely like little
children.
"Oh, what a queer place!" Gretel cried. "And do you smell that delicious
odour? That cottage is made all of chocolate cream!" She was overcome
with joy.

The roof is all covered with Turkish delight,
The windows with lustre of sugar are white
And on all the gables the raisins invite,
And think! All around is a gingerbread hedge.

"Oh, to eat such a cottage!" they cried ecstatically.
"I hear no sound. Let's go inside," Hänsel urged.
"No, no! Who knows who may live in that lovely house."

"Well, anyway, it can't do any harm to nibble a little. They can have it
repaired next baking day," he persisted.
"Maybe that is true,—and it does look too good to leave"; so Hänsel
reached out and broke a little piece of the house-corner off.

Nibble, nibble, mousekin,
Who's nibbling at my housekin?

a voice called from within.
"Good gracious! Did you hear that?" he whispered, dropping the corner of
the house. Gretel picked it up, hesitatingly.
"It's most awfully good," she declared, but at that very minute came the
voice again:

Nibble, nibble, mousekin,
Who's nibbling at my housekin?

"Maybe that is the voice of the sweety maker," Hänsel suggested, all the
same a good deal scared. And so they went on nibbling at a bit of the fence
and then at the house-corner, until they became so full of good things that
they began to laugh and caper about in high spirits. But while all this fun
was going on, the upper part of the door opened and the old witch stuck her
head out. Then slowly and softly, out she crept with a rope in her hand, and
getting behind the children she suddenly threw it over Hänsel's head. When
he turned and saw her he was frightened almost into fits.
"Let me go, let me go!" he howled, while the witch only laughed hideously
at the two and, drawing them closer to her, she began to pat their heads and
talk very nicely to them.
"You are lovely children! Don't give yourselves such airs. I am Rosina
Dainty-Mouth and just love little children like you," but she didn't say how
she preferred them—broiled or stewed. Nevertheless, Hänsel had his doubts
about her, in spite of her affectionate pretensions.

Come, little mousey,
Come into my housey!

Come with me, my precious,
I'll give you sweets, delicious!

This extraordinary old lady cried, naming things that made the children's
mouths water. But there was Hänsel's caution! He was not to be caught
napping after sunrise. Gretel, however, recalled the flavour of the eave-
spout which she had lately tasted and could not help showing a certain
amount of interest.
"Just what shall I get if I go into your housey?" she inquired; but before the
old creature could reply, Hänsel had pulled Gretel's petticoat.
"Have a care! Do not take anything from her that you can help. She is
meaning to fatten us and cook us,"—which was the exact truth. At that
moment, Hänsel got clear of the rope which had been about his neck and
ran to Gretel, but the old witch pointed at them a stick which had been
hanging at her girdle, and instantly they found themselves spellbound. She
repeated this blood-curdling rhyme, and there they stood, quite helpless:

Hocus pocus, witches' charm!
Move not as you fear my arm.
Back or forward, do not try,
Fixed you are, by the evil eye!

And "fixed" they were. Now, right in the middle of the forenoon, it began to
grow horribly dark, and as it darkened, the little knob on the end of her stick
began to glow brilliantly, and as Hänsel watched it, fascinated, the witch
gradually led him, by the stick's charm, into the stable, and fastened him in.
Then the knob of the stick gradually ceased to glow, and Gretel was still
standing there.
"Now while I feed Hänsel up till he is plump as a partridge, you stand
where you are," said the witch, and into the house she went. Gretel stood
horrified, and Hänsel whispered to her:
"Don't speak loud, and be very watchful, Gretelkin. Pretend to do
everything the witch commands, yet be very watchful. There she comes
again"; and so she did, with a basket full of raisins and other things for him
to eat. She stuck good things into his mouth, as if she were fattening a

Strasburg goose, and after that she disenchanted Gretel with a juniper
branch.
"Now, then, you go and set the table," she ordered, then turning again to
Hänsel she found him apparently asleep.
"That's good! It is a way to grow fat," she grinned. "I'll just begin my
supper with Gretel. She looks quite plump enough as she is. Here, my
love," she cried, opening the oven door, and sniffing some gingerbread
figures within, "just look into the oven and tell me if it is hot enough to
bake in," she called.

Oh, when from the oven I take her,
She'll look like a cake from the baker,

the old wretch giggled to herself. But Gretel pretended not to hear her; and
after all, she thought the oven not quite hot enough to push Gretel into, so
she began jabbering about the witch's ride she was going to have that night
at twelve, on her broomstick. As she thought about it she became very
enthusiastic, and getting upon her broom she went galloping about the
house and back. When she got through performing in this outrageous
manner—which fairly froze Gretel's blood in her veins—the old witch
tickled Hänsel with a birch-twig till he woke.
"Here, my little darling, show me your tongue," she said, and Hänsel stuck
out his tongue as if the doctor had been called to investigate his liver. "My,
but you are in fine condition," the old wretch mumbled smacking her lips.
"Let me see your thumb," she demanded, and instead of sticking out his
plump thumb, Hänsel poked a tiny bone through the bars of the cage. "Oh!
how lean and scraggy! You won't do yet"; and she called to Gretel to bring
more food for him, and there she stopped to stuff him again. Then she again
opened the oven door, looking all the while at Gretel.
"How she makes my mouth water," she muttered. "Come here, little
Gretelkin, poke your head into the oven and tell me if you think it hot
enough for us to bake in." At this awful moment Hänsel whispered:
"Oh, be careful, Gretel!" Gretel nodded at him behind the witch's back.

"Just smell that lovely gingerbread. Do poke your head in to see if it is quite
done. Then you shall have a piece hot from the oven." Gretel still hung
back.
"I don't quite know how to do it," she apologized. "If you will just show me
how to reach up," she murmured; and the old witch, quite disgusted that
Gretel should take so long to do as she was bid, and so delay the feast, said:
"Why, this way, you goose," poking her head into the oven, and instantly,
Hänsel, who had slipped out of the stable, sprang upon the old woman, gave
her the push she had intended to give Gretel, and into the oven she popped,
and bang went the oven door, while the children stood looking at each other
and shivering with fright.
"Oh, my suz! Do you suppose we have her fast?"
"I guess we have," Hänsel cried, grabbing Gretel about the waist and
dancing wildly in glee. Then they rushed into the house and began to fill
their pockets with good things. While they were at this, the oven began to
crack dreadfully. The noise was quite awful.
"Oh, mercy! What is happening?" Gretel cried. And at that moment the
awful oven fell apart, and out jumped a lot of little children with the
gingerbread all falling off them, while they sprang about Hänsel and Gretel
in great joy. But all their eyes were shut.
They laughed and sang and hopped, crying that Hänsel and Gretel had
saved them because by baking the old witch they had broken the oven's
charm.
"But why don't you open your eyes," Gretel asked.
"We shall not be entirely disenchanted till you touch us," they told her, and
then upon being touched by Gretel they opened their eyes like ten-day-old
kittens.
Then Hänsel took a juniper branch and repeated what he had heard the
witch say:

Hocus pocus elder bush,
Rigid body loosen, hush!

and there came that gingerbread hedge, walking on legs,—the beautiful
gingerbread falling all over the place, and the whole fence turning back into
little children.
At that very moment came the broom-maker and his wife, who had sought
for the children till they had become nearly distracted. When the children
saw them they ran into their mother's arms. All the gingerbread children
were singing at the top of their voices and were carrying on in the most
joyous way.
Two boys had run to the broken oven, and had begun to drag out an
immense gingerbread—it was the old witch, turned into the finest cake ever
seen. It was well that she turned out to be good in the end, if only good
gingerbread. They dragged her out where everybody could see her, and
broke a piece of her off; and then they shoved her into the cottage.
"Now, you see how good children are taken care of," the broom-maker
sang; while everybody danced about the disenchanted Ilsenstein, before
they went into the house for supper.

MASCAGNI

T HIS composer is too contemporary to be discussed freely. He has done
no great amount of work, and fame came to him in his youth.
"Cavalleria Rusticana" is his supreme performance, and there is in it a
promise of greater things.

CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA[A]
(Rustic Chivalry)

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Santuzza.
Lola.
Turiddu.
Alfio.
Lucia.
Peasants.
The story is of peasant people in a small Sicilian village, on an Easter day.
Composer: Pietro Mascagni.
Authors: Giovanni Targioni-Tozzetti and Guido Menasci.
First sung at Rome, May 20, 1890.

ACT I

One fine Easter morning, in a small Italian village, a fop, named Turiddu,
came along the little street singing of Lola, an old sweetheart, who, since
Turiddu went to serve his required term in the army, had married a wagoner.
Turiddu was far from heartbroken, because when he returned and first heard
of Lola's faithlessness, he straightway fell in love with a worthier girl—

Santuzza. Neither Lola nor Turiddu was a faithful sort, but lived for a good
time to-day, leaving luck to look after to-morrow; but it was not the same
with Santuzza. She truly loved Turiddu, and being an Italian peasant, very
emotional and excitable, it was going to be dangerous for Turiddu to ill-
treat her.
If that Easter morning found Turiddu quite gay and free, it found Santuzza
full of despair and misgiving, because she knew that her lover had returned
to his former sweetheart. Lola's husband, the wagoner, was frequently away
from his home, and in his absence his wife had been flirting. In a little
village, where everybody knew everybody else, and all of each other's
business, Santuzza's companions had learned that Turiddu had thrown his
new love over for the old, and instead of pitying her, they had ridiculed and
treated her unkindly.
On a Sunday morning, just before the villagers started to church, Santuzza
started for Turiddu's home. He lived near the church, with Lucia, his old
mother. Santuzza had been thinking all night of what she could do to win
her lover back; and at daylight had risen with the determination to go to old
Lucia, and tell her how her son had misbehaved. In Italy, even grown sons
and daughters obey their parents more promptly than the small children in
America ever do. Santuzza, all tears and worn with sleeplessness, thought
possibly Lucia could prevail upon Turiddu to keep his word and behave
more like an honest man. All the little village was astir early, because Easter
is a fête day in Italy, and the people make merry, as well as go to church.
The peasants were passing and repassing through the little square as
Santuzza entered it. She looked very sad and her eyes were swollen with
crying. But no one paid any attention to her as all were going into the
church for early mass. After the crowd had gone in, the sound of the organ
and of the congregation's voices could be heard in the square. They sang an
Easter carol—about flowers and carolling larks and orange blossoms—
which did not make Santuzza any the happier; but she went to the door of
old Lucia's house and called softly:
"Mama Lucia—Mama Lucia—art thou there?"
"Thou, Santuzza? What wilt thou, my dear?" the old woman answered,
hobbling out.

"Mama Lucia, where is thy son?" Santuzza demanded.
"Thou hast come to see Turiddu? I do not know, my girl. I have nothing to
do with quarrels, you must understand," she answered cautiously, half
suspecting Santuzza's trouble, because she had already suffered many times
on account of her son's faithlessness to others.
"Mama Lucia, I beg of you not to turn me away. Listen to my troubles. It is
thy son who has caused them, and I must see him," Santuzza sobbed.
"Well, I cannot help thee—though I am truly sorry for thee," the mother
answered, after a moment, observing all the signs of the sorrow that
Santuzza felt. "He is not at home. He has gone to fetch the wine from
Francofonte."
"No, no—he hasn't. He was seen about the village only last night."
"Who told thee that? I, his mother, should know if he is at home or not."
"Mama Lucia, do not turn me away—I am in great sorrow, and you will be
unhappy all your life if you ill-treat me now." At this they were disturbed by
the cracking of whips and jingling of bells which told of the return to town
of the wagoner. Alfio was returning on Easter morning in time to join the
gaiety with his wife, Lola.
He came in jauntily, singing:

[Listen]

Proudly steps the sturdy steed,
Gayly ring the merry bells,
Crack! goes the whiplash! O' hi!
Tho' the icy wind may blow,
Let it rain or let it snow,
What in the world care I?

Soon all the neighbours appeared to welcome him. He was a most popular
fellow—unlike Turiddu, who was a favourite mainly with the girls.
"Well, about all I have wished for all the week, neighbours, was to get home
here to my wife, that we might spend this Easter day together. When I am
away, I think of nothing but her, you may be sure! I can't stop here with

you, jolly as you are. Lola is certain to be waiting for me, so off I go!" and
the wagoner waved his hand gaily and was about to hurry off, while some
went back into the church again, and some went to their homes. But Mama
Lucia could not but regard him anxiously. She, herself, was in trouble over
her wild son.
"Ah, Alfio, you are always in such high spirits——"
"Hello, Mama Lucia! Good day to you—have you any more of that famous
wine?" Lucia's house was also the village inn, where the folks congregated
to drink their wine, to play cards, and have a good gossip.
"No, not now; Turiddu has gone to Francofonte to get it."
"You are wrong: I met him near my cottage as I came into the village this
very morning," the wagoner answered, and at the same moment Santuzza
pulled old Lucia's skirt, signing to her to be silent. But the old woman,
surprised and confused at the turn things seemed to be taking, persisted:
"How so? Are you certain of that?"
"Oh, yes, perfectly sure. And now I must be going: Lola will be expecting
me," the unsuspicious wagoner answered, turning in earnest to go home.
Now, while old Lucia and Santuzza stood without, the choir in the church
sang:

[Listen]

Queen of the Heavens, grief is ended!
He, whom thy love once defended—

And those peasants who had gradually wandered back into the square knelt,
as they heard the prayer. The scene was very devotional and beautiful, with
the exquisite music floating out from the church, and the reverent people
gathering about it. Presently they broke into a joyous chorus of "Hallelujah!
Christ is risen!" while Santuzza and old Lucia joined in spite of their
sadness. But after all had wandered away, old Lucia approached Santuzza:
"Why didst thou caution me not to speak when Alfio said he had seen my
son near his house?" she asked, anxiously, already half guessing the reason.
"Good mama, do you not know that before Turiddu went to the war he was
Lola's lover; and at first after he returned he cared for me, but now he has
forgotten me and is again making love to Lola? If the wagoner knew of this,
what do you think he would do?"
"Oh, what hast thou told me upon this holy morning! You are right—if
Alfio knew of this he would kill them both maybe. He surely would kill my
son."
"It seems to me all are cursed this beautiful day. Go and pray for us all,
Mama Lucia, and so will I," Santuzza replied. And she was about to enter
the church to say her prayers when there came Turiddu, himself, dressed in
his best, ready to meet Lola in the square as she passed on her way to the
church.
"Turiddu!" Santuzza called.
"Devils! What are you here for, Santuzza? Are you on your way to church?"
"Not now. I am here to speak with you——"
"Well, well, I cannot stop for it; I must go into the inn and see my mother
just now."

"You must stay here and speak with me. I warn you to do it, Turiddu. I am
very unhappy, and if you will give up Lola I will forget all your
wrongdoing. But if you neglect me, and will not give up Alfio's wife, Alfio
will surely learn of it and make you trouble."
"Oh, come now—do you think you can frighten me? I will be a slave to no
woman's whim, Santuzza. Go about your business. I shall attend to mine
without your help. No, I will listen to you no longer," he cried, becoming
angrier as she spoke, and pushing her away from him, as Lola, in the street
near the square could be heard singing.
Santuzza and Turiddu both paused and listened. She was singing of
Turiddu. She was calling him her "King of Roses." And then, while the two
were standing uncertain what to do, Lola entered the square and spied them.
"Hello," she called loftily, looking at Santuzza. "Have you seen Alfio,
Turiddu?"
"No, I have only just now come into the square."
"Oh, perhaps you have come to church," she persisted impertinently.
"I—I stopped to tell Santuzza—" he hardly knew what to say.
"I stopped to see Turiddu," Santuzza interrupted earnestly. "I stopped to say
that the good Lord beholds all our deeds."
"Ah—then you are not going to mass?"
"No—those who go to mass must have a clear conscience. Which of us here
has that?"
"Really I know nothing about you," Lola answered; "as for mine—it is
clear!" Turiddu foreseeing trouble between them interrupted hastily.
"Let us go in," speaking to Lola.
"Oh, stay with Santuzza—and her conscience! do!"
"Yes, Turiddu—I warn you!" At that Lola laughed and went into the church.

"Now what have you done? By your folly, angered Lola. I am done with
you!" Turiddu exclaimed, throwing off Santuzza, who held him back while
she spoke. He became so enraged that he treated her brutally; and in trying
to rid himself of her he threw her down upon the stones, and then ran into
the church. When she got upon her feet again she was furious with anger.
"Now I will punish him for all his faithlessness," she sobbed, and she no
sooner took this resolve than fate seemed to give her the means of carrying
it out, for at that moment Alfio came back into the square.
"Oh, neighbour Alfio! God himself must have sent you here!"
"At what point is the service?"
"It is almost over, but I must tell you—Lola is gone to it with Turiddu."
"What do you mean by that?" Alfio demanded, regarding her in wonder.
"I mean that while you are about your business Turiddu remains here, and
your wife finds in him a way to pass the time. She does not love you."
"If you are not telling me the truth," Alfio said, with anguish, "I'll certainly
kill you."
"You have only to watch—you will know the truth fast enough," she
persisted.
Alfio stood a moment in indecision and looked at her steadfastly.
"Santuzza, I believe you. Your words—and the sadness of your face—
convince me. I will avenge us both." And off he ran. For a moment
Santuzza was glad, then remorse overtook her. Now Turiddu would be
killed! She was certain of it. Alfio was not a man to be played with. Surely
Turiddu would be killed! And there was his old mother, too, who would be
left quite alone. When it was too late, Santuzza repented having spoken.
She tried to recall Alfio, but he had gone.
The organ within the church swelled loudly again, and, the music being
most beautiful, Santuzza stood listening in an agony of mind. Soon people
began to come out, and old Lucia hobbled from the church in her turn, and
crossed to her inn, followed by the young men and women. The men were

all going home to their wives, and the women to their duties, but it was
proposed that all should stop a moment at old Lucia's for a glass of her
famous wine before they separated. As they went to the bar of the inn,
which was out under the trees, Lola and Turiddu came from the church
together.
"I must hurry home now—I haven't seen Alfio yet—and he will be in a
rage," she said.
"Not so fast—there is plenty of time! Come, neighbours, have a glass of
wine with us," Turiddu cried to the crowd, going to his mother's bar, and
there they gathered singing a gay drinking song.
"To those who love you!" Turiddu pledged, lifting his glass and looking at
Lola. She nodded and answered:
"To your good fortune, brother!" And while they were speaking Alfio
entered.
"Greeting to you all," he called.
"Good! come and join us," Turiddu answered.
"Thank you! but I should expect you to poison me if I were to drink with
you, my friend," and the wagoner looked meaningly at Turiddu.
"Oh—well, suit yourself," Turiddu replied, nonchalantly. Then a neighbour
standing near Lola whispered:
"You had better leave here, Lola. Come home with me. I can foresee trouble
here." Lola took her advice and went out, with all the women following her.
"Well, now that you have frightened away all the women by your
behaviour, maybe you have something to say to me privately," Turiddu
remarked, turning to Alfio.
"Nothing—except that I am going to kill you—this instant!"
"You think so? then we will embrace," Turiddu exclaimed, proposing the
custom of the place and throwing his arms about his enemy. When he did
so, Alfio bit Turiddu's ear, which, in Sicily, is a challenge to a duel.

"Good! I guess we understand each other."
"Well, I own that I have done you wrong—and Santuzza wrong. Altogether,
I am a bad fellow; but if you are going to kill me, I must bid my mother
good-bye, and also give Santuzza into her care. After all, I have some grace
left, whether you think so or not," Turiddu cried, and then he called his
mother out, while Alfio went away with the understanding that Turiddu
should immediately follow and get the fight over.
"Mama," Turiddu then said to old Lucia when she hobbled out, "that wine
of ours is certainly very exciting. I am going out to walk it off, and I want
your blessing before I go." He tried to keep up a cheerful front that he might
not frighten his old mother. At least he had the grace to behave himself
fairly well, now that the end had come.
"If I shouldn't come back——"
"What can you mean, my son?" the old woman whispered, trembling with
fear.
"Nothing, nothing, except that even before I go to walk, I want your
promise to take Santuzza to live with you. Now that is all! I'm off. Good-
bye, God bless you, mother. I love you very much." Before she hardly knew
what had happened, Turiddu was off and away. She ran to the side of the
square and called after him, but he did not return. Instead, Santuzza ran in.
"Oh, Mama Lucia," she cried, throwing her arms about her.
Then the people who had met Alfio and Turiddu on their way to their
encounter began to rush in. Everybody was wildly excited. Both men were
village favourites in their way. A great noise of rioting was heard and some
one shrieked in the distance.
"Oh, neighbour, neighbour, Turiddu is killed, Turiddu is killed!" At this
nearly every one in the little village came running, while Santuzza fell upon
the ground in a faint.
"He is killed! Alfio has killed him!" others cried, running in, and then poor
old Lucia fell unconscious beside Santuzza, while the neighbours gathered
about her, lifted her up and carried her into her lonely inn.

MEYERBEER

G ENIUS seems born to do stupid things and to be unable to know it.
Probably no stupider thing was ever said or done than that by Wagner
when he wrote a diatribe on the Jew in Art. He called it "Das Judenthum in
der Musik" (Judaism in Music). He declared that the mightiest people in art
and in several other things—the Jews—could not be artists for the reason
that they were wanderers and therefore lacking in national characteristics.
There could not well have been a better plea against his own statement. Art
is often national—but not when art is at its best. Art is an emotional result—
and emotion is a thing the Jews know something about. Meyerbeer was a
Jew, and the most helpful friend Richard Wagner ever had, yet Wagner was
so little of a Jew that he did not know the meaning of appreciation and
gratitude. Instead, he hated Meyerbeer and his music intensely. Meyerbeer
may have been a wanderer upon the face of the earth and without national
characteristics—which is a truly amusing thing to say of a Jew, since his
"characteristics" are a good deal stronger than "national": they are racial!
But however that may have been, Meyerbeer's music was certainly
characteristic of its composer. As between Jew and Jew, Mendelssohn and
he had a petty hatred of each other. Mendelssohn was always displeased
when the extraordinary likeness between himself and Meyerbeer was
commented upon. They were so much alike in physique that one night, after
Mendelssohn had been tormented by his attention being repeatedly called to
the fact, he cut his hair short in order to make as great a difference as
possible between his appearance and that of his rival. This only served to
create more amusement among his friends.
Rossini, with all the mean vanity of a small artist, one whose principal
claim to fame lay in large dreams, declared that Meyerbeer was a "mere
compiler." If that be true, one must say that a good compilation is better
than a poor creation. Rossini and Meyerbeer were, nevertheless, warm
friends.

Meyerbeer put into practice the Wagnerian theories, which may have been
one reason, aside from the constitutional artistic reasons, why Wagner hated
him.
Meyerbeer was born "to the purple," to a properly conducted life, and yet he
laboured with tremendous vim. He outworked all his fellows, and one day
when a friend protested, begging him to take rest, Meyerbeer answered:
"If I should stop work I should rob myself of my greatest enjoyment. I am
so accustomed to it that it has become a necessity with me." This is the true
art spirit, which many who "arrive" never know the joy of possessing.
Meyerbeer's father was a rich Jewish banker, Jacob Beer, of Berlin. It is
pleasant to think of one man, capable of large achievements, having an easy
time of it, finding himself free all his life to follow his best creative
instincts. It is not often so.
Meyerbeer's generosity of spirit in regard to the greatness of another is
shown in this anecdote:
Above all music, the Jew best loved Mozart's, just as Mozart loved Haydn's.
Upon one occasion when Meyerbeer was dining with some friends, a
question arose about Mozart's place among composers. Some one remarked
that "certain beauties of Mozart's music had become stale with age."
Another agreed, and added, "I defy any one to listen to 'Don Giovanni' after
the fourth act of 'Les Huguenots'!" This vulgar compliment enraged
Meyerbeer. "So much the worse then for the fourth act of 'The Huguenots'!"
he shouted. Of all his own work this Jewish composer loved "L'Africaine"
the best, and he made and remade it during a period of seventeen years. In
this he was the best judge of his own work; though some persons believe
that "Le Prophète" is greater.
Among Meyerbeer's eccentricities was one that cannot be labelled erratic.
He had a wholesome horror of being buried alive, and he carried a slip
about in his pocket, instructing whom it might concern to see that his body
was kept unburied four days after his death, that small bells were attached
to his hands and feet, and that all the while he should be watched. Then he
was to be sent to Berlin to be interred beside his mother, whom he dearly
loved.

THE PROPHET

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Count Oberthal, Lord of the manor.
John of Leyden, an innkeeper and then a revolutionist (the Prophet).
Jonas
}
Mathison Anabaptists.
Zacharia
Bertha, affianced to John of Leyden.
Faith, John's mother.
Choir: Peasants, soldiers, people, officers.
Story laid in Holland, near Dordrecht, about the fifteenth century.
Composer: Meyerbeer.
Author: Scribe.

ACT I

One beautiful day about four hundred years ago the sun rose upon a castle
on the Meuse, where lived the Count Oberthal, known in Holland as Lord
of the Manor. It was a fine sight with its drawbridge and its towers, its mills
and outbuildings, with antique tables outside the great entrance, sacks of
grain piled high, telling of industry and plenty. In the early day peasants
arrived with their grain sacks, called for entrance, and the doors were
opened to them; other men with grain to be milled came and went, and the
scene presented a lively appearance.
Sheep-bells were heard in the meadows, the breezes blew softly, and men
and women went singing gaily about their work. Among them was a young
girl, more beautiful than the others, and her heart was specially full of hope.
She was beloved of an innkeeper, John, who lived in a neighbouring
village. He was prosperous and good, and she thought of him while she
worked. She longed to be his wife, but John had an old mother who was
mistress of the inn—in fact, the inn was hers—and it had been a question
how they should arrange their affairs. John was too poor to go away and

make a separate home, and the old mother might not care to have a
daughter-in-law take her place as mistress there, carrying on the business
while the active old woman sat idly by.
Upon that beautiful day, Bertha was thinking of all of these things, and
hoping something would happen to change the situation. Even while she
was thinking thus fate had a pleasant surprise in store for her, because the
old mother, Faith, was at that very moment approaching the manor where
Bertha lived. Like others of her class she owed vassalage to some petty
seigneur, and while that meant oppression to be endured, it included the
advantage of safety and protection in time of war.
Bertha, looking off over the country road, saw Faith, John's mother,
coming. Her step was firm for one so aged, and she was upheld on her long
journey by the goodness of her mission. When Bertha saw her she ran to
meet and welcome her.
"Sit down," she cried, guiding the old woman's steps to a seat, and hovering
over her. "I have watched for your coming since the morning—even since
sunrise," the young woman said, fluttering about happily. "I was certain
thou wert coming."
"Yes, yes. John said: 'Go, go, mother, and bring Bertha home to me,' and I
have come," she answered, caressing Bertha kindly. "I have decided to give
over the work and the care to you young people; to sit by the chimneyside
and see you happy; so bid farewell to this place, and prepare to return with
me. John is expecting thee."
"At once, dear mother?" she asked with some anxiety. "You know, mother, I
am a vassal of the Seigneur Oberthal, and may not marry outside of his
domain, without his permission. I must first get that; but he cannot wish to
keep me here, when there is so much happiness in store for me!" she cried,
with all the assurance of her happiness newly upon her. But while she had
been speaking, Faith had looked off toward the high-road:
"Look, Bertha! dost see three strange figures coming along there?" she
asked in a low tone, pointing toward the road. Bertha looked. It was true:
three men, in black, of sinister appearance, were coming toward them. The
pair watched.

"Who are they?" she repeated, still in low and half-frightened tones.
"I have seen them before," Bertha answered. "It is said that they are saintly
men, but they look sinister to me."
By this time the men had been joined by many of the peasants and were
approaching the castle. They were Jonas, Mathison, and Zacharia,
seditionists; but they were going through the country in the garb of holy
men, stirring up the people under cover of saintliness.
They preached to the people the most absurd doctrines; that they would
have all the lands and castles of the nobles if they should rise up and rebel
against the system of vassalage that then prevailed. They lacked a leader,
however, in order to make their work successful. Now they had come to
Dordrecht and were approaching the castle of the Count of Oberthal. All the
peasants got into a frightful tangle of trouble and riot, and they called and
hammered at the Count's doors till he and his retainers came out.
"What is all this noise?" he demanded, and as he spoke, he recognized in
Jonas, the leader of the Anabaptists, a servant whom he had discharged for
thievery. He at once told the peasants of this, and it turned them against the
three strangers and stopped the disturbance, but at the back of the crowd the
Count Oberthal had seen the beautiful Bertha and Faith.
"What do ye do here?" he asked, curiously but kindly, noticing the beauty
of Bertha. At that she went toward him.
"I wish to ask you, Seigneur, for leave to marry outside your domain. I love
John of Leyden, the innkeeper—this is his mother—and she has come to
take me home with her, if I may go." She spoke modestly, never thinking
but she would be permitted to leave. But Oberthal looked at her admiringly
and decided that he would have her for himself. Then thinking of her love,
she began to sing of how John had once saved her life, and Faith joined her
in pleading.

[Listen]

One day in the waves of the Meuse
I struggled I struggled
John, John saved me—

"No," Oberthal said at last, smiling; "I will not have so much loveliness
leave my domain. No! I shall not give my consent." At that she began to
weep, while Faith protested against his decision. This made him angry and
he ordered the two woman taken into his castle and confined there till he
should decide what he wished to do with them.
The peasants, who were still gathered about the Anabaptists, uncertain how
to treat them after the Count's disclosures, now showed great anger against
Oberthal for his action toward Bertha and Faith. As the two women were
dragged within the castle, the peasants set up a howl of rage, while the
Anabaptists extended their hands above them in a pious manner and began
their Latin chant once more.

ACT II

At the little inn belonging to Faith, John had been waiting all day for her
return with Bertha, and trying his best to look after those who came and
went. Outside, people were waltzing and drinking and making merry, for
the inn was a favourite place for the townsmen of Leyden to congregate.
"Sing and waltz; sing and waltz!" they cried, "all life is joy—and three
cheers for thee, John!"
"Hey! John, bring beer," a soldier called merrily. "Let us eat, drink and—"
At that moment Jonas, followed by the other Anabaptists, appeared at the
inn.
"John! who is John?" they inquired of the soldier.
"John! John!" first one, then another called. "Here are some gentlemen who
want beer—although they are very unlikely looking chaps," some one
added, under his breath, looking the three fellows over. John came in to take
orders, but his mind was elsewhere.
"It is near night—and they have not come," he kept thinking. "I wonder if
anything can have happened to them! Surely not! My mother is old, but she
is lively on her feet, and on her way home she would have the attention of
Bertha. Only I should feel better to see them just now."
"Come, come, John! Beer!" the soldier interrupted, and John started from
his reverie. As he went to fetch the beer, Jonas too started. Then he leaned
toward Mathison.
"Do you notice anything extraordinary about that man—John of the inn?"
he asked. The two other Anabaptists regarded the innkeeper closely.
"Yes! He is the image of David—the saint in Münster, whose image is so
worshipped by the Westphalians. They believe that same saint has worked
great miracles among them," Zacharia answered, all the while watching
John as he moved about among the tables.
"Listen to this! Just such a man was needed to complete our success. This
man's strong, handsome appearance and his strange likeness to that blessed
image of those absurd Westphalians is enough to make him a successful
leader. We'll get hold of him, call him a prophet, and the business is done.

With him to lead and we to control him, we are likely to own all Holland
presently. He is a wonder!" And they put their heads together and continued
to talk among themselves. Then Jonas turned to one of the guests.
"Say, friend, who is this man?"
"He is the keeper of this inn," was the answer. "He has an excellent heart
and a terrible arm."
"A fiery temper, I should say," the Anabaptist suggested.
"That he has, truly."
"He is brave?"
"Aye! and devoted. And he knows the whole Bible by heart," the peasant
declared, proud of his friend. At that the three looked meaningly at one
another. This certainly was the sort of man they needed.
"Come, friends, I want you to be going," John said at that moment, his
anxiety for his mother and Bertha becoming so great that he could no longer
bear the presence of the roistering crowd. "Besides it is going to storm.
Come. I must close up." They all rose good-naturedly and one by one and in
groups took themselves off—all but the three Anabaptists, who lingered
behind.
"What troubles thee, friend?" Jonas said sympathetically to John, when all
had gone, and he looked toward them inquiringly.
"The fact is, my mother was to have returned to Leyden with my fiancée
before this hour, and I am a little troubled to know they are so late upon the
road. I imagine I feel the more anxious because of some bad dreams I have
had lately—two nights." He added, trying to smile.
"Pray tell us what your dreams were. We can some of us interpret dreams.
Come! Perhaps they mean good rather than bad," Jonas urged.
"Why, I dreamed that I was standing in a beautiful temple, with everything
very splendid about me, while everybody was bowing down to me——"
"Well, that is good!" Jonas interrupted.

"Ah! but wait! A crown was on my brow and a hidden choir were chanting
a sacred chant. They kept repeating: 'This is the new king! the king whom
heaven has given us.' And then upon a blazing marble tablet there appeared
the words 'Woe through thee! Woe through thee!' And as I was about to
draw my sword I was nearly drowned in a sea of blood. To escape that I
tried to mount the throne beside me. But I and the throne were swept away
by a frightful storm which rose. And at that moment the Devil began to drag
me down, while the people cried: 'Let him be accursed!' But out of the sky
came a voice and it cried 'Mercy—mercy to him!' and then I woke
trembling with the vividness of my dream. I have dreamed thus twice. It
troubles me." And he paused abstractedly, listening to the storm without,
which seemed to grow more boisterous.
"Friend, let me interpret that dream as it should be understood. It means that
you are born to reign over the people. You may go through difficulties to
reach your throne, but you shall reign over the people."
"Humph!" he answered, smiling incredulously, "I may reign, but it shall be
a reign of love over this little domestic world of mine. I want my mother
and my sweetheart, and want no more. Let them arrive safely this night, and
I'll hand over that dream-throne to you!" he answered, going to the door.
"Listen again!" Jonas persisted. "You do not know us but you have heard of
us. We are those holy men who have been travelling through Holland,
telling people their sacred rights as human beings; and pointing out to them
that God never meant them for slaves. Join us, and that throne you dreamed
of shall become a real one, and thine! Come! Consent, and you go with us.
That kingdom shall be yours. You have the head and heart and the
behaviour of a brave and good man." Thus they urged him, but John only
put them aside. He listened to them half in derision.
"Wait till I get my Bertha and my mother safe into this house this night,
then we'll think of that fine kingdom ye are planning for me," he said. The
Anabaptists seeing that his mind was too troubled with his own affairs, got
up and went out.
"Well, thank heaven!" John cried when they had gone. "What queer fellows,
to be sure! I wish it were not so late——" At that moment a great noise
arose outside the inn. "What can that mean?" he said to himself, standing in

the middle of the floor, hardly daring to look out, he was so disturbed. The
noise became greater.
"It is the galloping of soldiers, by my faith!" he cried, and was starting
toward the door when it was burst open and Bertha threw herself into his
arms.
"What is this! What has happened? Good heaven! you are all torn and——"
"Save me, save and hide me!" she cried. "Thy mother is coming. The
soldiers are after us—look!" And glancing toward the window he saw
Oberthal coming near with his soldiers. He hastily hid Bertha behind some
curtains in one part of the room, just as Oberthal rushed in.
He demanded Bertha, telling John how he had taken the two women and
was carrying them to Haarlem when Bertha got away. Now he had Faith,
the mother, and would keep her as hostage, unless Bertha was instantly
given into his hands. Upon hearing that, John was distracted with grief.
"Give her up, or I'll kill this old woman before thy eyes!" he declared
brutally. John was torn between love for his old mother and for his
sweetheart, and while he stood staring wildly at Oberthal the soldiers
brought his mother in and were about to cleave her head in twain when
Bertha tore the curtains apart. She could not let John sacrifice his mother
for her. Oberthal fairly threw her into the arms of his soldiers, while the old
mother stretched her arms toward John, who fell upon a seat with his head
in his hands. Then, after the soldiers and Oberthal had gone, the poor old
woman tried to comfort him, but his grief was so tragic that he could not
endure it, and he begged her to go to her room and leave him alone for a
time. Soon after she had gone out, John heard the strange chant of the
Anabaptists. He raised his head and listened—that was like his dream—the
sacred chant!
"It is my dream," he said. Then he started up furiously. "It is my revenge. If
those strange men should come again and ask——" And at that very
moment they summoned him to the door. They knew what had passed, and
believed it a good time to persuade him to join them.
"Enter, enter, enter!" he cried, half beside himself with his grief; and the
three strange creatures came in.

"John of Leyden, we come to offer you a throne once more, and with it your
revenge for what has happened here this night."
"I will join thee for my revenge. I need no throne—but my revenge! I must
have my revenge!"
"Come, and thou shalt have it. Work henceforth as we direct, and as that
sainted figure of David, beloved by those of Westphalia, and we promise
you revenge against the whole nobility of Holland. Come!"
"Aye—thou shalt be to Holland what Jeanne d'Arc was to France!"
John went softly, yet quivering with hate and sorrow, to his mother's door.
"She mutters a prayer in her sleep," he said, hesitating what to do, yet
overwhelmed with misfortune and fury.
"Thy revenge!" whispered Zacharia in his ear. John of Leyden looked at
him darkly a moment, then:
"Let us go," he said, and the four conspirators went softly from the old inn.

ACT III

At the close of day, at the foot of an ice-covered mountain, forests on every
side, the Anabaptists were encamped in Westphalia. John of Leyden had
gone to that part of Germany under the direction of Jonas, Mathison, and
Zacharia, and being introduced to the people as a sainted man, all had fallen
down and worshipped him and he had become a great power. So many had
rallied round him that his army had become very large, and the nobles and
their families were fleeing from it in consternation.
Just before nightfall, while all seemed quiet in camp, a noise of battle was
heard far off, which grew louder and louder, telling of the approach of the
fighters. Finally, the noise of combat was right at hand, and when the
soldiers rushed into the camp there was great confusion. Among the
prisoners were men and women richly dressed, little children, and old
people, all prisoners, or flying on every side. The Anabaptists were
ferocious in their joy over every success, and since John of Leyden had
joined and led them they had been most successful.

Peasants came into camp with baskets and loads of food, while those things
were bought by giving in exchange many spoils of war—rich vases and fine
stuffs of all sorts. Then the soldiers fell to eating and drinking, being served
by their women and children while there was dancing and general rejoicing.
Many of the girls who had brought provisions into camp had skated over
miles of frozen waterway, thinking little of such a performance in that
country, and all was gaiety and expectation. It was known that the Emperor
was marching against the Anabaptist army, and while John of Leyden had
been very successful, he had as yet no stronghold; so he decided, after
talking with Jonas and the other two seditionists, to attack the city of
Münster itself. That city was held by the father of the Count Oberthal, who
had carried off Bertha.
Then, when the rout and camp gaiety were at their height, a stranger who
had been seen wandering about the camp was brought in. He was looked
upon with suspicion, and it was decided that he must immediately take an
oath to belong to the Anabaptists. He agreed to do so and then, while every
one was talking about the Prophet, the stranger was brought before Jonas.
"Who is it?" he asked, for outside the rays of the camp lights the wood was
dark.
"One who is ready to take the oath and join us," was the answer.
"Very well, but in this dense wood who can see anything at this time of the
night? Strike a light there."
"Yes, have a care, brother," said Zacharia. "Let us be certain the man is
sincere in his purpose to join us."
"To-morrow we go to take Münster, which is in the hands of that traitor
Oberthal," Mathison said.
The stranger started violently.
"We shall massacre the wretch and his people," Jonas continued.
"Massacre!" the stranger exclaimed, then aside he murmured "my father!"
because in truth the stranger who had been caught near the camp was none
other than the Oberthal who had carried away Bertha.

The three Anabaptists continued to speak in so blood-thirsty a manner of
their exploits that Oberthal was horrified by the thought that it was his
father who was to fall into their hands on the morrow. More than that, they
expected him to swear to join their expedition.
"Well, here we stand, talking in the darkness still. Let us get out of it,"
Jonas cried, and they moved toward the light of the camp, taking Oberthal
with them. Suddenly when in the bright light, Jonas recognized his old
master who had sent him away and punished him for stealing.
"Heaven! Well, I have you now!" he cried, wickedly. "Now I'll make short
work of you!" and he called the guard. "Here! surround him. Lead him
instantly to execution."
"Without consulting the Prophet?" all cried in amazement. That was high-
handed work, indeed.
"Wait for nothing. Kill him," Jonas cried, going excitedly by one path, as
John the Prophet came upon the scene by another. He was sad and cast
down, and Zacharia spoke to him. "What is wrong with you?"
"I get small joy from all this," he answered. "Jeanne d'Arc was born to such
affairs, but I was better off in my inn, serving my people. It is a bad
business," and he was very melancholy.
"What is this you say?"
"I say that I think of my Bertha and my mother. I wish I were with them,
while others were reforming Holland."
"But thy mother and thy sweetheart, since they got into the hands of
Oberthal, are doubtless dead."
"Then there is little for me to fight for. I shall stop now; do you carry on
your schemes as best you may. Who is that prisoner?" he asked, as Oberthal
was brought back by the soldiers.
"It is a man who is about to be executed."
"Oh—he is? Who says so, since I say otherwise?" John replied, looking at
Zacharia contemptuously. "I am thy Prophet," he declared with hardly less

contempt in his tone than before. "I am thy Prophet and settle these matters
of life and death. I settle this one. Yonder man shall not die. I am in a
humane mood." He motioned the guard to bring Oberthal, whom he had not
yet seen, before him. When face to face, John of Leyden lifted his eyes and
looked again upon the man who had brought all his woes upon him; who
had so persecuted him that he had in a mad moment left his peaceful inn,
and undertaken to change the face of Germany. He had already wrought
untold pain and suffering.
"Oberthal!" he said, hardly able to speak because of his emotion.
"Ah! thou wilt still treat him tenderly, I doubt not!" Zacharia cried,
sneeringly. For a moment John of Leyden could not speak; then he said:
"Leave us!" His tone was awful, yet showed great self-repression.
"So!" he said, after gazing at Oberthal a moment. "Heaven has delivered
thee into my hands!"
"It is just. My crime merits my punishment," Oberthal said in a low voice.
"But I will tell thee one thing which is thy due and may save my soul from
damnation: thy Bertha, to save herself from my hands, threw herself into
the sea, and thus escaped me."
"Dead, dead!" John of Leyden said, bowing his head a moment upon his
hands.
"No! there is more. Touched with remorse, I saved her."
"And then,—speak!"
"She fled to Münster, and I was on my way there to find her and to try to
restore her to thee, when I was arrested."
"Oberthal, thy fate shall rest with her. I spare thee till she shall pronounce
sentence upon thee." He had no sooner spoken than Mathison rushed in and
cried that the troops had rebelled, and that John alone could stop the riot
and stay the ruin. "The gates of Münster have been thrown open, its army
has marched upon us, and our men are fleeing."

"Run! run!" John of Leyden shouted. "After them, and turn them back.
Münster must be ours!" And he rushed off, the Anabaptists following.
When he managed to rally the soldiers, they turned upon him and accused
him of being a false Prophet.
"Ye promised us to take Münster; thy dallying has lost it to us. We shall no
longer tolerate a rule like thine. Thou art no Prophet." But since learning
that Bertha was within the city of Münster, John of Leyden's purpose had
become fixed. If he entered that city at all, it must be as a conqueror;
because as a seditionist his head was wanted there. Yet if he did not enter he
could not find Bertha.
When they had cried death to the Prophet, John of Leyden calmly, with
great impressiveness, made them cower before his rage.
"I punish rebellion like this. If you have come to grief—or if the cause shall
—it is because you have offended God by your haste, and by your
disobedience to me," he cried, while the soldiers shouted:
"He speaks like a holy man! We have done wrong."
"Get to your knees, you impious men!" he cried, seeing his advantage over
them, and they all fell upon their knees. His personality had gained the
control over a great people once again. With this spirit of enthusiasm
aroused, the city of Münster was soon taken, and a great hymn of triumph
went up. All the people likened John of Leyden to David, and rallied round
him, proclaiming him king.

ACT IV

Before the city hall of the city of Münster, many citizens were collected,
and many were continually arriving, bearing rich bronzes, and chests of
treasure, which they were hoping to save for themselves by placing them
under the direct protection of the city. The invading hosts of John's army
filled all with fear. No one was more furious against the Prophet than
Bertha, who, being in Münster, had no thought that the Prophet who had
laid waste the whole country could be her beloved sweetheart.

The public square before the city hall was soon invaded by the soldiers of
John, who were crying, "Long live the Prophet!" while answering cries of
"Down with him! down with thy Prophet!" were courageously shouted by
the people of Münster.
"This Prophet who is to be crowned King of the Anabaptists; he is of Satan
and not of Heaven!" The whole city was full of despair.
While all was in confusion, Faith, John's mother, was seen to wander in and
kneel in prayer.
"What art thou doing there, mother?" one of the crowd questioned.
"I am praying for my son. I am begging for money that I may buy masses
for his soul. I am hungry and cold. I am alone in the world. All the world
seems buried in grief. I pray. There is no other hope save in prayer!" she
moaned, little thinking that it was her son who had brought upon a nation so
much desolation, and who at the same time was about to be crowned by the
revolutionists. As people passed, they dropped money into her hand, and
some led her a little way to a seat where she could rest her weary body. She
had become very old and trembling since that night when she had last seen
her son. She had wandered from the old inn in search of him, and had never
found him; and she had no sooner left the old home than Bertha, saved from
Oberthal, had flown to the inn again, to throw herself into the strong arms
of her lover. She had found the place closed, for Faith and John had gone,
no one knew where.
After begging and praying in the public square, Faith found herself near a
sick and almost helpless man, close to the palace toward which she had
wandered. Many people were about. The Prophet was going to be crowned,
so it was rumoured. Among others, Bertha had wandered near.
"Thou poor, helpless brother," said Faith. "Let me, out of my poverty, help
thee a little." At the sound of that voice Bertha paused, turned, and nearly
shrieked. She had wandered alone and hopeless; and there stood Faith, her
lover's mother.
"Oh, dear mother!" she cried, and they threw themselves into each other's
arms.

"Oh, mother! How I sought for thee!" she sobbed. "Since you were not to
be found in Leyden, I turned myself toward Münster, hoping against hope
to find you or John. Now take me to him. Let us go quickly!" she urged, but
old Faith held back.
"My child, he is dead. I heard a voice declare to me that I should see him no
more. It was an unseen voice. He is dead." Whereupon, both women fell to
weeping in each other's arms.
"It has to do with these wicked men who have brought ruin upon Germany!
—these Anabaptists!" Bertha cried. "Oh, John, if thou couldst rise from thy
grave and help me now. Thy courage and goodness would raise up men to
drive back these who do bad deeds in the name of God."
She cursed the famous Prophet, neither of them dreaming who he might be,
and that desolation had come because the man whom they loved best had
sought revenge for the wrongs done to them. With those curses in their
hearts, the forlorn women wandered on with the crowd toward the cathedral
where the Prophet was to be crowned.
Some of his suite had already gone into the church, but many were arriving
in a grand procession. The appearance of the Prophet's guard aroused great
indignation among the citizens, who were compelled to look on helplessly.
Then came the Prophet himself, garbed all in white, from head to foot, and
a wonderful march was being played, while the spectacle grew each
moment more and more magnificent.

[Listen]

As John the Prophet passed, the revolutionary crowd threw themselves at
his feet; young girls strewed flowers in his path, the choir chanted. Then,
the Anabaptists having deposed the Elector Princes, were to take their
places. The Prophet was anointed with holy oil, a great and impressive

ceremony took place, and all the city rang with the cries that proclaimed
him king. Faith and Bertha could not see the new king, but they were in the
crowd, and they cursed this Prophet again—none so vigorously as Bertha,
while Faith hailed her as a new Judith. After a time, all being prostrate upon
their knees awaiting the reëntrance of the Prophet from the church, John
appeared upon the great staircase which led from the cathedral. As he stood
there looking unhappily upon all of those abased people who seemed to be
worshipping him, he thought he heard the voice of his dream of long ago.
"Woe through thee! Let him be accursed!" Overcome by the memory, he
uttered those words aloud. Faith heard the voice and screamed:
"My son! my son!" John of Leyden trembled and started toward her, his
arms outstretched, but Mathison, knowing the disastrous effect such an
acknowledgment would have upon the crowd who believed him of holy
origin, said in a low voice to John:
"Speak! reply to her, and she shall die, instantly! Deny thy mother, or she
shall be killed before thine eyes." The Anabaptists had no mind to lose all
they had risked so much for, when it was just within their grasp. John
looked at his mother, in agony and then he regained his self-possession.
"Who is this woman?" he asked: it was to save her life that he did it.
At that cold denial of her, Faith clasped her hands and wept. Then she
became enraged at his ingratitude, and began to upbraid him.
"This poor wretch is mad," he said, but by that time the crowd was
beginning to murmur against him.
"He said he was the son of God! He is an impostor." The Anabaptists seeing
how fatal the effect of Faith's words was going to be, spoke menacingly to
John. Then John cried, as Jonas raised his sword to strike the old mother
down:
"Hold! respect the day! I, thy Prophet, hath to-day received His crown. No
bloodshed. This poor creature is demented. A miracle alone can restore her
reason," and he went toward Faith. "Woman, to thy knees!" he said, but she
made a gesture of indignation. He continued to go toward her, then laying
his hands lovingly upon her head he looked meaningly into her eyes.

"To thy knees." His voice was soft and gentle, and slowly Faith fell upon
her knees, half comprehending that he was acting as fate compelled him.
"Put up thy swords!" he commanded the people who had drawn them. Then
to Faith: "Thou wert wrong, good mother!" She looked at him a moment
longer.
"Yes!—wrong," she said, and bowed her head. At that the people burst into
cries of enthusiasm.
"Is he thy child?" Jonas asked loudly, placing his sword-point upon her
breast.
"Alas! No, he is not my son!" she answered in a weak voice.
"A miracle! A miracle!" all cried, and then the Prophet passed on, Faith
looking after him without following, the people again acclaiming him with
joyous shouts.

ACT V

In a dungeon underneath the palace, John found his mother. He went to the
place where he had privately ordered the Anabaptists to have her taken, the
moment he could leave the ceremonies of his coronation. The feast of the
day was yet to come, but while the ceremonies had been going on, the three
Anabaptists had had a message from the Emperor of Germany, which
promised safety to themselves, if they would give the Prophet into his
hands. They had treacherously decided to do this at the coronation feast.
In the dungeon the poor old mother had huddled down, no longer in fear,
because her grief had rendered her insensible to everything else.
"I forgive him," she sobbed, thinking of her son. "Let no ill come to him for
what he has done to me this day." As she was thus plunged in deepest grief,
the iron door opened, flambeaux lighted the palace up, and the guard cried
the Prophet's name.
"Woman, get upon thy knees; the Prophet is coming to thee," an officer
said.

She started up: "He is coming here—I shall see him?" she whispered to
herself. Then the guard left, and John of Leyden came in. He ran toward his
mother.
"Mother! My mother!" he cried.
"Nay!" she answered. "In the crowd I obeyed thee—I read some strange
message in thy face. But here, with only God's eye upon thee, go down on
thy knees before me."
"Oh, mother, I love thee!"
But the old mother reproached him with what he had done—how he had
brought a people to despair and had imposed himself upon them as the son
of God; but all the while she chided him, she loved him dearly.
"It was my wrongs that made me do this thing, mother," he urged.
But she showed him all his wickedness with such vehemence that he could
not answer, and could only weep. Then she spoke quietly.
"If thou art remorseful for thy sins, proclaim thy wrong. Be thyself, John of
Leyden, the innkeeper, my son!"
"Desert my soldiers?" he asked, in a frightened voice. "I have led others
into danger—dare I desert them?"
"Thy mother demands it: it is the only way to right thy wrongdoing. The
blessing of God will only then descend upon thee." The Prophet,
overwhelmed by her command, opened his arms to Heaven as a sign that he
would obey, and Faith threw herself upon his breast.
Now Bertha, utterly distracted by her troubles, had disguised herself as a
pilgrim, and in her madness she had determined to set fire to the stores of
wood beneath the palace. She found her way into the dungeon just as John
and his mother were embracing. As the iron doors were heard to open again,
John turned around and saw a woman enter. As she saw John she cried
bitterly:
"Behold the Prophet!" Both John and Faith cried out upon recognizing her
voice.

"Now, let us perish together!" Bertha said, wildly, approaching John. Then
suddenly recognizing him she stifled a scream:
"Thou! the Prophet is thou? My God, my God! Then let us perish now!"
She stared in horror at the man she loved, who was also the man she had
cursed and despised—the famous Prophet.
"Oh, my child, speak low, speak low!" Faith implored, looking anxiously
toward the iron door. "Abandon thy hate. I have found my son. He will do
right. Have pity upon him," the old mother pleaded. Bertha looking at him,
felt all the love of her heart enfold him again. The madness died out her
eyes.
"Yes. Let us not hate. Let us curse no more. Far from this dread city, we
three were to have been happy. Yes, I love thee still; but still thou art the
infamous man whom I have cursed. Since I love thee, let this atone for
thee," and before he could answer, she had plunged a dagger into her heart
and fallen dead at his feet.
Then John summoned the guard. He no longer cared to live. The officer of
the guard, who was faithful to him, told him, when he entered, of the plot to
give him over to the Emperor, while the coronation feast was in progress.
"Very well. I am satisfied. Do thou take my mother to a place of safety. I
shall be at the feast," he said significantly. Embracing his mother, he handed
her into the care of the astonished guard, and left the dungeon.
Nothing could have been more magnificent than the banquet prepared for
the coronation. The tables were loaded with golden dishes, and young
women passed, scattering flowers, while pages in gay dress ran hither and
thither. There, John entered, and sat apart, as had been arranged. He was
pale and sad. All was gaiety about him, but he had prepared an awful fate
for his betrayers. In the vaults of the palace were stored powder and
firearms of all sorts. Just above those vaults was the banqueting room,
which had great iron gates closed at one end. The company could only leave
the room by those gates. John of Leyden had brought two officers whom he
could trust into the hall with him, and unheard, he commanded them to
close and lock the gates as soon as the Anabaptists Zacharia, Mathison, and
Jonas, with Oberthal, the great power of Münster and the Bishops—all who

were his enemies and to whom the Anabaptists meant to betray him—were
assembled.
Then the feast began. All hailed the Prophet in loud voices, pretending great
affection and faith in him. In the midst of a dance by which the guests were
entertained, Faith, whom he thought quite safe, entered. She knew what he
had done—that he meant to blow up the palace by firing the vaults below,
and she had determined to die with her son. The Prophet had not yet seen
her.
The Anabaptists and John's enemies spoke apart, and John watched them
cynically. He knew well what they intended, and that he had them trapped.
"Now close the gates," he said in a low voice to his officers. "Lock them."
He had not seen his mother. When the gates were closed, he turned
smilingly to the company. He called for wine.
"Let us drink!" he cried. Then Oberthal rose and shouted:
"Thou art mine, great Prophet! Surrender thyself." Still the Prophet smiled
at them. Jonas then cried:
"Yes, thou tyrant—thou art betrayed. We have thee fast! Surrender!"
"Oh, ye poor creatures," he answered. "Listen! do ye hear nothing?" Still
smiling upon them, as they stared at him, they heard a strange rumbling
below. The train he had laid to blow up the palace had fired the powder.
"Thy time has come!" John of Leyden cried, and the vast hall began to fill
with smoke and powder fumes. Riot reigned, and just at that moment Faith,
her gray hair streaming about her, pushed through the crowd and threw
herself into her son's arms. He gave a great cry of agony.
"Mother! Thou art here?"
"To die with thee, my son!" she shrieked, and with a roar the palace fell
about their ears.

MOZART

I T IS not at all probable that anything so ridiculous as the "Magic Flute"
story was ever before written. It might have been the concerted effort of
Artemus Ward, Theodore Hook, Bill Nye, and Mark Twain. But an effort at
coherence must be made in the putting together of this story, because the
opera is, above all things, one that every man, woman, and child should
know. Mozart's lovely music could not be ruined, even by this story.
It has been said that the "Magic Flute" might have had some Masonic
significance. That is quite likely, on the ground that it has no other
significance whatever.
This opera proves one thing beyond a doubt: That Mozart could have
written beautiful music with the New York Directory for a theme.
Rossini summed up Mozart very properly: "Who is the greatest musician in
the world?" some one asked him. "Beethoven," Rossini answered. "But
what about Mozart?" "Well, you see, Mozart is the only musician in the
world," he answered, allowing of no comparisons! And he is the only one,
yet, to some of us!
That he was a man of the most fascinating temper cannot be doubted, when
one reads his memoirs. He was without any financial judgment. He could
make money, but he couldn't keep it. There is a story illustrating the
dominance of his heart over his head, told in connection with an offer of
patronage from the King of Prussia. At that time Mozart was Emperor
Leopold's musician, and when he went to Leopold to offer his resignation
and take advantage of the better arrangement which the Prussian King had
offered, Leopold said urgently: "But, Mozart, you surely are not going to
forsake me?" "No, of course not," Mozart answered hastily. "May it please
your Majesty, I shall remain." When his friends asked him if he had not
been wise enough to make some demand to his own advantage at such a
time, he answered in amazement: "Why, who could do such a thing—at
such a time?"

His sentiment was charming, his character fascinating. He married
Constance Weber, herself a celebrated person. She was never tired of
speaking and writing of her husband. It was she who told of his small,
beautifully formed hands, and of his favourite amusements—playing at
bowls and billiards. The latter sport, by the way, has been among the
favoured amusements of many famous musicians; Paderewski is a great
billiard player.
As a little child, Mozart had a father who "put him through," so to speak, he
being compelled to play, and play and play, from the time he was six years
old. At that age he drew the bow across his violin while standing in the
custom-house at Vienna, on the way to play at Schönbrunn for the Emperor,
and he charmed the officers so much that the whole Mozart family baggage
was passed free of tax. While at the palace he was treated gorgeously, and
among the Imperial family at that time was Marie Antoinette, then a young
and gay princess. The young princesses treated little Wolfgang Mozart like
a brother, and when he stumbled and fell in the drawing room, it happened
to be Antoinette who picked him up. "Oh, you are good, I shall marry you!"
he assured her. On that occasion the Mozart family received the sum of only
forty pounds for his playing, with some additions to the family wardrobe
thrown in.
Most composers have had favourite times and seasons for work—in bed,
with a heap of sausages before them, or while out walking. Beethoven used
to pour cold water over his hands till he soaked off the ceiling of the room
below; in short, most musicians except Mozart had some surprising
idiosyncrasy. He needed even no instrument when composing music. He
could enjoy a game of bowls, sitting and making his MS. while the game
was in progress, and leaving his work to take his turn. He was not strong,
physically, and was often in poor circumstances, but wherever he was there
was likely to be much excitement and gaiety. He would serenely write his
music on his knee, on his table, wherever and however he chanced to be;
and was most at ease when his wife was telling him all the gossip of the day
while he worked. After all, that is the true artist. Erraticalness is by no
means the thing that makes a man great, though he sometimes becomes
great in spite of it, but for the most part it is carefully cultivated through
conceit.

Mozart's burial was probably the most extraordinary commentary on fame
and genius ever known. The day he was buried, it was stormy weather and
all the mourners, few enough to start with, had dropped off long before the
graveyard was reached. He was to be buried third class, and as there had
already been two pauper funerals that day, a midwife's, and another's,
Mozart's body was to be placed on top. No one was at the grave except the
assistant gravedigger and his mother.
"Who is it?" the mother asked.
"A bandmaster," the hearse driver answered.
"Well, Gott! there isn't anything to be expected then. So hurry up!" Thus the
greatest of musical geniuses was done with this world.
Germany has given us the greatest musicians, but she leaves other people to
take care of them, to love them, and to bury them—or to leave them go
"third-class."

THE MAGIC FLUTE

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Queen of the Night.
Pamina (Queen's daughter).
Papagena.
Three ladies of the Queen's Court.
Three Genii of the Temple.
Tamino, an Egyptian Prince.
Monostatos, a Moor in the service of Sarastro.
Sarastro, High Priest of the Temple.
Papageno, Tamina's servant.
Speaker of the Temple.
Two priests.
Two armed men.
Chorus of priests of the Temple, slaves, and attendants.
The scene is near the Temple of Isis, in Egypt.

Composer: Mozart.

ACT I

Once upon a time an adventurous Egyptian youth found himself near to the
Temple of Isis. He had wandered far, had clothed himself in another habit
than that worn by his people, and by the time he reached the temple he had
spent his arrows, and had nothing but his useless bow left. In this
predicament, he saw a monstrous serpent who made after him, and he fled.
He had nothing to fight with, and was about to be caught in the serpent's
fearful coils when the doors of the temple opened and three ladies ran out,
each armed with a fine silver spear.
They had heard the youth's cries of distress, and had rushed out to assist
him. Immediately they attacked the monster and killed it, while Tamino lay
panting upon the ground. When they went to him they found him
unconscious. He seemed to be a very noble and beautiful youth, whose
appearance was both heroic and gentle, and they were inspired with
confidence in him.
"May not this youth be able, in return for our services to him, to help us in
our own troubles?" they inquired of each other; for they belonged to the
court of the Queen of the Night, and that sovereign was in great sorrow. Her
beautiful daughter, Pamina, had been carried away, and none had been able
to discover where she was hidden. There was no one in the court who was
adventurous enough to search in certain forbidden and perilous places for
her.
As Tamino lay exhausted upon the ground, one of the women who had
rescued him declared that she would remain to guard him—seeing he had
no arrows—while the others should go and tell the Queen that they had
found a valiant stranger who might help them.
At this suggestion the other two set up a great cry.
"You stay to guard the youth! Nay, I shall stay myself. Go thou and tell Her
Majesty." Thereupon they all fell to quarrelling as to who should remain
beside the handsome youth and who should go. Each declared openly that
she could gaze upon him forever, because he was such a beauty, which

would doubtless have embarrassed Tamino dreadfully if he had not been
quite too tired to attend to what they said.
The upshot of it was that all three went, rather than leave any one of them to
watch with him. When they had disappeared into the temple once more,
Tamino half roused himself and saw the serpent lying dead beside him.
"I wonder where I can be?" he mused. "I was saved in the nick of time: I
was too exhausted to run farther," and at that moment he heard a beautiful
strain of music, played upon a flute:

[Listen]

He raised himself to listen attentively, and soon he saw a man descending
from among the rocks behind the temple. Still fearful of new adventures
while he was unarmed and worn, Tamino rose and hid himself in the trees.
The man's name was Papageno, and he carried a great cage filled with birds

upon his back; in both hands he held a pipe, which was like the pipe of Pan,
and it was upon this that he was making music. He also sang:

[Listen]

A fowler bold in me you see,
A man of mirth and minstrelsy;
My name is ever in demand,
With old and young thro'out the land—
I set my traps, the birds flock round,
I whistle, and they know the sound.

For wealth my lot I'd not resign,
For every bird that flies is mine.

I am a fowler, bold and free,

A man of mirth and minstrelsy;
My name is ever in demand,
With old and young throughout the land.
But nets to set for pretty maids:
That were the most divine of trades.

I'd keep them safe 'neath lock and key,
And all I caught should be for me.

So that exceedingly jolly fellow sang as he passed Tamino. He was about to
enter the temple when Tamino, seeing he had nothing to fear, stopped him.
"Hello, friend! Who are you?"
"I ask the same," the fowler answered, staring at Tamino.
"That is easily answered. I am a prince and a wanderer. My father reigns
over many lands and tribes."
"Ah, ha! Perhaps in that land of thine I might do a little trade in birds," the
fowler said, jovially.
"Is that how you make your living?" Tamino asked him.
"Surely! I catch birds and sell them to the Queen of the Night and her
ladies."
"What does the Queen look like?" Tamino asked, somewhat curious.
"How do I know? Pray, who ever saw the Queen of the Night?"
"You say so? Then she must be the great Queen of whom my father has
often spoken."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, let me thank you for killing that great serpent. He nearly did for me,"
Tamino replied, taking it for granted that the man before him had been the
one to rescue him, since he had fallen unconscious before he had seen the
ladies. The fowler looked about at the dead serpent.

"Perfectly right! A single grasp of mine would kill a bigger monster than
that," the fowler boasted, taking to himself the credit for the deed; but by
this time the three ladies had again come from the temple and were listening
to this boastful gentleman with the birds upon his back.
"Tell me, are the ladies of the court beautiful?" Tamino persisted.
"I should fancy not—since they go about with their faces covered. Beauties
are not likely to hide their faces," he laughed boisterously. At that the ladies
came toward him. Tamino beheld them with pleasure.
"Now give us thy birds," they said to the fowler, who became suddenly very
much quieter and less boastful. He gave them the birds and received,
instead of the wine he expected, according to custom, a bottle of water.
"Here, for the first time, her Majesty sends you water," said she who had
handed him the bottle; and another, holding out something to him, said:
"And instead of bread she sends you a stone."
"And," said the other, "she wishes that ready mouth of yours to be
decorated with this instead of the figs she generally sends," and at that she
put upon his lips a golden padlock, which settled his boasting for a time.
"Now indicate to this youth who killed that serpent," she continued. But the
fowler could only show by his actions that he had no idea who did it.
"Very well; then, dear youth, let me tell you that you owe your life to us."
Tamino was ready to throw himself at the feet of such beautiful champions,
but one of them interrupted his raptures by giving him a miniature set in
jewels.
"Look well at this: our gracious Queen has sent it to you."
Tamino gazed long at the portrait and was beside himself with joy, because
he found the face very beautiful indeed.
"Is this the face of your great Queen?" he cried. They shook their heads.
"Then tell me where I may find this enchanting creature!"
"This is our message: If the face is beautiful to thee and thou would'st make
it thine, thou must be valiant. It is the face of our Queen's daughter, who has

been carried away by a fierce demon, and none have dared seek for her."
"For that beautiful maiden?" Tamino cried in amazement. "I dare seek for
her! Only tell me which way to go, and I will rescue her from all the
demons of the inferno. I shall find her and make her my bride." He spoke
with so much energy and passion that the ladies were quite satisfied that
they had found a knight to be trusted.
"Dear youth, she is hidden in our own mountains, but——" At that moment
a peal of thunder startled everybody.
"Heaven! What may that be?" Tamino cried, and even as he spoke, the
rocks parted and the Queen of the Night stood before them.
"Be not afraid, noble youth. A clear conscience need have no fear. Thou
shalt find my daughter, and when she is restored to my arms, she shall be
thine." With this promise the Queen of the Night disappeared as suddenly as
she had come. Then the poor boastful fowler began to say "hm, hm, hm,
hm," and motion to his locked mouth.
"I cannot help thee, poor wretch," Tamino declared. "Thou knowest that
lock was put upon thee to teach thee discretion." But one of the women
went to him and told him that by the Queen's commands she now would set
him free.
"And this, dear youth," she said, going to Tamino and giving him a golden
flute, "is for thee. Take it, and its magic will guard thee from all harm.
Wherever thou shalt wander in search of the Queen's daughter, this
enchanted flute will protect thee. Only play upon it. It will calm anger and
soothe the sorrowing."
"Thou, Papageno," said another, "art to go with the Prince, by the Queen's
command, to Sarastro's castle, and serve him faithfully." At that the fowler
was frightened half to death.

No indeed! that I decline.
From yourselves have I not heard
That he's fiercer than the pard?
If by him I were accosted
He would have me plucked and roasted.

"Have no fear, but do as you are bid. The Prince and his flute shall keep
thee safe from Sarastro."

I wish the Prince at all the devils;
For death nowise I search;
What if, to crown my many evils,
He should leave me in the lurch?

He did not feel half as brave as he had seemed when he told Tamino how he
had killed the serpent.
Then another of the ladies of the court gave to Papageno a chime of bells,
hidden in a casket.
"Are these for me?" he asked.
"Aye, and none but thou canst play upon them. With a golden chime and a
golden flute, thou art both safe. The music of these things shall charm the
wicked heart and soothe the savage breast. So, fare ye well, both." And
away went the two strange adventurers, Papageno and Tamino, one a
prince, the other a bird-catcher.

Scene II

After travelling for a week and a day, the two adventurers came to a fine
palace. Tamino sent the fowler with his chime of bells up to the great place
to spy out what he could, and he was to return and bring the Prince news.
Without knowing it they had already arrived at the palace of Sarastro, and at
that very moment Pamina, the Queen's daughter, was in great peril.
In a beautiful room, furnished with divans, and everything in Egyptian
style, sat Monostatos, a Moor, who was in the secrets of Sarastro, who had
stolen the Princess. Monostatos had just had the Princess brought before
him and had listened malignantly to her pleadings to be set free.
"I do not fear death," she was saying; "but it is certain that if I do not return
home, my mother will die of grief."

"Well, I have had enough of thy meanings, and I shall teach thee to be more
pleasing; so minions," calling to the guards and servants of the castle,
"chain this tearful young woman's hands, and see if it will not teach her to
make herself more agreeable." As the slaves entered, to place the fetters
upon her hands, the Princess fell senseless upon a divan.
"Away, away, all of you!" Monostatos cried, just as Papageno peeped in at
the palace window.
"What sort of place is this?" Papageno said to himself, peering in curiously.
"I think I will enter and see more of it." Stepping in, he saw the Princess
senseless upon the divan, and the wretched Moor bending over her. At that
moment the Moor turned round and saw Papageno. They looked at each
other, and each was frightened half to death.
"Oh, Lord!" each cried at the same moment. "This must be the fiend
himself."
"Oh, have mercy!" each shrieked at each other.
"Oh, spare my life," they yelled in unison, and then, at the same moment
each fled from the other, by a different way. At the same instant, Pamina
awoke from her swoon, and began to call pitiably for her mother. Papageno
heard her and ventured back.
"She's a handsome damsel, and I'll take a chance, in order to rescue her," he
determined, feeling half safe because of his chime of bells.
"Why, she is the very image of the Prince's miniature and so it must be the
daughter of the Queen of the Night," he decided, taking another good look
at her.
"Who art thou?" she asked him, plaintively.
"Papageno," he answered.
"I do not know the name. But I am the daughter of the Queen of the Night."
"Well, I think you are, but to make sure"—He pulled from his pocket the
portrait which had been given to him by the Prince and looked at it
earnestly for a long time.

"According to this you shouldn't have any hands or feet," he announced
gravely.
"But it is I," the Princess declared, looking in turn at the miniature. "Pray,
where did you get this?"
"Your mother gave this to a young stranger, who instantly fell in love with
you, and started to find you."
"In love with me?" she cried, joyfully.
"You'd think so if you saw the way he carries on about you," the fowler
volunteered. "And we are to carry you back to your mother even quicker
than we came."
"Then you must be very quick about it, because Sarastro returns from the
chase at noon exactly, and if he finds you here, you will never leave alive."
"Good! That will suit the Prince exactly."
"But—if I should find that, after all, you are an evil spirit," she hesitated.
"On the contrary, you will find in me the best spirits in the world, so come
along."
"You seem to have a good heart."
"So good that I ought to have a Papagena to share it," he answered,
plaintively, whereupon Pamina sang affectingly:

[Listen]

The manly heart that claims our duty, must glow with feelings high and
brave.
It is a very queer and incoherent opera, and not much sense to any of it, but,
oh! it is beautiful music, and this duet between the fowler and Pamina is not
the least of its beauties. At the end of it they rushed off together—Pamina to
meet the Prince and be conducted back to her mother.

Scene III

In the meantime, Tamino, instead of looking for Pamina himself, had been
invoking wisdom and help from a number of Genii he had come across.
There were three temples, connected by colonnades, and above the portal of
one of these was written, Temple of Wisdom; over another, Temple of
Reason; the third, Temple of Nature. These temples were situated in a
beautiful grove, which Tamino entered with three Genii who each bore a
silver palm branch.
"Now, pray tell me, ye wise ones, is it to be my lot to loosen Pamina's
bonds?" he asked anxiously.
"It is not for us to tell thee this, but we say to thee, 'Go, be a man,' be
steadfast and true and thou wilt conquer." They departed, leaving Tamino
alone. Then he saw the temples.
"Perhaps she is within one of these temples," he cried; "and with the words
of those wise Genii in my ears, I'll surely rescue her if she is there." So
saying, he went up to one of them and was about to enter.
"Stand back!" a mysterious voice called from within.
"What! I am repulsed? Then I will try the next one," and he went to another
of the temples.
"Stand back," again a voice called.

"Here too?" he cried, not caring to venture far. "There is still another door
and I shall betake me to it." So he went to the third, and, when he knocked,
an aged priest met him upon the threshold.
"What seek ye here?" he asked.
"I seek Love and Truth."
"That is a good deal to seek. Thou art looking for miscreants, thou art
looking for revenge? Love, Truth, and Revenge do not belong together," the
old priest answered.
"But the one I would revenge myself upon is a wicked monster."
"Go thy way. There is none such here," the priest replied.
"Isn't your reigning chief Sarastro?"
"He is—and his law is supreme."
"He stole a princess."
"So he did—but he is a holy man, the chief of Truth—we cannot explain his
motives to thee," the priest said, as he disappeared within and closed the
door.
"Oh, if only she still lives!" Tamino cried, standing outside the temple.
"She lives, she lives!" a chorus within sang, and at that reassurance Tamino
was quite wild with happiness. Then he became full of uncertainty and
sadness again, for he remembered that he did not know where to find her,
and he sat down to play upon his magic flute. As he played, wild animals
came out to listen, and they crowded around him. While he was playing,
lamenting the loss of Pamina, he was answered by Papageno from a little
way off, and he leaped up joyously.
"Perhaps Papageno is coming with the Princess," he cried. He began to play
lustily upon his flute again. "Maybe the sound will lead them here," he
thought, and he hastened away thinking to overtake them. After he had
gone, Pamina and Papageno ran in, she having heard the magic flute.

"Oh, what joy! He must be near, for I heard the flute," she cried, looking
about. Suddenly her joy was dispelled by the appearance of Monostatos,
who had flown after them as soon as he discovered Pamina's absence.
"Now I have caught you," he cried wickedly, but as he called to the slaves
who attended him to bind Papageno, the latter thought of his chime of bells.
"Maybe they will save me," he cried, and at once he began to play. Then all
the slaves began to dance, while Monostatos himself was utterly enchanted
at the sweet sound. As the bells continued to chime, Monostatos and the
slaves began to leave with a measured step, till the pair found themselves
alone and once more quite safe. Then the chorus within began to sing "Long
life to Sarastro," and at that the two trembled again.
"Sarastro! Now what is going to happen?" Papageno whispered.
While they stood trembling, Sarastro appeared, borne on a triumphal car,
drawn by six lions, and followed by a great train of attendants and priests.
The chorus all cried, "Long life to Sarastro! Long life to our guard and
master!"
When Sarastro stepped from the car, Pamina knelt at his feet.
"Oh, your greatness!" she cried. "I have sorely offended thee in trying to
escape, but the fault was not all mine. The wicked Moor, Monostatos, made
the most violent love to me, and it was from him I fled."
"All is forgiven thee, but I cannot set thee free," Sarastro replied. "Thy
mother is not a fitting guardian for thee, and thou art better here among
these holy people. I know that thy heart is given to a youth, Tamino." As he
spoke, the Moor entered, followed by Prince Tamino. For the first time the
two lovers met, and they were at once enchanted with each other.
At once Monostatos's anger became very great, since he, too, loved the
Princess. He summoned his slaves to part them. Kneeling in his turn at
Sarastro's feet he protested that he was a good and valiant man, whom
Sarastro knew well, and he complained that Pamina had tried to flee.
"Thou art about good enough to have the bastinado," Sarastro replied, and
thereupon ordered the slaves to whip the false Moor, who was immediately

led off to punishment. After that, Sarastro ordered the lovers to be veiled
and led into the temple to go through certain rites. They were to endure a
period of probation, and if they came through the ordeal of waiting for each
other properly they were to be united.

ACT II

The priests assembled in a grove of palms, where they listened to the story
of Pamina and Tamino, told by Sarastro.
"The Princess was torn from the Queen of the Night, great priests, because
that Queen would overthrow our temple, and here Pamina is to remain till
purified; if you will accept this noble youth for her companion, after they
have both been taught in the ways of wisdom, follow my example," and
immediately Sarastro blew a blast upon a horn. All the priests blew their
horns in concurrence.
Sarastro sang a hymn to the gods, and then he and his priests disappeared.
Tamino and Papageno were next led in to the temple porch. It was entirely
dark.
"Art thou still near me, Papageno?" he asked.
"Of course I am, but I don't feel very well. I think I have a fever. This is a
queer sort of adventure."
"Oh, come, be a man. There is nothing to fear."
The priests asked Tamino at that moment why he had come to seek entrance
in the temple.
"I came to find Friendship and Love," he replied.
"If you would have that, you must go through every trial; and how about
you, Papageno?"
"Well, I do not care as much as I might for wisdom. Give me a nice little
wife and a good bird-market, and I shall get on.'"
"But thou canst not have those things, unless thou canst undergo our trials."

"Oh, well, I'll stay and face it out—but I must be certain of a wife at the end
of it. Her name must be Papagena—and I'd like to have a look at her before
I undertake all this sort of thing," he persisted.
"Oh, that is quite reasonable—but thou must promise not to speak with her."
"And Pamina?" Tamino suggested.
"Certainly—only thou too must not speak." Thus it was agreed, and the
priests went out. Instantly the place was in darkness again.
"I should like to know why, the moment those chaps go out, we find
ourselves in the dark?" Papageno demanded.
"That is one of our tests; one of our trials," Tamino responded. "Take it in
good part." He was interrupted by the appearance of the three ladies of the
Queen of the Night's court.
"Why are you in this place?" they demanded seductively. "It will ruin you."
"Do not say so," Tamino returned, stoutly, this being one of the temptations
he was to meet: but Papageno was frightened enough. "Stop thy babbling,
Papageno," Tamino cautioned. "Or thou wilt lose thy Papagena."
In short, the ladies did all that was possible to dishearten the youth and
Papageno; but the Prince Tamino stood firm, and would not be frightened
nor driven from his vow to the temple; but Papageno found himself in an
awful state of mind, and finally fell down almost in a fit. At once the ladies
sank through the temple floor.
Then the priests and a spokesman appeared and praised Tamino, threw
another veil over him and led him out; but when a priest inquired of
Papageno how it was with him, that fine gentlemen was so addled that he
couldn't tell.
"For me—I'm in a trance," he exclaimed.
"Well, come on," they said, and threw a veil over him also.
"This incessant marching takes away all thought of love," he complained.

"No matter, it will return"; and at that the priests marched him out, and the
scene changed to a garden where Pamina was sleeping.

Scene II

Monostatos was watching the beautiful Pamina sleep, and remarking that, if
he dared, he certainly should kiss her. In short, he was a person not to be
trusted for a moment. He stole toward her, but in the same instant the
thunder rolled and the Queen of the Night appeared from the depths of the
earth.
"Away," she cried, and Pamina awoke.
"Mother, mother," she screamed with joy, while Monostatos stole away.
"Let us fly, dear mother," Pamina urged.
"Alas, with thy father's death, I lost all my magic power, my child. He gave
his sevenfold Shield of the Sun to Sarastro, and I have been perfectly
helpless since."
"Then I have certainly lost Tamino," Pamina sobbed somewhat illogically.
"No, take this dagger and slay Sarastro, my love, and take the shield. That
will straighten matters out."
Then the bloody Queen sang that the fires of hell were raging in her bosom.
Indeed, she declared that if Pamina should not do as she was bidden and
slay the priest, she would disown her. Thus Pamina had met with her
temptation, and while she was rent between duty and a sense of decency—
because she felt it would be very unpleasant to kill Sarastro—Monostatos
entered and begged her to confide in him, that he of all people in the world
was best able to advise her.
"What shall I do, then?" the trusting creature demanded.
"There is but one way in the world to save thyself and thy mother, and that
is immediately to love me," he counselled.
"Good heaven! The remedy is worse than the disease," she cried.

"Decide in a hurry. There is no time to wait. You are all bound for
perdition," he assured her, cheerfully.
"Perdition then! I won't do it." Temptation number two, for Pamina.
"Very well, it is your time to die!" Monostatos cried, and proceeded to kill
her, but Sarastro entered just in time to encourage her.
"Indeed it is not—your schedule is wrong, Monostatos," Sarastro assured
him.
"I must look after the mother, then, since the daughter has escaped me,"
Monostatos remarked, comforting himself as well as he could.
"Oh don't chastise my mother," Pamina cried.
"A little chastising won't hurt her in the least," Sarastro assured her. "I know
all about how she prowls around here, and if only Tamino resists his
temptations, you will be united and your mother sent back to her own
domain where she belongs. If he survives the ordeals we have set before
him, he will deserve to marry an orphan." All this was doubtless true, but it
annoyed Pamina exceedingly. As soon as Sarastro had sung of the
advantages of living in so delightful a place as the temple, he disappeared,
not in the usual way, but by walking off, and the scene changed.

Scene III

Tamino and the speaker who accompanied the priests and talked for them
were in a large hall, and Papageno was there also.
"You are again to be left here alone; and I caution ye to be silent," the
speaker advised as he went out.
The second priest said:
"Papageno, whoever breaks the silence here, brings down thunder and
lightning upon himself." He, too, went out.
"That's pleasant," Papageno remarked.

"You are only to think it is pleasant—not to mention it," Tamino cautioned.
Meantime, Papageno, who couldn't hold his tongue to save his life, grew
thirsty. And he no sooner became aware of it, than an old woman entered
with a cup of water.
"Is that for me?" he asked.
"Yes, my love," she replied, and Papageno drank it.
"Well, next time when you wish to quench my thirst you must bring
something besides water—don't forget. Sit down here, old lady, it is
confoundedly dull," the irrepressible Papageno said, and the old lady sat.
"How old are you, anyway?"
"Just eighteen years and two minutes," she answered.
"Um—it is the two minutes that does it, I suppose," Papageno reflected,
looking at her critically.
"Does anybody love you?" he asked, by way of satisfying his curiosity.
"Certainly—his name is Papageno."
"The deuce you say? Well, well, I never would have thought it of myself.
Well, what's your name, mam?" but just as the old lady was about to
answer, the thunder boomed and off she rushed.
"Oh, heaven! I'll never speak another word," Papageno cried. He had no
sooner taken that excellent resolution than the three Genii entered bearing a
table loaded with good things to eat. They also brought the flute and the
chime of bells.
"Now, eat, drink, and be merry, and a better time shall follow," they said,
and then they disappeared.
"Well, well, this is something like it," Papageno said, beginning at once to
obey commands, but Tamino began to play upon the flute.
"All right; all right! You be the orchestra and I'll take care of the table
d'hôte," he said, very well satisfied; but at that instant Pamina appeared.

She no sooner began to talk to Tamino than he motioned her away. He was
a youth of unheard-of fortitude.
"This is worse than death," she said. She found herself waved away again.
Tamino was thoroughly proof against temptation.
Then Pamina sang for him, and she had a very good voice. Meantime,
Papageno was sufficiently occupied to be quiet, but he had to call attention
to his virtues. When he asked if he had not been amazingly still, there was a
flourish of trumpets. Tamino signed for Papageno to go.
"No, you go first!" Tamino only repeated his gesture.
"Very well, very well, I'll go first—but what's to be done with us now?"
Tamino only pointed to heaven, which was very depressing to one of
Papageno's temperament.
"You think so!" Papageno asked. "If it is to be anything like that, I think it
more likely to be a roasting. No matter!" Nothing mattered any longer to
Papageno, and so he went out as Tamino desired, and the scene changed.

Scene IV

Sarastro and his priests were in a vault underneath one of the temples. There
they sang of Tamino's wonderful fortitude and then said:
"Let him appear!" And so he did. "Now, Tamino, you have been a brave
man till now; but there are two perilous trials awaiting you, and if you go
through them well—" They didn't exactly promise that all should be plain
sailing after that, but they led the youth to infer as much, which encouraged
him. "Lead in Pamina," the order then was given, and she was led in.
"Now, Pamina, this youth is to bid thee a last farewell," Sarastro said.
Pamina was about to throw herself into her lover's arms, but with amazing
self-control Tamino told her once more to "Stand back." As that had gone so
very well, Sarastro assured them they were to meet again.
"I'll bear whatever the gods put upon me," the patient youth replied.

Then he said farewell and went out, while Papageno (who if he ever did get
to Heaven, would surely do so by hanging on to Tamino's immaculate coat-
tail) ran after him, declaring that he would follow him forever—and not
talk. But it thundered again, and Papageno shrunk all up.
Then, while the speaker chided him for not being above his station,
Papageno said that the only thing he really wanted in this world or the next
was a glass of wine: he thought it would encourage him.
"Oh, well, you can have that," the speaker assured him, and immediately the
glass of wine rose through the floor. But he had no sooner drunk that than
he cried out that he experienced a most thrilling sensation about his heart. It
turned out to be love; just love! So at once, the matter being explained to
him, he took his chime of bells, played, and sang of what he felt. The
moment he had fully expressed himself, the old water lady came in.
"Here I am, my angel," she said.
"Good! You are much better than nobody," Papageno declared.
"Then swear you'll be forever true," she urged.
"Certainly—since there is no other way out of it." And it was no sooner said
than the old lady became a most entrancing young one, about eighteen years
old.
"Well, may I never doubt a woman when she tells me her age again!"
Papageno muttered, staring at her. As he was about to embrace her, the
speaker shouted:
"Away; he isn't worthy of you." This left Papageno in a nice fix, and both he
and the girl were led away as the Genii appeared.
The Genii began to sing that Pamina had gone demented, and no wonder.
She almost at once proved that this was true, by coming in carrying a
dagger; and she made a pass at the whole lot of them. No one could blame
her. She thought each of them was Tamino.
"She's had too much trouble," the penetrating Genii declared among
themselves. "And now we'll set her right." They were about to do so when
she undertook to stab herself, but they interfered and told her she mustn't.

"What if Tamino should hear you! It would make him feel very badly," they
remonstrated. At once she became all right again.
"Is he alive? Just let me look at him, and I'll be encouraged to wait awhile."
So they took her away to see Tamino.
Then two men dressed in armour came in and said:

He who would wander on this path of tears and toiling,
Needs water, fire, and earth for his assoiling,

which means nothing in particular. Although "assoiling" is an excellent old
English word.
Then Tamino and Pamina were heard calling to each other. She entreated
him not to fly from her, and he didn't know what he had better do about it,
but the matter was arranged by somebody opening some gates and the
lovers at once embraced. They were perfectly happy, and there seemed to be
a mutual understanding between them that they could wander forth together.
They did so, and wandered at once into a mountain of fire, while Tamino
played entertainingly upon his flute. Soon they wandered out of the fire,
and embraced at leisure. Then they wandered into the water, and Tamino
began again to play upon his flute, the water keeping clear of the holes in a
wonderful way. After they got out of the woods—the water, rather,—they
embraced as usual, and the gates of the temple were thrown open and they
saw a sort of Fourth-of-July going on within. Everything was very bright
and high-coloured. This would seem to indicate that their trials were over
and they were to have their reward. Then the scene changed.

Scene V

Papageno was playing in a garden, all the while calling to his Papagena. He
was really mourning for his lost love, and so he took the rope which he used
as a girdle and decided to hang himself. Then the Genii, whose business it
seemed to be to drive lovers to suicide and then rescue them just before life
was extinct, rushed in and told him he need not go to the length—of his
rope.

"Just ring your bells," they advised him; and he instantly tried the same old
effect. He had no sooner rung for her than she came—the lovely Papagena!
They sang a joyous chorus of "pa-pa-pa-pa" for eight pages and then the
Queen of the Night and Monostatos, finding that matters were going too
well, appeared. They had come to steal the temple.
"If I really get away with that temple, Pamina shall be yours," she promised
Monostatos,—which would seem to leave Pamina safe enough, if the
circumstances were ordinary. Nevertheless it thundered again. Nobody in
the opera could seem to stand that. The Queen had her three ladies with her,
but by this time one might almost conclude that they were no ladies at all.
The thunder became very bad indeed, and the retinue, Monostatos, and the
Queen sank below, and in their stead Sarastro, Pamina, and Tamino
appeared with all the priests, and the storm gave way to a fine day.
Immediately after that, nothing at all happened.

SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN

S IR ARTHUR SULLIVAN was a man of many musical moods and
varied performances, yet his surest fame, at present, rests upon his
comic operas.
Perhaps this is because he and his workfellow, Gilbert, were pioneers in
making a totally new kind of comic opera. "Pinafore" may not be the best of
these works, "Mikado" may be better; but "Pinafore" was the first of the
satires upon certain institutions, social and political, which delighted the
English-speaking world.
Music and words never have seemed better wedded than in the comic
operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. The music is always graceful, gracious,
piquant, and gaily fascinating. The story has no purpose but that of carrying
some satirical idea, and the satire is never bitter, always playful.
Sullivan's versatility was remarkable, his work ranging from "grave to gay,
from lively to severe," and his was a genius that developed in his extreme
youth. Many anecdotes are told of this brilliant composer, and all of them
seem to illustrate a practical and resourceful mind, while they show little of
the eccentricity that is supposed to belong to genius. It was Sir Arthur
Sullivan who first popularized Schumann in England. Potter, head of the
Royal Academy in London in 1861, had known Beethoven well, and had
never been converted to a love of music less great than his—nor was his
taste very catholic—and he continually regretted Sullivan's championship
of Schumann's music. But one day Sullivan, suspecting the academician
didn't know what he was talking about, asked him point-blank if he had
ever heard any of the music he so strongly condemned. Potter admitted that
he hadn't. Whereupon Sullivan said, "Then play some of Schumann with
me, Mr. Potter," and, having done so, Potter "blindly worshipped"
Schumann even after.
Frederick Crowest tells this story in his "Musicians' Wit, Humour, and
Anecdote":

"The late Sir Arthur Sullivan, in the struggling years of his career, once
showed great presence of mind, which saved the entire breakdown of a
performance of 'Faust.' In the midst of the church scene, the wire
connecting the pedal under Costa's foot with the metronome stick at the
organ, broke. Costa was the conductor. In the concerted music this meant
disaster, as the organist could hear nothing but his own instrument. Quick as
thought, while he was playing the introductory solo, Sullivan called a stage
hand. 'Go,' he said, 'and tell Mr. Costa that the wire is broken, and that he is
to keep his ears open and follow me.' No sooner had the man flown to
deliver his message than the full meaning of the words flashed upon
Sullivan. What would Costa, autocratic, severe, and quick to take offence,
say to such a message delivered by a stage hand? The scene, however,
proceeded successfully, and at the end Sullivan went, nervously enough, to
tender his apologies to his chief. Costa, implacable as he was, had a strong
sense of justice, and the great conductor never forgot the signal service his
young friend had rendered him by preventing a horrible fiasco."
There are numberless stories of his suiting his composition to erratic
themes. Beverley had painted borders for a woodland scene. Sullivan liked
the work and complimented Beverley, who immediately said: "Yes, and if
you could compose something to fit it now." Instantly, Sullivan, who was at
the organ, composed a score within a few minutes which enraptured the
painter and which "fitted" his borders.
Again: A dance was required at a moment's notice for a second danseuse,
and the stage manager was distracted. "You must make something at once,
Sullivan," he said. "But," replied the composer, "I haven't even seen the girl.
I don't know her style or what she needs." However, the stage manager sent
the dancer to speak with Sullivan, and presently he called out: "I've
arranged it all. This is exactly what she wants: Tiddle-iddle-um, tiddle-
iddle-um, rum-tirum-tirum—sixteen bars of that; then: rum-tum-rum-tum—
heavy you know—" and in ten minutes the dance was made and ready for
rehearsal.

H.M.S.[B] “PINAFORE”

The Right Honourable Sir Joseph Porter,
First Lord of the Admiralty.
K.C.B.

Commanding H.M.S.
Captain Corcoran
Pinafore.
Ralph Rackstraw Able seaman.
Dick Deadeye Able seaman.
Bill Bobstay Boatswain's mate.
Bob Becket Carpenter's mate.
Tom Tucker Midshipmate.
Sergeant of marines
Josephine The Captain's daughter.
Hebe Sir Joseph's first cousin.
A Portsmouth bumboat
Little Buttercup
woman.
First Lord's sisters, his cousins, his aunts, sailors, marines, etc.
The story takes place on the quarterdeck of H.M.S. Pinafore, off
Portsmouth.
Composer: Sir Arthur Sullivan. Author: W.S. Gilbert.

ACT I

On the quarterdeck of the good ship Pinafore, along about noon, on a
brilliant sunny day, the sailors, in charge of the Boatswain, are polishing up
the brasswork of the ship, splicing rope, and doing general housekeeping,
for the excellent reason that the high cockalorum of the navy—the Admiral,
Sir Joseph Porter—together with all his sisters and his cousins and his
aunts, is expected on board about luncheon time. When an Admiral goes
visiting either on land or sea, there are certain to be "doings," and there are
going to be mighty big doings on this occasion. If sailors were ever proud
of a ship, those of the Pinafore are they. The Pinafore was, in fact, the
dandiest thing afloat. No sailor ever did anything without singing about it,
and as they "Heave ho, my hearties"—or whatever it is sailors do—they
sing their minds about the Pinafore in a way to leave no mistake as to their
opinions.

We sail the ocean blue,
And our saucy ship's a beauty.

We're sober men and true,
And attentive to our duty.

When the balls whistle free,
O'er the bright blue sea,
We stand to our guns all day.
When at anchor we ride,
On the Portsmouth tide,
We've plenty of time for play—Ahoy, Ahoy!

And then, while they are polishing at top speed, on board scrambles Little
Buttercup. Naturally, being a bumboat woman, she had her basket on her
arm.
"Little Buttercup!" the crew shouts; they know her well on pay-day.
"Yes—here's an end at last of all privation," she assures them, spreading out
her wares, and this ridiculous "little" Buttercup sings:

[Listen]

I'm called little Buttercup,
Dear little Buttercup,
Though I could never tell why,
But still I'm called Buttercup,
Poor little Buttercup,
Sweet little Buttercup I.

I've snuff and tobaccy,
And excellent jacky;
I've scissors and watches and knives.
I've ribbons and laces
To set off the faces
Of pretty young sweethearts and wives.
I've treacle and toffee,
I've tea and I've coffee,
Soft tommy and succulent chops,
I've chickens and conies,
I've pretty polonies,
And excellent peppermint drops—

which would imply that Little Buttercup might supply on demand anything
from a wrought-iron gate to a paper of toothpicks.
"Well, Little Buttercup, you're the rosiest and roundest beauty in all the
navy, and we're always glad to see you."
"The rosiest and roundest, eh? Did it ever occur to you that beneath my gay
exterior a fearful tragedy may be brewing?" she asks in her most mysterious
tones.
"We never thought of that," the Boatswain reflects.
"I have thought of it often," a growling voice interrupts, and everybody
looks up to see Dick Deadeye. Dick is a darling, if appearances count. He
was named Deadeye because he had a dead-eye, and he is about as sinister
and ominous a creature as ever made a comic opera shiver.
"You look as if you had often thought of it," somebody retorts, as all move
away from him in a manner which shows Dick to be no favourite.

"You don't care much about me, I should say?" Dick offers, looking about at
his mates.
"Well, now, honest, Dick, ye can't just expect to be loved, with such a name
as Deadeye."
Little Buttercup, who has been offering her wares to the other sailors, now
observes a very good-looking chap coming on deck.
"Who is that youth, whose faltering feet with difficulty bear him on his
course?" Buttercup asks—which is quite ridiculous, if you only dissect her
language! Those "faltering feet which with difficulty bear him on his
course" belong to Ralph Rackstraw, who is about the most dashing sailor in
the fleet. The moment Buttercup hears his name, she gasps to music:
"Remorse, remorse," which is very, very funny indeed, since there appears
to be nothing at all remarkable or remorseful about Ralph Rackstraw. But
Ralph immediately begins to sing about a nightingale and a moon's bright
ray and several other things most inappropriate to the occasion, and winds
up with "He sang, Ah, well-a-day," in the most pathetic manner. The other
sailors repeat after him, "Ah, well-a-day," also in a very pathetic manner,
and Ralph thanks them in the politest, most heartbroken manner, by saying:

I know the value of a kindly chorus,
But choruses yield little consolation
When we have pain and sorrow, too, before us!
I love, and love, alas! above my station.

Which lets the cat out of the bag, at last! "He loves above his station!"
Buttercup sighs, and pretty much the entire navy sighs. Those sailors are
very sentimental chaps, very!—They are supposed to have a sweetheart in
every port, though, to be sure, none of them are likely be above anybody's
station. But their sighs are an encouragement to Ralph to tell all about his
sweetheart, and he immediately does so. He sings rapturously of her
appearance and of how unworthy he is. The crew nearly melts to tears
during the recital. Just as Ralph has revealed that his love is Josephine, the
Captain's daughter, and all the crew but Dick Deadeye are about to burst out
weeping, the Captain puts in an appearance.

"My gallant crew,—good morning!" he says amiably, in that condescending
manner quite to be expected of a Captain. He inquires nicely about the
general health of the crew, and announces that he is in reasonable health
himself. Then with the best intentions in the world, he begins to throw
bouquets at himself:
I am the Captain of the Pinafore,
he announces, and the crew returns:

And a right good Captain too.

You're very, very good,
And be it understood,
I command a right good crew,

he assures them.

Tho' related to a peer,
I can hand, reef and steer,
Or ship a selvagee;
I'm never known to quail
At the fury of a gale,—
And I'm never, never sick at sea!

But this is altogether too much. The crew haven't summered and wintered
with this gallant Captain for nothing.
"What, never?" they admonish him.
"No,—never."
"What!—NEVER?" and there is no mistaking their emphasis.
"Oh, well—hardly ever!" he admits, trimming his statement a little: and
thus harmony is restored. Now when he has thus agreeably said good
morning to his crew, they leave him to meditate alone, and no one but Little
Buttercup remains. For some reason she perceives that the Captain is sad.
He doesn't look it, but the most comic moments in comic opera are likely

enough to be the saddest. Hence Little Buttercup reminds him that she is a
mother (she doesn't look it) and therefore to be confided in.
"If you must know, Little Buttercup, my daughter Josephine! the fairest
flower that ever blossomed on ancestral timber"—which is very neat indeed
—"has received an offer of marriage from Sir Joseph Porter. It is a great
honour, Little Buttercup, but I am sorry to say my daughter doesn't seem to
take kindly to it."
"Ah, poor Sir Joseph, I know perfectly what it means to love not wisely but
too well," she remarks, sighing tenderly and looking most sentimentally at
the Captain. She does this so capably that as she goes off the deck the
Captain looks after her and remarks abstractedly:
"A plump and pleasing person!" At this blessed minute the daughter
Josephine, who does not love in the right place, and who is beloved from all
quarters at once, wanders upon the deck with a basket of flowers in her
hand. Then she begins to sing very distractedly about loving the wrong
man, and that "hope is dead," and several other pitiable things, which are
very funny. The Captain, her father, is watching her, and presently he
admonishes her to look her best, and to stop sighing all over the ship—at
least till her high-born suitor, Sir Joseph Porter, shall have made his
expected visit.
"You must look your best to-day, Josephine, because the Admiral is coming
on board to ask your hand in marriage." At this Josephine nearly drops into
the sea.
"Father, I esteem, I reverence Sir Joseph but alas I do not love him. I have
the bad taste instead to love a lowly sailor on board your own ship. But I
shall stifle my love. He shall never know it though I carry it to the tomb."
"That is precisely the spirit I should expect to behold in my daughter, my
dear, and now take Sir Joseph's picture and study it well. I see his barge
approaching. If you gaze upon the pictured noble brow of the Admiral, I
think it quite likely that you will have time to fall madly in love with him
before he can throw a leg over the rail, my darling. Anyway, do your best at
it."

"My own, thoughtful father," Josephine murmurs while a song of Sir
Joseph's sailors is heard approaching nearer and nearer. Then the crew of
H.M.S. Pinafore take up the shout, and sing a rousing welcome to Sir
Joseph and all his party. Almost immediately Sir Joseph and his numerous
company of sisters and cousins and aunts prance upon the shining deck.
They have a gorgeous time of it.
"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" the Captain and his crew cry, and then Sir Joseph
informs everybody of his greatness in this song:

[Listen]

I am the monarch of the sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,
Whose praise Great Britain loudly chants;

Cousin Hebe.
And we are his Sisters and his Cousins and his Aunts;
His Sisters and his Cousins and his Aunts!

When at anchor here I ride,
My bosom swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at the foeman's taunts—

The chorus assures everybody that
So do his sisters and his cousins and his aunts.
In short, while we learn from Sir Joseph that he is a tremendous fellow, we
also learn, from his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, that they are
whatever he is. Among other things he tells precisely how he came to be so
great, and gives what is presumably a recipe for similar greatness:

When I was a lad I served a term
As office boy to an attorney's firm.
I cleaned the window and I swept the floor,
And I polished up the handle of the big front door.

I polished up the handle so carefullee,
That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

As office boy I made such a mark
That they gave me the post of a junior clerk.
I served the wits with a smile so bland,
And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.

I copied all the letters in a hand so free,
That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

In serving writs I made such a name
That an articled clerk I soon became.
I wore clean collars and a brand new suit
For the pass examination at the Institute.

And that pass examination did so well for me
That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

This was only a part of the recipe, but the rest of it was just as profound.
After he is through exploiting himself, he bullies the Captain a little, and
then his eye alights on Ralph Rackstraw.
"You are a remarkably fine fellow, my lad," he says to Ralph quite
patronizingly.
"I am the very finest fellow in the navy," Ralph returns, honouring the spirit
of the day by showing how entirely satisfied with himself he is.
"How does your Captain behave himself?" Sir Joseph asks.
"Very well, indeed, thank you. I am willing to commend him," Ralph
returns.
"Ah—that is delightful—and so, with your permission, Captain, I will have
a word with you in private on a very sentimental subject—in short, upon an
affair of the heart."
"With joy, Sir Joseph—and, Boatswain, in honour of this occasion, see that
extra grog is served to the crew at seven bells."
"I will condescend to do so," the Boatswain assures the Captain, whereupon
the Captain, Sir Joseph, and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts leave
the deck.
"You all seem to think a deal on yourselves," Dick Deadeye growls, as he
watches these performances.
"We do, we do—aren't we British sailors? Doesn't the entire universe
depend on us for its existence? We are fine fellows—Sir Joseph has just told
us so."
"Yes—we may aspire to anything—" Ralph interpolates excitedly. He had
begun to think that Josephine may not be so unattainable after all.

"The devil you can," responds Dick. "Only I wouldn't let myself get a-going
if I were you. What if ye got going and couldn't stop?" the one-eyed
gentleman inquires solicitously.
"Oh, stow it!" the crew shouts. "If we hadn't more self-respect 'n you've got,
we'd put out both our eyes," the estimable crew declares, and then retires to
compliment itself,—that is, all but Ralph. He leans upon the bulwark and
looks pensive; and at intervals he sighs. While he is sighing his very
loudest, Josephine enters. Sir Joseph has been making love to her, and she is
telling herself and everybody who happens to be leaning against the
bulwark sighing pensively, that the Admiral's attentions oppress her. This is
Ralph's opportunity. He immediately tells her that he loves her, and she tells
him to "refrain, audacious tar," but he does not refrain in the least. In short
he decides upon the spot to blow out his brains. He pipes all hands on deck
to see him do it, and they come gladly.
Now Ralph gets out his pistol, he sings a beautiful farewell, the Chorus
turns away weeping—the sailors have just cleaned up and they cannot bear
the sight of the deck all spoiled with a British sailor's brains so soon after
scrubbing! Ralph lifts the pistol, takes aim—and Josephine rushes on.
"Oh, stay your hand—I love you," she cries, and in less than a minute
everybody is dancing a hornpipe, except Deadeye. Deadeye is no socialist.
He really thinks this equality business which makes it possible for a
common sailor to marry the Captain's daughter is most reprehensible. But
nobody notices Dick. Everybody is quite happy and satisfied now, and they
plan for the wedding. Dick plans for revenge.
He goes apart to think matters over. The situation quite shocks his sense of
propriety.
Meantime the crew and Ralph and Josephine decide that:

This very night,
With bated breath
And muffled oar,
Without a light,
As still as death,
We'll steal ashore.

A clergyman
Shall make us one
At half-past ten,
And then we can
Return, for none
Can part us then.

Thus the matter is disposed of.

ACT II

It is about half-past ten, and everything ready for the elopement. The
Captain is on deck playing a mandolin while holding a most beautiful pose
(because Little Buttercup is also "on deck," and looking sentimentally at
him). The Captain sings to the moon, quite as if there were no one there to
admire him; because while this "levelling" business is going on in the Navy
there seems no good reason why Buttercup or any other thrifty bumboat
lady shouldn't do a little levelling herself. Now to marry the Captain—but
just now, even though it is moonlight and a very propitious moment, there is
other work on hand than marrying the Captain. She can do that almost any
time! But at this moment she has some very mysterious and profound things
to say to him. She tells him that:

Things are seldom what they seem,
Skim milk masquerades as cream.
High-lows pass as patent leathers,
Jackdaws strut in peacock feathers.

And the Captain acquiesces.

Black-sheep dwell in every fold.
All that glitters is not gold.
Storks turn out to be but logs.
Bulls are but inflated frogs.

And again the Captain wisely acquiesces.

Drops the wind and stops the mill.
Turbot is ambitious brill.
Gild the farthing if you will,
Yet it is a farthing still.

And again the Captain admits that this may be true. It is quite, quite painful
if it is. On the whole, the Captain fears she has got rather the best of him, so
he determines to rally; he philosophises a little himself, when he has time.
He has time now:
Tho' I'm anything but clever,
he declares rhythmically, even truthfully;

I could talk like that forever,
Once a cat was killed by care,
Only brave deserve the fair.

He has her there, beyond doubt, because all she can say is "how true."
Thus encouraged he continues:

Wink is often good as nod;
Spoils the child, who spares the rod;
Thirsty lambs run foxy dangers,
Dogs are found in many mangers.

Buttercup agrees;—she can't help it.

Paw of cat the chestnut snatches;
Worn-out garments show new patches;
Only count the chick that hatches,
Men are grown-up catchy-catches.

And Little Buttercup assents that this certainly is true. And then, just as she
has worked the Captain up into a pink fit of apprehension she leaves him.
While he stands looking after her and feeling unusually left alone, Sir
Joseph enters and declares himself very much disappointed with Josephine.
"What, won't she do, Sir Joseph?" the Captain asks disappointedly.

"No, no. I don't think she will. I have stooped as much as an Admiral ought
to, by presenting my sentiments almost—er—you might say emotionally,
but without success; and now really I——"
"Well, it must be your rank which dazzles her," the Captain suggests, and
thinks how he would like to take a cat-o'-nine-tails to her.
"She is coming on deck," Sir Joseph says, softly, "and we might watch her
unobserved a moment. Her actions while she thinks herself alone, may
reveal something to us that we should like to know"; and Sir Joseph and the
Captain step behind a convenient coil of rope while Josephine walks about
in agitation and sings to herself how reckless she is to leave her luxurious
home with her father, for an attic that, likely as not, will not even be
"finished off."
Of course Sir Joseph and her father do not understand a word of this, but
they understand that she is disturbed, and Sir Joseph steps up and asks her
outright, if his rank overwhelms her. He assures her that it need not,
because there is no difference of rank to be observed among those of her
Majesty's Navy—which he doesn't mean at all except for one occasion only,
of course. At the same time, it is an admirable plea for his rival Ralph.
Now it is rapidly becoming time for the elopement, and Josephine pretends
to accept Sir Joseph's suit at last, in order to get rid of him at half-past ten.
He and Josephine go below while Dick Deadeye intimates to the Captain
that he wants a word with him aside.
Then Dick Deadeye gives the Captain his information, thus:

[Listen]

Kind Captain, I've important information,
Sing hey, the gallant Captain that you are!
About a certain intimate relation,
Sing hey, the merry maiden and the tar!

Kind Captain, your young lady is a-sighing,
Sing, hey, the gallant Captain that you are!
This very night with Rackstraw to be flying,
Sing, hey, the merry maiden and the tar!

This information certainly comes in the nick of time, so the Captain hastily
throws an old cloak over him and squats down behind the deck furniture to
await the coming of the elopers.
Presently they come up, Josephine, followed by Little Buttercup, and all the
crew on "tip-toe stealing." Suddenly amid the silence, the Captain stamps.
"Goodness me!" all cry. "What was that?"

"Silent be," says Dick. "It was the cat," and thus reassured they start for the
boat which is to take the lovers ashore. At this crisis the Captain throws off
the cloak and creates a sensation. He is so mad he swears just as Sir Joseph
puts in an appearance.
"Damme!" cries the Captain.
"What was that dreadful language I heard you use?" Sir Joseph demands,
highly scandalized.
"He said 'damme,'" the crew assure him. Sir Joseph is completely
overcome. To excuse himself the Captain is obliged to reveal the cause of
his anger.
"My daughter was about to elope with a common sailor, your Greatness,"
he says, and at this moment Josephine rushes into the arms of Ralph. The
Admiral is again overcome with the impropriety of the situation.
"My amazement and my surprise, you may learn from the expression of my
eyes," the Admiral says. "Has this sailor dared to lift his eyes to the
Captain's daughter? Incredible. Put him in chains, my boys," he says to the
rest of the crew, "and Captain—have you such a thing as a dungeon on
board?"
"Certainly," the Captain says. "Hanging on the nail to the right of the mess-
room door—just as you go in."
"Good! put him in the ship's dungeon at once—just as you go in—and see
that no telephone communicates with his cell," whereupon Ralph is lugged
off.
"When the secret I have to tell is known," says Little Buttercup, "his
dungeon cell will be thrown wide."
"Then speak, in Heaven's name; or I certainly shall throw myself into the
bilge water," Josephine says desperately.
"Don't do that: it smells so dreadfully," Buttercup entreats; "and to prevent
accidents I will tell what I know:"

A many years ago,
When I was young and charming,
As some of you may know,
I practised baby farming.

Two tender babes I nursed,
One was of low condition,
The other upper crust—
A regular patrician.

Oh, bitter is my cup,
However could I do it?
I mixed those children up,
And not a creature knew it.

In time each little waif,
Forsook his foster-mother;
The well-born babe was Ralph—
Your Captain was the other!

So, the murder is out! Nobody outside of comic opera can quite see how
this fact changes the status of the Captain and Ralph (the Captain not
having been a captain when in the cradle) but it is quite enough to set
everybody by the ears. Josephine screams:
"Oh, bliss, oh, rapture!" And the Admiral promptly says:
"Take her, sir, and mind you treat her kindly," and immediately, having
fixed the ship's affairs so creditably, falls to bemoaning his sad and
lonesome lot.
He declares that he "cannot live alone," and his cousin Hebe assures him
she will never give up the ship; or rather that she never will desert him,
unless of course she should discover that he, too, was changed in the cradle.
This comforts everybody but the changed Captain. Ralph has, in the
twinkling of an eye, become the Captain of the good ship Pinafore, while
the Captain has become Ralph, and Ralph has taken the Captain's daughter.
But while he is looking very downcast, Buttercup reminds him that she is

there, and after regarding her tenderly for a moment, he decides that he has
always loved his foster mother like a wife, and he says so:

I shall marry with a wife,
In my humble rank of life,
And you, my own, are she.

The crew is delighted. Everybody is happy. But the Captain adds, rashly:

I must wander to and fro,
But wherever I may go
I shall never be untrue to thee!

Whereupon the crew, which is very punctilious where the truth is
concerned, cries:
"What, never?"
"No, never!" the Captain declares.
"What—never?" they persist.
"Well, hardly ever," the Captain says, qualifying the statement satisfactorily
to his former crew. And now that all the facts and amenities of life have
been duly recognized, the crew and Sir Joseph, Ralph and the former
Captain, Josephine and Buttercup, all unite in singing frantically that they
are an Englishman, for they themselves have said it, and it's greatly to their
credit; and while you are laughing yourself to death at a great many
ridiculous things which have taken place, the curtain comes down with a
rush, and you wish they would do it again.

VERDI

G IUSEPPE VERDI, born October 9, 1813, was the composer of twenty-
six operas. His musical history may be divided into three periods, and
in the last he approached Wagner in greatness, and frequently surpassed him
in beauty of idea.
Wagner made both the libretti and the music of his operas, while Verdi took
his opera stories from other authors. Both of these great men were born in
the same year.
Of Verdi's early operas, "Ernani" was probably the best; then he entered
upon the second period of his achievement as a composer, and the first
work that marked the transition was "Rigoletto." The story was adapted
from a drama of Hugo's, "Le Roi S'Amuse," and as the profligate character
of its principal seemed too baldly to exploit the behaviour of Francis I, its
production was suppressed. Then Verdi adjusted the matter by turning the
character into the Duke of Mantua, and everybody was happy.
The story of the famous song "La Donna è Mobile," is as picturesque as
Verdi himself. While the rehearsals of the opera were going on, Mirate, who
sang the Duke, continued to complain that he hadn't the MS. of one of his
songs. Verdi kept putting him off, till the evening before the orchestral
rehearsal, when he brought forth the lines; but at the same time he
demanded a promise that Mirate—nor indeed any of the singers—should
not hum or whistle the air till it should be heard at the first performance.
This signified Verdi's belief that the song would instantly become a
universal favourite. The faith was justified. The whole country went "La
Donna" mad.
"Il Trovatore" came next in this second period of the great composer's fame,
and we read that "Nearly half a century has sped since Verdi's twelfth opera
was first sung of a certain winter evening in Rome." Out of the chaff of
Italian opera comes this wheat, satisfying to the generation of to-day, as it
was to that first audience in Rome. We do not even know any longer why

we love it, because in most ways it violates new and better rules of musical
art, but we love it. Helen Keyes has written that "the libretto of 'Il
Trovatore' is based on a Spanish drama written in superb verse by a
contemporary of Verdi's, Antonio Garcia Gutierrez," and she relates a
romantic story in connection with the Spanish play; the author was but
seventeen years old when he wrote it and had been called to military duty,
which was dreaded by one of his temperament. But his drama being staged
at that moment, the authorities permitted him to furnish a substitute on the
ground that such genius could best serve its country by remaining at home
to contribute to its country's art.
At the time the opera was produced in Rome, the Tiber had overflowed its
banks and had flooded all the streets near the theatre; nevertheless people
were content to stand knee-deep in water at the box office, waiting their
turn for tickets.
So great had Verdi become in a night, by this presentation, that his rivals
formed a cabal which prevented the production of "Il Trovatore" in Naples
for a time, but in the end the opera and Verdi prevailed.
Now came "Traviata,"—third in that time of change in a great master's art,
and this marked the limits of the second period. "Aïda" followed. It is well
said that "the importance of Verdi's 'Aïda' as a work of musical art can
hardly be overestimated!" This opera was written at the entreaty of the
Khedive Ismail Pacha. He wished to open the opera house at Cairo with a
great opera that had Egypt for its dramatic theme. Upon the Khedive's
application Verdi named a price which he believed would not be accepted,
as he felt no enthusiasm about the work. But his terms were promptly
approved and Mariette Bey, a great Egyptologist, was commissioned to find
the materials for a proper story. Verdi, in the meantime, did become
enthusiastic over the project and went to work. Egyptian history held some
incident upon which the story of "Aïda" was finally built. First, it was given
to Camille du Locle, who put the story into French prose, and in this he was
constantly advised by Verdi, at whose home the work was done. After that,
the French prose was translated into Italian verse by Ghislanzoni, and when
all was completed, the Italian verse was once more translated back into
French for the French stage.

Then the Khedive decided he would like Verdi to conduct the first
performance, and he began to negotiate for that. Verdi asked twenty
thousand dollars for writing the opera, and thirty thousand in case he went
to Egypt. This was agreed, but when the time came to go, Verdi backed out;
he was overcome with fear of seasickness and wouldn't go at any price.
Then the scenery was painted in Paris, and when all was ready—lo! the
scenery was a prisoner because the war had broken out in France!
Everything had to wait a year, and during that time Verdi wrote and rewrote,
making his opera one of the most beautiful in the world. Finally "Aïda" was
produced, and the story of that night as told by the Italian critic Filippi is
not out of place here, since the night is historic in opera "first nights:"
"The Arabians, even the rich, do not love our shows; they prefer the
mewings of their tunes, the monotonous beatings of their drums, to all the
melodies of the past, present, and future. It is a true miracle to see a turban
in a theatre of Cairo. Sunday evening the opera house was crowded before
the curtain rose. Many of the boxes were filled with women, who neither
chatted nor rustled their robes. There was beauty and there was intelligence
especially among the Greeks and the strangers of rank who abound in
Cairo. For truth's sake I must add that, by the side of the most beautiful and
richly dressed, were Coptic and Jewish faces, with strange head-dresses,
impossible costumes, a howling of colours,—no one could deliberately
have invented worse. The women of the harem could not be seen. They
were in the first three boxes on the right, in the second gallery. Thick white
muslin hid their faces from prying glances."
This gives a striking picture of that extraordinary "first night."
Verdi was born at a time of turmoil and political troubles, and his mother
was one of the many women of the inhabitants of Roncole (where he was
born) who took refuge in the church when soldiery invaded the village.
There, near the Virgin, many of the women had thought themselves safe,
but the men burst in, and a general massacre took place. Verdi's mother fled
with her little son to the belfry and this alone saved to the world a
wonderful genius.
When Verdi was ten years old he was apprenticed to a grocer in Busseto,
but he was a musical grocer, and the musical atmosphere, which was life to

Verdi, surrounded him. He had a passion for leaving in the midst of his
grocery business to sit at the spinet and hunt out new harmonious
combinations: and when one of his new-made chords was lost he would fly
into a terrible rage, although as a general rule he was a peaceable and kindly
little chap. On one such occasion he became so enraged that he took a
hammer to the instrument—an event coincident with a thrashing his father
gave him.
There is no end of incident connected with this gentle and kindly soul, who,
unlike so many of his fellow geniuses, reflected in his life the beauty of his
art.

RIGOLETTO

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA, WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST AS
PRESENTED
AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCE

The Duke of
Signori Mirate
Mantua
Rigoletto Varesi
Sparafucile Ponz
Count Monterone Damini
Marullo Kunnerth
Matteo Borsa Zuliani
Count Ceprano Bellini
Usher of the Court Rizzi
Teresa
Gilda Signore
Brambilla
Maddalena Casaloni
Giovanna. Saini
Countess Ceprano Morselli
Page Modes Lovati
The story belongs to the sixteenth century, in the city of Mantua and its
environs.

Composer: Giuseppe Verdi. Author: Francesco Maria Piave.
First sung in Venice, Gran Teatro la Fenice. March 11, 1851.

ACT I

Dukes and duchesses, pages and courtiers, dancing and laughter: these
things all happening to music and glowing lights, in the city of Mantua four
hundred years ago!—that is "Rigoletto."
There lived, long ago, in Mantua, the Duke and his suite, and the only
member of his household who dared do as he pleased was the Duke of
Mantua's jester, Rigoletto. The more deformed a jester happened to be, the
more he was valued in his profession, and Rigoletto was a very ugly little
man, and as vindictive and wicked as he was ill-favoured in appearance.
The only thing he truly loved was his daughter, Gilda. As for the Duke of
Mantua, he loved for the time being almost any pretty woman who came his
way.
On the night of a great ball at the Duke's palace he was thinking of his latest
love, Gilda, the jester's daughter. The Duke usually confided his affairs to
his servant Borsa, and the ball had no sooner begun than he began to speak
with Borsa of his newest escapade. He declared that he had followed Gilda
to the chapel where she went each day, and that he had made up his mind to
speak with her the next time he saw her.
"Where does this pretty girl live, your Highness?"
"In an obscure and distant street where I have followed her each day. At
night a queer-looking fellow is admitted, thus I am sure she has a lover. By
the way, whom do you think that fellow to be?" the Duke asked with a
laugh.
"Pray tell me."
"None other than Rigoletto!" the Duke cried, laughing more boisterously.
"What do you think of that—the little hunchback!"
"And does he know that you have followed this sweetheart of his?"

"Not he. But look at all of these beautiful women," he exclaimed with
delight as the company began to assemble from another room. "Alas, a man
hardly knows whom to love among so many beauties," he sighed heavily.
"But after all, I think it must be the Countess Ceprano! do you see her?
Most beautiful!"
"Just the same I advise you not to let the Count Ceprano hear you!" Borsa
advised.

Ah, in my heart, all are equally cherished,
Every thought of exclusion within me I smother,
None is dearer to me than another,
In their turn, I for each one would die,

the Duke sang gaily, giving his friend and servant the wink.
Now, Rigoletto was in the habit of assisting the Duke in all his wrongdoing,
and on this night the Duke confided to him his new enchantment—not
Gilda, but the Countess Ceprano.
"The Countess has a jealous husband, Rigoletto; pray what do you advise?"
"Why, that you carry her off, to be sure; or else get rid of her husband the
Count; maybe that would be the easiest way."
The Duke was wild enough to undertake almost anything, and so with the
help of Rigoletto he was ready to undertake that. Hence, he made desperate
love to the Countess all the evening, while the Count became more and
more angry, and followed the pair continually about.
Even the courtiers were a good deal disgusted with the Duke's conduct, and
they especially hated Rigoletto, who they thought was the real author of
most of the Duke's misconduct.
"I don't know what we are coming to," Marullo exclaimed.

Yes, and 'tis here but as elsewhere!
'Tis gambling and feasting, duelling and dancing;
And love-making always, wherever he goes.

To-day he's for pastime, besieging the countess,
While we watch the husband and laugh at his woes!

This condition of things exactly suited the malevolent dwarf, however.
After the Count had followed the Duke and Countess about the palace half
the night, the Duke came into the room in a rage.
"What am I to do with this Count? I'd like to fight him and kill him. He
torments me to death. If you don't think out a way to rid me of him while I
am making love to the Countess, I'll get some other fellow to make life gay
for me, Rigoletto," he cried to the dwarf.
"Well, have I not told you—run off with her."
"Oh, yes, that's easy enough to say."
"It's easy enough to do. Try it to-night!"
"But what about her husband?"
"Oh, I don't know—let him be arrested."
"No, no, that won't do; he's of noble birth. You are going too far."
"All right! If he is too good to be arrested, then exile him," the dwarf
obligingly arranges, showing thereby his notion of the fitness of things.
"No! that would hardly do, either," the Duke exclaimed impatiently.
"Well, cut off his head, then." Rigoletto thought that should be an ending
dignified enough for any one. Meantime Ceprano overheard that pleasing
conversation.
"They are black-hearted villains," he muttered aside.
"Cut off that head so unbending," the Duke exclaimed, looking at Ceprano,
who was really a noble-appearing aristocrat.
"Aye—we have discovered its use. Cut it off; that will make it pliant," the
charming dwarf said, facetiously; and that being a bit too much for any
noble to put up with, the Count drew his sword.

"Enough! you ribald hunchback," he cried; at which the Duke became
uneasy.
"Yes, come here, you jesting fool!" he called to Rigoletto, trying to turn the
matter off. "We've had enough of your jests. We are tired of you. I advise
you not to impose too much on our good humour, because some of this
maliciousness may come back at you."
But the Count was not so easily to be pacified. He turned to the other nobles
and asked them to help him revenge himself; but the Duke of Mantua was
very powerful, and few were willing to displease him, however much they
disapproved of his conduct.
"What can we do?" several of them murmured, and meanwhile the dwarf
was trying aside to secure help in carrying off the Countess for the Duke.
That was really too audacious, and all of the nobles finally sided with the
Count, privately agreeing to help him ruin the dwarf, since they dared not
directly oppose the Duke.
While the excitement of this general quarrel was at its height, the dancers
all poured in from the other room and began to sing gaily of life's pleasures,
which were about all that made life worth living. In the very midst of this
revelry some one without made a great noise and demanded instant
admittance. The Duke recognized the voice of Monterone, a powerful
noble, whom he had wronged and cried out angrily:
"He shall not come in." As a fact, Rigoletto had carried off Monterone's
daughter for the Duke but a little time before.
"Make way there," the old Count insisted, more enraged than ever, and
forcing his way past the attendants, he entered the room. He was an old and
proud man and the nobles present were bound to give heed to him.
"Yes, Sir Duke, it is I. You know my voice! I would it were as loud as
thunder!" he cried.
"Ah! I will deign to give you audience," Rigoletto spoke up, mimicking the
Duke's voice in a manner insulting to Monterone.

He continued to speak insultingly to the old man, using the Duke's manner
and voice, till the Count cried out against the shameful action.
"Is this thy justice? Thou darest deride me? Then no place shall hide thee
from my curse. I will pursue thee as long as I live, day and night. I will
recall to you how you have taken my daughter away from me, and have
disgraced us. You may cut off my head, but still I'll appear to thee and fill
thee with fear. And thou, thou viper," he cried to Rigoletto, "be thou
accursed!"
"Don't curse me," the dwarf exclaimed, turning pale. He was superstitious,
and the fearful words of the wronged father sounded ominous. The scene
became terrifying to the whole company and they cried out.
"Away with him," the Duke demanded, angrily. "Am I to have the gaiety of
my guests spoiled because of this old dotard? Take him to prison." The
attendants rushed in and seized Monterone, while he turned again upon the
dwarf and cursed him roundly. Not only did the dwarf shrink back, the
whole company became affrighted, while the old man was silenced at last
by the guards, and Rigoletto hurried, panic-stricken, from the palace.

Scene II

As Rigoletto hastened away from the palace with the curses ringing in his
ears he could not rid himself of the terror they inspired; probably because
he was so bad a man and knew that he deserved them. He was in a street
very near to his home, when he was stopped by a forbidding-looking fellow.
"It was a father's curse he laid upon me," Rigoletto was muttering, thinking
of his own daughter, the only thing in the world that he loved.
"Ho, there," said the fellow in the road, calling softly.
"Oh, don't stop me," Rigoletto answered with impatience. "I have nothing
worth getting." He lived in a time of bandits and highwaymen, and, since he
had nothing to be robbed of, was not much frightened. He was far more
afraid of the Count's curse.

"No matter, good sir; that is not exactly what I stopped you for. You look to
me like a man who might have enemies; or who might wish to employ me."
"What for, pray?"
Sparafucile laughed shortly. "Well, you are not a very benevolent-looking
chap, and I'd murder my brother for money," he whispered, grinning at the
crooked, odious-looking Rigoletto.
Rigoletto eyed him. The villain had spoken almost as if he knew the dwarf's
fear.
"I believe you," he muttered, looking steadily at the cut-throat. "You look it,
every inch. What do you charge to kill a noble?"
"More than I charge for a churl, by double."
"And how do you want your money?"
"Half before I do the deed, and the other half when he is dead."
"You're a demon," Rigoletto murmured; and certainly he himself was bad
enough to be able to judge of a rogue when he saw one. "Aren't you afraid
of being discovered?"
"No, when it is dangerous to kill in the city, I do it in my own house. There
in the gloom of night, far away from help, it is easy enough. No one ever
finds it out."
"You are the wickedest man I know—not excepting myself," said Rigoletto,
contemplating the wretch with curiosity. "Tell me how you lure people to
your home?"
"Easy enough. I have a handsome sister there. Nobody ever thinks of
resisting her. She gets them to come; I do the rest."
"I follow you."
"Then not a sound is heard. The knife is a silent fellow. Now what do you
think?—that I can serve you?"

"No. I don't like the notion." Rigoletto was not half as daring of wicked
deeds as he had been an hour before; the curse was still ringing in his ears.
"You have enemies, I judge," Sparafucile urged, shrewdly. "You'll regret not
accepting my services."
"Nay. Be off. No, stay a moment! If I ever should need thee, where could I
address thee?"
"You won't have to address me; you'll find me here each night."
"Well, be off, be off!" As a fact Rigoletto didn't much care to be seen with
one of his own kind. But he looked after the coupe-jarret uneasily. "After
all, we are equals, that fellow and I. He stabs in the dark—and so do I. I
with my malicious tongue, he with his knife. Bah! I am all undone. I hear
that old man's curse yet. How I hate them, all those nobles who hire me to
laugh for them and to make them laugh! I haven't even a right to know
sadness. It is my business in life, because I am born crooked, to make sport
for these rats of fellows who are no better than I am. I am hired to bear the
burden of their crimes. I wish they all had but one neck; I'd strangle them
with one hand." Overwhelmed with the exciting scenes of the night, he
turned toward the gate in his garden wall. As he opened it, Gilda ran out
gaily to meet him. To her he was only the loving and tender father. She
waited for his coming all day, and had no pleasure till she saw him.
"Oh, in this abode, my nature changes," the crooked little man murmured as
he folded his daughter in his arms.
"Near thee, my daughter, I find all the joy on earth that is left me," he said,
trying to control his emotion.
"You love me, father?"
"Aye!—thou art my only comfort."
"Father, there is often something mysterious in thy actions. You have never
told me of my mother. Who was my mother, dear father?"

[Listen]

Ah why recall in misery,
What tempests dread have moved me?
An angel once companion'd me,
An angel in pity lov'd me

he sang.
"Hideous, an outcast, penniless, she blessed my lonely years. Ah! I lost her,
I lost her. Death wafted her soul to heaven!—But thou art left me," he said
tenderly, beginning to weep.
"There, father, say no more. My questions have made thee sad. I shall
always be with thee to make thee happy. But, father, I do not know that you

are what you tell me. What is your real name? Is it Rigoletto?"
"No matter, child, do not question. I am feared and hated by my enemies.
Let that suffice."
"But ever since we came to this place three months ago, you have forbidden
me to go abroad. Let me go into the city, father, and see the sights."
"Never! You must not ask it." He was frightened at the very thought. If men
like the Duke, his master, should see such a beautiful girl as Gilda, they
would surely rob him of her. At that moment the nurse, Giovanna, came
from the house and Rigoletto asked her if the garden gate was ever left open
while he was away. The woman told him falsely that the gate was always
closed.
"Ah, Giovanna, I pray you watch over my daughter when I am away," he
cried, and turned suddenly toward the gate upon hearing a noise. "Some one
is without there, now!" he cried, running in the direction of the sound. He
threw the gate wide, but saw no one, because the Duke—who it was—had
stepped aside into the shadow, and then, while Rigoletto was without,
looking up the road, he slipped within and hid behind a tree, throwing a
purse to Giovanna to bribe her to silence. Giovanna snatched it and hid it in
the folds of her gown, showing plainly that she was not to be trusted, as
Rigoletto trusted her, with his precious daughter. There was the man whom
Rigoletto had most cause to fear, who ran off with every pretty girl he saw,
and he had now found the prettiest of them all in the dwarf's daughter.
"Have you noticed any one following Gilda?" the dwarf asked, returning to
the garden and fastening the gate behind him. "If harm should come to my
daughter it would surely kill me," he sobbed, taking Gilda in his arms. At
that the Duke, listening behind the tree, was amazed. So! Gilda was no
sweetheart of his jester; but was his daughter instead!
"Now," said Rigoletto, "I must be off, but I caution you once more; let no
one in."
"What, not even the great Duke if he should come to inquire for you?"
"The Duke least of all," the dwarf answered in a new panic. And kissing
Gilda he went out again.

No sooner had he gone than Gilda turned tearfully to her nurse.
"Giovanna, my heart feels guilty."
"What hast thou done?" the nurse asked, indifferently, remembering the
purse of the Duke which she carried in her bosom.
"Ne'er told my father of the youth whom I have learned to love and who has
followed me."
"Why should he know it? Would he not prevent it? If you wish that——"
"Nay, nay," Gilda replied, fearfully; and in her loneliness and distress she
confided to Giovanna how much she loved the Duke. Mantua, behind the
tree, heard all, and, motioning Giovanna to go away, he came toward Gilda.
Giovanna went at once into the house, but Gilda cried to her to come back,
as the sudden appearance of the Duke frightened her, after the scene she had
just had with her father.
Then while the Duke was giving her a false name, and trying to reassure
her, they heard voices outside the garden wall. The Duke recognized the
voice of Borsa and Ceprano. They seemed to be searching for some house,
and again, quite terror-stricken, Gilda started to rush within.
Giovanna met her. "I am afraid it is your father returned. The young
gentleman must hasten away," she whispered under her breath, and
immediately the Duke went out by another way, through the house. Then
Gilda watched off, down the road, and while she was watching, Borsa,
Ceprano, and other dare-devils of the Duke's court stole into the garden.
Ceprano, who had heard that Gilda was some one beloved by Rigoletto,
although it was not known that she was his daughter, meant to carry Gilda
off, since he owed Rigoletto a grudge. Having seen the Duke disappear,
Gilda had gone within again, and as the kidnappers were about to enter,
they heard Rigoletto coming.
It was then their opportunity to plan a great and tragic joke upon the
wretched dwarf.
"Listen to this!" Borsa whispered. "Let us tell him we are here to carry off
the Countess Ceprano, who has fled here for safety from us. Then when we

have blind-folded him, we will make him help to carry off his own
sweetheart." Just as that infamous plan was formed, in came Rigoletto. He
ran against one of the men in the dark.
"What's this?" he cried.
"H'st! Be silent!"
"Who spoke?" he unconsciously lowered his voice.
"Marullo, you idiot."
"The darkness blinds me, and I cannot see you."
"H'st, Rigoletto! We're for an adventure. We are going to carry off the
Countess Ceprano: she has fled here from us. We had the Duke's key to get
into her place." He holds out the key which the dwarf felt in the darkness
and found the Duke's crest upon it.
"Her palace is on the other side——"
"She fled here, we tell thee. We are stealing her for the Duke. Put on this
mask, hurry!" Marullo tied on a mask and put the jester at the foot of a
ladder which they had run up against the terrace.
"Now hold the ladder till one of us gets over and unfastens the door."
Rigoletto, somewhat dazed, did mechanically what he was told, and the
men entered the house.
"Ah, I shall have a fine revenge on that scamp," Ceprano muttered, looking
toward Rigoletto through the dark.
"Sh! Be silent," Borsa whispered. "They will bring the girl out muffled so
he can't hear her scream. Rigoletto will never hear a sound. No joke of his
ever matched the one we are preparing for him." At that moment, Gilda was
brought out, her mouth tied with her scarf; but as they were bearing her
away, she got the scarf loose and uttered a piercing shriek, and the scarf fell
near Rigoletto.
"Father, help, help!" she cried, but the voice seemed to come from afar off.
Rigoletto only just heard. He could not collect his senses.

"Here, what does this mean? Aren't you nearly through?" he cried, angrily
tearing off the mask and also the handkerchief that bound his ears. "What
cry was that? I thought I heard a cry!" He was becoming mad with fear. All
the conditions seemed so strange.
"Hello there!" But no one answered; all the men were gone. Then he
snatched a lantern one of the men had left near, and suddenly he saw Gilda's
scarf. He stared at it, rushed like a madman into the house and dragged out
the nurse, tried to shriek "Gilda," but overcome with horror he fell
senseless.

ACT II

Now if the Duke of Mantua was ever angry in his life, he was angry when
the curtain rose on the second act. There he was, pacing about a sumptuous
apartment, fuming with rage.
"If ever I loved any one in my life, it was that girl!" he cried. "And heaven
knows what can have become of her." As a matter of fact, the Duke had
some misgiving after he had left Gilda in the garden, and, later, he had
returned. But he had found the place deserted and could get no news of her
from that hour.
"Oh, but I would defend thee, if thou art in trouble," he cried; and in the
midst of his excitement Marullo, Borsa, and Ceprano and other courtiers
rushed into the room. All were fairly bursting with news of the escapade of
the night before.
"Oh, Duke! Oh, Lord! What do you think? We have carried off the jester's
sweetheart!"
"What?" The Duke stared and then gave a great cry. "Speak, speak. What
have you done?"
"The jester's sweetheart."
"Where is she?" the Duke asked, hardly daring to trust his voice.
"Here, in this house."

"What do you say?"
"Yes, we brought her here."
"Oh, joy!" the Duke exclaimed; then aside: "She is near me," and forgetting
all about his friends he went out excitedly.
"Why did he turn away from us?" the men asked each other. "He has
enjoyed our adventures before now." They were a little uneasy and were
conferring together when Rigoletto came in. He was a pitiful-looking
fellow, worn with a night of horror and weeping, but he came singing:
"La, la, la, la, la,"—pretending not to be agitated. "Pray what is the news?"
he asked off-hand, seeking not to betray his agony of mind, till he should
have learned something about his daughter.
"Pleasant morning, Rigoletto!" the men answered, mockingly, and glancing
with grins at each other. "Pray what is the news?" Rigoletto, half dead with
anxiety, moved about the room looking for some sign of Gilda.
"Lord! See him fishing about in every corner for her? He thinks to find her
under the table," one of them whispered, and the men burst out laughing.
Then Rigoletto discovered a handkerchief on the floor and snatched it,
hoping to find a clue, but it was not hers. Just then a page ran in to say that
the Duchess was asking for the Duke.
"He is still in bed," one of the men answered, watching the effect of that
upon Rigoletto, who was listening to every word.
"He cannot be," the page persisted. "Didn't he just pass me on the stairs?"
"All right, then! He has gone a-hunting," and they laughed.
"With no escort? Hardly. Come, don't think me a fool. Where's the Duke?
The Duchess wishes to speak with him."
"It is you who are a dull fool," the men exclaimed, seeming to carry on the
conversation aside, but taking good care that Rigoletto should hear. "The
Duke cannot be disturbed—do you understand? He is with a lady."

"Ah! Villains!" Rigoletto shrieked, turning upon them like a tiger. "My
daughter! You have my daughter—here in this palace. Give me my
daughter!" The men all rushed after him as he made for the door.
"Your daughter? My God! Your daughter?" They were horrified at their own
doings, hearing it was Rigoletto's daughter.
"Stand back! Don't think to keep me from my daughter." As they still held
him tight, hardly knowing what then to do, he sank down in despair. He
entreated help of the different courtiers whom he had so often and
maliciously misused. Then he wept.
"Oh, have pity on me, my lords! Let me go to my daughter." While
everybody was hesitating in consternation, Gilda, having got free, rushed
from the next room, and into his arms. She screamed hysterically that she
had been carried off by the Duke. Rigoletto nearly foamed at the mouth
with rage, and at last the men became truly afraid of him.
"Go, all of you!" he stammered, no longer able to speak plainly. "And if the
Duke comes into this room I will kill him." So the courtiers withdrew. The
palace was in an uproar.
"It is a mistake to jest with a madman," Marullo whispered to Borsa as they
went out. Father and daughter were left alone. After looking at Gilda a
moment, trying to recover himself, Rigoletto whispered.
"Now, my child; they have gone. Speak!" Gilda throwing herself into her
father's arms, told of her meetings with the Duke, and of how she had
grown to love him, and finally of how in the night she had been carried
away.
As they were in each other's arms the guard entered with old Count
Monterone, who was being taken to his cell. As he was being led across the
room, Rigoletto's wild eyes fixed themselves in horror upon the man whose
curse had cursed him. The Count paused before the Duke's picture and
cursed it.
"I shall be the instrument to fulfill thy curse, old man," Rigoletto whispered
as the Count passed out, and he made a frightful oath of vengeance against
the Duke of Mantua. His words frightened Gilda, because she dearly loved

the Duke even though she believed he had caused her to be carried off. As
the jester raised his hand to take the dreadful oath to kill, Gilda fell upon
her knees beside him.

ACT III

Rigoletto and Gilda had fled from the palace, for the dwarf meant to hide
his daughter away forever; and in the darkness they were hurrying on their
way to an old inn, which could be seen near at hand. A swift, rushing river
ran back of the inn, and the innkeeper could be seen inside his house sitting
at a table polishing an old belt. It was the villainous old cut-throat,
Sparafucile, who had stopped Rigoletto on his way home two nights before,
offering to kill whomever Rigoletto would for a sum of money.
Gilda was very weary and she and her father were about to stop at the inn
for the night. They were speaking in the road:
"Do you still love the Duke, my child?"
"Alas, father! I cannot help it. I think I shall always love him." At that
moment Rigoletto espied a man, dressed as a cavalry officer, approaching
the inn by another road. Instantly he recognized the Duke in disguise. He
peeped through an opening in the wall which surrounded the house and
could see the Duke greeting Sparafucile and ordering a bottle of wine, after
which he gaily sang, while waiting:

[Listen]

Plume in the summer wind,
Waywardly playing,
Ne'er one way swaying,
Each whim obeying, etc.

The song was gay and thoughtless, and when it should be last heard by
Rigoletto it was to have a fearful meaning.
"Ah, ha?" Rigoletto murmured to himself. "This rat of a noble is seeking
some new adventure! Let us see if Gilda will continue to love him when she
knows the true wickedness of the wretch! when she knows that he is false to
all that he has said to her: because there is of course another woman in the
case!" While Rigoletto was observing him, the wine was brought to the
Duke, who raised his sword and rapped upon the ceiling with its hilt. At that
signal a pretty girl ran down the ladder and Mantua embraced her.
That freed Sparafucile and he ran out of the inn to look for Rigoletto, whose
coming was expected. In fact, Rigoletto had at last made a bargain with the
coupe-jarret to kill the Duke.

"Your man's inside. Shall I do the job at once, or wait a bit?"
"Wait a bit," said Rigoletto, glancing at Gilda, who heard nothing, "I'll give
the signal," whereupon Sparafucile went off, toward the river. Then while
the father and daughter stood outside the inn they could see all that was
taking place within it. The Duke began to make love to the gipsy girl, and
she laughed at him.
"You have told fifty girls what you tell me," she declared.
"Well, I'll admit all that. I am an unfaithful fellow—but you don't mind that!
Just at this moment I love no one in the world but you," he returned.
"Father, do you hear that traitor?" Gilda whispered, tearfully, and Rigoletto
nodded. He was indeed glad; maybe it would cure her of her infatuation.
"I must laugh to think how many girls you have made believe you," the
gipsy said again, mocking the Duke. But he only protested the more, and
Gilda threw her arms about her father in despair.
"Now, my child, since this traitor is here, you cannot well go in; so return to
Mantua, change thy dress for that of a youth; get a horse and fly to Verona.
There I will meet thee and see thee safe. You can see that this man is no
longer to be trusted."
"Alas, I know that is true;—yet, if I must go—come with me, father," she
entreated, feeling very lonely and heartbroken, there in the dark night.
"Not at once. I cannot go at once; but I will soon join thee"; and in spite of
her pleading he started her back to the city alone. Then he and Sparafucile
stood together in the middle of the road while the dwarf counted out the
half of the money to the cut-throat.
"Here is thy money, and I am going away. But at midnight I shall return and
help thee throw him into the river. It will make a great noise,—this killing
of a man of the Duke of Mantua's fame," he muttered.
"Never mind about coming back. I can dump him into the river, without
help. It is going to be a bad night," the fellow said, uneasily looking up at
the storm clouds that were gathering. As the lightning began to flash and the

thunder to roll distantly, Rigoletto turned toward Mantua, while Sparafucile
went into the inn.
"A fine night! Black as thunder and going to storm like Satan," he said as he
entered.
"So much the better," the Duke answered, "I'll stay here all night, and you
clear out," to Sparafucile;—"go to the devil, will you? I don't want you
about."
"You're a nice, soft spoken gentlemen—if a man doesn't care what he says,"
Sparafucile returned.
"You mustn't stay here," Maddalena said hastily to the Duke. She well knew
the tricks her brother was up to when a stranger with money stopped at the
house; and after the Duke had made himself so agreeable she didn't care to
see him killed under her nose.
"You mind your business," her brother said to her, shortly, seeing his plans
interfered with. Then speaking to her aside: "It's worth a pot-full of gold to
us. Mind your own business, I say." Then to the Duke: "Sir, I am delighted
to have you sleep at my inn. Pray take shelter in my own chamber. Come, I
will show you the way." Sparafucile took the candle and went toward the
ladder that led to the rooms above.
The Duke then whispered to the gipsy girl, and went laughing up the ladder.
Maddalena looked thoughtfully after him. She liked money as well as her
brother did. Should she let her brother kill him or not?
"Heavens! That thunder is loud," she exclaimed, as the storm struck the
dreadful house. Up in the loft, the Duke was laughing with Sparafucile
about the airiness of the chamber.
"Well, well, I'm tired," he said, after the cut-throat had gone down the
ladder. "I'll take off my sword and have an hour's sleep, anyway." He
removed his protecting sword, and began to hum to himself while he was
waiting for more wine. The storm, the gay song, the murder which was
about to be committed!—it was a fearful hour.

Down below Sparafucile was saying to his sister: "Go and get my dagger.
This affair will give us a tidy sum of money." Maddalena listened to the
Duke singing above and hesitated.
"He—he is young and—no—we shall not do this thing, Sparafucile," she
declared.
"Come! No foolishness, now," he growled. "Get my dagger and be quick."
She reluctantly ascended the staircase again to where the Duke was
sleeping. It was not very light. The flickering candle made but a wavering
shadow over all, and as Maddalena went up the ladder, Gilda, who had
returned, softly stole up to the inn door and began to listen to what went on
within, but not daring to enter. She had returned because for some reason
unknown to herself she was oppressed with a sense of danger to the Duke
who had so ill-treated her. Through the chink of the door she could see the
innkeeper at the table drinking. Gilda had already changed her girl's
clothing for that of a youth with spurs and boots.
Now she saw Maddalena come back down the stairs with the Duke's sword
which she had stolen from his side.
"Oh, it is a horrible night," Gilda whispered to herself, shuddering and cold
and frightened there in the dark, with only Sparafucile's wicked face before
her.
"Brother," Maddalena began, "I am not going to let you kill that young man
up there. I have taken a fancy to him and I won't let you do it."
"You mind your own affairs and get away from here. I'll attend to my
business," he snarled. Upon hearing there was a plan to kill the Duke whom
after all she truly loved, unworthy as he was, Gilda nearly fainted.
"You just take this sack and mend it," Sparafucile said, throwing an old sack
toward his sister.
"What for?" she asked suspiciously.
"It is to hold your fine young man, up there—when I shall throw him in the
river." Upon hearing that, Gilda sank down upon the stone step.

"See here! If it were not for the money you are to get, you would let him go,
I know," Maddalena urged.
"Well, no—because you see already I have received half my pay, and the
fellow I am doing the job for is a nasty customer, and, to tell the truth, I
shouldn't dare let the Duke go.
"Then listen to my plan: The hunchback will presently return with the rest
of the money." Gilda learned then to her horror that it was her father who
had bargained for the Duke's assassination. "When the jester comes, kill
him instead and take his money—all of it—and throw him into the river,
and let this young man above go." At that Gilda could not longer support
herself and she fell down upon the ground.
"No, I won't do it," the fellow said doggedly. "I agreed to kill the man
upstairs—and there must be honour among rogues. It wouldn't be right to
kill the one I hadn't bargained for. I make it a rule never to kill my
employer," the rascal returned piously.
"I'll call him, then, and tell him to defend himself," the girl cried, running
toward the stairs.
"Hold on there," Sparafucile cried; "I'll tell you—I agree to kill the first
man who enters this house between now and midnight, in the Duke's stead,
if that will suit you. Then we shall put him in the sack, and the hunchback
will not know the difference. Will that suit you?" he repeated.
"That will do, and see that you keep your word or I will arouse the young
man, I promise you."
At that moment the clock struck half past eleven, and Gilda was frantic with
fear. Maddalena was in tears, fearing that no one would come along, in that
storm, so late at night.
"If no one comes!" Gilda thinks shudderingly. "Oh, how shall I save him?"
But no sooner had she that thought than a desperate plan entered her mind.
She would go into the inn! She was dressed like a young man and no one
would ever know the difference in the darkness and the storm. She would
go in and the Duke would be spared. Then she waited a moment, overcome

with the fear of death; finally, summoning all her courage, she knocked
against the door.
"Who's there?" Both Maddalena and Sparafucile exclaimed, looking in
terror at each other. The knock was sudden and ominous. Then another
knock.
"Who's there?" again he called.
"A stranger, caught in the storm. Will you give me shelter?" Gilda could
hardly speak, with terror. Maddalena and the murderer looked at each other
significantly. They knew well what they would do the moment the door was
opened. The lightning flashed, the thunder rolled and broke above them,
and the scene became terrifying. Sparafucile placed himself behind the door
and motioned to Maddalena to open it.
"Thou art welcome," she said, throwing the door back suddenly; and as
Gilda stumbled in, Maddalena ran out and closed the gateway. The candle
went out in the gust of wind, and all was dark. Gilda stood an instant in the
blackness of the room. With one blow of the knife, which could not be seen
for the darkness, Sparafucile killed her, and then all was silent. After a
moment the storm broke away, the moon came forth, and Rigoletto could be
seen coming up the river bank.
"It is the time of my vengeance, now," he muttered to himself. He tried the
inn door and found it locked. "He cannot have done the deed yet," he
muttered. After waiting a little he knocked.
"Who's there?"
"I am known to thee," he whispered back; at this Sparafucile came out,
dragging behind him a sack.
"Bring a light," Rigoletto called, "that I may see him."
"That's all right—but you pay my money first," the cut-throat insisted.
Rigoletto impatiently paid him.
"I'll throw him into the river, myself," Rigoletto said triumphantly.

"The tide is shallow here—go farther on—and be sure no one surprises
you," Sparafucile advised. "Good night," he said shortly, and went inside
the inn. Then Rigoletto stood in the dripping road looking gloatingly at the
sack.
"I've got you at last," he chuckled, diabolically, "I have revenge for your
treatment of my daughter. My dear daughter! The child of my heart!" At the
very thought of what she had suffered the dwarf sobbed. "I'll put my foot
upon you, you noble vermin," he cried, kicking the body in the sack. At that
moment he heard a song—La Donna è Mobile—The voice! Was he going
mad? He knew the voice. He had heard it only a few hours ago, in the inn—
he had heard it daily at court—La Donna è Mobile! He looked toward the
windows of the inn. La Donna è Mobile! As he looked he saw the Duke and
Maddalena step from the window to the terrace that ran by the river bank.
"La Donna è Mobile," the Duke sang gaily. With a frightful cry, Rigoletto
dragged the sack open and the body of his murdered daughter rolled out
upon the road. She moved ever so little.
"Father?" and she gasped out the truth, with a dying breath, while the dwarf
shrieked and tore his hair.
"The curse, the curse! Monterone's curse!" he screamed, and went raving
mad.

IL TROVATORE

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA, WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST AS
PRESENTED
AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCE

Leonora Penco
Azucena Goggi
Inez Quadri
Manrico Baucardé
Count di Luna Guicciardi

Ferrando Balderi
Ruiz Bazzoli
An old gipsy.
Messenger, jailer, soldiers, nuns, gipsies, and attendants.
The story belongs to the fifteenth century in Spain, and tells of the border
wars of northern Spain, carried on in the provinces of Arragon and Biscay.
Composer: Giuseppe Verdi.
Author: Cammarano.
First sung in Rome, Teatro Apollo, January, 19, 1853; Paris, Théâtre des
Italiens, December 23, 1854 (in Italian); at the Opéra, January 12, 1857 (in
French); London, Covent Garden, May 17, 1855; New York, Academy of
Music, April 30, 1855.

ACT I

[Listen]

There you are, prepared for almost anything in the way of battle, murder, or
sudden death, to the accompaniment of beautiful music; opera in true Italian
style, at its second best.
Soldiers and servants were gathered about the beautiful columns of a porch
of the Aliaferia palace just before midnight awaiting the return of the Count
di Luna. Among them was Ferrando, the captain of the Count's guard. All

were lounging in the vestibule of the palace gossiping till it was time to go
on duty within.
"Hey, wake up! You'll be caught napping," Ferrando called to his comrades.
"It is time for the Count to come. I suppose he has been under the Lady
Leonora's windows. Ah, he is madly in love with her—and so jealous of
that troubadour who sings beneath her windows that some day they will
meet and kill each other."
This was an old story to the men, and in their effort to keep awake they
clamoured for the story of the Count di Luna's brother, which all had heard
told with more or less of truth; but Ferrando knew the whole horrible tale
better than any one else; besides, it was a good story to keep awake on.
"Ah, that was a great tragedy for the House of Luna," Ferrando began with
a shiver. "I remember it as if it were but yesterday:"

When the good Count di Luna here resided,
Two children fair he numbered;
One to a faithful nurse was once confided,
By the cradle she slumbered.

At morning when she woke and gazed about her,
Sorely stricken was she,
And what sight do ye think did so confound her?
Cho. ... What, oh tell us did she see?

[Listen]

Ferrando.
Swarthy and threatening, a gipsy woman,
Bearing of fiendish art, symbols inhuman
Upon the infant fiercely she gazes,
As if to seize him her arm she raises!
Spellbound the nurse watch'd at first the beldame hoary
But soon her shrieking was answer'd in the distance,
And quicker than now I can tell you the story,
The servants of the

The frightful story was sung in a deep bass voice, by Ferrando. He sang of
how the cry of the nurse on that morning years before had brought the
servants running and they had put the gipsy out; but almost at once the baby
grew ill, and the Count and his people believed the old hag had put a spell
upon it, so that it would die. They sought wildly for her, and, when they
finally found her, they burned her alive.
While that frightful scene was being enacted, the baby was stolen, outright,
and the di Luna family saw it thrown upon the fire which had consumed the
gipsy.
This deed was done by the daughter of the gipsy whom they had burned
alive. There were those who believed that the child burned had not been the
Count's, but a young gipsy baby—which was quite as horrible. The name of
the young woman who had done this fiendish thing was Azucena, and the di
Lunas searched for her year after year without success.
It was believed that the spirit of the hag they had burned had entered into
the younger woman's body. The gossiping soldiers and servants sang:

Anon on the eaves of the house-tops you'll see her,
In form of a vampire; 'tis then you must flee her;
A crow of ill-omen she often is roaming,
Or else as an owl that flits by in the gloaming.

While they were talking of this tragedy for the hundredth time, it
approached the hour of midnight. The servants, through fear, drew closer
together, and the soldiers formed a rank across the plaza at the back.
Each recalled some frightful happening in relation to witches; how one man
who had given a witch a blow, had died, shrieking and in awful agony. He
had been haunted. It was at the midnight hour that he had died! As they
spoke of this, the castle bell tolled the midnight hour. The men, wrought up
with fright, yelled sharply, and the face of the moon was hidden for a
moment.

Scene II

When the cloud which had hidden the moon's rays cleared away, a beautiful
garden belonging to the palace was revealed. The place was very silent, the
soldiers and servants, excepting those on guard, having gone within.
The Lady Leonora, whom the Count di Luna loved, was one of the suite of
the Princess of Arragon, and when all in the palace were sleeping it was her
custom to steal into the lovely gardens with her friend, Inez. Of late, when
she came there, she had hoped, secretly, to find a mysterious young
troubadour, who sang almost nightly beneath her windows. She loved this
troubadour and not the Count.
The first time she had met the handsome youth was at a tournament. There
he had come, dressed in a suit of black, and all unknown; wearing a
sweeping sable plume in his helmet; and when the jousting took place, he
had vanquished all the nobles. It was Leonora, herself, who had placed the
wreath of the victor upon his brow. From that very moment they had loved.
He had worn no device upon his shield by which he could be known, but
she had loved him for a gallant knight.
He belonged to the retinue of a neighbouring prince, who was an enemy of
the Princess of Arragon, and he risked his life each time he came to sing in
the gardens to Leonora.
"Ah, I fear some harm will come of this love of yours!" Inez said to her
friend and mistress. "The Princess awaits thee, dear Countess, and we must
go within. I hope your trust will never be betrayed by this unknown knight
and singer." The women mounted the gleaming marble staircase, and then
Leonora paused for a moment looking down into the garden again.
She had no sooner gone than a man peered out from the shadow of the
trees. It was the Count di Luna, jealously watching for the knight who sang
beneath the lady's window. Also, he hoped to see Leonora, herself, but all
was still, and after watching the balcony a moment, he started toward the
marble steps. At that instant a beautiful voice stole through the moonlight.

[Listen]

Manrico.
Naught upon earth is left me,
Fate of all joy hath bereft me.

It was Manrico the troubadour!
The Count paused upon the stair and looked down; but Leonora, too, had
heard, and ran out upon the balcony, then down the steps, throwing herself
into the Count's arms, mistaking him for Manrico. Manrico, still hidden by
the shadows, witnessed this, and becoming enraged at the sight, believing
Leonora faithless, he rushed upon them just as the moon again shone forth
and revealed to Leonora that she was in the Count's arms, instead of the
troubadour's.
"Traitress!" Manrico cried.
"Manrico, the light blinded me," she implored, throwing herself at the
troubadour's feet.

For thee alone the words were meant,
If those words to him were spoken,

she sang.

"I believe thee," Manrico answered; while the Count, enraged in his turn,
cried:
"You shall fight with me, Sir Knight!"
"Aye, behold me!" Manrico answered, lifting his visor and standing in the
bright light of the moon. At the sight of him di Luna started back:
"Manrico! The brigand! Thou darest——"
"To fight thee? Aye, have at it!" and Manrico stood en garde. Leonora
implored them not to fight, but too late. They would fight to the death.
"Follow me," di Luna called, drawing his sword, which he had half
sheathed when he had seen that his antagonist was not of noble birth like
himself. "Follow me," and he hurried off among the trees, followed by
Manrico.
"I follow, and I shall kill thee," the handsome troubadour cried, as he too
rushed off after the Count. Whereupon the Countess Leonora fell senseless.

ACT II

This opera of shadows and darkness began again in a ghostly ruin in the
mountains of Biscay. A forge fire blazed through a yawning doorway of
tumbled-down stones. It was not yet day, but very soon it would be; and
Manrico, the handsome knight, brigand, troubadour, lover of Leonora, lay
wounded upon a low couch near the forge fire. Azucena, his gipsy mother,
sat beside him, tenderly watching. Many months had passed since the night
of the duel in the palace garden, when Manrico had had di Luna at his
mercy, but had spared him. Since that time there had been war between the
factions of Arragon and Biscay, and Manrico had been sorely wounded in
his prince's service. Here he had lain ever since, in the gipsy rendezvous,
cared for by his mother.
All night the gipsy band had been at work, forging weapons with which to
fight, and just before the early dawn they were discovered singing a fine
chorus, which they accompanied by a rhythmic pounding upon their anvils.

There, beside him, through the long nights, Azucena had sat, conjuring back
memories of her fierce past, and soon she broke into a wild song describing
the death of her mother, years before, when Manrico was a baby. She sang
how that old mother had been burned at the stake by the di Lunas—by the
father of the living Count.
"Di Luna, mother?" Manrico questioned.
"Aye, it was di Luna. Why did ye not kill the young Count when ye
fought?" she asked, fiercely.
"I do not know," he murmured, rising upon his elbow. "Mother, do you
know when I had disarmed him, something seemed to hold me back, to
paralyze my arm. I hated him, but I could not strike the death-blow."
"His father burned my mother at the stake, Manrico. Ye must avenge me."
And at that moment a gipsy interrupted the talk between mother and son by
crying:
"The sun rises! we must be off!" Thereupon the gipsy band threw their tools
into bags, gathered up their cloaks and hats, and one by one and in groups
they disappeared down the mountain-side, leaving Azucena and her
wounded son alone in the ruined hut. He remained wrapped in his mantle,
sword and horn beside him, while the old hag continued to croon about the
horrors of the past. In her ever-increasing rage she called again and again
upon Manrico to avenge her.
"Again those vengeful words, mother! There is something in thy voice
which I do not understand."
"Listen! I will tell thee! I have told thee how my mother was accused,
arrested by the old Count and burned alive. Well, in that fearful moment,
crazed with grief I crept into the palace, snatched the Count's child, and
rushed out, thinking only of my revenge. With maddened mind I tossed the
babe into the flames that were consuming my mother—or so I thought! But
when I looked around there was the child of noble birth, and my own was
gone. It was you who were left to me. My own child had gone into the
flames. I snatched thee up and fled."

"What is this that ye tell me?" Manrico cried, his eyes strained, his body
stiffened with horror. "Thou who art so tender of me—" and he fell back
upon his couch overcome with the frightful deed.
"I was mad! but now you must avenge me. You must ruin my enemy. Have
I not tended thee as my own, and loved thee?"
"Oh, tale of woe! Mother, speak no more." Frightful as the deed had been,
he tried to soothe the demented old woman who had truly cared for him
with a mother's care. He had known no other mother, but the tale had
distracted him. The knowledge that the Count di Luna, whose life he had
spared, was his own brother, explained much to him. No wonder something
had stayed his hand when he might have killed him. Yet, he also recalled
that his unsuspecting brother loved Leonora. In all their encounters, di Luna
had shown only a hard, unyielding heart, and Manrico had no reason to love
him. After all, Manrico was but a wild young brigand, living in a lawless
time, when nobles themselves were highwaymen and without violating
custom. Such a one had little self-control.
"Show di Luna no mercy, my son," Azucena urged. "Art thou not my son?
my own, dear son?" Then suddenly remembering all that her distraught
condition had betrayed her into saying, she cried remorsefully:
"I am an old and wretched woman who has seen much sorrow. When I
spoke I was distracted with my griefs, but remember the Count di Luna and
do not spare him. If you do, he will take the Lady Leonora from thee."
"True, mother, and I will kill him," the troubadour said suddenly. The
thought of di Luna's rivalry overcame his sense of humanity.
The forge fire died down, and Manrico, exhausted by his mother's story, lay
back upon his couch while his mother continued to sit, lost in her tragic
thoughts, but while he rested, half sleeping, the long clear note of a horn
was heard, and Manrico started up.
"It is Ruiz," he said anxiously, believing it to be his servant. Snatching his
horn from his belt, he blew a clear, answering blast. In a moment a
messenger, who was not Ruiz, ran in.

"Quick, what is thy news?" Manrico demanded, made apprehensive by
illness and the stories he had heard. He expected misfortune from every
quarter.
"A letter for thee, Master," the messenger panted, leaning against the rocky
wall, worn with running. Manrico read excitedly:
"Our men have taken Castellar. The Prince's order is that thou shalt come
instantly to defend it. Unless thy wounds have laid thee low, I shall expect
thee. Know that, deceived by the tidings of thy death, the beautiful Lady
Leonora will this day become the elect of Heaven." Manrico started, then
stared at the letter again. Leonora to enter a convent where he could never
see her again! No!
"Bring me my horse, quick. I shall join thee below the hill. Mother, I go!
My mantle!" And snatching his cloak and helmet, his mother threw her
arms about him.
"Where do you go, my son?" she cried with anxiety.
"To save Leonora—let me go."
"Thou art still ill. It will kill thee, and I shall die if I lose thee."
"Farewell, mother; I go. Without Leonora, I could not live. I go." Tearing
himself from her he rushed down the mountain.

Scene II

Again it was night; there was always an appearance of darkness and gloom
about the lovers. From the cloisters of the convent to which Leonora had
gone, there stretched away at the back a deep wood. The Count, having
heard where Leonora was hidden, had also started with his followers and
vassals, to reach the convent before she could take the veil and retire
forever beyond his reach. When he reached the convent it was just before
day, and with Ferrando he stole into the gardens, wrapped in his long cloak.
"Everything is still; the convent is sleeping. They have ceased their prayers
awhile and we are safe, Ferrando," the Count whispered.

"It is a bold adventure, Count. I fear——"
"Do not speak. A man does not fear when he is in danger of losing the
woman he loves." He began to sing softly:

[Listen]

On the light of her sweet glances,
Joy celestial beameth upon me.

It was a love song to Leonora, who, within the convent, was about to bury
herself from all the world, believing Manrico to be dead. As the light of day
slowly flushed the scene, a bell sounded from the chapel tower.
"That bell, Ferrando!"
"It is to summon the nuns to prayer. They will pass this way."
"Now to rescue her!" Di Luna motioned to his men, who had lain concealed
in the shadows. "She is coming," he whispered, watching the convent door,
while a weird chant floated out. The nuns were singing. While di Luna
watched, Leonora came from the convent with her beloved friend, Inez,
who was weeping.
"Why weep, Inez?" Leonora asked, gently.
"In another hour shall we not be forever parted?"

"Have no regrets for me, dear sister. There is no longer any happiness for
me in this life, since Manrico is dead. Come, weep no more. Let us go to
the altar."
"No," di Luna cried, rushing upon her, while the nuns from the convent
screamed:
"Sacrilege! Help!" They struggled, and the Count's men rushed up to help
him. The Count had overcome Leonora and was about to flee with her,
when Manrico leaped into the midst of the fight. His men set upon the
Count's men, while Manrico himself lifted Leonora and ran off with her.
His men vanquished the Count's. Leonora believed herself in Heaven upon
finding herself in Manrico's arms, and as he carried her away he cried to di
Luna that he would be revenged upon him. Then he fled to Castellar.

ACT III

At last this tragedy began to see daylight, inasmuch as the third act began
in broad day with the banner of the Count floating from his tent, pitched
before the ramparts of Castellar, which could be seen in the distance.
Soldiers were moving about, brightening their armour, and a band of strong
crossbow-men crossed the ravine behind the camp.
"Those are the troops to reinforce us," some of the soldiers sang out.
"We shall vanquish Castellar then, without delay," others cried; and then
comes a famous soldiers' chorus. The Count di Luna came from his tent and
looked off toward the grim stronghold of Castellar.
"Thy day is over," he said, vindictively, thinking of Manrico, who, with
Leonora, in the castle, was defending the domain. His thoughts were
interrupted by a commotion in the camp.
"What is the trouble there?" he asked Ferrando, who came from the hill.
"A wandering gipsy has been found near the camp, and the men believe her
to be a spy from Castellar. They have arrested her, and are bringing her to
you, Count," he announced as Azucena appeared with some men.

"Let me go!" she screamed, struggling to get away from her captors.
"Bring her here," di Luna said, and they released her before him.
"Where is your home?"
"Not here," she replied sullenly.
"Well, where?"
"The gipsy has no home; she wanders. I come from Biscay, if you must
know."
Biscay! Di Luna started at the word. Ferrando looked at him quickly.
"Say, old hag, how long hast thou been among the Biscay mountains? Dost
thou remember that many years ago—fifteen—a young child was stolen
from a noble, by one of thy people?"
"What is that you say?" she screamed in fright.
"I say the child was my brother."
She stared at him in horror. "Well," she muttered, "thy tale is no concern of
mine." But Ferrando, who had been watching her closely, believed he
recognized her features.
"Count, do not let her go—it is the murderess herself; she who threw thy
brother upon the fire."
"Ah, my God!" The Count cried, shrinking away from her. "Let me punish
her. To the stake with her!" and she was instantly surrounded by the men.
She twisted and screamed, calling upon Manrico to come and save his
mother, but Manrico was in the castle of Castellar defending it and Leonora
from the Count below. He was about to marry the Countess and they were
even at that moment on their way to the chapel. They entered the great hall,
whose windows opened out upon the horrid scene below, where Azucena
was to be burned at the stake. It was now dusk, and the clamour of battle
could be plainly heard, within the hall. Leonora, being frightened, asked
Manrico if the trouble would never end.

"Banish all sad thoughts, Leonora; our soldiers will win and it will soon be
over. Think only of joyful things. We shall live and be happy." The organ
sounded from the chapel. "That calls us to our marriage," Manrico said,
leading her toward the chapel door, but as they were about to enter, Ruiz
rushed in.
"Manrico! Look out—that gipsy." He pointed frantically out of the window.
Manrico looked, and there he saw his old mother being tied to the stake, the
fagots being piled about her. He yelled with horror.
"Leonora! It is my mother. She was my mother before I loved thee. I go to
save her. Call our men, Ruiz, I follow!" Embracing Leonora, he rushed
wildly away, while the trumpets of war were heard, and the din of battle
began.

ACT IV

Back at Aliaferia, Manrico was held prisoner. All was gloom and darkness
again, with the prison tower where Manrico was confined looming near, its
bars seeming very sinister, the evening more forbidding by contrast with
that first moonlight night, when he had sung to Leonora in the gardens.
Leonora, protected by Ruiz, the faithful servant, stole from the shadows,
while Ruiz tried to reconnoitre and spy out where Manrico was hidden. The
Countess was worn with fear and trouble. While they stood there, outside
the prison, the "Miserere" was dolorously chanted. The sound was ominous.
"They chant prayers for the dead!" she whispered, and then the bell tolled.
"It is the bell for the dead," she whispered again, fainting with despair.
"What voices of horror. My God! death is very near;" and she stood
listening. Then, mingling with the death chant, the troubadour's glorious
voice floated out upon the night.

[Listen]

Ah send thy beams, Aurora,
Light me to early death,
Waft her my longing,
Waft her my latest breath!
I leave thee, Leonora, ah, I leave thee!

It was the doomed Manrico singing, from his prison, while waiting, wearily,
for the dawn.
It was a fearful hour: The death song! The bell for the dead, the lonely
troubadour's voice, and prayer for the dead, sounding through the night.

As Leonora listened, her anguish became too great to bear, and she resolved
to save his life or die. Then di Luna came, accompanied by his men; he was
giving hurried orders:
"The moment the day dawns, bring out the man, and here, on this spot, cut
off his head," he commanded. The attendants entered the prison tower, and
di Luna, believing himself to be alone, began to sing passionately of
Leonora. He thought her dead in the ruins of Castellar, which his soldiers
had demolished. While cursing his fate, Leonora came near to him and
threw herself at his feet.
"Thou art not dead!" he cried.
"Nay—but I shall die unless you give me Manrico's life," she murmured
pleadingly.
"He dies at dawn," di Luna answered.
"Spare him and I will wed thee," she swore. At that di Luna regarded her in
amazement.
"You speak the truth?" he demanded, scarcely daring to believe his senses.
"Unbar those gates; let me into his dungeon and take him word that he is
free, and I swear to be thy wife," she repeated.
"Hola! You there!" He called to his men. "Show this woman to Manrico's
dungeon," he commanded, trembling with joy. Unseen by him, she took a
deadly poison from her ring. She would free Manrico with her promise, and
before di Luna could reach her she resolved to die. The men stood ready,
and she went into the prison with them.

Scene II

In the gloomy tower a lamp swung from the ceiling by a chain, casting a
dim uncertain light upon Azucena, whom Manrico had saved from the
flames, but who had been imprisoned with him, and was presently to be
killed also. She was lying on a low bed with Manrico beside her, and in her
half-waking dream anticipated the scorching of the flame, which was soon
to be lighted about her. She cried out pitifully.

"Art thou waking, mother?"
"This fearful dungeon, my son! It is a living tomb. But they shall not torture
me: I am already dying. I shall be dead before they come to drag me to the
stake."
Manrico tried to soothe her to sleep, saying that he would guard her; and
gradually the poor wretch slept. As she did so, Leonora slipped into the
room, through the door unbarred for her at di Luna's order.
"Leonora! I am dreaming," Manrico muttered.
"Nay, it is I. I have come to save thee. Do not waste a moment. Go!"
"Without thee—never! What have you done? How have you purchased my
freedom?" he demanded, shrewdly. "It was by promising to be di Luna's
wife," he cried. "Before that can be, I will kill thee and myself." He covered
his face with his hands. He was in despair, and Leonora did not at first tell
him that she was already dying.
"Go while there is time," she pleaded, feeling the poison in her veins.
Manrico saw her stagger and grow faint. "We shall not part," he whispered,
as she fell at his feet! "We shall not part." He lifted her up, but she was
already dying.
"Fly before di Luna discovers that I have cheated him," but Manrico still
held the dying Leonora to his breast, and at that moment the Count entered.
"I have cheated him," she murmured. "I am dying." Hearing this the Count
made an outcry and his guards rushed in.
"Away with him!" he shouted, pointing to Manrico; and Manrico was torn
from Leonora, as she sank back dead. He was bound and hustled out, while
Azucena was awakened by the confused sounds. She sat up and called
desperately:
"Manrico!" Finding him gone and seeing di Luna, "Where hast thou taken
him?" she screamed, tearing her gray hair.

"See—" and di Luna dragged her to the barred window. "See! The knife
falls—look upon the sight, old fiend." She saw Manrico's head struck from
his shoulders as the day dawned. With a frightful shriek she cried:
"Mother, I am avenged! Fiend! he was thy brother!" Di Luna looked first at
the dying gipsy, then at the horrid scene below, and staggered back, unable
to speak his brother's name. His peace was destroyed forever.

AÏDA

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA, WITH THE ORIGINAL CASTS
AS PRESENTED
AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCES

CAIRO MILAN
Signora
Aïda Signora Stolz
Pozzoni
Amneris Grossi Waldmann
Signor
Radames Signor Mongini
Fancelli
Amonasro Steller Pandolfini
Ramphis Medini Maini
The King Costa Pavoleri
Messenger Bottardi Vistarini
Priests, priestesses, ministers, captains, soldiers, officials, Ethiopian slaves,
prisoners, Egyptian populace, etc., etc.
The time of the story is when the Pharaohs were puissant, and the scenes
are laid in the cities of Thebes and Memphis.
Composer: Giuseppe Verdi.
Author: A. Ghislanzoni.

The opera was first sung at Cairo, Egypt, December 27, 1871; at Milan,
February 8, 1872.

ACT I

All Egypt was troubled with wars and rumours of wars, and in Memphis
the court of the King was anxiously awaiting the decision of the Goddess
Isis, as to who should lead the Egyptian army against Egypt's enemies. The
great hall of the Memphis palace was beautifully ornamented with statues
and flowers, and from its colonnades of white marble one could see the
pyramids and the palaces of the city. It was in this vast and beautiful hall
that Radames, a gallant soldier and favourite of the Egyptian court, met
Ramphis, the High Priest, on the day when the Oracle, Isis, was to choose
the general of the army.
Isis had already spoken, and Ramphis knew it, but he did not tell Radames.
Together they spoke of Radames's loyal wish to serve his people, either as a
great general or as a soldier. He was too modest to think that Isis would
choose him, out of all the worthy men of the army, to lead the hosts of
Egypt. His desire to do valorous deeds was inspired by his love for a slave
girl, who attended the Princess Amneris. The slave's name was Aïda. The
only thing that saddened him at the moment, was the fact of Aïda being an
Ethiopian, for it was the Ethiopians whom the Egyptians were about to war
against.
After he had spoken with the Priests, Radames sat down alone, in the hall,
and fell to thinking of Aïda. Presently he sang of her loveliness:

[Listen]

Heav'nly Aïda, beauty resplendent,
Radiant flower, blooming and bright;
Queenly thou reignest o'er me transcendent,
Bathing my spirit in beauty's light.

Aïda could not be happy in an alien land, serving the daughter of the King
who had been the conqueror of her people, and Radames knew this; but

what he didn't know was that the Princess, herself, loved him, and therefore
that her jealousy might do Aïda much harm. While he was thus sunk in deep
reflection, Amneris, the Princess, entered the hall, attended by her slave.
Radames no sooner looked at Aïda than his love could be seen by any one
present. He was so sincere and honest that he could not conceal his feelings.
"Ah, Radames, you are very happy to-day! Something has happened to
please you! Are you not going to tell me?" Amneris asked, smiling happily
at him.
"Nay, Princess," he answered. "I am not more happy than before, only I am
thinking of this war that is about to be, and how I should love to do some
valiant deed—for us all," he added as an after-thought, but Amneris
surprised the look of tenderness that he gave to Aïda. From that moment she
watched the lovers closely.
"To-day the Goddess is to decide who shall lead the Egyptians against the
Ethiops; I would it were to be I," he sighed. Amneris flushed with anger, as
she again saw a look of devotion pass between the slave-girl and Radames,
the darling of the court. Still, she pretended to be unsuspicious.
"Is there nothing to attract you in Memphis, that you wish to be off to the
war?" she asked, narrowly observing him. Radames, so sensitive and so
much in love, saw that he had betrayed his love for Aïda. All three became
ill at ease, but the Princess called the slave girl to her, pretending great
affection for her, and said:
"Why do you weep, Aïda? Neither you nor Radames seem to be happy to-
day."
"Ah, Princess, I weep because of this war rumour. I have known the sadness
and terror of war, and the thought of assembled war-hosts gives me pain. It
means ruin and despair to so many."
"That is the only the reason for your tears?" she persisted, trying to hide her
anger, but her glances belied the softness of her tone. Radames, noting this,
trembled for Aïda. Even the life of the girl was in the hands of the Princess,
and Radames knew it.

"Ah, my love, you are weeping for something besides a nation, and your
blush betrays you," Amneris answered, gently enough, but in her heart she
determined to punish the helpless girl. As the scene became more and more
painful, trumpets, which always preceded the King's coming, were heard
near at hand, and in he came, surrounded by guards, ministers, priests, and
officers; a brilliant company, making a brilliant picture.
"Greeting!" he cried, "it is a mighty cause which brings us here together. A
messenger has this moment arrived among us with news of great import. I
need the support of all the gallant men of my kingdom. Now, messenger,
come before us, if thou wilt, and tell thy news," the King cried in a fine and
haughty manner, motioning the messenger before him.
"I came to tell thee, Sire, that Egypt is invaded by Ethiop's King, and all her
border lands are laid waste. Our crops are destroyed, great havoc hath been
wrought, and unless thou shouldst send an army to resist the invading hosts,
we are lost."
"Ah, the presumptuous bandit!" the King cried, thus regarding his brother
ruler, and it is probable that the King of Ethiopia did not feel more
temperately toward the King of the Egyptians.
"By whom are the Ethiopians led?" the King asked.
"By one Amonasro—a warrior who hath never been conquered."
"What? the Ethiopian King, himself," all cried, because that was news with
a vengeance. Amonasro was known to be an invincible warrior, and, if he
was going to take the field in person, Egypt had indeed something to fear.
At the name, Aïda started.
"Amonasro!" she began to cry, but checked herself. Amonasro was her
beloved father! Since she was already a slave, her life would be in danger if
it were known that the Ethiopian King was her father. She leaned, almost
fainting, against the Princess's throne, and in the excitement her agitation
passed unnoticed. The messenger continued to speak:
"All Thebes has risen and sallied forth to check this foe."

"Death and battle, be our cry!" the King shouted; and all his nobles took up
the war-cry: "Death and battle, death and battle!"
"War, war, war! fierce and unrelenting," cried Radames, loudest of all, his
war spirit and love of country both aroused. At his cry all became still, and
the King looked at him with great affection.
"Egyptians, warriors, hear! the chief to lead our hosts against this bold
invader has this day been named by the Goddess Isis." Every one leaned
breathlessly forward. Many a brave fellow hoped the choice had fallen upon
him. None listened more eagerly than the Princess and Aïda.
"There is the choice!" the King continued, pointing to Radames. A moment
of silence followed, then Radames shouted:
"Ah! ye Gods! I thank thee! My dearest wish is mine." All the court and
soldiers burst into shouts of joy and confidence.
"Now to the Temple of Vulcan, Chieftain, and there equip yourself and men
for victory," the King cried, and all prepared to follow Radames.
"Take the war-standard from my hand, Radames," Amneris said, smiling at
him with affection: but Aïda murmured unheard:
"Whom shall I weep for, my lover or my father?" Her heart was breaking,
for the defeat of either her father or her lover would be a disaster to one so
tender as she.
"Battle, battle," all cried excitedly, all certain of victory at the hands of their
beloved leader, Radames. "May laurels crown thy brow!" they shouted,
following him to the temple, where they were to don their armour, feel if
their swords were sharp, and pray for success.
"Aye, may laurels crown thee," Aïda murmured. "I cannot wish thee ruin,
yet what a wicked wish, since victory must mean my father's loss. If
Radames shall conquer, I may see my father brought here in chains." The
unhappy girl prayed in turn for her father and Radames.

Scene II

When the men entered the Temple of Vulcan, a mysterious light came into
the temple from above and long rows of columns could be seen, placed one
behind the other, while statues stood between. The long rows of columns
were lost in the dim distance. In the middle of the temple was placed a high
altar, and all the scene was wrapped in the haze of incense which arose from
golden bowls. The High Priestess sang a song of mystic beauty in which the
High Priest and others joined, and then the Priestesses danced to an
exquisite measure.
While this beautiful thing was happening, Radames entered, all unarmed,
and went to the altar. There the gallant chief offered prayers for strength and
victory.
A fine silver veil was placed upon his head, to show that he was favoured of
the Gods and chosen by them.
The weapons, those of the Temple, given him were tempered by an
immortal hand and were to bring him success forever in all battles.
While he knelt there before the God of War, all the sacred men and women
of Vulcan's Temple joined in praise and in prayers for his safe return. The
chorus swelled higher and higher, till at last in one mighty volume of
glorious sound their invocations were completed, and Radames departed for
war.

ACT II

The return of the Egyptian troops was hourly expected; all Thebes was
preparing to receive them with honours and rejoicing; and great fêtes were
arranged for their amusement. Amneris was in her apartment, surrounded
by her attendants. Slave-girls waved feather fans, others were hanging
beautiful jewels upon her and anointing her with rare perfumes, all being
done to prepare her for the celebration of Radames's return. The air was full
of incense which rose from beautiful metal bowls placed on tripods about
her chamber, and she, herself, was waiting impatiently for news that
Radames and his men were in sight of Thebes.
The Egyptian King had decided to reward Radames for his victories by
giving him his daughter for a wife, but all the while Amneris was disturbed