THE OPERA.
The girls spent the next day in a very quiet manner. The morning
passed quickly as they wrote letters and fixed up their rooms. About
dinner time Jim knocked at the door and Dorothy answered.
"Dorothy, I have written and 'phoned Mr. Ford and I can't seem to get
any answer from him," announced Jim.
"What did you want him for, Jim?" questioned Dorothy.
"Why, I wanted to get his opinion on that position I want to take with
the Edison Co.," answered Jim.
"I have it!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Send him a telegram."
"I might try that, though I have about made up my mind----"
Just at that moment Aunt Betty called from her room, "Dorothy,
Dorothy, girl!"
"Yes, Aunt Betty," answered Dorothy, going to her aunt's door. "What
may you want?"
"Don't you think it would be real nice if we four went for a drive
this afternoon? It's a nice warm afternoon and we can go up Fifth
avenue and into the park," suggested Aunt Betty.
"That will be fine. I'll run and tell Alfy and we'll get ready,"
responded Dorothy, going quickly out of the room. "Alfy! Alfy! Where
are you?"
"In here," called Alfy from her room.
Dorothy rushed into the room, crying, "Alfy dear, just think, we are
going driving this afternoon, Aunt Betty, Jim, and you and I. We are
going driving--driving."
"Oh, that's just great," exclaimed Alfy, dancing round the room. "It's
fun to go driving in a big city."
"Let's get ready right away," said Dorothy, taking Alfy's hand and
dancing round in a circle with her, singing, "Let's get ready, let's
get ready, let's get ready right away." And then they let go of each
other's hands and danced away to accomplish the art of "getting ready
right away."
Very soon the girls were in the sitting room waiting for Jim and Aunt
Betty.
Just then Jim burst into the room crying, "Dorothy, I can't get a
horse and carriage here to drive myself like one has in Baltimore, but
I did get a nice automobile. I guess it will not cost any more, for we
cover so much ground in a short time. I found a large, red touring car
that just holds five and the chauffeur is downstairs now waiting for
us, so hustle into your things."
"An auto ride! That's better still," responded Alfy as she rushed to
put on her hat and coat.
"I am all ready, dear," called Aunt Betty from the next room.
"Well, then, come on," answered Jim. "All come with me." And they
followed him down and out to the automobile.
They were very much delighted with the auto car, and the three, Aunt
Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, climbed into the back seat, and Jim took his
place with the driver.
Aunt Betty called, "Jim, Jim, please tell the chauffeur to drive
slowly and to go up Fifth avenue."
Away they went. "Oh, oh, oh!" gasped Alfy at the first corner. "Oh, I
most thought we would bump into that trolley car!"
"Well," said Jim, "we didn't, but it was a pretty close shave."
"Just think of all the people we might have hurt if we had," said
Dorothy.
"I guess," replied Jim, "that the only ones hurt would have been
ourselves, for the trolley is so heavy we couldn't have bothered that
much."
Just then they turned into Fifth avenue and joined the procession of
already too many machines that were slowly wending their way up and
down that old thoroughfare.
"Dorothy and Alfy," said Aunt Betty, "in those large houses live the
very rich of New York."
"Oh, I wouldn't live in a house like that," said Alfy, "if I was rich.
I couldn't, I just could never be happy in one like that," pointing to
a large gray stone mansion. "It hasn't any garden and windows only in
the front, and looks like a pile of boxes, one on top of the other."
"Don't the people in New York care for gardens, aunty dear?"
questioned Dorothy.
"Yes. Yes, indeed, dear. But these are only their winter homes,"
laughed Aunt Betty. "They have summer homes in the country where they
have very beautiful gardens. They only spend a few months here in
these houses each winter."
"Well, I would rather have a real home for all the time," said
practical Jim. "A real home, like Bellevieu."
"Dear, dear old Bellevieu, I wouldn't exchange it either for all of
these places," whispered Dorothy. "And after this trip is over, and I
have made a lot of money, we will all go back there again, and I will
build that new sun-parlor Aunt Betty has so long wanted."
Aunt Betty sighed, for she and she only knew how badly off was the
poor old estate. The mortgage that must be paid and the repairs and
other things that were needed. She hoped that Dorothy's trip would be
a success, and that she could pay off the mortgage at last.
Then answering Dorothy, she said, "Dear, dear little girl, you are
always trying to think of something pleasant for someone else. Never
mind your old Aunt Betty, dear."
"But I do," whispered Dorothy in her ear, "because I love you more
than anyone else in the world."
"Yes, dear, maybe now you do," rejoined Aunt Betty, "but some day,
some day wait and see."
They eagerly looked at the beautiful homes, the large and handsome
hotels and most of all the happy throng of people who filled the
streets, remarking that they had never before seen quite so many
people, each hurrying along apparently to do his or her special duty.
From Fifth avenue they went up Riverside Drive, around Grant's Tomb.
Then as the limit of time they had arranged for was nearly up they
told the chauffeur to drive home, all happy and full of thoughts of
the new things they had seen.
"Well, what next, Dorothy girl?" exclaimed Aunt Betty.
"Why, I don't quite know. Let me see--just what day is this?" said
Dorothy to herself. "It's--it's--oh, yes, it's Friday! Oh, oh! Why we
must all hurry, hurry, hurry--dress right at once."
"Dorothy, child, what ails you?" laughed Aunt Betty. "Talking away so
fast and all to yourself. Come now, tell me what you want us to dress
for?"
"Why, aunty, I had most forgotten it. It's Friday, and we promised--I
mean I promised--but I forgot all about it," continued Dorothy.
Just then Alfy interrupted. "Dorothy I am most dead with curiosity;
tell us quick, please."
"Well," rejoined Dorothy, "it's just this. You see, I promised--"
"You said all that before," interrupted Alfy again.
"Be still, Alfy, or I just won't tell," scolded Dorothy. "Mr. Ludlow
is coming here at eight o'clock to take us all to the opera. Miss
Boothington, Ruth, is going also. He told me to tell you all, and I
just guess I must have since then forgotten. I don't see how I did,
but I just did. Oh, aunty, it's a box Mr. Ludlow has and we must dress
all up 'cause all the millionaires of New York go to the opera."
"Dorothy dear, whatever made you forget?" asked Aunt Betty.
"Guess 'cause she is doing and seeing so much she has lost track of
the days. Isn't that so?" chimed in Alfy.
"That doesn't excuse my little girl," remarked Aunt Betty, and turning
to Dorothy, "What is it we are going to hear, dearest?"
"I think Mr. Ludlow said 'Koenigskinder'," answered Dorothy. "I am not
sure but that's what I think he said."
"Ah, yes," said Aunt Betty, "that is a comparatively new opera and
Miss Geraldine Farrar sings the principal part in it. She plays the
part of the goose-girl. Well, I guess we had better hurry. We must
dress and have dinner before Mr. Ludlow gets here for us."
"Can I wear that new pink dress, Aunty?" called Dorothy.
"Why, dear, I would keep that one for one of your concerts, and if I
were you I would wear the little white one with the blue ribbons, and
tell Alfy she might wear the white dress Miss Lenox made for her
before we left Baltimore," said Aunt Betty.
"All right," called back Dorothy.
It didn't take the girls long to get dressed, and when they were
finished they appeared in the sitting room. Both Jim and Aunt Betty
declared that there weren't two finer girls in all New York City. And
Jim added under his breath, "In all the world," thinking only of
Dorothy then.
Down they went for dinner, and so anxious were they that they should
not be late that the meal was passed over as quickly and quietly as
possible.
They had just reached their rooms when Mr. Ludlow was announced, and
gathering up their wraps and long white gloves--for Alfy thought more
of these white gloves than anything else she owned just then--they
went forth to meet Mr. Ludlow.
"Well, well," said Mr. Ludlow, who was standing beside Ruth in the
lobby, "all here and all ready. I do wish you would set the same
example of promptness for Ruth. She is always, always late."
"Well," replied Ruth, "somehow I always try but just can't seem to get
dressed in time. I didn't keep you waiting very long to-day, did I?"
"Well, dear, that is because I said that the longer you kept me
waiting, the less you could have for dinner," laughed Mr. Ludlow.
"Maybe that is why, because I do get so tired of boarding house
meals," rejoined Ruth, and, turning to Dorothy, "Come dear, the auto
is all ready and we are not so very early."
The others followed them and soon they reached the Metropolitan Opera
House, and after passing through the crowded lobby, entered the foyer.
It was quite dark, and very quietly they followed Mr. Ludlow, whose
box was on the right hand side, well toward the stage.
They were presently all seated, but before they had time to talk or
look around much the music began. And such music. Dorothy was
oblivious to all else as she followed the score. For memory's
convenience she wrote out the plot of the opera, the next day, and
here is a copy from her diary:
The Goose-Girl lives in the hills which look down in the
town of Hellabrunn. Around her stray her geese. She lies on
the green grass, beneath the branches of a shady
linden-tree. Near her is the hut which she inhabits with an
old cruel Witch. Behind her stretch wild woods and lonely
mountains. She sings and feeds her flock. The Witch appears,
scolding and berating the girl, whom she orders to prepare
a magic pasty which will kill whoever eats of it. The
Goose-Girl begs the Witch to let her go into the world of
men. But she implores in vain.
Out of the woods, and from the hills, a youth comes roving.
He seems poor. But by his side there hangs a sword and in
his hand he holds a bundle. He is the King's Son, though the
Goose-Girl does not know it. And in the bundle is a royal
crown.
The King's Son tells the Goose-Girl of his wanderings. He
has left his home, and the King's service, to be free. The
Goose-Girl asks him what a King may be. He answers her,
marvelling at her beauty and her ignorance. She longs to
follow him. He falls in love with her, and asks her to go
maying with him, through the summer land. He kisses her; and
then a gust of wind blows the girl's wreath away. The King's
Son picks up the wreath and hides it near his heart. In
exchange for it he offers her his crown. The sweethearts are
about to run off together when a wild wind alarms them and
the Goose-Girl finds her feet glued to the ground. Thinking
she is afraid to roam with him the King's Son tosses his
crown into the grass, tells the girl that she is unworthy to
be a King's mate and leaves her, vowing she shall never see
him more till a star has fallen into a fair lily which is
blooming near.
The Goose-Girl is still sighing for her lover, when the
Witch returns, abuses her for having wasted her time on a
man and weaves a magic spell to prevent her escape.
A Fiddler enters, singing a strange song. He is followed by
two citizens of Hellabrunn, a Woodcutter and a Broom (or
besom) maker, who have been sent to ask the Witch where they
can find the son of the King, who is just dead. They are in
mortal fear of the old woman. But the Fiddler scoffs at her
and all her arts. The Fiddler, acting as their mouthpiece,
says that the people of Hellabrunn are dying to have a King
or a Queen to rule over them. The Witch replies that the
first person, rich or in rags, who enters the town gate next
day at noon should be enthroned. The Woodcutter and
Broom-maker go back to Hellabrunn. But the Fiddler lingers,
suspecting that the Goose-Girl is in the hut. Soon she
appears and confides her sorrows to the Fiddler, who assures
her she shall wed the King's Son. The Witch, however, jeers
at the thought and tells the Fiddler that the girl is the
child of a hangman's daughter. In spite of all, the
Goose-Girl plucks up heart, for she feels that her soul is
royal and she knows that she will not shame her kingly
lover. She prays to her dead father and mother for help. And
as she kneels, a shooting star falls into the lily. The
Goose-Girl runs off into the woods with her flock, to join
her sweetheart, and this ends the first act.
In the second act the town of Hellabrunn is in a turmoil of
excitement, awaiting the new ruler. Near the town-gate is an
inn. The Innkeeper's Daughter is scolding the Stable-Maid,
when the King's Son enters, poorly clad as before. Though
she despises his poverty, the Innkeeper's Daughter
coquettes with him; for he is comely. She gives him food and
drink, which seem coarse to him, and advises him to get
married. He declines and arouses the girl's anger.
The people enter, seat themselves and drink. A Gate-keeper
forbids any to approach the gate, which must be left free
for the coming King. Musicians enter, playing pipes and
bagpipes. A dance begins. The Innkeeper and his servants
bustle about. He sees the King's Son, who offers himself to
him as an apprentice, but is told that there is no work for
him, unless he is willing to be a swineherd. He consents.
The Woodcutter appears, with the Broom-maker and his
thirteen daughters. The Woodcutter, swelling with
importance, tosses a gulden on the Innkeeper's table, to
wipe out an old score, but pockets it again when unobserved.
One of the Broom-maker's daughters asks the King's Son to
play at Ring-a-rosy with her. Their game is interrupted by
the entrance of the Town Councillors and well-to-do
Burghers, with their wives and children. The Councillors
seat themselves in a tribune erected for them and the eldest
of them invites the Woodcutter to relate his adventures in
the woods. The King's Son is amazed to hear him tell of
imaginary dangers which he has encountered with the
Broom-maker. He learns from the Woodcutter's account,
however, that on the stroke of twelve a King's Son, richly
clad, and bright with gems, will enter by the now closed
gate. He asks the people if the expected monarch might not
come in rags. They laugh at the idea and he is accused of
being a meddler, rogue and thief. The clock strikes twelve.
The crowd rushes toward the gate. An intuition warns the
King's Son who is near. Then, as the gate is opened, the
poor Goose-Girl enters, escorted by her geese. She tells the
King's Son she has come to join him on his throne. But the
crowd jeers at her and scorns her youthful lover and though
the Fiddler storms and rages at their blindness, the two
lovers are driven out with sticks and stones. Only the
Fiddler and the little daughter of the Broom-maker believe
them worthy of the throne.
This was where the curtain went down and I thought it was
the end. Oh, how disappointed I was, and then how happy,
when I knew there was another act.
Winter has come. Since the expulsion of the King's Son and
his sweetheart, the Witch has been burned at the stake for
her supposed betrayal of the people to whom she had promised
a new ruler. The Fiddler, who has been maimed and imprisoned
for defending the outcasts, now lives alone in the Witch's
hut, where he is feeding the doves the Goose-Girl has left
behind. He is disturbed by the arrival of the Woodcutter and
the Broom-maker, with a troop of children who have come to
entreat him to come back to Hellabrunn. He refuses. But when
one of the children begs him to lead them all in search of
the lost King's Son and his bride, he consents. The
Woodcutter and the Broom-maker withdraw into the hut, where
they discover the poisoned pasty which the Witch had baked.
Hardly have the echoes of a song sung by the Fiddler died
away, when the King's Son and the Goose-Girl re-appear,
hungry and thirsting and worn out with wandering. They stop
to rest and the King's Son knocks at the door of the hut to
beg food and shelter. The Woodcutter refuses to give them
anything. To comfort her sweetheart, the Goose-Girl pretends
she is none the worse for her long travels over hill and
dale in the vain effort to discover the King's Son's old
home. She sings and dances to him. But she soon grows faint
and falls. To save his love from starving, the King's Son
then barters his royal crown, which he has found again, for
the poisoned pasty. The outcasts eat it and soon after die,
fancying themselves happy in a land of love and roses. With
her last breath the Goose-Girl braves grim Death who
threatens her and sighs "I love thee, dear!"
The Fiddler and the troop of little children then return,
only to learn that they have found the outcasts but to lose
them. They lay the youthful lovers on a bier and bear them
away to bury them on a high hill. And as they go, they sing
a last lament for the poor "Kingly Children."
After the opera, Mr. Ludlow invited them to a supper at one of the
cafes, but Aunt Betty demurred, as it was quite late, and so they were
driven straight home.
"Alfy," said Dorothy, when they had reached their rooms, "you are such
a funny girl. You didn't half pay attention to the opera at all. All I
saw you doing was looking at the ladies in the boxes."
"I was trying to remember the dress of the lady in that one box, the
one that glistened all over with diamonds. I wanted to write and tell
Ma Babcock just how to make it. It was so stylish, and had such a nice
low neck and long train," said Alfy.
"Alfy, are you sure you are not crazy?" laughed Dorothy. "Oh, oh! Just
imagine Ma Babcock in a dress like that! Oh, dear! It's so funny."
"Why, Dorothy!" angrily added Alfy, "why couldn't ma have a dress like
that? And anyway, I couldn't understand a word they were singing. I am
going right to bed, I am, so there!"
"Alfy, dear, don't you know that people only wear dresses like that to
evening affairs, and, of course, you couldn't understand, it was all
in German. Here, kiss me good-night." The girls kissed each other and
were soon fast asleep.