ACT I

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_OPERAS_ EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW

Descriptions of the Text and Music of Some of the

Most Famous Masterpieces

by

DOLORES BACON

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration: Bruennhilde the Valkyrie]

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," "Tannhaeuser," "Romeo and

Juliet," "Parsifal," "Freischuetz," 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.

"Aida" 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: HAENSEL 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, AIDA 238

XIII. WAGNER: THE NIBELUNG RING, THE

MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBERG,

LOHENGRIN 306

OPERAS

EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW

OPERAS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW

BALFE

The 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 Bohemienne. 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 Bohemienne 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 roles; 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 reentered

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":

[Music:

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:

[Music:

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:

[Music:

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

The 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 Schroeder, 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 Schroeder, 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:

[Music:

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:

[Music:

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:

[Music:

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

"The 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,

Calve and Alvarez singing the great roles. 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 Ducre "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 Ducre, 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 Ducre, 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:

[Music:

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:

[Music]

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:

[Music:

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

When Bizet wrote his music around Prosper Merimee'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 Cesar Leopold, and he was born on October

25, 1838, at Bougival, and died June 3, 1875. He with Charles Lecocq

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'Arlesienne"--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 Jose, Corporal of Dragoons M. Lherie

Escamillo, Toreador M. Bouhy

Zuniga, Captain of Dragoons M. Dufriche

Morales, Officer M. Duvernoy

Lillas Pastia, Innkeeper M. Nathan

Carmen, Gipsy-girl Mme. Galli-Marie

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. Halevy.

First sung at the Opera 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:

[Music:

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 Jose. 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 Jose's mother, which was somewhere

near, in the hills. His old mother had become so lonely and worried,

not having heard from Jose 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 Jose, 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 Jose,

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 Jose.

"A pretty girl is somewhere near here, looking for you, Jose. She

wore a blue gown and her hair is in a braid down her back; she's----"

"I know her; it is Michaela," Jose 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 Jose.

"Huh?" Jose 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," Jose 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! Jose

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 Jose. The

first thing that she pleases to do is to make Jose 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:

[Music:

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 Jose, 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 Jose.

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 Jose: after all, he loves

her dearly--and there is his old mother! His better self responds:

Jose, 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. Jose 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. Jose, 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. Jose starts up and looks across.

"Hey, there! what the devil!" Zuniga shouts from the guard-house, and

runs out. "Hello, hello! Jose, 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, Jose, 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, Jose?" 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 Jose takes her into the guard-house.

Jose 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 Jose.

"It does not concern me," replies the heroic Jose.

"It should," Carmen persists.

"Ah!" replies Jose, 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:

[Music:

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!]

Jose 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 Jose, 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." Jose 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 Jose; the

bridge is reached. Carmen makes a leap; down goes Jose. 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 Jose,

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 Jose 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 Jose, 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 Jose 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 Jose 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:

[Music:

For a toast your own will avail me,

Senors, senors!

For all you men of war,

Like all Toreros, 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!

Toreador, make ready!

Toreador! Toreador!

And think on her, on her, who all can see:

On a dark eyed lady,

And that love waits for thee, Toreador,

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 Jose. She is not indifferent to his fascinations,

but--well, there is trouble coming her way, Escamillo's way, Jose'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 Jose, 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 Jose's voice signalling to Carmen.

"Think not?" she asks, nonchalantly.

When Jose enters, she really is glad to see him: he is very handsome

indeed. After her comrades have gone outside the inn, she tells Jose

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 Jose. In the midst of the dance they hear a bugle call. Jose 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 Jose 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 Jose, 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 Jose 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 Jose! 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

Jose. Jose 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 Jose.

"No," Jose 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 Jose 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, Jose. 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 Jose 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

Jose, 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 Jose 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 Jose 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 Jose alone in the cave. It is a dismal scene: the

loneliness of Jose, the menace of death in the air!

While Jose 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. Jose 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 Jose

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 Jose 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!" Jose 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." Jose 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," Jose 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. Jose 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.

"Jose," 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. Jose 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

Jose, "and see what a really good looking fellow is like," he taunts,

looking gaily at Carmen. He goes off, down the path, while Jose 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!" Jose calls.

"Jose! 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. Jose 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 Jose 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 Jose 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 Jose. The girls urge her not to go too far; to keep out

of Jose's way, but she refuses point blank.

"Leave the fight and Escamillo? Not for twenty Joses. 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 Jose 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. Jose 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 Jose.

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

Jose'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. Jose 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.

Jose is under arrest, Carmen dead, and the great crowd passes on,

cheering:

"Escamillo, Escamillo forever!"

DEKOVEN

Smith 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.

[Music:

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

There 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 Maegdemarkt 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 Opera 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 _Premiere_ 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.

[Music:

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:

[Music:

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 _him_self.

"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:

[Music:

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

role 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

This 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.

HAENSEL AND GRETEL

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Peter, a broom-maker.

Gertrude, his wife.

Haensel }

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, Haensel 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 Haensel 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:

Haensel and Gretel ceased after a little to work, and began to think

how hungry they were. Haensel 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:

[Music:

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, Haensel 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, Haensel,

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

Haensel 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,

Haensel, 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," Haensel 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 Haensel 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 Haensel, 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," Haensel 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

Haensel 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:

Haensel 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, Haensel 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. Haensel 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 Haensel's mouth; and Haensel 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!

"Haensel, 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," Haensel 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," Haensel 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.

Haensel 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 Haensel, "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. Haensel 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 Haensel 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 Haensel 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 Haensel 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.

"Haensel, 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," Haensel 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 Haensel 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," Haensel 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 Haensel

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," Haensel 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 Haensel'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, Haensel

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 Haensel'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, Haensel 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, Haensel 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 Haensel 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 Haensel 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 Haensel 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 Haensel 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 Haensel with a birch-twig

till he woke.

"Here, my little darling, show me your tongue," she said, and Haensel

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, Haensel 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 Haensel 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, Haensel, 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," Haensel 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 Haensel

and Gretel in great joy. But all their eyes were shut.

They laughed and sang and hopped, crying that Haensel 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 Haensel 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

This 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.

[Footnote A: The quotations from "Cavalleria Rusticana" are from the

English version by Nathan Haskell Dole, Copyright, 1891, by G.

Schirmer.]

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 fete

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:

[Music:

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:

[Music:

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

Genius 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 Prophete" 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.

[Music:

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.