ACT V

In a dungeon underneath the palace, John found his mother. He went to

the place where he had privately ordered the Anabaptists to have her

taken, the moment he could leave the ceremonies of his coronation. The

feast of the day was yet to come, but while the ceremonies had been

going on, the three Anabaptists had had a message from the Emperor of

Germany, which promised safety to themselves, if they would give the

Prophet into his hands. They had treacherously decided to do this at

the coronation feast.

In the dungeon the poor old mother had huddled down, no longer in

fear, because her grief had rendered her insensible to everything

else.

"I forgive him," she sobbed, thinking of her son. "Let no ill come to

him for what he has done to me this day." As she was thus plunged in

deepest grief, the iron door opened, flambeaux lighted the palace up,

and the guard cried the Prophet's name.

"Woman, get upon thy knees; the Prophet is coming to thee," an officer

said.

She started up: "He is coming here--I shall see him?" she whispered to

herself. Then the guard left, and John of Leyden came in. He ran

toward his mother.

"Mother! My mother!" he cried.

"Nay!" she answered. "In the crowd I obeyed thee--I read some strange

message in thy face. But here, with only God's eye upon thee, go down

on thy knees before me."

"Oh, mother, I love thee!"

But the old mother reproached him with what he had done--how he had

brought a people to despair and had imposed himself upon them as the

son of God; but all the while she chided him, she loved him dearly.

"It was my wrongs that made me do this thing, mother," he urged.

But she showed him all his wickedness with such vehemence that he

could not answer, and could only weep. Then she spoke quietly.

"If thou art remorseful for thy sins, proclaim thy wrong. Be thyself,

John of Leyden, the innkeeper, my son!"

"Desert my soldiers?" he asked, in a frightened voice. "I have led

others into danger--dare I desert them?"

"Thy mother demands it: it is the only way to right thy wrongdoing.

The blessing of God will only then descend upon thee." The Prophet,

overwhelmed by her command, opened his arms to Heaven as a sign that

he would obey, and Faith threw herself upon his breast.

Now Bertha, utterly distracted by her troubles, had disguised herself

as a pilgrim, and in her madness she had determined to set fire to the

stores of wood beneath the palace. She found her way into the dungeon

just as John and his mother were embracing. As the iron doors were

heard to open again, John turned around and saw a woman enter. As she

saw John she cried bitterly:

"Behold the Prophet!" Both John and Faith cried out upon recognizing

her voice.

"Now, let us perish together!" Bertha said, wildly, approaching John.

Then suddenly recognizing him she stifled a scream:

"Thou! the Prophet is thou? My God, my God! Then let us perish now!"

She stared in horror at the man she loved, who was also the man she

had cursed and despised--the famous Prophet.

"Oh, my child, speak low, speak low!" Faith implored, looking

anxiously toward the iron door. "Abandon thy hate. I have found my

son. He will do right. Have pity upon him," the old mother pleaded.

Bertha looking at him, felt all the love of her heart enfold him

again. The madness died out her eyes.

"Yes. Let us not hate. Let us curse no more. Far from this dread city,

we three were to have been happy. Yes, I love thee still; but still

thou art the infamous man whom I have cursed. Since I love thee, let

this atone for thee," and before he could answer, she had plunged a

dagger into her heart and fallen dead at his feet.

Then John summoned the guard. He no longer cared to live. The officer

of the guard, who was faithful to him, told him, when he entered, of

the plot to give him over to the Emperor, while the coronation feast

was in progress.

"Very well. I am satisfied. Do thou take my mother to a place of

safety. I shall be at the feast," he said significantly. Embracing

his mother, he handed her into the care of the astonished guard, and

left the dungeon.

Nothing could have been more magnificent than the banquet prepared for

the coronation. The tables were loaded with golden dishes, and young

women passed, scattering flowers, while pages in gay dress ran hither

and thither. There, John entered, and sat apart, as had been arranged.

He was pale and sad. All was gaiety about him, but he had prepared an

awful fate for his betrayers. In the vaults of the palace were stored

powder and firearms of all sorts. Just above those vaults was the

banqueting room, which had great iron gates closed at one end. The

company could only leave the room by those gates. John of Leyden had

brought two officers whom he could trust into the hall with him, and

unheard, he commanded them to close and lock the gates as soon as the

Anabaptists Zacharia, Mathison, and Jonas, with Oberthal, the great

power of Muenster and the Bishops--all who were his enemies and to whom

the Anabaptists meant to betray him--were assembled.

Then the feast began. All hailed the Prophet in loud voices,

pretending great affection and faith in him. In the midst of a dance

by which the guests were entertained, Faith, whom he thought quite

safe, entered. She knew what he had done--that he meant to blow up the

palace by firing the vaults below, and she had determined to die with

her son. The Prophet had not yet seen her.

The Anabaptists and John's enemies spoke apart, and John watched them

cynically. He knew well what they intended, and that he had them

trapped.

"Now close the gates," he said in a low voice to his officers. "Lock

them." He had not seen his mother. When the gates were closed, he

turned smilingly to the company. He called for wine.

"Let us drink!" he cried. Then Oberthal rose and shouted:

"Thou art mine, great Prophet! Surrender thyself." Still the Prophet

smiled at them. Jonas then cried:

"Yes, thou tyrant--thou art betrayed. We have thee fast! Surrender!"

"Oh, ye poor creatures," he answered. "Listen! do ye hear nothing?"

Still smiling upon them, as they stared at him, they heard a strange

rumbling below. The train he had laid to blow up the palace had fired

the powder.

"Thy time has come!" John of Leyden cried, and the vast hall began to

fill with smoke and powder fumes. Riot reigned, and just at that

moment Faith, her gray hair streaming about her, pushed through the

crowd and threw herself into her son's arms. He gave a great cry of

agony.

"Mother! Thou art here?"

"To die with thee, my son!" she shrieked, and with a roar the palace

fell about their ears.

MOZART

It is not at all probable that anything so ridiculous as the "Magic

Flute" story was ever before written. It might have been the concerted

effort of Artemus Ward, Theodore Hook, Bill Nye, and Mark Twain. But

an effort at coherence must be made in the putting together of this

story, because the opera is, above all things, one that every man,

woman, and child should know. Mozart's lovely music could not be

ruined, even by this story.

It has been said that the "Magic Flute" might have had some Masonic

significance. That is quite likely, on the ground that it has no other

significance whatever.

This opera proves one thing beyond a doubt: That Mozart could have

written beautiful music with the New York Directory for a theme.

Rossini summed up Mozart very properly: "Who is the greatest musician

in the world?" some one asked him. "Beethoven," Rossini answered. "But

what about Mozart?" "Well, you see, Mozart is the _only_ musician in

the world," he answered, allowing of no comparisons! And he is the

only one, yet, to some of us!

That he was a man of the most fascinating temper cannot be doubted,

when one reads his memoirs. He was without any financial judgment. He

could make money, but he couldn't keep it. There is a story

illustrating the dominance of his heart over his head, told in

connection with an offer of patronage from the King of Prussia. At

that time Mozart was Emperor Leopold's musician, and when he went to

Leopold to offer his resignation and take advantage of the better

arrangement which the Prussian King had offered, Leopold said

urgently: "But, Mozart, you surely are not going to forsake me?" "No,

of course not," Mozart answered hastily. "May it please your Majesty,

I shall remain." When his friends asked him if he had not been wise

enough to make some demand to his own advantage at such a time, he

answered in amazement: "Why, who could do such a thing--at such a

time?"

His sentiment was charming, his character fascinating. He married

Constance Weber, herself a celebrated person. She was never tired of

speaking and writing of her husband. It was she who told of his small,

beautifully formed hands, and of his favourite amusements--playing at

bowls and billiards. The latter sport, by the way, has been among the

favoured amusements of many famous musicians; Paderewski is a great

billiard player.

As a little child, Mozart had a father who "put him through," so to

speak, he being compelled to play, and play and play, from the time he

was six years old. At that age he drew the bow across his violin while

standing in the custom-house at Vienna, on the way to play at

Schoenbrunn for the Emperor, and he charmed the officers so much that

the whole Mozart family baggage was passed free of tax. While at the

palace he was treated gorgeously, and among the Imperial family at

that time was Marie Antoinette, then a young and gay princess. The

young princesses treated little Wolfgang Mozart like a brother, and

when he stumbled and fell in the drawing room, it happened to be

Antoinette who picked him up. "Oh, you are good, I shall marry you!"

he assured her. On that occasion the Mozart family received the sum of

only forty pounds for his playing, with some additions to the family

wardrobe thrown in.

Most composers have had favourite times and seasons for work--in bed,

with a heap of sausages before them, or while out walking. Beethoven

used to pour cold water over his hands till he soaked off the ceiling

of the room below; in short, most musicians except Mozart had some

surprising idiosyncrasy. He needed even no instrument when composing

music. He could enjoy a game of bowls, sitting and making his MS.

while the game was in progress, and leaving his work to take his turn.

He was not strong, physically, and was often in poor circumstances,

but wherever he was there was likely to be much excitement and gaiety.

He would serenely write his music on his knee, on his table, wherever

and however he chanced to be; and was most at ease when his wife was

telling him all the gossip of the day while he worked. After all, that

is the true artist. Erraticalness is by no means the thing that makes

a man great, though he sometimes becomes great in spite of it, but for

the most part it is carefully cultivated through conceit.

Mozart's burial was probably the most extraordinary commentary on fame

and genius ever known. The day he was buried, it was stormy weather

and all the mourners, few enough to start with, had dropped off long

before the graveyard was reached. He was to be buried third class, and

as there had already been two pauper funerals that day, a midwife's,

and another's, Mozart's body was to be placed on top. No one was at

the grave except the assistant gravedigger and his mother.

"Who is it?" the mother asked.

"A bandmaster," the hearse driver answered.

"Well, Gott! there isn't anything to be expected then. So hurry up!"

Thus the greatest of musical geniuses was done with this world.

Germany has given us the greatest musicians, but she leaves other

people to take care of them, to love them, and to bury them--or to

leave them go "third-class."

THE MAGIC FLUTE

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Queen of the Night.

Pamina (Queen's daughter).

Papagena.

Three ladies of the Queen's Court.

Three Genii of the Temple.

Tamino, an Egyptian Prince.

Monostatos, a Moor in the service of Sarastro.

Sarastro, High Priest of the Temple.

Papageno, Tamina's servant.

Speaker of the Temple.

Two priests.

Two armed men.

Chorus of priests of the Temple, slaves, and attendants.

The scene is near the Temple of Isis, in Egypt.

Composer: Mozart.

ACT I

Once upon a time an adventurous Egyptian youth found himself near to

the Temple of Isis. He had wandered far, had clothed himself in

another habit than that worn by his people, and by the time he reached

the temple he had spent his arrows, and had nothing but his useless

bow left. In this predicament, he saw a monstrous serpent who made

after him, and he fled. He had nothing to fight with, and was about to

be caught in the serpent's fearful coils when the doors of the temple

opened and three ladies ran out, each armed with a fine silver spear.

They had heard the youth's cries of distress, and had rushed out to

assist him. Immediately they attacked the monster and killed it, while

Tamino lay panting upon the ground. When they went to him they found

him unconscious. He seemed to be a very noble and beautiful youth,

whose appearance was both heroic and gentle, and they were inspired

with confidence in him.

"May not this youth be able, in return for our services to him, to

help us in our own troubles?" they inquired of each other; for they

belonged to the court of the Queen of the Night, and that sovereign

was in great sorrow. Her beautiful daughter, Pamina, had been carried

away, and none had been able to discover where she was hidden. There

was no one in the court who was adventurous enough to search in

certain forbidden and perilous places for her.

As Tamino lay exhausted upon the ground, one of the women who had

rescued him declared that she would remain to guard him--seeing he had

no arrows--while the others should go and tell the Queen that they had

found a valiant stranger who might help them.

At this suggestion the other two set up a great cry.

"You stay to guard the youth! Nay, I shall stay myself. Go thou and

tell Her Majesty." Thereupon they all fell to quarrelling as to who

should remain beside the handsome youth and who should go. Each

declared openly that she could gaze upon him forever, because he was

such a beauty, which would doubtless have embarrassed Tamino

dreadfully if he had not been quite too tired to attend to what they

said.

The upshot of it was that all three went, rather than leave any one of

them to watch with him. When they had disappeared into the temple once

more, Tamino half roused himself and saw the serpent lying dead beside

him.

"I wonder where I can be?" he mused. "I was saved in the nick of time:

I was too exhausted to run farther," and at that moment he heard a

beautiful strain of music, played upon a flute:

[Music]

He raised himself to listen attentively, and soon he saw a man

descending from among the rocks behind the temple. Still fearful of

new adventures while he was unarmed and worn, Tamino rose and hid

himself in the trees. The man's name was Papageno, and he carried a

great cage filled with birds upon his back; in both hands he held a

pipe, which was like the pipe of Pan, and it was upon this that he was

making music. He also sang:

[Music:

A fowler bold in me you see,

A man of mirth and minstrelsy;

My name is ever in demand,

With old and young thro'out the land--

I set my traps, the birds flock round,

I whistle, and they know the sound.]

For wealth my lot I'd not resign,

For every bird that flies is mine.

I am a fowler, bold and free,

A man of mirth and minstrelsy;

My name is ever in demand,

With old and young throughout the land.

But nets to set for pretty maids:

That were the most divine of trades.

I'd keep them safe 'neath lock and key,

And all I caught should be for me.

So that exceedingly jolly fellow sang as he passed Tamino. He was

about to enter the temple when Tamino, seeing he had nothing to fear,

stopped him.

"Hello, friend! Who are you?"

"I ask the same," the fowler answered, staring at Tamino.

"That is easily answered. I am a prince and a wanderer. My father

reigns over many lands and tribes."

"Ah, ha! Perhaps in that land of thine I might do a little trade in

birds," the fowler said, jovially.

"Is that how you make your living?" Tamino asked him.

"Surely! I catch birds and sell them to the Queen of the Night and her

ladies."

"What does the Queen look like?" Tamino asked, somewhat curious.

"How do I know? Pray, who ever saw the Queen of the Night?"

"You say so? Then she must be the great Queen of whom my father has

often spoken."

"I shouldn't wonder."

"Well, let me thank you for killing that great serpent. He nearly did

for me," Tamino replied, taking it for granted that the man before him

had been the one to rescue him, since he had fallen unconscious before

he had seen the ladies. The fowler looked about at the dead serpent.

"Perfectly right! A single grasp of mine would kill a bigger monster

than that," the fowler boasted, taking to himself the credit for the

deed; but by this time the three ladies had again come from the temple

and were listening to this boastful gentleman with the birds upon his

back.

"Tell me, are the ladies of the court beautiful?" Tamino persisted.

"I should fancy not--since they go about with their faces covered.

Beauties are not likely to hide their faces," he laughed boisterously.

At that the ladies came toward him. Tamino beheld them with pleasure.

"Now give us thy birds," they said to the fowler, who became suddenly

very much quieter and less boastful. He gave them the birds and

received, instead of the wine he expected, according to custom, a

bottle of water.

"Here, for the first time, her Majesty sends you water," said she who

had handed him the bottle; and another, holding out something to him,

said:

"And instead of bread she sends you a stone."

"And," said the other, "she wishes that ready mouth of yours to be

decorated with this instead of the figs she generally sends," and at

that she put upon his lips a golden padlock, which settled his

boasting for a time. "Now indicate to this youth who killed that

serpent," she continued. But the fowler could only show by his actions

that he had no idea who did it.

"Very well; then, dear youth, let me tell you that you owe your life

to us." Tamino was ready to throw himself at the feet of such

beautiful champions, but one of them interrupted his raptures by

giving him a miniature set in jewels.

"Look well at this: our gracious Queen has sent it to you."

Tamino gazed long at the portrait and was beside himself with joy,

because he found the face very beautiful indeed.

"Is this the face of your great Queen?" he cried. They shook their

heads. "Then tell me where I may find this enchanting creature!"

"This is our message: If the face is beautiful to thee and thou

would'st make it thine, thou must be valiant. It is the face of our

Queen's daughter, who has been carried away by a fierce demon, and

none have dared seek for her."

"For that beautiful maiden?" Tamino cried in amazement. "I dare seek

for her! Only tell me which way to go, and I will rescue her from all

the demons of the inferno. I shall find her and make her my bride." He

spoke with so much energy and passion that the ladies were quite

satisfied that they had found a knight to be trusted.

"Dear youth, she is hidden in our own mountains, but----" At that

moment a peal of thunder startled everybody.

"Heaven! What may that be?" Tamino cried, and even as he spoke, the

rocks parted and the Queen of the Night stood before them.

"Be not afraid, noble youth. A clear conscience need have no fear.

Thou shalt find my daughter, and when she is restored to my arms, she

shall be thine." With this promise the Queen of the Night disappeared

as suddenly as she had come. Then the poor boastful fowler began to

say "hm, hm, hm, hm," and motion to his locked mouth.

"I cannot help thee, poor wretch," Tamino declared. "Thou knowest that

lock was put upon thee to teach thee discretion." But one of the women

went to him and told him that by the Queen's commands she now would

set him free.

"And this, dear youth," she said, going to Tamino and giving him a

golden flute, "is for thee. Take it, and its magic will guard thee

from all harm. Wherever thou shalt wander in search of the Queen's

daughter, this enchanted flute will protect thee. Only play upon it.

It will calm anger and soothe the sorrowing."

"Thou, Papageno," said another, "art to go with the Prince, by the

Queen's command, to Sarastro's castle, and serve him faithfully." At

that the fowler was frightened half to death.

No indeed! that I decline.

From yourselves have I not heard

That he's fiercer than the pard?

If by him I were accosted

He would have me plucked and roasted.

"Have no fear, but do as you are bid. The Prince and his flute shall

keep thee safe from Sarastro."

I wish the Prince at all the devils;

For death nowise I search;

What if, to crown my many evils,

He should leave me in the lurch?

He did not feel half as brave as he had seemed when he told Tamino how

he had killed the serpent.

Then another of the ladies of the court gave to Papageno a chime of

bells, hidden in a casket.

"Are these for me?" he asked.

"Aye, and none but thou canst play upon them. With a golden chime and

a golden flute, thou art both safe. The music of these things shall

charm the wicked heart and soothe the savage breast. So, fare ye well,

both." And away went the two strange adventurers, Papageno and Tamino,

one a prince, the other a bird-catcher.

_Scene II_

After travelling for a week and a day, the two adventurers came to a

fine palace. Tamino sent the fowler with his chime of bells up to the

great place to spy out what he could, and he was to return and bring

the Prince news.

Without knowing it they had already arrived at the palace of Sarastro,

and at that very moment Pamina, the Queen's daughter, was in great

peril.

In a beautiful room, furnished with divans, and everything in Egyptian

style, sat Monostatos, a Moor, who was in the secrets of Sarastro, who

had stolen the Princess. Monostatos had just had the Princess brought

before him and had listened malignantly to her pleadings to be set

free.

"I do not fear death," she was saying; "but it is certain that if I do

not return home, my mother will die of grief."

"Well, I have had enough of thy meanings, and I shall teach thee to be

more pleasing; so minions," calling to the guards and servants of the

castle, "chain this tearful young woman's hands, and see if it will

not teach her to make herself more agreeable." As the slaves entered,

to place the fetters upon her hands, the Princess fell senseless upon

a divan.

"Away, away, all of you!" Monostatos cried, just as Papageno peeped in

at the palace window.

"What sort of place is this?" Papageno said to himself, peering in

curiously. "I think I will enter and see more of it." Stepping in, he

saw the Princess senseless upon the divan, and the wretched Moor

bending over her. At that moment the Moor turned round and saw

Papageno. They looked at each other, and each was frightened half to

death.

"Oh, Lord!" each cried at the same moment. "This must be the fiend

himself."

"Oh, have mercy!" each shrieked at each other.

"Oh, spare my life," they yelled in unison, and then, at the same

moment each fled from the other, by a different way. At the same

instant, Pamina awoke from her swoon, and began to call pitiably for

her mother. Papageno heard her and ventured back.

"She's a handsome damsel, and I'll take a chance, in order to rescue

her," he determined, feeling half safe because of his chime of bells.

"Why, she is the very image of the Prince's miniature and so it must

be the daughter of the Queen of the Night," he decided, taking another

good look at her.

"Who art thou?" she asked him, plaintively.

"Papageno," he answered.

"I do not know the name. But I am the daughter of the Queen of the

Night."

"Well, I think you are, but to make sure"--He pulled from his pocket

the portrait which had been given to him by the Prince and looked at

it earnestly for a long time.

"According to this you shouldn't have any hands or feet," he announced

gravely.

"But it is I," the Princess declared, looking in turn at the

miniature. "Pray, where did you get this?"

"Your mother gave this to a young stranger, who instantly fell in love

with you, and started to find you."

"In love with me?" she cried, joyfully.

"You'd think so if you saw the way he carries on about you," the

fowler volunteered. "And we are to carry you back to your mother even

quicker than we came."

"Then you must be _very_ quick about it, because Sarastro returns from

the chase at noon exactly, and if he finds you here, you will never

leave alive."

"Good! That will suit the Prince exactly."

"But--if I should find that, after all, you are an evil spirit," she

hesitated.

"On the contrary, you will find in me the best spirits in the world,

so come along."

"You seem to have a good heart."

"So good that I ought to have a Papagena to share it," he answered,

plaintively, whereupon Pamina sang affectingly:

[Music:

The manly heart that claims our duty,

must glow with feelings high and brave.]

It is a very queer and incoherent opera, and not much sense to any of

it, but, oh! it is beautiful music, and this duet between the fowler

and Pamina is not the least of its beauties. At the end of it they

rushed off together--Pamina to meet the Prince and be conducted back

to her mother.

_Scene III_

In the meantime, Tamino, instead of looking for Pamina himself, had

been invoking wisdom and help from a number of Genii he had come

across. There were three temples, connected by colonnades, and above

the portal of one of these was written, Temple of Wisdom; over

another, Temple of Reason; the third, Temple of Nature. These temples

were situated in a beautiful grove, which Tamino entered with three

Genii who each bore a silver palm branch.

"Now, pray tell me, ye wise ones, is it to be my lot to loosen

Pamina's bonds?" he asked anxiously.

"It is not for us to tell thee this, but we say to thee, 'Go, be a

man,' be steadfast and true and thou wilt conquer." They departed,

leaving Tamino alone. Then he saw the temples.

"Perhaps she is within one of these temples," he cried; "and with the

words of those wise Genii in my ears, I'll surely rescue her if she is

there." So saying, he went up to one of them and was about to enter.

"Stand back!" a mysterious voice called from within.

"What! I am repulsed? Then I will try the next one," and he went to

another of the temples.

"Stand back," again a voice called.

"Here too?" he cried, not caring to venture far. "There is still

another door and I shall betake me to it." So he went to the third,

and, when he knocked, an aged priest met him upon the threshold.

"What seek ye here?" he asked.

"I seek Love and Truth."

"That is a good deal to seek. Thou art looking for miscreants, thou

art looking for revenge? Love, Truth, and Revenge do not belong

together," the old priest answered.

"But the one I would revenge myself upon is a wicked monster."

"Go thy way. There is none such here," the priest replied.

"Isn't your reigning chief Sarastro?"

"He is--and his law is supreme."

"He stole a princess."

"So he did--but he is a holy man, the chief of Truth--we cannot

explain his motives to thee," the priest said, as he disappeared

within and closed the door.

"Oh, if only she still lives!" Tamino cried, standing outside the

temple.

"She lives, she lives!" a chorus within sang, and at that reassurance

Tamino was quite wild with happiness. Then he became full of

uncertainty and sadness again, for he remembered that he did not know

where to find her, and he sat down to play upon his magic flute. As he

played, wild animals came out to listen, and they crowded around him.

While he was playing, lamenting the loss of Pamina, he was answered by

Papageno from a little way off, and he leaped up joyously.

"Perhaps Papageno is coming with the Princess," he cried. He began to

play lustily upon his flute again. "Maybe the sound will lead them

here," he thought, and he hastened away thinking to overtake them.

After he had gone, Pamina and Papageno ran in, she having heard the

magic flute.

"Oh, what joy! He must be near, for I heard the flute," she cried,

looking about. Suddenly her joy was dispelled by the appearance of

Monostatos, who had flown after them as soon as he discovered Pamina's

absence.

"Now I have caught you," he cried wickedly, but as he called to the

slaves who attended him to bind Papageno, the latter thought of his

chime of bells.

"Maybe they will save me," he cried, and at once he began to play.

Then all the slaves began to dance, while Monostatos himself was

utterly enchanted at the sweet sound. As the bells continued to chime,

Monostatos and the slaves began to leave with a measured step, till

the pair found themselves alone and once more quite safe. Then the

chorus within began to sing "Long life to Sarastro," and at that the

two trembled again.

"Sarastro! Now what is going to happen?" Papageno whispered.

While they stood trembling, Sarastro appeared, borne on a triumphal

car, drawn by six lions, and followed by a great train of attendants

and priests. The chorus all cried, "Long life to Sarastro! Long life

to our guard and master!"

When Sarastro stepped from the car, Pamina knelt at his feet.

"Oh, your greatness!" she cried. "I have sorely offended thee in

trying to escape, but the fault was not all mine. The wicked Moor,

Monostatos, made the most violent love to me, and it was from him I

fled."

"All is forgiven thee, but I cannot set thee free," Sarastro replied.

"Thy mother is not a fitting guardian for thee, and thou art better

here among these holy people. I know that thy heart is given to a

youth, Tamino." As he spoke, the Moor entered, followed by Prince

Tamino. For the first time the two lovers met, and they were at once

enchanted with each other.

At once Monostatos's anger became very great, since he, too, loved the

Princess. He summoned his slaves to part them. Kneeling in his turn at

Sarastro's feet he protested that he was a good and valiant man, whom

Sarastro knew well, and he complained that Pamina had tried to flee.

"Thou art about good enough to have the bastinado," Sarastro replied,

and thereupon ordered the slaves to whip the false Moor, who was

immediately led off to punishment. After that, Sarastro ordered the

lovers to be veiled and led into the temple to go through certain

rites. They were to endure a period of probation, and if they came

through the ordeal of waiting for each other properly they were to be

united.

ACT II

The priests assembled in a grove of palms, where they listened to the

story of Pamina and Tamino, told by Sarastro.

"The Princess was torn from the Queen of the Night, great priests,

because that Queen would overthrow our temple, and here Pamina is to

remain till purified; if you will accept this noble youth for her

companion, after they have both been taught in the ways of wisdom,

follow my example," and immediately Sarastro blew a blast upon a horn.

All the priests blew their horns in concurrence.

Sarastro sang a hymn to the gods, and then he and his priests

disappeared. Tamino and Papageno were next led in to the temple porch.

It was entirely dark.

"Art thou still near me, Papageno?" he asked.

"Of course I am, but I don't feel very well. I think I have a fever.

This is a queer sort of adventure."

"Oh, come, be a man. There is nothing to fear."

The priests asked Tamino at that moment why he had come to seek

entrance in the temple.

"I came to find Friendship and Love," he replied.

"If you would have that, you must go through every trial; and how

about you, Papageno?"

"Well, I do not care as much as I might for wisdom. Give me a nice

little wife and a good bird-market, and I shall get on.'"

"But thou canst not have those things, unless thou canst undergo our

trials."

"Oh, well, I'll stay and face it out--but I must be certain of a wife

at the end of it. Her name must be Papagena--and I'd like to have a

look at her before I undertake all this sort of thing," he persisted.

"Oh, that is quite reasonable--but thou must promise not to speak with

her."

"And Pamina?" Tamino suggested.

"Certainly--only thou too must not speak." Thus it was agreed, and the

priests went out. Instantly the place was in darkness again.

"I should like to know why, the moment those chaps go out, we find

ourselves in the dark?" Papageno demanded.

"That is one of our tests; one of our trials," Tamino responded. "Take

it in good part." He was interrupted by the appearance of the three

ladies of the Queen of the Night's court.

"Why are you in this place?" they demanded seductively. "It will ruin

you."

"Do not say so," Tamino returned, stoutly, this being one of the

temptations he was to meet: but Papageno was frightened enough. "Stop

thy babbling, Papageno," Tamino cautioned. "Or thou wilt lose thy

Papagena."

In short, the ladies did all that was possible to dishearten the youth

and Papageno; but the Prince Tamino stood firm, and would not be

frightened nor driven from his vow to the temple; but Papageno found

himself in an awful state of mind, and finally fell down almost in a

fit. At once the ladies sank through the temple floor.

Then the priests and a spokesman appeared and praised Tamino, threw

another veil over him and led him out; but when a priest inquired of

Papageno how it was with him, that fine gentlemen was so addled that

he couldn't tell.

"For me--I'm in a trance," he exclaimed.

"Well, come on," they said, and threw a veil over him also.

"This incessant marching takes away all thought of love," he

complained.

"No matter, it will return"; and at that the priests marched him out,

and the scene changed to a garden where Pamina was sleeping.

_Scene II_

Monostatos was watching the beautiful Pamina sleep, and remarking

that, if he dared, he certainly should kiss her. In short, he was a

person not to be trusted for a moment. He stole toward her, but in the

same instant the thunder rolled and the Queen of the Night appeared

from the depths of the earth.

"Away," she cried, and Pamina awoke.

"Mother, mother," she screamed with joy, while Monostatos stole away.

"Let us fly, dear mother," Pamina urged.

"Alas, with thy father's death, I lost all my magic power, my child.

He gave his sevenfold Shield of the Sun to Sarastro, and I have been

perfectly helpless since."

"Then I have certainly lost Tamino," Pamina sobbed somewhat

illogically.

"No, take this dagger and slay Sarastro, my love, and take the shield.

That will straighten matters out."

Then the bloody Queen sang that the fires of hell were raging in her

bosom. Indeed, she declared that if Pamina should not do as she was

bidden and slay the priest, she would disown her. Thus Pamina had met

with her temptation, and while she was rent between duty and a sense

of decency--because she felt it would be very unpleasant to kill

Sarastro--Monostatos entered and begged her to confide in him, that he

of all people in the world was best able to advise her.

"What shall I do, then?" the trusting creature demanded.

"There is but one way in the world to save thyself and thy mother, and

that is immediately to love me," he counselled.

"Good heaven! The remedy is worse than the disease," she cried.

"Decide in a hurry. There is no time to wait. You are all bound for

perdition," he assured her, cheerfully.

"Perdition then! I won't do it." Temptation number two, for Pamina.

"Very well, it is your time to die!" Monostatos cried, and proceeded

to kill her, but Sarastro entered just in time to encourage her.

"Indeed it is not--your schedule is wrong, Monostatos," Sarastro

assured him.

"I must look after the mother, then, since the daughter has escaped

me," Monostatos remarked, comforting himself as well as he could.

"Oh don't chastise my mother," Pamina cried.

"A little chastising won't hurt her in the least," Sarastro assured

her. "I know all about how she prowls around here, and if only Tamino

resists his temptations, you will be united and your mother sent back

to her own domain where she belongs. If he survives the ordeals we

have set before him, he will deserve to marry an orphan." All this was

doubtless true, but it annoyed Pamina exceedingly. As soon as Sarastro

had sung of the advantages of living in so delightful a place as the

temple, he disappeared, not in the usual way, but by walking off, and

the scene changed.

_Scene III_

Tamino and the speaker who accompanied the priests and talked for them

were in a large hall, and Papageno was there also.

"You are again to be left here alone; and I caution ye to be silent,"

the speaker advised as he went out.

The second priest said:

"Papageno, whoever breaks the silence here, brings down thunder and

lightning upon himself." He, too, went out.

"That's pleasant," Papageno remarked.

"You are only to think it is pleasant--not to mention it," Tamino

cautioned. Meantime, Papageno, who couldn't hold his tongue to save

his life, grew thirsty. And he no sooner became aware of it, than an

old woman entered with a cup of water.

"Is that for me?" he asked.

"Yes, my love," she replied, and Papageno drank it.

"Well, next time when you wish to quench my thirst you must bring

something besides water--don't forget. Sit down here, old lady, it is

confoundedly dull," the irrepressible Papageno said, and the old lady

sat. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Just eighteen years and two minutes," she answered.

"Um--it is the two minutes that does it, I suppose," Papageno

reflected, looking at her critically.

"Does anybody love you?" he asked, by way of satisfying his curiosity.

"Certainly--his name is Papageno."

"The deuce you say? Well, well, I never would have thought it of

myself. Well, what's your name, mam?" but just as the old lady was

about to answer, the thunder boomed and off she rushed.

"Oh, heaven! I'll never speak another word," Papageno cried. He had no

sooner taken that excellent resolution than the three Genii entered

bearing a table loaded with good things to eat. They also brought the

flute and the chime of bells.

"Now, eat, drink, and be merry, and a better time shall follow," they

said, and then they disappeared.

"Well, well, this is something like it," Papageno said, beginning at

once to obey commands, but Tamino began to play upon the flute.

"All right; all right! You be the orchestra and I'll take care of the

_table d'hote_," he said, very well satisfied; but at that instant

Pamina appeared.

She no sooner began to talk to Tamino than he motioned her away. He

was a youth of unheard-of fortitude.

"This is worse than death," she said. She found herself waved away

again. Tamino was thoroughly proof against temptation.

Then Pamina sang for him, and she had a very good voice. Meantime,

Papageno was sufficiently occupied to be quiet, but he had to call

attention to his virtues. When he asked if he had not been amazingly

still, there was a flourish of trumpets. Tamino signed for Papageno to

go.

"No, you go first!" Tamino only repeated his gesture.

"Very well, very well, I'll go first--but what's to be done with us

now?" Tamino only pointed to heaven, which was very depressing to one

of Papageno's temperament.

"You think so!" Papageno asked. "If it is to be anything like that, I

think it more likely to be a roasting. No matter!" Nothing mattered

any longer to Papageno, and so he went out as Tamino desired, and the

scene changed.

_Scene IV_

Sarastro and his priests were in a vault underneath one of the

temples. There they sang of Tamino's wonderful fortitude and then

said:

"Let him appear!" And so he did. "Now, Tamino, you have been a brave

man till now; but there are two perilous trials awaiting you, and if

you go through them well--" They didn't exactly promise that all

should be plain sailing after that, but they led the youth to infer as

much, which encouraged him. "Lead in Pamina," the order then was

given, and she was led in.

"Now, Pamina, this youth is to bid thee a last farewell," Sarastro

said.

Pamina was about to throw herself into her lover's arms, but with

amazing self-control Tamino told her once more to "Stand back." As

that had gone so very well, Sarastro assured them they were to meet

again.

"I'll bear whatever the gods put upon me," the patient youth replied.

Then he said farewell and went out, while Papageno (who if he ever did

get to Heaven, would surely do so by hanging on to Tamino's immaculate

coat-tail) ran after him, declaring that he would follow him

forever--and not talk. But it thundered again, and Papageno shrunk all

up.

Then, while the speaker chided him for not being above his station,

Papageno said that the only thing he really wanted in this world or

the next was a glass of wine: he thought it would encourage him.

"Oh, well, you can have that," the speaker assured him, and

immediately the glass of wine rose through the floor. But he had no

sooner drunk that than he cried out that he experienced a most

thrilling sensation about his heart. It turned out to be love; just

love! So at once, the matter being explained to him, he took his chime

of bells, played, and sang of what he felt. The moment he had fully

expressed himself, the old water lady came in.

"Here I am, my angel," she said.

"Good! You are much better than nobody," Papageno declared.

"Then swear you'll be forever true," she urged.

"Certainly--since there is no other way out of it." And it was no

sooner said than the old lady became a most entrancing young one,

about eighteen years old.

"Well, may I never doubt a woman when she tells me her age again!"

Papageno muttered, staring at her. As he was about to embrace her, the

speaker shouted:

"Away; he isn't worthy of you." This left Papageno in a nice fix, and

both he and the girl were led away as the Genii appeared.

The Genii began to sing that Pamina had gone demented, and no wonder.

She almost at once proved that this was true, by coming in carrying a

dagger; and she made a pass at the whole lot of them. No one could

blame her. She thought each of them was Tamino.

"She's had too much trouble," the penetrating Genii declared among

themselves. "And now we'll set her right." They were about to do so

when she undertook to stab herself, but they interfered and told her

she mustn't.

"What if Tamino should hear you! It would make him feel very badly,"

they remonstrated. At once she became all right again.

"Is he alive? Just let me look at him, and I'll be encouraged to wait

awhile." So they took her away to see Tamino.

Then two men dressed in armour came in and said:

He who would wander on this path of tears and toiling,

Needs water, fire, and earth for his assoiling,

which means nothing in particular. Although "assoiling" is an

excellent old English word.

Then Tamino and Pamina were heard calling to each other. She entreated

him not to fly from her, and he didn't know what he had better do

about it, but the matter was arranged by somebody opening some gates

and the lovers at once embraced. They were perfectly happy, and there

seemed to be a mutual understanding between them that they could

wander forth together. They did so, and wandered at once into a

mountain of fire, while Tamino played entertainingly upon his flute.

Soon they wandered out of the fire, and embraced at leisure. Then they

wandered into the water, and Tamino began again to play upon his

flute, the water keeping clear of the holes in a wonderful way. After

they got out of the woods--the water, rather,--they embraced as usual,

and the gates of the temple were thrown open and they saw a sort of

Fourth-of-July going on within. Everything was very bright and

high-coloured. This would seem to indicate that their trials were over

and they were to have their reward. Then the scene changed.

_Scene V_

Papageno was playing in a garden, all the while calling to his

Papagena. He was really mourning for his lost love, and so he took the

rope which he used as a girdle and decided to hang himself. Then the

Genii, whose business it seemed to be to drive lovers to suicide and

then rescue them just before life was extinct, rushed in and told him

he need not go to the length--of his rope.

"Just ring your bells," they advised him; and he instantly tried the

same old effect. He had no sooner rung for her than she came--the

lovely Papagena! They sang a joyous chorus of "pa-pa-pa-pa" for eight

pages and then the Queen of the Night and Monostatos, finding that

matters were going too well, appeared. They had come to steal the

temple.

"If I really get away with that temple, Pamina shall be yours," she

promised Monostatos,--which would seem to leave Pamina safe enough, if

the circumstances were ordinary. Nevertheless it thundered again.

Nobody in the opera could seem to stand that. The Queen had her three

ladies with her, but by this time one might almost conclude that they

were no ladies at all. The thunder became very bad indeed, and the

retinue, Monostatos, and the Queen sank below, and in their stead

Sarastro, Pamina, and Tamino appeared with all the priests, and the

storm gave way to a fine day.

Immediately after that, nothing at all happened.

SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN

Sir Arthur Sullivan was a man of many musical moods and varied

performances, yet his surest fame, at present, rests upon his comic

operas.

Perhaps this is because he and his workfellow, Gilbert, were pioneers

in making a totally new kind of comic opera. "Pinafore" may not be the

best of these works, "Mikado" may be better; but "Pinafore" was the

first of the satires upon certain institutions, social and political,

which delighted the English-speaking world.

Music and words never have seemed better wedded than in the comic

operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. The music is always graceful,

gracious, piquant, and gaily fascinating. The story has no purpose but

that of carrying some satirical idea, and the satire is never bitter,

always playful.

Sullivan's versatility was remarkable, his work ranging from "grave to

gay, from lively to severe," and his was a genius that developed in

his extreme youth. Many anecdotes are told of this brilliant composer,

and all of them seem to illustrate a practical and resourceful mind,

while they show little of the eccentricity that is supposed to belong

to genius. It was Sir Arthur Sullivan who first popularized Schumann

in England. Potter, head of the Royal Academy in London in 1861, had

known Beethoven well, and had never been converted to a love of music

less great than his--nor was his taste very catholic--and he

continually regretted Sullivan's championship of Schumann's music.

But one day Sullivan, suspecting the academician didn't know what he

was talking about, asked him point-blank if he had ever heard any of

the music he so strongly condemned. Potter admitted that he hadn't.

Whereupon Sullivan said, "Then play some of Schumann with me, Mr.

Potter," and, having done so, Potter "blindly worshipped" Schumann

even after.

Frederick Crowest tells this story in his "Musicians' Wit, Humour, and

Anecdote":

"The late Sir Arthur Sullivan, in the struggling years of his career,

once showed great presence of mind, which saved the entire breakdown

of a performance of 'Faust.' In the midst of the church scene, the

wire connecting the pedal under Costa's foot with the metronome stick

at the organ, broke. Costa was the conductor. In the concerted music

this meant disaster, as the organist could hear nothing but his own

instrument. Quick as thought, while he was playing the introductory

solo, Sullivan called a stage hand. 'Go,' he said, 'and tell Mr. Costa

that the wire is broken, and that he is to keep his ears open and

follow me.' No sooner had the man flown to deliver his message than

the full meaning of the words flashed upon Sullivan. What would Costa,

autocratic, severe, and quick to take offence, say to such a message

delivered by a stage hand? The scene, however, proceeded successfully,

and at the end Sullivan went, nervously enough, to tender his

apologies to his chief. Costa, implacable as he was, had a strong

sense of justice, and the great conductor never forgot the signal

service his young friend had rendered him by preventing a horrible

_fiasco_."

There are numberless stories of his suiting his composition to erratic

themes. Beverley had painted borders for a woodland scene. Sullivan

liked the work and complimented Beverley, who immediately said: "Yes,

and if you could compose something to fit it now." Instantly,

Sullivan, who was at the organ, composed a score within a few minutes

which enraptured the painter and which "fitted" his borders.

Again: A dance was required at a moment's notice for a second

_danseuse_, and the stage manager was distracted. "You must make

something at once, Sullivan," he said. "But," replied the composer, "I

haven't even seen the girl. I don't know her style or what she needs."

However, the stage manager sent the dancer to speak with Sullivan, and

presently he called out: "I've arranged it all. This is exactly what

she wants: Tiddle-iddle-um, tiddle-iddle-um, rum-tirum-tirum--sixteen

bars of that; then: rum-tum-rum-tum--heavy you know--" and in ten

minutes the dance was made and ready for rehearsal.

H.M.S.[B] "PINAFORE"

The Right Honourable Sir

Joseph Porter, K.C.B. First Lord of the Admiralty.

Captain Corcoran Commanding H.M.S. _Pinafore_.

Ralph Rackstraw Able seaman.

Dick Deadeye Able seaman.

Bill Bobstay Boatswain's mate.

Bob Becket Carpenter's mate.

Tom Tucker Midshipmate.

Sergeant of marines

Josephine The Captain's daughter.

Hebe Sir Joseph's first cousin.

Little Buttercup A Portsmouth bumboat woman.

First Lord's sisters, his cousins, his aunts, sailors, marines, etc.

The story takes place on the quarterdeck of H.M.S. _Pinafore_, off

Portsmouth.

Composer: Sir Arthur Sullivan. Author: W.S. Gilbert.

[Footnote B: Her Majesty's Ship.]

ACT I

On the quarterdeck of the good ship _Pinafore_, along about noon, on a

brilliant sunny day, the sailors, in charge of the Boatswain, are

polishing up the brasswork of the ship, splicing rope, and doing

general housekeeping, for the excellent reason that the high

cockalorum of the navy--the Admiral, Sir Joseph Porter--together with

all his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, is expected on board

about luncheon time. When an Admiral goes visiting either on land or

sea, there are certain to be "doings," and there are going to be

mighty big doings on this occasion. If sailors were ever proud of a

ship, those of the _Pinafore_ are they. The _Pinafore_ was, in fact,

the dandiest thing afloat. No sailor ever did anything without singing

about it, and as they "Heave ho, my hearties"--or whatever it is

sailors do--they sing their minds about the _Pinafore_ in a way to

leave no mistake as to their opinions.

We sail the ocean blue,

And our saucy ship's a beauty.

We're sober men and true,

And attentive to our duty.

When the balls whistle free,

O'er the bright blue sea,

We stand to our guns all day.

When at anchor we ride,

On the Portsmouth tide,

We've plenty of time for play--Ahoy, Ahoy!

And then, while they are polishing at top speed, on board scrambles

Little Buttercup. Naturally, being a bumboat woman, she had her basket

on her arm.

"Little Buttercup!" the crew shouts; they know her well on pay-day.

"Yes--here's an end at last of all privation," she assures them,

spreading out her wares, and this ridiculous "little" Buttercup sings:

[Music:

I'm called little Buttercup,

Dear little Buttercup,

Though I could never tell why,

But still I'm called Buttercup,

Poor little Buttercup,

Sweet little Buttercup I.]

I've snuff and tobaccy,

And excellent jacky;

I've scissors and watches and knives.

I've ribbons and laces

To set off the faces

Of pretty young sweethearts and wives.

I've treacle and toffee,

I've tea and I've coffee,

Soft tommy and succulent chops,

I've chickens and conies,

I've pretty polonies,

And excellent peppermint drops--

which would imply that Little Buttercup might supply on demand

anything from a wrought-iron gate to a paper of toothpicks.

"Well, Little Buttercup, you're the rosiest and roundest beauty in all

the navy, and we're always glad to see you."

"The rosiest and roundest, eh? Did it ever occur to you that beneath

my gay exterior a fearful tragedy may be brewing?" she asks in her

most mysterious tones.

"We never thought of that," the Boatswain reflects.

"I have thought of it often," a growling voice interrupts, and

everybody looks up to see Dick Deadeye. Dick is a darling, if

appearances count. He was named Deadeye because he _had_ a dead-eye,

and he is about as sinister and ominous a creature as ever made a

comic opera shiver.

"You _look_ as if you had often thought of it," somebody retorts, as

all move away from him in a manner which shows Dick to be no

favourite.

"You don't care much about me, I should say?" Dick offers, looking

about at his mates.

"Well, now, honest, Dick, ye can't just expect to be loved, with such

a name as Deadeye."

Little Buttercup, who has been offering her wares to the other

sailors, now observes a very good-looking chap coming on deck.

"Who is that youth, whose faltering feet with difficulty bear him on

his course?" Buttercup asks--which is quite ridiculous, if you only

dissect her language! Those "faltering feet which with difficulty bear

him on his course" belong to Ralph Rackstraw, who is about the most

dashing sailor in the fleet. The moment Buttercup hears his name, she

gasps to music:

"Remorse, remorse," which is very, very funny indeed, since there

appears to be nothing at all remarkable or remorseful about Ralph

Rackstraw. But Ralph immediately begins to sing about a nightingale

and a moon's bright ray and several other things most inappropriate to

the occasion, and winds up with "He sang, Ah, well-a-day," in the most

pathetic manner. The other sailors repeat after him, "Ah, well-a-day,"

also in a very pathetic manner, and Ralph thanks them in the politest,

most heartbroken manner, by saying:

I know the value of a kindly chorus,

But choruses yield little consolation

When we have pain and sorrow, too, before us!

I love, and love, alas! above my station.

Which lets the cat out of the bag, at last! "He loves above his

station!" Buttercup sighs, and pretty much the entire navy sighs.

Those sailors are very sentimental chaps, very!--They are supposed to

have a sweetheart in every port, though, to be sure, none of them are

likely be above anybody's station. But their sighs are an

encouragement to Ralph to tell all about his sweetheart, and he

immediately does so. He sings rapturously of her appearance and of how

unworthy he is. The crew nearly melts to tears during the recital.

Just as Ralph has revealed that his love is Josephine, the Captain's

daughter, and all the crew but Dick Deadeye are about to burst out

weeping, the Captain puts in an appearance.

"My gallant crew,--good morning!" he says amiably, in that

condescending manner quite to be expected of a Captain. He inquires

nicely about the general health of the crew, and announces that he is

in reasonable health himself. Then with the best intentions in the

world, he begins to throw bouquets at himself:

I am the Captain of the _Pinafore_,

he announces, and the crew returns:

And a right good Captain too.

You're very, very good,

And be it understood,

I command a right good crew,

he assures them.

Tho' related to a peer,

I can hand, reef and steer,

Or ship a selvagee;

I'm never known to quail

At the fury of a gale,--

And I'm never, never sick at sea!

But this is altogether too much. The crew haven't summered and

wintered with this gallant Captain for nothing.

"What, never?" they admonish him.

"No,--never."

"What!--NEVER?" and there is no mistaking their emphasis.

"Oh, well--hardly ever!" he admits, trimming his statement a little:

and thus harmony is restored. Now when he has thus agreeably said good

morning to his crew, they leave him to meditate alone, and no one but

Little Buttercup remains. For some reason she perceives that the

Captain is sad. He doesn't look it, but the most comic moments in

comic opera are likely enough to be the saddest. Hence Little

Buttercup reminds him that she is a mother (she doesn't look it) and

therefore to be confided in.

"If you must know, Little Buttercup, my daughter Josephine! the

fairest flower that ever blossomed on ancestral timber"--which is very

neat indeed--"has received an offer of marriage from Sir Joseph

Porter. It is a great honour, Little Buttercup, but I am sorry to say

my daughter doesn't seem to take kindly to it."

"Ah, poor Sir Joseph, I know perfectly what it means to love not

wisely but too well," she remarks, sighing tenderly and looking most

sentimentally at the Captain. She does this so capably that as she

goes off the deck the Captain looks after her and remarks

abstractedly:

"A plump and pleasing person!" At this blessed minute the daughter

Josephine, who does not love in the right place, and who is beloved

from all quarters at once, wanders upon the deck with a basket of

flowers in her hand. Then she begins to sing very distractedly about

loving the wrong man, and that "hope is dead," and several other

pitiable things, which are very funny. The Captain, her father, is

watching her, and presently he admonishes her to look her best, and

to stop sighing all over the ship--at least till her high-born suitor,

Sir Joseph Porter, shall have made his expected visit.

"You must look your best to-day, Josephine, because the Admiral is

coming on board to ask your hand in marriage." At this Josephine

nearly drops into the sea.

"Father, I esteem, I reverence Sir Joseph but alas I do not love him.

I have the bad taste instead to love a lowly sailor on board your own

ship. But I shall stifle my love. He shall never know it though I

carry it to the tomb."

"That is precisely the spirit I should expect to behold in my

daughter, my dear, and now take Sir Joseph's picture and study it

well. I see his barge approaching. If you gaze upon the pictured noble

brow of the Admiral, I think it quite likely that you will have time

to fall madly in love with him before he can throw a leg over the

rail, my darling. Anyway, do your best at it."

"My own, thoughtful father," Josephine murmurs while a song of Sir

Joseph's sailors is heard approaching nearer and nearer. Then the crew

of H.M.S. _Pinafore_ take up the shout, and sing a rousing welcome to

Sir Joseph and all his party. Almost immediately Sir Joseph and his

numerous company of sisters and cousins and aunts prance upon the

shining deck. They have a gorgeous time of it.

"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" the Captain and his crew cry, and then Sir

Joseph informs everybody of his greatness in this song:

[Music:

I am the monarch of the sea,

The ruler of the Queen's Navee,

Whose praise Great Britain loudly chants;

COUSIN HEBE.

And we are his Sisters and his Cousins and his Aunts;

His Sisters and his Cousins and his Aunts!]

When at anchor here I ride,

My bosom swells with pride,

And I snap my fingers at the foeman's taunts--

The chorus assures everybody that

So do his sisters and his cousins and his aunts.

In short, while we learn from Sir Joseph that he is a tremendous

fellow, we also learn, from his sisters and his cousins and his aunts,

that they are whatever he is. Among other things he tells precisely

how he came to be so great, and gives what is presumably a recipe for

similar greatness:

When I was a lad I served a term

As office boy to an attorney's firm.

I cleaned the window and I swept the floor,

And I polished up the handle of the big front door.

I polished up the handle so carefullee,

That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

As office boy I made such a mark

That they gave me the post of a junior clerk.

I served the wits with a smile so bland,

And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.

I copied all the letters in a hand so free,

That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

In serving writs I made such a name

That an articled clerk I soon became.

I wore clean collars and a brand new suit

For the pass examination at the Institute.

And that pass examination did so well for me

That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

This was only a part of the recipe, but the rest of it was just as

profound. After he is through exploiting himself, he bullies the

Captain a little, and then his eye alights on Ralph Rackstraw.

"You are a remarkably fine fellow, my lad," he says to Ralph quite

patronizingly.

"I am the very finest fellow in the navy," Ralph returns, honouring

the spirit of the day by showing how entirely satisfied with himself

he is.

"How does your Captain behave himself?" Sir Joseph asks.

"Very well, indeed, thank you. I am willing to commend him," Ralph

returns.

"Ah--that is delightful--and so, with your permission, Captain, I will

have a word with you in private on a very sentimental subject--in

short, upon an affair of the heart."

"With joy, Sir Joseph--and, Boatswain, in honour of this occasion, see

that extra grog is served to the crew at seven bells."

"I will condescend to do so," the Boatswain assures the Captain,

whereupon the Captain, Sir Joseph, and his sisters and his cousins and

his aunts leave the deck.

"You all seem to think a deal on yourselves," Dick Deadeye growls, as

he watches these performances.

"We do, we do--aren't we British sailors? Doesn't the entire universe

depend on us for its existence? We are fine fellows--Sir Joseph has

just told us so."

"Yes--we may aspire to anything--" Ralph interpolates excitedly. He

had begun to think that Josephine may not be so unattainable after

all.

"The devil you can," responds Dick. "Only I wouldn't let myself get

a-going if I were you. What if ye got going and couldn't stop?" the

one-eyed gentleman inquires solicitously.

"Oh, stow it!" the crew shouts. "If we hadn't more self-respect 'n

you've got, we'd put out both our eyes," the estimable crew declares,

and then retires to compliment itself,--that is, all but Ralph. He

leans upon the bulwark and looks pensive; and at intervals he sighs.

While he is sighing his very loudest, Josephine enters. Sir Joseph has

been making love to her, and she is telling herself and everybody who

happens to be leaning against the bulwark sighing pensively, that the

Admiral's attentions oppress her. This is Ralph's opportunity. He

immediately tells her that he loves her, and she tells him to

"refrain, audacious tar," but he does not refrain in the least. In

short he decides upon the spot to blow out his brains. He pipes all

hands on deck to see him do it, and they come gladly.

Now Ralph gets out his pistol, he sings a beautiful farewell, the

Chorus turns away weeping--the sailors have just cleaned up and they

cannot bear the sight of the deck all spoiled with a British sailor's

brains so soon after scrubbing! Ralph lifts the pistol, takes aim--and

Josephine rushes on.

"Oh, stay your hand--I love you," she cries, and in less than a minute

everybody is dancing a hornpipe, except Deadeye. Deadeye is no

socialist. He really thinks this equality business which makes it

possible for a common sailor to marry the Captain's daughter is most

reprehensible. But nobody notices Dick. Everybody is quite happy and

satisfied now, and they plan for the wedding. Dick plans for revenge.

He goes apart to think matters over. The situation quite shocks his

sense of propriety.

Meantime the crew and Ralph and Josephine decide that:

This very night,

With bated breath

And muffled oar,

Without a light,

As still as death,

We'll steal ashore.

A clergyman

Shall make us one

At half-past ten,

And then we can

Return, for none

Can part us then.

Thus the matter is disposed of.

ACT II

It is about half-past ten, and everything ready for the elopement. The

Captain is on deck playing a mandolin while holding a most beautiful

pose (because Little Buttercup is also "on deck," and looking

sentimentally at him). The Captain sings to the moon, quite as if

there were no one there to admire him; because while this "levelling"

business is going on in the Navy there seems no good reason why

Buttercup or any other thrifty bumboat lady shouldn't do a little

levelling herself. Now to marry the Captain--but just now, even though

it is moonlight and a very propitious moment, there is other work on

hand than marrying the Captain. She can do that almost any time! But

at this moment she has some very mysterious and profound things to say

to him. She tells him that:

Things are seldom what they seem,

Skim milk masquerades as cream.

High-lows pass as patent leathers,

Jackdaws strut in peacock feathers.

And the Captain acquiesces.

Black-sheep dwell in every fold.

All that glitters is not gold.

Storks turn out to be but logs.

Bulls are but inflated frogs.

And again the Captain wisely acquiesces.

Drops the wind and stops the mill.

Turbot is ambitious brill.

Gild the farthing if you will,

Yet it is a farthing still.

And again the Captain admits that this may be true. It is quite, quite

painful if it is. On the whole, the Captain fears she has got rather

the best of him, so he determines to rally; he philosophises a little

himself, when he has time. He has time now:

Tho' I'm anything but clever,

he declares rhythmically, even truthfully;

I could talk like that forever,

Once a cat was killed by care,

Only brave deserve the fair.

He has her there, beyond doubt, because all she can say is "how true."

Thus encouraged he continues:

Wink is often good as nod;

Spoils the child, who spares the rod;

Thirsty lambs run foxy dangers,

Dogs are found in many mangers.

Buttercup agrees;--she can't help it.

Paw of cat the chestnut snatches;

Worn-out garments show new patches;

Only count the chick that hatches,

Men are grown-up catchy-catches.

And Little Buttercup assents that this certainly is true. And then,

just as she has worked the Captain up into a pink fit of apprehension

she leaves him. While he stands looking after her and feeling

unusually left alone, Sir Joseph enters and declares himself very much

disappointed with Josephine.

"What, won't she do, Sir Joseph?" the Captain asks disappointedly.

"No, no. I don't think she will. I have stooped as much as an Admiral

ought to, by presenting my sentiments almost--er--you might say

emotionally, but without success; and now really I----"

"Well, it must be your rank which dazzles her," the Captain suggests,

and thinks how he would like to take a cat-o'-nine-tails to her.

"She is coming on deck," Sir Joseph says, softly, "and we might watch

her unobserved a moment. Her actions while she thinks herself alone,

may reveal something to us that we should like to know"; and Sir

Joseph and the Captain step behind a convenient coil of rope while

Josephine walks about in agitation and sings to herself how reckless

she is to leave her luxurious home with her father, for an attic

that, likely as not, will not even be "finished off."

Of course Sir Joseph and her father do not understand a word of this,

but they understand that she is disturbed, and Sir Joseph steps up and

asks her outright, if his rank overwhelms her. He assures her that it

need not, because there is no difference of rank to be observed among

those of her Majesty's Navy--which he doesn't mean at all except for

one occasion only, of course. At the same time, it is an admirable

plea for his rival Ralph.

Now it is rapidly becoming time for the elopement, and Josephine

pretends to accept Sir Joseph's suit at last, in order to get rid of

him at half-past ten. He and Josephine go below while Dick Deadeye

intimates to the Captain that he wants a word with him aside.

Then Dick Deadeye gives the Captain his information, thus:

[Music:

Kind Captain, I've important information,

Sing hey, the gallant Captain that you are!

About a certain intimate relation,

Sing hey, the merry maiden and the tar!]

Kind Captain, your young lady is a-sighing,

Sing, hey, the gallant Captain that you are!

This very night with Rackstraw to be flying,

Sing, hey, the merry maiden and the tar!

This information certainly comes in the nick of time, so the Captain

hastily throws an old cloak over him and squats down behind the deck

furniture to await the coming of the elopers.

Presently they come up, Josephine, followed by Little Buttercup, and

all the crew on "tip-toe stealing." Suddenly amid the silence, the

Captain stamps.

"Goodness me!" all cry. "What was that?"

"Silent be," says Dick. "It was the cat," and thus reassured they

start for the boat which is to take the lovers ashore. At this crisis

the Captain throws off the cloak and creates a sensation. He is so mad

he swears just as Sir Joseph puts in an appearance.

"Damme!" cries the Captain.

"What was that dreadful language I heard you use?" Sir Joseph demands,

highly scandalized.

"He said 'damme,'" the crew assure him. Sir Joseph is completely

overcome. To excuse himself the Captain is obliged to reveal the cause

of his anger.

"My daughter was about to elope with a common sailor, your Greatness,"

he says, and at this moment Josephine rushes into the arms of Ralph.

The Admiral is again overcome with the impropriety of the situation.

"My amazement and my surprise, you may learn from the expression of my

eyes," the Admiral says. "Has this sailor dared to lift his eyes to

the Captain's daughter? Incredible. Put him in chains, my boys," he

says to the rest of the crew, "and Captain--have you such a thing as a

dungeon on board?"

"Certainly," the Captain says. "Hanging on the nail to the right of

the mess-room door--just as you go in."

"Good! put him in the ship's dungeon at once--just as you go in--and

see that no telephone communicates with his cell," whereupon Ralph is

lugged off.

"When the secret I have to tell is known," says Little Buttercup, "his

dungeon cell will be thrown wide."

"Then speak, in Heaven's name; or I certainly shall throw myself into

the bilge water," Josephine says desperately.

"Don't do that: it smells so dreadfully," Buttercup entreats; "and to

prevent accidents I will tell what I know:"

A many years ago,

When I was young and charming,

As some of you may know,

I practised baby farming.

Two tender babes I nursed,

One was of low condition,

The other upper crust--

A regular patrician.

Oh, bitter is my cup,

However could I do it?

I mixed those children up,

And not a creature knew it.

In time each little waif,

Forsook his foster-mother;

The well-born babe was Ralph--

Your Captain was the other!

So, the murder is out! Nobody outside of comic opera can quite see how

this fact changes the status of the Captain and Ralph (the Captain not

having been a captain when in the cradle) but it is quite enough to

set everybody by the ears. Josephine screams:

"Oh, bliss, oh, rapture!" And the Admiral promptly says:

"Take her, sir, and mind you treat her kindly," and immediately,

having fixed the ship's affairs so creditably, falls to bemoaning his

sad and lonesome lot.

He declares that he "cannot live alone," and his cousin Hebe assures

him she will never give up the ship; or rather that she never will

desert him, unless of course she should discover that he, too, was

changed in the cradle. This comforts everybody but the changed

Captain. Ralph has, in the twinkling of an eye, become the Captain of

the good ship _Pinafore_, while the Captain has become Ralph, and

Ralph has taken the Captain's daughter. But while he is looking very

downcast, Buttercup reminds him that she is there, and after regarding

her tenderly for a moment, he decides that he has always loved his

foster mother like a wife, and he says so:

I shall marry with a wife,

In my humble rank of life,

And you, my own, are she.

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

rashly:

I must wander to and fro,

But wherever I may go

I shall never be untrue to thee!

Whereupon the crew, which is very punctilious where the truth is

concerned, cries:

"What, never?"

"No, never!" the Captain declares.

"What--never?" they persist.

"Well, hardly ever," the Captain says, qualifying the statement

satisfactorily to his former crew. And now that all the facts and

amenities of life have been duly recognized, the crew and Sir Joseph,

Ralph and the former Captain, Josephine and Buttercup, all unite in

singing frantically that they are an Englishman, for they themselves

have said it, and it's greatly to their credit; and while you are

laughing yourself to death at a great many ridiculous things which

have taken place, the curtain comes down with a rush, and you wish

they would do it again.

VERDI

Giuseppe Verdi, born October 9, 1813, was the composer of twenty-six

operas. His musical history may be divided into three periods, and in

the last he approached Wagner in greatness, and frequently surpassed

him in beauty of idea.

Wagner made both the libretti and the music of his operas, while Verdi

took his opera stories from other authors. Both of these great men

were born in the same year.

Of Verdi's early operas, "Ernani" was probably the best; then he

entered upon the second period of his achievement as a composer, and

the first work that marked the transition was "Rigoletto." The story

was adapted from a drama of Hugo's, "Le Roi S'Amuse," and as the

profligate character of its principal seemed too baldly to exploit the

behaviour of Francis I, its production was suppressed. Then Verdi

adjusted the matter by turning the character into the Duke of Mantua,

and everybody was happy.

The story of the famous song "La Donna e Mobile," is as picturesque as

Verdi himself. While the rehearsals of the opera were going on,

Mirate, who sang the Duke, continued to complain that he hadn't the

MS. of one of his songs. Verdi kept putting him off, till the evening

before the orchestral rehearsal, when he brought forth the lines; but

at the same time he demanded a promise that Mirate--nor indeed any of

the singers--should not hum or whistle the air till it should be heard

at the first performance. This signified Verdi's belief that the song

would instantly become a universal favourite. The faith was justified.

The whole country went "La Donna" mad.

"Il Trovatore" came next in this second period of the great composer's

fame, and we read that "Nearly half a century has sped since Verdi's

twelfth opera was first sung of a certain winter evening in Rome." Out

of the chaff of Italian opera comes this wheat, satisfying to the

generation of to-day, as it was to that first audience in Rome. We do

not even know any longer why we love it, because in most ways it

violates new and better rules of musical art, but we love it. Helen

Keyes has written that "the libretto of 'Il Trovatore' is based on a

Spanish drama written in superb verse by a contemporary of Verdi's,

Antonio Garcia Gutierrez," and she relates a romantic story in

connection with the Spanish play; the author was but seventeen years

old when he wrote it and had been called to military duty, which was

dreaded by one of his temperament. But his drama being staged at that

moment, the authorities permitted him to furnish a substitute on the

ground that such genius could best serve its country by remaining at

home to contribute to its country's art.

At the time the opera was produced in Rome, the Tiber had overflowed

its banks and had flooded all the streets near the theatre;

nevertheless people were content to stand knee-deep in water at the

box office, waiting their turn for tickets.

So great had Verdi become in a night, by this presentation, that his

rivals formed a cabal which prevented the production of "Il Trovatore"

in Naples for a time, but in the end the opera and Verdi prevailed.

Now came "Traviata,"--third in that time of change in a great master's

art, and this marked the limits of the second period. "Aida" followed.

It is well said that "the importance of Verdi's 'Aida' as a work of

musical art can hardly be overestimated!" This opera was written at

the entreaty of the Khedive Ismail Pacha. He wished to open the opera

house at Cairo with a great opera that had Egypt for its dramatic

theme. Upon the Khedive's application Verdi named a price which he

believed would not be accepted, as he felt no enthusiasm about the

work. But his terms were promptly approved and Mariette Bey, a great

Egyptologist, was commissioned to find the materials for a proper

story. Verdi, in the meantime, _did_ become enthusiastic over the

project and went to work. Egyptian history held some incident upon

which the story of "Aida" was finally built. First, it was given to

Camille du Locle, who put the story into French prose, and in this he

was constantly advised by Verdi, at whose home the work was done.

After that, the French prose was translated into Italian verse by

Ghislanzoni, and when all was completed, the Italian verse was once

more translated back into French for the French stage.

Then the Khedive decided he would like Verdi to conduct the first

performance, and he began to negotiate for that. Verdi asked twenty

thousand dollars for writing the opera, and thirty thousand in case he

went to Egypt. This was agreed, but when the time came to go, Verdi

backed out; he was overcome with fear of seasickness and wouldn't go

at any price. Then the scenery was painted in Paris, and when all was

ready--lo! the scenery was a prisoner because the war had broken out

in France! Everything had to wait a year, and during that time Verdi

wrote and rewrote, making his opera one of the most beautiful in the

world. Finally "Aida" was produced, and the story of that night as

told by the Italian critic Filippi is not out of place here, since the

night is historic in opera "first nights:"

"The Arabians, even the rich, do not love our shows; they prefer the

mewings of their tunes, the monotonous beatings of their drums, to all

the melodies of the past, present, and future. It is a true miracle to

see a turban in a theatre of Cairo. Sunday evening the opera house was

crowded before the curtain rose. Many of the boxes were filled with

women, who neither chatted nor rustled their robes. There was beauty

and there was intelligence especially among the Greeks and the

strangers of rank who abound in Cairo. For truth's sake I must add

that, by the side of the most beautiful and richly dressed, were

Coptic and Jewish faces, with strange head-dresses, impossible

costumes, a howling of colours,--no one could deliberately have

invented worse. The women of the harem could not be seen. They were in

the first three boxes on the right, in the second gallery. Thick white

muslin hid their faces from prying glances."

This gives a striking picture of that extraordinary "first night."

Verdi was born at a time of turmoil and political troubles, and his

mother was one of the many women of the inhabitants of Roncole (where

he was born) who took refuge in the church when soldiery invaded the

village. There, near the Virgin, many of the women had thought

themselves safe, but the men burst in, and a general massacre took

place. Verdi's mother fled with her little son to the belfry and this

alone saved to the world a wonderful genius.

When Verdi was ten years old he was apprenticed to a grocer in

Busseto, but he was a musical grocer, and the musical atmosphere,

which was life to Verdi, surrounded him. He had a passion for leaving

in the midst of his grocery business to sit at the spinet and hunt out

new harmonious combinations: and when one of his new-made chords was

lost he would fly into a terrible rage, although as a general rule he

was a peaceable and kindly little chap. On one such occasion he became

so enraged that he took a hammer to the instrument--an event

coincident with a thrashing his father gave him.

There is no end of incident connected with this gentle and kindly

soul, who, unlike so many of his fellow geniuses, reflected in his

life the beauty of his art.

RIGOLETTO

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

FIRST PERFORMANCE

The Duke of Mantua Signori Mirate

Rigoletto Varesi

Sparafucile Ponz

Count Monterone Damini

Marullo Kunnerth

Matteo Borsa Zuliani

Count Ceprano Bellini

Usher of the Court Rizzi

Gilda Signore Teresa Brambilla

Maddalena Casaloni

Giovanna. Saini

Countess Ceprano Morselli

Page Modes Lovati

The story belongs to the sixteenth century, in the city of Mantua and

its environs.

Composer: Giuseppe Verdi. Author: Francesco Maria Piave.

First sung in Venice, Gran Teatro la Fenice. March 11, 1851.

ACT I

Dukes and duchesses, pages and courtiers, dancing and laughter: these

things all happening to music and glowing lights, in the city of

Mantua four hundred years ago!--that is "Rigoletto."

There lived, long ago, in Mantua, the Duke and his suite, and the only

member of his household who dared do as he pleased was the Duke of

Mantua's jester, Rigoletto. The more deformed a jester happened to be,

the more he was valued in his profession, and Rigoletto was a very

ugly little man, and as vindictive and wicked as he was ill-favoured

in appearance. The only thing he truly loved was his daughter, Gilda.

As for the Duke of Mantua, he loved for the time being almost any

pretty woman who came his way.

On the night of a great ball at the Duke's palace he was thinking of

his latest love, Gilda, the jester's daughter. The Duke usually

confided his affairs to his servant Borsa, and the ball had no sooner

begun than he began to speak with Borsa of his newest escapade. He

declared that he had followed Gilda to the chapel where she went each

day, and that he had made up his mind to speak with her the next time

he saw her.

"Where does this pretty girl live, your Highness?"

"In an obscure and distant street where I have followed her each day.

At night a queer-looking fellow is admitted, thus I am sure she has a

lover. By the way, whom do you think that fellow to be?" the Duke

asked with a laugh.

"Pray tell me."

"None other than Rigoletto!" the Duke cried, laughing more

boisterously. "What do you think of that--the little hunchback!"

"And does he know that you have followed this sweetheart of his?"

"Not he. But look at all of these beautiful women," he exclaimed with

delight as the company began to assemble from another room. "Alas, a

man hardly knows whom to love among so many beauties," he sighed

heavily. "But after all, I think it must be the Countess Ceprano! do

you see her? Most beautiful!"

"Just the same I advise you not to let the Count Ceprano hear you!"

Borsa advised.

Ah, in my heart, all are equally cherished,

Every thought of exclusion within me I smother,

None is dearer to me than another,

In their turn, I for each one would die,

the Duke sang gaily, giving his friend and servant the wink.

Now, Rigoletto was in the habit of assisting the Duke in all his

wrongdoing, and on this night the Duke confided to him his new

enchantment--not Gilda, but the Countess Ceprano.

"The Countess has a jealous husband, Rigoletto; pray what do you

advise?"

"Why, that you carry her off, to be sure; or else get rid of her

husband the Count; maybe that would be the easiest way."

The Duke was wild enough to undertake almost anything, and so with the

help of Rigoletto he was ready to undertake that. Hence, he made

desperate love to the Countess all the evening, while the Count became

more and more angry, and followed the pair continually about.

Even the courtiers were a good deal disgusted with the Duke's conduct,

and they especially hated Rigoletto, who they thought was the real

author of most of the Duke's misconduct.

"I don't know what we are coming to," Marullo exclaimed.

Yes, and 'tis here but as elsewhere!

'Tis gambling and feasting, duelling and dancing;

And love-making always, wherever he goes.

To-day he's for pastime, besieging the countess,

While we watch the husband and laugh at his woes!

This condition of things exactly suited the malevolent dwarf,

however.

After the Count had followed the Duke and Countess about the palace

half the night, the Duke came into the room in a rage.

"What am I to do with this Count? I'd like to fight him and kill him.

He torments me to death. If you don't think out a way to rid me of him

while I am making love to the Countess, I'll get some other fellow to

make life gay for me, Rigoletto," he cried to the dwarf.

"Well, have I not told you--run off with her."

"Oh, yes, that's easy enough to say."

"It's easy enough to _do_. Try it to-night!"

"But what about her husband?"

"Oh, I don't know--let him be arrested."

"No, no, that won't do; he's of noble birth. You are going too far."

"All right! If he is too good to be arrested, then exile him," the

dwarf obligingly arranges, showing thereby his notion of the fitness

of things.

"No! that would hardly do, either," the Duke exclaimed impatiently.

"Well, cut off his head, then." Rigoletto thought that should be an

ending dignified enough for any one. Meantime Ceprano overheard that

pleasing conversation.

"They are black-hearted villains," he muttered aside.

"Cut off that head so unbending," the Duke exclaimed, looking at

Ceprano, who was really a noble-appearing aristocrat.

"Aye--we have discovered its use. Cut it off; that will make it

pliant," the charming dwarf said, facetiously; and that being a bit

too much for any noble to put up with, the Count drew his sword.

"Enough! you ribald hunchback," he cried; at which the Duke became

uneasy.

"Yes, come here, you jesting fool!" he called to Rigoletto, trying to

turn the matter off. "We've had enough of your jests. We are tired of

you. I advise you not to impose too much on our good humour, because

some of this maliciousness may come back at you."

But the Count was not so easily to be pacified. He turned to the other

nobles and asked them to help him revenge himself; but the Duke of

Mantua was very powerful, and few were willing to displease him,

however much they disapproved of his conduct.

"What can we do?" several of them murmured, and meanwhile the dwarf

was trying aside to secure help in carrying off the Countess for the

Duke. That was really too audacious, and all of the nobles finally

sided with the Count, privately agreeing to help him ruin the dwarf,

since they dared not directly oppose the Duke.

While the excitement of this general quarrel was at its height, the

dancers all poured in from the other room and began to sing gaily of

life's pleasures, which were about all that made life worth living. In

the very midst of this revelry some one without made a great noise and

demanded instant admittance. The Duke recognized the voice of

Monterone, a powerful noble, whom he had wronged and cried out

angrily:

"He shall not come in." As a fact, Rigoletto had carried off

Monterone's daughter for the Duke but a little time before.

"Make way there," the old Count insisted, more enraged than ever, and

forcing his way past the attendants, he entered the room. He was an

old and proud man and the nobles present were bound to give heed to

him.

"Yes, Sir Duke, it is I. You know my voice! I would it were as loud as

thunder!" he cried.

"Ah! I will deign to give you audience," Rigoletto spoke up, mimicking

the Duke's voice in a manner insulting to Monterone.

He continued to speak insultingly to the old man, using the Duke's

manner and voice, till the Count cried out against the shameful

action.

"Is this thy justice? Thou darest deride me? Then no place shall hide

thee from my curse. I will pursue thee as long as I live, day and

night. I will recall to you how you have taken my daughter away from

me, and have disgraced us. You may cut off my head, but still I'll

appear to thee and fill thee with fear. And thou, thou viper," he

cried to Rigoletto, "be thou accursed!"

"Don't curse me," the dwarf exclaimed, turning pale. He was

superstitious, and the fearful words of the wronged father sounded

ominous. The scene became terrifying to the whole company and they

cried out.

"Away with him," the Duke demanded, angrily. "Am I to have the gaiety

of my guests spoiled because of this old dotard? Take him to prison."

The attendants rushed in and seized Monterone, while he turned again

upon the dwarf and cursed him roundly. Not only did the dwarf shrink

back, the whole company became affrighted, while the old man was

silenced at last by the guards, and Rigoletto hurried, panic-stricken,

from the palace.

_Scene II_

As Rigoletto hastened away from the palace with the curses ringing in

his ears he could not rid himself of the terror they inspired;

probably because he was so bad a man and knew that he deserved them.

He was in a street very near to his home, when he was stopped by a

forbidding-looking fellow.

"It was a father's curse he laid upon me," Rigoletto was muttering,

thinking of his own daughter, the only thing in the world that he

loved.

"Ho, there," said the fellow in the road, calling softly.

"Oh, don't stop me," Rigoletto answered with impatience. "I have

nothing worth getting." He lived in a time of bandits and highwaymen,

and, since he had nothing to be robbed of, was not much frightened. He

was far more afraid of the Count's curse.

"No matter, good sir; that is not exactly what I stopped you for. You

look to me like a man who might have enemies; or who might wish to

employ me."

"What for, pray?"

Sparafucile laughed shortly. "Well, you are not a very

benevolent-looking chap, and I'd murder my brother for money," he

whispered, grinning at the crooked, odious-looking Rigoletto.

Rigoletto eyed him. The villain had spoken almost as if he knew the

dwarf's fear.

"I believe you," he muttered, looking steadily at the cut-throat. "You

look it, every inch. What do you charge to kill a noble?"

"More than I charge for a churl, by double."

"And how do you want your money?"

"Half before I do the deed, and the other half when he is dead."

"You're a demon," Rigoletto murmured; and certainly he himself was bad

enough to be able to judge of a rogue when he saw one. "Aren't you

afraid of being discovered?"

"No, when it is dangerous to kill in the city, I do it in my own

house. There in the gloom of night, far away from help, it is easy

enough. No one ever finds it out."

"You are the wickedest man I know--not excepting myself," said

Rigoletto, contemplating the wretch with curiosity. "Tell me how you

lure people to your home?"

"Easy enough. I have a handsome sister there. Nobody ever thinks of

resisting her. She gets them to come; I do the rest."

"I follow you."

"Then not a sound is heard. The knife is a silent fellow. Now what do

you think?--that I can serve you?"

"No. I don't like the notion." Rigoletto was not half as daring of

wicked deeds as he had been an hour before; the curse was still

ringing in his ears.

"You have enemies, I judge," Sparafucile urged, shrewdly. "You'll

regret not accepting my services."

"Nay. Be off. No, stay a moment! If I ever should need thee, where

could I address thee?"

"You won't have to address me; you'll find me here each night."

"Well, be off, be off!" As a fact Rigoletto didn't much care to be

seen with one of his own kind. But he looked after the _coupe-jarret_

uneasily. "After all, we are equals, that fellow and I. He stabs in

the dark--and so do I. I with my malicious tongue, he with his knife.

Bah! I am all undone. I hear that old man's curse yet. How I hate

them, all those nobles who hire me to laugh for them and to make them

laugh! I haven't even a right to know sadness. It is my business in

life, because I am born crooked, to make sport for these rats of

fellows who are no better than I am. I am hired to bear the burden of

their crimes. I wish they all had but one neck; I'd strangle them with

one hand." Overwhelmed with the exciting scenes of the night, he

turned toward the gate in his garden wall. As he opened it, Gilda ran

out gaily to meet him. To her he was only the loving and tender

father. She waited for his coming all day, and had no pleasure till

she saw him.

"Oh, in this abode, my nature changes," the crooked little man

murmured as he folded his daughter in his arms.

"Near thee, my daughter, I find all the joy on earth that is left me,"

he said, trying to control his emotion.

"You love me, father?"

"Aye!--thou art my only comfort."

"Father, there is often something mysterious in thy actions. You have

never told me of my mother. Who was my mother, dear father?"

[Music:

Ah why recall in misery,

What tempests dread have moved me?

An angel once companion'd me,

An angel in pity lov'd me]

he sang.

"Hideous, an outcast, penniless, she blessed my lonely years. Ah! I

lost her, I lost her. Death wafted her soul to heaven!--But thou art

left me," he said tenderly, beginning to weep.

"There, father, say no more. My questions have made thee sad. I shall

always be with thee to make thee happy. But, father, I do not know

that you are what you tell me. What is your real name? Is it

Rigoletto?"

"No matter, child, do not question. I am feared and hated by my

enemies. Let that suffice."

"But ever since we came to this place three months ago, you have

forbidden me to go abroad. Let me go into the city, father, and see

the sights."

"Never! You must not ask it." He was frightened at the very thought.

If men like the Duke, his master, should see such a beautiful girl as

Gilda, they would surely rob him of her. At that moment the nurse,

Giovanna, came from the house and Rigoletto asked her if the garden

gate was ever left open while he was away. The woman told him falsely

that the gate was always closed.

"Ah, Giovanna, I pray you watch over my daughter when I am away," he

cried, and turned suddenly toward the gate upon hearing a noise. "Some

one is without there, now!" he cried, running in the direction of the

sound. He threw the gate wide, but saw no one, because the Duke--who

it was--had stepped aside into the shadow, and then, while Rigoletto

was without, looking up the road, he slipped within and hid behind a

tree, throwing a purse to Giovanna to bribe her to silence. Giovanna

snatched it and hid it in the folds of her gown, showing plainly that

she was not to be trusted, as Rigoletto trusted her, with his precious

daughter. There was the man whom Rigoletto had most cause to fear, who

ran off with every pretty girl he saw, and he had now found the

prettiest of them all in the dwarf's daughter.