Act IV. comprises three scenes. The first one is short, and depicts

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STARS OF THE OPERA

BY

MABEL WAGNALLS

[Illustration: Photographs Copyright by Aime Dupont and Falk, New York.

"STARS OF THE OPERA."]

STARS OF THE OPERA

A Description of Operas & a Series of Personal Interviews

with Marcela Sembrich, Emma Eames, Emma Calve,

Lillian Nordica, Lilli Lehmann, Geraldine Farrar

&

Nellie Melba

BY

MABEL WAGNALLS

Author of "Miserere," "Selma, the Soprano," etc.

REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY

NEW YORK & LONDON

1909

Copyright, 1899, and 1907

BY

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY

Registered at Stationers' Hall, London

[Printed in the United States]

AUTHOR'S NOTE

_All the interviews in this book have been

proof-read by the singers_

Published, September, 1907

To those who love music but have

no opportunity to familiarize themselves

with grand opera this

book is respectfully

dedicated

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE

AN INTERVIEW WITH MARCELLA SEMBRICH 13

"SEMIRAMIDE" 25

A CALL ON EMMA EAMES 43

"FAUST" 57

"WERTHER" 79

CALVE AND "CARMEN" 105

"CARMEN" 117

"HAMLET" 143

A TALK WITH LILLIAN NORDICA 169

"LOHENGRIN" 185

"AIDA" 215

"THE HUGUENOTS" 239

AN HOUR WITH LILLI LEHMANN 265

"THE FLYING DUTCHMAN" 279

MELBA, THE AUSTRALIAN NIGHTINGALE 303

"LAKME" 315

"I PAGLIACCI" 337

"ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE" 357

THE GENIUS OF GERALDINE FARRAR 369

"MADAME BUTTERFLY" 379

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING

PAGE

Group of Miniature Portraits, "Stars of the Opera" _Frontispiece_

Marcella Sembrich 15

Sembrich as Rosina in "The Barber of Seville" 22

Emma Eames 45

Melba as Marguerite in "Faust" 64

Emma Calve 107

Calve as Carmen 128

Calve as Ophelia in "Hamlet" 164

Lillian Nordica 171

Nordica as Brunhilde in "Siegfried" 182

Eames as Elsa in "Lohengrin" 202

Nordica as Aida 220

Lilli Lehmann 267

Lehmann as Isolde in "Tristan and Isolde" 270

Lehmann as Venus in "Tannhaeuser" 276

Nellie Melba 305

Melba as Elizabeth in "Tannhaeuser" 312

Geraldine Farrar 371

Miss Farrar as "Madame Butterfly" 384

An Interview

with

Marcella Sembrich

[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.

MARCELLA SEMBRICH.]

STARS OF THE OPERA

AN INTERVIEW WITH MARCELLA SEMBRICH

Early in the season of 1898-99 there was a performance of "Traviata" in

the Metropolitan Opera-House which might be described as "an occasion of

superlatives"--including the largest auditorium, the biggest audience,

the finest singers.

Grand opera in itself is a culmination and combination of the greatest

efforts of the greatest minds. There is, in the first place, the plot of

the libretto, which in the case of "Traviata" was the masterpiece of

Dumas, France's greatest dramatist--a man who labored all his life as

tho achievement required only work, and who yet possessed such mental

power as no amount of work could achieve.

After Dumas comes the librettist who transposed the story into suitable

Italian verse to be set to music. And then we have the work, the inmost

thoughts, of Giuseppe Verdi, Italy's greatest living composer. There was

a day when each of these sparkling melodies that now delight the whole

world was born in the soul of Verdi, and heard by him alone. But he

patiently put upon paper every note that his years of study and his

gifted soul impelled.

The work of the composer, the dramatist, and the librettist belongs to

the past, however, and that audience of five thousand people did not

bestow much thought on them. Nor did they think very often of the

orchestra, composed of fifty thorough musicians, who really worked more

during the performance than any of the other participants.

It may be mentioned here that in all grand operas the orchestra plays

continually; it is the wall upon which the picture is hung. There may

be pauses in the singing, but the conductor's baton never rests.

People seldom appreciate the vast knowledge of music and the remarkable

ability in sight-reading which these orchestra players possess. Not one

of them but has worked at his art from childhood; most of them play

several different instruments; and they all hold as a creed that a false

note is a sin, and a variation in rhythm is a fall from grace. The

director is their temporary deity who commands the orchestra beneath and

the stage above--a little universe of music. He holds all together and

dictates the tempo, the expression, and the phrasing. His commands are

for the time being immutable as the laws of nature, for any serious

disobedience would cause the whole structure to fall to pieces.

The five thousand listeners gave some applause to the director after the

playing of the introduction, and they gave a little more to the

chorus--those earnest workers who serve grand opera as the stokers do a

ship. Then the tenor received a good deal of applause--his reward for

training his voice, studying music, memorizing operas, overcoming

nervousness, and singing in public twenty years.

But the great applause, the "bravos," the cheering, the excitement, were

reserved for the star, the soprano--Marcella Sembrich! It is always

impressive to witness such a success. It is inspiring to know that one

woman can so stir the hearts of the people.

Madame Sembrich's voice is as perfect a voice as the world has ever

heard. Yet her greatness consists more in her art than in her voice. She

has not been satisfied merely to use her gift as nature gave it, but she

has acquired a mastery of tone-coloring so that every tone has a meaning

of its own, and seems to express a distinct emotion. In the last act of

"Traviata" the quality of her tones, always beautiful, but ever varying

as her art dictates, conveys to the listener surely and truly the

approach of death and the hope of heaven. This is great art indeed. No

wonder the audience fairly gasps as the last sweet tone leaves the lips

of the pale Violetta and soars away into infinite space.

It was the day after "Traviata," when, in response to a knock at Madame

Sembrich's door in the Hotel Savoy, a mellow voice said, "Come in."

On my obeying this summons, the singer was "discovered"--as the

librettos have it--standing near her grand piano, alone, and as

unostentatious as your own sister.

There was no effect of the impressive prima donna, all flowers and

frills and _frou-frou_. She was quite alone, just as lesser mortals

sometimes are; and she furthermore spared her visitor from any sense of

interrupted work, or great haste, or the magnitude of the occasion.

She was just a courteous, quiet lady who seated herself beside the

visitor and talked earnestly about music and work.

When asked how early she began to study the art seriously, she replied:

"When I was six years old. My father taught me the piano until I was

ten. He was a very gifted man. Then I also studied for a while with Dr.

Stengel, who is now my husband, and with Epstein in Vienna."

On learning that her visitor was acquainted with Vienna, Madame

Sembrich's face lighted up (she has a radiant smile): "Ach! then you

speak German?" And from this point she talked altogether in German,

which is more akin to her native Polish.

She is fluent, however, in all the continental languages. "We have to

know them all, for we need them constantly," she explained. In reply to

other questions, the singer told enthusiastically of her early work.

"I can not say I was ever discouraged, for I so enjoyed my art that it

was always of absorbing interest; but my whole life has been made up of

hard work, always work. I also studied the violin and composition, and I

used to rise early and go to bed late, for I worked six and seven hours

a day."

Madame Sembrich is one of the most thorough, all-round musicians on the

lyric stage to-day, for she is not only a singer, but has played

successfully in public on piano and violin. Her rare gift of voice was

not discovered until she was seventeen. Then her great knowledge of

music enabled her quickly to develop the voice, and it was not long

before she appeared in opera and made her first great success in London.

When asked if she was ever nervous, the answer came promptly:

"Oh, yes, very nervous! _Now_ I am always nervous. But in the early days

it was not so bad. When you are young and have a beautiful voice, you

think it is all that is necessary, and are not nervous, because you do

not realize the depth and extent of art. But as you grow older you

appreciate the possibilities of art--you know what it implies, and how

perfect you wish to make it; and then you are nervous. It is more

nervous work, too, for such artists as Madame Patti, Madame Melba, or

myself, who travel about and sing first in one place and then in

another, because each time we have to win our audience and make a new

conquest. In Europe, at the great opera-houses such as are in Vienna or

Berlin, it is different, for there the singers are engaged permanently.

The public knows how well they can do, and if sometimes they are not at

their best, they know the public will excuse them. I find I am more

nervous, too, as my reputation increases, for more is expected of me."

Referring again to her studies, Madame Sembrich counted over

thirty-seven full operas that she has learned. It is well to consider

for a moment what this implies. Aside from the native gifts of voice,

musical talent, and dramatic temperament, there must be years of

practise in singing and acting; then the words of each opera must be

memorized, sometimes in three languages. After studying, originating,

and mastering the action, the music must be learned, and every word

wedded to a certain tone, and every tone to a certain beat of time.

Herein the actress has but a slight task compared to the opera singer,

for in the drama it matters not if a word comes a moment sooner or

later; but in grand opera a second's deviation might cause a discord.

[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.

Sembrich as Rosina in "The Barber of Seville."]

Madame Sembrich delights in the opera "Traviata" because of its intense

action.

"But I like, too, the lighter operas. The merriment of 'Rosina' amuses

me as I act it."

One more question was asked as her visitor arose to go.

"Is it true, Madame Sembrich, that you walk two hours every day?"

"Yes," she answered good-humoredly. "I had just returned to-day when you

came. I started at eleven and got home at one."

Regular and rigorous in her daily life even yet! Upon meeting Madame

Sembrich, one receives an impression of graciousness and greatness not

to be forgotten.

"Semiramide"

"SEMIRAMIDE"

All great prima donnas have in their repertoire the majority of famous

operas, but through fitness of physique or temperament or quality of

voice they become associated with certain roles more than others.

Sometimes it is merely a caprice of the public that holds them to a

particular line of operas. At present Madame Sembrich is regarded as the

great exponent of the old Italian school. Among her thirty-seven operas

"Semiramide" is one in which New Yorkers have not yet heard her; but it

is in some respects the most typical of its kind.

"Semiramide" belongs to the old style of Italian operas. It is light in

substance, but glistening with scales and cadenzas that are scattered

over it like spangles upon tulle. Rossini's music is always beautiful

but conveys little meaning, and it impresses the modern musical taste

like a meal of bonbons. Although Semiramis lived hundreds of years

before the Christian era, we listen in vain for any ancient atmosphere

to the composition or for the "_melodrame tragico_," as designated by

the libretto. This music would be as suitable to the "Barber of Seville"

as to the "Queen of Babylon." In other words, the old operas were a

series of separate songs adapted to a connected story, whereas we now

expect the score so thoroughly to embody the text that the two are

inseparable.

"Semiramide," however, bears several claims to distinction that prevent

the possibility of extinction. It is the opera _par excellence_ of

duets. They are the delightful, old-fashioned kind, wherein the two

voices are side by side, only separated by a perfect third; and when the

conductor has whipped up a good tempo away they go like a span of

horses, over hills and valleys of scales and arpeggios, bridged-over

intervals, and clumps of trills. Differing from all other operas, this

one gives as much prominence to the contralto as to the soprano. They

must have equal facility of execution; and, indeed, none of the roles

are exempt from this demand. Tenor, contralto, baritone, and bass vie

with each other in performing dangerous feats of vocal agility. There

are passages where they all, one after another, run up a scale and land

on a certain note, like athletes jumping from a spring-board. We smile

at such display, and are inclined to regard the opera as one big

solfeggio; but let it not be forgotten that this is the old Italian

style, and interesting from this point of view.

Another claim to lasting fame is its overture--one of the prettiest,

happiest, showiest orchestral compositions extant. It is a stock program

piece, being simple enough for any orchestra to perform and yet rousing

enough always to elicit applause.

The opening scene represents a temple wherein Oroe, the chief of the

Magi, is discovered kneeling before an altar. He has received a

celestial revelation of some dark crime that is awaiting vengeance, and

his first short recitative refers to this secret. Arising from his

knees, Oroe orders the gates of the temple to be opened. The Assyrian

multitude enter bearing offerings and garlands, while they sing a light

melody that would do for a modern topical song. Idrenus, an Indian

prince, also comes in with his attendants, bearing incense and

offerings. He is the tenor, but unimportant, because this opera has no

love-scene, and consequently little use for a tenor. Assur, an Assyrian

potentate, is another devout supplicant at the altar of Belus. We soon

learn the occasion of these earnest efforts to propitiate the gods:

Semiramis, the queen, will to-day select a successor to the late King

Ninus.

A very good example of what we consider the incongruities of the old

school is found in these first two arias of Idrenus and Assur. The tenor

comes in alone and delivers a flourishing solo, ornate as his costume.

Then Assur, the basso, makes his entrance and sings in a lower key the

same remarkable pyrotechnics. This antagonizes the fundamental rule of

modern opera, which requires each character to maintain a musical

individuality. There is some further conversation in the form of a

terzetto between Idrenus, Assur, and Oroe, and the fact is disclosed

that Assur expects the queen's choice to fall on him.

Another light and bright chorus announces the entrance of Semiramis. She

is represented as young and beautiful, altho she is a widow and the

mother of a son who mysteriously disappeared years before the story

opens. But radiant as is her appearance, Semiramis opens the ceremonies

with uneasiness, for she has determined to make Arsaces the future king.

He is a young army officer, and there is no just reason why he should be

favored; but the queen has become enamored of him. Arsaces, however, is

unconscious of her infatuation. She has summoned him to this ceremony;

but he has not yet arrived, and for this reason she hesitates. In a

quartet that is worked up like a rondo upon a very pleasing theme, the

others urge her to begin. She reluctantly steps forward, but at her

first mention of the dead king there is a flash of lightning and the

sacred fires are extinguished. The people regard this as a dire omen.

Oroe glances knowingly at both Semiramis and Assur as he again refers to

a crime that has aroused the wrath of the gods. He orders the ceremonies

to be postponed pending the arrival of a sacred oracle from Memphis. The

queen and her attendants withdraw, and the temple is vacated.

The orchestra plays through several pages of sixty-fourth and

thirty-second notes, after which the interesting and important Arsaces

enters with two slaves who bring a casket. Arsaces is always a very

youthful and impossible-looking general, in spite of his glittering

cuirass, for be it known this is the contralto role, and, musically

speaking, a very great one.

We learn from his first recitative that this casket contains precious

documents and relics of the late king which have been guarded and

concealed by Phradates, the supposed father of Arsaces. Phradates has

recently died, and in compliance with his request Arsaces brings these

treasures to the high priest. We also learn that the young general is

puzzled over the queen's summons; and last, but not least, we learn that

he is in love with the beautiful Princess Azema. The mere mention of her

name starts him to singing a rapturous song, bubbling over with

brilliant roulades. After presenting his casket to the high priest,

Arsaces encounters Assur, who soon makes it known that he also loves the

fair Azema. This so maddens Arsaces that he resolves at once to ask

Semiramis for the hand of the princess. These rivals cordially hate each

other, but Rossini inspires them to sing the same melodies, and their

voices mingle in beautiful harmony of tone and rhythm.

The second rising of the curtain reveals Semiramis reclining under a

bower in her palace garden. She is surrounded by maidens and slaves who

sing languid, luxuriant melodies for her diversion. Rossini's style is

well suited to this scene. As the arias are presented one by one, it is

like unfolding the contents of an Assyrian treasure-chest full of

shimmering silks and glittering jewels. Among this collection there is

one gem called the "Bel Raggio," a name as famous in its way as the

Koh-i-noor. This musical brilliant belongs to Queen Semiramis, who

displays its scintillating beauty with evident pride. The "Bel Raggio"

is one of the four great corner-stones of the bravura singer's

repertoire, of which the remaining three are: "Una voce poco fa," also

by Rossini; the Dinorah "Shadow Song," and Eckert's "Echo Song." When

listening to "Bel Raggio" one should never try to follow the words or

even wonder what she is saying. Just listen to the music. Those radiant,

ravishing, intoxicating warbles and runs tell one plainly enough that

she is happy, and this is sufficient.

Semiramis is awaiting Arsaces and the oracle from Memphis. The latter is

received first, and bears the cheering words, "Thy peace shall be

restored with the return of Arsaces." True to the nature of oracles,

this one has a double meaning, and Semiramis construes it in the wrong

way. When Arsaces enters there follows a bevy of famous duets. But the

conversation is quite at cross purposes. Arsaces tells of a

long-cherished love, which Semiramis thinks is for herself. She promises

that all his hopes shall be realized, whereupon the two wander off side

by side through a forest of cadences, roulades, and scales. They

sometimes become separated, when the soprano pauses to run up the

scale-ladder and pluck a brilliant high note, or the contralto lingers

to pick up tones that are rich and full as fallen fruit; but they

finally emerge together, trilling high and low like birds from a

thicket.

The third scene represents a magnificent hall in the palace. There are,

of course, a throne and other "properties," but most conspicuous is the

tomb or mausoleum of Ninus. For a second time the Assyrian noblemen and

people gather to hear the appointment of a new king. As they sing a

sweeping march, Semiramis enters more gorgeously arrayed than ever. She

takes her place at the throne, and with an imperious gesture commands

allegiance to the king of her choice. These regal phrases contain such a

prodigality of dazzling colorature that we are reminded of the far-famed

hanging gardens devised by this same extravagant queen. In the matter of

lavish display the music of "Semiramide" is strikingly appropriate.

Assur, Arsaces, Idrenus, and Oroe vow obedience, and their hymn-like

ensemble is one of the grandest themes Rossini ever composed. Like the

prayer from Weber's "Freischuetz," this quintet has long held a place in

church choir-books, and a more religious and inspiring melody could

hardly be imagined. The soprano scatters delicious appoggiaturas and

cadenzas above the steady and noble ensemble like flowers upon an altar.

The "Semiramide Quintet" is another one of its claims to lasting fame.

In a lighter vein is the queen's next proclamation, to the effect that

the future king shall also be her husband. This arouses general

surprise. But when she finally designates Arsaces, the amazement on all

sides is loud. Assur demands justice from the queen, insinuating some

secret compact that she dare not disregard. He is haughtily silenced by

Semiramis, who at the same time bestows upon him the hand of fair Azema.

Poor Arsaces is beside himself. He tries to explain, but the queen will

listen to no remonstrances. An altar is brought forward, and the priests

are about to pronounce the marriage bans when a hollow, subterranean

sound and distant thunder cause consternation. The people are horrified

to behold the tomb of Ninus slowly open and its occupant step forth.

Turning to Arsaces, the ghost bids him avenge a terrible crime: "With

courage into my tomb descend; there to my ashes a victim thou shalt

offer. But first obey the counsel of the priest." The ghost disappears,

and the act closes with a strong chorus of dismay. Semiramis leads the

singing, and for once her music has only prim quarter-notes and

half-notes: her colorature is all frightened away.

The next act contains an interview between Assur and Semiramis, wherein

we learn about the crime so often referred to. The late King Ninus was

poisoned by Assur, who had been promised the throne. But the guilty

queen has since preferred Arsaces, and this explains Assur's great

anger. He threatens to kill the young favorite; but Semiramis has

resumed her ostentatious manner and music, and will not heed his words.

There follows a scene in the queen's apartment. She is still striving to

win Arsaces, but her overtures repel him more than ever. He has just

returned from an interview with the priest. The contents of the casket

have been revealed to him, and he shows Semiramis a paper proving the

startling fact that Arsaces himself is her long-lost son. He has also

learned that Ninus, his father, was murdered. Remorse promptly overtakes

the queen. She weeps and wails in chromatics and scales that quite touch

Arsaces. They sing a glorious duet that is like a benediction, so noble

and pure are its harmonies. It is called "Giorno d'orrore" (day of

horror). Arsaces bids his mother adieu. He is going to the tomb to

avenge his father's death, tho he knows not how nor whom he shall

strike. It rests with the gods to guide him; he only obeys the command.

There follows another smoothly flowing duet resembling all the others in

its simple structure, unmistakable rhythm, and prominent melody.

The finale of "Semiramide" has little to commend it, being absurd in

action and presenting only one pleasing or noticeable theme. This is a

dainty, quaint violin passage that delighted us in the overture, but

which we never thought of connecting with a tragic climax. How different

is this tomb music from that of Gounod's "Romeo and Juliet!" There the

marvelous harmonies are like sweet dreams accompanying the sleep of

death, but here we are only conscious of the "deep, damp vault, the

darkness and the worm."

The chief absurdity of this scene lies in the fact that it should be too

dark for the characters to see each other and yet it must be light

enough for the audience to see everything. Another incongruity is the

assembling of all the principals and a good-sized chorus in this tomb

where we expected Arsaces alone. But it is explained that Assur heard of

the hero's coming and planned to follow with the intention of killing

him; Oroe heard of Assur's plan and brings an armed guard to protect

Arsaces; and, finally, Semiramis follows because she is anxious about

everybody and everything.

They enter at different times; grope around among tombs, and pretend not

to see each other. Arsaces finally hears and recognizes the voice of

Assur. He has no doubt that the gods have sent Assur to be the victim.

The hero promptly stabs in the direction of the voice, but because it is

so very dark he happens to kill Semiramis instead of Assur. But this

mistake does not much affect either the music or the action. The final

chorus of the opera is as light and bright as the first.

A Call on Emma Eames

[Illustration: Copyright by Falk, N. Y.

EMMA EAMES.]

A CALL ON EMMA EAMES

A call at the Hotel Marie Antoinette is a veritable eighteenth-century

dream. A powdered footman in satin knee-breeches and the full court

costume of that period flings open the great glass doors as you enter,

and another one escorts you around some columns, and through some

curtains, and down some steps to the main reception-room, where you wait

while your name is announced.

The Hotel Marie Antoinette is very exclusive, so you happen to be alone

in this great apartment, with its stained-glass dome and carved-oak

walls; alone, excepting for the pretty soft-voiced maid who is arrayed

as were the ladies-in-waiting of the Trianon. She assists you in

removing your wraps, and at the same time talks enthusiastically about

the great personage you have come to see.

"We all here just love her, she is so gracious and appreciative of

everything we do, and so kind to us. She gives us tickets to the opera,

and she isn't at all proud or haughty. She often comes in here of an

afternoon to have tea. There is her corner where she always sits"--and

the maid points quite reverentially to a dainty recess curtained with

tapestries and dreamily illumined by a huge pendant red globe. As your

glance roams on, you find many objects that hold your attention. There

are historic cabinets of rare value and workmanship, little tea-tables

beside the various couches, bearing trays of antique china and tiny

spoons of old silver, all sought and selected from the castles and

treasure-rooms of Europe. There is one dainty solid gold clock that

belonged to Marie Antoinette and was used in her boudoir. Another one

which she also owned is jeweled with turquoise and garnets. Many

valuable miniatures of the unfortunate queen and her family are on the

desks and writing-tables. In one enticing alcove are two rows of

sumptuous volumes bound in red and gold whose mere titles set one to

dreaming of court intrigues and palace revels. "The Secret Memoirs of

the Court" comprise one set of ten books; ten more are devoted to

Napoleon, and "The Life and Times of Louis XV." also occupies much

shelf-room; while on the center-table is a collection of engravings

portraying the life of Marie Antoinette.

You quite feel yourself a court lady by this time; and when the powdered

dignitary again appears and calls out your name in stately tones, you

follow him with a sense of importance quite pleasant and unusual. You

are led past more columns and through more curtains, until finally he

leaves you in a moderate-sized ante-room. Here you wait for some

moments, expectantly watching the doorway by which you entered, when

suddenly, on the opposite side of the room, some folding-doors which you

had not noticed are flung wide open by unseen hands, and behold the

queen--of grand opera, Madame Emma Eames!

It was indeed a right royal vision I beheld: a beautiful woman, in every

sense of the term, clad in a fawn-colored gown of rich design, and

bejeweled with chains of pearls and a brooch of diamonds. She was seated

on a pale satin divan, but came forward to greet her visitor, and shook

hands cordially. Madame Eames is more than beautiful, for together with

regular features and soft curves she has a strong face and a pose of the

head that is all determination and force. She is tall and full-figured,

her hair is dark, and her eyes are very blue.

She displayed a charming smile as she motioned her visitor to a seat

near by, and then followed a rapid sequence of questions and answers.

Madame Eames showed a kindly response to her visitor's spirit of

earnestness, and tried to tell as much as possible in every reply she

made.

First in order of interest is the fact that she was born, August 13,

1867, in Shanghai, China. There's a beginning for you!--enough to crush

an ordinary mortal. But Emma Eames took it otherwise; and all who know

of her now must admit that to be born under the star of the East on the

thirteenth day of the month is after all not bad. As soon as she was old

enough to walk she left the land of her birth and came with her mother

and father (who was a lawyer of the international courts) to their

native home, the city of Bath, in Maine.

Here she studied music with her mother, going later on to Boston and

finally to Paris, where she worked with indomitable will studying

operas, dramatic action, voice culture, and especially French. This last

is very important for those aiming to sing publicly in Paris, for the

people there will not tolerate any weakness of pronunciation.

When asked if she ever had time for any social pleasures, Madame Eames

answered very earnestly: "I have never done anything in my life but

work. I cared for other pleasures just as any girl does, but have

always foregone them."

As a result of this ceaseless work she was fitted for the operatic stage

in two years' time.

"It was Gounod himself who selected me to sing in his opera 'Romeo and

Juliet.' He taught me that music, and also 'Faust.' He was a most

lovable old man, so modest, and above all sincere and truth-loving in

his music. He often said to me, 'Never degrade music, the one divine

language on earth, to express a lie.' When teaching a phrase, instead of

dictating, as you would expect so great a man to do, he always asked,

'How do you _feel_ when you hear that? Sing it as _you feel it_, not

what I feel or tell you.' And he could sing so exquisitely! Yes, old as

he was, and he had just the smallest possible voice, yet it was

delightful to hear."

Madame Eames's tones were tender and thoughtful as she recalled these

reminiscences of her beloved master.

The number thirteen looms up again in Madame Eames's history as the date

of her great debut. It was the evening of March 13, 1889, in the world's

most beautiful opera-house, that the swaying pendants of its great

chandelier vibrated to the sound of a new voice and the marble walls of

its ornate halls reverberated to the sound of a new name--"Emma Eames,

la jeune Americaine."

No wonder she made a sensation; she is the ideal Juliet, youthful,

beautiful, and with a voice of golden timbre.

A more lovely scene and more tender tragedy has never been depicted in

music than is the last act of this opera. The beholder sees in the

somber setting of an iron-barred tomb the white-clad form of Juliet

lying upon a bier that is raised like an altar above several steps.

There are loose flowers still unwithered scattered near the silent

sleeper, and one pale torch burns restlessly in a brazier at her head.

No other movement; no change on the stage for many minutes.

But the listeners, in this pause, are brought heart to heart with the

gentle composer, who sleeps himself now in the Pantheon of Paris. Gounod

has enwrapped this scene in ethereal harmonies that make one think of

Death not as the King of Terrors, but as the Queen of Repose. The

principal melody is a lulling, loving strain that floats and fades away

like a final "hush" to rest.

The classic purity of Madame Eames's beauty impresses itself in these

moments perhaps more than any other, and the nobility of her voice

reveals itself, in the succeeding dramatic climax of the opera, to the

fullest.

In speaking now of her debut, the singer says that she was very nervous,

"for, before the public has approved, you don't feel sure that you know

anything. After this, there is some foundation for your nerves to rest

on, altho you realize how much there is still to learn. But I am always

nervous even yet, never knowing what trick my nerves may play on me. No,

my memory gives me no anxiety, for I fortunately have a very reliable

one. If by any chance I forget a word on the stage, I know my health is

run down, and I then at once take a rest for several days."

But Emma Eames does not take many such rests. Young as she is, she has

already sung in twenty-one different operas with unvarying success, in

England, France, and Italy as well as her own country. When studying a

new role she makes every effort to be accurate in all details.

"I always give great thought to my costumes, but when once I have

studied thoroughly into the period represented and feel convinced that

my designs are correct, I never change them. When one set is shabby I

merely have it duplicated."

Little wonder a prima donna has no time for social gayety when you

consider all the accessories to her art. Aside from the study and actual

performing, she must take proper exercise for her health, must attend

rehearsals, give time to the costumer--and, also, to the many

interviewers. Madame Eames smiled at this suggestion, and said:

"I don't mind any of these, but I do dread having my photograph taken.

We have to put on the entire costumes of different operas: wigs,

stockings, gloves, slippers--everything as tho ready to go on with our

lines, and all just to stand around in a studio and pose. It is

terrible; it takes a whole day sometimes."

A question about her method of study brought forth the fact that at one

time she was quite misdirected in the use of her voice.

"I was turned entirely in the wrong direction, and it is no exaggeration

to say that I have fought the battle out step by step and note by note

all alone--or, rather, in the very presence of the public. When I first

appeared my voice-control was uncertain; I did not dare take any

liberties with my tones. I was in constant anxiety, and miserable

because I had not the power of voice-emission that I wanted. I assure

you in those days I was sometimes so discouraged that I thought

seriously of giving up my profession."

An astounding assertion this will seem to the thousands of listeners

enthralled by her voice to-day. But Madame Eames was very serious, and

she added philosophically: "After all, I don't think one can attain

anything worth having unless one has suffered deeply."

Every summer Madame Eames takes a six-weeks' vacation in her Italian

castle near Florence. I was shown a description of this edifice, which

reads like a page of old history. The sullen gray stone walls are six

feet thick, and the heavy doors with their great iron hinges are all

carved by hand, as indeed is all the workmanship on the place. The main

hall of the castle is sixty feet long and twenty-five feet wide. There

are four massive fireplaces in this one apartment, and a wooden balcony

reached by a broad stairway runs all around the second story of the

hall. The ceiling is of carved oak, and a reproduction of a famous one

in Florence. Everything is in accord with the traditions of the Middle

Ages. Madame Eames takes great delight in this castle, and she has with

her numerous photographs of it.

There will probably be many guests in those halls; but even if the

gifted owner lived there alone it would always seem peopled by a large

assemblage, for Madame Eames studies much during these vacations, and

the mystic characters of her repertoire may be said to hover ever near.

The castle is to be furnished with rich hangings and historic trophies;

but most priceless of all should be counted the music furnished by her

own rare voice. This will soar out and reecho at all hours; sometimes a

memory of Elsa, and again a thought of Sieglinde.

It were indeed a pity to fling the stray tones of a great voice upon

crude walls and cramped quarters; let them rather resound and

reverberate, and perchance be preserved, by the listening atoms of

carved wood and chiseled stone.

If the earth is God's garden and we are the plants that grow, then

Madame Eames must be likened to a rare orchid, radiant in the sunshine

of great success, and showered with all possible blessings.

"Faust"

"FAUST"

Faust is the opera in which Madame Eames has appeared most often in this

country. No less than sixteen composers have used Goethe's poem as a

libretto. Many of these works are excellent, and frequently we hear

excerpts from them in our concerts. But Gounod has clad the words in

musical raiment of such surpassing loveliness that he has almost robbed

Goethe of his masterpiece. At this day, on hearing the name Faust we

think of the opera simultaneously with, if not before, the poem. He has

made of it a "grand opera" in every sense; and yet so abounding in

melody that even an untrained ear is captured.

There is no overture. It is a fact without a cause that some operas have

overtures and some have not. "Faust" opens with a short orchestral

prelude that is somber and subdued--quite suggestive of the doubt and

darkness that characterize the scene upon which the curtain rises.

Faust, the philosopher, the student, is seated in his cell, surrounded

by books, parchments, chemicals, skulls, and hour-glasses. He has grown

old in his delving after the mysteries, and even now he has devoted the

whole night to study. The lamp burns low, and all about him is dark and

gloomy. He closes his book sadly, and exclaims in tones that seem

spontaneous, but are, nevertheless, in accurate rhythm with the

orchestra, "In vain!" He does not find the knowledge he seeks; his

investigations are without avail. It seems strange to hear these laments

sounded by a tenor voice; but this trifling incongruity of high tones

and old age does not last long. The character Faust is one of the

greatest tenor roles.

His soliloquy is presently broken in upon by a chorus behind the scenes.

It is the song of reapers going to their daily work. The morning light

streams in at the window which Faust throws open as he listens. But

sunshine itself is not brighter than that song. It is so joyous and

light-hearted that the listener fairly inhales the dew-laden air of the

fields. This first melody in the opera is as perfect a morceau for its

size as was ever written. The solitaire in his cell is also affected by

the radiant song, and he envies the reapers for their contentment and

for their youth. Yes, _youth_ is what he longs for.

Altho Faust has declared his study to be "in vain," he has,

nevertheless, acquired the accomplishment of being able to call up

Mephistopheles (this is the operatic name for the great demon), and in

his present despair he resorts to this power. Mephisto appears without

delay. Flaming colors and a bass voice are the essential attributes of

this great character. It seems rather hard on our artists who sing to

low G that a bass voice is so often chosen to represent iniquity; but

such happens to be the case. Mephisto is invariably clad in red from

head to toe; exaggerated eyebrows and a fantastic cap with unobtrusive

horns complete his diabolical appearance.

In a continuous flow of harmony, Faust informs his visitor of his wants,

and Mephisto promptly states his conditions: for the price of his soul

after death the philosopher shall now be granted his youth. Faust

hesitates at this, whereupon the wily demon causes him to behold a

vision. A bright light at the back of the stage suddenly reveals the

lovely Marguerite at her spinning-wheel. While the picture lasts there

is heard in the orchestra a suggestion of one of the themes that come

afterward in the love-scene of the opera; this is accompanied by a soft

tremolo on the violins. Forest scenes, moonlight, and dreams are very

often represented in music by a violin tremolo. When the vision passes

away, Faust is decided, and he drinks the potion Mephistopheles

prescribes. Presto! The gray hair and beard disappear; the long robe

falls off, and Faust is a young man--tall and handsome, as a tenor

should be. He comes forward with an elastic step and sings of youth and

its joys, which now are his. The music has undergone a metamorphosis

like the singer. It throbs with a life and vigor which were lacking

before; and this final song of the first act is one of the best tenor

solos in the opera.

The second act is chiefly remarkable for its choruses. It is called the

Kyrmess, and represents a street thronged with villagers in festive

array and mood. They dance and sing in honor of their soldiers, who

start this day to war. The opening chorus is divided among the students,

girls, soldiers, and citizens, the latter being represented by old men,

who come forward and sing their delightful refrain in thin, piping

voices. Every phrase of this first chorus is a surprise, and each one

seems more fascinating than the preceding. It is all in a rapid,

tripping tempo, and fairly bubbles over with good humor.

In this act we are introduced to all the principal characters. Siebel,

the village youth who loves Marguerite, is already on the scene, and

very soon her soldier-brother, Valentine, appears. This is the baritone

role, and, while not a long one, is still important, and requires a

great artist, for he has a splendid death-scene in the fourth act. His

first solo begins with the words "O santa medaglia!" ("O blessed

medallion!"). He sings to the token which his sister has just given him

at parting. He is depressed at the thought of leaving Marguerite alone,

for she is an orphan; but Siebel consoles him with promises to protect

and watch over her.

Mephisto is the next one to come upon the scene, and, in spite of his

satanic make-up, the villagers do not recognize his "name and station."

He joins in their merry-making, and soon astounds them with his wizard

tricks and actions. He sings a song about "Gold--the lord of the earth."

It is one of the three important solos of this role, and is a most

characteristic piece. One has not the least doubt that he learned it at

home! Such eccentric, sardonic intervals and rhythm at once suggest an

unholy origin.

[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.

Melba as Marguerite in "Faust."]

The peasants soon become so convinced of this stranger's evil power that

they unanimously hold up the hilts of their swords, which are formed

like a cross, and before this emblem Mephisto trembles. A very strong

and inspiring chorus accompanies this move on the part of the peasants.

Faust, the handsome cavalier, now comes forward. After a short dialog

between this master and servant--who we know are under compact to change

places in the hereafter--the chorus again take possession of the stage.

They sing first a charming waltz song, which of itself seems to start

them all to dancing. And then comes the celebrated "Faust Waltz," during

which the listener should pay most attention to the orchestra. There is

some singing and much dancing on the stage, but the instruments have the

most important part. Of this well-known composition it is unnecessary

to say more than that it is a splendid waltz.

Its brilliant rhythm is temporarily diverted by the entrance of

Marguerite, who is on her way home from church. She carries a

prayer-book in her hand, and is dressed in white, which betokens

innocence. This costume of the heroine has been considered as imperative

as the make-up of Mephisto; but Madame Eames carefully studied old

Nuremburg pictures and resurrected the correct style of that period,

which somewhat departs from operatic tradition.

On seeing Marguerite, Faust addresses her as "My charming lady," and

begs permission to walk home with her. To which Marguerite very properly

replies that she is neither "charming" nor a "lady," and can go home

"alone." The question and response last only a moment, but the two

themes are most exquisitely adapted to the words, and should be noted,

as they recur later on in the opera. Especially lovely are these first

notes of the soprano; and after so much chorus and bass and orchestra,

they soar out like strokes from a silver bell.

Marguerite goes on her homeward way, and leaves Faust more in love than

before. Mephisto rejoices, and the waltz is resumed. Thus ends Act II.

And now for the Garden Scene--a veritable bouquet of melodies, flowers

that never fade! The first aria is, indeed, called the "Flower Song,"

but only because Siebel sings to the flowers he has brought for

Marguerite. Siebel is the contralto role, and therefore always taken by

a woman. It is a very short part, but as two of the sweetest songs in

the opera belong to Siebel, great artists are glad to take the

character. The short prelude by the orchestra before the "Flower Song"

is as artistic as any other part. It seems to smooth the brow and quiet

the mind, and coax the hearer into just the right mood "to be lulled by

sounds of sweetest melody." Siebel's song is indeed "sweetest

melody"--so much so that a poor singer can hardly spoil it. That gentle

and caressing theme captures the heart every time.

After Siebel has gone, there enter Faust and Mephistopheles (who gains

admission everywhere). The latter is in high spirits, and Faust is in

love. They look upon the garden with different emotions. Faust

rhapsodizes and is lost in romance; but Mephisto's more practical vision

perceives the flowers which Siebel has left at Marguerite's door. He

goes off at once to procure a present that shall outshine these. During

his absence Faust sings the "Salve Dimore." These are the first words of

the song, which mean "Hail! dwelling pure and simple;" but this

composition is always given its Italian name. It is interesting to note

the names by which celebrated arias are known. Some are designated by

the subject, as the "Jewel Song," "Flower Song." Then, again, some are

known by the rhythm, as the "Waltz Song" from "Romeo and Juliet," or the

"Polacca from 'Mignon.'" Then, there are others whose names only

indicate the number of voices, as the "Sextet from 'Lucia,'" the

"Quartet from 'Rigoletto';" while many are spoken of by their Italian

names. The "Salve Dimore" belongs to this class, and, like the "Jewel

Song," is so celebrated that many people who have not heard the music

are still familiar with the name. The tenor who does not receive

abundant applause after this aria may feel that he has lost his best

chance in the opera.

After the solo Mephisto reenters with a jewel-casket under his arm. He

places this where Marguerite will surely find it, and then the two

retire. Now is an expectant moment, for the soprano holds the stage

alone for some time, and has in this scene her finest solos. She comes

in through the garden gate and walks very slowly, for she is thinking

about the handsome stranger who spoke to her in the street. She tries,

however, to forget the occurrence, and resolutely sits down to her

spinning. As she spins she sings a ballad called "The King of Thule."

It is a sad little song, with strange minor intervals that make one feel

"teary 'round the heart." Marguerite interrupts her ballad to

soliloquize again, in pretty recitative tones, about that "fine

stranger," but she soon recalls herself and resumes the song. At last

she gives up trying to spin, and starts for the house; whereupon she

sees Siebel's flowers, which are admired, but dropped in amazement when

her eyes rest upon the jewel-box. After some misgivings she opens it and

discovers jewels so beautiful that from sheer joy and delight she starts

to trilling like a bird. This trill is the opening of the great aria,

which seems to thus poise for a moment and then fly away in the

ascending scale which commences the brilliant theme. The "Jewel Song" is

as difficult as it is beautiful, and the artist who renders it well

deserves unstinted praise.

Before the song is ended, Martha, the matron in whose care Marguerite

has been entrusted, comes into the garden, and soon is followed by

Faust and Mephistopheles. Hers is a necessary but unimportant character,

as she has no solo and is merely a foil for Mephistopheles. She is

represented as a very susceptible widow, and he takes upon himself the

uninviting task of making love to her in order that Faust and Marguerite

may have a chance. The two couples walk back and forth in the garden,

which is supposed to extend beyond the limits of the stage. The courting

as done by Mephistopheles is highly absurd, and is, in fact, the only

touch of humor in the opera.

But very different are the scenes between Faust and Marguerite. Every

phrase is full of charming sincerity. But it is after the quartet, after

the second exit and reappearance, that we hear their great love duet.

The evening shadows have lengthened, and "Tardi si fa" ("It groweth

late") are the first words of this superb composition, which is indeed

like pure gold. It stands alone in musical literature as the ideal love

music. The only work that is ever compared to it is Wagner's duet in

the "Walkuere." Some writer has ventured the statement that in this

"Faust" duo Gounod has "actually discovered the intervals of the scale

which express the love passion." The idea is not a wild one nor a new

one, for it is known that the Greeks held a similar belief, and even

prohibited certain harmonies and intervals as being too sensuous. Be

that as it may, there is a subtle charm about Gounod's music that eludes

description. When we hear that final ecstatic leap from C sharp to high

A, a mystic hush and spell steals over us.

There is little more after the duo. Marguerite rushes into the house,

and Faust is aroused by the unwelcome voice of Mephistopheles. The

latter's jesting tone is most irritating to the lover. But this dialog

is soon interrupted by one of the loveliest scenes in the opera.

Marguerite throws open the blinds of her window and looks into the

garden, which she believes is now vacant. The moonlight falls upon her,

and she suddenly begins singing. It is a burst of melody as spontaneous

and free as the song of a nightingale. The song is not long, and soon

the curtain descends; but the picture leaves a lasting impression.

Act IV. comprises three scenes. The first one is short, and depicts

Marguerite's grief and remorse. Faust has forsaken her, and the faithful

Siebel tries to comfort and console. This second solo of Siebel's is a

melody of noble simplicity. The beautiful cadence given to the

twice-repeated name, "Marguerita," reveals a heart full of unselfish

love.

The next scene represents a street in front of Marguerite's house. There

is general excitement and anticipation among the villagers, for to-day

the soldiers return from war. They presently enter, amid much rejoicing,

and sing their great chorus, called the "Faust March." This march is so

popular and well known that people who believe they have never heard a

note of the opera will be surprised to find that they recognize this

march. It is played by every military band in the country. After the

chorus the soldiers disperse to their homes and friends. Valentine is

greeted by Siebel, but the brother inquires about his sister, and

hastens into the house.

The stage now is darkened, for the hour is late. Presently Faust and

Mephisto appear. The latter has brought his guitar, and he assumes the

privilege of singing a serenade to Marguerite, while Faust stands to one

side in melancholy meditation. Mephisto's song is more insulting than

complimentary. As a musical expression of irony, sarcasm, and insolence,

this composition is certainly a success. The last three notes of the

first phrase are a veritable leer. This is the second important bass

solo, and, when well given, is highly effective, as it admits of great

variety of expression. But instead of bringing forth the object of the

serenade, Marguerite's brother appears at the door, and with drawn

sword. He seeks out Faust and challenges him to a duel. The challenge

is accepted, and they are soon fighting; but the result is inevitable,

for Mephisto uses his demoniac power to protect Faust, and so Valentine

is wounded. The noise of the scuffle has aroused the villagers, who

hurry in with lanterns and find Valentine dying. Marguerite rushes

forward and falls on her knees beside him, but Valentine motions her

away. He rises up in his death agony and curses her in tones that are

like balls of fire. The villagers look on with awe, while poor

Marguerite is stunned by these terrible words from her dying brother. It

is the most tragic moment of the opera. When Valentine expires, every

one kneels as they sing a solemn prayer, and the curtain falls.

We have next the Church Scene, whose sublime music displays Gounod's

special forte. He is perhaps greater as a composer of ecclesiastical

music than anything else. His genius finds most congenial soil in

religious themes, and therefore is this church scene with its mighty

choruses and organ interludes truly grand. We hear the organ tones even

before the curtain rises, and when it does Marguerite is discovered

kneeling on a prayer-chair, apart from the other worshipers. She tries

to pray and find comfort in her despair, but an awful voice mocks her

endeavors, and that voice is Mephistopheles, who comes to her now in his

true character. He is near her, but she can not see him, while he

terrifies and tortures her with fearful prophecies. Vainly and

desperately she strives to follow the familiar service, but she can hear

only the demon's voice. It draws ever nearer, and its words increase her

terror. At last with a cry of anguish Marguerite falls down unconscious.

Mephistopheles stands over her, and his face beams with satanic glee.

True to Goethe's story, Marguerite becomes insane from grief and kills

her child. The last act finds her in prison. Once again she is clad in

white. Her hair hangs loose upon her shoulders, and chains bind her

wrists. She is sleeping on a straw pallet as the curtain rises, and

Faust enters with his companion. They have come to release the prisoner.

But when she is aroused and urged to flee she pays little heed to their

request, for she does not recognize them. But the sound of Faust's voice

recalls to her that first meeting so long ago, when he said, "My fair

lady, may I walk with you?" She sings again the charming phrase as we

heard it in the second act; but it is now rendered with a certain pathos

and simplicity that bring tears to our eyes.

She presently perceives Mephistopheles, and the sight fills her with

terror. She falls on her knees and invokes the angels of heaven to

pardon and receive her soul. The fervor of this prayer knows no bounds.

A veritable religious ecstasy throbs through the music. The theme is

broad and free, and seems to burst asunder every bond. It suggests a

glory and splendor that are celestial. Ever higher and grander it grows.

Marguerite is now standing with upraised arms; and altho Faust and

Mephisto join in the singing, our attention is entirely riveted by that

white-robed supplicant. The peerless theme is repeated three times, and

always higher than before. Those soprano tones finally reach an

atmosphere so clear and rare that they seem to carry the soul of

Marguerite with them. The last high B soars up to heaven like a

disembodied spirit.

It matters not what occurs after this. We have a dim consciousness of

Marguerite falling down, of some words of lament from Faust; but for us

the opera was ended with that last supernal note.

"Werther"

"WERTHER"

Madame Eames is the only prima donna whom America has heard in

"Werther"--a work which in Paris ranks as Massenet's best. But she does

not sing it often, because, as she says, "It all lies in such a low key;

and to sing always in one place is hard on the voice." Then she adds,

"But the love-music of Werther is beautiful."

Goethe's love-stories find favor with French composers. Massenet has

accomplished with "Werther" what his predecessors have done with

"Mignon" and "Faust." His work is very recent and altogether unique. The

story is not dramatic, and there are no regulation operatic

characters,--no gods, no kings, no peasants, gypsies, fairies, demons,

villains, slaves, soldiers, and not even a chorus. The scenery is also

unconventional; not a palace, nor a mountain, nor a dungeon in the whole

play.

The _dramatis personae_ of "Werther" are taken from "ye lower middle

classes," and they are graced with such names as Schmidt, Johann,

Sophia, and Katie. We find it agreeable and gratifying to see our own

common selves and everyday emotions elevated to the regions of classic

music.

It is easy to understand why Massenet was attracted by the story, in

spite of its dramatic weakness and lack of stage effects. It offers

unbounded opportunities for love-music. Most opera composers must

content themselves with one rousing duet and perhaps a solo or two; but

in this story the hero sings of love from first to last.

The prelude to this homely opera is like the blessing before a meal. It

is peaceful and soothing, and might be called a pastorale.

As the curtain rises we are greeted with the chatter and laughter of

childish voices: two innovations at one stroke, for real children and

real laughter have never before held a place in grand opera. This first

scene of "Werther" forms a pleasing summer picture. We see the garden

and terrace of a simple country house, whose owner, the town bailiff, is

seated upon the veranda surrounded by his six children, to whom he is

teaching a Christmas carol. He seems to be teaching them, but in point

of fact he is teaching the audience this charming melody, which must be

kept in mind, for it recurs at various intervals during the opera. So

the children sing at first very loud and badly. The good-natured bailiff

shakes his head and stops his ears. After a second attempt the song goes

smoothly, and during this performance Schmidt and Johann enter the

garden. These are some tavern friends of the bailiff, who lend variety

to the music by giving occasion for the inevitable drinking-song. They

compliment the children and inquire after Charlotte. "She is dressing

for a ball," answers Sophia, the bailiff's second daughter.

We might tire of this plain conversation and the buffoon manners of

Schmidt and Johann, but the accompanying music is of absorbing

interest. Massenet makes much use of counterpoint, which has been

broadly defined as the art of combining melodies. A crude but familiar

example is that wonder-inspiring piano performance of "Yankee Doodle" in

one hand with "Fisher's Hornpipe" in the other. It is interesting to

follow the various themes in Massenet's orchestra. Sometimes a bit of

the Christmas carol combines with the gruff, reeling song of Bacchus,

which, in turn, is blended with a broad and noble theme that always

appears in connection with the name of Charlotte. Another theme, that

might be characterized as severely intellectual, asserts itself whenever

the conversation turns upon Albert, her absent fiance.

Schmidt and Johann go off arm in arm, lustily singing, "Vivat Bacchus."

Sophia enters the house, while the bailiff retires with the children to

an alcove on the veranda, where we see him patiently rehearsing that

Christmas carol, word for word.

The music now undergoes a transition, like a dreamer turning in his

sleep. There are harp-chords, arpeggios, and trills written soft and

"dim."

A richly clad traveler enters the garden, looking about him with evident

emotion. It is Werther, returned after years of absence to his native

village.

"I know not if I dream or wake," are his first words, while the

instruments recall that pastoral motif of the prelude. Birds and trees

and the limpid brook are all apostrophized in word and tone, until, with

a sunburst of rising chords, there is introduced a new and radiant

theme, eulogizing--

"All nature, full of grace,

Queen over time and space;"

while under the spell of his emotions--for Werther is a poet and a

dreamer--there comes to him, like the song of angels, that blessed

Christmas carol which the children are singing softly and with perfect

rhythm.

The already familiar Charlotte-theme announces the heroine's entrance.

The girlish costumes of this bourgeoise character are unusually

becoming to Madame Eames; they present her in quite a new light, and her

first entrance gives a pleasing surprise to the audience.

She is embraced by the children, who love Charlotte dearly, for she is

to them both a sister and a mother. Regardless of her best gown, she now

goes to a buffet on the veranda and distributes slices of bread and

butter. This scene has prompted the epithet, "bread-and-butter opera."

In the mean time Werther is welcomed by the bailiff and introduced to

Charlotte. Sounds of gay music accompany the arrival of guests who will

take Charlotte to the ball. This festive music is unique. The bass

presents a defiant repetition of one chord that is stubbornly out of

harmony with the bright melody above, like old age shaking his head at

youthful gaiety.

It is decided that Werther shall go along to the ball. The dance-theme

is resumed, and the merry party go out. Sophia takes the children into

the house, and the bailiff goes off to the tavern, humming on the way

that comical drinking-song.

The stage grows darker, the music softer, and we hear a fragment of the

Albert-theme. It is like seeing the shadow before the person, for Albert

soon enters. He has returned unexpectedly. Sophia rushes out to greet

him, and she regrets that Charlotte is absent.

Before going into the house Albert sings to the night winds of his love,

and hopes that Charlotte on entering the garden will discover the

thoughts that he leaves.

The orchestra toys with this melody for a time, but then is diverted by

memories of the ball music. Snatches of the bewitching strain flit by in

different keys, like belated guests in vari-colored dominoes. They are

faint as phantoms--a gentle swaying of the violins, a touch of the harp,

and then they vanish. There is a pause. The moon has appeared, and the

humble garden seems transformed into a fairy bower.

Like the spirit of a dream is the melody now arising. Ethereal in its

beauty but supreme in power, it rules over the entire opera. This is the

love-theme. We are not surprised to see Werther and Charlotte enter arm

in arm. It is a familiar situation: he is "seeing her home" from the

ball. And arrived at their destination, they linger at the gate as

couples have done before and since.

Charlotte is of a serious nature, and their talk is never light. She

tells of her mother and the terrible experience of losing one so dear.

"I believe that she watches over me and knows when I do her bidding."

Charlotte's tones are full of pathos, and she becomes abstracted in her

memories, while Werther, enraptured by her goodness and beauty, gives

utterance to the feelings that enthrall him. The music grows stronger

and higher, until it breaks forth in a resounding reality of the

love-theme. Over an accompaniment of throbbing chords this superb melody

sweeps by like a meteor passing the earth; and during this luminous

transition we hear the voice of Werther, "Charlotte, I love thee!" There

follows a hush, and then a chilling, awful discord. Some one is calling

from the house, "Albert has come home!" Charlotte staggers at this news.

She explains that Albert is her betrothed--it was her mother's wish.

"May she forgive me, that for one moment at your side I forgot my vow."

Charlotte goes up the steps; she turns once, but then hastens inside.

Werther buries his face in anguish at the thought of her wedding

another.

Several months have elapsed since the events of the first act. The

elm-tree foliage is denser and the situations of the drama have changed,

but love and music remain the same.

Schmidt and Johann are discovered sitting before the tavern "of a Sunday

afternoon." Their good-natured song of Bacchus greets us like an old

friend. The church and parsonage are in plain view, and a solemn choral

from within alternates with the drinking-song without. The village is

to-day _en fete_ in honor of the pastor's golden wedding.

The serious and thoughtful Albert-theme marks the entrance of Charlotte

and Albert, who are married. They loiter on their way to church and sit

down on a bench under the trees. Very calm and tender is the music of

this little scene between husband and wife. The organ resounds the

chords of a beautiful hymn, at which summons Charlotte and Albert join

the other worshipers.

Werther has been observing the pair from a distance. When they are gone

he comes forward, exclaiming with grief and bitterness, "Wedded to

another!" The tempestuous chords of the orchestra clash into the holy

harmonies of the organ. Jagged fragments of Werther's first song of

admiration depict his shattered joy. As one holds together the pieces of

a broken vase, sadly recalling its lost loveliness, so does the

orchestra again build up that old theme in all its beauty while Werther

sings of what might have been. Rebellious at fate, he cries out: "It is

I--I alone whom she could have loved!" The succeeding aria is reckless

as a steed galloping to his death. It plunges from high tones to a sob,

and the singer, flinging himself upon a bench, buries his face in his

arms.

Albert discovers Werther thus despondent, and, suspecting the cause, he

questions him; but Werther desperately disclaims his love for Charlotte.

This interview is musically serious and sad. But suddenly the orchestra

gives us a new key, a new melody, a sprinkling of lithesome staccatos

falling like a shower of apple-blossoms. With a smile on her lips and

flowers in her hands, Sophia enters, unconscious of the surrounding

turbulent emotions. She gaily announces that they intend to dance, and

that Werther must join her in the minuet. Observing his somber

expression, she bids him cheer up, for to-day--

"All the world is gay!

Joy is in the air!"

This song is the most popular one of the opera. It is bright and light,

and full of fluttering phrases--a veritable song of spring.

When Albert and Sophia are gone, Werther cries out with explosive

candor, "I told a falsehood!" He is wretched beyond compare. He can not

cease loving, and he dare not cease lying.

Charlotte comes from the church, and, greeting him kindly, asks if he,

too, is going to the parsonage. They speak lightly but feel deeply, as

is evidenced by the music. That wondrous love-theme softly surrounds

them like the magic fire of the Walkuere. The harmonies mount up from the

instruments like flames from living embers. A spell is upon them.

Charlotte stands mute, while Werther sings of that evening when he

touched her hand and looked into her eyes for the first time. Softly and

slowly the beautiful melody disappears, giving place to a different

chord and motif: "Albert loves me--and I am his wife!" Charlotte has

recovered herself. She entreats Werther to turn his heart elsewhere:

"Why do you love me?" This hero seems to understand himself, for he

answers: "Ask a madman why he has lost his reason!" Then Charlotte urges

him to go away for a time, say until Christmas. "Yes, until

Christmas--good-by, my friend!" She leaves before he has time to refuse.

Now follows a musical adaptation of Goethe's very poetical and ingenious

plea for suicide.

"Do we offend Heaven in ceasing to suffer? When a son returns from

his journey before the expected time, far from feeling resentment,

the father hastens to greet him; and can it be that our heavenly

Father is less clement?"

During this soliloquy we encounter strange chords in the orchestra.

Strains of a gay minuet play upon these tragic tones like rainbow colors

on the angles of a glacier.

The dance has begun, and Sophia, appearing at the parsonage door, tells

Werther that she is waiting. He walks away.

"You are leaving! But you will come back?" cries the disappointed

Sophia.

"No--never! Good-by!" and Werther turns down the road out of sight.

Either for the lost dance or the lost partner, Sophia bursts into tears.

Albert and Charlotte find her thus, and between sobs she tells them how

Monsieur Werther has gone away forever. Charlotte stands rigid, while

Albert exclaims to himself: "He loves my wife!" The gay assemblage

within the parsonage has no knowledge of this brewing tragedy, so the

minuet continues till the curtain descends.

The prelude to Act III. is somber and depressing. It clings to the

harmonies of that last scene between Charlotte and Werther--the exile

motif.

The curtain's rising reveals Charlotte sitting at her work-table, lost

in thought while her needle plies.

The soft light of the lamp illumines a _petit salon_; the hour hand of

the clock points to the figure five, and the libretto tells us it is

the 24th of December. The subject of her thoughts is Werther--always

Werther! Why can she not banish him from her mind as she did from her

presence? The question is not hard to answer, for we learn that he has

been writing to her. As tho drawn by a magnet, Charlotte goes to the

desk and reads again the letters she fain would forget. Moaning minors

like a winter wind accompany the perusal of these sad and poetic

epistles. Werther writes: "If I never return, blame me not, but weep

instead, for I shall be dead."

Terrifying tremolos accompany the tragic theme that is now let loose in

the orchestra like a strange, wild animal in the arena. It preys upon

the emotions, gnawing at the heart of every listener. Massenet delights

in startling contrasts.

While Charlotte is grieving over these missives, a happy voice greets

her, "Good day, sweet sister!" It is Sophia, come with an armful of toys

and a heart full of melody. She is accompanied by the gay staccatos of

her "Spring Song." Charlotte hastily conceals the letters; but tears are

not so easily disposed of. Perceiving the reddened eyes, Sophia tries to

cheer her sister by singing of "Laughter, the light of the heart." The

gaiety of this music, with its sparkling scales and tripping tempo, is

infectious. But tears again gather in Charlotte's eyes when Sophia

mentions the name of Werther. The little sister is very sorry; but

Charlotte says never mind, weeping does one good. "The tears we do _not_

shed fall back upon the heart, which, altho it is big, is very frail and

can break with the weight of a tear."

The music to this sentiment is a tone-poem well worthy of the text. It

is written in a low key. Joy mounts upward on the scale, but grief

weighs down.

Sophia goes out, and all the bright music with her. Falling upon her

knees, Charlotte prays for strength. This supplication is truly grand,

with superb crescendos and plaintive diminuendos.

The music now swells out with sudden impetus and the parlor door is

brusquely opened. Charlotte turns around and exclaims--with startled

tones, "Werther!"

He is leaning against the door as tho wearied in mind and body. "I tried

not to come--_mais me voici_!"

With forced calm Charlotte bids him welcome. He looks with fond memory

upon the old piano and familiar books. They talk of casual things, and

incidentally Charlotte calls his attention to the poems he was

translating when he left.

The music of this scene has been unnaturally tranquil; the gentle

Charlotte-theme and another phrase, graceful and simple as a nursery

rhyme, are used with touching effect. But with the mention of these

poems sudden emotion breaks through the constraint. Werther turns to the

unfinished verse and reads aloud.

The ensuing scene is dramatically not a new one. In "Francesca da

Rimini" the heroine is wooed and won by the reading of a poem; but added

to the charm of verse we here have the enthralling power of music. In

both instances the reading ends with--a kiss.

The succeeding aria is a song of soaring ecstasy about "_ce premier

baiser_." Werther proclaims that "only love is real!" But Charlotte

suddenly recoils at her weakness, and rushing to a side door, exclaims:

"We must never meet again! Good-by--for the last time!" and disappears.

The music has assumed a dolorous strain that vividly portrays the pathos

of her last words. Werther calls for her to come back. He knocks at the

door, but is only answered by the tragic chords of the orchestra. They

are furious and fearful, but, strange to say, they adequately express an

awful silence. "So be it!" at last exclaims the sorrowful Werther.

Crashing chords whirl riot in the orchestra as the hero hastens away.

The stage is vacated, but the music tells us whom next to expect. The

Albert-theme, easily recognizable tho a trifle harsher than before,

comes forward to preside over the finale of this act.

Albert steps into the room, surprised and preoccupied. He has met the

distracted Werther at the front door, and here finds Charlotte locked in

her room. In answer to his authoritative call she comes forward looking

pale and frightened. He questions her, but she answers evasively. At

this moment a message is handed to Albert by a servant. It is from

Werther: "I go on a long journey. Kindly lend me your pistols.

Farewell." Charlotte knows the import of these words, but dare not

speak. Perhaps Albert also knows. He coldly bids her hand the weapons to

the servant. Mutely and slowly she goes to the case and delivers the

contents as she was bid. That theme in the orchestra continues quietly

to move back and forth like a person keeping the death-watch. When the

servant has gone, Albert strides angrily out of the room. Charlotte

stands for a moment immobile. The music also seems to stand still; then

a sudden impetuous outburst of the instruments coincides with her

decision. From highest B to lowest F octaves and chords are hurled

together, as Charlotte, seizing a mantle, rushes to the door. "Pray

Heaven I may not be too late!"

We follow Charlotte in her flight. The scene changes to a view of the

village. It is Christmas eve, nearing midnight. The snow is falling in

wild gusts, but through a rift in the clouds the moon looks down upon

the peaceful town. Roofs and trees are covered with snow, while from

some of the windows household lights are gleaming. The church, too, is

lighted, but the moonlight and the snow are most prominent. Even these

however are not so important as the music. More chilling than hail or

snow are those sudden blasts of chords and octaves falling one on top of

the other, down, down until they join and melt into the steady tremolo

of the bass. Finally, like Death seated on a tombstone, the terrifying

tragic theme again looms up.

During this introduction the winter scene on the stage remains the same.

The snow continues to fall, and we hear it in the orchestra--a steady

movement of double thirds over which play varying melodies like

Christmas lights. The musicians turn their leaves once, twice, three

times, but still that slowly palpitating accompaniment goes on. There is

something appalling in this persistency. What was at first delightful

becomes oppressive, for we are somehow reminded that falling snow can

bury the living and hide the dead.

A distant bell sounds the hour of twelve. Fierce winds arise, and we see

the muffled figure of a woman struggling her way against the gale. The

tempest is again heard in the orchestra. Breathlessly we watch the

heroine's slow progress, and wonder if she will be too late.

The scene changes to a little room strewn with books and papers. A lamp

on the wooden table casts sickly rays upon the surroundings, but we can

plainly see a figure reclining on a chair near the open window. It is

Werther, pale and unconscious. Charlotte rushes in, and at sight of the

dying man is beside herself with grief. She calls him by name, and the

sound of her voice revives him. He asks her faintly to stay near him, to

pardon him and love him. While he speaks there arises from the

orchestra, like the dim visions of a dying man, that first love-theme so

full of summer gladness. Charlotte sings to him the words he has longed

to hear. This last love-song ends in a whisper. The instruments, too,

seem hushed with that mysterious silence of Christmas night. We can see

through the window the bright moonlight, for the storm has abated.

Suddenly the dying man looks up as sweet music greets his ear--

"Noel! Noel! Noel!

Proclaim the wondrous birth!

Christ the Lord has come to earth!"

It is the happy children's voices singing their Christmas song in the

church. A merry carillon of the instruments accompanies the familiar

tones of Sophia's high, bright voice in the distance--

"All the world is gay!

Joy is in the air!"

This startling contrast of life and death has never been more

beautifully portrayed.

Werther sadly smiles, murmuring that it is his song of deliverance. He

dies in Charlotte's arms. She cries out, despairing, inconsolable, "It

is finished!" Death is in the orchestra, in the darkness, in the ensuing

silence. But suddenly, like "the morning in the bright light," those

far-away voices again sing--

"Noel! Noel! Noel!"

Calve and "Carmen"

[Illustration: EMMA CALVE.]

CALVE AND "CARMEN"

"Hear Calve in 'Carmen'--and die," is the motto which heralded this

singer's first visit to America. Our curiosity was greatly aroused, for

we thought we knew all about "Carmen." We clung to the traditions of our

own Minnie Hauk who had created the role, and could imagine nothing

better than a trim, dainty Carmen with high-heeled slippers, short

skirts, and a Spanish mantilla.

Great was our amazement on that memorable night in 1894 when we beheld

for the first time a real cigarette girl of modern Spain. Here was a

daring innovation that at once aroused attention and new interest in the

opera. This Carmen wore high-heeled slippers, 'tis true, but somewhat

worn down and scuffed, as they must be if she was in the habit of

running over the cobblestones of Seville as she ran to the footlights

on her first entrance. And her skirts, far from being well-setting and

so short as to reveal shapely ankles and a suspicion of lace petticoats,

were of that sloppy, half-short length, which even the street girls of

London wear to-day. But most astounding of all departures was the

absence of any sign of a mantilla! How could one be Spanish without a

mantilla--any more than one could be Russian without fur! But this

Carmen had an eye to color--she could hardly otherwise be a

coquette--and in her hair at the nape of her neck was deftly tucked a

large crimson flower. Her hair, however, was carelessly pinned, and even

tumbled quite down later on--a stroke of realism which was added to by

the way she coiled it up and jabbed it into place again. A strange

performance to behold in a grand opera setting; and we might have

resented such defiance of the code had we not been forced to admit that

it was all absolutely correct, and this Carmen was more truly Spanish

than any impersonation we had seen. Even her voice seemed tropical;

such richness of tone, warmth, and color had never before been combined

in the singing of Bizet's opera. Had Bizet only lived to this day he

might have died happily, for Carmen, the child of his brain, found no

favor with the public when first introduced.

After the surprise of Madame Calve's costume and then of her voice, New

Yorkers awoke to the fact that Carmen had never before been acted. This

performance was a revelation, a character study of a creature who

recklessly holds that it is _right_ to get all the pleasure you can, and

_wrong_ not to have what you want.

It was the evening after one of these great Carmen performances when a

knock at the prima-donna's door elicited the Parisian response--"Entrez."

Mme. Calve's salon was brilliantly lighted and richly furnished, but it

seemed only a sombre setting to the singer's radiant self. Not that she

was gaudily gowned; on the contrary, her dress was simple, but her

personality, her smile, her animation, are a constant delight and

surprise.

Mme. Calve is thoroughly French, and thoroughly handsome, and appears

even younger off the stage than on. She is tall and of splendid figure;

her complexion is fresh and clear, with an interesting tinge of olive,

and her eyes are black as her hair, which was arranged very pompadour.

Mme. Calve seated herself with a half-serious, half-amused expression,

as tho to recite a lesson, and announced that she was ready and willing

to answer "toutes les questions que vous voulez." This seemed a golden

opportunity to learn all there is to know about singing. It stands to

reason that the most direct and easy method of acquiring this art is

simply to ask one of the greatest singers of the day how she does it.

Some one found out how to play the piano by asking Rubinstein, who

said--"All you have to do is to select the right keys and strike them at

the right time."

So, with this idea in view, Mme. Calve was asked first what she thinks

of when she steps before the public--her voice, her acting, or the

music?

"I think of Carmen," she answered, "if that is the opera. I try to _be

Carmen_--that is all."

When asked if she practices her voice much during the day, Mme. Calve

shook her head.

"No--not now. You see, I must have mercy on my poor voice and save it

for the evenings when I sing. Formerly, of course, I practiced every

day, but never more than an hour with full voice. Yes, an hour at one

time, once a day, that is all. But I studied much besides. At first I

wanted to be an actress, and for this purpose gave much time to dramatic

art. My mother was a fine musician; she is the one who urged me to

sing."

"What did you practice when you first began with the voice?--single

tones?"

Mme. Calve looked thoughtful--she could hardly recall, until a friend

who was present suggested--"it was rather intervals and arpeggios, n'est

ce pas?" then the great Carmen quickly nodded.

"Yes--you are right; intervals at first, and not until later on,

sustained tones. I do not consider single sustained tones good for the

beginner."

In reply to a question about breathing, she answered:

"Oh, yes; all singers must practice special exercises for the breath.

What else did I do? Well, I hardly remember. I never had any trouble

with my throat or my tongue,--no, I never thought much of these."

She was then asked, by way of suggestion:

"Did you ever _hum_ in your practice?"

Now her face lighted up.

"Yes," she replied, all animation, "and, do you know, that is splendid!

I do it a great deal even yet, especially for the high tones like

this"----, and there and then, without moving a muscle, like a conjurer

materializing a flock of birds, she showered upon us a bevy of

humming-tones. They were soft, of course, but clear and perfect as tho

made with full voice, and you wanted to wrap each one in cotton and take

it home. But--they were gone!--and the singer went on speaking.

"With Mme. Marchese I used to hum a great deal. Yes, it is an excellent

practice, for it brings the tone forward right here," and she touched

the bridge of her nose.

Mme. Calve is so genial and vivacious in conversation that you are led

to forget her position and wonderful attainments. But now and then it

flashes over you that this is the woman whose manifold art has

astonished two continents; a singer who makes any role she undertakes so

distinctly her own that other singers hardly dispute her right to

monopolize it. Not only is her "Carmen" a creation; Ophelia, too, she

has imbued with new interest, introducing many startling voice and

breath effects. Throughout all the mad scene she calls into use an

"eerie-tone" that is fearful in its pathos and terror.

"I love that role!" she exclaimed, as the subject came up. "The mad

scene! Ah, it is superb."

Even in Faust, the very Ancient of Days among operas, Mme. Calve has

surprised us with original touches, altho it is a work that every

musician of any description has performed in some way or other. The

pianist flourishes with the waltz, or a general fantasia of the opera on

every and all occasions. The organist delights in the church-scene

music, while the violinist rhapsodizes with the love duo or a potpourri

of all the arias. Concert sopranos never cease to exploit the

Jewel-song, while the contralto's audience never tires of the famous

Flower-song. "O Sancta Medaglia" is dear to the heart of the barytone,

and the tenor has a choice of beautiful solos from the first act to the

last. Bass singers can find nothing better as a medium for gaining

public favor than Mephisto's song to the "God of Gold." Even flutist and

clarinetist resort to "Faust," the Imperishable, when they want

something sure to please. And last, but not least, the cornet:--ask any

soloist on this instrument what piece he has played most often, and, I

warrant you, he will answer, "My Faust fantaisie!" The opera singer who

does not have in her scrap-book some account of her performance as

Marguerite can hardly count herself a prima-donna. No other opera is so

essentially a piece of common property as is this Gounod's "Faust."

So much the more is Mme. Calve's achievement to be wondered at. A very

stroke of genius is the dropping of Marguerite's prayer-book in the

excitement of her first meeting with Faust, so symbolical is it of his

effect on her life. This is more than realism--it is poetry. Again, in

the spinning-song, she creates an exquisite effect by disentangling a

knot in the thread on her wheel and at the same time slowing up with her

song and diminishing it until the wheel turns again and she resumes the

tempo.

When asked how she ever thinks of these innovations, especially the one

of inserting ecstatic little laughs in the Jewel-song, she smiled

prettily and shrugged her shoulders.

"It just comes to me in the acting--I don't know how. But I never change

the music."

She wished it impressed that, whatever her innovations, she maintains a

reverence for all of the composer's work.

There is something about Mme. Calve that makes you feel in her presence

the subtle influence of a large heart and a grand soul. In her own land

she is famed not only for her singing, but also for her great

generosity.

"Carmen"

"CARMEN"

Every one likes "Carmen." Its popularity has been ascribed to the fact

that "the action explains itself to the eye." One might also add that

the music explains itself to the ear, for the themes are all unfurled

and displayed like so many banners. In choosing Merimee's novel for a

libretto, Bizet recognized the growing demand for dramatic plots with

rapid action--a demand which has since evolved such one-hour tragedies

as "Cavalleria Rusticana" and "I Pagliacci." Aside from the stirring

romance and fascinating music, "Carmen" also presents very delightful

stage-pictures. The suburbs of Seville form an interesting setting, and

the characters all require brilliant costumes. A bull-fighter, two

smugglers, three gypsies, cigarette girls, and soldiers--not a plain

individual among them!

Before meeting these unusual personages we are presented with a letter

of introduction from Bizet, which, because it is written in musical

notation, the orchestra kindly interprets to us. We herein learn that

these people take their pleasures, loves, and hates at a breakneck pace.

There is a feverish excitement about the whole prelude; but at the end

we hear a tragic minor motif of passion and pain that sends a chill to

the heart. It is the Carmen-theme--Carmen herself.

A gay plaza in Seville is the first scene of action. At one side is the

guard-house, near which are a number of soldiers who mingle and converse

with the other strollers and promenaders. A gossiping, good-natured

chorus about the square and the people is the opening number. This

pleasing melody, in spite of its simplicity, has strange intervals and a

restless tempo that are thoroughly Spanish. A young peasant girl soon

enters, rather timidly. It is Michaela, the high soprano role, which

because of its two fine arias is often taken by a great artist, altho

the part is a subordinate one. It has frequently been sung by Madame

Eames. Michaela inquires for a brigadier called Don Jose. An officer

politely informs her that Don Jose belongs to the next guard, which will

soon arrive. With a musical phrase of dainty and condescending gallantry

he invites her to tarry with them. Michaela declines the invitation, and

uses the same musical setting for her own words. With the announcement

that she will return after a while she escapes from their entreaties.

The chorus is resumed, and the walking and talking go on as before. Soon

the fifes and drums of the relief guard are heard in the distance. The

soldiers in front shoulder arms and stand in file as the approaching

company appears, followed by a lot of street gamins who keep step and

sing to the music. This is so lively and inspiriting that we would march

and sing too if we dared. There is a satisfying quantity of this

"ta-ta-ta-ra" music. After marching to the foreground the new guards

change place with the old, who are then led away with the same

contingent of music and street boys. The soldiers and people at last

disperse, leaving Don Jose and a superior officer, Zuniga, conversing

together. The latter points to a large building, which he says is the

cigarette factory, where are employed many pretty girls. Don Jose

professes to care little for these, and we soon learn that he loves

Michaela.

The factory bell now rings, and a crowd of young men and boys at once

fill the square in eager anticipation of seeing the cigar girls. Jose

sits down near the guard-house and busies himself with a little chain he

is mending. The tenors sing a short pianissimo chorus about these

dark-eyed girls, whom they always court and follow. It closes with a

drooping, yearning ritardando that quite prepares us for the next

languishing measures. The factory girls enter, with cigarettes in their

mouths and a nonchalant manner that is delightful. Between puffs of

smoke they sing a slumbrous refrain that suggests the effect of

nicotine. The lingering legato melody seems to rise softly and rest in

the air until it passes away in tones so faint that Bizet has marked

them four times pianissimo.

The young men now accost the girls, and soon inquire for Carmen. "Where

is Carmen?" That tragic cry which ended the prelude is heard again in

the orchestra, but so disguised by rapid tempo as to be scarcely

recognizable, and with this theme Carmen rushes upon the scene.

Black-eyed, pearly-teethed Carmen, with cheeks like the red acacia

flowers at her throat, and her whole appearance like a splash of

sunshine!

The youths clamor about her and inquire collectively when she will love

them. Carmen bestows regardlessly some of her dangerous laughing

glances, and then sings her great song, the "Habenera," so called

because of its rhythm, which is like a Spanish dance. But no mazy,

undulating dance could be so fascinating as this song about "Love, the

child of Bohemia." The compass of its ravishing melody is within a

single octave. The notes cling lovingly together, for the intervals are

mostly half-tones; and, indeed, as Carmen sings them each one seems like

a kiss or a caress. The theme is first given in the minor, and then

softly taken up by the chorus in the major--an effect as surprising and

delightful as a sudden breeze on a sultry night. The accompaniment is

like the soft picking of mandolins, and all things combine to represent

the warm luxuriance of Spain.

During the song Carmen has perceived Don Jose, who continues his work

and gives her no attention whatever, which is a new experience for this

spoiled and petted cigarette girl. She purposely becomes more personal

in her song, and ends with the audacious words, "if you love me not and

I love you--beware!" With a sudden dash of impertinent coquetry she

flings a flower at Don Jose, and then rushes off the stage amid peals

of laughter from the others, who follow. The young soldier, thus left

alone, finds himself troubled with mingled feelings of resentment at the

girl's impudence and admiration for her beauty. He puts the flower in

his coat, but at once forgets the whole incident as he sees Michaela,

whom he joyously welcomes.

She has come to town for a day, and she brings a letter from his mother,

also some money, and still something else, which she hesitates over, but

finally delivers as it was given her--a kiss from his mother. There is

nothing of the coquette about Michaela, and her songs are all

straightforward, simple airs that win by their very artlessness. Her

message is sung with harp accompaniment, and the harmonies are pure and

clear. Then follows a duet about the mother and home in the village, and

the tenderness of this music reveals that Don Jose is a loving and

devoted son. When the duet is ended Michaela leaves Jose to read his

letter. Music as peaceful as village church bells comes from the

orchestra while the young soldier reads. He touches the letter to his

lips and is prepared to obey his mother, especially in the matter of

wedding the pretty Michaela.

His thoughts are interrupted by a wild scream from the factory and

sounds of disputing voices. A number of girls rush from the building,

all talking at once, and they fairly besiege Zuniga with explanations of

what has happened. There was a quarrel and Carmen struck another

girl--some say she did, and some say she didn't. Don Jose, in the mean

time, has gone into the factory and brings out the struggling Carmen. He

tells his superior officer about the affair, which ended in one girl's

being wounded by "this one." Carmen tosses her head, and when the

officer asks what she has to say in defense she looks into his face and

sings "la-la-la-la!" Her impertinence would be almost repellent were it

not that her voice is "like the wooing wind," and even her "la-la-la" is

bewitching. Further questioning only elicits the same response, and the

officer angrily declares she may finish her song in prison. He orders

Don Jose to fetter her hands and keep watch while he goes to make out

the order of imprisonment. While all are gone a most interesting scene

occurs between the prisoner and her keeper. The latter ties her hands,

and says he must take her soon to prison, as his superior has ordered.

Carmen, in her present attitude of charming helplessness, announces with

sweetest tones that Don Jose will help her, in spite of the orders,

because "I know you love me!" This is too much. When Jose recovers from

his astonishment at her audacity he commands her to sit still and not

speak to him--"not another word." Carmen nods her head in saucy

obedience, and talks no more; she only sings! Sings of "an inn near the

ramparts of Sevilla" where she will go to dance the Seguidilla. The song

is in the rhythm of that dance, and its sinuous melody is handled by

Carmen like a toy. She composes words to suit the occasion: "My heart

is free and willing to love whoever loves me."

Don Jose, who has been trying to ignore her, but without success, tells

her again to stop. She looks up with a grieved expression and her

prettiest smile, and says she is not talking, only singing to herself

and thinking; he surely cannot forbid her thinking! So she goes on

thinking aloud about a "certain officer, who is not captain, nor even

lieutenant--he is only a brigadier; but still he is great enough to win

the heart of Carmen." Such words, music, glances, and smiles are more

than Don Jose can resist, and it is not long before he succumbs to her

witchery. He unties her hands and asks desperately, "Carmen, Carmen, do

you mean it?" And for answer she softly sings to him that rapturous song

of the Seguidilla.

[Illustration: Copyright by Aime Dupont, N. Y.

Calve as Carmen.]

The orchestra now starts up a lively repetition of the last chattering

chorus, and with it the superior officer, Zuniga, reenters. He hands

Jose the order and bids him lead the prisoner to her destination.

Carmen holds her hands back, as tho still fettered, and she tells Jose

in an undertone to let her push him as they march off, and during the

commotion thus aroused she will escape. Then she turns to Zuniga, and

with the greatest effrontery favors him with a fragment of the

"Habenera" song, to which refrain she marches away with apparent

docility. The whole group of cigarette girls and young men follow after.

Just as they are turning to the bridge, Carmen escapes as she has

planned. She throws back the rope from her hands and runs off laughing.

It is fun for all but Don Jose, who for this neglect of duty is himself

escorted to prison.

Bizet has preceded every act with an orchestral introduction called the

_entr'acte_, which presents some important theme or portrays the

character of the scene. Thus before the curtain rises on the second act

we become familiar with a new and happy melody, which we later on

recognize and welcome. After the _entr'acte_ the stringed instruments,

with a touch of the triangle and tambourine, hold the supremacy as they

breathe forth faint, weird harmonies that flit about like moving

shadows. The scene presents an interior view of the inn "near the

ramparts of Sevilla."

It is evening, and amid the glow of soft lights Carmen and her gypsy

friends are entertaining some officers with their dancing. She further

enlivens the scene by singing a Bohemian song, whose liquid phrases fall

upon the air like the soft splashing of a fountain.

After the song and dance it is time for the inn to close, but at this

moment shouts and hurrahs are heard from without. It is a torchlight

procession in honor of Escamillo, the bull-fighter, who presently enters

amid general acclamations. He wears a gorgeous costume, and sings a

rousing song about the exciting life of a toreador. This baritone aria

is the most famous of the many popular numbers which comprise this

opera. Its strongly accented rhythm and pulsating theme immediately

suggest the blaze of lights and blare of trumpets which belong to the

arena.

Escamillo soon perceives Carmen, and as quickly falls in love. She

dismisses him with a coquettish remark that might mean much or little,

and then all depart excepting Carmen and her two gypsy friends,

Frasquita and Mercedes. These are soon joined by their comrades, the two

smugglers, who softly tell of a new enterprise which will require the

"ladies' assistance." Frasquita and Mercedes consent to leave at once.

Then follows an exquisite quintet, sung with tempo prestissimo and tones

pianissimo. Carmen suddenly astounds them with the assertion that she

can not go, and gives as her reason that she is awaiting Don Jose, who

to-day is released after two months' imprisonment, and further adds that

she loves him. They take this at first as a joke; but finding her

determined, they suggest that she induce Jose to join them. She says

she will try, and the rest hurry out as they hear the young soldier

approaching.

He is singing a gay barrack song, and thus comes to Carmen with his

heart in his voice and soul in his eyes. She welcomes him impulsively,

and ere long she sings and dances for his amusement. Her song is but an

accompaniment to the dance--a low, crooning melody without words which

resembles the contented purring of a magnificent feline as she glides

and sways with a splendid grace around the infatuated Jose. A bugle-call

is heard in the distance, a summons the soldier must obey, and he stops

Carmen in the midst of her dance. She thinks he is joking and commences

again; but when she actually realizes that he is going to leave her,

that he finds it _possible_ to leave, a perfect whirlwind succeeds the

sirocco. She throws him his cap and sword, and bids him go forever if

such is his love. Poor Don Jose remonstrates, but she will not listen

until at last he forces her to hear how real and true is his love for

her. He draws from his coat the little flower she threw at him two

months ago, and he tells how, during all his days in prison, it was his

dearest treasure. This music is more like the song of a pilgrim at a

sacred shrine than a song of love, it is so simple and sincere. Its

tenderness seems to reach even the heart of Carmen, for she now turns

and with entreating looks and wooing tones she coaxes him to go with her

and lead the free life of a bandit.

The accompaniment is like the distant prancing of wild horses and the

melody like the forest wind, low as a whisper, but sweeping before it

all the fluttering doubts of a weak conscience. It is desertion,

disgrace, dishonor, that Carmen asks of him, and Jose recoils. He is

just on the point of refusing when a knock at the door is heard and

Zuniga enters. He is himself in love with Carmen, and has presumed thus

to return after the others have gone, in hopes of finding her alone. On

discovering the presence of Don Jose he is angry and orders him away;

but Jose's jealousy is also aroused and he firmly refuses to obey. A

duel would ensue did not Carmen quickly call her friends. They seize

Zuniga, and to avoid being denounced must keep him prisoner until they

have made sure their escape. Carmen turns to Jose and asks once more if

he will be one of them. As there is now no alternative, he consents,

whereupon Carmen with light steps and light heart rushes to his arms

like a sunbeam, dispelling for the moment all clouds of memory and

doubt. The free, fearless measures of her mountain song are heard again

as all sing about the gypsies' life of liberty. They all go off as the

curtain falls.

The next _entr'acte_ is sometimes called the intermezzo, for it divides

the opera--the comedy from the tragedy--and it contains the first

premonition of sorrow. As the curtain rises we hear a stealthy,

shivering theme that well characterizes the scene before us--a wild,

picturesque ravine, which is the smugglers' retreat. Some gypsies are

reclining on the rocks; others soon enter, and sing a quite enticing

chorus about the dangers and pleasures of their profession. Two leaders

of the band then go off to reconnoiter, while the others rest. Don Jose

is seen standing on one of the rocks, and when Carmen rather moodily

inquires his thoughts he tells her of his mother in the village, who

still believes him to be an honest man. Carmen coldly advises him to go

back to her. Quick as thought-suggestion the orchestra recalls the

tragic motif which we had almost forgotten. It causes us to feel with

Jose the sting of Carmen's words.

Our attention is now directed to Frasquita and Mercedes, who are seated

on a bale of goods and trying their fortunes. A light staccato

accompaniment sustains their still lighter song. The dainty measures are

flung up like bubbles, reflecting the gay colors of the cards, which

chance to be all diamonds and hearts. Carmen also tries her luck, but

only the dark cards fall to her--death, always death; and to the

superstitious gyspy this is like a knell. Again that tragic, mournful

theme, like the extended hand of fate, feels its way slowly but surely

through the orchestra, and then Carmen sings a meditative, melancholy

refrain about the cards whose "decrees are never false." The music is in

a low key, as tho kept under and depressed by her despair, and it

touches our sympathy to see the sunny, frivolous Carmen for once

thoughtful.

The two smugglers presently return and report that three coast-guards

intercept the way. The girls promise to entertain and divert these while

the men make off with the booty. To the strains of a rollicking chorus

they all go out, after stationing Don Jose as watch on one of the

highest rocks. At this moment Michaela, with a guide, comes timidly

forward. She has dared to follow the smugglers to this retreat for the

purpose of seeing Jose and begging him to return. She has tried to be

brave, but her heart now trembles, and this fact she confesses in her

beautiful and best aria, "Je dis que rien" ("I say that nothing shall

terrify me"). As she begs Heaven to strengthen her courage, the soft

arpeggios of the instruments seem to rise like incense and carry her

sweet prayer with them. She presently perceives Jose in the distance and

tries to attract his attention, but he is watching another intruder--on

whom he now fires. Michaela hides herself in terror as Escamillo enters

and philosophically studies the newly made bullet-hole in his cap. Don

Jose also comes down to interrogate this visitor. The toreador

good-naturedly informs him that he has fallen in love with a gypsy girl,

Carmen, and comes to find her. He also adds, "It is known that a young

soldier recently deserted his post for her, but she no longer loves

him." Jealousy seems but a feeble word to describe the feelings of Don

Jose on hearing this. He quickly reveals his identity and challenges the

toreador. After a short duet, which contains chromatic crescendos of

blind fury for the tenor and insolent intervals for the baritone, they

fight. Carmen, for the second time, averts a duel by her timely

entrance. She calls for help, and the whole troupe of gypsies rush in.

They separate the rivals and order them to suspend their quarrel, as all

is now arranged for the journey. Before bidding farewell Escamillo

invites all to his next bull-fight in Seville. "Whoever loves me will

come,"--this with a tender look to Carmen that maddens Jose.

Escamillo goes off and the others also start, but they suddenly discover

Michaela in her hiding-place and bring her forward. She is frightened

and rushes to Jose for protection, begging him to go home with her.

Carmen cruelly seconds this entreaty, and then Jose turns upon her:

"Take care, Carmen!" The words are menacing, but not so the music. Jose

suffers more than he hates, and, instead of the rising tones of anger,

the harmonies which struggle upward are continually repulsed as they

reach the top, like a wild bird that beats its wings against prison

bars. When Michaela finally tells him that his mother is dying, Don Jose

consents to go. He calls out to Carmen, "We shall meet again!" She pays

little heed to his words, but a glad smile lights her features as she

hears in the distance the song of the toreador. And with this melody the

act ends.

The final scene represents the gates of the arena where occurs the great

bull-fight, and the preceding _entr'acte_ is like the flaming

advertisement of a circus, exciting and enthusing from first to last.

The opening chorus is sung by venders who throng the square and cry

their wares. After this the arena music announces the entrance of the

performers. They come in on horseback, and amid enthusiastic greetings

from the crowd ride into the arena. Escamillo, the hero of the hour,

enters with Carmen at his ride. The public cry, "Vive, Escamilla!" and

burst into a vociferous singing of the "Toreador Song." Carmen is

radiant as the dawn, and the bull-fighter wears colors and spangles

that quite eclipse any soldier's uniform. Before he enters the ring they

sing a love-duet that displays more depth of feeling than we should

expect from a Zingara.

When the toreador has gone and the arena gates are closed, Mercedes and

Frasquita anxiously inform Carmen that Don Jose has been seen in the

crowd, and they urge her to leave; but she declares she is not afraid of

Jose or any one. They leave her alone, and presently the rejected lover

appears before her. But not in anger or to avenge does Don Jose present

himself. He is too utterly dejected and broken-hearted for that. He

comes only to entreat and plead for her love. Before he speaks we are

warned by the ever-terrible death-theme, which has hung over the whole

opera like a suspended sword, that the end is near. But Don Jose does

not know this. Neither does Carmen, else perhaps she would not so

ruthlessly spurn him when he begs her to go with him and begin a new

life. When he piteously asks if she no longer loves him, her answer is a

decisive "Non; je ne t'aime plus." But words have lost their sting for

poor Jose. In a minor melody, that seems to cry out for pity, he says he

loves her still. He offers to remain a bandit--anything, all things! And

then the pathetic minor melody breaks into the major as he desperately

adds: "Only, Carmen, do not leave me!" At this moment a fanfare and

applause are heard in the arena, which cause Carmen's face to glow with

pleasure as she thinks of Escamillo. She tries to rush past Don Jose

into the amphitheater, but he intercepts her and forces her to confess

that she loves this man whom they applaud. Once again the gay fanfare is

heard, and Carmen tries to pass.

It is now that the tragic motif takes possession of the orchestra and

dominates all else. Fearful and appalling sound those five notes which

form the theme as they are repeated in various keys. In a frenzy of

anguish Don Jose asks Carmen for the last time to go with him. She

refuses, and then, as the toreador's song of triumph announces his

success, Jose stabs the beautiful gypsy, who falls at his feet like a

crushed butterfly. The gates of the arena are thrown open and its

glittering pageant comes forth, while Jose, with insane grief, calls

out, "I have killed her--Carmen--whom I adored!"

There is no climax more thrilling on the lyric stage than this death of

Carmen.

"Hamlet"

"HAMLET"

Of all Shakespeare's plays, Hamlet is the most difficult to surround

with music and adapt for the lyric stage. It is more scholastic than

dramatic, and for this reason composers have passed it by with the

single exception of Ambroise Thomas. His accomplishment certainly

deserves more commendation than was bestowed by an irate critic who

said: "There are four weary, dreary acts before you come to the music."

This assertion is correct in one way, for the opera is indeed

long--quite too long; but there is, nevertheless, much that is beautiful

in those four acts preceding the mad scene. But even were this not the

case, that last scene is so exquisite that it would atone for any amount

of previous ennui.

Thomas has given his principal role to the baritone, which seems an

innovation. Whenever a lower voice has been honored with the leading

role in a grand opera the reason is found in the character, as the

jovial Barber of Seville, the deformed Rigoletto, the accursed Flying

Dutchman; but the tenor has always held undisputed possession of the

lover's part. It takes us some little time to become reconciled to this

baritone-voiced young prince. But we finally realize that he is less a

lover than a philosopher, which probably explains why Thomas turned from

the tenor.

The opera opens with a short and somber prelude that closely resembles

the later introduction to the ghost-scene. It is therefore more

descriptive of the melancholy Dane than of the first act, which is

brilliant throughout. The curtain rises upon a state hall in the palace,

where have been celebrated the wedding and coronation of Claudius and

Gertrude, brother and widow of the late king. A sturdy march that is

quite Danish in character accompanies the grand entrance of the king and

queen. That music can express a nationality is clearly evinced by this

march, which possesses a rugged, North-sea atmosphere that differs from

all others. The first aria is given by the king, who eulogizes his

new-made wife, "our sometime sister, now our queen." After this bass

solo with its pleasing rhythm and satisfying cadences the queen inquires

for her son Hamlet, who is not among the revelers. But her anxieties are

drowned by the festive music that recommences and continues until the

entire court have made their exit.

The music now changes to a meditative, minor mood, which announces the

entrance of Hamlet. He shares no joy on this occasion of his mother's

wedding, and his first words are a short recitative about "frailty, thy

name is woman."

His soliloquy is followed by a phrase in the orchestra--a timid,

questioning sort of introduction which before the opera is over we learn

to associate with the gentle Ophelia. She enters and addresses Hamlet,

her betrothed, with an anxious inquiry about his intended departure from

Denmark. On learning from his own lips that the report is true, she asks

why he leaves, and begins to doubt his love. There is a daintiness and a

delicacy to all of Ophelia's music; and in this short melody, so

admirably blended with the accompaniment, there is a wooing charm that

diverts even Hamlet from his grief. He clasps her hands, and with

thrilling fervor bids her--

"Doubt that the stars are fire.

Doubt that the sun doth move,

Doubt Truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love."

This is the great theme of the opera, the center-stone of the musical

crown that the French composer has given to Shakespeare's Hamlet. Its

love-laden melody would carry conviction to a less trusting heart than

Ophelia's. She receives it like truth from heaven. Its memory lingers

ever, and even in her after madness, when the words have no meaning, we

hear them again "like sweet bells jangled out of tune." There follows a

duet based upon Hamlet's vow. The soprano voice occasionally runs up in

some happy little roulades which seem like the outburst of joy which can

not confine itself to the prescribed theme. However long the whole

opera, we certainly could not spare a note from the love-duet; it ends

only too soon.

Ophelia's brother, Laertes, comes in. He is a soldier, and has just

received a commission which requires his speedy departure; so he sings a

farewell to his sister and bids Hamlet be as a brother to her in case he

never returns. This first and only cavatina of Laertes is well worth a

good artist. It is melodious and pleasing, even when compared to the

previous duet. As he finishes, gay music is heard from the inner hall.

Ophelia asks Hamlet to join the festivities, but he declines and retires

sorrowfully as some pages and young officers enter. They sing a unique

and merry chorus without accompaniment, which is interrupted by the

entrance of Horatio and Marcellus, who inquire for Hamlet. They declare

they have seen the ghost of the late king, and seek to apprise Hamlet of

the fact. The merry-makers laugh and call it a delusion; but the two

friends continue their search for the young prince. The dance music is

resumed, and so fascinating and emphatic is its rhythm that our pulses

throb in tempo long after the curtain descends.

The second act represents the esplanade outside of the castle. It is a

chilly moonlight night--a sharp contrast to the beam of lights from

within and the blare of dance music which ever and anon reaches our

ears. But the prelude which opens the act is thoroughly descriptive of

the scene before us. It has deep, rumbling tremolos and chilling

chromatic crescendos, with here and there a moaning, wo-weighted theme

that is piteous to hear. There is much singing without orchestra and

much orchestra without singing in this scene of the esplanade, which

accounts for the charge against it of being "rather thin ghost music."

Horatio and Marcellus are the first to enter. They are soon joined by

Hamlet, to whom they recount the strange visitation of the previous

night. As they wait and watch for the specter to reappear, a gay fanfare

from the palace jars upon the stillness. Strains of the wedding-march

are heard, and there seems abundant reason for the dead king to rise

from his grave! Hamlet utters expletives over the mockery of such gaiety

within, while "here is the shadow of mourning." His words are

accompanied by an oft-repeated minor phrase of four notes which is

stealthy and fearful. This ghost-theme alternates with a single

monotonous tone that represents the twelve strokes of a clock. Hamlet

hushes his singing; there is a soft, eerie tremolo of the violins; the

pale moonlight falls upon the castle's turreted towers. Marcellus and

Horatio speak in whispers, when suddenly the orchestra gives a great

crash of brass and cymbals that makes your blood freeze. The phantom

has appeared. Now follows the incantation, so called because Hamlet

conjures the spirit to speak to him. This music is based entirely upon

the four-note ghost theme, which is elaborated and carried by the

orchestra through many forms. At last the specter speaks, and in a deep

monotone informs Hamlet how he was murdered by the present King. His own

brother stole his life, his wife, and his throne. He bids Hamlet avenge

this terrible crime, and then disappears. Hamlet cries out in a theme

large and grand, "Farewell to fame, love, and happiness!" Revenge shall

hereafter be the aim of his life.

The peaceful love-music greets our ears as we look upon the next scene,

which reveals the gardens of the palace. The superb theme of Hamlet's

vow rings out in clear, untroubled octaves as the fair Ophelia comes

forward with a book in her hand. She is trying to read, but thoughts of

Hamlet constantly intrude themselves. "He has not touched my hand for

quite two days, and seems to avoid my presence." She again turns to her

book and reads aloud. Ophelia reads very beautifully. Thomas has with

music conveyed the impression of enunciating words from a book. We would

know she was reading even if the book were not visible nor the words

audible, and yet it is not by means of a monotone that this idea is

conveyed. It is a simple song melody, and the effect is probably due to

the rhythm rather than the intervals. After reading one stanza, Hamlet's

vow--that theme so deep and true--is again heard, and the hero himself

comes thoughtfully upon the scene. He is in the background, but Ophelia

has seen him, and she quickly makes a pretense of reading. She listens

for every step as he draws nearer, and believes he will speak. He sees

her and at first comes forward, but then remembers that he has foresworn

love; and thinking she has not seen him, he quietly retires. Poor

Ophelia throws down her book in wildest grief, and a song of despair

springs from her heart. "Vows have wings and they fly with the dawn;

the day which gives them birth also sees them die." Every note is like a

tear, and the harmonies are plaintive and pitiful.

The queen presently enters and is grieved to find Ophelia weeping. The

latter explains that Hamlet no longer loves her, and she begs permission

to leave the court; but the queen puts other ideas in her head. She says

that Hamlet has also acted strangely toward her, and she believes his

mind is affected. For this reason she asks Ophelia to remain, and hopes

her presence may restore him. This first song of the queen, who must

have a mezzo-soprano voice of dramatic quality, combines dignity and

pathos. Its mood does not contrast, but harmonizes with the previous

aria. Ophelia accepts the queen's advice, and then goes off as the king

enters. He confers with his wife about Hamlet's alarming behavior, but

their conversation is interrupted by the prince himself, who greets them

moodily and assumes more vagaries than he feels. He is constantly

seeking to entrap the king into some sign or remark which will verify

the ghost's charge of murder. He has therefore planned to have a play

enacted which shall depict the king's crime. His invitation to this

theatrical entertainment is welcomed by the unsuspecting king and queen,

who are delighted that he thus seeks diversion. As they go off, Hamlet

exclaims tragically, "Patience, my father, patience!" and the orchestra

reveals to us thoughts of revenge, for we hear again that ponderous and

melancholy theme which ended the ghost scene.

Hamlet is now joined by the actors whom he has engaged for the play.

They sing a characteristic chorus about their several talents, and then

Hamlet explains to them the plot they are to enact--how a king whom he

calls Gonzago shall be poisoned by his brother, who afterward places the

crown on his own head and marries the widow. After this preliminary,

Hamlet calls for wine and bids the players make merry. He sings to them

a drinking-song of dazzling exuberance.

It is strange how universally successful operatic composers are in the

matter of drinking-songs. You can name off-hand more popular _chansons

Bacchic_ than any other one style of aria. There are various well-known

serenades and prayers and spinning-songs, but of drinking-songs there

are any number. "Lucrezia Borgia," "Rigoletto," "Traviata," "Huguenots,"

"Cavalleria Rusticana,"--their drinking-songs are heard every day on the

hand-organs in the street. And so in "Hamlet" its drinking-song is one

of the most celebrated numbers of the opera. Its bubbling rhythm and

hilarious melody are continued even after the song is ended and the

curtain descends. It lingers like the effect of wine.