pictures the banks of the Nile at night. An illuminated temple is at one
side, and we see the silvery river winding its way amid palms and rushes
far into the distance. Not only is the landscape bathed in "softened
light," but also the music imparts an unmistakable effect of moonlight.
A faint violin pizzicato that vibrates but never changes position is
maintained throughout the introduction, while the other instruments call
up weird sounds of the night--the palm-trees rustling together and the
plaintive cry of some river-bird--then all is still: only that
fluttering moonbeam holds the senses.
The silence is broken by a solemn chant from within the temple, and one
soprano voice soars out alone in an incantation, mysterious and imposing
as an oracle. A royal barge glides to the river's bank, and Amneris with
her maids and the high priest Ramphis betake themselves to the temple,
where the princess offers prayers for her coming marriage. The
sphinx-like song of the grand priestess is again heard, and then every
sound is hushed excepting the dreamy pizzicato movement in the violins
that so resembles the flitting of moonbeams.
Ere long the solitary tones of the Aida-theme arise from the stillness
like a spirit of night. Never before have we realized the full beauty of
this melody, for amid the blare and brightness of other harmonies it has
been obscured like a sensitive flower. But here in the solitude and
darkness it unfolds itself like some glorious night bloom. With cautious
steps the heroine enters. Rhadames has told her to meet him, and Aida
wonders what greeting he will have for her. If it is but to say
farewell, then "Nilus, the mighty river, shall quiet forever the exile's
grief." For the present she plunges into a flood of memory about her
native land, a stream of words that gently flows through a forest of
beautiful harmonies. It is a song of homesickness that soothes tho it
saddens.
While still under the spell of this music Aida is startled by the
entrance of her father. He also sings of their distant home, but with an
underlying purpose. He says they may yet return; that it is in her power
to save Ethiopia, to regain her throne, her love, and to vanquish her
rival Amneris. The father has been quick to detect the love between Aida
and Rhadames. Amonasro announces that his people are prepared to renew
their attack and that success is assured if they can learn by what path
the Egyptians will march. He wishes his daughter to win, by fair means
or false, this secret from Rhadames. Aida at first refuses to act this
part of treachery, whereupon Amonasro chills her with his curse. He says
she is no longer his daughter, "No longer princess of Ethiopia, but a
slave of the Pharaohs!" The proud blood of the captive is aroused by
this epithet. She entreats her father to recall his words, for "'Patria
mia' ('my country') is more to me than my love. I will obey." The
accompaniment presents an unvaried monotone in the treble, while beneath
it there is a pathetic melody half hidden by the upper octaves like
romance suppressed by duty. Amonasro conceals himself behind palm-trees
as Rhadames approaches.
Never has the joy of meeting been more admirably expressed in music than
in Rhadames's greeting of Aida. It is a flight of song as spontaneous
and free as the flight of a released bird. He tells her that he will not
marry the princess, but must start at once on a second war; and if this
time victorious he will tell the king of his love and will claim Aida
as the reward of his valor. It is a brave plan, but she quickly
discovers the weak point. The nervous, inflammatory theme of jealousy
that accompanied Amneris in the first act again arises like a hot breath
from the orchestra. Aida well knows that the princess would wreak
vengeance "like the lightning of heaven." There is only one course that
will unite the lovers, and this is to fly--"Fugire!"--to fair Ethiopia,
Aida's native land. She coaxes and entreats in phrases of delirious,
dream-like beauty descriptive of that wondrous land--"There where the
virgin forests rise 'mid fragrance softly stealing." A halcyon peace
pervades the music, and its harmonies are strange and rare like the
perfume of some exotic flower. Rhadames demurs, but the power of her
song is irresistible, and he soon consents to leave Egypt for her sake.
There is nothing half way about his decision when once made. The
orchestra music rises in emphatic, resolute crescendos that are
gloriously inspiring, and the singer's voice is carried forward like a
rider on his steed. The music recurs to the first impulsive theme of
greeting. It is given in full chords, and the soprano joins with the
tenor. Every note is accented and the crescendos are augmented. Both
voices and orchestra mount upward and soar away on one final, sustained
note.
As the lovers start to go, Aida asks, "By what route do the Egyptians
march? We must avoid them in our flight." Rhadames names the path,
whereupon Amonasro steps forward announcing that "the king of Ethiopia"
has overheard this important secret. He promises royal honors to
Rhadames; but the hero is overwhelmed with the realization that he has
betrayed his country. Vengeance falls upon him at once, for Amneris and
the high priest have also overheard. They come from the temple and
denounce Rhadames as a traitor. He is seized, but Amonasro and Aida
escape.
The first scene of the fourth act reveals a hall in the palace. At the
back is a large portal leading to the subterranean court of justice.
Amneris holds the stage alone during the greater part of this scene. The
orchestra preludes it with the familiar theme of jealousy that indicates
the ensuing action as clearly as the title to a chapter. Rhadames is
to-day awaiting judgment, and the princess, as a last resort, offers to
secure his pardon if he will promise to forget Aida. The hero firmly
refuses the proffered love of Amneris. He believes Aida is dead and
prefers to die also. Very grandly does the music depict Amneris's
outraged feelings. She flings a fusilade of wrathful tones, every one
bearing the sting of sharp accent. But when he is gone her pride and
jealousy wilt under the warmth of genuine love. She sees him led to his
doom in the underground courts and hears the priests and judges chanting
his name as traitor. This scene resembles the "Miserere" in "Il
Trovatore." Three times the unseen chorus is followed by the soprano in
front, who sings an anguished phrase that starts with a high note and
ends with a palpitating, gasping decrescendo that is almost identical
with the music of Leonore. The priests condemn Rhadames to be buried
alive. As they again pass through the hall, Amneris pleads and implores
for mercy, but it is now too late. No power can save the hero.
The last scene of the opera is very short, but it is the most important.
It represents two floors, the upper one being a splendid and brilliant
temple interior, while beneath it is the crypt--gloomy and terrible.
This is the tomb of Rhadames, who has just been immured. The priests
above are placing the final stone as the curtain rises and the hero is
seen below reclining on the steps. He is thinking of Aida while
resignedly awaiting his slow and awful death. Suddenly a voice calls
him, and Aida herself appears to his wondering gaze. She had heard of
his fate, and to prove her love has secretly returned and hidden in this
tomb to die with him. The following song of the lovers has been
humorously referred to as the "starvation duet." The fact of this
appellation only reveals how celebrated is the composition. It is more
generally known as "the duet from 'Aida.'" There are other duets in the
opera, but when another is meant it is designated; this is the _great_
one. Its pathetic harmonies are mingled with the solemn chant of the
grand priestess in the temple above and the music of a sacred dance.
Aida becomes delirious, and sees in her dreams the gates of heaven
opening. Indeed, the music is exquisite enough to make any one dream of
heaven. When Madame Nordica sings it, the whole scene seems real and so
sadly beautiful that your own heart too almost stops its beating. With
soft, sweet tones and bated breath Aida sings till she dies.
Instead of closing with a crescendo, as do most operas, the final of
"Aida" becomes ever softer and fainter, like a departing spirit. The
brass and wood instruments have long since retired, only the violins and
harp keep up a gentle vibrating accompaniment like the flutter of
cherubs' wings. The curtain descends very slowly, and the last notes of
the violin are written doubly pianissimo. The muse of Egyptian music
glides away as silently as she came.
"The Huguenots"
"THE HUGUENOTS"
It is not surprising that the massacre of St. Bartholomew should have
attracted such a composer as Giacomo Meyerbeer. The terrible scene
immediately suggests a blaze of orchestral chords, seething strings, and
shrieking brass, a style in which Meyerbeer delighted. He secured the
collaboration of the celebrated French dramatist Eugene Scribe, who
apparently went to work at this libretto by writing the fourth act first
and then forcing the preceding situations to fit together as best they
would. The result is not wholly satisfactory; but where the plot is
vague the music is clear and strong enough to carry our emotions over
chasms of inconsistencies.
The great theme of the opera is the Huguenot hymn, a thrilling song of
faith, with firm, bold harmonies that express unswerving belief. This
hymn is used in the overture with grand effect. It is sustained and
upheld clear and strong amid the murmurings and attacks of surrounding
variations until it finally bursts forth in untrammeled splendor like
the supremacy of religious faith.
The curtain rises upon a banquet-hall in the mansion of Count de Nevers,
who is a gay young nobleman of Touraine, the province of France in which
the first two acts occur. Nevers is giving a supper to his comrades, and
the first chorus is the celebrated drinking-song, a refrain so abounding
in good cheer that it predisposes one in favor of the whole opera. The
revelers are all Romanists, with the exception of Raoul de Nangis, a
young Huguenot, who because of recent promotion in the army has been
included among the guests. Nevers proposes a toast to "our sweethearts,"
and gaily adds that he must soon forego such frivolities as he is to be
married. Some one suggests that they all recount their love affairs,
and Raoul is requested to begin. He relates an adventure wherein he
rescued a beautiful lady from the rude insults of some boisterous
students. He has not seen her since and knows not her name, but she
dwells--in his heart. His glowing description of the heroine is a verbal
portrait framed in music of golden beauty. It is the best tenor solo of
the opera.
After this love-story some surprise is caused by the entrance of Marcel,
a Huguenot soldier, who is Raoul's faithful attendant and has followed
his young master to this banquet merely to be near and watch over him.
Marcel much disapproves of this "feasting in the camp of the
Philistines," as he terms it, and by way of atonement he renders in a
loud voice that fervid hymn which the Huguenots always sing when in
danger. Raoul begs his friends to excuse the rough soldier, and they
promptly attest their good will by inviting Marcel to drink. He declines
the wine, but consents to sing for them. His song has a wild refrain
like the firing of musketry, "Piff-paff-piff," and it is a celebrated
bass aria.
When this whizzing composition is ended a servant informs the host that
a strange visitor would like to speak with him privately. Nevers at
first refuses to see any one; but on learning that it is a veiled lady
he changes his mind and goes out, after laughingly announcing that he is
thus constantly sought by handsome women. During his absence the others
joke about the incognita and handle her reputation lightly. They look
through a window and see her conversing with Nevers in his private
apartment. At sight of her face Raoul recoils, for this clandestine
visitor is none other than the heroine of his romance--the beauty to
whom he had lost his heart. His ideal is shattered by the discovery.
When Nevers returns the audience learns from an aside remark that the
lady was his prospective bride, Valentine de St. Bris, and that she came
to beg release from her promise. He has reluctantly complied, but does
not inform his guests of the matter. At this moment a richly attired
young page presents himself. It is Urban, the contralto role, who after
bowing gracefully on all sides sings a charming and celebrated aria,
"Nobil donna,"--"a noble lady sends by me a missive to one of these
gentlemen." Such is the substance of this exquisite song with its
chivalrous melody, surrounded by rococo embellishments that seem as
appropriate to the pretty page as are his Louis Quinze slippers and
point-lace ruffs. The note is addressed to Raoul, a fact that occasions
some surprise. The young Huguenot reads aloud what sounds like a
practical joke, for the paper tells that a court carriage is in waiting
to convey him blindfolded to an unnamed destination. His companions urge
him to go, for they have recognized the seal as belonging to Queen
Margaret of Touraine; but Raoul does not know this. He, however, accepts
their advice, and allows himself to be blindfolded in spite of protests
from Marcel. They sing a bewitching ensemble that is finally resolved
into the familiar drinking-song. With these rollicking measures Raoul is
led away by the page and the curtain descends.
The opening of the second act is like a musical mirage--tone-phantasies
suspended in the air. We see before us the luxuriant palace gardens
where Margaret, queen of Touraine, is surrounded by her maids of honor.
Terraces and fountains, jeweled hands and feathered fans, vibrant harps
and caroling flute combine to form an effect of elegant repose. Margaret
is the role for colorature soprano, in contradistinction to the heroine,
Valentine, which is for dramatic soprano. The music of the queen is very
beautiful and so difficult that it requires a great artist, altho there
is but the one important scene. It is considered by some to be Madame
Melba's best role.
Her first aria is about "this fair land," and we incidentally learn that
she deplores the existing dissension between Catholics and Huguenots,
the one blot upon the perfect peace of Touraine. Her court ladies
presently sing an idyllic refrain, and Margaret joins in their song; but
while the others abide by the simple melody she decks it out with
colorature spangles quite befitting a queen. After another florid solo
the favorite maid of honor, Valentine de St. Bris, enters. She wears a
riding costume and has just returned from her venturesome interview with
De Nevers, who, as she joyfully announces, has released all claim to her
hand. We soon learn that Valentine loves Raoul and has confided in the
queen, who is planning the marriage of these two, which she much desires
because it will unite the leading families of Catholics and Huguenots.
The queen rather delights in playing the good fairy, and for this reason
has summoned Raoul in the mysterious fashion witnessed in the first act.
Before he arrives there is another chorus, called the "song of the
bathers." A harp accompaniment like rustling leaves plays around the
melody, which is of eolian sweetness, until suddenly, like a fitful
breeze, there comes an elfish measure all in the treble. After a brief
disporting of this air-sprite we hear again the soft eolian harmonies,
which rise and fall until lulled into silence. The page Urban announces
that a stranger is approaching, and the maids of honor gather around as
he tells of this young cavalier who comes with blindfolded eyes and
knows not his destination. Urban's song is brimming over with
mischievous coquetry. Its opening words are simply, "No, no, no, no, no,
no, you never heard so strange a tale." The court ladies are all in a
flutter of curiosity when Raoul is led in, and they would like to see
the outcome of this adventure; but the queen orders them away.
Now follows a scene that is full of quaint themes and ingenious duets, a
musical branch with many blossoms. Raoul is permitted to remove the
bandage from his eyes. He looks with wonder upon the beautiful scene,
and then addresses elegant phrases of adoration to the fair lady before
him. She is not devoid of coquetry--this queen of Touraine--and for some
moments there is a graceful game between the two in which the
shuttlecock of love is tossed upon the battledores of music. But it is
only a game, and the toy is presently dropped. Urban enters to announce
that some noblemen of Touraine have come to attend the queen. Raoul is
amazed to learn the lady's identity, and Margaret hastens to inform him
that in order to unite the Huguenots and Catholics of her province she
has arranged a marriage between him and the daughter of St. Bris. Raoul
bows obedience to her wish.
The Catholics and Protestants enter in stately procession and group
themselves on either side of the stage, Raoul and Marcel heading the
Huguenots, while St. Bris and Nevers represent the opposite side.
Margaret welcomes them in musical phrases that are right royal. She
informs St. Bris and Nevers that the king of France requests their
immediate presence in Paris, and she then makes her own request, which
is that Huguenots and Catholics shall lay aside all enmity and sanction
the marriage that she has arranged. They sing a splendid refrain calling
upon heaven to witness their vow of future fellowship. This scene
contains some fine climaxes, and several brilliant cadenzas for the
queen. Margaret sends for Valentine, and expects Raoul to be thrilled
with delight when he recognizes the heroine of his romance. But as
Valentine comes forward, Raoul gives an exclamation of indignant
surprise, for he thinks some great insult is implied in asking him to
marry this woman who secretly visits De Nevers and who has been the
subject of jests. Without explanation he firmly refuses to accept her
for his bride. The consternation hereby aroused is admirably expressed
in the music. The first measures are hushed, as tho the chorus were
dumbfounded; but they soon gain their voices and denounce Raoul in
ringing tones. Valentine exclaims, "What have I done to earn such
disgrace?" and the theme is taken up in grand form by the others. Every
now and then we catch the firm tones of Marcel who amid all this
dissension is singing his Huguenot hymn. St. Bris draws his sword, but
the queen forbids a duel in her presence, and reminds him that he must
go at once to Paris. Raoul declares he will follow and is ready to fight
St. Bris at any time. The action and music increase in strength until
the curtain falls.