Act III. pictures an open square in Paris, the Pre-aux-Clercs, which

extends back to the river. There are two taverns and a church in the

foreground, and the stage is filled with a mingled crowd. After an

opening chorus of promenaders some Huguenot soldiers come forward and

sing a march that is equally stirring and much resembles our own "Rally

'round the flag." It is, however, more elaborate, and has a surprising

effect in which the upper voices sing a steady accompaniment of

"derum-de-dum-dum," while words and melody are in the bass. There

follows a sharp contrast in the song of some Catholic maidens on their

way to church. Purity and simplicity are expressed by the slender

accompaniment of flute and clarionet. The people kneel as they hear this

"Ave Maria," but Marcel, who has just entered, refuses to do so. The

Catholics are angered, while the Huguenots side with Marcel. There is a

vigorous ensemble in which the "Ave Maria" and soldiers' chorus are

admirably combined, and through it all are heard the disputing cries of

the two factions. A general scuffle would ensue were it not for a sudden

diversion in the form of some brightly clad gypsies who enter and

solicit trade in fortune-telling. Their song is as gay as their costume,

and they wind up with a fantastic dance. The orchestra music is here

more deserving of attention than the stage picture. The principal melody

has the quaint conceit of reiterating one note through five beats, and

then with a quick turn reeling on to the next, like a dancer poising on

one foot until forced to whirl upon the other.

After this divertissement, St. Bris, his friend Maurevert, and de Nevers

come out of the church where they have left Valentine, who, we now

learn, is after all to marry Nevers and this is their wedding-day. The

bridegroom goes to bring his retinue to escort the bride home, and St.

Bris felicitates himself for bringing about this union which wipes out

the disgrace of Raoul's refusal. His remarks are interrupted by Marcel,

who delivers a letter from his master which designates the

Pre-aux-Clercs as meeting-place and an "hour after sundown" the time for

their deferred duel. Maurevert suggests to St. Bris that the Huguenot

deserves more punishment than can be meted out in honorable combat, and

the two friends retire in consultation.

The stage is darkened and we hear the curfew bell, while a watchman goes

through the street chanting a drowsy refrain that tells all good people

to close their doors and retire. Maurevert and St. Bris again cross the

stage, and we glean from their few words that a plot is brewing for

Raoul's destruction. But Valentine has been standing at the church door

and overheard their talk. She is much alarmed, and wishes to warn Raoul,

but knows of no way until suddenly she hears and recognizes the voice of

Marcel. She calls to him, and he asks: "Who calls in the night? Explain

at once or I will fire!" Valentine quickly thinks to speak the potent

name "Raoul." Meyerbeer has very aptly used for this call the interval

of the perfect fifth, which is known as the cry of nature, because it is

the most natural interval to fall upon when calling in the open air. The

milkmaid calling her cows or the huckster vending his wares will most

often be found singing the perfect fifth.

On hearing the name of his master Marcel is satisfied and comes forward

to investigate, but Valentine's face is concealed by her bridal veil.

She tells him that his master should be well armed and have strong

friends near in the coming duel, else he will fall the victim of a plot.

Valentine starts to go, but Marcel detains her with the question, "Who

art thou?" She hesitates and then answers, "A woman who loves Raoul." In

a highly dramatic aria whose phrases are like storm-tossed billows on a

restless deep-sea accompaniment she confesses that in saving the one she

loves she has "betrayed her own father." The two voices finally work

together as is the fashion of duets, and end up with a flourishing

climax. At this point occurs the famous high C which Madame Nordica so

brilliantly sustains and crescendos throughout four measures. It is a

_tour de force_ which always brings down the house. Valentine now

reenters the church as the principals and seconds of the duel approach.

Marcel tries to warn his master, but Raoul will not listen to

suspicions, for he believes his opponent to be honorable. There follows

a splendid septet, in which Raoul sings the leading refrain buoyant with

youthful courage. The ensemble is occasionally interspersed with the

religious tones of Marcel, who prays Heaven to interfere. A grand,

swinging theme in which all the voices move together like a great

pendulum is the final of this septet.

The duel begins, but Marcel, who is on the alert, hears approaching

footsteps and draws his sword. Maurevert enters and cries out as

prearranged: "A duel with unfair numbers! More Huguenots than Catholics!

Help!" whereupon his followers rush in and surround Raoul. But at this

moment the Huguenot soldiers who are merry-making in the tavern commence

singing their jolly "derum-de-dum-dum," whereupon Marcel rushes to the

door and sings in thundering tones the Protestant hymn, which the

soldiers within at once recognize as a signal of danger. They hurry out,

and then follows a lively commotion on all sides. But there are more

words than blows, and the excitement is presently quelled by the

ceremonious entrance of Queen Margaret who has just arrived in Paris.

She is much displeased to come upon party dissension. St. Bris blames

Raoul, while the Huguenot charges St. Bris with treachery. At this

moment Valentine comes from the church, and Marcel relates how she

warned him of a plot. There is general amazement on hearing this. Raoul

now thinks to make some inquiries about this lady he had so

unhesitatingly condemned, and learns how terrible was his mistake. St.

Bris enjoys telling him that she is the bride of De Nevers, and we hear

the approaching music of the nuptial barge. An illuminated flotilla

appears at the back of the stage, and Nevers steps upon the bank. He

addresses to Valentine some gallant phrases of welcome, and escorts her

to the boat as his splendid retinue sing a joyous wedding-march. The

curtain falls upon a whirl of gay music.

Scribe is on terra firma in the fourth act, which is really the nucleus

of the plot, and is perhaps the most dramatic love-scene of any grand

opera. The curtain rises upon an apartment in the house of Nevers, and

Valentine is alone. The opening orchestral measures seem oppressed with

a tuneful despair that is soon explained by her song, wherein she

bewails this forced marriage, for her heart still cherishes Raoul. The

hero suddenly appears at her door, and Valentine thinks she is dreaming

until Raoul announces that he has come "like a criminal in the night,

risking all" for the sake of seeing her and craving forgiveness. They

hear approaching footsteps, and Valentine prevails upon him to enter a

side room just as her father and husband come in at the main door with a

company of Catholic noblemen. They are too interested in themselves to

note Valentine's agitation, and she, being a Catholic, is allowed to

remain while her father unfolds the awful plan sanctioned by Catherine

de Medicis to "wipe the Huguenots from the face of the earth." The great

theme of this conjuration-scene, "blessed is revenge, obey the good

cause," is softly sung by St. Bris and then taken up by the others in

broad harmonies that swell out and sweep forward like a mighty torrent.

When the tone-waves are again tranquil St. Bris bids his friends swear

allegiance to the royal decree, and all comply with the exception of De

Nevers, who declares he can not join in such murder. There is graceful

nobility in his music and fervor in his words.

The details of the plot are sung by St. Bris in hushed, hurried tones:

how "to-night when strikes the bell of St. Germaine" the Catholics shall

rush upon the unsuspecting Huguenots. He then admits into the room a

group of monks, who tie white scarfs upon the conspirators and bless

their uplifted swords. The music of this scene is grandly sustained by

the orchestra, but the ensemble is difficult and requires much

rehearsing, for it abounds in surprising fortes and pianissimos.

When the conspirators are gone, Raoul starts from his hiding-place

toward the door, but Valentine intercepts the way. He wishes to fight

for his friends or die with them, but she begs him to stay. There

follows a thrilling duet in which the voices pursue each other with

growing intensity. The tempo is rapid, and the phrases short and

breathless. The first minor melody is soft, but throbbing with

suppressed emotion like the strange light and peculiar hush preceding a

tempest. Then the music rushes into the major, where it reels and sways

like an anchored ship that must soon break its moorings. The soprano

voice rises upon G, A, B flat, B natural, and finally C, where all bonds

seem loosed and the music rebounds in a rapid descending chromatic run.

Then comes a furious passage in which the orchestra conductor uses his

baton like a Roman charioteer lashing his steeds. Valentine places

herself before the door, and in a desperate moment she declares, "Thou

must not go, for, Raoul--I love thee!" This confession is followed by a

transporting duet that brings oblivion to other memories. Its

mellifluous melody is written pianissimo, dolce, legato, amoroso, and

the orchestra carries it one measure behind the voice, thus keeping the

theme constantly in the air like a sweet incense.

A bell in the distance suddenly scatters all lingering harmonies. It is

the bell of St. Germaine, and Raoul is aroused to reality. He sings a

dramatic refrain about duty and honor, but Valentine still entreats him

to stay. Her song is simple as a lullaby but powerful in effect, and he

is distracted between her pleadings and the cries from the street.

Flinging open the window, he shows her the terrible scene of massacre. A

lurid light falls upon them, and there is murder in the orchestral

music. Valentine swoons. Raoul looks with anguish upon her prostrate

form and we hear the struggle he endures. The melody of Valentine's last

sweet song predominates for a moment in the orchestra, but then the

noise of the massacre is resumed. Raoul hesitates no longer. One

farewell glance, and he rushes with drawn sword through the open window

to the street.

Unlike many operas in which the fourth act is the greatest, the finale

of "The Huguenots" is of sustained intensity and not an anti-climax.

This fifth act is often omitted, however, as it makes the opera very

long. The scene represents a street at night--men, women, and children

cross the stage and take refuge in a church. Raoul and Marcel chance to

meet, and they are soon surprised by the entrance of Valentine, who has

recklessly followed the hero. She wears the white scarf which betokens

Catholicism and has brought one for Raoul, but he refuses this mode of

escape. Valentine then flings her own emblem away and declares she will

join his faith. The music of this entire act is most thrilling. We hear

the women in the church singing as a last prayer that grand Huguenot

hymn and in the distance a chorus of murderers as they make their awful

progress through the streets. This massacre music is blood-curdling; its

steady, muffled tread sounds like marching over a paving of dead

bodies. The waiting figures in the foreground again hold our attention.

Marcel relates how he witnessed the death of De Nevers, and on learning

that Valentine is free these lovers kneel before the Huguenot soldier,

who blesses their union. The choral in the church is again heard, and

those outside join in its splendid harmonies. Valentine sings with the

fervor of her new-found faith, "Hosanna, from on high the clarion

sounds!" This last trio resembles the finale of "Faust" in that the

theme rises higher and higher, like a flaming fire, to be quenched at

last by Death. The murder-chorus is heard approaching, and soon a group

of massacrers enter. "Who is there?" they ask.

"Huguenot!" replies the hero, and in ringing tones a woman's voice cries

out, "Huguenot!" "Fire!" orders St. Bris, who thereby kills his own

daughter.

An Hour

with

Lilli Lehmann

[Illustration: LILLI LEHMANN.]

AN HOUR WITH LILLI LEHMANN

In Berlin, fourteen years ago, the foreigner was at once impressed with

two faces, new to him, but conspicuous in every show-window. One picture

represented an imposing, middle-aged man, which you were told was "unser

Kronprinz," and the other, a handsome, fine-figured woman, was "unsere

Lilli Lehmann." And you were looked at in surprise for not knowing "our

Lilli Lehmann."

The Berliners have always spoken in a possessive sense of this

lady--their star of the opera--especially in that year when she broke

her contract with the Kaiser to accept an engagement in America. It made

a great talk there at the time, but the Berliners thought none the less

of her, and the morning after her debut in New York the first words that

greeted you in the Vaterland were:

"Have you heard the news? The Lilli Lehmann has had a great success in

America."

Fourteen years later this same Lilli Lehmann is still having "a great

success in America." Her art is enduring as it is great. She is equally

successful in colorature and dramatic roles; but her physique and voice

are particularly fitted to the mythical Wagnerian characters. Lilli

Lehmann imparts to these legends of the Norseland all the attributes our

fancy calls for. Her Scandinavian goddess is a creature of mighty

emotions, heroic build, and a voice at times like the fierce north wind.

Her cry of the Walkuere is a revelation in the art of tone-production.

I was to call upon Madame Lehmann at 9:30 A.M., and this after a great

and long performance the evening before. I had visions of the prima

donna still in bed, receiving her caller quite in negligee, and sipping

her coffee, served by a French maid, while a parrot and pet dog and

flowers and the morning mail and newspapers combined to form an effect

of artistic confusion.

This makes a pleasing picture, but it is not Lilli Lehmann. There is no

sense of "artistic confusion" about her from her gray-tinged hair to her

grand, true voice.

In answer to the visitor's knock at her room in the Hotel Netherlands,

she opened the door herself, and shook hands with true German

cordiality.

The bed in the adjoining room was already made, and there was no sign of

a late breakfast; all this at an hour when it is safe to say half her

hearers of the evening before were not yet up.

And Lilli Lehmann, who in the eyes of the public is majestically arrayed

in flowing robes and breastplates and silver shields, wore on this

occasion, over her plain serge dress, the typical little fancy apron--so

dear to the German _Hausfrau_.

The Berliners may well call her "Our Lilli Lehmann," for she is as

unassuming to this day as the least of them.

But altho she impresses you as unpretentious, you also feel at once her

great force and energy. It shows in her every word and movement, and

also in her business-like method of being interviewed.

"Yes, I am quite tired," was her first remark as she seated herself at a

little writing-desk and her visitor near by. "The opera lasted so late;

I did not get to bed until two o'clock. But I was waiting for you this

morning, and had just prepared to write down some items you might wish

to know."

Then she took a pencil and paper,--and what do you suppose she wrote

first? These are the exact words, and she read them aloud as she wrote:

"Born--Wuerzburg, November 24, 1848."

I could not conceal some surprise, and was obliged to explain: "The

American ladies so seldom give their age that your frankness is a

revelation."

"The Lilli Lehmann" smiled and said: "Why not? One is thereby no

younger."

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

Lehmann as Isolde in "Tristan and Isolde."]

She turned again to the desk, and went on with the "interview," using

her pencil with great firmness and rapidity as she wrote in German, and

with all possible abbreviations:

"I was brought up in Prague, where I made my debut when eighteen years

of age. My mother was my first teacher and constant companion. She was

herself a dramatic soprano, well known as Maria Loew, and my father, too,

was a singer."

"In what opera did you first appear?"

"It was the 'Magic Flute,' and I appeared in one of the lighter roles;

but two weeks later, during the performance, the dramatic soprano was

taken ill, and I then and there went on with her role, trusting to my

memory after hearing it so often. My mother, who was in the audience and

knew I had never studied the part, nearly fainted when she saw me come

on the stage as Pamina."

Madame Lehmann's feats of memory have more than once created a

sensation. We remember the astonishment aroused in New York music

circles five years ago when she mastered the Italian text of "Lucrezia

Borgia" in three days.

Recurring to her life in Prague, Madame Lehmann further said:

"I appeared not only in many operas, but also as an actress in many

plays. In those days opera singers were expected to be as proficient in

the dramatic side of their art as the musical, and we were called upon

to perform in all the great tragedies. But nowadays this would be

impossible, since the operatic repertoire has become so tremendous."

People seldom consider how much larger is the present list of famous

operas than formerly. All the Wagnerian works, many of Verdi's, and most

of the French have taken their places in comparatively recent years, and

yet there is still a demand for all the old operas too. The singer who

attains Wagner must at the same time keep up her Mozart, Beethoven,

Glueck, Rossini, Meyerbeer, and Bellini.

As the visitor mentioned Bellini, Madame Lehmann assented. "Yes, we are

to give 'Norma' here next month." "Norma," abounding in melody and

florid fancies, is as different from Wagner as a cloudless sky from a

thunder-storm.

The divine art, like nature, has its various moods, and Wagner and

Bellini represent two extremes.

Among Wagner's works, "Isolde" is one character to which Madame

Lehmann's temperament and physique are strikingly fitted. Throughout the

long first act, wherein she is almost constantly singing, she imparts a

glorious impression of one who _thinks in music_. The fearless,

impassioned Isolde thinks bitter, rancorous thoughts of Tristan, whom

she abhors, until with fierce resolve she hands him the fatal drink

which, unknown to herself, is a love-potion. The previous dearth of

action has created a ready mood for us to thrill and respond at the

love-frenzy, the delirium which now animates the scene as these

unwitting lovers suddenly find all hatred and other memories gone from

their hearts.

It may be mentioned here that Wagner firmly believed in the power of

contrast, and he purposely preceded his greatest climaxes by what many

would deem an unwonted length of inaction.

In 1870 Lilli Lehmann was engaged for the Berlin Opera-House.

Americans can hardly appreciate the significance of this fact; but it

means much. The opera in Berlin is supported by the government and

directly under the supervision of the emperor. The singers are not

engaged for a season, but for life, being entitled to an annuity after

they retire from the stage. Lilli Lehmann's contract was signed by the

kaiser during the Franco-Prussian war.

When asked if the old Emperor Wilhelm was musical, Madame Lehmann

smiled, and there was a gleam of humor in her eyes:

"No, I can not truthfully say that he was at all musical, tho he was

wonderfully kind and good to all artists."

For fifteen years Lilli Lehmann sang in Berlin with an occasional flight

to Baireuth under the kaiser's permission, where she sang for Wagner

himself.

"I was one of the Rhine daughters, and also the first Forest Bird in

'Siegfried.'"

Wagner's own Forest Bird! It is a thrilling and poetic statement that

would be hard to equal. Of all this great master's characters, including

gods and demi-gods, knights and shepherds, dwarfs and giants, his most

original, and perhaps for this reason his best-loved children of the

brain, were, we believe, his Rhine daughters and his Forest Bird. The

former sing under the water laughing strains of mystical import and

unearthly sweetness, while the Forest Bird sings in the air--always

unseen, but more impressive than the greatest presence.

This bird-music is not very long, but it is of unsurpassed beauty, and

the most memorable theme in the opera. The scene too is exceptional and

powerful in its simplicity--only one person on the stage. Siegfried, the

inspired youth, who knows the speech of bird and beast, is alone in the

forest when he hears a bird sing. He pauses to listen, as you in the

audience do too, for the song is not a meaningless mocking-bird array of

trills and cadences, but a tender strain that bespeaks the bird as a

prophet. Siegfried tries to catch the message, tries to see the bird,

and tries, too, to imitate its tones. He cuts him a reed from the

water-banks, and shapes it and tests it until he can play upon it the

music he hears. Ah, we should like to have been in that audience at

Baireuth when this Forest Bird took its first flight into the world!

It is a great thing to create a role, to set the standard by which all

later performances shall be modeled. If the new opera proves to be a

great and lasting work, the singers who created the important roles are

always credited therewith and mentioned. They usually have been selected

by the composer, and their performance is the result of his best

instruction as well as their own inspiration. Madame Lehmann has

"created" many roles, but the most poetic, we deem, is the Forest Bird.

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

Lehmann as Venus in "Tannhaeuser."]

After writing with characteristic abbreviation the foregoing

fact--"'75-'76, Baireuth, Rhine daughter, I Forest Bird"--Madame Lehmann

handed over the paper and asked "Is there anything more I can tell you?"

Her bright eyes, clear complexion, and magnificent figure prompted a

personal question:

"How do you keep your splendid health, and the strength to work so

much?"

For this she had a ready answer:

"I have been a vegetarian for the past five years."

In reply to one more parting question, Lilli Lehmann spoke words of

wisdom that are worthy of reflection:

"Yes, I still practise and study more than ever. At the end one is just

beginning."

"The Flying Dutchman"

"THE FLYING DUTCHMAN"

"The Flying Dutchman" is one of the most melodious of Wagner's operas,

and also one of the most popular in Germany. Its soprano role is well

beloved by all Wagnerian singers, but for some reason the work is seldom

given in this country. Americans have never had an opportunity to hear

Madame Lehmann in this opera, but it is one in which she is well known

abroad.

"Der Fliegende Hollaender" is an early offspring of Wagner's genius, and

was composed at a time when Fate frowned upon him, and poverty and

despair were his close companions. After six weeks of feverish labor,

alone in hostile Paris, Wagner presented his beloved score to the

orchestra of the "Conservatoire." They promptly condemned it, which

affords a notable example of the change in musical taste. Portions of

the "Flying Dutchman" now hold a permanent place on French programs.

The plot, as well as the music, is as usual Wagner's own. "A daring

captain, after frequent vain attempts to double the Cape of Storms,

swears a mighty oath to persevere throughout eternity. The devil takes

him at his word, and the hapless mariner is doomed to roam the seas

forever." Such is the legend of the Flying Dutchman, to which Wagner has

added one redeeming clause: once in seven years the wanderer may land in

search of a faithful wife. If she be true unto death the curse shall be

lifted.

Wagner's music is so powerful and absolutely appropriate that it seems

to suggest the text, instead of conforming to it. No ordinary tunes or

conventional harmonies could adequately depict the roaming, restless,

Satan-chased sailor. The overture opens with the curse-theme, which

seems like the phantom ship itself as we follow its course throughout

the introduction. It rides over and under and around hurricanes of

chromatics and tremolos. Chords sweep like a deluge over the luckless

theme. But as neither rocks nor tempest can annihilate the accursed

vessel, so this theme mounts ever uppermost. On and on, "_Ohne Rast,

ohne Ruh_," must sail the Flying Dutchman. But the wanderer in his dark

existence finds hope in the salvation-theme, a peaceful, religious

phrase that is poised like a single star amid the tumultuous elements.

Like all of Wagner's overtures, this one has become a favorite program

piece.

With the ascending curtain there arises from the orchestra a storm of

restless tremolos and shrieking scales. The wind and waves thus rendered

in the music are also depicted on the stage. An expanse of ocean

occupies most of the scene, only in front the turbulent waves beat

against a bleak Norwegian coast. Driven thither by the elements, a ship

casts anchor at the shore. Daland, the captain, steps on land, while his

crew noisily pull up sails and cast out cables. As they work they shout

in unison a rude refrain that lends rhythm to their movements,

"Ho-lo-jo! Ho-he!" This is accompanied by surging waves of sound from

the orchestra. Owing to the sudden storm, this ship has been carried

seven miles away from the home port, to which it was returning after a

long voyage. There is nothing to do but wait for a south wind to carry

them back. Daland goes on board again and orders the sailors to rest. He

also retires, after entrusting the watch to his boatswain.

Altho this boatswain has no name, he is no insignificant character, for

to him falls one of the loveliest songs of the opera. He has a tenor

voice, and is in love with a "blue-eyed maedel." He makes a tour of the

deck, and then seats himself by the rudder. The storm has abated, but we

occasionally hear a gust of chromatics and a splash of chords. To ward

off sleep, the boatswain sings of his sweetheart, and calls upon the

south wind to blow their good ship home. This music is delightful and

refreshing as a salt sea breeze. The sailor does not trouble himself

with any fixed standard of tempo. He sings like the fitful wind, one

moment "accelerando," and the next "una poco moderato." He sustains the

climaxes and indulges in sentimental "rubatos," all of which is a touch

of naturalness skilfully introduced by the composer. The boatswain makes

another tour of the deck and then renews his song; but there is this

time more languor in his tones. The phrases are separated by frequent

"rests," the "moderatos" have developed into "largos;" the "rubatos" are

exaggerated, and finally this sweet-voiced boatswain falls asleep.

Soon the clouds become black and lowering, the waves are white and

towering, and the orchestra is like a seething cauldron of sound. The

conductor stirs it up more and more, until he brings to the top that

awful curse-theme of the Flying Dutchman. We lift our eyes to the stage,

and lo! over the dark waters comes another ship, strange and uncanny in

appearance, for its sails are blood-red and they hang upon masts that

are black as night. With a mighty crash this wanderer of the seas sinks

anchor alongside the Norwegian vessel. The dreaming boatswain is aroused

for a moment. He hums a snatch of his love-song, and then once again

nods his head in slumber. A terrifying silence falls upon the music as

we watch the ghostly crew of the phantom vessel noiselessly furl those

crimson sails.

There is a pause, and then, soft but impressive, that remarkable

curse-motif announces the approach of the Hollaender himself. He steps

upon shore after another seven years of wandering. His stalwart figure

is draped in a black mantle, he wears a full beard, and has a baritone

voice.

The first solo of the Hollaender is most interesting; but those who

expect a pleasing tune with a one-two-three accompaniment will be

disappointed. One is apt to think that music must be always beautiful

to be admired, but Wagner has taught that this idea is erroneous. Music

should represent what the maker feels, just as painting does what he

sees; and in proportion to the correctness of his representation is the

work to be admired. As a prominent example of this fact in painting,

mention may be made of Munkacsy's picture of Judas, which all admire but

none call beautiful. And so this solo of the accursed mariner is not

beautiful, as that term goes. How could it be? The weary, dreary,

condemned Dutchman communing with himself does not think of graceful

melodies that delight the senses. His phrases, instead, are all angular,

bitter, heavy, and despairing. He tells of his longing for rest, and he

mocks at the hope of finding true love. Too often has he been deceived:

"I wait and watch for the Judgment Day. Then only shall I rest!"

The Hollaender leans mournfully against a rock, and the music subsides,

until a light-hearted melody directs our attention to the Norwegian

ship. Daland has come upon deck, and is surprised to find another ship

alongside. He calls the boatswain, who, half awake, commences to hum his

love-song; but another call from the captain brings him to his feet.

They hasten to signal the strange ship, but receive no answer; whereupon

Daland, seeing the Hollaender, steps upon shore to accost him.

Politely but unconcernedly the hero makes answer to all questions, and

learns, in turn, that Daland's home is but seven miles' sail from here.

The Hollaender asks for a night's lodging, and offers to pay liberally.

He brings forth a casket of jewels, which he declares is but a sample of

the cargo he carries. With bitter tones he adds: "What joy are such

riches to me? I have no home, no wife, no child; all my wealth should be

yours if you could give me these." He astonishes Daland with the sudden

question, "Have you a daughter?" and on being answered in the

affirmative the Hollaender proposes to wed her. Very nobly does this

strange suitor plead his cause, his longing for love and rest. The music

is here truly beautiful, for the hero is striving to win and please.

Captured by the prospect of wealth and also by the strange fascination

of the Hollaender, Daland consents to the proposition. Once again the sad

seaman is tempted to hope. The music has become decisive and, because of

rapid tempo, sounds quite joyous. On top of this pleasing climax there

comes a happy cry from the Norwegian ship: "A south wind! south wind!"

The sailors sing their "Ho-lo-jo" chorus as they let down sails and pull

up anchor. Daland goes on board, and the Hollaender promises to follow.

With a breezy accompaniment of wind instruments the two ships sail away

and the curtain descends.

The prelude to the second act carries us from the storm-beaten coast of

Norway to the domestic peace of Daland's home. The composition is like a

brisk sail over smooth harmonies. It opens with the boatswain's song of

the south wind, and after a succession of undulating passages finally

lands upon the celebrated spinning-chorus.

A capacious room in the captain's home is filled with a merry company of

maidens, who, with their spinning-wheels, are working together under the

watchful eyes of Frau Mary. The wheels whir and whiz, like a drone of

bees, the orchestra keeps up a continuous revolving accompaniment, and

even the melody, with its ingenious rhythm, simulates a whirling wheel.

The picture is as pleasing as the music; both are unique and delightful.

The girls spin industriously where the song goes fast, but unconsciously

hold up with the ritardandos, and Frau Mary has frequent occasion to

remonstrate.

Only Senta, the captain's daughter, does not join in the song. She is

sitting in a big arm-chair and dreamily regards a large picture that is

hanging over the hearth. It is an ideal portrait of the Flying

Dutchman, such as many seafaring folk possess. Senta is an imaginative

girl, and has always been fascinated by the "pale man" on the wall and

his story. She begs Frau Mary to sing the ballad of the Flying Dutchman.

This request being refused, Senta sings it herself. Truly wonderful is

this ballad, with its blustering accompaniment and shivering climaxes.

The final verse relates how every seven years the weary seaman lands in

search of a faithful wife, but never yet has he found one. "False love!

false faith! Forever and ever must he ride the seas!"

Senta has become so wrought up by the song that she now sinks back in

her chair from exhaustion, while the other girls sing with bated breath

that beautiful melody of the salvation-theme. "And will he never find

her?" they ask with childlike credulity. Senta suddenly springs from her

chair and sings out with exultant tones: "I am the one who could save

him! I would be true till death! May heaven's angels send him to me!"

This music is of boundless intensity; the strongly accented

accompaniment sweeps forward and recedes like angry breakers, while the

voice part soars above like a fearless sea-bird. "Senta! Senta! Heaven

help us, she has lost her reason!" exclaim the astonished maidens, and

Frau Mary utters maledictions upon that "miserable picture," threatening

to throw it out of the house.

At this moment Erik, the young hunter who loves Senta, hastily enters,

announcing that her father's ship is landing. The dreamy heroine

promptly revives at this news, and becomes as elated and excited as any

of the girls. They all want to rush out and see the ship, but Frau Mary

orders them back, directing them, instead, to the kitchen, where there

is work to be done on account of this sudden home-coming. With much

chattering and commotion the girls and Frau Mary go out, leaving Senta

and Erik alone.

He detains her to listen to his vows and fears. Very tender and earnest

is this song of love and doubt. Wagner knew well how to use the simple

melody, which he considered essential to some emotions but out of place

with others. Like the artist's fine brush, it will not do for painting

storm-clouds, but in scenes of delicate delineation it is used with good

effect. Erik is troubled about a dream he had the night before. To the

usual accompaniment of violin tremolos, he relates how he saw Senta's

father bring with him a stranger who looked like that picture on the

wall. Already we hear far away beneath the tremolos, soft but distinct,

the curse-theme of the Flying Dutchman. As the dream-song goes on this

ominous phrase comes nearer, step by step, always in a higher key,

always louder and more impressive. It represents, in fact, the actual

approach of the Hollaender. Senta listens as though entranced, while Erik

tells how he saw her come forward and kneel at the stranger's feet. But

the "pale man" lifted her in his arms and carried her away over the sea.

To Erik's horror, Senta turns toward the picture and cries out: "He is

seeking me! I would save him!" The young hunter sadly goes away,

believing that she is out of her mind.

Senta continues gazing at the picture. The music has become soft and

slow, and the curse-theme pervades the air like a ghostly presence. But

the heroine sings to herself that beautiful salvation-motif. The phrase

is finished with a startled shriek, for the door has opened, and there

before the astonished girl stands her hero--"der Fliegende Hollaender!"

Daland, her father, is also there, but Senta has neither sight nor

thought of him. She stands immobile and amazed, her eyes never turning

from the Hollaender. When Daland comes nearer, she grasps his hand,

whispering, "Who is that stranger?"

The father has carefully prepared his answer, and it is the finest bass

solo of the opera. After telling Senta that the stranger has come to be

her bridegroom, he turns to the Hollaender, asking, "Did I exaggerate

her loveliness? Is she not an ornament to her sex?" In this phrase the

listener is surprised with a genuine _ad libitum_ colorature passage, a

style of musical decoration in which Wagner seldom indulges. But in the

original text this bit of fioritura falls upon the word _zieret_

("ornament"), and thus is a striking example of Wagner's theory that

music must fit the words. Daland sings on for some time, until he

notices that neither Senta nor the Hollaender accord him any attention.

They are still gazing at each other, and the father very wisely goes

out.

The leading theme of his aria slowly departs from the orchestra, and

then, softly and hesitatingly, the curse-theme and salvation-motif enter

side by side. They move around a little, as tho to make themselves at

home, and then begins the great duet between soprano and baritone.

The Hollaender recognizes in Senta the angel of his dreams, and she finds

his voice greeting her like familiar music. A beautiful melody is borne

upon the orchestra like a boat on the breast of a stream. As the

graceful structure floats past, the soprano and then the baritone enter

upon it. They glide on together, over smooth places, upon tremulous

undercurrents, but finally touch upon the salvation-theme, which,

throughout the opera, is typical of the seaman's haven. It often arises

above stormy passages like a mirage of the longed-for harbor.

After this vocal excursion the Hollaender asks Senta if she is willing to

abide by her father's choice and to vow eternal faith. Her consent is

glad and free. There is another ensemble introducing a new and stirring

joy-theme. The highest note always occurs upon the word faith, thus

fulfilling the substance of the text, which is, "Faith above all!"

Daland reenters and is delighted to find such unity of voice and

purpose. He wishes the engagement announced at the evening fete which

his sailors will have to celebrate their home-coming. Senta repeats her

vow to be faithful unto death, and the act closes with an exhilarating

trio.

Wagner makes his orchestral preludes conform to a distinct purpose--that

of connecting the acts. So with the next introduction we hear the joyous

theme of the recent duet gradually modulated into a whispering memory of

the boatswain's song. This, in turn, develops into a new and noisy

nautical refrain, that is continued till the curtain rises, and then is

sung by the Norwegian sailors who are on the deck of their ship. They

are merry-making. The ship is illuminated with gay lanterns, as are also

the tavern and houses in the foreground. But not so the stranger's

vessel that lies alongside at the back of the stage. It is engulfed in

gloom and silence like the grave. The gay Norwegian chorus has a

peculiar rhythm that suggests the flapping of sail-cloth in a brisk

wind; it has sharp, rugged accents and a spirited tempo. The song is

ended with a regular hornpipe dance on deck. This bewitching

dance-melody seems thrown in to show what Wagner could do in that line

if he wanted to.

Some maidens come from the tavern with a basketful of provisions. While

the sailors continue dancing to the gay orchestral accompaniment, the

girls sing among themselves in quite another strain. As their

conversation should be most prominent, the dance-melody is promptly

changed from major to minor, which always gives a subduing and receding

effect like "scumbling over" in painting.

The girls go toward the Hollaender's ship, intending their provisions for

the strangers, who seem to be sleeping profoundly. The girls call to

them, but only a ghostly silence rewards their efforts. They sing a

winning waltz phrase inviting the strangers to join their fete; they

offer every inducement to arouse the silent crew, and finally resort to

a great outcry: "Seamen! Seamen! wake up!" But again only prolonged

stillness is the answer.

The well-meaning maidens are thoroughly frightened, and they hasten

away after handing their basket to the Norwegian sailors. These proceed

to enjoy the contents. They fill their wine-glasses and repeat the merry

opening chorus.

In the mean time the sea surrounding the Hollaender's ship becomes

suddenly turbulent, a weird blue light illumines the vessel, and its

crew, which were before invisible, are seen to move about.

The Norwegians cease singing, while their ghostly neighbors begin to

chant in hollow tones that terrible curse-theme. Tremolos and chromatics

descend upon the orchestra like a storm of hail and rain that almost

drown the singers' voices. To a demoniacal refrain full of startling

crescendos and pauses they sing of their gloomy captain

"Who has gone upon land to win a maiden's hand."

Then they laugh an unearthly "Ha! ha!"

The Norwegian sailors have listened at first with wonder and then with

horror. Like children afraid in the dark, they decide to sing as loud

as they can. So their gay sailors' chorus rings out above the steady

curse-theme of the Hollaender's crew. The Norwegians urge each other to

sing louder. Three times they start their song in a higher key, but that

fearful refrain from the phantom ship overcomes every other sound. The

Norwegians are too terrified to continue. They cross themselves and

hurry below deck. The sign of the cross arouses another mocking laugh

from the crew of the _Flying Dutchman_. Then sudden silence falls upon

them. The blue flame disappears and darkness hangs over all, while in

the orchestra there is a long-sustained note, and then one soft minor

chord like the shutting of a door upon the recent musical scene.

The succeeding harmonies are of another character, as distinct as a new

stage-setting. A phrase that well simulates hurried footsteps

accompanies the hasty entrance of Senta and Erik, who is much agitated.

He has just heard of her engagement to the stranger, and can scarce

believe it. He upbraids and pleads in one breath, while Senta begs him

to desist. But the despairing Erik kneels before her and sings with

grief-stricken tones of their past love. Like all of Erik's music, this

cavatine is simple and sincere, as one would expect from a peasant lad.

While he is kneeling before her the Hollaender comes upon the scene

unobserved. With tones as furious as the orchestra accompaniment he

cries out: "Lost! My happiness is lost! Senta, farewell!" He summons his

crew to haul up anchor and let down sails. "False love! false faith! I

must wander the seas forever!"

A tempestuous trio follows the Hollaender's outcry. Senta reiterates her

vow, and with intense fervor declares he must not leave her. Maidens and

sailors rush to the scene, but all stand back in amazement as they hear

the stranger announce: "You know me not, else had you ne'er received me.

My ship is the terror of all good people. I am called Der Fliegende

Hollaender!" With this word he springs upon board; the crimson sails

expand upon the black masts, and the ship leaves shore; while the

ghostly crew chant their blood-curdling "Jo-ho-ho!"

But this is our last hearing of the curse-theme. Senta has rushed upon a

high rock projecting into the sea. With full voice and soaring tones she

calls to the receding ship: "My vow was true! I am faithful unto

death!"--whereupon she throws herself into the waves.

No sooner has she done so than the phantom vessel sinks from sight. The

music also tumbles down a tremendous chromatic; then it mounts again,

changing from minor to major, which gives an effect of sudden peace. The

Hollaender has found true love. He rescues Senta, and we see him clasping

her in his arms, while the chords of the salvation-theme rise above the

other harmonies like the spires of a beautiful city. The haven has been

reached at last.

Melba

the Australian

Nightingale

[Illustration: NELLIE MELBA.]

MELBA, THE AUSTRALIAN NIGHTINGALE

A memorable performance of "Aida" was given in London, at Covent Garden,

a number of years ago. The Ethiopian slave-girl, dark-tinted and slight

of figure, attracted no particular attention with her first unimportant

recitative notes. The audience was diverted by the fine tenor singing,

the excellent contralto, and the well-drilled work of the chorus. There

followed more of this ensemble, more good orchestral playing, and then

an effect of melody, or rhythm, or something--that gradually caused

every pulse to quicken, and stirred every soul in a strange,

unaccountable way, until suddenly we realized that it was not the

rhythm, or the harmony, or the tenor, or the orchestra, but _one soprano

voice_, whose tones seemed to penetrate all space and soar to all

heights and thrill all hearts in a manner that was overpowering!

The slave-girl was singing! A new star from the Southern Hemisphere was

just beginning to appear in the North! A "_new name_" had been added,

and was soon to be heard by "all who had an ear to hear"--Melba, the

Australian Nightingale.

All critics agree that the quality of her voice has never, in the annals

of music, been surpassed.

In furnishing Melba her name, which is a diminutive of Melbourne, the

far continent has sprung into a musical prominence it never before

attained. From a land at the outer edge of the world, a sovereign of

song has arisen.

It would, of course, be artistic and effective to picture Melba's early

life as one of struggle and privation. But, search as one will, not a

crust or a tatter turns up in her history! She never shivered on a

doorstep, or sang for pennies in the street! Let the dismal truth be

told,--her father was wealthy, and his gifted daughter never lacked for

anything.

Nellie Mitchell, as she was known in those days, was gifted not only

with a voice, but with a splendid determination to work. She practiced

diligently all the time in the line of her ambition, and learned to play

admirably on the piano, violin, and pipe-organ. All this in spite of

the diversions and enticements of young companions and monied pastimes.

Wealth, as well as poverty, may serve to hinder progress, and it is much

to Melba's credit that she had the perseverance to work unceasingly.

Even at school, during recess hours, she was always humming and

trilling. This latter trick was a source of puzzling delight to her

comrades, who never tired of hearing "that funny noise she made in her

throat." The marvelous Melba trill, you see, was a gift of the gracious

fates at her birth--just back of the silver spoon in her mouth was

tucked a golden trill.

The story of her childhood is best told in her own words:

"My mother was an accomplished amateur musician, and it was her playing

that first gave me an idea of the charms of music. I was forever humming

everything I heard, and she was always telling me to stop, for my noise

was unceasing! My favorite song was 'Coming Thro' the Rye.' I also liked

'Nellie Ely,' because my own name was Nellie!"

Incidentally, it was learned that dolls were tabooed by this

prima-donna in pinafores.

"I hated dolls. My favorite toys were horses--wooden horses. One given

to me by my father's secretary was almost an idol to me for years."

Recurring to the subject of music, Mme. Melba continued:

"I didn't _sing_ much when a child; I only _hummed_. And by the way, a

child's voice should be carefully guarded. I consider the ensemble

singing in schools as ruinous to good voices. Each one tries to outdo

the other, and the tender vocal cords are strained and tired. I,

personally, did not seriously study singing until after my marriage at

seventeen years of age."

The preparation required for Mme. Melba's career was neither very long

nor arduous. She studied nine months with Marchese, then was ready to

make her debut in Brussels as a star.

All things came easy to her, because her voice never had to be

"_placed_"; her tones were jewels already set.

"The first opera I ever heard was Rigoletto.' That was in Paris, when I

was studying. What did I think of it? Well, I dare say my inexperience

made me very bumptious, but I remember thinking I could do it better

myself! In Australia I had no chance to hear operas. 'Lucia' I have

never yet heard, tho that is perhaps the role most associated with my

name."

"Lucia" has, indeed, become a Melba possession. The mad-scene alone, on

a program with her name, would invariably crowd the house. It is a

veritable frolic to hear her in this aria. She is pace-maker, as it

were, to the flute, which repeats every phrase that she sings. It is the

prettiest race ever run, and when at the finish the time-keeper brings

down his baton, the audience cheers itself hoarse for the winner.

When asked her opinion of the new gramaphones and the wonderful records

of her voice, Madame Melba spoke with enthusiasm.

"They are, indeed, a remarkable achievement. I am looking, however, for

still greater improvements, and am keenly interested in every new

development."

A matter of "keen interest" it must, indeed, be to every prima-donna of

to-day--this amazing, magic trumpet that can record the subtle

individual quality of a singer's voice, and give it gloriously forth

again when desired. By means of this weird invention, the present

vintage of fine voices can be bottled up like rare wine, and poured out

in future years. More wonderful still: like the "widow's cruse," this

trumpet never grows empty; from its uptilted mouth the flow of song will

stream on continuously, if so desired and directed. It is enough to make

poor Jenny Lind and other long-silent singers turn restlessly in their

graves: they died too soon to profit by the powers of this recording

trumpet,--which surely has no rival save the one that Gabriel blows.

Some further random questions about the experiences of a prima-donna

elicited the following item. Mme. Melba smiled as she told it:

"Yes, I have some queer things said to me. Just recently a young girl of

eighteen, who wished me to hear her sing, assured me that there were

only two fine voices in the world to-day--hers and mine!

"But I must tell you," she added brightly, "the most graceful

compliment ever paid me. It was by an Irish woman, who, in commenting on

the lack of song in the native birds of Australia, pointed out that they

had treasured up all their melody through the ages and then had given it

to me."

Some one has said, "The ease of Melba's singing is positively

audacious!" She certainly makes light of the most time-honored

difficulties. She will start a high note without any preparation, with

apparently no breath and no change of the lips. Faint at first as the

"fabric of a dream," it is followed by the gradual grandeur of a

glorious tone, straight and true as a beam of light, until finally it

attains the full zenith of a crescendo.

In a bewildering variety of ways writers have attempted to describe the

wonder of her voice.

"It seems to develop in the listener a new sense; he feels that each

tone _always has been_ and _always will be_. She literally lays them out

on the air."

"Her _tone-production_ is as much a gift as the voice itself."

After all, "she is Melba, the incomparable, whose beauty of voice is

only equaled by the perfection of her art."

"In future years the present time will be referred to, musically, as 'in

the days of Melba.'"

Like all great prima-donnas, Madame Melba has a beautiful home of her

own, and a country place to which she hies in the summer. Her town house

is near Hyde Park, London.

We imagine these song-birds during the hot months resting luxuriantly in

their various retreats--Melba in her river residence, Calve in her

French chateau, Jean de Reszke on his Polish estate, Eames in her

Italian castle, and Patti at "Craig y Nos." But it is hardly an accurate

picture, for _rest_ to the artist still means _work_. They study all

summer, every one of them, and entertain other artists, who work with

them, or, at any rate, contribute to the perpetual whirl of music in

which they live.

A very good idea of the home life of these song-queens was given to me

by a young lady who visited one of them for several months.

"Do you know," she said, "it was positively depressing to be near so

much talent and genius.

[Illustration: Photograph by Davis & Sanford.

Mme. Melba as Elizabeth in "Tannhaeuser."]

"Why, in the drawing-room they would be talking seven or eight

languages; and some one would improvise at the piano, while another

would take a violin and join in with the most wonderful cadenzas, and

then, perhaps, the piano-player would step aside and some one else would

slide into his place and continue the improvisation the first one had

begun; and so on all the time, until really I began to feel just about

as small and worthless as a little pinch of dust."

"Lakme"

"LAKME"

Lakme was one of Patti's most successful roles, and very few other

singers have ventured to attempt it. But Madame Melba includes it in her

repertoire, and a great treat is in store for New Yorkers when the

managerial difficulties in the way of its production are sufficiently

overcome for her to present it.

"Lakme" is composed by Delibes. This name at once recalls that exquisite

"pizzicato" from the ballet "Sylvia," a musical fragment that has

floated around the world and stuck to the programs of every land. The

same delicate fancy and witchery that characterize the ballet are also

prominent in the opera. His style is perhaps the furthest removed from

Wagner of any modern composer. "Lakme" has no crescendo worth

mentioning, and the themes are, for the most part, left to take care of

themselves; but every phrase is fascinating, and there is never a

tedious passage.

The prelude opens in the minor key with a group of octaves erect and

solemn as pine trees. The next phrase starts up like a blue flame

darting from obscurity--a fantastic measure with wild harmonies that

plainly suggest India as Lakme's home. A pathetic wail from the flute

offsets this elfish interlude; the gloom of the minor still hangs over

all, and the persistent tremolo of the violins becomes oppressive as the

perfume of magnolias. It is like a forest at midnight. Suddenly the

gloom and stillness are dispersed by the love-theme of the opera, which

is in the major key, and consequently has a purifying effect. Major and

minor are the oxygen and nitrogen of the musical atmosphere.

A peculiar, rhythmical beating of the triangle accompanies the rising of

the curtain, which reveals a luxuriant garden enclosed by a bamboo

fence. At the back is a little river, and a modest dwelling stands on

the bank; but a pretentious idol at one side characterizes the place as

a sanctuary. Day is breaking, and as the light increases those soft,

metallic tones of the triangle penetrate the air like sunbeams.

Nilikanthe, a Brahmin priest and owner of the dwelling, comes forward

with two slaves, who open the bamboo gates, admitting a group of Hindu

devotees, who prostrate themselves before the idol. Beneath the radiance

of those unceasing triangle tones arises a languid prayer, soft as the

gray morning mist, after which Nilikanthe addresses the worshipers. He

refers to their recent English conquerors, who have "displaced our gods

and devastated our temples." His tones mount higher and ring out with

religious ecstasy until he causes a sudden hush. The music of invisible

harps fills the air, and as the Hindus again kneel a woman's voice, like

a clarion call, renders an incantation that is rare and wondrous. It

sounds like the song of an angel, but it is only Lakme, the Brahmin's

daughter. She comes forward and mingles her prayer with those of the

people. Weird and strange, like the tones of a wild bird, her voice

soars above the chorus, filling the air with reckless trills and soft

staccatos. The worshipers arise and go out, leaving Lakme and her father

alone. She is a "child of the gods," and her life is dedicated to

Brahma. Nilikanthe declares it is her pure influence that protects their

sacred abode from the enemy. He leaves her for a time in charge of

Mallika, a trusty slave.

When he is gone the music assumes a lighter mood, while mistress and

maid look about for diversion. After removing her jewels and placing

them upon a stone table, Lakme proposes a row on the river. The music of

this scene is fraught with a tropical heat and midday languor--dreamy,

drowsy violin tremolos that suggest the drone of bees. The two maidens

render a duet whose words--

"Ah, we'll glide,

With the tide--"

are set to music that seems to sing itself. It is a fountain of melody

with flowing rhythm and rippling runs, staccatos like drops of water,

and trills that are light as bubbles. The singers step into the boat,

and we hear their song far down the stream, soft as a shadow and lovely

as a dream.

After a moment's silence a new element comes forward--a party of English

sight-seers. Their appearance in grand opera seems to us as much an

invasion as their presence in India does to the Hindu. After the costume

of Lakme, which is all spangles and bangles and gauze and fringe, we are

astonished to see the modern English waistcoats, fashionable bonnets,

and long-trained skirts. But it is all compatible with facts and

history. Gerald is an officer in the army; Ellen, his fiancee, is a

daughter of the governor; the other couple are their friends, and Mrs.

Benson is the chaperone.

To enter this enclosure, the party have had to force an opening in the

bamboo. It is evident trespassing, but they are too unconcerned to

care. Their first rollicking ensemble is an interesting evidence of the

composer's ability to change from the Hindu to the English type. Instead

of weird, uncivilized cadenzas, these are plain, Christianlike

harmonies, such as we have been brought up to and can anticipate.

Indeed, this song recalls Arthur Sullivan in his best mood.

After inspecting the idol and various points of interest, the party

discover Lakme's jewels. Ellen admires their workmanship, and Gerald

proposes to sketch them; but Mrs. Benson urges the party away. They all

go excepting Gerald, who insists on copying the jewels. He prepares his

sketching materials and is apparently in haste; but true to the precepts

of grand opera, he first sings to us a long and beautiful aria about

"taking the design of a jewel."

By the time he has sustained the last high tone through five measures,

Lakme and Mallika have finished their row upon the river. Gerald

conceals himself behind a shrub as they enter. The undulating melody of

their boat-song is rendered by the orchestra, first softly, then with

increasing strength, until it ends with a sforzando chord as the boat

touches shore.

Lakme brings forward an armful of flowers as an offering to the idol,

and she sings a tender little song whose pathetic melody belies the

text, which constantly asserts, "I am happy." The accompaniment is a

simple violin arpeggio, swaying back and forth upon the melody like a

butterfly on a flower. Between the verses it flutters up in a fanciful

cadenza, but soon returns, and, alighting on the melody, it continues to

sway as before.

Great is Lakme's indignation on perceiving Gerald, the intruder. As she

goes toward him, her every step is emphasized by a resolute chord in the

orchestra.

"Leave at once!" she commands. "This ground is sacred, and I am a child

of the gods!"

But Gerald has fallen hopelessly in love with the pretty priestess, and

he loses no time in telling her. No one has ever dared thus to address

Lakme, and she is incensed at his boldness. She warns him that death

will be the penalty of his rash trespassing unless he goes at once. But

Gerald only repeats his sweeping song of infatuation.

At last, moved to admiration by his courage, Lakme ventures to ask by

what god is he inspired. Like ripples of sunlight are the next measures,

wherein he tells her that the God of Love makes him fearless.

Interested in this new deity, the Hindu maiden repeats after him the

sparkling words and music. She sings timidly and a tone too low, but

Gerald leads his ready pupil into the right key, and they sing together

with full voice this most fascinating melody. The final rapturous tone

has scarcely subsided when Lakme hears her father approach.

Complying with her entreaties, Gerald departs just in time for

Nilikanthe to perceive the broken fence. He vows vengeance upon the

profane foe who has dared to enter here. His followers second the cry,

while Lakme stands aside in fear and trembling.

Tambourines and fifes predominate in the next orchestral prelude. It is

a miniature _marche militaire_, and unmistakably English. The second act

discloses a public square filled with Indian shops and bazars. It is the

occasion of a great festival at the pagoda. Merchants and promenaders

occupy the stage, and their opening chorus is all bickering and

bargaining. The music is very ingenious. A free use of harmonic

discords, dazzling scales that seem to clash with their bass, and

chromatics that run into each other gives an effect of Oriental

extravagance--gay colors upon crumbling walls, jewels over rags.

The chorus continues until a bell announces the beginning of the

festival and time for the venders to disperse. They slowly depart and

give place to the ballet, without which Delibes would hardly be

himself.

It is interesting to note the specialties that different composers

unconsciously assume. Liszt seemed to revel in rhapsodies; while the

alliteration, "Schubert's Songs," comes uppermost in spite of our

knowledge that he wrote some eleven hundred other compositions. Bach

invented more fugues than any one else; while Handel made his most

lasting impression with oratorios. Symphonies and sonatas were the

life-work of Beethoven; while Chopin had a particular fancy for

nocturnes. And Mendelssohn! With all deference to his greater works, it

must be conceded that "Songs Without Words" are inseparably linked with

his name. Verdi with his tremendous range of operas has had little time

for anything else. The list could be extended to almost any length; but

we will only add that Czerny is known for his scale exercises and Kullak

for his octaves; while Weber, in the language of a recent critic, "is

famous because he invited all the world to waltz!"

But to return to Delibes and his ballets. The present one is divided

into several movements--the first being slow but of throbbing rhythm,

while in the second one the melody whirls and spins around like a top.

It is constantly whipped up by the conductor's baton, and the dizzy pace

continues until this merry melody bumps against a substantial chord.

After the ballet Lakme and her father come forward. They are disguised

as pilgrim mendicants, the better to enable Nilikanthe to seek out his

foe. It must be understood that this Hindu thirst for vengeance is a

matter of religious belief, and the music plainly impresses this fact. A

weird theme that was prominent in the overture recurs as Nilikanthe

explains that the wrath of heaven must be appeased with the blood of a

victim. He has cleverly surmised that Lakme was the attraction inducing

the stranger to trespass on sacred ground. Confident that every one will

attend this great festival, the Brahmin has brought his daughter as a

decoy. She plays the role of a street ballad-singer, and is at the

merciless command of her father. He bids her look gay and sing with full

voice so as to attract a crowd. The orchestra gives her the keynote, and

then, like a necromancer performing wonders with a coin, she executes a

cadenza that bewilders and dazzles the senses. Her tones soar away like

carrier-birds, and they bring the people from far and near to hear the

wondrous singing. When a crowd has collected, Nilikanthe announces that

she will sing to them the "Legend of the Pariah's Daughter." Lakme sings

as easily as she talks. The first phrase is a simple little narrative

about a maiden wandering at eve in the forest, fearless of beast and

sprite, for she carries in her hand a little bell that wards off evil

with its merry tinkling. Then follows one of the most difficult staccato

fantasias in existence, for the voice imitates the tinkle of that silver

bell. The tones fall fast as rain-drops in a shower, round as beads and

clear as crystal. The composer shows no respect or reverence for high

notes. Upper B is given a "shake" and any amount of staccato raps, while

even high E, that slumbering "spirit of the summit," is also aroused to

action. In fact, this aria is one of the few that can not be poorly

rendered. To do it at all argues doing it well. Its difficulties protect

it like a barricade from the attack of mediocre singers. The second

verse relates how the maiden meets a stranger, who is saved from the

surrounding wolves by the tinkle of her magic bell. This stranger was

"great Vishnu, Brahma's son;" and since then--

"In that dark wood

The traveler hears

Where Vishnu stood

The sound of a little bell ringing."

Soft and clear as a wood-nymph laughing those marvelous staccatos again

peal forth.

During his daughter's performance Nilikanthe has been scanning the faces

around him, but none reveals any emotion other than the pleasure of

listening. Furious that his plan has not succeeded, he bids Lakme to

sing it again--"Louder!" But she has suddenly perceived Gerald

approaching; and, knowing that if he recognizes her he will betray

himself, she does not wish to sing. She pleads and entreats, but her

father is obdurate. So she begins with pouting lips and trembling voice.

"Sing out!" admonishes Nilikanthe. As Gerald draws nearer, Lakme becomes

more and more disturbed. The pretty staccatos are all out of place, like

blossoms falling to pieces. They are flat where they should be sharp,

and minor instead of major; but her tones, like perfect petals, are none

the less lovely because detached. Once, twice, three times she

recommences, always in a higher key. Suddenly she utters a musical

scream as Gerald comes up to her, and Nilikanthe exclaims: "'Tis he!"

In the mean time, Gerald hears the fifes and tambourines of his regiment

and goes to answer the roll-call.

Nilikanthe summons his Hindu followers and informs them that he has

discovered the foe. This solo with chorus of the conspirators is minor,

_mysterioso_, and _agitato_; it is the most interesting bass solo of the

opera. The conspirators go off, leaving Lakme alarmed and disconsolate.

Like a faithful hound, Hadji, the slave, draws near to her and whispers

that he has seen her tears and heard her sighs: "If you have a friend to

save, confide in me." His words are _parlando_, but the orchestra

illumines them with music clear as a calcium light. Lakme grasps his

hand in gratitude, but motions him aside as she perceives Gerald

thoughtfully returning.

The hero has left his comrades at the first opportunity and retraced his

steps to the place he left Lakme. His joy on finding her is portrayed in

a musical greeting of such unbounded rapture that one key will hardly

hold it. The ensuing love-duet deserves to rank with the best. But Lakme

is more sad than glad, for she knows of impending danger. She urges him

to flee, and tells him of "a little cabin hidden in the forest, quite

near by," where he can hide secure from his enemies. This Cabin Song is

an idyllic refrain, with gentle harmonies that picture more than the

words. She urges him to follow her; but, in spite of his infatuation,

Gerald realizes his duty as a soldier. He dare not go.

Like dust before a tempest is the succeeding instrumental passage

announcing the approach of the great procession. The notes, like atoms,

are carried forward faster and higher, until they come so thick that you

can not distinguish them. This cloud of music melts away before the

mighty chant of the Brahmins as they march to the pagoda. Their weird

incantation fills the air like a trumpet-blast. The greater part of this

processional music greets our ears familiarly, because it was given in

the overture. Upon this somber background of Hindu harmonies the

composer delights in casting gleams of Sullivanesque music in the form

of passing remarks from the English onlookers. The contrast is startling

as magic-lantern pictures thrown upon the pyramids.

As the procession marches on, we see Nilikanthe point out Gerald to the

other conspirators. They cautiously surround him, and at the bidden

moment he is stabbed by Nilikanthe, who then disappears in the crowd. On

hearing the victim's cry, Lakme rushes forward. The stage is darkened,

for it is evening, and the lights of the procession are gone. The Hindu

maiden finds Gerald but slightly wounded. She calls Hadji, the slave,

and then, without further explanation on her part, the instruments

whisper to us her intention. We hear the soothing harmonies of that

lovely song about "a little cabin hidden in the forest quite near by."

The second _entr'acte_ is performed after the rising of the curtain. We

see an Indian forest, dense of foliage and brilliant with flowers. At

one side is a hut, half concealed by the shrubbery, and near it are

Lakme and Gerald, the latter reclining upon a bank, while she watches

over him as he slumbers. No sound or movement mars the effect of a

perfect picture, and beneath it all, like gold letters spelling out the

subject, come the tones of that sweet melody of the Cabin Song. The

conductor at his desk reminds us of an artist at his easel who, with a

magic brush, traces in tone-colors this beautiful inscription.

After the _entr'acte_ Lakme softly sings a slumber-song, simple as a

child's prayer and as beautiful. There are only two phrases in it, but

they come and go like wandering thoughts. When Gerald awakes he recalls

how he was brought here, while Lakme relates how with wild herbs and the

juice of flowers he has been restored. Their rapturous conversation is

interrupted by a chorus from without, the voices of young men and

maidens on their way to a fountain in the forest from whence, it is

said, if two lovers drink they will always be united. Lakme solemnly

explains this beautiful belief and at once proposes to bring a cup of

the water. "Wait for me," she admonishes as she runs out, and we hear

her voice mingle with the far-away chorus of the other lovers.

During her absence a comrade of Gerald's discovers his retreat. The

newcomer announces that their regiment has orders to move on, and that

if Gerald does not join them he will be dishonored. This visit passes

over like a modern railroad through an Arcadian temple. Poor Lakme soon

discovers the devastation. With charming faith she extends her cup of

water to Gerald, but at this moment he hears the fifes and drums of his

regiment. Lakme still offers the cup. "Drink and vow to be mine!" But

Gerald does not heed her words, for he is distracted with thoughts of

duty and honor. She also hears this English music.

"His love is faltering!" she piteously cries; and then with a decision

as impulsive as her nature she plucks a flower of the deadly Datura and

eats it without being observed by Gerald.

She turns to him tenderly and sings of their love,--a melody so gentle

and pathetic that he can no longer resist. He picks up the fallen

goblet, and touching it to his lips vows to love forever. They sing

together a song of exaltation.

Suddenly Nilikanthe breaks in upon them. He brings his followers and

would kill Gerald at once, did not Lakme rush between them: "If a victim

to the gods must be offered, let them claim one in me!" In tones of

ecstasy she repeats the final phrase of her love-song; but her voice

soon fails, and with a sudden gasp she falls at the Brahmin's

feet--dead.

Like hot flames reaching up at him from the orchestra come the tones of

his terrible vow-theme. The victim has been offered, but instead of

glory, only ashes fall upon him.

"I Pagliacci"

"I PAGLIACCI"

Pagliacci is the Italian word for clowns, a decidedly unique subject for

grand opera. Novelty is one of the characteristics of this work. It has

already achieved fame, altho but a child in age and size, being only a

few years old and two acts long. Leoncavallo, the composer and

librettist, has since written another opera, "I Medici," which has found

favor in Europe, but is still unheard in America.

Pagliacci is startling and intense from the entrance of the Prologue to

the clown's last word, "_finita_." The music abounds in surprises, and

altho Leoncavallo has been charged with some plagiarism, his work but

reflects the influence of such recent composers as Wagner and Mascagni.

The opening orchestral measures are of peculiar rhythm, and suggest the

spasmodic movement of puppets on a string; but this implies no lack of

dignity to the composition. There are passages that recall the "Flying

Dutchman," and Leoncavallo adopts the Wagnerian method of handling his

themes; in other words, each one has a meaning that is adhered to

throughout the opera. In this introduction we hear the warm and sunny

love-music, followed by the somber theme of revenge like a shadow after

light. Then the puppet-music is hastily resumed, to remind us that a

clown must laugh and dance, however bitter his feelings.

During the overture a painted and grotesque personage steps before the

curtain and announces himself as the Prologue. This innovation has

prompted some wag to remark that "the opera commences before it begins!"

Mascagni, in his "Cavalleria Rusticana," was the first to present an

unconventional opening, by having a serenade behind the curtain, but

Leoncavallo has outdone his rival by having a prologue in front of the

curtain. He tells us that the play is taken from life, and that in spite

of their motley and tinsel the actors have human hearts. This satisfying

song, with its appealing melody and large, resounding accompaniment, has

never yet failed to arouse an encore. With a final signal for the play

to begin, the Prologue skips out as the curtain goes up.

The scene represents an Italian village gaily decorated for the "Feast

of the Assumption," an annual fete that lasts a week. We see at one side

a rough mimic theater, with stage and curtain, a temporary structure

erected for a troupe of players who are just entering the town. There

are shouting and laughter behind the scenes, sounds of a discordant

trumpet and a terrible drum, and soon the villagers enter, vociferously

greeting and surrounding a donkey-cart in which are the players. It is a

meager troupe, consisting of Canio, the master, Nedda, his wife, Beppo,

the harlequin, and Tonio, the fool. They wear fantastic costumes. Canio

beats his big drum, while Nedda scatters play-bills, and the villagers

think the troupe quite wonderful. They are welcomed with an impulsive

sweeping chorus that seems to disregard all precedent in the matter of

keys. These peasants apparently sing in an ungoverned, unrestrained way

of their own; but as an Italian's tattered costume is always

picturesque, so is this artless music most graceful and charming. Canio

bows grotesquely on all sides, and again thumps his drum to make the

people listen as he tells them that at seven o'clock the play will

begin:

"You all are invited,

And will be delighted

As you witness the woes of poor Punchinello,

Who revenges himself on a rascally fellow."

Canio's professional music, such as the foregoing speech, is made

admirably artificial, thin and cheap as tissue paper, with uncertain

accompaniment and flimsy melodies.

When the excitement has subsided, Tonio, the fool, offers to lift Nedda

from the cart, but Canio boxes his ears and helps his own wife down.

The people laugh at Tonio's discomfort, and he goes off grumbling. This

pantomime action and the succeeding bit of dialog are accompanied by a

rollicking, hurdy-gurdy sort of motif in the orchestra. A villager

invites the players to a drink in the tavern. Canio and Beppo accept,

and they call Tonio to come along, but he replies from behind the mimic

theater, "I am cleaning the donkey, and can't come." The villager

laughingly suggests that Tonio is only waiting for a chance to court

Nedda. Canio takes this joke rather seriously, and sings an earnest

cantabile to the effect that such a game would be dangerous: "On the

stage, when I find her with a lover I make a funny speech and every one

applauds; but in life--believe me, it would end differently." This last

phrase is adapted to the dismal, menacing theme of revenge that was

started like a germ in the overture. It is still deeply buried among the

instruments, but its growth is steady from the beginning of the opera

to the end. Canio closes his song by assuring all that there is no

ground for suspicion. He embraces Nedda, and declares that he loves and

respects her. The hurdy-gurdy music is resumed, and distant bagpipes are

heard,--noises peculiar to a village fete. The chorus sing with much

good humor, and are accompanied by a charming violin obligato. Then

comes the Bell Chorus, so named because the church bell calls them to

vespers. "Prayers first, and then the play!" exclaim the young people as

they go out. The delightful turns and curves of this bell-song are

continued until quite in the distance.

Nedda is left alone, and the orchestra, like a merciless conscience,

repeats to her Canio's threatening theme. She has a secret that causes

her to tremble as she recalls her husband's dark looks and words; but

her fears are momentary, for the day is bright and so is her heart. She

sings to the sunshine and the birds in the sky. A gay tremolo of the

stringed instruments seems to fill the air with feathered songsters,

and they remind Nedda of a little ballad her mother used to croon. This

popular ballatella is generally referred to as the Bird Song. There is a

busy, buzzing string accompaniment, and the melody is a gentle, legato

waltz movement. The last notes are descriptive of a bird's flight "away,

away!" so high that the tone seems to soar out of sound as a bird out of

sight.

Nedda turns around, and is surprised to find Tonio listening with rapt

adoration. He is only a jester, and quite ridiculous to look upon; but

he nevertheless loves Nedda, and tells her so. In this aria, Tonio

reveals a depth of feeling that is in touching contrast to his painted

face and comical clothes. Nedda laughs uproariously at his confession,

and with heartless sarcasm she quotes the scherzando music of the

prospective play-scene, and says he must save his fine love-making for

the stage. In vain Tonio pleads and falls on his knees. She threatens to

call her husband, and finally snatching up a whip, gives Tonio a smart

blow on the face. His love is turned to hatred, and he vows vengeance

for this insult. He is very much in earnest, and indeed the composer has

given him quite a fine vengeance-theme, all his own. It is heard

groveling and growling among the bass instruments, like some disturbed

animal. Tonio goes off with frowns and threats, but Nedda forgets these

in the joy of seeing Silvio. As he cautiously enters, the orchestra

announces in the plainest musical phrases that this newcomer is the

lover. That theme amoroso is unmistakable even had we not been

introduced to it in the prologue. Throughout this love-scene it is the

leading spirit, sporting around from treble to bass, now in the

orchestra, then in the voice; sometimes veiled in a minor key or

suppressed by top-heavy chords; again, it will start to materialize but

at once disappear, or when most unexpected will push itself forward with

impish delight.

The witchery of this music undermines fear and caution. The lovers do

not notice Tonio's leering face as he overhears their vows and then goes

off to bring Canio; nor do they hear the stealthy approach of Tonio's

revenge in the orchestra. Nedda agrees to elope with Silvio, "to forget

the past and love forever!" He has climbed the wall and sings these

farewell words with Nedda, just in time for Canio to hear them. The

husband rushes forward with a cry of rage, but he fails to recognize the

lover. Nedda has warned Silvio to flee, and Canio scales the wall in

pursuit. She is left for a moment with Tonio, who gloats over his

revenge. With bitter irony Nedda cries "Bravo!" to his success. She

calls him a coward and other terrible names, but the despised jester

only shrugs his shoulders.

When Canio returns from his futile chase, he grasps Nedda, tortures her

and threatens her, but she will not tell her lover's name. He declares

she shall die, and with these words that bitter revenge-theme for the

first time blossoms out in the voice part. It is sung and shouted by

the maddened Canio, while the director's baton swings over the orchestra

like a reaper's sickle, gathering in this full-grown theme. Canio draws

his dagger, but is forcibly restrained by Beppo, who tries to reason

with his master. "It is time for the play to begin. The people pay their

money and must be entertained." Nedda is told to go and dress for her

part, while Canio is advised to restrain his anger until after the play.

He allows himself to be persuaded. The others go off to make ready, and

he too must soon don the paint and powder. He looks sadly at the little

theater, and sings a magnificent aria that attains the uttermost heights

of pathos. He must amuse the people while his heart is breaking. He dare

not weep as other men, for "I am only a clown." Canio goes off sobbing

as the curtain descends.

An intermezzo of much beauty and deep feeling is performed by the

orchestra between the acts. Its opening measures recall the funeral

march of the "Goetterdaemmerung"--dolorous, heart-weary passages that

presently break away with a nervous energy into the cantabile theme of

the prologue. This intermezzo is not long, and we are again enlivened by

the scene on the stage.

It is evening, "at seven o'clock," and the mimic theater is illuminated

by gay lanterns. The people are flocking to the performance, and they

drag forward benches and chairs to sit upon. Tonio stands at one side of

the little stage beating a drum, while Beppo blows the trumpet which is

still out of tune, and therefore the opening bars of this act are

exactly like the first. These good people make a great rush and fuss in

getting their seats, and they sing a simple, hearty refrain about the

great event of seeing a play. The original and refreshing chorus that

delighted us in the first act is repeated, and we become as excited and

eager as the villagers to witness the performance about to take place on

that little wooden stage with its cheap red curtain. Silvio is among

the crowd, and he finds a chance to speak with Nedda as she passes the

money-box. He arranges to meet her after the play, and she admonishes

him to be careful. After she has collected the money the players go back

of the scenes. A little bell is rung, and the wonderful red curtain goes

up.

The comedy is called "Columbine and Punchinello," and Nedda, who plays

the part of Columbine, is discovered sitting by a table. The room is

roughly painted and Nedda wears some cheap finery, but the people

applaud and think it beautiful. The play-music is all angular and

grotesque, glaring effects thrown on in splashes like an impressionist

painting. It is admirably appropriate, and perhaps the most unique

stroke in the opera.

To return to the action of the mimic play. Columbine soliloquizes for a

moment about her husband Punchinello, whom she does not expect home

until morning. She looks toward the window and evidently expects some

one else. The pizzicato tuning of a violin is heard through the window.

The player gets his instrument to the right pitch and then sings a

serenade to the "fair Columbine." She would fain receive her adorer, but

at this moment the servant (Tonio) enters. He looks at Columbine, and

with exaggerated music and ridiculous sighs informs the hearers that he

loves her, and now that the husband is away he finds courage to get

abruptly on his knees. Columbine pays no attention to his love-making,

but she accepts the property chicken that he takes from his basket. The

village spectators laugh and applaud. The scene on the mimic stage is

next enlivened by the lover (Beppo), who climbs in through the window,

and on seeing the servant promptly takes hold of his ear and shows him

out of the room. The spectators, of course, laugh at this and think the

whole play very funny. Columbine entertains her lover by giving him a

good supper. Their harmonious conversation includes a charming and

graceful gavotte melody that is decidedly the gem of this play-music.

Its dainty elegance and classic simplicity are worthy of Bach himself.

The servant rushes in upon the supper-scene, and with mock agitation

announces that Punchinello is coming. The lover hurries out of the

window as the husband enters. It is Canio, the real husband, who acts

this part, and as he sees Nedda at the window he is struck with the

similarity of the play to the reality. For a moment the play-music is

dropped and we hear the serious love-theme of the opera closely pursued

by that bitter wail of revenge that clings and creeps around it like a

poison-vine. Canio chokes down his grief and bravely tries to go through

his burlesque part. A new, jerky little melody accompanies the remarks

of Punchinello, and it would be very gay were it not written in the

minor, which gives it a touching effect of faint-heartedness.

Punchinello asks Columbine who has been with her, and she replies, "Only

the servant." But Punchinello again asks who was the man--"tell me his

name." The last words are real, and Canio no longer acts a part. Nedda

tries to keep up the farce, and the serious themes and play-music

alternate as the scene goes on. With curses, threats, and entreaties

Canio tries to learn the name of Nedda's lover, and Silvio in the

audience becomes uneasy; but the other villagers only think it is fine

acting. When Canio at last buries his face in sobs as he recalls how

much he loved his wife, the people shout "Bravo!"

Nedda again tries to resume the play. She forces herself to smile and

sing the gay gavotte; but this only maddens Canio the more. With tones

of fury he declares that she shall either die or tell her lover's name.

Nedda defies him, and her words are sustained by a distorted arrangement

of the love-theme, which effect is like seeking concealment behind a

skeleton. The music has become as breathless as the situation. Nedda

tries to escape toward the spectators, but Canio holds her, and there

follows a piercing shriek. Nedda has been stabbed. She falls, and with

her dying breath calls "Silvio!" Canio turns upon her lover and

completes vengeance with a single stroke. The orchestra now trumpets

forth, like the expounding of a moral, that poignant theme whose growth

and supremacy we have watched. The village spectators are still puzzled,

and can hardly believe that the tragedy is real. Tonio comes forward and

announces in parlando voice that "the comedy is finished!"

* * * * *

"Pagliacci" only occupies half an evening, and even with the "Australian

Nightingale" and a great tenor in the cast the public still expect "some

more." New Yorkers have become spoiled by the great performances lately

given at the opera-house. We take it as a matter of course that "Don

Giovanni" should be given with Lehmann, Sembrich, Nordica, Edouard de

Reszke and Maurel, and quite expect "The Huguenots" to have in its cast

two great sopranos and the two de Reszkes. We have an idea that a large

city like New York should expect nothing less, and are not sure but the

European capitals do better. In point of fact, however, when Madame

Sembrich sings in Berlin the royal opera-house is crowded by the

attraction of her name alone; and the same may be said of Madame Melba

in Paris, or Calve, or any of them. There are never more than six or

seven great prima donnas in the world at one time, and when one of these

sings in Europe the rest of the company is often mediocre. But not so in

New York. After "Pagliacci" with Melba, "Cavalleria" with Calve is the

usual program--a rather unfortunate combination of operas, for they are

both so feverishly intense. After the "beautiful horror" of

"Pagliacci's" finale, a contrast might be welcome. Glueck's "Orpheus and

Eurydice" is a short opera that alongside of Leoncavallo's work would

delight the musical epicure. Such an opportunity to study the new and

the old would surely be beneficial.

"Orpheus and Eurydice"

"ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE"

Classic myth and classic music are in this opera happily united. The

beautiful legend belongs to the past, but Glueck the composer, like

Orpheus the musician, has brought the departed to life. With gentle

harmonies he pacified those surrounding Furies, the critics, and his

creation has attained a lasting place in the musical world. Simplicity

and sincerity stamp the entire composition. The musical thoughts are put

down in the plainest, straightest way, in strong contrast to the old

Italian style, whose profuse embellishments remind one of ornate

penmanship. Glueck lived more than a century ago, but his ideas

anticipated many of our modern formulas. He succeeded in imparting a

musical individuality to all his characters.

To properly enjoy Glueck's masterpiece the listener should present

himself with a spirit as gentle as the composer. The opera is more

idyllic than overpowering. Enjoy it as you would a perfect day in some

peaceful valley.

The overture to "Orpheus and Eurydice" is not remarkable. It bears no

theme-feature in common with the opera, and its kinship is only

discernible in name and nature, both opera and overture being devoid of

ostentation.

The curtain rises upon a Grecian landscape that is beautiful but sad,

for amid drooping willows and solemn pines stands the tomb of Eurydice.

Orpheus, the disconsolate husband, is leaning upon the shrine. Not even

his lute can solace him in this hour of grief. A dirge of unrivaled

beauty arises from the orchestra like a flower from the earth. It is

taken up by the chorus and given as an offering to the departed. There

is something mythical about the music as well as the scene. All nature

seems to join in this lament over Eurydice. Ever and anon Orpheus

proclaims her name in tones so pitiful that--

"The rocks and rills and surrounding hills

Feel pity, and are touched."

He asks the chorus to scatter flowers upon her grave and then leave him

alone, for their song but adds to his grief. Accompanied by an

orchestral ritornelle of Arcadian simplicity, they strew their garlands

and then retire.

The wood-wind and viol follow Orpheus in his solitary plaint that again

reminds us of the voice of nature. It is a feminine voice, too, a fact

worth mentioning, for Orpheus is now considered the contralto _role de

resistance_. After vainly beseeching high heaven and all the gods to

restore his lost Eurydice, Orpheus decides to brave the realms of Pluto.

He will himself wrest her from death's power. The gods help those that

help themselves, and now Amor, the god of love, comes to his assistance.

Amor says he shall descend in safety to the lower world, and will find

his Eurydice among the peaceful shades. He must take his lute, and

perchance by the power of music he can induce Pluto to release her. Was

there ever a more charming story for an opera! Amor further dictates

that while leading Eurydice to the upper world he must not look upon

her, else all endeavor will have been in vain, and death will at once

claim his own. After promising to obey, Orpheus sings a song full of

gratitude, with here and there a gleam of gladness like flecks of

sunlight after rain. His final aria is the very noontide of joy,

dignified always but none the less radiant. Glueck here finds use for

colorature--plain, classical scales and broken thirds without any

appoggiaturas or even staccatos; but his even-tempoed sixteenth notes

seem as gay as Rossini's breathless sixty-fourths.

The second act is the most interesting. It pictures the nether world of

Hades. There are vistas of receding caverns full of smoke and flames.

Furies and Demons occupy the stage. According to Glueck, the brass

instruments furnish the music of Hades, in opposition to the harps,

which belong to heaven. The first tones are hurled up by the trumpets

like a blast of molten rocks. Then like a balm to all the senses, nectar

after poison, incense after sulfur, day after night, come the next

celestial harmonies. It is Orpheus with his lute, whose harp-tones reach

us from afar, as this musician of the gods plays his way through the

gates of Hades. For a moment the Furies cease their revel, as they

wonder what mortal dares to enter here. When they resume their dance the

orchestra renders a reeling, demoniacal medley of scales and staccatos.

Again the Furies stop as they see Orpheus approaching, and they sing a

malediction upon this mortal so audacious. They try to frighten him with

howls from the watch-dog Cerberus, an effect admirably represented by

the instruments. The music is all fearful and threatening, with creeping

chromatics shrouded in a minor key.

Orpheus is undaunted; and with enduring faith in the power of his music

he takes up his harp and sings to them of his love for Eurydice.

Entreating their pity, he begs them to let him pass; but Cerberus still

howls and the Furies shout "No!" They threaten him with eternal torture,

but the inspired youth sings on. No punishment they can devise could

exceed the grief he already suffers--such is the burden of his song.

Even the Demons and Furies can not long resist such tender strains. With

bated breath they wonder what strange feeling steals o'er them, for pity

is a new sensation: "The cheeks of the Furies were wet with tears; all

Hades held its breath." Three times the wondrous song and accompaniment

still the shrieks of Pluto's realm. Orpheus is finally allowed to pass.

The Furies and Demons hasten to drown their recent emotion in a mad

revel that surpasses the first one. This demon-dance is admirably

characterized by the music. It has a rapid tempo and a perpetual motion

that suggest dancing on hot iron. Tremolos rise and fall like puffs of

smoke, while scales like coiling snakes and staccatos like skipping imps

add to the effect of pandemonium.