into two acts, at the Scala, Milan, that Temple of Operatic Art which
is the Mecca of every aspiring Italian musician. This performance
took place on January 24, and was conducted by Faccio, the cast being
Pantaleoni, Anton, and Menotti. It was not published by Ricordi until
1897, when it appeared with an English version of Fontana's libretto by
Percy Pinkerton. In this year it was done at Manchester, at the Comedy
Theatre, by Mr. Arthur Rousby's company, Mrs. Arthur Rousby being the
Anna, Mr. Henry Beaumont the Roberto, and Mr. Frank Land the Wulf. Mr.
Edgardo Levi conducted.
Fontana's story was a curious one to be dealt with by a Southern poet;
for the basis of _Le Villi_ is found in one of those curious Northern
legends which seem to be the exclusive property of natures of far
sterner mould. The Villis, or witch-dancers, are spirits of damsels
who have been betrothed and whose lovers have proved false. Garbed in
their bridal gowns, they rise from the earth at midnight and dance in
a sort of frenzy, till the dawn puts an end to their weird revelry.
Should they happen to meet one of their faithless lovers, they beguile
him into their circle with fair promises; but, like the sirens of old
mythology, they do so only to take their revenge; for once within their
magic ring, the unrestful spirits whirl their victim round and round
until his strength is exhausted, and then in fiendish exultation leave
him to die in expiation of his broken vows.
The scene of _Le Villi_ is laid in the Black Forest. An open clearing
shows us the cottage of Wulf, behind which a pathway leads to some
rocks above, half hidden by trees. A rustic bridge spans a defile, and
the exterior of the cottage is decorated with spring flowers for the
festival of betrothal. With this, his first opera, Puccini adopted the
Wagnerian plan which he has since always adhered to, of a preludial
introduction, indicative of the general atmosphere of the drama to
follow, in place of the conventional overture. As the curtain rises,
Wulf, Anna and Roberto are seated at a table outside the cottage, and
the chorus hail the betrothed pair in a joyful measure. As the lovers
move off to the back, the chorus tells something of the prospects of
the two young people. Roberto is the heir of a wealthy lady in Mayence.
He will have to visit her for the arrangement of the details of his
inheritance, and will then return to wed the bride. The chorus then
sings a characteristic waltz measure, whirling and turning and singing
that the dance is the rival of love. It is a quick impulsive measure in
A minor, and foreshadows in a clever way the weird dance which later on
plays such an important part in the scheme. Guglielmo, the father, is
asked to join in the dance, and he does so after a short instrumental
passage leading back to the dance and chorus proper. Guglielmo dances
off with his partner and the stage is clear.
Anna comes down alone as the orchestra finish off the rhythmic figure
of the waltz. She holds a bunch of forget-me-nots in her hand, and
sings of remembrance in a characteristic melody which at once reveals
Puccini's individuality both in melody and structure. It varies
considerably in the time, and has all that impulsive charm of movement
with which Puccini always fits the situation and the sentiment. In
actual structure the melody moves along in flowing vocal phrases, but
they invariably drop on to an unexpected note and reveal thereby that
piquancy of flavour which makes them singularly attractive. Anna is
putting the bunch of flowers, the token of remembrance, in Roberto's
valise when her lover comes in. Taking the little bunch he kisses
it and puts it back, and then begs a token more fair--a smile. A
characteristic duet then follows, in which Anna gives expression to the
doubts she feels at her lover's enforced absence. A delightfully suave
second section is sung by Roberto, in which he tells her of his love,
strong and unending, born in the happy days of childhood. Anna catches
the spirit of his fervent devotion, and the duet ends with their voices
blending in a song of triumphant trust. The voices end together on a
low note, but the orchestra carries the melody up to a high C by way
of a climax, and then gives out a bell-like sound skilfully preceded
by a chord of that somewhat abrupt modulation in which Puccini always
delights, which portends the approach of night and the departure of
Roberto. This bell-like note of warning comes in again during the short
interlude which leads to the chorus, who return to sing of Roberto's
departure ere the bright beams of sunset fade in the western sky.
Roberto bids Anna to be courageous, and asks her father's blessing.
Slow and solemn chords usher in Guglielmo's touching prayer, in which
after the opening phrases the lovers join their voices, repeating the
sentiment of his pious utterances. Towards the end the full chorus is
added to the trio; and this solidly written number, backed by a moving
orchestral figure, ends impressively. Anna sings her sad farewell, the
voice rising to a characteristic high A, and a short orchestral passage
finishes the scene.
The second act is headed "Forsaken" in the score, and to the opening
prelude is attached a short note explanatory of what has happened
in the meanwhile. "In those days there was in Mayence a siren, who
bewitched all who beheld her, old and young." Like the presiding
spirit of the Venusberg who held Tannhäuser in thrall, so Roberto is
attracted to her unholy orgies and Anna is forgotten. Worn out by
grief and hopeless longing Anna dies, and in the opening chorus of the
second act we learn that she lies on her bier, her features of marble
paler than the moonlight. An expressive and solemn funeral march, the
main theme of which is indicated by this preceding chorus, is then
played by the orchestra, during which the funeral procession leaves
Guglielmo's house and passes across the stage. In order to add to the
air of mystery this is directed to be done behind a veil of gauze. At
the end, a three-part chorus of female voices chants a phrase of the
_Requiescat_. The tableaux curtains are dropped for a change of scene.
The place is the same, but the time is winter, and the gaunt trees are
snow laden. The night is clear and starry, and pulsing lights flash
from the sides, adding their lurid and fitful brilliance to the calm
cold light of the moon.
With a sharp detached full chord in G minor, the weird unearthly
dance begins in quick duple time, the quaint rhythmic melody being
composed of staccato triplets. Out of the darkness the figures of the
witch-dancers appear and join in the dance as the frenzy increases. It
is a highly characteristic movement, and one can hardly agree with the
critic who on its first production, as will be seen hereafter, wished
that it might be in the major key. For an uncanny, utterly restless
and grim effect, most subtly presented by means of purely legitimate
music, this number stands as an exceptionally fine example. The dance
ends, and the witch-dancers are swallowed up in the darkness, while
Guglielmo comes out to dwell on the villainy of Roberto and the cruel
wrong done to his dead child. The prelude to his plaintive number is
prefaced with a striking descending passage for the chorus. As he
sings of the pure and gentle soul of his daughter, the legend of the
witch-dancers comes into his mind, but at once he prays for forgiveness
for such unworthy thoughts of vengeance.
From a passage for the hidden voices of the sopranos we expect the
approach of Roberto. The recalcitrant lover is startled by the sounds
he hears, but he thinks remorse, and not the Villis of the legend,
is the cause of it. Into his mind there flashes the remembrance of
all that has passed, and he goes towards the cottage-door with a
pathetic hope that Anna may still be living. But he starts back as
some irresistible force compels him to retreat. Again he thinks a wild
fancy has deceived him, but once more the voices sound the note of
approaching doom. "See the traitor is coming." He kneels in prayer, but
at the end comes in the sinister phrase, "See the traitor is coming."
He rises from his prayer to curse the evil influence that has wrought
his destruction.
Then, at the back, on the bridge, appears the spirit of Anna. Amazed,
Roberto exclaims, "She is living, not dead!" but Anna replies that she
is not his love but revenge, and reminds him, by a repetition of her
solo in the first act, when she sang to the bunch of forget-me-nots,
of all his broken promises. Roberto joins in this strenuous and
moving duet, and accepts with resignation the fate that has been
too strong for him. Torn with the anguish of remorse he expresses
his willingness to die. Anna holds out her arms, and Roberto seems
hypnotised. Gradually the witch-dancers come on, and surrounding
the pair dance once more in frenzy row carry them off. Over the
characteristic dance is now placed a full chorus. The words "whirling,
turning," which frequently occur as the movement gains in intensity,
show the connection with the joyous measure in the first act. In this
we find one of those effects of unity which, although slight enough in
many cases, reveal the hand, if not exactly of a great master, of an
original thinker and a particularly finished craftsman. Roberto, at
the end of the main section of the chorus, ending on a long sustained
top A, and then dropping sharply to the tonic (it is still as before
in G minor), breaks away breathless and terrified and strives to enter
the cottage; but the spirits drive him again into the arms of Anna,
and once more he is drawn into the whirlpool. With a last despairing
shriek, "Anna, save me!" he dies; and Anna, with an exultant cry of
possession, vanishes, while the chorus change the words of their song
to a shout of exultation.
By this first effort, slight in texture as it is, Puccini gave
unmistakable evidence of that power of giving, by a series of detached
scenes, an idea of impressionistic atmospheric quality which was
afterwards so beautifully achieved in his _La Bohème_. From the
criticism of Sala, who, as we saw in a preceding chapter, was present
at the meeting at Ponchielli's house which led to the production of
the opera, we get a sound idea of the general effect and trend of the
music, which is worth quoting. It appeared in _Italia_ of the day
after the performance, at which, it may be mentioned, Boïto applauded
vigorously from a box.
"It is, according to our judgment, a precious little gem, from
beginning to end. The prelude, not meant to be important, is full of
delicate instrumental passages, and contains the theme afterwards used
in the first duet between the lovers. The chorus which follows is gay
and festive and shows masterly handling of the parts: the waltz, which
we should have preferred in a major key, is entrancing, one of the
most characteristic numbers of the opera is the duet between Anna and
Roberto. The prayer of benediction is another inspired page, in spite
of its length. The polyphony of the vocal parts is masterly and the
melodic flow most charming. The symphonic nature of the intermezzi
which connect the scenes, more particularly the wild dance of the
spirit forms, distinctly points to the arrival of a great composer."
While the salient points of the music appear to have been unerringly
seized upon by the writer, the subtlety of the composer in making the
first dance of the peasants foreshadow the furious revelry of the
witch-dancers appears to have escaped the critic. But this desire for
strongly marked effects is after all essentially typical of the race.
In Italy, the clear, radiant sky, the pure air, the glorious strength
of the light, does not permit of an appreciation for half-tones and
the fascination of shadows. If all need not exactly be dazzlingly
bright it must be quite distinct. _Le Villi_ was a remarkable first
opera, but it has not succeeded in keeping a place in the current
repertory. The music is unquestionably dramatic, but the whole
structure, words and music, has not that quality of characterisation
which, together with the necessary dramatic force, makes up the
theatrical effectiveness without which no opera can ever expect to hold
the stage. To use a hackneyed phrase, _Le Villi_ has the defects of
its qualities, but from the freshness and individuality of its music
there is no reason why it should not be given in our concert-rooms as
a cantata. The dance movement, after all, would lose nothing by being
given as an orchestral piece, and the spirit forms might well be left
to the imagination. At any rate, _Le Villi_ is, by a very long way,
a far greater work than many a so-called "dramatic" cantata. These
things take the place in our provincial towns of the opera abroad; and
since we do not appear in the least likely to establish opera houses,
it would be a good plan for the British composer to take Puccini's _Le
Villi_ as an example of what might be done with a cantata--an opera,
after all, played without action or scenery.
V
"EDGAR"
With his second work for the stage, _Edgar_--the libretto being by
Fontana, the author of the opera-ballet _Le Villi_--Puccini adopts the
designation of lyric drama. _Edgar_ is in three acts, and with it the
composer attained to the dignity of a first performance at the Scala,
Milan. It saw the light on April 21, 1889, with the following cast, the
conductor being Faccio:
_Edgar_ GABRIELESCO.
_Gualtiero_ MARINI.
_Frank_ MAGINI COLETTI.
_Fidelia_ AURELIA CATAREO.
_Tigrana_ ROMEIDA PANTALEONE.
The vocal score was not published by Ricordi until 1905.
The theme of the drama is the familiar one of a man tempted by passion,
who swerves from the "strait and narrow path," and who afterwards makes
atonement. In the case of our hero, Edgar, the atonement comes too
late, and the end, as in _Carmen_--which in general dramatic outline
may be called the foremost if not the first operatic exploitation of
the idea--is Tragedy.
[Illustration: PUCCINI IN HIS STUDY AT TORRE DEL LAGO]
In front of his book Fontana places a foreword to the effect that we
are all Edgars, because fate brings to each of us love and death. He
winds up with a moral statement, true if trite, that it is wrong to let
ourselves be dragged away from pure love to mere sensual passion.
The action takes place in Flanders in the early fourteenth century. The
scene of the first of the three acts shows us a square in a Flemish
village, at the back of which is Edgar's house, and before it an almond
tree. On the one side is the entrance to a church, on the other an inn.
Over the distant landscape dawn is breaking. With a bell effect, of
which Puccini is so fond, the simple prelude begins. The plain and
straightforward progression of light chords is French in character, but
the bell effect is established musically by the simple leap of a fifth
in the bass. The chords continue, with a filagree figure placed above
them, and from delicate musical suggestion the effect turns to realism
as the bell itself sounds, ushering in the notes of the unseen chorus,
as the Angelus rings from the church.
Edgar is asleep on a bench before the inn, and peasants and shepherds
cross the stage, greeting each other as they go to their daily toil.
Fidelia, the daughter of Gualtiero, then comes on to the balcony and
salutes the dawn in a characteristic melody which, although not based
on the bell theme in the way of the use of a representative phrase,
seems very naturally to grow out of the musical idea. She calls to
Edgar and comes down, plucking a branch from the almond tree. Fidelia
continues her address to Edgar in a melody which is much more broken in
rhythm than her former one; and on her departure a curious chromatic
passage, which seems to presage unrest and stress, leads to the entry
of the chorus, who repeat, from afar but coming nearer, their greeting
to the dawn, while Edgar turns to go after Fidelia.
Strongly dramatic and of distinctive colour is the orchestral passage
which accompanies the entrance of Tigrana. She is a gipsy girl, who has
been brought up by the villagers. She enters with a species of lute--or
guitar, more properly perhaps--called the dembal, a stringed instrument
in common use even now by descendants of the Magyar race. She laughs at
Edgar with a fine scorn of his tame admiration for the gentle village
damsel. "There! I have made Fidelia run away," she sings with a mixture
of sarcasm, irony, and hypocrisy. "I am so sorry. I did not know a
pastoral love affair was at all in your way."
Gualtiero, Fidelia's father, now comes on, and, with the gathering
crowd of villagers, enters the church. The beginning of the voluntary
on the organ is heard, and over and above this simple diatonic,
ecclesiastical tune, come, in skilful and expressive contrast, the
remarks of the gipsy girl to Edgar, by which she reminds him that she
has opened to his nature the delights of an intense full-blooded love
in place of the mildly inocuous affection of peasant girls. "Trot
along, good little boy," she sings, "and go to church." Edgar's feeling
about the matter is quickly shown by his emphatic "Silence, demon!"
which comes out like the crack of a whip. But Tigrana only laughs at
him.
As Tigrana turns to go into the inn she is stopped by Frank, the
brother of Fidelia. Frank is in love with the gipsy girl, and from
him we learn that fifteen years ago she was abandoned in the village.
Questioned as to her doings, Tigrana tells Frank that he is a tiresome
bore, while he proceeds with the not very tactful method of reproaching
her for her ingratitude. "You were the child of us all," he sings, "and
we did not know we were nursing a viper in our midst."
Tigrana, who is not given to wasting much time with preliminaries,
tells Frank that if he has any regard for his virtue he had better not
be seen talking to her; and she goes towards the inn. Frank bursts out
with the confession that he has tried to tear her out of his heart, but
although she brings nothing but grief to him she remains there in full
possession.
From the church comes the sound of a fragment of a motet, begun by the
sopranos and swelling out afterwards in a six-part chorus. Tigrana
sits on the table outside the inn and jeers at the piety of those
peasants who, not being able to find room in the church, kneel outside
and join in the devotion. To her dembal she sings a quaint and springy
sort of tune which is thoroughly impudent in character. With a murmur
of disapproval, which afterwards grows into a demand, the peasants
indignantly ask her to desist from her frivolity. As she proceeds with
her melody the peasants threaten to take stronger measures to stop
the interruption to their prayers, and Edgar, coming out, rushes at
once to Tigrana's defence. This open devotion to her cause apparently
surprises the villagers greatly, and Edgar finds himself called upon at
once to make up his somewhat vacillating mind. With rather curious and
certainly sudden access of ardour, he rails against his lot, and curses
the home of his fathers. Egged on to a species of frenzy, he rushes
into the house and comes out bearing an ember from the hearth. In spite
of the efforts of the villagers to restrain his mad impulse he flings
the brand into the house, and clasping Tigrana to him, announces his
intention of fleeing with her. Frank then rushes on to prevent their
departure, and the two young men draw their daggers. A lull in the fray
is caused by the entrance of Gualtiero and Fidelia from the church; and
the old man's counsel for peace backed up by pious ejaculations from
the crowd, seems likely at first to prevail. But Tigrana puts an end
to Edgar's hesitation, and he attacks Frank with fury. Frank is badly
wounded, and falls in his father's arms as the chorus curse Edgar for a
reprobate, and the curtain falls as the house, now well ablaze, lights
up the scene with its lurid glare.
The second act shows us a terrace in a garden with the brilliantly
lighted rooms of a sumptuous mansion glimmering in the distance.
The stillness of the night is broken by the sounds of revelry, more
languorous than strident. The chorus, which sing of the splendour of
the night, is made up of two sopranos, an alto, two tenors, and a
bass; and the essentially nervous, close harmonies--the light detached
phrase begins with a chord of the 13th--establish the atmosphere.
There is some fine and characteristic music in this rather long scene
between Edgar and Tigrana, who have, it is easy to understand, been
partaking too freely of the joys which soon pall. Edgar is weary of
his enervating surroundings, and his thoughts turn to the glory of
the April dawn and the calm love of Fidelia. Tigrana taunts him with
reproaches, and there follow the inevitable mutual recriminations. In
vain does she bring her fascinations to bear upon her lover. The sound
of drums and the march of soldiers is heard, and Edgar calls out to
them as they pass to stay their march and partake of his hospitality.
Tigrana at once begins to be suspicious. Frank, as it turns out, is
the captain of the band. Edgar hails him with joy as the saviour of
the situation. "Frank, forgive me," he cries. "You alone can save me
and enable me to redeem my past." Tigrana is distracted, but she is
powerless to prevent Edgar's departure, and with a menacing gesture she
sees her lover go, a characteristic phrase from the chorus forming the
background to the last utterances of the principals concerned in this
short and not particularly convincing act.
The third act is prefaced with a short prelude of melancholy mould.
The rising curtain discloses a courtyard within a fortress at
Courtray. In the battle which raged round this castle, the Flemish,
it will be remembered, with very few numbers--and these only armed
with agricultural implements for the most part--conquered the French
army led by Philip Le Bel. Their opponents were decoyed into a sort
of marshy swamp, and were not only hampered by their large retinue,
which included carriages, women-kind, and all sorts of paraphernalia,
but imagined that they were only to meet a handful of ignorant churls.
There is a chapel on one side of the scene, and distant trumpet calls
are heard as a funeral _cortège_ proceeds to range itself around a
hearse, and the monks in the procession light tapers.
Preceded by a draped banner, the soldiers bear on the body of a knight,
fully armed, which they place on the hearse and then deck it with
flowers and wreaths. Standing apart from the crowd are Frank and a
monk, while in the background are seen Fidelia and her father. The
chorus chant a _Requiescat_, and then Fidelia sings a most moving and
pathetic farewell, for the armed knight is Edgar. It may be stated,
however, that the monk who stands apart is really Edgar, who, for no
very clear or convincing reason, has chosen to be a witness of his
supposed funeral celebration.
Frank now adds his praise to the farewell of Fidelia, and extols in
an oration the splendid courage of the man Edgar who died for his
fatherland. Then the monk does a seemingly strange and unwarrantable
thing. He tells the soldiers that their hero, before death, directed
that all his misdeeds should be proclaimed publicly, in order that his
life might set an example in true penitence. The monk then relates
the story of Edgar's past life, and discloses among other details the
relations existing between the dead man and Tigrana.
[Illustration: PUCCINI IN HIS STUDY AT HIS MILAN HOUSE
_Specially photographed by Adolfo Ermini, Milan_]
Fidelia, filled with horror at the supposed treachery, boldly asks how
the soldiers dare to listen to this besmirching of their leader's
honour. The soldiers, however, appear to believe the tale, and make
an attempt to drag the body off to throw it to the vultures. The monk
is touched by the loyalty of Fidelia, who is prepared to defend, with
her life if needs be, the body of her hero. "By death," she cries, "he
has expiated his sins. Leave me to watch him through the night, and my
father and I will bear his body away in the morning and find for it
some resting-place in his native village." The monk then kneels for a
space by Fidelia; and the soldiers, touched by her devotion, move off,
and Fidelia leaves with her father.