Bohemians are once more struggling with the problem of keeping body
and soul together. Two of them, Rodolfo and Marcel, at any rate, are
lonely, for Mimi has been taken up by a viscount, and Musetta, dressed
in velvet--through which, as Rudolfo tells Marcel, she cannot hear her
heart beat--is riding in a carriage. But with all their troubles they
keep a stout heart and are able to jest over the herring and rolls
which Schaunard and Colline bring in for dinner. They dance and romp,
and play the fool in the lightest hearted manner until Musetta suddenly
breaks in upon their pretended jollity. The end is reached rapidly.
Mimi has come home to die, and this she does after an intensely sad,
simple and moving scene, stretched, as they placed her, on Rodolfo's
hard little bed. Infinitely touching is Mimi's reference, in her last
words, to the song which Rodolfo sang in the opening Act. She begins
_Che gelida manina_ only to break off in a fit of coughing. Marcello
has gone out to fetch a doctor and Musetta brings a muff to warm the
dying girl's fingers. Mimi's spirit passes away however before aid can
be brought to her, and the pathos of the situation is intensified by
the silence in which it takes place. It is Schaunard who whispers to
Marcello that she is dead. To Rodolfo's last despairing cry of "Mimi!
Mimi!" as he realises that his loved one is no more, does the curtain
fall.
There is little to point to in the music save its chief and outstanding
feature, its continuity. In this the whole charm and strength of the
work lies. Orchestrally, the score of _La Bohème_ is a beautifully
polished one, not so symphonically complete as _Manon_ for instance,
but essentially individual. For fulness as a constructional background
one may point to the orchestration of the duet in the first Act; for
daintiness of effect, the use of harmonics on the harp against the
muted strings in Musetta's waltz-song; while many happy touches are
seen all through, such as the xylophone and muted trumpets at the
toy-sellers' entrance in the café scene; or again, the striking passage
in fifths at the opening of the third Act, given to the harp and flutes
over the 'cellos playing _tremolo_. The orchestra employed is the usual
large modern orchestra, with a piccolo, glockenspiel and xylophone.
Considerable use is also made of the division of the 'cellos, in many
places, into three.
The complete success, notwithstanding certain difficulties that have
been referred to, of the first performance of the opera in this
country, was duly chronicled in London, on the day following the event,
in _The Times_. The notice states that the composer was called at the
end and bowed his acknowledgments, from which it would appear that
he was prevailed upon at least to appear on the fall of the curtain,
although, by all accounts I have heard from those who took part in the
performance, Puccini adopted the custom--followed, if we may believe
certain traditions, by certain notable playwrights--of wandering up and
down the streets until the _première_ was over.
The writer of the notice in question places the work on a higher level
than _Manon_, speaks of the highly dramatic intensity reached by simple
means in the scenes between Mimi and Rodolfo, notices in the absence of
set songs the Wagnerian method of continuous melody, and sums it up as
a decided success gained by the beauty of its melody, the refinement of
the music as a whole, the cleverness in the handling of the themes, and
by the absence of clap-trap. The performance is spoken of as a genuine
triumph, in spite of the leading tenor's hoarseness.
[Illustration: PUCCINI IN "MORNING DRESS" (NATIONAL PEASANT COSTUME) AT
TORRE DEL LAGO]
[Illustration: PUCCINI WILD-FOWL SHOOTING ON THE LAKE AT TORRE DEL
LAGO]
VIII
"TOSCA"
With his next opera--for _Tosca_ is the only one of his works so
entitled by the composer--Puccini made a rather curious reversal
of the proceedings as compared with _La Bohème_, taking it from an
Italian story treated from the French point of view. From the old world
story of Murger, Puccini turned to a notable example of modern French
stagecraft, in Sardou's drama of _La Tosca_. His librettists again were
Giocosa and Illica, and they provided the composer with a strikingly
apt presentation of the grim story; not one, perhaps, that lends itself
altogether to musical expression, but one which certainly grips the
attention and carries the hearer along. By _Tosca_, Puccini certainly
sustained his now universal popularity made manifest by the preceding
_La Bohème_. It was given first at the Costanzi Theatre, Rome, on
January 14, 1900, conducted by Mugnone, and cast as follows:
_Tosca_ DARCLÉE.
_Cavaradossi_ DE MARCHI.
_Scarpia_ GIRALDOIN.
_Angelotti_ GALLI.
_The Sacristan_ BORELLI.
London saw it in the summer of the same year at Covent Garden, where
it was given on July 12 with the following cast, Mancinelli being the
conductor.
_Tosca_ TERNINA.
_Cavaradossi_ DE LUCIA.
_Scarpia_ SCOTTI.
_Angelotti_ DUFRICHE.
_The Sacristan_ GILIBERT.
In America, _Tosca_ was first given in Italian on February 4, 1901,
at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, by Maurice Grau's company,
the cast and conductor being the same as that for the first Covent
Garden performance, with the substitution of Cremonini for De Lucia as
Cavaradossi.
Its first American production in English was by Henry W. Savage's
company, at the Teck Theatre, Buffalo, and cast as follows, Emanuel
being the conductor:
_Tosca_ ADELAIDE NORWOOD.
_Cavaradossi_ JOSEPH SHEEHAN.
_Scarpia_ W. GOFF.
_Angelotti_ F. J. BOYLE.
_The Sacristan_ FRANCIS CARRIER.
In the music of _Tosca_ Puccini reveals, more powerfully perhaps than
anywhere, that quick instinct of the theatre which may be called
dramatic, or merely a very clever fitting of music to the mood of the
moment. It is, in fact, very purely melodramatic, the word being used
here not in its accepted sense of the traditional "tootle-tootle" in
the orchestra when the wicked villain pursues the innocent and sorely
tried heroine. The story is tragic in all conscience, but it hardly
reaches the level of true tragedy, since it is more horrible than
impressive, and lacks that restraint and poetry which are two necessary
qualities. This much must be said for the operatic version. It is a
shade less revolting, less purely realistic than the drama, and it
undoubtedly provides a splendid acting _rôle_ for the exponent of the
name part; while the lover, and the villain--Scarpia, the chief of the
police--are provided with opportunities, very little behind, in point
of vocal and dramatic effect. One could very well imagine a production,
on prevailing lines set upon elaboration of detail, in which Puccini's
music, or a great deal of it, was used purely as incidental music.
This suggestion, however, must in no way be taken to mean that as a
whole the music of this opera lacks continuity of interest or fails
to exhibit the close and essential union between speech and song.
There are many pages of strong and definite lyrical charm, but somehow
the main interest lies in the action which fascinates the spectator,
rather, one feels, against his better--or more calm--judgment. It is,
in short, a most moving picture of love, hate, jealousy, passion and
intrigue. These, after all, form the great bulk of the material for
operatic treatment; and without entering into the question whether
_Tosca_ is or is not a work for all time, it has certain very "live"
attributes which make it a notable achievement.
The scene in the first act shows the Attavanti Chapel in the Church
of Saint Andrea della Valle in Rome. The strenuous, shuddering chords
which preface the short prelude are representative of the cruel nature
of Scarpia, whose personality dominates the scene--more than this, the
figure seems to give at once the atmosphere of stress, and hints at a
wealth of incident which characterises the whole of that which is to
follow.
A man in prison garb, harassed, dishevelled, well-nigh breathless with
fear and haste, comes in and glances hastily this way and that. This is
Angelotti, a victim of Papal tyranny, who has escaped from the Castle
of S. Angelo; and his entrance, it will be noted, is also characterised
by a theme always associated with him throughout the work.
On a pillar is an image of the Virgin, and underneath it a stoup. "My
sister wrote to tell me of this spot," says Angelotti, as he searches
for the key which will open the chapel and allow him to escape. While
he searches in feverish haste the string of chromatic chords carries on
the idea of his agitation. With yet another glance to reassure himself
that he has not been followed, he opens the gate in the grille of the
chapel and disappears.
A light tripping figure ushers in the Sacristan, and it continues for
a space while he walks to the daïs, on which is an easel and a covered
picture. He complains of the bother he has in washing the brushes of
the artist who is painting an altar-piece. He is surprised not to find
Cavaradossi painting. The Angelus rings, and the Sacristan kneels and
continues the prayer.
[Illustration: PUCCINI SNOWBALLING IN SICILY]
[Illustration: PUCCINI WRESTLING AT POMPEII]
Cavaradossi now comes in, and a broad melodious phrase is heard as
he ascends the daïs and uncovers the picture. The Sacristan is
amazed to find that it represents the features of a lady who has
been frequently to pray in the church, and is further shocked when
the artist draws forth a miniature and compares it with his figure,
into whose features he has incorporated the dusky glow and peach-like
bloom of his beloved Floria. The phrase indicated at Cavaradossi's
entrance now swells out in a lyrical melody in which he sings that his
Madonna's eyes are blue, while Tosca's are dark as a moonless night,
the Sacristan punctuating the rhapsody with a pious ejaculation to the
effect that the artist scorns the saints and jests with the ungodly.
After the Sacristan's departure to a snatch of his characteristic
phrase, Angelotti, believing the church empty, comes out of the chapel.
Cavaradossi does not at first recognise, in this prison-worn creature,
his friend the Consul of the Republic. Tosca's voice is heard, and
the artist makes a sign to Angelotti to remain yet a little while in
hiding, and on hearing that the fugitive is spent with hunger, he gives
him the basket left, for his refreshment, by the Sacristan.
A quick moving figure, accompanied by triplets, announces Tosca's
entrance, and she thinks that she has heard her lover conversing
with another woman, and even declares she heard the swish of skirts.
Cavaradossi attempts to embrace her, but she reproves him, and first
makes an offering before the Virgin's shrine. This done, she tells
him that although she is singing at the theatre that evening, the
piece is a short one, and proceeds to sing in a delightfully suave
melody, which increases gradually in intensity, of the delights of love
in a quiet secluded cottage far away from all worldly distractions.
Cavaradossi comes in at the close with an impassioned burst on a
characteristic high note, in which he says that he is caught in the
toils of her enchantment. The artist makes as his excuse for her
quick dismissal the need of continuing his work on the picture, but
his frequent glances towards the chapel show that his anxiety for his
friend is the cause of his agitation. But Tosca now comes in sight of
the picture, and is struck by the resemblance of the face to some one
she has seen. She immediately connects the whispering she has heard
before arriving upon the scene and the anxious looks towards the chapel
together as a proof that Cavaradossi has been meeting the original of
the picture. The incident, however, leads up to a further avowal of
devotion on the part of Cavaradossi, and their voices blend together
for a brief space in a delicious bit of melody. Tosca elects to be
comforted, and with a final thrust she goes out, requesting her lover
to change the lady's eyes to black ones.
Angelotti now comes out of the chapel and tells of his plan of escape.
Cavaradossi gives him the key of his villa, and indicates the way
he may reach it. Angelotti takes up the bundle of clothes left by
his sister for his disguise--the sister being the lady who has been
frequenting the church of late, and who has attracted the artist's
attention--and goes off, while his friend tells him, as a final
precaution in case of urgent need, of a passage that leads down to a
cellar. Just as Angelotti is going the cannon sound from the fortress,
giving the signal that the prisoner's escape has been discovered.
On their exit, the Sacristan enters, followed by choir boys,
acolytes and a crowd of people. The Sacristan tells them the news of
Bonaparte's defeat, that there will be rejoicings and a new cantata
for the occasion sung by Tosca, and his snatch of melody is cleverly
derived from the theme heard on his first entrance. The choir boys
burst out into a great riot of joyous merrymaking, beginning with "Te
Deum" and "Gloria," and breaking out into "Long live the King," the
Sacristan trying his best to drive them into the sacristy to vest
for the festival service. Their jollity is cut short by the entrance
of Scarpia--whose sinister theme breaks in characteristically, as
always--followed by Spoletta and others of his staff. After bidding
them curtly prepare for the solemn "Te Deum," he motions the rather
frightened Sacristan to his side, and tells him that a State prisoner
has escaped, and from information received has been tracked here. He
asks which is the Attavanti Chapel, and the facts that the gate is open
and that a new key is in the lock give at once a clue.
A police agent comes out of the chapel and brings with him the basket
given to Angelotti by Cavaradossi; and Scarpia, after a little more
judicious questioning of the Sacristan, is able to guess that the
fugitive has been assisted by the painter.
Tosca now comes back, and after signalling to the Sacristan, Scarpia
retires behind a pillar, watching her as she looks about for
Cavaradossi. To serve his own ends, he decides to rouse the jealousy of
the woman; and after a little flattery, expressed in a suave, flowing
melody, he brings out a fan and mildly inquires whether it forms any
part of the customary outfit of a painter. From the coronet on it Tosca
recognises it as belonging to the Marchioness Attavanti, who is the
sister of Angelotti, and a member of the family to whom the chapel is
dedicated. Forgetful of Scarpia's presence and the place where she is,
Tosca, in a finely emotional passage--broken into now and again by
Scarpia, who rams home his poisonous suggestions--bewails the weakness
of her lover; and the wily Scarpia, after tenderly escorting her to the
church door, despatches an agent to watch her closely. His exultation
at having fired her jealousy is punctuated twice by the sound of
cannon; and into the rather curious triplet accompaniments is worked
the opening phrases of the organ, which signals the approach of the
procession of the Chapter, with the Cardinal, to whom Scarpia makes a
reverence as he passes him.
[Illustration: PUCCINI DESCENDING ETNA ON A MULE]
[Illustration: PUCCINI ON HIS FARM AT CHIATRI]
"Our help is in the name of the Lord, who hath made heaven and earth,"
sing the Chapter and monks, while Scarpia continues his musings as to
the business he has on hand. From the mere catching of the escaped
prisoners his thoughts turn to lustful possession of Tosca; and the
whole scene, finely contrasted, is worked up with superb force into
one of those magnificently solid finales which reveal the technic of
Puccini so emphatically. The cannon continue to go off--the sound
is managed, by the way, by striking a huge cone over which is
stretched, drum-fashion, a tight skin--the whole crowd turn towards the
high altar, the stately "Te Deum" swells through the church, and at the
end, Scarpia, after saying that for Tosca he would renounce his hopes
of heaven, joins in the last phrase: "All the earth shall worship Thee,
the Father everlasting." The curtain descends quickly to the harsh
progression of chords forming the Scarpia theme.
The second act shows us Scarpia's room in the Farnese Palace. It is on
an upper floor. To the left a table is laid, and at the back a large
window looks over the courtyard.
Scarpia is at supper, and looks at his watch from time to time
impatiently. "Tosca is a famous decoy," he sings; "to-morrow's
sunrise shall see the two conspirators hanging side by side on my
tallest gallows." Ringing a handbell, which is answered by Sciarrone,
he inquires whether Tosca is in the Palace, and learns that she
has been summoned thither. Scarpia orders the window to be thrown
open, and borne on the evening air comes the sound of a gavotte
from the orchestra which is playing in one of the lower rooms at
an entertainment given by Queen Caroline. Very skilfully is this
graceful little melody, just sufficiently archaic in its mould to be
characteristic of the period, used as a background for the clever
dialogue which follows, from which we learn that Tosca is to be lured
to the Palace in the hope of seeing Cavaradossi. Spoletta comes in
to give an account of his visit to the villa, and enrages Scarpia by
telling him of Angelotti's escape. The minister is somewhat mollified
when Spoletta tells him that he promptly secured the painter. Now,
with striking effect, the dance measure gives place to a cantata,
proving that Tosca is in the Palace in the Queen's apartments.
Scarpia's directions as to securing Cavaradossi are worked into the
musical fabric with consummate effect, and continue as the painter,
now a prisoner, is led in. Cavaradossi breaks off from his curt and
guarded replies to Scarpia's questioning on hearing Tosca's voice. He
denies strenuously that Angelotti received any aid from him, and even
laughs at his examiner. Scarpia shuts the window in anger, and the
repetition of his characteristic similar phrase leads up to a strenuous
passage in which determination is skilfully depicted in contrast to
the almost colloquial movement of the preceding passages. "Once more,"
says Scarpia, "where is Angelotti?" and from a remark by Spoletta the
application of the process torture to wring a confession from the
prisoner is hinted at. Tosca now enters, and runs quickly to her lover,
who tells her quickly in an undertone not to say a word of what she
has seen at the villa. As Scarpia signals to Sciarrone to slide back
the panel which leads to the torture chamber, he says formally, "Mario
Cavaradossi, the judge is wanting to take your depositions." Sciarrone
then gives the directions to Roberto, an underling, to at first apply
the usual pressure, and to increase it as he will direct him.
Then follows a highly dramatic scene, ushered in with a characteristic
theme indicating the torture which Tosca's lover is to undergo, between
Scarpia and Tosca, in which the latter dismisses the fan episode as
a feeble trick to rouse her jealousy. Scarpia, however, comes very
quickly to plain speaking, and tells Tosca that she had better confess
all that she knows as to the escape of Angelotti if she wishes to
spare Cavaradossi an hour of anguish. Tosca learns with horror that
a fillet of steel, gradually tightening round the temples, is being
applied to Cavaradossi's head, and on hearing his groan of pain, she
relents and bursts out that she will speak if he is released. But
Mario from within calls on Tosca to be silent, and that he despises
the pain. Scarpia directs further pressure to be applied. Tosca is
allowed to gaze through the open door, and, distracted by what she
sees, signifies her intention of revealing all she knows. Her mind
is made up when she hears another groan of anguish, and she tells
Scarpia that Angelotti is to be found in the well in the garden of the
villa. Scarpia now orders Cavaradossi to be brought in. From Scarpia's
directions to Spoletta, the fainting victim, nearly at his last gasp
by what he had endured, learns of Tosca's treachery, and curses her.
This painful scene, finely worked up as it is in intensity, comes to a
climax by the news brought in by Sciarrone of the victory at Marengo
by Bonaparte. This enrages Scarpia, but he will at least keep the
victim he has in hand; and Cavaradossi, exulting as he foresees the
downfall of the minister, is borne off. Tosca now turns to Scarpia, and
implores him to save Cavaradossi. Splendidly dramatic is the closing
scene, beginning with Scarpia's light and airy remark that his little
supper was interrupted, and rising to heights of emotional fulness
when Tosca asks him outright to name his price for saving her lover's
life. Tosca's horrified scream, to a rising passage of two high notes,
when she listens to Scarpia's lascivious proposals, thoroughly fits
the situation. The drums are used cleverly to indicate the march of
the prisoners to their doom, and the setting up of the gallows for
Cavaradossi, and in contrast to Scarpia's sinister passages, comes the
broad lyrical and impassioned prayer of Tosca, who rails at God for
having forsaken her in her hour of need. Scarpia presses his infamous
proposals, when Spoletta returns, and speaking outside brings the news
that Angelotti has poisoned himself rather than allow himself to be
taken. A question as to the disposal of Cavaradossi brings the climax,
and Tosca, by taking upon herself to give directions as to this,
indicates her consent to Scarpia's wishes. But this master of deceit
will not allow the release to be managed in any but his own way. He
tells Spoletta that there will be an execution, but it will be a sham
one, as in the case of another prisoner, by name Palmieri, the guns
being loaded with blank cartridge only, and the victim instructed to
fall and feign death. But Tosca wants more than this on her side of
the bargain. Scarpia must give them both a passport out of the place,
and as he goes to the table to write it Tosca's eyes catch sight of
a knife on the table. In an instant her mind is made up, and as he
returns to give her the paper, and to clasp her in a feverish embrace,
she plunges the knife into his heart. The death-scene is perhaps a
little prolonged, but seeing that it has been preceded by the torturing
of Cavaradossi, it is at least logical that Tosca should remind him of
the ghastly torture he inflicted on her loved one. The intensity of
the scene is rounded off by the expressive phrase on a low monotone
of Tosca, "And yesterday all Rome lay at this man's feet." The action
to the finishing notes of this moving scene follows that of the play.
Tosca searches for the passport, and snatches it from the fast locking
palms of the dead man. With a shudder she rinses her finger with a
serviette dipped in the carafe, and then puts the candles from the
supper table at the head of the corpse, and taking a crucifix from
the wall, places it on the breast, as the Scarpia theme in long-drawn
chords is played softly by the orchestra. She goes out quietly as the
curtain falls.
The third act takes place on an open space or platform within the
Castle of S. Angelo. At the back we see the dome of S. Peter's and the
Vatican. The expressive prelude, and the opening song by a shepherd,
are musically of great interest. It begins with a horn passage, and
at the rise of the curtain it is still night, and we see the dawn
break, and hear the many bells from the church towers, one of the most
striking sounds of the Eternal city.
The pastoral melody of the shepherd has a plaintive character, and he
sings:
Day now is breaking,
The weary world awaking,
Lending new sorrow
And sadness to the morrow.
And the sheep-bells come in with their jangle as the shepherd
continues, with a suggestion of a love theme:
If you could prize me
To live I might try,
But if you despise me
I may as well die.
Then the church bells continue the strain, now near, now afar.
A gaoler enters and looks over the parapet to see if the soldiers to
whom is entrusted the grim task of execution have arrived. Led by a
sergeant, the picket enters, bringing Cavaradossi. The gaoler, after
making him sign a paper, tells him that he has an hour, and that a
priest is at his disposal. Cavaradossi, after giving a ring to the
gaoler as the price of the favour, is allowed to write a letter, and
sings his beautiful air, one of the chief lyrical gems of the opera, "E
luce van stelle." It ends emotionally, and the singer bursts into tears
with the thought that never was life so dear to him as now when he is
within sight of death.