note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 20264-h.htm or 20264-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/2/6/20264/20264-h/20264-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/2/6/20264/20264-h.zip) parsifal story and analysis of wagner's great opera by h. r. haweis author of "my musical memories," "music and morals," etc. [illustration: richard wagner] [illustration: funk and wagnalls symbol] funk & wagnalls company new york and london 1905 note- this story and analysis of parsifal was first published as a part of mr. haweis' well-known work, "my musical memories." the interest it has excited seems to justify its republication at this time in a separate volume. f. & w. co. published, february, 1904 contents page wahnfried 5 parsifal 10 act i 18 act ii 41 act iii 55 when the curtain fell 67 illustrations facing page portrait of richard wagner _frontispiece_ parsifal and gurnemanz passing through the ravine (act i) 30 the great hall of the holy grail (act i) 36 parsifal entering the grail castle in triumph (act iii) 62 wahnfried i visited bayreuth on the 24th of july, 1883, and attended two crowded performances of wagner's last work, _parsifal_. in the morning i went into the beautiful gardens of the neue schloss. on either side of a lake, upon which float a couple of swans and innumerable water-lilies, the long parklike avenue of trees are vocal with wild doves, and the robin is heard in the adjoining thickets. at my approach the sweet song ceases abruptly, and the startled bird flies out, scattering the pale petals of the wild roses upon my path. i follow a stream of people on foot, as they move down the left-hand avenue in the garden of the neue schloss, which adjoins wagner's own grounds. some are going--some are coming. presently i see an opening in the bushes on my left; the path leads me to a clump of evergreens. i follow it, and come suddenly on the great composer's grave. all about the green square mound the trees are thick--laurel, fir, and yew. the shades fall funereally across the immense gray granite slab; but over the dark foliage the sky is bright blue, and straight in front of me, above the low bushes, i can see the bow-windows of the dead master's study--where i spent with him one delightful evening in 1876. i can see, too, the jet of water that he loved playing high above the hedge of evergreen. it lulls me with its sound. "wahnfried! wahnfried!" it seems to murmur. it was the word written above the master's house--the word he most loved--the word his tireless spirit most believed in. how shall i render it? "dream-life! dream-life! earth's illusion of joy!" great spirit! thy dream-life here is past, and, face to face with truth, "rapt from the fickle and the frail," for thee the illusion has vanished! mayest thou also know the fulness of joy in the unbroken and serene activities of the eternal reality! i visited the grave twice. there is nothing written on the granite slab. there were never present less than twenty persons, and a constant stream of pilgrims kept coming and going. one gentle token of the master's pitiful and tender regard for the faithful dumb animals he so loved lies but a few feet off in the same garden, and not far from his own grave. upon a mossy bank, surrounded with evergreens, is a small marble slab, with this inscription to his favorite dog: "_here lies in peace 'wahnfried's' faithful watcher and friend--the good and beautiful mark_" (der gute, schöne mark)! i returned, too, to wagner's tomb, plucked a branch of the fir-tree that waved above it, and went back to my room to prepare myself by reading and meditation for the great religious drama which i was to witness at four o'clock in the afternoon--wagner's latest and highest inspiration--the story of the sacred brotherhood, the knights of san graal--_parsifal_! parsifal the blood of god!--mystic symbol of divine life--"for the blood is the life thereof." that is the key-note of _parsifal_, the knight of the sangrail. wine is the ready symbolical vehicle--the material link between the divine and the human life. in the old religions, that heightened consciousness, that intensity of feeling produced by stimulant, was thought to be the very entering in of the "god"--the union of the divine and human spirit; and in the eleusinian mysteries, the "sesame," the bread of demeter, the earth mother, and the "kykeon," or wine of dionysos, the vine god, were thus sacramental. the passionate desire to approach and mingle with deity is the one mystic bond common to all religions in all lands. it is the "cry of the human;" it traverses the ages, it exhausts many symbols and transcends all forms. to the christian it is summed up in the "lord's supper." the medieval legend of the sangrail (real or royal blood) is the most poetic and pathetic form of transubstantiation; in it the gross materialism of the roman mass almost ceases to be repulsive; it possesses the true legendary power of attraction and assimilation. as the knights of the table round, with their holy vows, provided medieval chivalry with a center, so did the lord's table, with its sangrail, provide medieval religion with its central attractive point. and as all marvelous tales of knightly heroism circled round king arthur's table, so did the great legends embodying the christian conceptions of sin, punishment, and redemption circle round the sangrail and the sacrifice of the "mass." in the legends of _parsifal_ and _lohengrin_ the knightly and religious elements are welded together. this is enough. we need approach _parsifal_ with no deep knowledge of the various sagas made use of by wagner in his drama. his disciples, while most eager to trace its various elements to their sources, are most emphatic in declaring that the _parsifal_ drama, so intimately true to the spirit of roman catholicism, is nevertheless a new creation. joseph of arimathea received in a crystal cup the blood of christ as it flowed from the spear-wound made by the roman soldier. the cup and the spear were committed to titurel, who became a holy knight and head of a sacred brotherhood of knights. they dwelt in the visigoth mountains of southern spain, where, amid impenetrable forests, rose the legendary palace of montsalvat. here they guarded the sacred relics, issuing forth at times from their palatial fortress, like lohengrin, to fight for innocence and right, and always returning to renew their youth and strength by the celestial contemplation of the sangrail, and by occasional participation in the holy feast. time and history count for very little in these narratives. it was allowed, however, that titurel the chief had grown extremely aged, but it was not allowed that he could die in the presence of the sangrail. he seemed to have been laid in a kind of trance, resting in an open tomb beneath the altar of the grail; and whenever the cup was uncovered his voice might be heard joining in the celebration. meanwhile, amfortas, his son, reigned in his stead. montsalvat, with its pure, contemplative, but active brotherhood, and its mystic cup, thus stands out as the poetic symbol of all that is highest and best in medieval christianity. the note of the wicked world--magic for devotion--sensuality for worship--breaks in upon our vision, as the scene changes from the halls of montsalvat to klingsor's palace. klingsor, an impure knight, who has been refused admittance to the order of the "sangrail," enters into a compact with the powers of evil--by magic acquires arts of diabolical fascination--fills his palace and gardens with enchantments, and wages bitter war against the holy knights, with a view of corrupting them, and ultimately, it may be, of acquiring for himself the "sangrail," in which all power is believed to reside. many knights have already succumbed to the "insidious arts" of klingsor; but the tragical turning-point of the _parsifal_ is that amfortas, himself the son of titurel, the official guardian of the grail, in making war upon the magician, took with him the sacred spear, and _lost_ it to klingsor. it came about in this way. a woman of unearthly loveliness won him in the enchanted bowers adjoining the evil knight's palace, and klingsor, seizing the holy spear, thrust it into amfortas's side, inflicting what seemed an incurable wound. the brave knight, gurnemanz, dragged his master fainting from the garden, his companions of the sangrail covering their retreat. but, returned to montsalvat, the unhappy king awakes only to bewail his sin, the loss of the sacred spear, and the ceaseless harrowing smart of an incurable wound. but who is parsifal? * * * * * the smell of pine woods in july! the long avenue outside the city of bayreuth, that leads straight up the hill, crowned by the wagner theater, a noble structure--architecturally admirable--severe, simple, but exactly adapted to its purpose. i join the stream of pilgrims, some in carriages, others on foot. as we approach, a clear blast of trombones and brass from the terrace in front of the grand entrance plays out the grail "motive." it is the well-known signal--there is no time to be lost. i enter at the prescribed door, and find myself close to my appointed place. every one--such is the admirable arrangement--seems to do likewise. in a few minutes about one thousand persons are seated without confusion. the theater is darkened, the footlights are lowered, the prelude begins. act i the waves of sound rise from the shadowy gulf sunken between the audience and the footlights. upon the sound ocean of "wind" the "take, eat," or "love-feast" motive floats. presently the strings pierce through it, the spear motive follows, and then, full of heavy pain, "drink ye all of this," followed by the famous grail motive--an old chorale also used by mendelssohn in the reformation symphony. then comes the noble faith and love theme. as i sit in the low light, amid the silent throng, and listen, i need no interpreter--i am being placed in possession of the emotional key-notes of the drama. every subject is first distinctly enunciated, and then all are wondrously blended together. there is the pain of sacrifice--the mental agony, the bodily torture; there are the alternate pauses of sorrow and respite from sorrow long drawn out, the sharp ache of sin, the glimpses of unhallowed joy, the strain of upward endeavor, the serene peace of faith and love, crowned by the blessed vision of the grail. 'tis past. the prelude melts into the opening recitative. the eyes have now to play their part. the curtain rises, the story begins. the morning breaks slowly, the gray streaks redden, a lovely summer landscape lies bathed in primrose light. under the shadow of a noble tree, the aged knight. gurnemanz, has been resting with two young attendants. from the neighboring halls of montsalvat the solemn _reveillé_--the grail motive--rings out, and all three sink on their knees in prayer. the sun bursts forth in splendor as the hymn rises to mingle with the voices of universal nature. the waves of sound well up and fill the soul with unspeakable thankfulness and praise. the talk is of amfortas, the king, and of his incurable wound. a wild gallop, a rush of sound--and a weird woman, with streaming hair, springs toward the startled group. she bears a phial with rare balsam from the arabian shores. it is for the king's wound. who is the wild horsewoman? kundry--strange creation--a being doomed to wander, like the wandering jew, the wild huntsman, or flying dutchman, always seeking a deliverance she can not find--kundry, who, in ages gone by, met the savior on the road to calvary and derided him. some say she was herodias's daughter. now filled with remorse, yet weighted with sinful longings, she serves by turns the knights of the grail, then falls under the spell of klingsor, the evil knight sorcerer, and, in the guise of an enchantress, is compelled by him to seduce, if possible, the knights of the grail. eternal symbol of the divided allegiance of a woman's soul! she it was who, under the sensual spell, as an incarnation of loveliness, overcame amfortas, and she it is now who, in her ardent quest for salvation, changed and squalid in appearance, serves the knights of the grail, and seeks to heal amfortas's wound! no sooner has she delivered her balsam to the faithful gurnemanz, and thrown herself exhausted upon the grass--where she lies gnawing her hair morosely--than a change in the sound atmosphere, which never ceases to be generated in the mystic orchestral gulf, presages the approach of amfortas. he comes, borne on a litter, to his morning bath in the shining lake hard by. sharp is the pain of the wound--weary and hopeless is the king. through the wound-motive comes the sweet woodland music and the breath of the blessed morning, fragrant with flowers and fresh with dew. it is one of those incomparable bursts of woodland notes, full of bird-song and the happy hum of insect life and rustling of netted branches and waving of long tasseled grass. i know of nothing like it save the forest music in _siegfried_. the sick king listens, and remembers words of hope and comfort that fell from a heavenly voice, what time the glory of the grail passed: "durch mitleid wissend der reine thor, harre sein den ich erkor." [wait for my chosen one, guileless and innocent, pity-enlightened.] they hand him the phial of balsam; and presently, while the lovely forest music again breaks forth, the king is carried on to his bath, and kundry, gurnemanz, and the two esquires hold the stage. as the old knight, who is a complete repertory of facts connected with the grail tradition, unfolds to the esquires the nature of the king's wound, the sorceries of klingsor, the hope of deliverance from some unknown "guileless one," a sudden cry breaks up the situation. a white swan, pierced by an arrow, flutters dying to the ground. it is the swan beloved of the grail brotherhood, bird of fair omen, symbol of spotless purity. the slayer is brought in between two knights--a stalwart youth, fearless, unabashed, while the death-music of the swan, the slow distilling and stiffening of its life-blood, is marvelously rendered by the orchestra. conviction of his fault comes over the youth as he listens to the reproaches of gurnemanz. he hangs his head ashamed and penitent, and at last, with a sudden passion of remorse, snaps his bow and flings it aside. the swan is borne off, and parsifal, the "guileless one" (for he it is), with gurnemanz and kundry--who rouses herself and surveys parsifal with strange, almost savage curiosity--hold the stage. in this scene kundry tells the youth more than he cares to hear about himself: how his father, gamuret, was a great knight killed in battle; how his mother, herzeleide (heart's affliction), fearing a like fate for her son, brought him up in the lonely forest; how he left her to follow a troop of knights that he met one day winding through the forest glade, and being led on and on in pursuit of them, never overtook them and never returned to his mother, heart's affliction, who died of grief. at this point the frantic youth seizes kundry by the throat in an agony of rage and grief, but is held back by gurnemanz, till, worn out by the violence of his emotion, he faints away, and is gradually revived by kundry and gurnemanz. suddenly, kundry rises with a wild look, like one under a spell. her mood of service is over. she staggers across the stage--she can hardly keep awake. "sleep," she mutters, "i must sleep--sleep!" and falls down in one of those long trances which apparently last for months, or years, and form the transition periods between her mood of grail service and the klingsor slavery into which she must next relapse in spite of herself. and is this the guileless one? this wild youth who slays the fair swan--who knows not his own name nor whence he comes, nor whither he goes, nor what are his destinies? the old knight eyes him curiously--he will put him to the test. this youth had seen the king pass once--he had marked his pain. was he "enlightened by pity"? is he the appointed deliverer? the old knight now invites him to the shrine of the grail. "what is the grail?" asks the youth. truly a guileless, innocent one! yet a brave and pure knight, since he has known no evil, and so readily repents of a fault committed in ignorance. gurnemanz is strangely drawn to him. he shall see the grail, and in the holy palace, what time the mystic light streams forth and the assembled knights bow themselves in prayer, the voice which comforted amfortas shall speak to his deliverer and bid him arise and heal the king. * * * * * gurnemanz and parsifal have ceased to speak. they stand in the glowing light of the summer-land. the tide of music rolls on continuously, but sounds more strange and dreamy. is it a cloud passing over the sky? there seems to be a shuddering in the branches--the light fades upon yonder sunny woodlands--the foreground darkens apace. the whole scene is moving, but so slowly that it seems to change like a dissolving view. i see the two figures of gurnemanz and parsifal moving through the trees--they are lost behind yonder rock. they emerge farther off--higher up. the air grows very dim; the orchestra peals louder and louder. i lose the two in the deepening twilight. the forest is changing, the land is wild and mountainous. huge galleries and arcades, rock-hewn, loom through the dim forest; but all is growing dark. i listen to the murmurs of the "grail," the "spear," the "pain," the "love and faith" motives--hollow murmurs, confused, floating out of the depths of lonely caves. then i have a feeling of void and darkness, and there comes a sighing as of a soul swooning away in a trance, and a vision of waste places and wild caverns; and then through the confused dream i hear the solemn boom of mighty bells, only muffled. they keep time as to some ghastly march. i strain my eyes into the thick gloom before me. is it a rock, or forest, or palace? as the light returns slowly, a hall of more than alhambralike splendor opens before me. my eyes are riveted on the shining pillars of variegated marble, the tessellated pavements, the vaulted roof glowing with gold and color; beyond, arcades of agate columns, bathed in a misty moonlight air, and lost in a bewildering perspective of halls and corridors. [illustration: copyright, 1903, by pach bros., n. y. parsifal and gurnemanz passing through the ravine] i hear the falling of distant water in marble fonts; the large bells of montsalvat peal louder and louder, and to music of unimaginable stateliness the knights, clad in the blue and red robes of the grail, enter in solemn procession, and take their seats at two semicircular tables which start like arms to the right and left of the holy shrine. beneath it lies titurel entranced, and upon it is presently deposited the sacred treasure of the grail itself. as the wounded king amfortas is borne in, the assembled knights, each standing in his place, a golden cup before him, intone the grail motive, which is taken up by the entering choruses of servitors and esquires bearing the holy relics. gurnemanz is seated among knights; parsifal stands aside and looks on in mute astonishment, "a guileless one." as the holy grail is set down on the altar before the wounded king, a burst of heavenly music streams from the high dome--voices of angels intone the celestial phrases, "_take, eat_" and "_this is my blood!_" and blend them with the "faith and love" motives. as the choruses die away, the voice of the entranced titurel is heard from beneath the altar calling upon amfortas, his son, to uncover the grail, that he may find refreshment and life in the blessed vision. then follows a terrible struggle in the breast of amfortas. _he_, sore stricken in sin, yet guardian of the grail, guilty among the guiltless, oppressed with pain, bowed down with shame, craving for restoration, overwhelmed with unworthiness, yet chosen to stand and minister before the lord on behalf of his saints! pathetic situation, which must in all times repeat itself in the history of the church. the unworthiness of the minister affects not the validity of his consecrated acts. yet what agony of mind must many a priest have suffered, himself oppressed with sin and doubt, while dispensing the means of grace, and acting as a minister and steward of the mysteries! the marvelous piece of self-analysis in which the conscience-stricken king bewails his lot as little admits of description here as the music which embodies his emotion. at the close of it angel voices seem floating in midair, sighing the mystic words: "durch mitleid wissend der reine thor, harre sein den ich erkor." [wait for my chosen one, guileless and innocent, pity-enlightened.] and immediately afterward the voice of titurel, like one turning restlessly in his sleep, comes up from his living tomb beneath the altar: "_uncover the grail!_" with trembling hands the sick king raises himself, and with a great effort staggers toward the shrine--the covering is removed--he takes the crystal cup--he raises it on high--the blood is dark--the light begins to fade in the hall--a mist and dimness come over the scene--we seem to be assisting at a shadowy ceremony in a dream--the big bells are tolling--the heavenly choirs from above the dome, which is now bathed in twilight, are heard: "_drink ye all of this!_" amfortas raises on high the crystal vase--the knights fall on their knees in prayer. suddenly a faint tremor of light quivers in the crystal cup--then the blood grows ruby red for a moment. amfortas waves it to and fro--the knights gaze in ecstatic adoration. titurel's voice gathers strength in his tomb: "celestial rapture: how streams the light upon the face of god!" the light fades slowly out of the crystal cup--the miracle is accomplished. the blood again grows dark--the light of common day returns to the halls of montsalvat, and the knights resume their seats, to find each one his golden goblet filled with wine. during the sacred repast which follows, the brotherhood join hands and embrace, singing: "blessed are they that believe; blessed are they that love!" and the refrain is heard again far up in the heights, reechoed by the angelic hosts. * * * * * [illustration: copyright, 1903, by pach bros., n. y. the great hall of the holy grail] i looked round upon the silent audience while these astonishing scenes were passing before me; the whole assembly was motionless--all seemed to be awed by the august spectacle--seemed almost to share in the devout contemplation and trancelike worship of the holy knights. every thought of the stage had vanished--nothing was further from my own thoughts than play-acting. i was sitting as i should sit at an oratorio, in devout and rapt contemplation. before my eyes had passed a symbolic vision of prayer and ecstasy, flooding the soul with overpowering thoughts of the divine sacrifice and the mystery of unfathomable love. * * * * * the hall of montsalvat empties. gurnemanz strides excitedly up to parsifal, who stands stupefied with what he has seen- "why standest thou silent? knowest thou what thine eyes have seen?" the "guileless one" shakes his head. "nothing but a fool!" exclaims gurnemanz, angrily; and, seizing parsifal by the shoulder, he pushes him roughly out of the hall, with: "be off! look after thy geese, and henceforth leave our swans in peace." the grail vision had, then, taught the "guileless one" nothing. he could not see his mission--he was as yet unawakened to the deeper life of the spirit; tho blameless and unsullied, he was still the "natural man." profound truth! that was not first which was spiritual, but that which was natural; before parsifal wins a spiritual triumph, he must be spiritually tried; his inner life must be deepened and developed, else he can never read aright the message of the grail. the life of god in the spirit comes only when the battle for god in the heart has been fought and won. fare forth, thou guileless one! thou shalt yet add to the simplicity of the dove the wisdom of the serpent. thou art innocent because ignorant; but thou shalt be weighed anon in the balance and not be found wanting; and then shalt thou reconquer the holy spear lost in sin, rewon in purity and sacrifice, and be to the frail amfortas the chosen savior for whom he waits. * * * * * the foregoing events occupied about an hour and a quarter. when the curtain fell the vast audience broke up in silence. the air outside was cool and balmy. in the distance lay the city of bayreuth, with the tower of the alte schloss and the old church standing up gray against the distant bavarian hills. all around us lay the pine woods, broken by the lawns and avenues that encircle the theater and embower it in a secluded world of its own--even as the palace of the grail was shut off from the profane world. here, indeed, is truly the montsalvat of the modern drama--a spot purified and sacred to the highest aims and noblest manifestations of art. in about an hour the spear motive was the signal blown on the wind instruments outside, and i took my seat for the second act. act ii a restless, passion-tossed prelude. the "grail" subject distorted, the "spear" motive thrust in discordant, the "faith and love" theme fluttering like a wounded dove in pain, fierce bursts of passion, wild shocks of uncontrolled misery, mingling with the "carnal joy" music of klingsor's magic garden and the shuddering might of his alchemy. the great magician, klingsor, is seen alone in his dungeon palace--harsh contrast to the gorgeous halls of montsalvat. here all is built of the live rock, an impenetrable fastness, the home of devilish might and terrible spells. klingsor is aware of the coming struggle, and he means to be ready for it. he owns the sacred spear wrested from amfortis; he even aspires to win the grail; he knows the "guileless one" is on his way to wrest that spear from him. his only hope is in paralyzing the fool by his enchantments as he paralyzed amfortis, and the same woman will serve his turn. "kundry!" the time is come, the spells are woven--blue vapors rise, and in the midst of the blue vapors the figure of the still sleeping kundry is seen. she wakes, trembling violently; she knows she is again under the spell she abhors--the spell to do evil, the mission to corrupt. with a shuddering scream she stands before her tormentor, denying his power, loathing to return to her vile mission, yet returning, as with a bitter cry she vanishes from his presence. parsifal has invaded klingsor's realm; the evil knights have fled before his prowess, wounded and in disorder. kundry is commissioned to meet the guileless youth in the enchanted garden, and, all other allurements failing, to subdue him by her irresistible fascinations and hand him over to klingsor. in a moment the scenery lifts, and a garden of marvelous beauty and extent lies before us. the flowers are all of colossal dimensions--huge roses hang in tangled festoons, the cactus, the lily, the blue-bell, creepers, and orchids of enormous size and dazzling color wave in midair, and climb the aromatic trees. on a bright hill appears parsifal, standing bewildered by the light and loveliness around him. beautiful girls dressed like flowers, and hardly distinguishable from them at first, rush in, bewailing their wounded and disabled knights, but, on seeing parsifal, fall upon their new prey, and, surrounding him, sing verse after verse of the loveliest ballet music, while trying to embrace him, and quarreling with each other for the privilege. about that wonderful chorus of flower-girls there was just a suggestive touch of the rhine maidens' singing. it belonged to the same school of thought and feeling, but was freer, wilder--more considerable, and altogether more complex and wonderful in its changes and in the marvelous confusion in which it breaks up. the "guileless one" resists these charmers, and they are just about to leave him in disgust, when the roses lift on one side, and, stretched on a mossy bank overhung with flowers, appears a woman of unearthly loveliness. it is kundry transformed, and in the marvelous duet which follows between her and parsifal, a perfectly new and original type of love duet is struck out--an analysis of character, unique in musical drama--a combination of sentiment and a situation absolutely novel, which could only have been conceived and carried out by a creative genius of the highest order. first, i note that the once spellbound kundry is devoted utterly to her task of winning parsifal. into this she throws all the intensity of her wild and desperate nature; but in turn she is strangely affected by the spiritual atmosphere of the "guileless one"--a feeling comes over her, in the midst of her witchcraft passion, that he is in some way to be her savior too; yet, womanlike, she conceives of her salvation as possible only in union with him. yet was this the very crime to which klingsor would drive her for the ruin of parsifal. strange confusion of thought, feeling, aspiration, longing--struggle of irreconcilable elements! how shall she reconcile them? her intuition fails her not, and her tact triumphs. she will win by stealing his love through his mother's love. a mother's love is holy; that love she tells him of. it can never more be his; but she will replace it, her passion shall be sanctified by it; through _that_ passion she has sinned, through it she, too, shall be redeemed. she will work out her own salvation by the very spells that are upon her for evil. he is pure--he shall make her pure, can she but win him; both, by the might of such pure love, will surely be delivered from klingsor, the corrupter, the tormentor. fatuous dream! how, through corruption, win incorruption? how, through indulgence, win peace and freedom from desire? it is the old cheat of the senses--satan appears as an angel of light. the thought deludes the unhappy kundry herself; she is no longer consciously working for klingsor; she really believes that this new turn, this bias given to passion, will purify both her and the guileless, pure fool she seeks to subdue. nothing can describe the subtlety of their long interview, the surprising turns of sentiment and contrasts of feeling. throughout this scene parsifal's instinct is absolutely true and sure. everything kundry says about his mother, herzeleide, he feels; but every attempt to make him accept her instead he resists. her desperate declamation is splendid. her heartrending sense of misery and piteous prayer for salvation, her belief that before her is her savior could she but win him to her will, the choking fury of baffled passion, the steady and subtle encroachments made while parsifal is lost in a meditative dream, the burning kiss which recalls him to himself, the fine touch by which this kiss, while arousing in him the stormiest feelings, causes a sharp pain, as of amfortas's own wound, piercing his very heart--all this is realistic, if you will, but it is realism raised to the sublime. suddenly parsifal springs up, hurls the enchantress from him, will forth from klingsor's realm. she is baffled--she knows it; for a moment she bars his passage, then succumbs; the might of sensuality which lost amfortas the sacred spear has been met and defeated by the guileless fool. he has passed from innocence to knowledge in his interview with the flower-girt girls, in his long converse with kundry, in her insidious embrace, in her kiss; but all these are now thrust aside; he steps forth still unconquered, still "guileless," but no more "a fool." the knowledge of good and evil has come, but the struggle is already passed. "yes, sinner, i do offer thee redemption," he can say to kundry; "not in thy way, but in thy lord christ's way of sacrifice!" but the desperate creature, wild with passion, will listen to no reason; she shouts aloud to her master, and klingsor suddenly appears, poising the sacred spear. in another moment he hurls it right across the enchanted garden at parsifal. it can not wound the guileless and pure one as it wounded the sinful amfortas. a miracle! it hangs arrested in air above parsifal's head; he seizes it--it is the sacred talisman, one touch of which will heal even as it inflicted the king's deadly wound. with a mighty cry and the shock as of an earthquake, the castle of klingsor falls shattered to pieces, the garden withers up to a desert, the girls, who have rushed in, lie about among the fading flowers, themselves withered up and dead. kundry sinks down in a deathly swoon, while parsifal steps over a ruined wall and disappears, saluting her with the words: "thou alone knowest when we shall meet again!" * * * * * the long shadows were stealing over the hills when i came out at the second pause. those whom i met and conversed with were subdued and awed. what a solemn tragedy of human passion we had been assisting at! not a heart there but could interpret that struggle between the flesh and the spirit from its own experiences. not one but knew the desperately wicked and deceitful temptations that come like enchantresses in the wizard's garden, to plead the cause of the devil in the language of high-flown sentiment or even religious feeling. praise and criticism seemed dumb; we rather walked and spoke of what we had just witnessed like men convinced of judgment, and righteousness, and sin. it was a strange mood in which to come out of a theater after witnessing what would commonly be called an "opera." i felt more than ever the impossibility of producing the _parsifal_ in london, at drury lane or covent garden, before a well-dressed company of loungers, who had well dined, and were on their way to balls and suppers afterward. i would as soon see the oberammergau play at a music-hall. no; in _parsifal_ all is solemn, or all is irreverent. at bayreuth we came on a pilgrimage; it cost us time, and trouble, and money; we were in earnest--so were the actors; the spirit of the great master who had planned every detail seemed still to preside over all; the actors lived in their parts; not a thought of self remained; no one accepted applause or recall; no one aimed at producing a personal effect; the actors were lost in the drama, and it was the drama and not the actors which has impressed and solemnized us. when i came out they asked me who was amfortas? i did not know. i said "the wounded king." as the instruments played out the faith and love motive for us to reenter, the mellow sunshine broke once more from the cloud-rack over city, and field, and forest, before sinking behind the long low range of the distant hills. act iii the opening prelude of the third and last act seems to warn me of the lapse of time. the music is full of pain and restlessness--the pain of wretched years of long waiting for a deliverer, who comes not; the restlessness and misery of a hope deferred, the weariness of life without a single joy. the motives, discolored as it were by grief, work up to a distorted version of the grail subject, which breaks off as with a cry of despair. is the grail, too, then turned into a mocking spirit to the unhappy amfortas? relief comes to us with the lovely scene upon which the curtain rises. again the wide summer-land lies stretching away over sunlit moor and woodland. in the foreground wave the forest trees, and i hear the ripple of the woodland streams. invariably throughout the drama, in the midst of all human pain and passion, great nature is there, peaceful, harmonious in all her loveliest moods, a paradise in which dwell souls who make of her their own purgatory. in yonder aged figure, clad in the grail pilgrim robe, i discern gurnemanz; his hair is white; he stoops with years; a rude hut is hard by. presently a groan arrests his attention, moaning as of a human thing in distress. he clears away some brushwood, and beneath it finds, waking from her long trance, the strange figure of kundry. for how many years she has slept we know not. why is she now recalled to life? she staggers to her feet; we see that she too is in a pilgrim garb, with a rope girding her dress of coarse brown serge. "service! service!" she mutters, and, seizing a pitcher, moves mechanically to fill it at the well, then totters but half awake into the wooden hut. the forest music breaks forth--the hum of happy insect life, the song of wild birds. all seems to pass as in a vision, when suddenly enters a knight clad in black armor from top to toe. the two eye him curiously, and gurnemanz, approaching, bids him lay aside his armor and his weapons. he carries a long spear. in silence the knight un-helms, and, sticking the spear into the ground, kneels before it, and remains lost in devotional contemplation. the "spear" and "grail" motives mingle together in the full tide of orchestral sounds carrying on the emotional undercurrent of the drama. the knight is soon recognized by both as the long-lost and discarded parsifal. the "guileless one" has learned wisdom, and discovered his mission--he knows now that he bears the spear which is to heal the king's grievous wound, and that he himself is appointed his successor. through long strife and trial and pain he seems to have grown into something of christ's own likeness. not all at once, but at last he has found the path. he returns to bear salvation and pardon both to kundry and the wretched king, amfortas. the full music flows on while gurnemanz relates how the knights have all grown weak and aged, deprived of the vision and sustenance of the holy grail, while the long-entranced titurel is at last dead. at this news parsifal, overcome with grief, swoons away, and gurnemanz and kundry loosen his armor, and sprinkle him with water from the holy spring. underneath his black suit of mail he appears clad in a long white tunic. the grouping here is admirable. gurnemanz is in the templar's red and blue robe. parsifal in white, his auburn hair parted in front and flowing down in ringlets on either side, recalls leonardo's favorite conception of the savior's head, and, indeed, from this point parsifal becomes a kind of symbolic reflection of the lord himself. kundry, subdued and awed, lies weeping at his feet; he lifts his hands to bless her with infinite pity. she washes his feet, and dries them with the hairs of her head. it is a bold stroke, but the voices of nature, the murmur of the summer woods, come with an infinite healing tenderness and pity, and the act is seen to be symbolical of the pure devotion of a sinful creature redeemed from sin. peace has at last entered into that wild and troubled heart, and restless kundry, delivered from klingsor's spell, receives the sprinkling of baptismal water at the hands of parsifal. * * * * * the great spaces of silence in the dialog, broken now by a few sentences from parsifal, now from gurnemanz, are more eloquent than many words. the tidal music flows on in a ceaseless stream of changing harmonies, returning constantly to the sweet and slumbrous sound of a summer-land, full of teeming life and glowing happiness. then gurnemanz takes up his parable. it is the blessed good friday on which our dear lord suffered. the love and faith phrases are chimed forth, the pain-notes of the cross agony are sounded and pass, the grail motive seems to swoon away in descending harmonies, sinking into the woodland voices of universal nature--that trespass-pardoned nature that now seems waking to the day of her glory and innocence. in that solemn moment parsifal bends over the subdued and humbled kundry, and kisses her softly on the brow--_her_ wild kiss in the garden had kindled in him fierce fire, mingled with the bitter wound-pain; _his_ is the seal of her eternal pardon and peace. in the distance the great bells of montsalvat are now heard booming solemnly--the air darkens, the light fades out, the slow motion of all the scenery recommences. again i hear the wild cave music, strange and hollow sounding--the three move on as in a dream, and are soon lost in the deep shadows; and through all, louder and louder, boom the heavy bells of montsalvat, until the stage brightens, and we find ourselves once more in the vast alhambralike hall of the knights. [illustration: copyright, 1903, by pach bros., n. y. parsifal entering the grail castle in triumph] for the last time amfortas is borne in, and the brotherhood of the grail form the possession bearing the sacred relics, which are deposited before him. the king, in great agony and despair, bewails the death of his father and his own backsliding. with failing but desperate energy he harangues the assembled knights, and, tottering forward, beseeches them to free him from his misery and sin-stained life, and thrust their swords deep into his wounded side. at this moment gurnemanz, accompanied by parsifal and kundry, enter. parsifal steps forward with the sacred spear, now at length to be restored to the knights. he touches the side of amfortas, the wound is healed, and as he raises the spear on high the point is seen glowing with the crimson glory of the grail. then stepping up to the shrine, parsifal takes the crystal cup, the dark blood glows bright crimson as he holds it on high, and at that moment, while all fall on their knees, and celestial music ("drink ye all of this") floats in the upper air, kundry falls back dying, her eyes fixed on the blessed grail. a white dove descends and hovers for a moment, poised in mid-air above the glowing cup. a soft chorus of angels seems to die away in the clouds beyond the golden dome- "marvelous mercy! victorious savior!" words can add nothing to the completeness of the drama, and no words can give any idea of the splendor and complexity of that sound ocean upon which the drama floats from beginning to end. the enemies of the grail are destroyed or subdued, the wound they have inflicted is healed, the prey they claimed is rescued; the pure and blameless parsifal becomes the consecrated head of the holy brotherhood, and the beatic vision of god's eternal love and real presence is restored to the knights of the sangrail. * * * * * when i came out of the theater, at the end of the third and last act, it was ten o'clock. the wind was stirring in the fir-trees, the stars gleamed out fitfully through a sky, across which the clouds were hurrying wildly, but the moon rose low and large beyond the shadowy hills, and bathed the misty valleys with a mild and golden radiance as of some celestial dawn. when the curtain fell when the curtain fell on the last performance of _parsifal_, at bayreuth, which, on the 30th of july, 1883, brought the celebration month to a close, the enthusiasm of the audience found full vent in applause. the curtain was once lifted, but no calls would induce the performers to appear a second time or receive any individual homage. this is entirely in accordance with the tone of these exceptional representations. on each occasion the only applause permitted was at the end of the drama, and throughout not a single actor answered to a call or received any personal tribute. behind the scenes occurred a touching incident. the banker gross led wagner's children up to the assembled actors, and in the name of their dead father thanked the assembly for the care and labor of love expended by each and all in producing the last work of the great dead master. siegfried, wagner's son, thirteen years old, then, in a few simple words, stifled with sobs, thanked the actors personally, and all the children shook hands with them. the king of bavaria charged himself upon wagner's death with the education of his son. * * * * * the hour-glass stories _a series of entertaining novelettes illustrated and issued in dainty dress. first seven now ready price,[transcriber's note: missing text] net, each by mail [transcriber's note: missing text]_ i. sweet anne page by ellen v. talbot a brisk little love story full of fun and frolic and telling of the courtship of sweet anne page by her three lovers. ii. the herr doctor by robert macdonald a crisp, dainty story of the schemes and pretty wiles by which a traveling american heiress wins and is won by a german nobleman.--_minneapolis times_. iii. the transfiguration of miss philura by florence morse kingsley _author of_ "_titus_," "_prisoners of the sea," etc_. this clever story is based on the theory that every physical need and every desire of the human heart can be claimed and received from the "encircling good" by the true believer. miss philura is enchanted with this creed, adopts it literally, and obtains thereby various blessings of particular value to a timid spinster, including a husband. "it is a dainty little story, and quite out of the common."--_philadelphia daily evening telegraph_. iv. the sandals by rev. zelotes grenell a beautiful little idyl of palestine concerning the sandals of christ. it tells of their wanderings and who were their wearers, from the time that they fell to the lot of a roman soldier when christ's garments were parted among his crucifiers to the day when they came back to mary, the mother of jesus. v. parsifal by h. r. haweis an intimate and appreciative description and consideration of wagner's great opera. illustrated with portrait of composer and scenes from the opera. vi. esarhaddon king of assyria by leo tolstoy three short stories, allegorical in style, illustrating with homely simplicity, yet with classic charm, tolstoy's theories of non-resistance and the essential unity of all forms of life. written for the benefit of the kishinef sufferers. publisher's and author's profits go to kishinef relief fund. vii. the trouble woman by clara morris a pathetic, even tragic tale, but one which carries the most optimistic of messages. the unobtrusive moral of the story is that the way to find consolation for one's own trouble is to consider those of others and to lend a helping hand. funk & wagnalls company, publishers new york & london [transcriber's note: the german text is not included in this ebook.] grand opera librettos german and english text and music of the leading motives tristan und isolde (tristan and isolda) by wagner oliver ditson company boston chas. h. ditson & co _new york_ lyon & healy _chicago_ tristan and isolda _opera in three acts_ by richard wagner boston oliver ditson company chas. h. ditson & co. new york lyon & healy chicago the story of "tristan and isolda" act i tristan, a valiant cornish knight, is bringing isolda, princess of ireland, over as a bride for his uncle, king mark. he is himself in love with her, but owing to a blood feud between them, forces himself to conceal his passion. isolda, in anger at his seeming unkindness, attempts to poison herself and him, but her attendant, brangæna, changes the draft for a love potion, which enflames their passion beyond power of restraint. act ii isolda has been wedded to king mark, but holds stolen interviews with tristan, during one of which they are surprised, for tristan has been betrayed by a jealous friend, melot. touched by king mark's bitter reproaches, tristan provokes melot to fight and suffers himself to be mortally wounded. act iii tristan's faithful servant, kurvenal, has carried his wounded master to his native home in brittany, where he is carefully tended. isolda has also been sent for, as being skilled above all others in the healing art. the excitement of her approach only hastens tristan's death, and he breathes his last sigh in her arms. mark has followed isolda; he has had matters explained, and is prepared to reunite the lovers, but it is too late. isolda utters her lament over the body of her lover, and her heart breaks: in death alone are they united. * * * * * dramatis personæ tristan king mark isolda kurvenal melot brangæna a shepherd a steersman sailors, knights, and esquires tristan and isolda. act i. [_a pavilion erected on the deck of a ship, richly hung with tapestry, quite closed in at back at first. a narrow hatchway at one side leads below into the cabin_.] scene i. isolda _on a couch, her face buried in the cushions. --_brangæna_ holding open a curtain, looks over the side of the vessel_. the voice of a young sailor (_from above as if at the mast-head_). isolda (_starting up suddenly_). what wight dares insult me? (_she looks round in agitation_.) brangæna, ho! say, where sail we? brangæna (_at the opening_). bluish stripes are stretching along the west: swiftly sails the ship to shore; if restful the sea by eve we shall readily set foot on land. isolda. what land? brangæna. cornwall's verdant strand. isolda. never more! to-day nor to-morrow! brangæna. what mean you, mistress? say! (_she lets the curtain fall and hastens to_ isolda.) isolda (_with wild gaze_). o fainthearted child, false to thy fathers! ah, where, mother, hast given thy might that commands the wave and the tempest? o subtle art of sorcery, for mere leech-craft followed too long! awake in me once more, power of will! arise from thy hiding within my breast! hark to my bidding, fluttering breezes! arise and storm in boisterous strife! with furious rage and hurricane's hurdle waken the sea from slumbering calm; rouse up the deep to its devilish deeds! shew it the prey which gladly i proffer! let it shatter this too daring ship and enshrine in ocean each shred! and woe to the lives! their wavering death-sighs i leave to ye, winds, as your lot. brangæna (_in extreme alarm and concern for_ isolda). out, alas! ah, woe! i've ever dreaded some ill!-isolda! mistress! heart of mine! what secret dost thou hide? without a tear thou'st quitted thy father and mother, and scarce a word of farewell to friends thou gavest; leaving home thou stood'st, how cold and still! pale and speechless on the way, food rejecting, reft of sleep, stern and wretched, wild, disturbed; how it pains me so to see thee! friends no more we seem, being thus estranged. make me partner in thy pain! tell me freely all thy fears! lady, thou hearest, sweetest and dearest; if for true friend you take me, your confidant o make me! isolda. air! air! or my heart will choke! open! open there wide! (brangæna _hastily draws the centre curtains apart_.) scene ii. [_the whole length of the ship is now seen, down to the stern, with the sea and horizon beyond. round the mainmast sailors are ensconced, busied with ropes; beyond them in the stern are groups of knights and attendants, also seated; a little apart stands_ tristan_ folding his arms and thoughtfully gazing out to sea; at his feet_ kurvenal _reclines carelessly. from the mast-head above is once more heard the voice of the young sailor_.] the young sailor (_at the mast-head invisible_). the wind so wild blows homewards now; my irish child, where waitest thou? say, must our sails be weighted, filled by thy sighs unbated? waft us, wind strong and wild! woe, ah woe for my child! isolda (_whose eyes have at once sought_ tristan _and fixed stonily on him--gloomily_). once beloved-now removed-brave and bright, coward knight!-death-devoted head! death-devoted heart!-(_laughing unnaturally_). think'st highly of yon minion? brangæna (_following her glance_). whom mean'st thou? isolda. there, that hero who from mine eyes averts his own: in shrinking shame my gaze he shuns-say, how hold you him? brangæna. mean you sir tristan, lady mine? extolled by ev'ry nation, his happy country's pride, the hero of creation,-whose fame so high and wide? isolda (_jeeringly_). in shrinking trepidation his shame he seeks to hide, while to the king, his relation, he brings the corpse-like bride!-seems it so senseless what i say? go ask himself, our gracious host, dare he approach my side? no courteous heed or loyal care this hero t'wards his lady turns; but to meet her his heart is daunted, this knight so highly vaunted! oh! he wots well the cause! to the traitor go, bearing his lady's will! as my servant bound, straightway should he approach. brangæna. shall i beseech him to attend thee? isolda. nay, order him: pray, understand it:-i, isolda do command it! [_at an imperious sign from isolda brangæna withdraws and timidly walks along the deck towards the stern, past the working sailors. isolda, following her with fixed gaze, sinks back on the couch, where she remains seated during the following, her eyes still turned sternward_.] kurvenal (_observing brangæna's approach, plucks tristan by the robe without rising_.) beware, tristan! message from isolda! tristan (_starting_). what is't?--isolda?-(_he quickly regains his composure as brangæna approaches and curtsies to him_.) what would my lady? i her liegeman, fain will listen while her loyal woman tells her will. brangæna. my lord, sir tristan, dame isolda would have speech with you at once. tristan. is she with travel worn? the end is near: nay, ere the set of sun sight we the land. all that your mistress commands me, trust me, i shall mind. brangæna. that you, sir tristan, go to her,-this is my lady's wish. tristan. where yonder verdant meadows in distance dim are mounting, waits my sov'reign for his mate: to lead her to his presence i'll wait upon the princess: 'tis an honor all my own. brangæna. my lord, sir tristan, list to me: this one thing my lady wills, that thou at once attend her, there where she waits for thee. tristan. in any station where i stand i truly serve but her, the pearl of womanhood. if i unheeding left the helm, how might i pilot her ship in surety to king mark? brangæna. tristan, my master, why mock me thus? seemeth my saying obscure to you? list to my lady's words: thus, look you, she hath spoken: "go order him, and understand it, i--isolda-do command it." kurvenal (_springing up_). may i an answer make her? tristan. what wouldst thou wish to reply? kurvenal. this should she say to dame isold': "though cornwall's crown and england's isle for ireland's child he chose, his own by choice she may not be; he brings the king his bride. a hero-knight tristan is hight! i've said, nor care to measure your lady's high displeasure." [_while_ tristan _seeks to stop him, and the offended_ brangæna _turns to depart_, kurvenal _sings after her at the top of his voice, as she lingeringly withdraws_.] "sir morold toiled o'er mighty wave the cornish tax to levy; in desert isle was dug his grave, he died of wounds so heavy. his head now hangs in irish lands, sole were-gild won at english hands. bravo, our brave tristan! let his tax take who can!" [kurvenal, _driven away by_ tristan's _chidings, descends into the cabin_. brangæna _returns in discomposure to_ isolda, _closing the curtains behind her, while all the men take up the chorus and are heard without_.] knights and attendants. "his head now hangs in irish lands, sole were-gild won at english hands. bravo, our brave tristan! let his tax take who can!" scene iii. [isolda _and_ brangæna _alone, the curtain being again completely closed_. isolda _rises with a gesture of despair and wrath_. brangæna _falls at her feet_.] brangæna. ah! an answer so insulting! isolda (_checking herself on the brink of a fearful outburst_). how now? of tristan? i'd know if he denies me. brangæna. ah! question not! isolda. quick, say without fear! brangæna. with courteous phrase he foiled my will. isolda. but when you bade him hither? brangæna. when i had straightway bid him come, where'er he stood, he said to me, he truly served but thee, the pearl of womanhood; if he unheeded left the helm how could he pilot the ship in surety to king mark? isolda (_bitterly_). "how could he pilot the ship in surety to king mark!" and wait on him with were-gild from ireland's island won! brangæna. as i gave out the message and in thy very words, thus spoke his henchman kurvenal-isolda. heard i not ev'ry sentence? it all has reached my ear. if thou hast learnt my disgrace now hear too whence it has grown. how scoffingly they sing about me! quickly could i requite them! what of the boat so bare and frail, that floated by our shore? what of the broken stricken man, feebly extended there? isolda's art he gladly owned; with herbs, simples and healing salves the wounds from which he suffered she nursed in skilful wise. though "tantris" the name that he took unto him, as "tristan" anon isolda knew him, when in the sick man's keen blade she perceived a notch had been made, wherein did fit a splinter broken in morold's head, the mangled token sent home in hatred rare: this hand did find it there. i heard a voice from distance dim; with the sword in hand i came to him. full well i willed to slay him, for morold's death to pay him. but from his sick bed he looked up not at the sword, not at my arm-his eyes on mine were fastened, and his feebleness softened my heart: the sword--dropped from my fingers. though morold's steel had maimed him to health again i reclaimed him! when he hath homeward wended my emotion then might be ended. brangæna. o wondrous! why could i not see this? the guest i sometime helped to nurse--? isolda. his praise briskly they sing now:-"bravo, our brave tristan!"-he was that distressful man. a thousand protestations of truth and love he prated. hear how a knight fealty knows!-when as tantris unforbidden he'd left me, as tristan boldly back he came, in stately ship from which in pride ireland's heiress in marriage he asked for mark, the cornish monarch, his kinsman worn and old. in morold's lifetime dared any have dreamed to offer us such an insult? for the tax-paying cornish prince to presume to court ireland's princess! ah, woe is me! i it was who for myself did shape this shame! with death-dealing sword should i have stabbed him; weakly it escaped me:-now serfdom i have shaped me. curse him, the villain! curse on his head! vengeance! death! death for me too! brangæna (_throwing herself upon_ isolda _with impetuous tenderness_). isolda! lady! loved one! fairest! sweet perfection! mistress rarest! hear me! come now, sit thee here.-(_gradually draws_ isolda _to the couch_.) what a whim! what causeless railing! how came you so wrong-minded and by mere fancy blinded? sir tristan gives thee cornwall's kingdom; then, were he erst thy debtor, how could he reward thee better? his noble uncle serves he so: think too what a gift on thee he'd bestow! with honor unequalled all he's heir to at thy feet he seeks to shower, to make thee a queenly dower. (isolda _turns away_.) if wife he'd make thee unto king mark why wert thou in this wise complaining? is he not worth thy gaining? of royal race and mild of mood, who passes king mark in might and power? if a noble knight like tristan serves him, who would not but feel elated, so fairly to be mated. isolda (_gazing vacantly before her_). glorious knight! and i must near him loveless ever languish! how can i support such anguish? brangæna. what's this, my lady? loveless thou? (_approaching coaxingly and kissing_ isolda.) where lives there a man would not love thee? who could see isolda and not sink at once into bondage blest? and if e'en it could be any were cold, did any magic draw him from thee, i'd bring the false one back to bondage, and bind him in links of love.-(_secretly and confidentially, close to_ isolda.) mindest thou not thy mother's arts? think you that she who'd mastered those would have sent me o'er the sea, without assistance for thee? isolda (_darkly_). my mother's rede i mind aright, and highly her magic arts i hold:-vengeance they wreak for wrongs, rest give to wounded spirits.-yon casket hither bear. brangæna. it holds a balm for thee.-(_she brings forward a small golden coffer, opens it, and points to its contents_.) thy mother placed inside it her subtle magic potions. there's salve for sickness or for wounds, and antidotes for deadly drugs.-(_she takes a bottle_.) the helpfullest draught i hold in here. isolda. not so, i know a better. i make a mark to know it again-this draught 'tis i would drain. (_seizes flask and shows it_.) brangæna (_recoiling in horror_). the draught of death! (isolda _has risen from the sofa and now hears with increasing dread the cries of the sailors_.) voices of the crew (_without_). "ho! heave ho! hey! reduce the sail! the mainsail in! ho! heave ho! hey!" isolda. our journey has been swift. woe is me! near to the land! scene iv. (kurvenal _boisterously enters through the curtains_.) kurvenal. up, up, ye ladies! look alert! straight bestir you! loiter not,--here is the land!-to dame isolda says the servant of tristan, our hero true:-behold our flag is flying! it waveth landwards aloft: in mark's ancestral castle may our approach be seen. so, dame isolda, he prays to hasten, for land straight to prepare her, that thither he may bear her. isolda (_who has at first cowered and shuddered on hearing the message, now speaks calmly and with dignity_). my greeting take unto your lord and tell him what i say now: should he assist to land me and to king mark would he hand me, unmeet and unseemly were his act, the while my pardon was not won for trespass black and base: so bid him seek my grace. (kurvenal _makes a gesture of defiance_.) now mark me well, this message take:-nought will i yet prepare me, that he to land may bear me; i will not by him be landed, nor unto king mark be handed ere granting forgiveness and forgetfulness, which 'tis seemly he should seek:-for all his trespass base i tender him my grace. kurvenal. be assured, i'll bear your words: we'll see what he will say! (_he retires quickly_.) scene v. isolda (_hurries to_ brangæna _and embraces her vehemently_). now farewell, brangæna! greet ev'ry one, greet my father and mother! brangæna. what now? what mean'st thou? wouldst thou flee? and where must i then follow? isolda (_checking herself suddenly_). here i remain: heard you not? tristan will i await.-i trust in thee to aid in this: prepare the true cup of peace: thou mindest how it is made. brangæna. what meanest thou? isolda (_taking a bottle from the coffer_). this it is! from the flask go pour this philtre out; yon golden goblet 'twill fill. brangæna (_filled with terror receiving the flask_). trust i my wits? isolda. wilt thou be true? brangæna. the draught--for whom? isolda. him who betrayed! brangæna. tristan? isolda. truce he'll drink with me. brangæna (_throwing herself at_ isolda's _feet_). o horror! pity thy handmaid! isolda. pity thou me, false-hearted maid! mindest thou not my mother's arts? think you that she who'd mastered those would have sent thee o'er the sea without assistance for me? a salve for sickness doth she offer and antidotes for deadly drugs: for deepest grief and woe supreme gave she the draught of death. let death now give her thanks! brangæna (_scarcely able to control herself_). o deepest grief! isolda. now, wilt thou obey? brangæna. o woe supreme! isolda. wilt thou be true? brangæna. the draught? kurvenal (_entering_). sir tristan! (brangæna _rises, terrified and confused_. isolda _strives with immense effort to control herself_.) isolda (_to kurvenal_). sir tristan may approach! scene vi. [kurvenal _retires again_. brangæna, _almost beside herself, turns up the stage_. isolda, _mustering all her powers of resolution, walks slowly and with dignity towards the sofa, by the head of which she supports herself, turning her eyes firmly towards the entrance_] (tristan _enters, and pauses respectfully at the entrance_.) tristan. demand, lady, what you will. isolda. while knowing not what my demand is, wert thou afraid still to fulfil it, fleeing my presence thus? tristan. honor held me in awe. isolda. scant honor hast thou shown unto me; for, unabashed, withheldest thou obedience unto my call. tristan. obedience 'twas forbade me to come. isolda. but little i owe thy lord, methinks, if he allows ill manners unto his own promised bride. tristan. in our land it is the law that he who fetches home the bride should stay afar from her. isolda. on what account? tristan. 'tis the custom. isolda. being so careful, my lord tristan, another custom can you not learn? of enemies friends make: for evil acts amends make. tristan. who is my foe? isolda. find in thy fears! blood-guilt gets between us. tristan. that was absolved. isolda. not between us. tristan. in open field, 'fore all the folk our old feud was abandoned. isolda. 'twas not there i held tantris hid when tristan was laid low, he stood there brawny, bright and brave; but in his truce i took no part: my tongue its silence had learnt. when in chambered stillness sick he lay with the sword i stood before him, stern; silent--my lips, motionless--my hand. but that which my hand and lips had once vowed, i swore in stealth to adhere to: lo! now my desire i'm near to. tristan. what hast thou sworn? isolda (_quickly_). vengeance for morold! tristan (_quietly_). mindst thou that? isolda (_animated_). dare you to flout me?-was he not my betrothed, that noble irish knight? for his sword a blessing i sought; for me only he fought. when he was murdered no honor fell. in that heartfelt misery my vow was framed; if no man remained to right it, i, a maid, must needs requite it.-weak and maimed, when might was mine, why at thy death did i pause? thou shalt know the secret cause.-thy hurts i tended that, when sickness ended, thou shouldst fall by some man, as isolda's revenge should plan. but now attempt thy fate to foretell me? if their friendship all men do sell thee, what foe can seek to fell thee? tristan (_pale and gloomy, offers her his sword_). if thou so lovedst this lord, then lift once more my sword, nor from thy purpose refrain; let the weapon not fail again. isolda. put up thy sword which once i swung, when vengeful rancor my bosom wrung, when thy masterful eyes did ask me straight whether king mark might seek me for mate. the sword harmless descended.-drink, let our strife be ended! (isolda _beckons_ brangæna. _she trembles and hesitates to obey_. isolda _commands her with a more imperious gesture_. brangæna _sets about preparing the drink_.) voices of the crew (_without_). ho! heave ho! hey! reduce the sail! the foresail in! ho! heave ho! hey! tristan (_starting from his gloomy brooding_). where are we? isolda. near to shore. tristan, is warfare ended? hast not a word to offer? tristan (_darkly_). concealment's mistress makes me silent: i know what she conceals, conceal, too, more than she knows. isolda. thy silence nought but feigning i deem. friendship wilt thou still deny? (_renewed cries of the sailors_.) (_at an impatient sign from_ isolda brangæna _hands her the filled cup_.) isolda (_advancing with the cup to_ tristan, _who gazes immovably into her eyes_). thou hear'st the cry? the shore's in sight: we must ere long (_with slight scorn_) stand by king mark together. sailors (_without_). haul the warp! anchor down! tristan (_starting wildly_). down with the anchor! her stern to the stream! the sails a-weather the mast! (_he takes the cup from_ isolda.) i know the queen of ireland well, unquestioned are her magic arts: the balsam cured me which she brought; now bid me quaff the cup, that i may quite recover. heed to my all-atoning oath, which in return i tender tristan's honor-highest truth! tristan's anguish-brave distress! traitor spirit, dawn-illumined! endless trouble's only truce! oblivion's kindly draught, with rapture thou art quaff'd! (_he lifts the cup and drinks_.) isolda. betrayed e'en here? i must halve it!-(_she wrests the cup from his hand_.) betrayer, i drink to thee! [_she drinks, and then throws away the cup. both, seized with shuddering, gaze with deepest emotion, but immovable demeanor, into one another's eyes, in which the expression of defiance to death fades and melts into the glow of passion. trembling seizes them, they convulsively clutch their hearts and pass their hands over their brows. their glances again seek to meet, sink in confusion, and once more turn with growing longing upon one another_.] isolda (_with trembling voice_). tristan! tristan (_overpowered_). isolda! isolda (_sinking upon his breast_). traitor beloved! tristan. woman divine! (_he embraces her with ardor. they remain in a silent embrace_.) all the men (_without_). hail! hail! hail our monarch! hail to mark, the king! brangæna (_who, filled with confusion and horror, has leaned over the side with averted face, now turns to behold the pair locked in their close embrace, and rushes to the front, wringing her hands in despair_). woe's me! woe's me! endless mis'ry i have wrought instead of death! dire the deed of my dull fond heart: it cries aloud to heav'n! (_they start from their embrace_.) tristan (_bewildered_). what troubled dream of tristan's honor? isolda. what troubled dream of isolda's shame? tristan. have i then lost thee? isolda. have i repulsed thee? tristan. fraudulent magic, framing deceit! both. languishing passion, longing and growing, love ever yearning, loftiest glowing! rapture confess'd rides in each breast! isolda! tristan! tristan! isolda! world, i can shun thee my love is won me! thou'rt my thought, all above: highest delight of love! scene vii. [_the curtains are now drawn wide apart; the whole ship is covered with knights and sailors, who, with shouts of joy, make signs over towards the shore which is now seen to be quite near, with castle-crowned cliffs. tristan and isolda remain absorbed in mutual contemplation, perceiving nothing that is passing_.] brangæna (_to the women, who at her bidding ascend from below_). quick--the mantle! the royal robe!-(_rushing between_ tristan _and_ isolda.) up, hapless ones! see where we are! (_she places the royal mantle on_ isolda, _who notices nothing_.) all the men. hail! hail! hail our monarch! hail to mark the king! kurvenal (_advancing gaily_). hail, tristan, knight of good hap! behold king mark approaching, in a bark with brave attendance. gladly he stems the tide, coming to seek his bride. tristan (_looking up in bewilderment_). who comes? kurvenal. the king 'tis. tristan. what king mean you? (kurvenal _points over the side_. tristan _gazes stupefied at the shore_.) all the men (_waving their hats_). hail to king mark! all hail! isolda (_bewildered_). what is't, brangæna? what are those cries? brangæna. isolda--mistress! compose thyself! isolda. where am i! living? what was that draught? brangæna (_despairingly_). the love-potion! isolda (_staring with horror at_ tristan). tristan! tristan. isolda! isolda. must i live, then? (_falls fainting upon his breast_.) brangæna (_to the women_). look to your lady! tristan. o rapture fraught with cunning! o fraud with bliss o'er-running! all the men (_in a general burst of acclamation_). hail to king mark! cornwall, hail! [_people have clambered over the ship's side, others have extended a bridge, and the aspect of all indicates the immediate arrival of the expected ones, as the curtain falls_.] act ii. [_a garden before isolda's chamber which lies at one side and is approached by steps. bright and pleasant summer night. at the open door a burning torch is fixed. sounds of hunting heard_.] scene i. [brangæna, _on the steps leading to the chamber, is watching the retreat of the still audible hunters. she looks anxiously back into the chamber as isolda emerges thence in ardent animation_.] isolda. yet do you hear? i lost the sound some time. brangæna (_listening_). still do they stay: clearly rings the horns. isolda (_listening_). fear but deludes thy anxious ear; by sounds of rustling leaves thou'rt deceived, aroused by laughter of winds. brangæna. deceived by wild desire art thou, and but hear'st as would thy will:-i still hear the sound of horns. isolda (_listens_). no sound of horns were so sweet: yon fountain's soft murmuring current moves so quietly hence. if horns yet brayed, how could i hear that? in still night alone it laughs on mine ear. my lov'd one hides in darkness unseen: wouldst thou hold from my side my dearest? deeming that horns thou hearest? brangæna. thy lov'd one hid-oh heed my warning!-for him a spy waits by night. listening oft i light upon him: he lays a secret snare. of melot oh beware! isolda. mean you sir melot? o, how you mistake! is he not tristan's trustiest friend? may my true love not meet me, with none but melot he stays. brangæna. what moves me to fear him makes thee his friend then? through tristan to mark's side is melot's way: he sows suspicion's seed. and those who have to-day on a night-hunt so suddenly decided, a far nobler game than is guessed by thee taxes their hunting skill. isolda. for tristan's sake contrived was this scheme by means of melot, in truth: now would you decry his friendship? he serves isolda better than you his hand gives help which yours denies: what need of such delay? the signal, brangæna! o give the signal! tread out the torch's trembling gleam, that night may envelop all with her veil. already her peace reigns o'er hill and hall, her rapturous awe the heart does enthral; allow then the light to fall! let but its dread lustre die! let my beloved draw nigh! brangæna. the light of warning suppress not! let it remind thee of peril!-ah, woe's me! woe's me! fatal folly! the fell pow'r of that potion! that i framed a fraud for once thy orders to oppose! had i been deaf and blind, thy work were then thy death: but thy distress, thy distraction of grief, my work has contrived them, i own it! isolda. thy--act? o foolish girl! love's goddess dost thou not know? nor all her magic arts? the queen who grants unquailing hearts, the witch whose will the world obeys, life and death she holds in her hands, which of joy and woe are wove? she worketh hate into love. the work of death i took into my own hands; love's goddess saw and gave her good commands the death--condemned she claimed as her prey, planning our fate in her own way. how she may bend it, how she may end it, what she may make me, wheresoe'er take me, still hers am i solely;-so let me obey her wholly. brangæna. and if by the artful love-potion's lures thy light of reason is ravished, if thou art reckless when i would warn thee, this once, oh, wait and weigh my pleading! i implore, leave it alight!-the torch! the torch! o put it not out this night! isolda. she who causes thus my bosom's throes, whose eager fire within me glows, whose light upon my spirit flows, love's goddess needs that night should close; that brightly she may reign and shun the torchlight vain. (_she goes up to the door and takes down the torch_.) go watch without-keep wary guard! the signal!-and were it my spirit's spark, smiling i'd destroy it and hail the dark! [_she throws the torch to the ground where it slowly dies out. brangæna turns away, disturbed, and mounts an outer flight of steps leading to the roof, where she slowly disappears. isolda listens and peers, at first shyly, towards an avenue. urged, by rising impatience, she then approaches the avenue and looks more boldly. she signs with her handkerchief, first slightly, then more plainly, waving it quicker as her impatience increases. a gesture of sudden delight shows that she has perceived her lover in the distance. she stretches herself higher and higher, and then, to look better over the intervening space, hastens back to the steps, from the top of which she signals again to the on-comer. as he enters, she springs to meet him_.] scene ii. tristan (_rushing in_). isolda! beloved! isolda. tristan! beloved one! (_passionate embrace, with which they come down to the front_.) both. art thou mine? do i behold thee? do i embrace thee? can i believe it? at last! at last! here on my breast! do i then clasp thee! is it thy own self? are these thine eyes? these thy lips? here thy hand? here thy heart? is't i?--is't thou, held in my arms? am i not duped? is it no dream? o rapture of spirit! o sweetest, highest, fairest, strongest, holiest bliss? endless pleasure! boundless treasure! ne'er to sever! never! never! unconceived, unbelieved, overpowering exaltation! joy-proclaiming, bliss-outpouring, high in heaven, earth ignoring! tristan mine! isolda mine! tristan! isolda! mine alone! thine alone! ever all my own! tristan. the light! the light! o but this light, how long 'twas let to burn! the sun had sunk, the day had fled; but all their spite not yet was sped: the scaring signal they set alight, before my belov'd one's dwelling, my swift approach repelling. isolda. thy belov'd one's hand lowered the light, for brangæna's fears in me roused no fright: while love's goddess gave me aid, sunlight a mock i made. but the light its fear and defeat repaid; with thy misdeeds a league it made. what thou didst see in shadowing night, to the shining sun of kingly might must thou straightway surrender, that it should exist in bright bonds of empty splendor.-could i bear it then? can i bear it now? tristan. o now were we to night devoted, the dishonest day with envy bloated, lying, could not mislead, though it might part us indeed. its pretentious glows and its glamouring light are scouted by those who worship night. all its flickering gleams in flashes out-blazing blind us no more where we are gazing. those who death's night boldly survey, those who have studied her secret way, the daylight's falsehoods-rank and fame, honor and all at which men aim-to them are no more matter than dust which sunbeams scatter, in the daylight's visions thronging only abides one longing; we yearn to hie to holy night, where, unending, only true, love extendeth delight! (tristan _draws_ isolda _gently aside to a flowery bank, sinks on his knee before her and rests his head on her arm_.) (tristan _and_ isolda _sink into oblivious ecstasy, reposing on the flowery bank close together_.) brangæna (_from the turret, unseen_). long i watch alone by night: ye enwrapt in love's delight, heed my boding voice aright. i forewarn you woe is near; waken to my words of fear. have a care! have a care! swiftly night doth wear! isolda. list, beloved! tristan. let me die thus! isolda (_slowly raising herself a little_). envious watcher! tristan (_remaining in reclining position_). i'll ne'er waken. isolda. but the day must dawn and rouse thee? tristan (_raising his head slightly_). let the day to death surrender! isolda. day and death will both engender feud against our passion tender. tristan (_drawing_ isolda _gently towards him with expressive action_). o might we then together die, each the other's own for aye! never fearing, never waking, blest delights of love partaking,-each to each be given, in love alone our heaven! isolda (_gazing up at him in thoughtful ecstasy_). o might we then together die! tristan. each the other's-isolda. own for aye,-tristan. never fearing-isolda. never waking-tristan. blest delights of love partaking-isolda. each to each be given; in love alone our heaven. (isolda, _as if overcome, droops her head on his breast._) brangæna's voice (_as before_). have a care! have a care! night yields to daylight's glare. tristan (_bends smilingly to isolda_). shall i listen? isolda (looking fondly up at tristan). let me die thus! tristan. must i waken? isolda. nought shall wake me! tristan. must not daylight dawn, and rouse me? isolda. let the day to death surrender! tristan. may thus the day's evil threats be defied? isolda (_with growing enthusiasm_). from its thraldom let us fly. tristan. and shall not its dawn be dreaded by us? isolda (_rising with a grand gesture_). night will shield us for aye! (tristan _follows her; they embrace in fond exaltation_.) both. o endless night! blissful night! glad and glorious lover's night! those whom thou holdest, lapped in delight, how could e'en the boldest unmoved endure thy flight? how to take it, how to break it,-joy existent, sunlight distant, far from mourning, sorrow-warning, fancies spurning, softly yearning, fear expiring, sweet desiring! anguish flying, gladly dying; no more pining, night-enshrining, ne'er divided whate'er betided, side by side still abide in realms of space unmeasured, vision blest and treasured! thou isolda, tristan i; no more tristan, no more isolda. never spoken, never broken, newly sighted, newly lighted, endless ever all our dream: in our bosoms gleam love delights supreme! scene iii. [brangæna _utters a piercing cry_. tristan _and_ isolda _remain in their absorbed state_. kurvenal _rushes in with drawn sword_.] kurvenal. save yourself, tristan! [_he looks fearfully off behind him_. mark, melot, _and courtiers, in hunting dress, come swiftly up the avenue and pause in the foreground in consternation before the lovers_. brangæna _at the same time descends from the roof and hastens towards_ isolda. _the latter in involuntary shame leans on the flowery bank with averted face_. tristan _with an equally unconscious action stretches his mantle wide out with one arm, so as to conceal_ isolda _from the gaze of the new-comers. in this position he remains for some time, turning a changeless look upon the men, who gaze at him in varied emotion. the morning dawns_.] tristan. the dreary day-its last time comes! melot (_to mark_). now say to me, my sov'reign, was my impeachment just? i staked my head thereon: how is the pledge redeemed? behold him in the very act: honor and fame, faithfully i have saved from shame for thee. mark (_deeply moved, with trembling voice_). hast thou preserved them? say'st thou so?-see him there, the truest of all true hearts! look on him the faithfulest of friends, too his offence so black and base fills my heart with anguish and disgrace. tristan traitor, what hope stayeth that the honor he betrayeth should by melot's rede rest to me indeed? tristan (_with convulsive violence_). daylight phantoms-morning visions empty and vain-avaunt! begone! mark (_in deep emotion_). this--blow. tristan, to me? where now has truth fled, if tristan can betray? where now are faith and friendship fair, when from the fount of faith, my tristan, they are gone? the buckler tristan once did don, where is that shield of virtue now? when from my friends it flies, and tristan's honor dies? (tristan _slowly lowers his eyes to the ground. his features express increasing grief while mark continues_.) why hast thou noble service done, and honor, fame and potent might amassed for mark, thy king? must honor, fame, power and might, must all thy noble service done be paid with mark's dishonor? seemed the reward too slight and scant that what thou hast won him-realms and riches-thou art the heir unto, all? when childless he lost once a wife, he loved thee so that ne'er again did mark desire to marry. when all his subjects, high and low, demands and pray'rs, on him did press to choose himself a consort-a queen to give the kingdom, when thou thyself thy uncle urged that what the court and country pleaded well might be conceded, opposing high and low, opposing e'en thyself, with kindly cunning still he refused, till, tristan, thou didst threaten forever to leave both court and land if thou receivedst not command a bride for the king to woo: then so he let thee do.-this wondrous lovely wife, thy might for me did win, who could behold her, who address her, who in pride and bliss possess her, but would bless his happy fortune? she whom i have paid respect to ever, whom i owned, yet possess'd her never she, the princess proud and peerless, lighting up my life so cheerless, 'spite foes,--without fear, the fairest of brides thou didst bring me here. why in hell must i bide, without hope of a heaven? why endure disgrace unhealed by tears or grief? the unexplained, unpenetrated cause of all these woes, who will to us disclose? tristan (_raising his eyes pitifully towards_ mark). o monarch! i-may not tell thee, truly; what thou dost ask remains for aye unanswered.-(_he turns to_ isolda, _who looks tenderly up at him_.) where tristan now is going, wilt thou, isolda, follow? the land that tristan means of sunlight has no gleams; it is the dark abode of night, from whence i first came forth to light, and she who bore me thence in anguish, gave up her life, nor long did languish. she but looked on my face, then sought this resting-place. this land where night doth reign, where tristan once hath lain-now thither offers he thy faithful guide to be. so let isolda straight declare if she will meet him there. isolda. when to a foreign land before thou didst invite, to thee, traitor, resting true, did isolda follow. thy kingdom now art showing, where surely we are going! why should i shun that land by which the world is spann'd? for tristan's house and home isold' will make her own. the road whereby we have to go i pray thee quickly show!-(tristan _bends slowly over her and kisses her softly on the forehead_. melot _starts furiously forward_.) melot (_drawing his sword_). thou villain! ha! avenge thee, monarch! say, wilt suffer such scorn? tristan (_drawing his sword and turning quickly round_) who's he will set his life against mine? (_casting a look at melot_). this was my friend; he told me he loved me truly: my fame and honor he upheld more than all men. with arrogance he filled my heart, and led on those who prompted me fame and pow'r to augment me by wedding thee to our monarch.-thy glance, isolda, glamoured him thus; and, jealous, my friend played me false to king mark, whom i betrayed.-(_he sets on_ melot.) guard thee, melot! [_as_ melot _presents his sword_ tristan _drops his own guard and sinks wounded into the arms of_ kurvenal. isolda _throws herself upon his breast_. mark _holds_ melot _back. the curtain falls quickly_.] act iii. _a castle-garden_. [_at one side high castellated buildings, on the other a low breastwork interrupted by a watch tower; at back the castle-gate. the situation is supposed to be on rocky cliffs; through openings the view extends over a wide sea horizon. the whole gives an impression of being deserted by the owner, badly kept, and here and there dilapidated and overgrown_.] scene i. [_in the foreground, in the garden, lies_ tristan _sleeping on a couch under the shade of a great lime-tree, stretched out as if lifeless. at his head sits_ kurvenal, _bending over him in grief and anxiously listening to his breathing. from without comes the mournful sound of a shepherd's pipe_. _presently the shepherd comes and looks in with interest, showing the upper half of his body over the wall_.] shepherd. kurvenal, ho!-say, kurvenal,-tell me, friend! does he still sleep? kurvenal (_turning a little towards him and shaking his head sadly_). if he awoke it would be but for evermore to leave us, unless we find the lady-leech; alone can she give help.-see'st thou nought? no ship yet on the sea? shepherd. quite another ditty then would i play as merry as ever i may. but tell me truly, trusty friend, why languishes our lord? kurvenal. do not ask me;-for i can give no answer. watch the sea, if sails come in sight a sprightly melody play. shepherd (_turns round and scans the horizon, shading his eyes with his hand_). blank appears the sea! (_he puts the reed pipe to his mouth and withdraws, playing_.) tristan (_motionless--faintly_). the tune so well known-why wake to that? (_opens his eyes and slightly turns his head_). where am i? kurvenal (_starting in joyous surprise_). ha!--who is speaking? it is his voice!-tristan! lov'd one! my lord! my tristan! tristan (_with effort_). who--calls me? kurvenal. life--at last-o thanks be to heaven!-sweetest life unto my tristan newly given! tristan (_faintly_). kurvenal!--thou? where--was i?-where--am i? kurvenal. where art thou? in safety, tranquil and sure! kareol 'tis; dost thou not know thy fathers' halls? tristan. this my fathers'? kurvenal. look but around. tristan. what awoke me? kurvenal. the herdsman's ditty hast thou heard, doubtless; he heedeth thy herds above on the hills there. tristan. have i herds, then? kurvenal. sir, i say it! thine are court, castle--all. to thee yet true, thy trusty folk, as best they might, have held thy home in guard: the gift which once thy goodness gave to thy serfs and vassals here, when going far away, in foreign lands to dwell. tristan. what foreign land? kurvenal. why! in cornwall; where cool and able, all that was brilliant, brave and noble, tristan, my lord, lightly took. tristan. am i in cornwall? kurvenal. no, no; in kareol. tristan. how came i here? kurvenal. hey now! how you came? no horse hither you rode: a vessel bore you across. but on my shoulders down to the ship you had to ride: they are broad, they carried you to the shore. now you are at home once more; your own the land, your native land; all loved things now are near you, unchanged the sun doth cheer you. the wounds from which you languish here all shall end their anguish. (_he presses himself to_ tristan's _breast_.) tristan. think'st thou thus! i know 'tis not so, but this i cannot tell thee. where i awoke ne'er i was, but where i wandered i can indeed not tell thee. the sun i could not see, nor country fair, nor people; but what i saw i can indeed not tell thee. it was-the land from which i once came and whither i return: the endless realm of earthly night. one thing only there possessed me: blank, unending, all-oblivion.-how faded all forebodings! o wistful goadings!-thus i call the thoughts that all t'ward light of day have press'd me. what only yet doth rest me, the love-pains that possess'd me, from blissful death's affright now drive me toward the light, which, deceitful, bright and golden, round thee, isolda, shines. accurséd day with cruel glow! must thou ever wake my woe? must thy light be burning ever, e'en by night our hearts to sever? ah, my fairest, sweetest, rarest! when wilt thou-when, ah, when-let the torchlight dwindle, that so my bliss may kindle? the light, how long it glows! when will the house repose? (_his voice has grown fainter and he sinks back gently, exhausted_.) kurvenal (_who has been deeply distressed, now quickly rousts himself from his dejection_). i once defied, through faith in thee, the one for whom now with thee i'm yearning. trust in my words, thou soon shalt see her face to face. my tongue that comfort giveth,-if on the earth still she liveth. tristan (_very feebly_). yet burns the beacon's spark: yet is the house not dark, isolda lives and wakes: her voice through darkness breaks. kurvenal. lives she still, then let new hope delight thee. if foolish and dull you hold me, this day you must not scold me. as dead lay'st thou since the day when that accursed melot so foully wounded thee. thy wound was heavy: how to heal it? thy simple servant there bethought that she who once closed morold's wound with ease the hurt could heal thee that melot's sword did deal thee. i found the best of leeches there, to cornwall have i sent for her: a trusty serf sails o'er the sea, bringing isold' to thee. tristan (_transported_). isolda comes! isolda nears! (_he struggles for words_.) o friendship! high and holy friendship! (_draws_ kurvenal _to him and embraces him_.) o kurvenal, thou trusty heart, my truest friend i rank thee! howe'er can tristan thank thee? my shelter and shield in fight and strife; in weal or woe thou'rt mine for life. those whom i hate thou hatest too; those whom i love thou lovest too. when good king mark i followed of old, thou wert to him truer than gold. when i was false to my noble friend, to betray too thou didst descend. thou art selfless, solely mine; thou feel'st for me when i suffer. but--what i suffer, thou canst not feel for me! this terrible yearning in my heart, this feverish burning's cruel smart,-did i but show it, couldst thou but know it, no time here wouldst thou tarry, to watch from tow'r thou wouldst hurry; with all devotion viewing the ocean, with eyes impatiently spying, there, where her ship's sails are flying. before the wind she drives to find me; on the wings of love she neareth,-isolda hither steereth!-she nears, she nears, so boldly and fast! it waves, it waves, the flag from the mast! hurra! hurra! she reaches the bar! dost thou not see? kurvenal, dost thou not see? (_as_ kurneval _hesitates to leave_ tristan, _who is gazing at him in mute expectation, the mournful tune of the shepherd is heard, as before_.) kurvenal (_dejectedly_). still is no ship in sight. tristan (_has listened with waning excitement and now recommences with growing melancholy_). is this the meaning then, thou old pathetic ditty, of all thy sighing sound?-on evening's breeze it sadly rang when, as a child, my father's death-news chill'd me; through morning's mist it stole more sadly, when the son his mother's fate was taught, when they who gave me breath both felt the hand of death to them came also through their pain the ancient ditty's yearning strain, which asked me once and asks me now which was the fate before me to which my mother bore me?-what was the fate?-the strain so plaintive now repeats it:-for yearning--and dying! (_he falls back senseless_.) kurvenal (_who has been vainly striving to calm_ tristan, _cries out in terror_). my master! tristan!-frightful enchantment!-o love's deceit! o passion's pow'r! most sweet dream 'neath the sun, see the work thou hast done!-here lies he now, the noblest of knights, with his passion all others above: behold! what reward his ardor requites; the one sure reward of love! (_with sobbing voice_.) art thou then dead? liv'st thou not? hast to the curse succumbed?-(_he listens for_ tristan's _breath_.) o rapture! no! he still moves! he lives! and gently his lips are stirr'd. tristan (_very faintly_). the ship--is't yet in sight? kurvenal. the ship? be sure t'will come to-day: it cannot tarry longer. tristan. on board isolda,-see, she smiles-with the cup that reconciles. dost thou see? dost thou see her now? full of grace and loving mildness, floating o'er the ocean's wildness? by billows of flowers lightly lifted, gently toward the land she's drifted. her look brings ease and sweet repose; her hand one last relief bestows. isolda! ah, isolda! how fair, how sweet art thou!-and kurvenal, why!-what ails thy sight? away, and watch for her, foolish i see so well and plainly, let not thine eye seek vainly dost thou not hear? away, with speed! haste to the watch-tow'r! wilt thou not heed? the ship, the ship! isolda's ship!-thou must discern it, must perceive it! the ship--dost thou see it?-(_whilst_ kurvenal, _still hesitating, opposes_ tristan, _the shepherd's pipe is heard without, playing a joyous strain_.) kurvenal (_springing joyously up_). o rapture! transport! (_he rushes to the watch-tower and looks out_.) ha! the ship! from northward it is nearing. tristan. so i knew, so i said! yes, she yet lives, and life to me gives. how could isold' from this world be free, which only holds isolda for me? kurvenal (_shouting_). ahoy! ahoy! see her bravely tacking! how full the canvas is filled! how she darts! how she flies! tristan. the pennon? the pennon? kurvenal. a flag is floating at mast-head, joyous and bright. tristan. aha! what joy! now through the daylight comes my isolda. isolda, oh come! see'st thou herself? kurvenal. the ship is shut from me by rocks. tristan. behind the reef? is there not risk! those dangerous breakers ships have oft shattered.-who steereth the helm? kurvenal. the steadiest seaman. tristan. betrays he me? is he melot's ally? kurvenal. trust him like me. tristan. a traitor thou, too!-o caitiff! canst thou not see her? kurvenal. not yet. tristan. destruction! kurvenal. aha! halla-halloa i they clear! they clear! safely they clear! inside the surf steers now the ship to the strand. tristan (_shouting in joy_). hallo-ho! kurvenal! trustiest friend! all the wealth i own to-day i bequeath thee. kurvenal. with speed they approach. tristan. now dost thou see her? see'st thou isolda? kurvenal. 'tis she! she waves! tristan. o woman divine! kurvenal. the ship is a-land! isolda.'--ha!-with but one leap lightly she springs to land! tristan. descend from the watch-tow'r, indolent gazer! away! away to the shore! help her! help my belov'd! kurvenal. in a trice she shall come; trust in my strong arm! but thou, tristan, hold thee tranquilly here! (_he hastens off_.) tristan (_tossing on his couch in feverish excitement_). o sunlight glowing, glorious ray! ah, joy-bestowing radiant day! boundeth my blood, boisterous flood! infinite gladness! rapturous madness! can i bear to lie couched here in quiet? away, let me fly to where hearts run riot! tristan the brave, exulting in strength, has torn himself from death at length. (_he raises himself erect_.) all wounded and bleeding sir morold i defeated; all bleeding and wounded isolda now shall be greeted. (_he tears the bandage from his wound_.) ha, ha, my blood! merrily flows it. (_he springs from his bed and staggers forward_.) she who can help my wound and close it, she comes in her pride, she comes to my aid. be space defied: let the universe fade! (_he reels to the centre of the stage_.) isolda's voice (_without_). tristan! tristan! belovéd! tristan (_in frantic excitement_). what! hails me the light? the torchlight--ha!-the torch is extinct! i come! i come! scene ii. [isolda _hastens breathlessly in_. tristan, _delirious with excitement, staggers wildly towards her. they meet in the centre of the stage; she receives him in her arms, where he sinks slowly to the ground_.] isolda. tristan! ah! tristan (_turning, his dying eyes on_ isolda). isolda!-(_he dies_.) isolda. 'tis i, 'tis i-dearly belov'd! wake, and once more hark to my voice! isolda calls. isolda comes, with tristan true to perish.-speak unto me! but for one moment, only one moment open thine eyes! such weary days i waited and longed, that one single hour i with thee might awaken. betrayed am i then? deprived by tristan of this our solitary, swiftly fleeting, final earthly joy?-his wound, though--where? can i not heal it? the rapture of night o let us feel it? not of thy wounds, not of thy wounds must thou expire! together, at least, let fade life's enfeebled fire!-how lifeless his look!-still his heart!-dared he to deal me buch a smart? stayed is his breathing's gentle tide! must i be wailing at his side, who, in rapture coming to seek him, fearless sailed o'er the sea? too late, too late! desperate man! casting on me this cruelest ban! comes no relief for my load of grief? silent art keeping while i am weeping? but once more, ah! but once again!-tristan!--ha! he wakens--hark! beloved---dark! (_she sinks down senseless upon his body_.) scene iii. [kurvenal, _who reëntered close behind_ isolda, _has remained by the entrance speechless and petrified, gazing motionless on_ tristan. _from below is now heard the dull murmur of voices and the clash of weapons. the shepherd clambers over the wall_.] shepherd (_coming hastily and softly to_ kurvenal). kurvenal! hear! another ship! (kurvenal _starts up in haste and looks over the rampart, whilst the shepherd stands apart, gazing in consternation on_ tristan _and_ isolda.) kurvenal. fiends and furies! (_in a burst of anger_.) all are at hand! melot and mark i see on the strand,-weapons and missiles!-guard we the gate! (_he hastens with the shepherd to the gate, which they both try quickly to barricade_.) the steersman (_rushing in_). mark and his men have set on us: defence is vain! we're overpowered. kurvenal. stand to and help!-while lasts my life i'll let no foe enter here! brangæna's voice (_without, calling from below_). isolda! mistress! kurvenal. brangæna's voice! (_falling down_.) what want you here? brangæna. open, kurvenal! where is isolda? kurvenal. with foes do you come? woe to you, false one! melot's voice (_without_). stand back, thou fool! bar not the way! kurvenal (_laughing savagely_). hurrah for the day on which i confront thee! (melot, _with armed men, appears under the gateway_. kurvenal _falls on him and cuts him down_.) die, damnable wretch! scene iv. melot. woe's me!--tristan! (_he dies_.) brangæna (_still without_). kurvenal! madman! o hear--thou mistakest! kurvenal. treacherous maid! (_to his men_.) come! follow me! force them below! (_they fight_.) mark (_without_). hold, thou frantic man! lost are thy senses? kurvenal. here ravages death! nought else, o king, is here to be holden! if you would earn it, come on! (_he sets upon_ mark _and his followers_.) mark. away, rash maniac! brangæna (_has climbed over the wall at the side and hastens in the front_). isolda! lady! joy and life!-what sight's here--ha! liv'st thou, isolda! (_she goes to_ isolda's _aid_.) mark (_who with his followers has driven_ kurvenal _and his men back from the gate and forced his way in_).o wild mistake! tristan, where art thou? kurvenal (_desperately wounded, totters before_ mark _to the front_). he lieth--there-here, where i lie too.-(_sinks down at_ tristan's _feet_.) mark. tristan! tristan! isolda! woe! kurvenal (_trying to grasp_ tristan's _hand_). tristan! true lord! chide me not that i try to follow thee! (_he dies_.) mark. dead together!-all are dead! my hero tristan! truest of friends, must thou again be to thy king a traitor? now, when he comes another proof of love to give thee! awaken! awaken. o hear my lamentation, thou faithless, faithful friend! (_kneels down sobbing over the bodies_.) brangæna (_who has revived_ isolda _in her arms_). she wakes! she lives! isolda, hear! hear me, mistress beloved! tidings of joy i have to tell thee: o list to thy brangæna! my thoughtless fault i have atoned; after thy flight i forthwith went to the king: the love potion's secret he scarce had learned when with sedulous haste he put to sea, that he might find thee, nobly renounce thee and give thee up to thy love. mark. o why, isolda, why this to me? when clearly was disclosed what before i could fathom not, what joy was mine to find my friend was free from fault! in haste to wed thee to my hero with flying sails i followed thy track: but howe'er can happiness o'ertake the swift course of woe? more food for death did i make: more wrong grew in mistake. brangæna. dost thou not hear? isolda! lady! o try to believe the truth! isolda (_unconscious of all around her, turning her eyes with, rising inspiration on_ tristan's _body_). mild and softly he is smiling; how his eyelids sweetly open! see, oh comrades, see you not how he beameth ever brighter-how he rises ever radiant steeped in starlight, borne above? see you not how his heart with lion zest, calmly happy beats in his breast? from his lips in heavenly rest sweetest breath he softly sends. harken, friends! hear and feel ye not? is it i alone am hearing strains so tender and endearing? passion swelling, all things telling, gently bounding, from him sounding, in me pushes, upward rushes trumpet tone that round me gushes. brighter growing, o'er me flowing, are these breezes airy pillows? are they balmy beauteous billows? how they rise and gleam and glisten! shall i breathe them? shall i listen? shall i sip them, dive within them, to my panting breathing win them? in the breezes around, in the harmony sound in the world's driving whirlwind be drown'd-and, sinking, be drinking-in a kiss, highest bliss! (isolda _sinks, as if transfigured, in_ brangæna's _arms upon_ tristan's _body. profound emotion and grief of the bystanders_. mark _invokes a blessing on the dead. curtain_.) the laurel octavo edition of famous operas martha libretto c. c. birchard & company boston massachusetts hiawatha's childhood operetta in one act for unchanged voices _60 cents_ text by henry wadsworth longfellow music by bessie m. whiteley for performance in grammar and high schools time of performance 40 minutes _awarded the prize by "the national federation of music clubs' competition," closing september 1, 1912, in the operetta class (unchanged voices)_ _performed before the_ national federation of music clubs' convention, _chicago, illinois, april 25, 1913;_ _under the direction of_ m. teresa armitage _who writes as follows:_ "hiawatha's childhood is an inspired little work and the best thus far composed for education purposes. in fact if is worthy of presentation as a curtain raiser in the leading opera houses. it is a fine piece of musical art, and entirely practicable for schools (grammar and high schools). the children love it, and the work, whether given with or without action, makes a delightful impression." c. c. birchard & company :: boston, mass. laurel octavo martha or the fair at richmond text by w. friedrich music by friedrich von flotow the english edited by m. louise baum the music edited by glen carle c. c. birchard & company boston mass. george e. lask music collection copyright, 1913 by c. c. birchard & company stanhope press f. h. gilson company boston, u.s.a. the laurel octavo edition of martha is the outcome of extended and careful work, having for its aim the presentation of a version of this opera which shall be adapted primarily for use in schools. it is suitable for performance in concert form as well as on the stage with scenery and in costume. everything of value in the musical score has been retained in the present edition. all dull and uninteresting numbers and tedious unnecessary repetitions have been left out, while the valuable music of the opera has been retained and the same has been brought together into a harmonious whole. the text has been revised and, where necessary, rewritten, and is superior to the editions now current both in literary excellence and in the valuable desideratum of "accents" and other adaptabilities to musical utterance. the laurel octavo libretto of martha supplies the dialogue, stage directions and everything in which the copy for concert purposes is lacking to make the opera suitable for stage representation. costumes may be obtained through the publishers. orchestration of this edition may be obtained from the publishers. c. c. birchard & company contents no. page 1. "bright as are the stars of heaven." chorus, nancy and lady harriet 1 2. "every heart with love inflaming." nancy, lady harriet. duet 8 3. "lovely cousin, i implore you." sir tristan, lady harriet, nancy and chorus 13 3a. "hither come, linger not." chorus of servants 16 4. "come, o maidens fair." chorus 30 5. "o'er my life from boyhood tender." lionel and plunket. duet 44 6. "we anne, queen of england." sheriff, chorus of servants and farmers 49 7. "see what grace they show." lady harriet, nancy, lionel, plunket. quartet 60 8. "come in, my pretty maidens." lionel, plunket, lady harriet and nancy 65 9. "that's the room i mean to give her." plunket, lionel, lady harriet and nancy. quartet 73 10. "come, your tasks await." plunket, nancy, lionel and lady harriet 84 11. "'tis the last rose of summer." lady harriet and lionel. romance 98 11a. "midnight chimes sound afar." lady harriet, nancy, lionel and plunket. quartet 103 12. "let's be off then, in a hurry." lady harriet, nancy, sir tristan. trio 109 13. "come, can you tell me." tristan and chorus of courtiers 112 14. "all we ladies of the court." ladies' hunting chorus 116 15. "gay of heart, i have not known how to weep." nancy. aria 120 16. "o when she rose fair on my sight." lionel and chorus 125 17. "how audacious, rude and daring." chorus and principals 129 18. "heaven forgive this cruel scorning." lionel, lady harriet, nancy, plunket and chorus 137 19. "when i first that hand did claim." lionel and lady harriet. duet 145 20. "now the april days returning." lady harriet and lionel. duet and chorus 152 martha act one. (lady harriet, _maid of honor to the queen, has grown listless and pale, refusing to join in the court revels._ sir tristan, _an old knight, makes love to her; she will have nothing to say to him, and only asks to be let alone. she is tired of her conventional life, and longs for some new and strange adventure. the curtain rises on her richly furnished boudoir._ lady harriet _is lying listlessly on a couch or arm chair, before her dressing table._ nancy _is putting finishing touches on her mistress' toilet. the ladies in attendance are grouped near the door in center._) no. 1. chorus. bright as are the stars of heaven, sweet as any april flow'r, gay of heart, of gentle bearing, bless'd with beauty's radiant dower, why so sad and pale with languor grows thy face, o lovely maid? why our friendly circle shunning, dost thou sigh alone, as were some dawning joy delayed? every splendid gift of fortune, all that riches can impart, waits upon the maiden's pleasure, nothing wins her heart. (nancy _takes a bouquet of flowers from one of the ladies and offers it to_ lady h.) nancy. see these flowers sir tristan sent. lady harriet (_pushing flowers away_). i've no heart for lovers' folly, every pleasure is at end. cho. bright as are the stars of heaven, etc. nancy. every splendid gift of fortune, etc. lady h. ah, there's naught can win my sad and weary heart. all your words are vain. (_ladies in waiting leave stage._) (nancy _holds hand mirror before_ lady h.) no. 2. nan. every heart with love inflaming, you the queen's gay court adorn, tho' from all a tribute claiming, think not love alone to scorn. pastimes for your pleasure framing, we all labor night and day, sorrow still your soul is weighing, all your thoughts to sadness bend, if i fail in grief allaying, in its spring your life will end. lady h. on my heart 'tis preying, (_she sits up_) love, wealth, fame, not weighing, in its spring time my life will end. there's naught that charm to life can lend. (lady h. _lies back languidly_.) footman (_enters, speaks_). sir tristan of mickleford, member of the house of lords, knight honored-lady h. (_interrupting_). we'll spare you the rest. (_enter_ sir tristan _with flowers. bows to the ladies, presents flowers, which_ lady h. _looks at carelessly and drops on table beside her. he is an elderly beau very precise in manner. a few of the ladies return, stealing on the stage to watch the scene, remaining at rear._) no. 3. tristan (_sings_). lovely cousin, i implore you, hear my suit and do not chaff. i would say that i adore you- ladies (_near door_). he's too civil, though, by half, he would make a mummy laugh. (ladies _leave stage again one by one_.) tristan. dare i ask you- lady h. don't be foolish. tris. dare i ask it you--o dear! would you deign--disdain--an offer- lady h. for my hand- nancy (_aside_). to box his ear! (lady h. _laughs aside with_ nan.) lady h. ah, sir tristan, he at least can make me smile! nan. ah, sir tristan, he at least can make her smile. tris. o, see already she is smiling, happy omen, well i know, o, if mine could be this treasure, happy man were i, that's so! lady h. ah, he can all my woe beguile. what a funny old beau, ah! a funny beau. tris. (_speaks_). fair cousin, may i ah--dare hope that you--er--will so far condescend to me--uh--uh--as to go for a walk in the park? lady h (_indifferently_). go fetch my fan! tris. (_brings it._ lady h. _fans violently_). would it amuse you to--er--er--let us say--go out for a row on the river? lady h. (_ignoring him, glances round_). it seems very chilly here. shut the window--there's a good man! (tristan _shuts it, trots back to her._) tris. (_rubbing his hands_). shall we go hunting, perhaps? it's a capital day for it. lady h. (_fans herself violently again_). o, how close it is! air--give me air! open the window. tris. why, i just closed it, at your command. (_stands with hands spread out in comical dismay._) lady h. (_impatiently_). open it, open it--don't you hear? quick, air! (_very affectedly_). (tris. _runs, trottingly, to open the window._) nan. (_aside_). my lord is running for the prize. (_here the song of the servants bound for richmond fair is heard outside._) no. 3a. cho. (_singing_). hither come, linger not, fate a home shall allot; she who works and not shirks, finds her fun, when 'tis done. lady h. hear them sing! cho. hither come, take your pick, we will serve through thin and thick, masters kind, come and bind, if we find you to our mind. nan. it's quite amusing! tris. nonsense! you must be mad. nan. you do not find them funny? tris. servants ignorant and bad. lady h. ah, but they are gay and happy! nan. o, the bound girls, i now remember! this is richmond market day. where the servants, flocking yearly, seek new masters, better pay. tris. stupid custom! nan. but 'tis an old one. lady h. (_goes to window_). i might join them. what a thought! how i'd like to go among them, see such curious prizes bought! tris. what a notion! what folly's this? lady h. nancy, get the peasant costumes ready that we wore at the fancy dress ball. (nancy _is busy at chiffonier at one side. tosses bright colored kerchief out._ lady h. _picks it up and throws it over her head as the singing goes on._) tris. you'd degrade yourself like this? lady h. just amuse myself, that's all. hurry nancy, we must run, now at last i'll have some fun! martha (_curtseys_), nancy (_curtseys_) and--old john! (_tosses her kerchief over_ tristan's _head, blinding him._ tris. _is bewildered, kerchief hanging over one eye._) tris. who is john? what old john? lady h. who but you? you are old john! tris. i? i old john? no that's too much. (_snatches off kerchief and throws it down._) lady h. sir tristan, whene'er the fair we woo, sir, with caprices we comply, else we see tears fall in showers, see, dear john, these charming flowers-(_gives him flowers from his own nosegay. he kisses her hand, puts flowers in coat._) lady h. take them, nor my prayer deny! (_lifts skirt at side and dances a step_). with the village people dancing, nancy's partner you're enroll'd. tris. no, in sooth i'm far too old. lady h. stuff! in spite of years advancing, man can do all, if he's bold. nan. (_drags him about stage dancing_). this way, that way, loosely hopping, each one jigging as he can, lumb'ring, stumbling, never stopping, mighty maze without a plan. tris. then, i must- lady h. i command it! tris. but no, i can't. lady h. your paces show! tris. but my rank,- nan. how well you stand it! that's well i vow. (_they all dance and the ladies sing la-la-la._) lady h. danced superbly! nan. what a figure. tris. i shall soon be out of breath. nan. come, more vigor! come, more vigor! tris. this i'm sure will be my death. lady h. and nan. come, old john, come, old john, 'tis we who ask, so come along. tris. this is too much! i, old john? what i? (_all run off stage dancing_, tristan _between the two ladies, who drag him._) _curtain._ act two. (_curtain rises on richmond market place. stall around sides of stage and back. in foreground, tables and benches; side show of some funny sort. tents at one side. country folk walking about, farmers and wives._) no. 4. cho. come, o maidens fair, yes, come, but come with cheerful looks! handsome is as handsome does, the rule that suits our books. hasten, hasten, cheerful maidens, do not linger on the way, soon the hiring fair will open and advancing is the day. done! once the bargain is agreed to neither can undo it. done! faithful servants, kindly masters, neither then will rue it. neatness is the best of graces, smooth of hair come every one; in a row all take your places, soon the choosing will be done. if you'll be but quick and neat and try to do your best, you will find a happy home, and the pay of your deserving. come! find a home, yes, come. (_enter serving maids, arm in arm. farmers go to meet them._) servants' cho. hither come, linger not, fate a home will allot, etc. farmers and wives. come this way, don't delay, we have waited you many a day. serv. oh, not now, but tomorrow, we are tired, we are shy. farmers. handsome is that handsome does, the best rule that ever was. (_farmers and wives try to bring servants into a line forward on stage. the servants hold back._) serv. since the day how we have run, now we shall know, just where each girl is going to go. now our journey's o'er and here we rest with you at last, after many a mile so long and lone is over past. (_servants scatter about stage, some lying down as if to rest, as_ lionel _and_ plunket _enter. they come on talking._ plunket _is dressed as a peasant farmer and carries a whip. lionel is dressed as a gentleman, but plainly._) plunket. here is a jolly howdoyoudo. what a clatter they make! the farmers are all going to engage servants for the coming year out of this crowd of chattering hussies. it is a good thing to take your time to choose, though, for once the bargain is made you have to stick to it for at least a year. what do you say, lionel? have you picked out your betsy ann? lionel. betsy ann--what do you mean? (_he speaks absently, slowly, and his demeanor throughout is one of dreamy abstraction. he is very grave and pensive, altogether a young man who would be likely to take a love affair very seriously and perhaps lose his mental balance temporarily over it._) plun. i mean our serving girl. you know mother put it in her will that we must keep up the farm together. so now like two good housewives we must fly around and choose a maid. her name may be sally or katy or jane, but i shall call her betsy ann! (_laughs._) lio. i shall always remember your dear mother and be grateful. plun. yes, she was a good woman and a good mother, aye, a good manager, too. she knew how to make the maids attend to their work. lio. but she was kind. she was always so kind to me. plun. yes, she loved you. if you had been her own child she could not have tended you more anxiously. you were a mere baby when your father died and left you in our care. no one could help trying to make up your loss to you, somehow. if i'd a mind i might have been jealous of you. i was always the one who got the scoldings. i suppose mother owed them to me, for i was her own naughty boy! lio. you have always been a real brother to me, plunket. no helpless child could have had a happier fate than to find home with you. plun. you had no one but mother and me, old chap, don't you see? what else could a fellow do but try to keep you heartened up a little? (_laughs with some embarrassment._) lio. and yet even now we do not know who i really am. we shall never know, unless some day my father's ring (_lifts his hand_) may serve to clear up the mystery at last. (_sings._) no. 5. lio. o'er my life from boyhood tender, you have watched with sheltering care, you your all would fain surrender, with the orphan child to share. you fulfilled a father's duty, when he left me to your love, ah, he heard my mother calling, heard her call from heaven above. plun. nor his rank nor name he told us, nor the secret dar'd unseal (_touches_ lionel's _hand_), this his ring one day shall tell it, all the mystery yet reveal. on your finger when he placed it, "this may change his fate," he sighed, "this my ring the queen will honor should misfortune e'er betide." lio. brother mine, 'mid courtly splendors my vain longings ne'er shall rove, ah, no light on earth allures me, save the tender glow of love. no strange joys i'd earn for yonder, peace and sweet content are here, 'mid the fields are simple pleasures, calm affection, tried and dear. (_a bell from the village church gives the signal for the fair to begin. sheriff enters pompously, the farmers and wives and servants flock after him. he is dressed in wig, hat and robe. he has a staff of office. a girl is pushed against him in the crowd. he waves her back majestically, at arm's length and speaks._) sheriff (_speaks_) let the rabble stand back. room for the majesty of the law. ahem! girl (_speaks pertly_). my, ain't he the big wig, though! (_tweaks at his wig from behind and pulls it partly off. his hat falls off. she picks it up and runs._) sheriff. ouch! (_grabs at wig with one hand and runs after the girl, shaking his staff at her. another girl gets in his way; they dodge back and forth, till she puts her two hands, one each side of his face and tries to kiss him._) girl (_speaks_). there, there, old gentleman, don't feel so bad over a bit of our fun! (sheriff _ducks to avoid kiss and leaves wig in her hands_. _he runs wildly about stage, clutching alternately at his bald head, and at the wig, which the girls toss back and forth, while he tries to snatch it. finally one of the farmers catches it and restores it to sheriff. he puts it on and some one brings him his hat._) farmer (_speaks_). young hussies, you must do better than this when you get to working for us. behave yourselves, now! sheriff (_much distressed, almost weeping with rage_). i bind you all over to keep the peace on penalty of 10 shillings fine. (_pounds with his staff._) does the majesty of the law mean naught to ye? silence (_they laugh_), you low bred populace. but what can one expect from populace? pah! they are beneath my notice. (_looks scornfully at them while music begins. a girl laughingly sticks out her tongue at him. he glares at her. she does it again. he looks hastily away and then back. she throws him a kiss, and all the rest follow suit. he scowls, but his face gradually softens into a smirk. the farmers drag the girls back into a line. sheriff unrolls a parchment, that he takes from pocket of his big gown. he sings._) no. 6. sheriff. we, anne, queen of england, greet ye! (_snatches off his hat, farmers do the same._) bonnets off, and mine likewise. i no ceremony spare! we hereby do recognize ev'ry contract good and sound made in richmond market bound; every lass who here is hired, dating from this very day, till the year is full expired, must with her new master stay. if he pay the money down the bargain cannot be undone. have you heard? cho. we know, sir, it is so, sir. sher. now you stand up in a row. (_servants stand in line; he arranges them._) tell us, moll, what you can do. (_one maid steps forward a little, bobs a curtsey._) 1st maid. i can darn, sir, i can sew, sir, i can milk and i can mow, sir. i can bake and mend and make and garden beds i can weed and rake. 1st farmer (_steps forward_). all for just four pounds a year. well, at that she is not dear. (_takes girl one side._) sher. (_to next girl_). now, my lass, what can you do? 2d maid (_curtseys_). i can mend, sir, sew a button, on old socks new feet can put on, i can roast and boil and stew, can churn and chop and also brew. sher. five pounds a year, 'tis for a song, now! 2d farmer (_steps up and leads her aside_). here's my hand, done! come along! sher. come, it's your turn now to speak. 3d maid (_curtseys_). i can clean, sir, i can scrub, sir, i'm a good one at a tub, sir, yes, to every sort of work, my hand i turn and never shirk. sher. kitty bell and johnny snell, and nelly browne and sally towne. cho. of servants. how to care for babes i know, sir, bless 'em, i do love 'em so, sir, i can take the cows to graze, sir, and of poultry know the ways, sir; i can bake and boil and brew, sir, i can sew on buttons, too. men. i'm accustomed pigs to keep, sir, also, horses, cows and sheep, sir, pork and beef in brine i steep, sir, yes, and do the mowing cheap, sir; i can dig a garden bed and make a cabbage grow a head. ha, if you pay the cash, we'll work just like a flash. ho, it's very clear, all settled for a year. ho, now the deed is done, we'll work like fun! (_the servants flock around him as they sing and gather closer and closer till he puts his hands over his ears and tries to get away from them. they crowd around and sing into his face and over his shoulders._) sher. _(with hands at ears_). stop your cackling! you'll make me deaf! farmers. we are ready to choose, but one at a time, please. (_girls drop back into line; farmers move about among them_, lionel _and_ plunket _also, as if bargaining with them_. _enter_ lady harriet, nancy _and_ tristan _in peasant costume_.) lady h. come on, john! courage man! nobody's going to hurt you! nan. come, friend john! don't look so scared. we'll take care of you! tris. john? o, im-pos-si-ble! o, pre-pos-ter-ous! i don't like this one bit. it is most unseemly. yet--where beauty leads, love fain must follow. lady h. how gay they all seem! they at least are happy. tris. i know i am not! i never felt less jolly before (_plaintively_) in all my life. (_aside._) i feel as if i were going to cry. (_face works._) (plunket _and_ lionel _approach the three and stand at a short distance, gazing at_ lady h. _and_ nancy.) plun. jove! there's a brace of darlings! lio. yes, they are very pretty girls. plun. rather slim built for hard work, though. lio. they might do house work? plun. yes, they might serve indoors. i don't know--(_pauses_) tris. see those clodhoppers! how they stare at you. o, do be persuaded to leave this horrid, horrid place. lady h. _and_ nan (_together_). no, indeed. we like it and we are going to stay. tris. i think those fellows are very suspicious looking characters. a pair of rogues. let's go (_urging them by taking their arms_). lady h. i'm not under your orders, sir. it is my pleasure to stay. i'll do exactly as i choose! tris. well, i wash my hands of all responsibility. don't say i didn't warn you. nan (_sees that_ plunket _and_ lionel _are watching her_). those lads have an eye for a good thing, though. (_to_ tristan.) we'll take all the blame. no one shall say that you led us into mischief, poor dear! lady h. yes, cousin, you are exonerated. whatever happens, be it upon my own rash head. but i will not go! (_emphatically._) plun. (_overhears last words_). you hear, sir? she will not go with you. don't annoy the girls any further. (_to girls._) call on us if he bothers you. (_to_ tris., _who looks daggers_.) but cheer up! there are plenty more maids yonder. hi, girls (_turns to the servants_). here's a chap wants a good maid, and he looks as if he could pay well, too. tris. oh! what a beastly joke! he's taking liberties with me! (_he looks scared and affronted._) (lady h. _and_ nancy _laugh together over_ tristan's _plight as the girls come forward and surround him_.) all (_chattering_). i can mow, i can sew, i can reap, i can sweep, i can bake and make, i can boil and stew, i can churn and brew! (_all speak different lines from the part just sung and make a great clatter and confusion._ tristan _dodges among them and runs off, the girls following him_.) lady h. he has taken refuge in flight! nan. let's hope he won't forget us. lady h. (_nervously_). see those men. they are still looking at us. nan. they seem to have taken a fancy to us, that's plain. plun. (_to_ lionel). one of them would be just what we want, i think--the younger one, now. (_nods at_ nancy.) lionel. it would never do to separate them. see how shy they are. lady h. (_to_ nancy). that one seems quite bashful, doesn't he? i wonder how such peasants talk? nan. bad grammar, for one thing. plun. (_to_ lionel). what are you afraid of? go speak to them. lio. i'm afraid to. plun. silly noodle! just watch me. (_advances boldly as if to speak to the ladies, stops suddenly and goes back._) nan. the big one is dumb, too; aren't they stupid! let's go. lady h. (_turns to follow_ tristan). i suppose we'd better- (_hesitates and looks back at the two men._) plun. we must not let such a chance slip. servant girls like those are not found every day. i have taken a fancy to that big one and i don't mean to let her get away. courage, plunket! (_he advances again, again hesitates, and snapping his fingers at himself, advances and speaks._) wait a moment, girls! we've decided we like you. if you're as smart as you look you can have a good place with us for years. lio. yes, for years and years! lady h. you mean as your servants? plun. of course! what else? nan. (_laughing_). ha! ha! ha! what a joke! lio. what is there to laugh at? plun. so long as they do their work, the more they laugh, the better. lady h. _and_ nan. work! we! plun. (_to_ nan.). i'll give you the care of the geese and pigs and chickens. (_to_ lady h.) you shall have charge of the garden--weed it, and gather potatoes and corn. lio. o come! that's too hard for her. let her do housework-plun. and darn our socks and mend our shirts? very well. we'll pay you fifty crowns a year. for extras there'll be a pint of ale on sundays and plum pudding on new years. lady h. who could refuse such a tempting offer? (_laughs._) nan. now i know what i am worth, at last! (_laughs._) plun. _and_ lio. (_eagerly_). you agree? lady h. _and_ nan. yes! yes! we agree! (_they shake hands._) plun. it's a bargain! here's the money down! (lady h. _and_ nan. _each put the money in their purse, laughing together_.) no. 7. lady h. _and_ nan. (_sing_). see what grace they show in mien and bearing, of our sport, i'm bound, i say, to see the end; money's paid and we must keep our bargain, men so courteous never will offend. lio. _and_ plun. two young maids so well set up and charming, ne'er was city girl that equalled these of mine; they are jewels, pretty, kind and cheerful, faith, i'll tell them so, and lose no time. (_at close of quartette_ tristan _comes back to stage, evidently exhausted and much dishevelled; the servants follow him and again surround him_.) tris. oh, i thought i had eluded them! leave off! here's money! ( _throws a purse._) plague on your crazy pack! (_the girls run to divide the money._) ho! what is this? (_he advances toward_ plunket, _who has hold of_ nancy's _arm_.) you forget yourself! forbear! plun. who are you? what do you want? (_a tussel threatens between the two men._ tristan _backs down, afraid_.) lady h. there, there! it's all right! (_to_ tristan.) we are ready to go now. (_takes his arm._) plun. i'd like to see you! with my money in your purse! you stay with us! tris. fellow! do you know who this is? lady h. (_aside to_ tris.) no! no! don't betray me! think what a scandal if this got to court! don't you dare to tell them who i am! nan. (_aside_). we should be disgraced forever. rather die than that! tris. well, come, then. it is time for me to insist. i require you to come with me. (_tries to lead them off._) plun. (_interferes_). not so fast! you belong here. these are my maids, hired and cash paid in advance! ask the sheriff! sheriff (_who has approached during the altercation, after a long confab with one of the other girls at one side_). have you taken the money? lady h. (_draws it out of her purse and flings it at_ lionel). yes. but there it is; i had forgotten it. (lionel _picks it up and offers it back_. _she refuses it. he insists._) sheriff. you took it of your own free will and now it is a bargain. you are bound to serve for one year. highty, tighty! do you think you can play fast and loose with a master in that fashion? no, no! bound you are to him and with him you must go! (_during final chorus_ plun. _drives up his horse and cart and the two girls are handed into the cart_. _they drive away._ tristan _tries to follow, but is restrained by the crowd. if the horse and cart cannot be had, the two girls may dodge about among the crowd, the men following them, and run off at last, the men chasing them_.) no. 7a. finale. chorus. now our journey's o'er and here we rest with you at last, after many a mile so long and lone is over past. (_curtain._) act three. (_the third act opens in the great hall of the farmhouse of_ lionel _and_ plunket. _at one side of stage at back is an outside door; on the other side, a window with bench in front of it. another door is on the left. there are several chairs. a flight of stairs goes up from the right side, back corner. two spinning wheels stand at rear, and farm tools hang about the walls._ _during the instrumental prelude the outside door opens and the two men_, lionel _and_ plunket, _enter, inviting the girls_, lady h. _and_ nancy, _who are behind, to come in. they come in slowly, hesitatingly, half afraid._) no. 8. plun. _and_ lio. (_sing_). come in, my pretty maidens, we've reached our home, you see. lady h. _and_ nan. o, we are in a pretty fix, we only long to flee. how safely to escape them we'll seek from morn till mirk. (_girls sit down_). o, what a shabby dwelling, o, how they'll make us work. lio. _and_ plun. now, look alive! of work don't be afraid. lady h. _and_ nan. there's no hope, i'm afraid. we've come to the end of our jest at last. no. 9. plun. (_points to door at left_). that's the room i mean to give them. lady h. _and_ nan. (_rising_). then good night, then good night. (_starting toward door._) plun. what's that you say? first put everything aright. lady h. o, with cold i'm all a-shiver! nan. o, i quake in every member. lio. both to fainting, seem inclined. plun. why, to spoil them you've a mind. nan. this denouement is provoking. plun. you've not told us your names yet, my maids. lady h. _and_ nan. we! lio. yes, obey! plun. obey at once, no joking. lady h. martha is my name. lio. martha? lady h. (_looks at him_). yes. plun. now, tell yours. nan. (_aside_). mad masquerading! plun. don't you know it? nan. betsy ann! plun. betsy ann? i rather like it! come here, my girl: lend a hand then, will you, betsy? (_pulls off his coat and offers it to her._) take my coat and hang it up. nan. do't yourself! plun. you lazy hussy! lio. come, you frighten her by scolding. speak more gently, say like that- martha, take away my hat. (_holds it toward her._ martha _stamps her foot, slaps hat out of his hand and walks up stage_. _he, bewildered, hangs up his own hat._) lio. o, how have i offended? i cannot understand. yes, i'm awfully perplexed. why should she act so grand? plun. ah, what can be the matter? i do not understand. some secret she is screening, her manner is so grand. nan. ah, on my dignity i stand. they give an order quite off hand! lady h. to tyranny i'll ne'er give in, we'll fight them now, to win. he thinks me strange and haughty but on my right i stand, commanding i must withstand him, resist his harsh demand. no. 10. plun. (_draws spinning wheels to center of stage_). come, your task awaits, the whirring wheel and spindle! lady h. _and_ nan. set us spinning? we're to spin? lio. yes, of course. plun. so begin. how your claims to skill do dwindle. lady h. and nan. ha, ha, ha, spin, sir? plun. (_imitating her laughter in anger_). ha, ha, ha, so set to work and spin your task! what you here for, may i ask? just to hold your hands and chatter? what's the matter? nan. what a clatter. lio. pray be calm, now, they're afraid. plun. peace! come, spin! we won't be cheated. lady h. _and_ nan. how, sir? lio. what? plun. come, come. (_places chairs at spinning wheels._) plun. be seated. (_they sit._) lady h. _and_ nan. 'tis done. plun. good! now then, proceed. (_imitating sound of spinning wheel._) thrum, thrum, thrum. nan. i can't, indeed. lio. here's the distaff, firmly grasp it (_to_ lady h.), 'twixt your fingers seize the skein. lady h. must we with wet fingers clasp it? turn it? no, i won't! how so? in vain. i cannot, i cannot. place yourself then at the wheel. (_the two girls rise and the men sit one at each wheel._) plun. we'll make it reel. all. while the wheel is swiftly spinning round it thus the flax is roll'd, but moistened just at the beginning, that more firmly it may hold. see the wheel so swiftly spinning, to thread the flax is thinning. (nancy _suddenly throws_ plunket's _wheel over and runs off stage by back door_, plunket _after her_.) (lady h. _turns to follow_ nancy. _speaks._) lady h. nan--betsy ann! o stay with me! heavens, she's left me! lio. martha, why are you going? are you afraid to stay alone with me? lady h. afraid? of you? oh, no. (_smiles, but still hesitates._) lio. (_aside_). how could i ever have spoken harshly to her? lady h. (_aside_). where _has_ nancy gone? lio. martha, i will never again ask any toil of you, or any service that you dislike. martha, i never saw any one before that seemed to me so pretty and so sweet! are all girls as lovely as you? lady h. don't you know? lio. i never noticed a girl before. lady h. (_archly_). where have your eyes been? lio. dreaming, i guess. i feel as if i had just awakened to all the beauty and joy there is in the world! lady h. alas! and i feel as if i have already learned how shallow are all earthly joys! (_pensively._) lio. poor little maid! you have had too hard a life. such service has burdened you with care too soon. here you will never again have to labor beyond your strength. i would myself do all disagreeable tasks rather than require them of you. lady h. oh, i am a good-for-nothing. i never did a real day's work in all my life. lio. you must not scold yourself. martha is my servant now, and i would not exchange her for a dozen others. lady h. but can you not see that i am not worth my salt? i shall only be an expense to you. i cannot earn a shilling a week. see my hands. (_shows them._) do they look like useful members? lio. (_takes them in his hands_). so white and soft! surely never servant before had such pretty fingers. not a spot of toil! lady h. and so of course they are of no use to you, and you will not keep me here any longer. you will let them go--this useless pair of hands? lio. i cannot let them go! lady h. (_tries to withdraw her hands_). but if i work they will become hard and stained. i have never been taught-lio. never worked before? then i will teach you and share your every task. what _can_ you do? lady h. i can sing a little. lio. and you can smile. (_he looks at her; her eyes fall._) lady h. sing and smile! a working maid must do something more than that. lio. if you will stay with me here and smile and sing, you shall see how pleasant you will find it. you shall have no rough tasks. you shall have only kindness and happiness. you shall be like a sister in this house. these little hands will dispense blessing and peace. (_kisses them._) lady h. (_draws her hands away and walks to the door. he follows._) is it thus that masters treat a servant? (_with dignity._) lio. forgive me! i have forgotten everything. o, would that your station were different--or mine! lady h. (_turns back_). my station?--(_recollects herself_). but i am only a serving lass! (_she laughs and returns down stage._) lio. and so you must do what i bid you. i require of you a song. lady h. oh, i am too shy to sing. lio. (_takes the flowers from her dress_). i'll exchange this nosegay for a song. (_music of "last rose of summer" may be played softly here._) lady h. ah! you jest. lio. no, i command! lady h. (_coldly_). command, sir? lio. nay, i entreat (_kneels, laughingly_). (lady h. _takes one of the flowers he offers, and plays with it as she sings_. _he puts the other flowers presently into the breast of his coat._) lady h. ah, your entreaty i cannot withstand. (_sings._) no. 11. lady h. (_sings_). 'tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone; all her lovely companions are faded and gone. no flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh, to reflect back her blushes or give sigh for sigh. i'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem, since the lovely are faded, go sleep thou with them. thus kindly i'll scatter thy leaves o'er the bed, where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead. (_aside._) his eyes betray he loves me, spite my lowly seeming lot, my rank i must remember, ah, would 'twere all forgot. his heart is true and loyal, tie me her loves alone, o, would i were the lowly maid he longs to make his own. lio. all my proud rank forgetting for the maid i love alone, i'd lift her from her low estate, and make her all my own. lio. (_speaks_). martha! lady h. master! lio. my heart can no longer be denied. i have loved you from the first moment i saw you yonder at richmond market. martha (_takes her hand again_). lady h. ah, no, no! (_turns her face away._) lio. love at first sight! first love at first sight! lady h. no more, no more! oh, be silent! lio. martha, i shall never love woman but you. (_puts his arm around her._) lady h. (_tries to escape_). oh, i must go, i must go! (_pulls away._) lio. stay and hear me. stay--and be my wife!-lady h. oh, what is he saying? lio. see, i am at your feet--in earnest now! (_kneels._) lady h. (_aside_). oh, how can i elude him? (_begins to laugh._) don't think me heartless, but really (_affectedly_) to see you kneeling there is so funny! lio. but when we are married all difference of birth and station will be wiped out; you will forget that you were once my servant; you will have in me forever a slave! lady h. (_is touched, and then begins to laugh hysterically again_). ha! ha! ha! this is ridiculous! if you only knew how funny you are! (plunket _runs on dragging_ nancy. lionel _rises and_ lady h. _runs toward_ nancy _whom_ plunket _swings on to the stage_.) plun. there, my girl! don't you try that game again! where do you suppose she was? the vixen! in the kitchen, smashing dishes, bottles, glasses, everything she could lay her hands on! she made me look lively, too, before i caught her. my eye! nan. if you don't let me go, i'll scratch it out! plun. (_releasing her_). jupiter! i believe you would! she has spirit. i confess i like to see it. nan. martha, martha, what are we going to do? (_twelve o'clock strikes slowly as they speak._) plun. pooh! what ails you now? my patience is worn out! get to bed, you idle baggage! you are a hard case, that's easy to see. (_quartet follows._) lady h., nan., plun. _and_ lio. midnight chimes sound afar! lio. if the maid her love refuse me, yet i pledge my faithful heart, in her glance faint hope is smiling, bringing comfort ere here we part. nan. of our foolish prank i'm weary, tho' in play 'twas fain begun; yet our childish trick is working pain and sorrow to every one. so good night! plun. now good night and sleep in quiet, tho' you're fractious i am kind, naughty girls to work must settle, learn to mind. now good night, good night. lady h. that to wound his heart i'm fated fills my heart with pity and pain, ah, our mad caprice is working pain and sorrow, all in vain. lio. though her love she refuse me, yet i pledge my faithful heart, so good night, good night! (_girls go out and close door, before orchestral ending. then the men retire after locking the outer door. girls open their door again, peep out, run back, and shut door, etc.; then come out again, watching with finger on lips for interruptions. they speak._) lady h. nancy! nancy. my lady. lady h. this is our chance. nancy. what shall we do? lady h. what do _you_ say? nan. can we escape so--all alone? lady h. we are locked in, besides. nan. what an awful time we are having! lady h. awful day--aw-ful-ler night--the day was bad, but this is worse. we _are_ in a scrape! nan. still--those fellows might be worse! (_looks at_ lady h. _slyly_.) lady h. (_with dignity_). they are well meaning. nan. (_archly_). and polite. lady h. if the queen should hear of it! nan. good bye us! (_a noise is heard outside at window._) lady h. (_grasps_ nancy _and they run across stage to their door_). what is it? o who is coming? nan. steps--a voice--help is near! tristan (_outside whispers loudly_). cousin, cousin! lady h. tristan! o joy! o horrors! nan. what will he think? lady h. he will scold us--and we deserve it. but he will save us! (tristan _enters through the window which girls help him open_.) tris. yes, here i am, faithful still. cousin. (_looks around._) what a vulgar habitation! that i should live to see you in a place like this. (_shudders._) nan. hush! you'll wake everybody up. lady h. don't stop to preach. just go. tris. i have a carriage at the corner. come, make haste. (_they tiptoe about and sing._) no. 12. lady h. _and_ nan. hasten then, to fortune trust our lot, fare thee well, thou humble cot. 'tis our only chance to fly, we'll not stop to say good bye. tris. let's be off now in a hurry, for their anger we'll not worry, 'tis your only chance to fly, we'll not stop to say good bye. (_as the curtain falls they have all three climbed out of window._) _curtain._ act four. (_a forest. a small inn at left._ plunket _and several of his farm hands discovered sitting at table_. plunket _rises and sings his song, the men joining in chorus_.) no. 13. plun. come, can you tell me, read me the riddle, what to our lordly british name gives power and fame--come, say? ha, 'tis old porter, brown and stout, none that is like it round about, the briton's pride, he'll aye confide, in porter's power, whatever betide. yes, hurrah, hurrah for old english ale, the friend in need who can never fail, hurrah,--tra, la, la, la, la, la! listen my lads and tell me truly what in our land you most do prize? what's worth your eyes? come, say? ho! 'tis your nut-brown foaming beer, see how it heaps the beaker here- the briton's pride, he'll aye confide, in porter's power, whatever betide. cho. yes, hurrah! hurrah for the old english ale, etc. (_at close of chorus after_ plunket's _song, horns are heard outside,--the opening strains of the next number. when it stops, at end of second brace, he speaks._) plun. aha! the hunt is up. they told me the queen would hunt today. one of men. yes, with all her ladies. no doubt the men-folk will follow, too! plun. start along, you, then. i'll go in and pay the score. (_men leave stage_, plunket _enters the inn_.) (_as music begins again the court ladies run on in hunting costume. they wear short walking skirts, caps and high boots, perhaps, and all carry long spears._ nancy _is with them_. _she carries a whip instead of a spear, and wears a long riding habit draped up over high boots._) no. 14. chorus. all we ladies of the court are lovers of sport of every sort; every hunting cry we know, as hark tally ho, view tally ho! we can handle dart and bow, o yes, we can dart after a beau; we can shoot and ride and row, can play at ball, dance at them all; with rings and things we prancing go, ho ho! and tally ho! we know, and how to catch a beau! (_girls stroll about stage and sit at table._ nancy _comes forward alone_.) no. 15. nan. (_sings_). gay of heart, i have not known how to weep, how to be sorry and wan; vigil to keep. yet alas, sighs are my portion and pain, tears that flow ever in vain, hindering sleep. there's a voice speaks in my heart night and day, what is the word soft it would say? ah, voice of love so true and deep, ah, soul of faith my answer keep. memory still calls one face to my heart, o light of my life forever thou art; o voice of love so true and deep, face so dear, light of my heart forever thou art. (_she turns to the others who gather round her._) nan. hunters fair, now beware, lest you fall into a snare. haste away, don't delay, lest you lose your pretty prey. love's a sprite soon takes flight, chance and change are his delight; use your eyes, win the prize, ere too soon he flies. love's a hunter, too, they say, draws his bow, alackaday! hit, we're fain to bear the pain, flight is vain. chorus. yes, cupid blind, thy darts are swifter far than wind. (_at end of chorus_ plunket _re-enters from the inn_.) plunket. halloo! there seems to be good game afoot here. i'll see if i have any luck at the chase myself! (_walks towards the ladies._) nan. (_looking around_). where can lady harriet be? she seems to avoid society more than ever. she is very unhappy, and has been so ever since--(_addresses_ plunket) my good man, can you tell me--(_stops in agitation_) plun. what, betsy ann! you? in these togs! nan. (_distantly_). well, my good man, what is it? plun. i am not your good man! but you are my bad maid! just you wait! i'll make you pay for all the trouble you've given me. what are you doing here in this masquerade? nan. are you crazy? plun. no use to pretend! i know you. come along home with me! nan. (_shrieks as he seizes her wrist_). help! help! plun. what a wicked little hussy you are! nan. what an impudent big clodhopper you are! (_the ladies turn back towards_ nancy.) nan. here is game for you, girls. let's see how he will like your spears! (_ladies surround_ plunket _and threaten him_.) chorus (_speaking all together_). we'll give him a taste of our spear points! he won't bother her long! at him, now! there's safety in numbers! (_repeating._) plun. gently, gently--hold on! this is turning the tables in good earnest. ouch!!! those remarks are a little too pointed for me. (_dodges._) i never expected to see myself run from a woman, but here goes! (_he runs off, the ladies after him, shouting incoherently, as above._ nancy _enters inn_.) (_enter_ lionel. _he looks more absent-minded and dreamy than ever. he seems dejected and ill. murmurs to himself._) lio. i will detach thee from thy frail trembling stem. o thou lovely rose of summer, thou shalt lie upon my heart, forever more! (_takes withered flower from his breast and kisses it, then looks around him._) where am i? i feel that i am near her. martha, martha! thou star of my heart! i see her before me, with her beautiful pure smile, radiant in youth and sweetness. o martha, i feel thee near! (_sings._) no. 16. lio. o, when she rose fair on my sight, radiant, lovely, like dawning light, flow'd all my heart forth to her own, tribute to beauty bright. joy reviv'd and my thought sang like woodlands after rain, hope for me shone again, lighting all my hours of pain. gladness made all my heart bright as meadows pearl'd with dew, for i dream'd love's sweet dream ever old, yet young like dawn and ever new! o, when she rose, fair on my sight, etc. martha, martha, must i lose thee, life has naught can peace restore! thou, my comfort, peace and pleasure, reft of thy sweet looks i die! (_at the close of his song_ lionel _goes to the back of stage and stands alone_. sir tristan _and_ lady harriet _enter_.) tris. the ladies are all out of sight. why did you leave their company, fair cousin? lady h. (_pointedly_). because i wished to be alone! tristan. to remain alone--with me? lady h. with you?--(_laughs a little_) alone or with you--it's quite the same thing!--i am low-spirited, that is what i mean. i don't want to see anybody. tris. what should make you so sad? lady h. i am sure i know no more than you about it. it is a mystery even to myself. tris. but to remain alone in this secluded spot--is it quite--er--you know-lady h. but it is exactly what i want. good bye! tris. but i will soon return--soon--soon--(_looks back anxiously as he goes_) lady h. oh, it is so good to be alone, with only my sad memories for company! but if _he_ were only here--this loneliness were sweet. lio. (_wanders down stage and sees her_). ah! that voice! lady h. oh, heaven--what do i see?-lionel. a lady?-lady h. he is here, then--even as i said! lio. 'tis she--even as i said--martha, martha! lady h. o, what shall i do now? how shall i elude him?-lio. o, martha, you have come back to me--o, thank heaven, thank heaven! it is martha, her very self--martha, who ran away from me! lady h. o, how can i bear it! what a tragedy is this! to find--again--and to lose! lio. before mine eyes beheld thee, my heart recognized thee-lady h. recognized me? surely you are mistaken, sir! lio. no! every line of your face is graven on my heart. i cannot be wrong. it is martha's voice that i hear. there can be no mistake. lady h. you are dreaming! lio. if this be a dream, o let me never awake from it! ah, i would dream thus forever. disturb not so sweet a slumber! lady h. o go, i beg you go! lio. no, no. in my dream let me take your hand, as i did once--do you remember? let me kiss it--thus--to tell my love. lady h. i can no longer tolerate such gross impertinence. will you go, sir? lio. wherefore this pretence? why do you disown me? lady h. hence, peasant clown--begone! lio. i, a peasant? i, your master? patience is thrown away on you! i have been too gentle. now i _command_ you to come instantly with me! (_takes her arm._) lady h. tristan--help, help! (tristan _comes hurrying in, afterward followed by the others_.) tris. what has alarmed you? speak! lady h. help me--save me from that fellow! tris. who dares to-lio. my lord, this is my servant, and i have a right to take her hence. tris. listen to the brazen impudence of the fellow! it is really too horrid, don't you know? it fairly makes me shudder. the most unheard of audacity--come here--all of you. (_summoning the rest. they sing._) no. 17. cho. how audacious, rude and daring, to insult a lady so, 'tis a scandal past declaring, off to jail the clown must go. lady h. ah, 'tis agony and rapture, that he loves me is too true, i'm consenting to his capture, o my heart, what can i do? cho. insolent beyond expression thus upon our sports to break, for his terrible transgression signal vengeance let us take. lio. ah, 'tis agony and rapture, thus once more her face to view, she's consenting to my capture, break, then, heart, what else canst do? (plunket _enters at close of chorus and sees_ lionel _held by men_. _sings._) plun. hold! pray tell me what this means? lio. come, defend me! (nancy _enters from inn_.) nan. what's occur'd? lio. betsy, too? plun. betsy, too. nan. don't be afraid, my lady. lio. lady? now all is clear. all her charm, her kindly manner were caprice and cruel sport to amuse a lady's leisure hour- o, just heaven, how harsh thou art. lady h. pity for this fellow asking his free pardon let me crave; in his brain is madness masking, that is why his fancies rave. cho. (_starting back_). madness? madness? lio. o, what falseness! nan. o, poor creature! plun. list, i pray. tris. no, no, away. tris. (_speaks_). arrest that madman! plun. _and_ lio. arrest him? arrest me? (_he is seized._) lady h. o, this is agony! (_aside._) nan. o, this is too hard! (_aside._) lio. but she agreed to it--she pledged herself. lady h. (_aside_ to lionel). in the name of pity, be silent! lio. she accepted the earnest money. she bound herself to serve me for a year. cho. (_laughing and chattering suddenly_). how absurd! ha! ha! ha! it really is too funny! (_repeating._) lady h. o, but let him be treated kindly. it is plain that the poor man is distraught. he is out of his senses. he does not know what he is saying. lio. o cruel, o false! nan. (_aside_). poor fellow. plun. (_to_ lionel). a word with you. tris. away, varlet! (_trumpets are heard outside._) the queen is approaching! lio. the queen! ah! her coming brings me hope! (_takes ring from his finger and gives it to_ plunket.) this is the ring which my father left for me. he told you that if i ever should be in trouble this ring must be presented to the queen. she will recognize it and will send me aid at once. now is the hour which my father foresaw--o, unhappy day! now is the hour to redeem the pledge he left with us, the pledge of his honor and mine. (_turns to_ lady h. _and gazes at her longingly_.) as for you, how shall i bear the memory of your treachery? (_sings._) no. 18. finale. lio. heav'n forgive this cruel scorning, all my anguish pardon you, you, my life's one best beloved, teach me hearts can prove untrue. lady h. heav'n forgive my faithless heart, forgive my scorning, all his anguish pardon me. lio. cruel girl, does it add to your joy to wound the heart that loves you well? my wild grief, my deep despairing, must my love and madness tell. cho. just rebuke of his offences, shall not cause so much dismay. off to prison let's despatch him, so our sport no longer delay. lady h. ah, i wound a heart that loves me well. (_curtain falls as_ lionel _is led off under arrest, and_ lady h. _steps into a sedan chair which has been brought on. tableau._) act five. (_curtain rises on richmond fair scene, set as before. the courtiers, all dressed as farmers and maid servants, are standing about._) no. 18a. cho. i can sew, sir, i can scrub, sir, i'm a good one at a tub, sir, yes, to every sort of work my hand i turn and never shirk, etc. (_as before_). (lady harriet, nancy _and_ plunket _enter and come down front while chorus sings_. lionel _enters from the other side and wanders about among the booths, not looking at anything or anyone, wrapped in a deep reverie. he is plainly distraught, utterly unbalanced by the sad experience he has had._ lady h. _and_ nan. _are in their hunting costumes_.) plun. poor lionel! he seems quite lost to me! he avoids me, seeks solitude, or if he does approach his fellow men he utterly ignores their presence, as now. nancy. does he seem to have no moments when he knows you? plun. not so far. ever since the queen recognized the ring i gave her and restored him to his rightful place and name as earl of derby he seems to think he is no more himself. all the past is wiped away from his thought and he wanders about in a daze or dream. lady h. and i am the one who is to blame! plun. yes--and no. nancy here did by me much what you did by lionel, but it did not drive me crazy. so after all it is partly lionel's strange nature that is to blame. he was always a queer lad, sensitive to a fault. nan. did you really think i meant the girls to stick their spears into you? i was furious with them! lady h. it was my hope that if lionel found himself again in the midst of this familiar scene where first we met he might recognize me and come to himself again. nancy. but not when you are in those clothes. this is the costume you wore when you were so cruel to him. lady h. that is true. i had forgotten, in my zeal to get all the rest of them ready. but here he comes. o, lionel, don't you know me? (_he repulses her._) no. 19. lio. when i first that hand did claim, was i not repulsed with laughter? did that hand not heavy chains heap upon me, heedless after? no, this hand which yesterday, but yesterday did drive me forth, though today 'tis kind again ah, to me 'tis nothing worth! lady h. o, he is cruel! lio. love is turned to hate! i thought her sent by heav'n to bless, to shed around her happiness; what deep and glowing ecstasy filled all my heart when first she smiled on me! lady h. oh, can these eyes, grown dim with grief, and wan with tears, seek to betray you? oh, doubt me not, for i am thine. lio. i ne'er again can call thee mine! dead for aye my trust in thee hateful art thou grown to me! (lionel _rushes off the stage_. lady h. _sinks weeping into the arms of_ nancy.) plun. courage, my lady! i see in this very frenzy a hopeful change. his apathy and indifference were far worse. at least you waked him up. better luck next time. nan. go, my lady, and come back again in the simple little dress of martha. when he sees you so it will call up the old memories and then--if you sing to him--surely his strange hallucination will not continue. (lady h. _goes off_.) plun. poor lass, my heart aches for her--or it would, if it were not so busy aching for itself. nan. yes, it is hardest of all for you--you have loved lord lionel so long. plun. to tell the truth i was not thinking wholly of lionel, either! nan. (_demurely_). you have troubles of your own? plun. you know very well what i mean!--i shall be so lonely when he leaves me to go and live on his grand estates.--will you think of me sometimes, miss nancy, sitting all alone in my poor farmhouse? nan. ye-es, perhaps--i don't know. i shall think how you sit and si-i-igh--like that. (_sighs in mock-serious fashion._) ah-h-h! plun. you needn't laugh. it is a serious matter. i am very much to be pitied. nan. if you could only--(_hesitates_) plun. what is she going to say now, the witch? (_aside._) nan. if you could--couldn't you get some one to come and live with you--a friend, perhaps--or even--a wife--now! just let your imagination work a little. plun. that's so, i _might_ get somebody to marry me! that would be a good idea. i have a pretty neighbor--a farmer's daughter-nan. o, indeed! a farmer's daughter? a good steady girl, i've no doubt, who would always do exactly what you told her. that's an excellent idea. marry her by all means! plun. will you dance at the wedding? nan. certainly--and who with a lighter heart? remember to send me an invitation. plun. no, i won't, you little minx! nan. won't invite me? plun. won't marry her. nan. why not? plun. i am not in love with her. nan. but you will find plenty of other handsome lasses. plun. the more i search, the less i find. nan. o, indeed. how unfortunate--for the girls! plun. none of them suit me. you see, i had a maid once--a little serving maid--the gayest, prettiest creature--but she ran away from me-nan. perhaps you were not kind to her? plun. kind, i? i was kindness itself! i was _too_ kind! i _killed_ her with kindness! nan. well, that's the trouble, then. a girl needs a good firm upstanding sort of a way, to keep her in her place. don't be too easy,--take my advice. but tell me about your servant. plun. o, i don't know as she was so much, after all. but i found her amusing. she was a well-meaning sort of creature, and rather good looking, but she couldn't do a thing! she could not knit or spin, she could only laugh and joke.--but ignorant as she was, she knew one thing. nan. what was that? plun. how to make me miss her! nan. perhaps she misses you! plun. (_starts toward her_). nancy--my little betsy ann! nan. and though she does not know the things you say, though she is a poor silly creature who never did a useful thing in all her life--could she not learn? plun. don't torment me, girl. do you mean what you say? nan. (_laughing at him_). certainly i mean it. what clever girl could not learn those things--if she really-plun. really--what?-nan. o, if it were worth while! plun. o nancy, is it worth while?--but no, we must not think of ourselves while lionel is in such a state--my poor lionel! until he is right again my home is his. nan. (_walking off a little stiffly_). o, keep your old home! nobody wants it! plun. (_goes after her and speaks in her ear_). i mean to keep it--and you! nan. if you can! plun. i can. a voice whispers in my heart! nan. what is the voice that whispers in your heart? plun. it is the voice of love. (lady h. _returns in peasant costume. she goes up to the groups of farmers and begins to arrange them in the old order. speaks._) lady h. arrange everything just as it was before. bring the big chair for the sheriff. don't look at lionel. pretend to be all occupied with the business of the day. nan. (_looking off_). here he comes, with his sad and gentle look. sing to him, my lady. (_music begins with_ nancy's _speech_. lady h. _sings_.) no. 20. lady h. now the april day returning girds the earth with living green; as the moon shines clearer, fairer, spring's new loveliness is seen. laughing flowers that gem the meadows, with the stars in beauty vie, while the nightingale with singing, tells his love to earth and sky. lio. heaven! martha's singing! lady h. (_approaches him timidly_). see, 'tis martha. cho. see, he knows her! sadly, but mildly meets her glances and our advances. (lionel _moves about among the supposed servants in wonderment_.) (nancy _steps from among them_.) nan. now hither troop both young and old the village clock the hour has told! i can darn, sir, i can sew, sir, i can milk and i can mow, sir, i can bake and mend and make, and garden beds can hoe and rake. cho. yes, i can clean, sir, i can scrub, sir, i'm a good one at the tub, sir (_etc., as before_). plun. (_to_ lionel). come, this way, we'll choose a servant; come with me. lio. (_passes his hand over his brow in bewilderment_). o, what is it? plun. why, the servants who at richmond market gather. come, then, choose which one you'd rather. (_they approach_ lady harriet _and_ nancy. lionel _stands and gazes at_ lady h. _he speaks._) lio. (_perplexed_). martha, martha! is it you? tell me that this is indeed you! tell me that it is no dream. we are together at last! lady h. lionel, i am martha, and your humble, loving servant. you know what has come to you, fortune and a splendid name. but before i knew of this, my heart repented. i was ready to go to you in your prison and claim you as my love. then you were set free without my aid--o wretched, cruel girl that i was! lionel, i am fairly punished for my worldly pride, my cruel impulse. but life is hard for girls. think how they might all have scorned me if i confessed to having been a servant! but now i care for nothing--only you. lio. let all the past be forgotten. joy smiles at last. at last my dreams have all come true. plun. (_to_ nancy). and what can you do, you useless bit of baggage? nancy (_hums_). i can cook, sir, i can bake, sir,-plun. (_laughing_). you are jesting. you are my own little good-for-nothing. nan. if my master is obstinate--i can bring him to reason. plun. you will suit me, after all. you will make an excellent farmer's wife. come along. nan. there! (_she boxes his ear._) take that as an earnest. lady h. _sings_. no. 21. finale. lady h. now the april days returning gird the spring in living green. lio. as the moon shines clearer, fairer, spring's new loveliness is seen. lady h. _and_ lio. while the nightingale with singing, tells his love to earth and sky, sounds at last love's hour of promise, hour of hope and nuptial joy. cho. sounds at last love's hour of promise, hour of hope and nuptial joy. _curtain._ end. _love's sacrifice_ _a pastoral opera in one act for mixed or unchanged voices_ _libretto by david stevens_ _music by george w. chadwick_ _time of performance, thirty minutes_ price $1.00 _"i have been over 'love's sacrifice' with much interest. it is a truly beautiful work and i am prepared to believe that, as you said, it was written under inspiration. it is chadwick in a new vein, a little grand opera, and, so far as i am aware, the first of its kind in the country. please congratulate mr. chadwick on the truly inspirational quality of the work." from a leading american composer._ _c. c. birchard & company_ _boston_ school and community music h-high; g-grammar; l-lower the laurel octavo (sheet music) g &-assembly praise book (_non-sectarian hymns_) lewis and maxwell $0.35 junior laurel songs armitage _students' edition_ .55 _special edition_ .55 _teachers' edition_ 2.00 laurel music reader tomlins g &- _students' edition_ .60 _regular edition_ .70 _teachers' edition_ 2.00 laurel song book tomlins 1.00 laurel songs for girls armitage _students' edition_ .80 _teachers' edition_ 2.00 laurel unison book for boys armitage _students' edition_ .60 _teachers' edition_ 2.00 one hundred folk songs gilbert .60 school song book mcconathy g &- _students' edition_ .65 _teachers' edition_ 2.00 standard songs series (pamphlets) viz: no. 1 popular songs, _vocal edition_ .15 g &- _piano edition_ .50 no. 2 18 community songs, _vocal edition_ .05 l g &- _piano edition_ .30 no. 3 20 best hymns .05 g &- no. 4 christmas songs and carols .20 g &- no. 5 oratorio choruses .20 no. 6 opera choruses, _vocal edition_ .15 _piano edition_ .50 no. 7 hymns and patriotic songs .12 g &- no. 8 part songs for girls' voices .15 no. 9 part songs for boys' voices .20 no. 10 standard songs for community singing .25 55 songs and choruses for community singing, _vocal edition_ .10 g &- _piano edition_ .25 cantatas, operettas, etc. contest of the nations (operetta) page 1.00 hiawatha's childhood (operetta) whiteley l g &- _vocal edition_ .20 _piano edition_ .60 love's sacrifice (pastoral opera) chadwick 1.00 g &-melilotte (operetta) stevens .60 l g &-mother goose arabesque (cantata) tukey l &- _vocal edition_ .15 _piano edition_ .50 peace pipe (cantata) converse 1.00 pied piper (operetta) whiteley h &-queen of the garden (operetta) bullard .60 l g &-spring rapture (cantata) _vocal edition_ gaul .20 g &- _piano edition_ .65 wreck of the hesperus (cantata) mills .50 school editions of carmen, tannhauser, martha, bohemian girl, aida, il trovatore. master musician series earhart and birge .20 masterpieces of dramatic music (selections from standard operas) c. c. birchard & company, boston, mass. * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation corrected without comment. archaic spellings retained. the "page" numbers in the table of contents do not refer to actual pages but rather lines of dialog. in advertisment on last page, the right side of page was cut off, last letter not discernible, replaced with em-dash. libretto: la bohème an opera in four acts libretto by g. giacosa and l. illica english version by w. grist and p. pinkerton music by giacomo puccini characters rudolph (a poet) tenor schaunard (a musician) baritone benoit (a landlord) bass mimi soprano parpignol tenor marcel (a painter) baritone colline (a philosopher) bass alcindoro (a councilor of state) bass musetta soprano custom-house sergeant bass students, work girls, citizens, shopkeepers, street vendors, soldiers, restaurant waiters, boys, girls, etc. time about 1830--in paris synopsis the opera is founded on henri murger's book "la vie de bohème." act i rudolph and marcel are sitting in the latter's attic-studio in the quartier latin, in paris. marcel is absorbed in his painting. the day is cold. they have no money to buy coal. marcel takes a chair to burn it, when rudolph remembers that he has a manuscript which has been rejected by the publishers and lights a fire with that instead. colline enters, looking abject and miserable. he had gone out to pawn his books, but nobody wanted them. their friend, schaunard, however, had better luck. he comes bringing fuel and provisions. they all prepare their meal, when the landlord enters and demands the payment of his rent. the friends offer him a glass of wine and turn him out amidst joking and laughter. after their gay repast they separate and rudolph remains alone writing. a knock is heard at the door and mimi, a little seamstress, who lives on the same floor, appears and asks rudolph to give her a match to light her candle. as she is about to go out, she falls in a faint. rudolph gives her wine and restores her to consciousness. she tells him that she suffers from consumption. rudolph is struck by her beauty and her delicate hands. she notices that she has lost her key and whilst they search for it their candles are extinguished. as they grope on the floor in the dark, rudolph finds the key and puts it in his pocket. their hands meet and rudolph tries to warm her hands and tells her all about his life. mimi confides her struggles to him and their conversation soon turns upon their love for each other. act ii rudolph's friends have repaired to their favorite café. it is christmas eve and everyone is in festive spirits. all the shops are bright and displaying their goods. hawkers offer their goods for sale in the streets. rudolph and mimi are seen entering a milliner's where rudolph is to buy her a new hat. colline, schaunard and marcel take their seats in front of the café, where a table has been prepared for them. rudolph introduces mimi to his friends. musetta, marcel's flame, with whom he has quarrelled, now enters with alcindoro. marcel is deeply moved when he sees her. musetta notices this and sends alcindoro on an errand. whilst he is away, she makes peace with marcel. the friends find that they have not sufficient money to pay for their supper, so they carry off musetta and leave their bills to be paid by alcindoro. act iii months have elapsed, bringing joy and misery to rudolph and mimi. rudolph loves mimi passionately, but is consumed with jealousy. on a wintry day, marcel is seen leaving a tavern near the gates of paris. he meets mimi; she looks pale and haggard. she asks marcel to help her and tells him of rudolph's love and jealousy, explaining that she must leave him. rudolph now comes upon the scene and not seeing mimi tells of all the miseries of their lives; how he loves her and believes her to be dying of consumption. mimi's cough betrays her and although she says good-bye to rudolph they find they cannot part and determine to await the spring. meanwhile musetta and marcel have a violent quarrel. act iv marcel and rudolph are now living together in their attic-studio. musetta and mimi have left them. they are seemingly working, but their thoughts wander towards the women they love. schaunard and colline enter with rolls and a herring for their meal. they have a wild time and are dancing and singing when musetta enters and tells them that mimi is outside so weak and ill that she can go no further. they make up a bed on the couch for her and bring her in. she clings to rudolph and implores him not to leave her. mimi reconciles marcel and musetta. musetta tells her old friends that mimi is dying and gives them her earrings to sell, asking them to get a doctor for mimi. they all go out leaving rudolph alone with mimi. he holds her in his arms and recalls their love. mimi is seized with a fit of coughing and falls back in a faint. musetta returns with medicine. mimi regains consciousness and turning to rudolph tells him of her love. musetta falls upon her knees in prayer and mimi passes away in rudolph's arms. _...rain or dust, cold or heat, nothing stops these bold adventurers. their existence of every day is a work of genius, a daily problem which they always contrive to solve with the aid of bold mathematics. when want presses them, abstemious as anchorites--but, if a little fortune falls into their hands, see them ride forth on the most ruinous fancies, loving the fairest and youngest, drinking the oldest and best wines, and not finding enough windows whence to throw their money; then--the last crown dead and buried--they begin again to dine at the table d'hôte of chance, where their cover is always laid; smugglers of all the industries which spring from art; in chase, from morning till night, of that wild animal which is called the crown. "bohemia" has a special dialect, a distinct jargon of its own. this vocabulary is the hell of rhetoric and the paradise of neologism_. _a gay life; yet a terrible one_! (il. murger, preface to "vie de bohème")[1] [footnote 1: rather than follow murger's novel step by step, the authors of the present libretto, both for reasons of musical and dramatic effect, have sought to derive inspiration from the french writer's admirable preface. although they have faithfully portrayed the characters, even displaying a certain fastidiousness as to sundry local details; albeit in the scenic development of the opera they have followed murger's method of dividing the libretto into four separate acts, in the dramatic and comic episodes they have claimed that ample and entire freedom of action, which, rightly or wrongly, they deemed necessary to the proper scenic presentment of a novel the most free, perhaps, in modern literature. yet, in this strange book, if the characters of each person therein stand out clear and sharply defined, we often may perceive that one and the same temperament bears different names, and that it is incarnated, so to speak, in two different persons. who cannot detect in the delicate profile of one woman the personality both of mimi and of francine? who, as he reads of mimi's "little hands, whiter than those of the goddess of ease," is not reminded of francine's little muff? the authors deem it their duty to point out this identity of character. it has seemed to them that these two mirthful, fragile, and unhappy creatures in this comedy of bohemian life might haply figure as one person, whose name should not be mimi, not francine, but "the ideal."] act i "...mimi was a charming girl specially apt to appeal to rudolph, the poet and dreamer. aged twenty-two, she was slight and graceful. her face reminded one of some sketch of high-born beauty; its features had marvellous refinement. "the hot, impetuous blood of youth coursed through her veins, giving a rosy hue to her clear complexion that had the white velvety bloom of the camellia. "this frail beauty allured rudolph. but what wholly served to enchant him were mimi's tiny hands, that, despite her household duties, she contrived to keep whiter even than the goddess of ease." act i in the attic _spacious window, from which one sees an expanse of snow-clad roofs. on left, a fireplace, a table, small cupboard, a little book-case, four chairs, a picture easel, a bed, a few books, many packs of cards, two candlesticks. door in the middle, another on left._ _curtain rises quickly_ rudolph and marcel. rudolph _looks pensively out of the window._ marcel _works at his painting, "the passage of the red sea," with hands nipped with cold, and warms them by blowing on them from time to time, often changing position on account of the frost._ mar. (_seated, continuing to paint_) this red sea passage feels as damp and chill to me as if adown my back a stream were flowing. (_goes a little way back from the easel to look at the picture._) but in revenge a pharaoh will i drown. (_turning to his work._) and you? (to rudolph) rud. (_pointing to the tireless stove_) lazily rising, see how the smoke from thousands of chimneys floats upward! and yet that stove of ours no fuel seems to need, the idle rascal, content to live in ease, just like a lord! mar. 'tis now a good, long while since we paid his lawful wages. rud. of what use are the forests all white under the snow? mar. now rudolph, let me tell you a fact that overcomes me, i'm simply frozen! rud. (_approaching_ marcel) and i, marcel, to be quite candid, i've no faith in the sweat of my brow. mar. all my fingers are frozen just as if they'd been touching that iceberg, touching that block of marble, the heart of false musetta. (_heaves a long sigh, laying aside his palette and brushes, and ceases painting.)_ rud. ah! love's a stove consuming a deal of fuel! mar. too quickly. rud. where the man does the burning. mar. and the woman the lighting. rud. while the one turns to ashes. mar. so the other stands and watches. rud. meanwhile, in here we're frozen. mar. and we're dying of hunger. rud. a fire must be lighted. mar. (_seizing a chair and about to break it up_) i have it, this crazy chair shall save us! (_rudolph energetically resists_ marcel's _project_.) rud. (_joyous at an idea that has seized him_) eureka! (_runs to the table and from below it lifts a bulky manuscript._) mar. you've found it? rud. yes. when genius is roused ideas come fast in flashes. mar. (_pointing to his picture_) let's burn up the "red sea." rud. no: think what a stench 'twould occasion! but my drama, my beautiful drama shall give us warmth. mar. (_with comic terror_) intend you to read it? twill chill us! rud. no. the paper in flame shall be burning, the soul to its heaven returning. (_with tragic emphasis_) great loss! but the world yet must bear it, when rome is in peril! mar. great soul! rud. (_giving _marcel_ a portion of the ms._) here, take the first act. mar. well? rud. tear it. mar. and light it. (rudolph _strikes a flint on steel, lights a candle, and goes to the stove with_ marcel; _together they set fire to a part of the ms. thrown into the fireplace; then both draw up their chairs and sit down, delightedly warming themselves._) rud. how joyous the rays! mar. how cheerful the blaze! (_the door at the back opens violently, and_ colline _enters frozen and nipped up, stamping his feet, and throwing angrily on the table a bundle of books tied up in a handkerchief_.) col. surely miracles apocalyptic are dawning! for christmas eve they honor by allowing no pawning! (_checks himself, seeing a fire in the stove._) see i a fire here? rud. (_to_ colline) gently, it is my drama. col. in blazes! i find it very sparkling. rud. brilliant! (_the fire languishes_) col. too short its phrases. rud. brevity's deemed a treasure. col. (_taking the chair from_ rudolph) your chair pray give me, author. mar. these foolish entr'actes merely make us shiver. quickly! rud. (_taking another portion of the_ ms.) here is the next act. mar. (_to_ colline) hush! not a whisper. (rudolph _tears up the_ ms. _and throws it into the fireplace; the flames revive._ colline _moves his chair nearer and warms his hands._ rudolph _is standing near the two with the rest of the_ ms.) col. how deep the thought is! mar. color how true! rud. in that blue smoke my drama is dying full of its love-scenes ardent and new. col. a leaf see crackle! mar. those were all the kisses. rud. (_throwing the remaining_ ms. _on the fire_) three acts at once i desire to hear. col. only the daring can dream such visions. rud., mar. and col. dreams that in flame soon disappear. (_applaud enthusiastically; the flame diminishes._) mar. ye gods! see the leaves well-nigh perished. col. how vain is the drama we cherished. mar. they crackle! they curl up! they die! mar. and col. the author--down with him, we cry. (_from the middle door two boys enter, carrying provisions and fuel; the three friends turn, and with a surprised cry, seize the provisions and place them on the table._ colline _carries the wood to the fireplace._) rud. fuel! mar. wine, too! col. cigars! rud. fuel! mar. bordeaux! rud., mar. and col. the abundance of a feast day we are destined yet to know. (_exeunt the two boys_) (_enter_ schaunard.) sch. (_triumphantly throwing some coins on the ground_) such wealth in the balance outweighs the bank of france. col. (_assisting_ rudolph _and_ marcel _to pick up the coins_) then, take them--then, take them. mar. (_incredulously_) tin medals? inspect them. sch. (_showing one to_ marcel) you're deaf then, or blear-eyed? what face do they show? rud. (_bowing_) king louis philippe: to my monarch i bow. rud., mar., sch. and col. shall king louis philippe at our feet thus lie low? (schaunard _will go on recounting his good luck, but the others continue to arrange everything on the table._) sch. now i'll explain. this gold has--or rather silver-has its own noble story. mar. first the stove to replenish. col. so much cold has he suffered, sch. 'twas an englishman, then-lord, or mi-lord, as may be-desired a musician. mar. (_throwing_ colline's _books from the table_) off! let us furnish the table. sch. i flew to him. rud. where is the food? col. there. mar. here. sch. i pay my homage. accepted, i enquire-col. (_preparing the viands on the table while_ rudolph _lights the other candle_) here's cold roast beef. mar. and savory patty. sch. when shall we start the lessons? when i seek him, in answer to my question, "when shall we start the lessons?" he tells me "now--at once. just look there," showing a parrot on the first floor, hung, then continues: "you must play until that bird has ceased to live." thus it befell: three days i play and yell. rud. brilliantly lightens the room into splendor. mar. here are the candles. col. what lovely pastry! sch. then on the servant girl try all the charms wherewith i'm laden; i fascinate the maiden. mar. with no tablecloth eat we-rud. (taking a paper from his pocket) an idea! col. and mar. the constitutional. rud. (unfolding the paper) excellent paper! one eats a meal and swallows news at the same time! sch. with parsley i approach the bird, his beak lorito opens; lorito's wings outspread, lorito opens his beak, a little piece of parsley gulps-as socrates, is dead! (schaunard, seeing that no one is paying any attention to him, seizes colline as he passes with a plate.) col. who? sch. (pettishly) the devil fly away with you entirely! (seeing the rest in the act of eating the cold pastry) what are you doing? (with solemn gesture, extending his hand over the pastry) no! dainties of this kind are but the stored-up fodder saved for the morrow, fraught with gloom and sorrow, (clearing the table) to dine at home on the day of christmas vigil, while the quartier latin embellishes its ways with dainty food and tempting relishes. meanwhile the smell of savory fritters the old street fills with fragrant odor. there singing joyously, merry maidens hover, having for echo each a student lover. (rudolph locks the door; then all go to the table and pour out wine.) rud., mar. and col. 'tis the gladsome christmas eve. sch. a little of religion, comrades, i pray; within doors drink we, but we dine away. (two knocks are heard at the door.) ben. (from without) 'tis i. mar. who is there? ben. 'tis benoit. mar. 'tis the landlord is knocking! sch. bolt the door quickly! col. (calling towards the door) no! there is no one! sch. 'tis fastened! ben. give me a word, pray! sch. (opening the door, after consulting with his friends) at once. ben. (entering smilingly, showing a paper to marcel) the rent! mar. (with great cordiality) hallo! give him a seat, friends! ben. do not trouble, i beg you. sch. (with gentle firmness, obliging benoit to sit down) sit down! mar. (offering benoit a glass of wine) some bordeaux? rud. your health! ben. thank you. col. your health! sch. drink up! rud. good health! (all drink) ben. (to marcel, putting down his glass and showing his paper.) 'tis the quarter's rent i call for. mar. (ingenuously) glad to hear it. ben. and therefore-sch. (interrupting) another tipple? (fills up the glasses) ben. thank you. rud. your health! col. your health! rud., mar., sch. and col. (all touching benoit's glass) drink we all your health, sir! (all drink) ben. (resuming, to marcel) to you i come, as the quarter now is ended; you have promised, mar. to keep it i intended. (shows benoit the money on the table.) rud. (aside to marcel) art mad? sch. (aside to marcel) what do you-mar. (to benoit, without noticing the two) hast seen it? then give your care a respite, and join our friendly circle. tell me how many years boast you of, my dear sir? ben. my years! spare me, i pray. rud. our own age, less or more? ben. (protesting) much more, very much more. (while they make benoit talk, they fill up his glass immediately it is empty.) col. he says 'tis less or more. mar. (mischievously, in a low voice) t'other evening at mabille i caught him in a passage of love. ben. (uneasily) me! mar. at mabille. t'other evening i caught you. deny? ben. by chance 'twas. mar. (in a flattering tone) she was lovely! ben. (half drunk, suddenly) ah! very. sch. old rascal! rud. old rascal! col. vile seducer! sch. old rascal! mar. he's an oak tree. he's a cannon. rud. he has good taste, then? ben. (laughing) ha, ha! mar. her hair was curly auburn. col. old knave! mar. with ardent speed leaped he joyous to her embraces. ben. (with increasing exultation) old am i, but robust yet. rud., sch. and col. ardent with joy he sprang to her embraces. mar. to him she yields her woman's love and truth. ben. (in a very confidential tone) bashful was i in youth, now somewhat am i altered. well, what i like myself ... must know that my one delight ... is a merry damsel,--and small, i do not ask a whale, nor a world-map to study, nor, like a full moon, a face round and ruddy; but leanness, downright leanness, no! no! lean women's claws oftentimes are scratchy, their temper somewhat catchy, full of aches, too, and mourning, as my wife is my warning. (marcel bangs his fist down on the table and rises; the others follow his example, benoit looking on in bewilderment.) mar. a wife possessing! yet thoughts impure confessing. sch. and col. foul shame! rud. his vile pollution empoisons our honest abode. sch. and col. hence! mar. with perfume we must fumigate! col. drive him forth, the reprobate! sch. morality offended hence expels you! (benoit staggeringly rises, and tries in vain to speak.) ben. but say--i say! mar. be silent! col. be silent! rud. be silent! (they surround benoit and gradually push him to the door.) ben. sirs, i beg you! mar., sch. and col. be silent, out, your lordship! hence away! rud., mar., sch. and col. wish we your lordship a pleasant christmas eve. ah! (they push benoit outside the door.) mar. (locking the door) i have paid the last quarter! sch. in the quartier latin momus awaits! mar. long live the spender! sch. we'll the booty divide! rud. we'll divide! col. we'll divide! (they divide the money on the table) mar. (holding out a cracked mirror to colline) beauty is a gift heaven descended, now you are rich, to decency pay tribute. bear! have your mane attended! col. the first chance i can find, i will make acquaintance with a beard eraser! so guide me to the monstrous outrage of a barber's weapon. let's go! sch. we go! mar. and col. we go! rud. i stay here, finish i must the article for my new journal, "beaver"! mar. be quick then! rud. five minutes only, i know well the work! col. we'll await you at the porter's lodge! mar. delay, and you'll hear the chorus! rud. five minutes only! sch. you must cut short the beaver's growing tale! (rudolph _takes a light from the table and goes to open the door: the others go out and descend the staircase_.) mar. (_from without_) look to the staircase! keep well to the handrail! rud. (_on the landing near the open door holding up the candle_) go slowly! col. how plaguing dark 'tis! sch. may the porter be damned! (_the noise of someone falling is heard_.) col. i have tumbled! rud. colline, are you dead yet? col. (_from the bottom of the staircase_) not this time! mar. come quickly! (rudolph _shuts the door, puts down the light, clears a space at the table for pens and paper, then sits down and commences to write, after putting out the other candle._) rud. i'm out of humor! (_a timid knock is heard at the door._) who's there? mimi. (_from without_) pardon! rud. 'tis a lady! mimi. excuse me, my candle's gone out! rud. (_running to open the door_) is it? mimi. (_standing on the threshold with an extinguished candle and a key_) pray, would you-rud. pray be seated a moment. mimi. no, i thank you. rud. i beg you enter. (mimi _enters, but is seized with a fit of coughing_.) rud. are you not well? mimi. no! nothing! rud. you are quite pale! mimi. (coughing) my breath--'tis the staircase-(swoons, and rudolph has hardly time to support her and place her on a chair. she lets fall her candlestick and key.) rud. what can i do to aid her? (fetches some water, and sprinkles her face.) ah! this! how very pale her face is! (mimi revives) do you feel better? mimi. yes. rud. here 'tis very chilly. nearer the fire be seated an instant. (conducting her to a chair near the tire) a little wine? mimi. thank you. rud. (giving her a glass and pouring out some wine) for you. mimi. not so much, please! rud. like this? mimi. thank you. (she drinks) rud. how lovely a maiden. mimi. now please allow me to light my candle, i'm feeling much better. rud. what, so quickly? (rudolph lights the candle and gives it to mimi.) mimi. thank you. now, good evening. rud. so, good evening. (accompanies her to the door, and then returns quickly to his work.) mimi. (re-entering, stops on the threshold) oh! how stupid! how stupid! the key of my poor chamber, where can i have left it? rud. come, stand not in the doorway: your candle is flickering in the wind. (mimi's light goes out.) mimi. good gracious! please light it just once more! (rudolph runs with his candle, but, as he nears the door, his light, too, is blown out, and the room remains in darkness.) rud. oh, dear! now there's mine gone out, too! mimi. ah! and the key--where can it be? (groping about, she reaches the table and deposits the candlestick.) rud. what a nuisance! (he finds himself near the door and fastens it.) mimi. i'm so sorry. rud. where can it be? mimi. you have an importunate neighbor, pray, forgive your tiresome little neighbor. rud. nothing, i assure you. mimi. pray, forgive your tiresome neighbor. rud. do not mention it, i pray you. mimi. look for it. rud. i'm looking. (looks for the key on the floor; sliding over it, he knocks against the table, deposits his candlestick, and searches for the key with his hands on the floor.) mimi. where can it be? (finds the key, lets an exclamation escape, then checks himself and puts the key in his pocket.) rud. ah! mimi. have you found it? rud. no. mimi. i think so. rud. in very truth. mimi. found it? rud. not yet. (feigns to search, but guided by mimi's voice and movements, approaches her; as mimi is stooping his hand meets hers, which he clasps.) mimi. (rising to her feet, surprised) ah! rud. (holding mimi's hand, with emotion) your tiny hand is frozen, let me warm it into life; our search is useless, in darkness all is hidden, 'ere long the light of the moon shall aid us, yes, in the moonlight our search let us resume. one moment, pretty maiden, while i tell you in a trice, who i am, what i do, and how i live. shall i? (mimi is silent.) i am, i am a poet! what's my employment? writing. is that a living? hardly. i've wit though wealth be wanting, ladies of rank and fashion all inspire me with passion; in dreams and fond illusions, or castles in the air, richer is none on earth than i. bright eyes as yours, believe me, steal my priceless jewels, in fancy's store-house cherished, your roguish eyes have robbed me, of all my dreams bereft me, dreams that are fair, yet fleeting. fled are my truant fancies, regrets i do not cherish, for now life's rosy morn is breaking, now golden love is waking. now that i've told my story, pray tell me yours, too; tell me frankly, who are you? say, will you tell? mimi. (_after some hesitation_) they call me mimi but my name is lucia; my story is a short one-fine satin stuffs or silk i deftly embroider; i am content and happy; the rose and lily i make for pastime. these flowers give me pleasure as in magical accents they speak to me of love, of beauteous springtime. of fancies and of visions bright they tell me, such as poets, and only poets, know. do you hear me? rud. yes! mimi. they call me mimi, but i know not why; all by myself i take my frugal supper, to mass not oft repairing, yet oft i pray to god. in my room live i lonely, up at the top there, in my little chamber above the house tops so lofty. yet the glad sun first greets me; after the frost is over spring's first, sweet, fragrant kiss is mine, her first bright sunbeam is mine, a rose as her petals are opening do i tenderly cherish. ah! what a charm lies for me in her fragrance! alas! those flowers i make, the flowers i fashion, alas! they have no perfume! more than just this i cannot find to tell you, i'm a tiresome neighbor that at an awkward moment intrudes upon you. sch. (_from below_) eh! rudolph! col. rudolph! mar. hallo! you hear not? don't dawdle! (_at the shouts of his friends_ rudolph _is annoyed._) col. poetaster, come! sch. what has happened, idler? (_getting more annoyed_ rudolph _opens the window to answer his friends; the moonlight enters, brightening the room._) rud. i have still three lines to finish. mimi. (_approaching the window_) who are they? rud. my friends. sch. you will know they're yours. mar. what do you there, so lonely? rud. i'm not lonely. we are two. so to momus go on. there keep us places; we will follow quickly. (_remains still at the window to make sure of his friends going._) mar., sch. and col. (_gradually departing_) momus, momus, momus! gently and soft to supper let us go. mar. and poetry let flow. sch. and col. momus, momus, momus! (mimi _goes nearer the window, so that the moon's rays fall on her while_ rudolph _contemplates her ecstatically._) rud. lovely maid in the moonlight! mar. and poetry let flow. rud. your face entrancing. like radiant seraph from on high appears! the dream that i would ever, ever dream, returns. rud. | mimi. | | love alone o'er hearts has sway heart to heart and soul to soul | ah love! to thee do we surrender. love binds us in his fetters. | (_yielding to her lover's (_placing his arm around mimi_ embrace_) love now shall rule our hearts | sweet to my soul the magic voice alone, | of love its music chanteth, life's fairest flower is love! | life's fairest flower is love! life's fairest flower is love! | (rudolph _kisses her._) mimi. (_disengaging herself_) no, i pray you! rud. my sweetheart! mimi. your comrades await you! rud. do you then dismiss me? mimi. i should like--no, i dare not! rud. say! mimi. (coquettishly) could i not come with you? rud. what, mimi? it would be much more pleasant here to stay. outside 'tis chilly! mimi. to you i'll be neighbor! i'll be always near you. rud. on returning? mimi. (archly) who knows, sir? rud. take my arm, my little maiden! mimi. (giving her arm to rudolph) i obey you, my lord! (they go, arm in arm, to the door.) rud. you love me? say! mimi. (with abandon) i love thee! rud. and mimi. my love! my love! act ii "...gustave colline, the great philosopher; marcel, the great painter; rudolph, the great poet, and schaunard, the great musician --as they were wont to style them selves--regularly frequented the cafe momus, where, being inseparable, they were nicknamed 'the four musketeers.' "indeed, they always went about together, played together, dined together, often without paying the bill, yet always with a beautiful harmony worthy of the conservatoire orchestra. "mademoiselle musetta was a pretty girl of twenty. "very coquettish, rather ambitious, but without any pretensions to spelling. "oh! those delightful suppers in the quartier latin! "a perpetual alternative between a blue brougham and an omnibus; between the rue breda and the quartier latin. "...well! what of that? from time to time i feel the need of breathing the atmosphere of such a life as this. my madcap existence is like a song; each of my love-episodes forms a verse of it, but marcel is its refrain!" act ii in the latin quarter christmas eve a conflux of streets; where they meet, a square, flanked by shops of all sorts; on one side the café momus. aloof from the crowd, rudolph and mimi; colline is near a rag-shop, schaunard stands outside a tinker's, buying a pipe and a horn, marcel is being hustled hither and thither. a vast, motley crowd; soldiers, serving maids, boys, girls, children, students, work girls, gendarmes, etc. it is evening. the shops are decked with tiny lamps; a huge lantern lights up the entrance to the café momus. the café is so crowded that some of the customers are obliged to seat themselves outside. hawkers. (outside their shops) come, buy my oranges! hot roasted chestnuts! trinkets and crosses! fine hardbake! excellent toffee! flowers for the ladies! try our candy! cream for the babies! fat larks and ortolans! look at them! fine salmon! look at our chestnuts! who'll buy my carrots? the crowd. citizens. what a racket! women. what uproar! students and work girls. hold fast to me; come along! a mother. (calling her children) lisa! emma! citizens. ho! make way there! the mother. emma, don't you hear me? students and work girls. rue mazarin's the nearest. women. let's get away, i'm choking! citizens. see! the café is near! (at the café) citizens. come here, waiter! come along! come along! come here! to me! some beer! a glass! vanilla! come along! come along! some beer! some coffee! hurry up! sch. (_blowing the horn_) d! d! d! what a dreadful d! (_haggling with the tinker._) what's the price of the lot? col. (_to the clothes dealer, who has been mending a jacket for him_) it's rather shabby, but sound and not expensive. (_he pays, and then carefully consigns the books to the various pockets of his long coat._) (_marcel alone in the midst of the crowd, with a parcel under his arm, making eyes at the girls who jostle against him in the crowd._) mar. i feel somehow as if i fain must shout: ho! laughing lassies, will you play at love? let's play together, let's play the game of buy and sell: who'll give a penny for my guileless heart? (_pushing through the crowd, _rudolph_ and _mimi_, arm in arm, approach a bonnet shop._) rud. let's go! mimi. to buy the bonnet? rud. hold tightly to my arm, love! (_they enter the bonnet shop._) (schaunard _strolls about in front of the café momus, waiting for his friends, and, armed with his huge pipe and hunting horn, he watches the crowd curiously._) sch. surging onward--eager, breathless-moves the madding crowd, as they frolic ever in their wild, insane endeavor. col. (_comes up, waving an old book in triumph_) such a rare copy! well-nigh unique, a grammar of runic! sch. (_who arrives at that moment behind_ colline, _compassionately_) honest fellow! mar. (_arriving at the café momus, and finding_ schaunard _and_ colline) to supper! sch. and col. ho! rudolph! mar. he's gone to buy a bonnet. (marcel, schaunard _and_ colline _try to find an empty table outside the café, but there is only one, which is occupied by townsfolk. at these latter the three friends glare furiously, and then enter the café. the crowd disperses among the adjacent streets. the shops are crowded and the square becomes densely thronged with buyers who come and go. in the café there is much animation._ rudolph _and_ mimi _come out of the shop._) rud. (_to_ mimi) come along! my friends are waiting. mimi. do you think this rose-trimmed bonnet suits me? rud. the color suits your dark complexion. mimi. (_looking into the window of a bonnet shop_) o what a pretty necklace! rud. i have an aunt a millionaire. if the good god wills to take her, then shall you have a necklace far more fine. (_suddenly seeing_ mimi _look round suspiciously_) what is it? mimi. are you jealous? rud. the man in love is always jealous, darling. mimi. are you then in love? rud. (_squeezing her arm in his_) yes, so much in love! are you? mimi. yes, deeply. (_enter from the café,_ colline, schaunard _and_ marcel _carrying a table. a waiter follows with chairs. the townsfolks seated near seem vexed at the noise which the three friends are making, for they soon get up and walk away._) col. the vulgar herd i hate, just as i did horace. sch. and i, when i am eating, i can't stand being crowded. mar. (to the waiter) smartly! sch. for many! mar. we want a supper of the choicest! (_mimi and rudolph joining their friends_.) rud. (_accompanied by mimi_) two places. col. let's have supper. rud. so we have come. (_introducing mimi_) this is mimi, the merry flower girl; and now she's come to join us. our party is completed-for i shall play the poet, while she's the muse incarnate. forth from my brain flow songs of passion, as, at her touch the pretty buds blow; as in the soul awaketh beautiful love! mar. (_ironically_) my word, what high falutin'! col. _digna est intrari._ sch. _ingrediat si necessit._ col. i'll grant only an _accessit_! (rudolph _makes_ mimi _sit down. all being seated, the waiter returns with the menu_.) col. (_with an air of great importance_) some sausage! par. (_faintly in the distance_) who'll buy some pretty toys from parpignol? (_boys and girls running out from the shops and adjoining streets._) boys and girls. parpignol! parpignol! (_enter parpignol from the rue dauphin, pushing a barrow festooned with foliage, flowers and paper lanterns._) par. (_crying_) who'll buy some pretty toys from parpignol? children, (_crowding and jumping round the barrow_) parpignol! parpignol! with his pretty barrow bright with flowers! (_admiring the toys_) i want the horn! and i the horse! get away, they are mine! i want the gun! and i the whip! no, the drum shall be mine! (_at the cries of the children, the mothers try, but without success, to lead them away from parpignol, scolding loudly_.) mothers. ah! wait a bit, you dirty little rascals. what can it be that sets you all a-gaping? get home to your beds, get home, lazy rascals, or you shall all have a tidy beating. (_the children refuse to go. one of them cries for parpignol's toys and his mother pulls his ear. the mothers, relenting, buy some. parpignol moves down the street, followed by the children, pretending to play on their toy instruments_.) par. (_in the distance_) who'll buy some pretty toys of parpignol! (_the waiter presents the menu, which the four friends carefully scrutinize in turn._) sch. bring some venison. mar. i'll have turkey. rud. (_in an undertone to mimi_) mimi, what would you like? mimi. some custard! sch. and some rhenish! col. bring some claret, too! sch. and some lobster, only shell it! the best you've got--for a lady! mar. (_disconcerted at the sight of musetta; to the waiter_) and i'll have a phial of poison! (_throwing himself on a chair_) sch., col. and rud. (_turning on hearing marcel's exclamation_) oh! musetta! (_the friends look pityingly at marcel, who turns pale_) (_the shopwomen are going away, but stop to watch the fair stranger, and are astonished to recognize in her musetta; they whisper among themselves, pointing at her._) look! 'tis musetta! she! musetta! 'tis she! yes! yes! 'tis musetta! oh! what swagger! my! she's gorgeous. (_entering their shops_) students and work girls (_crossing the stage_) only look! why, there she is! some old stammering dotard's with her, too! yes, 'tis she! tis she! musetta! (_enter from the corner of the rue mazarin an extremely pretty coquettish-looking young lady. she is followed by a pompous old gentleman, who is both fussy and over-dressed._) alcindoro de mitonneaux. (_joining _musetta_, out of breath_) just like a valet i must run here and there. no, no, not for me! i can stand it no more. (musetta_ without noticing_ alcindoro_, takes a vacant seat, outside the café._) how now? outside? here? mus. (_without noticing his protests, he fearing to remain outside in the cold_) sit down, lulu! alc. (_in great irritation, sits down, and turns up his coat collar_) such a term of fond endearment pray do not apply to me! mus. now, don't be blue beard, pray! (_a waiter approaches briskly, to prepare the table and begins to serve. _schaunard_ and _colline_ furtively watch _musetta_. _marcel_ feigns the greatest indifference. _rudolph_ devotes all his attention to _mimi_._) sch. (_at the sight of the old gentleman with his decorations_) he's had a pretty good dose, i reckon. col. (_scrutinizing _alcindoro) the naughty, naughty elder! mar. (_contemptuously_) with his good young susanna. mimi. (_to _rudolph) and her clothes are smart, too! rud. the angels can't afford them. (_a piquet of the national guard passes across the square; some shop-keepers go home; at the corner of the street the chestnut-seller does a thriving trade; the old clothes dealer fills her barrel with clothes, and goes away with it over her shoulder._) mus. (_disconcerted at not being noticed by her friends_) marcel can see me, but he won't look, the villain! and schaunard! they provoke me past bearing! ah! could i but beat them! if i could, i would scratch! but i only have to back me this old pelican! no matter! (_calls the waiter who has gone away_) hi! waiter, here! (_the waiter hurriedly approaches_) see, this plate has a horrid smell of onions! (_dashes the plate on the ground; the waiter picks up the pieces_) alc. don't, musetta! do be quiet! mus. (_irritated, still watching marcel_) he won't look round! now i could beat him! alc. what's the matter? mus. (_sharply_) i meant the waiter! alc. manners! manners! (_takes the bill from the waiter and orders the supper._) mus. (_more irritated_) such a bore! just let me have my own way. if you please; i won't be ruled by you! mimi. (_looking curiously at rudolph_) do you know who she is? mar. you had better ask me. well, her name is musetta her surname is temptation. as to her vocation: like a rose in the breezes, so she changes lover for lover without number. and like the spiteful screech owl, a bird that's most rapacious, the food that most she favors is the heart! her food the heart is; thus have i now none left! (_to his friends, concealing his agitation_) so pass me the ragout! sch. (_to colline_) now the fun's at its climax, to one she speaks because the other listens. col. (_to schaunard_) the other will not hear, feigns not to see the girl: which makes her mad. rud. (_to mimi_) now let me tell you i never would forgive you. mimi. (_to rudolph_) i love you, love you fondly, am wholly yours, my dearest! (_eating_) col. what's that about forgiveness? (_coquettishly watching marcel, who becomes agitated_) mus. (_watching marcel; in a loud voice to marcel_) why, don't you know me? alc. (_thinking musetta spoke to him_) well, i'm giving the order, dear. mus. (_as above_) but your heart is a-throbbing! alc. (_as above_) not so loud. mus. (_to herself_) but your heart is a-throbbing! alc. do be quiet! mus. as through the streets i wander onward merrily, see how the folk look round, because they know i'm charming, a very charming girl. and then 'tis mine to mark the hidden longing, and all the passion in their eyes; and then the joy of conquest overcomes me, every man is my prize! and thus their hearts, their hearts i capture, as if by magic all my own, ah! rapture! tis mine alone! now you that once your love for me betrayed, why should you be dismayed? yet though deep in your heart rankles the smart. you'd ne'er confess--but rather die! (_schaunard and colline rise and stand aside, watching the scene with interest, while rudolph and mimi remain seated and continue their talk. marcel nervously quits his seat, and is about to go, but is spell-bound by musetta's voice._) alc. this odious singing upsets me entirely! (_alcindoro vainly endeavors to induce musetta to resume her seat at the table where the supper is ready._) mimi. (_to rudolph_) oh! now i see that this unhappy maiden adores your friend marcel madly! rud. she once was marcel's love; she wantonly forsook her fate, and rarer game she thought to capture! mimi. the love that's born of passion ends in grief; that poor, unhappy girl! she moves me to tears! rud. who can revive a love that's dead? mar. hold me back! hold me back! col. who knows what will happen now? goodness me! 'tis most unpleasant! anyhow, it is for me! she is pretty, i don't doubt it; yet i would rather have my pipe and a page of homer! sch. see the braggart in a moment will give in; the snare for some is pleasant, for the biter and the bit. (_to colline_) if such a pretty damsel should but make eyes at you, you'd forget your mouldy classics, and run to fetch her shoe. mus. ah! marcel you are vanquished! and though your heart is breaking, you'd never let us know, (_feigning great regret_) (i must try to get rid of the old boy.) oh! dear! alc. what now? mus. how it pains me! how it pains me! alc. let's see! mus. my foot! break it, tear it, i can't bear it, do, i implore you! alc. (_bending down to untie her shoe_) gently, gently! mus. close by there is a boot-shop; hasten! quickly! he may have boots to please me. alc. what imprudence! mus. ah! the torture! how these horrid tight shoes squeeze me! i'll take it off! so let it lie! alc. what will people say? what imprudence! sch. and col. now the fun becomes stupendous in truth, 'tis better than a play! mus. hasten, hasten! bring another pair! go! alc. what imprudence! nothing short of scandal! musetta, shame! (_hides her shoe under his coat, which he hastily buttons up; hurries off the stage._) mar. (_greatly agitated_) ah! golden youth! you are not dead, not dead for me, for love revives again in me; if at my door you came to greet me, my heart would straight go out to meet thee! (_musetta and marcel embrace with much fervor._) mus. marcel! mar. enchantress! sch. this is the final tableau! (_a waiter brings in the bill._) rud., col. and sch. the bill! sch. what a bother! col. who bade him bring it? sch. let's see. (_drums heard in the distance_) rud. and col. out with your coppers! sch. out with your coppers, colline, rudolph, and you, marcel. mar. we've not a rap! sch. i say! rud. i've thirty sous, no more. mar., sch. and col. i say! no more than that? street arabs, (_hastening from the right_) 'tis the tattoo! work girls, (_hastening out of the café_) 'tis the tattoo! students and citizens. 'tis the tattoo! (_hastening from the left. as the tattoo is still a long way off, the folk run hither and thither, as if uncertain from which quarter the band will appear._) sch. but who has got my purse? (_they all feel their pockets which are empty; none can explain the sudden disappearance of schaunard's purse, and they look at each other in surprise._) street arabs. will they come along this way? work girls and students. no; from there. street arabs. they are coming down this way. work girls and students. here they come! citizens. way there! hawkers. way there! some boys. oh! let me see! others. oh! let me hear! boys. mother, do let me see! others. papa, do let me hear! mothers. lisette, do be quiet! tony, do have done! do be quiet! mus. (to the waiter) and my bill, please, bring to me. (_to waiter who brings the bill_) thank you. just make one bill of the two. the gentleman will pay who came to sup with me. rud., mar., sch. and col. yes, he will pay! mar. (aside) he will pay! sch. and col. yes, he will pay! mus. (_placing both bills at alcindoro's place_) and, after this pleasant meeting, this shall be my greeting! rud., mar., sch. and col. and, after our pleasant meeting, this shall be her greeting! (_the crowd fills the stage and the patrol advances gradually._) work girls. they will come along this way. students, citizens and hawkers. yes, this way! street arabs. when it gets nearer, we'll march along beside it. (_several windows are opened at which mothers and their children appear and eagerly await the coming of the patrol._) hawkers. in that patrol perceive the country's noble might! street arabs. now, look out! they're coming! students, work girls and citizens. do stand back, for here they come! mar. see, the patrol is coming! col. look out that old boy don't catch you with his darling! rud. see, the patrol is coming! mar. and sch. now the crowd is tremendous: t' escape will be so easy. (_the patrol enters, headed by a gigantic drum-major, who dexterously twists his baton, showing the way._) street arabs and work girls. and there's the drum-major! citizens and shop-keepers. as proud as a warrior of old! mimi, mus. and rud. quick, or you will miss them! mar., sch. and col. quick, or you will miss them! street arabs and hawkers. the drum-major, look! what a dandy! students and work girls. what swagger! what a figure! street arabs. there go the sappers! citizens. what a dandy! students and citizens. like a general he appears! he passes by and heeds us not! work girls. like a general he appears! of all our hearts the conqueror! (_musetta being without her shoe, cannot walk, so marcel and colline carry her through the crowd, as they endeavor to follow the patrol. the mob, seeing her borne along in this triumphal fashion, give her a regular ovation. marcel and colline with musetta follow the patrol; rudolph and mimi follow arm in arm; schaunard goes next, blowing his horn; while the students, work-girls, street-lads, women and towns-folk merrily bring up the rear._) (_marching in time with the music, the whole vast crowd gradually moves off as it follows the patrol. meanwhile alcindoro, with a pair of shoes carefully wrapped up, returns to the café in search of musetta. the waiter by the table takes up the bill left by musetta and ceremoniously hands it to alcindoro, who, seeing the amount, and perceiving that they have all left him there alone, falls back into a chair, utterly dumbfounded._) act iii "mimi's voice seemed to go through rudolph's heart like a death-knell. his love for her was a jealous, fantastic, weird, hysterical love. scores of times they were on the point of separating. "it must be admitted that their existence was a veritable 'hell-up-on-earth.' "thus (if life it was) did they live; a few happy days alternating with many wretched ones, while perpetually awaiting a divorce." "either as a congenital defect or as a natural instinct, musetta possessed a positive genius for elegance. "even in her cradle this strange creature must surely have asked for a mirror. "intelligent, shrewd, and above all, hostile to anything that she considered tyranny, she had but one rule--caprice. "in truth the only man that she really loved was marcel; perhaps because he alone could make her suffer. yet extravagance was for her one of the conditions of well-being." act iii _beyond the toll-gate, the outer boulevard is formed in the background by the orleans high-road, half hidden by tall houses and the misty gloom of february. to the left is a tavern with a small open space in front of the toll-gate. to the right is the boulevard d'enfer; to the left, that of st. jacques. on the right also there is the entrance of the rue d'enfer, leading to the quartier latin. over the tavern, as its sign-board, hangs marcel's picture, "the passage of the red sea," while underneath, in large letters, is the inscription. "at the port of marseilles." on either side of the door are frescoes of a turk and a zouave with a huge laurel-wreath round his fez. from the ground-floor windows of the tavern, which faces the toll-gate, light gleams. the plane-trees, grey and gaunt, which flank the toll-gate square, lead diagonally towards the two boulevards. between each tree is a marble bench. it is towards the close of february; snow covers all. as the curtain rises, the scene is merged in the dim light of early dawn. in front of a brazier are seated, in a group, snoring custom-house officers. from the tavern at intervals one may hear laughter, shouts, and the clink of glasses. a custom-house official comes out of the tavern with wine. the toll-gate is closed. behind the toll-gate, stamping their feet and blowing in their frost-bitten fingers, stand several street-scavengers._ scavengers. what ho, there! what ho, there! admit us! make haste and let us pass, the sweepers are we. (_stamping their feet_) look how it's snowing! what ho, there! we are frozen! an official. (_yawning and stretching himself_) all right! (_goes to open the gate; the scavengers pass through to the rue d'enfer. the official closes the gate again._) chorus. (_from the tavern; the clink of glasses forms an accompaniment to the song_) pass the glass, let each toast his lass; pass the glass, let each lad toast his lass; ha! ha! each one as he sips, as he sips his wine, shall dream of lips made for love divine! mus. (_from the tavern_) ah! as the toper loves his glass, so the gallant loves his lass. chorus. (_all bursting into laughter_) noah and eve! milk women. (_from within_) houp-la! houp-la! (_a sergeant comes out of the guard-house and orders the toll-gate to be opened._) custom house official. here come the women with their milk. (_a tinkling of cart-bells is heard._) carters. (_from within_) houp-la! (_carts pass along the outer boulevard, lighted by large lanterns._) milk women. (_quite close_) houp-la! (_the gloom gradually gives way to daylight._) milk women. (_to the officials who admit them to the toll-gate_) good-morrow! peasant women. (_who enter carrying baskets_) butter! cheese! chickens and eggs! some. which way, then, are you going? others. up to saint michael's. some. well, shall we see you later? others. at twelve o'clock. (_they go off in various directions, and the officials remove the bench and brazier._) (_enter _mimi_ from the rue d'enfer; she looks about her as if anxious to make sure of her whereabouts. on reaching the first plane-tree she is seized by a violent fit of coughing. then recovering herself, she sees the sergeant, whom she approaches._) mimi. oh! please, sir, tell me the name of that tavern where now a painter's working? sergeant. (_pointing to the tavern_) there it is. mimi. thank you. (_a serving woman comes out of the tavern; _mimi_ goes to her._) oh! my good woman, pray do me this favor! can you find me the painter, marcel? i fain would see him; the matter's urgent; just tell him softly that mimi awaits him. sergeant. (_to a passer-by_) ho! there! what's in the basket? official. (_after searching the basket_) empty. sergeant. pass, there! (_other folk now pass through the toll-gate and move off in different directions. the bell of the hospice ste. therese rings for matins._) mar. (_coming out of the inn_) mimi! mimi. i hoped that i should find you here. mar. aye, here we've been for a month: so to pay for our footing, musetta teaches singing to those who come here. and i, well--i paint warriors-there, on the house front! mimi. where is rudolph? mar. here. 'tis bitter, pray enter! mimi. (_bursting into tears_) enter i cannot, no! mar. why not? mimi. oh! good marcel! oh! help me! mar. say, what has happened? mimi. rudolph is madly jealous! he loves and yet avoids me! a glance, a touch, a token, suffice to make him jealous, and start his senseless fury! and oft at night, when feigning to be sleeping, i felt his eyes were watching to spy upon my slumbers! how oft he would reproach me! "you are not mine, mimi! you love another gallant!" alas! 'tis jealousy that prompts him. yet how may i reply? mar. two that live thus, i reckon, would be surely better parted. mimi. you are right, you speak truly: 'twere best we were parted. will you aid us, then, will you aid us to part? oft to do this we have striven, but in vain. ah! 'tis true, to part were the best. mar. i'm happy with musetta, and she's happy with me. because 'tis mirth that binds us together. laughter, music and song, ever our love prolong. mimi. ah! then, aid us, i pray you! mar. 'tis well, 'tis well! now will i wake him. mimi. wake him? mar. overcome with fatigue, just as dawn was approaching, on the bench fast lie slumbers, (_motions mimi to look through the tavern window_) behold him! (_mimi coughs persistently_) what coughing! mimi. unceasingly it shakes me, and rudolph now forsakes me. and says to me, "it is over!" at daybreak swift escaping, i hurried here to find him. mar. (_watching rudolph inside the tavern_) he's moving, waking, and wants me. come, then. mimi. he must not see me. mar. well, hide yourself out there. (_points to the plane-trees. mimi hides behind the trees._) rud. (_coming out of the inn, hastens towards marcel_) marcel! at last i've found you, where none can hear us. i want a separation from mimi. mar. is that your latest whim? rud. love in my heart was dying, almost was dead, but her blue eyes new glory on me shed. love, swift revived, all me; what woe is mine! mar. ah! would you now such bitter pain recall? (_mimi warily approaches to listen_) rud. yes, always. mar. nay, be prudent! love is not worth the keeping, that only ends in weeping. love must thrive in mirth and gladness, or else it is but madness. 'tis that you're jealous! rud. aye, somewhat; and choleric, and lunatic, and a victim of vile suspicion, unhappy, and stubborn! mimi. (_aside_) he's getting in a rage; poor little mimi! rud. mimi's a heartless maiden, prone to flirting with all. a scented dandy, some lordling, now striveth to win her caresses. with bosom swaying, one foot displaying, doth she lure him on with the magic of her smile. mar. shall i be frank? i think 'tis hardly true. rud. no, 'tis not true. in vain, in vain i smother all the torture that racks me. i love mimi, she is my only treasure! i love her, but, oh! i fear it! (_mimi surprised, comes closer and closer, under cover of the trees_) mimi's so sickly, so ailing, every day she grows weaker, the poor girl, as i think, is dying. mar. (_fearing mimi may overhear them, tries to keep rudolph further off_) oh! rudolph! mimi. what's he saying? rud. by fierce, incessant coughing her fragile frame is shaken, while in her cheeks so pallid the fires of fever waken. mar. (_agitated, perceiving that mimi is listening_) softly! mimi. (_weeping_) woe is me! i'm dying! rud. and my room's but a squalid hovel, no fire there burneth, only the cruel night wind waileth, waileth there ever. yet she's merry and smiling, while, remorseful, despairing, i feel that 'tis i that am guilty. mar. (_eager to draw rudolph aside_) list but a moment! mimi. (_disconsolately_) ah! i'm dying! rud. mimi's a hot-house flower! mar. nay, but listen! mimi. ah me! ah me! all is over, life and loving, all are ended! mimi must die! mar. softly! rud. want has wasted her beauty, and to bring her back to life would need far more than love. mar. nay, rudolph, but listen! (_mimi's violent coughing and sobbing reveal her presence._) rud. ha! mimi! you here! you heard, you heard me? swayed by each light suspicion, a trifle yet alarms me; come, come inside here! (_seeks to take her into the tavern_) mimi. no, that odor is stifling me! rud. (_affectionately embracing her_) ah, mimi! (_from the tavern musetta's brazen laugh is heard._) mar. (_running to look through the window._) tis musetta that's laughing! laughing, flirting! ah! what a hussy! i'll not allow it. (_enters the tavern impetuously_) mimi. (_disengaging herself from_ rudolph's _embrace._) farewell! rud. (_surprised_) what! going? mimi. to the home that she left at the voice of her lover. sad, forsaken mimi must turn back, heavy-hearted. for love and her lover are gone, and she must die, farewell, then! i wish you well! nay, listen! listen! those things, those few old things i've left behind me, within my trunk safely arc stored. that bracelet of gold, the prayer-book you gave me, pray wrap them up together in my little apron, and i will send to fetch them. yet stay! beneath the pillow you'll find my little bonnet-who knows? maybe you'd like to keep it to remind you of our love! farewell! good-bye! i wish you well! rud. then, you are going to leave me? yes, you are going, my little mimi? ah! farewell, sweet dream of love! mimi. farewell! farewell! glad awakenings in the morning! rud. farewell, our sweet love that vanished, yet that your smile reviveth! mimi. (_playfully_) farewell to jealousy and fury! farewell suspicion, and its bitter anguish! rud. kisses sweet that, as poet, i bought back with caresses! mimi and rud. lonely in winter, with death as sole companion! but in glad springtime there's the sun, the glorious sun! (_from the tavern the sound of breaking plates and glasses is heard_) mus. (_from within_) what d'ye mean? what d'ye mean? (_running out_) mar. (_from within_) you were laughing, you were flirting by the fireside with that stranger! (_stopping on the threshold of the inn and confronting _musetta) and how you colored when i caught you in the corner! mus. (_defiantly_) stuff and nonsense! all he said was: "are you very fond of dancing?" and, half blushing, i made answer: "i'd be dancing all day long, sir." mar. this is talk that only leads to things dishonest. mus. my own way i mean to have! mar. (_half menacing _musetta) i will teach you better manners; now if i catch you once more flirting-mus. what a bother! why this anger? why this fury? we're not married yet, thank goodness! mar. you shall not do as you like, miss! i will stop your little game! mus. i abhor that sort of lover who pretends he is your husband! mar. i'm not going to be your blockhead, just because you're fond of flirting! mus. i shall flirt just when it suits me! mar. you're most frivolous, musetta! mus. yes, i shall! yes, i shall! i shall flirt just when it suits me! mar. you can go, and god be with you! mus. musetta's going away; yes, going away! mar. and for me 'tis a good riddance! mus. fare you well, sir! mar. fare you well, ma'am! mus. i say farewell with all my heart! mar. farewell, ma'am, pray begone! (_she retreats in a fury, but suddenly stops._) mus. (_shouting_) go back and paint your house front! mar. viper! (_enters the tavern_) mus. toad! (exit) mimi. i'm so happy in the spring! rud. as comrades you've lilies and roses. mimi. forth from each nest comes a murmur of birdlets! rud. and mimi. when the hawthorn-bough's in blossom, when we have the glorious sun, murmur the silver fountains, the breezes of the evening waft fragrant balsams to the world and its sorrow. shall we await another spring? mimi. (_moving away with _rudolph) always yours forever! rud. _and_ mimi. our time for parting's when the roses blow! mimi. ah! that our winter might last forever! rud. _and_ mimi. our time for parting's when the roses blow! act iv "at that period, indeed, for some time past, the friends had led lonely lives. "musetta had once more become a sort of semi-official personage; for three or four months marcel had never met her. "and mimi, too, no word of her had rudolph ever heard except when he talked about her to himself when he was alone. "one day, as marcel furtively kissed a bunch of ribbons that musetta had left behind, he saw rudolph hiding away a bonnet, that same pink bonnet which mimi had forgotten. "'good!' muttered marcel, 'he's as craven-hearted as i am.'" * * * * * "a gay life, yet a terrible one." act iv in the attic (_as in act i_) (marcel,_as before, stands in front of his easel, while _rudolph_ sits at his writing table; each trying to make the other believe that he is working indefatigably, whereas they are really only gossiping.)_ mar. (_resuming his talk_) in a coupé? rud. yes, in carriage and pair did she merrily hail me. "well, musetta," i questioned: "how's your heart?" "it beats not--or i don't feel it--thanks to this velvet i'm wearing!" mar. (_endeavoring to laugh_) i'm glad, very glad! rud. (_aside_) you humbug, you! you're fretting and fuming! mar. it beats not! bravo! (_commences to paint with great vigor_) then i saw, too-rud. musetta? mar. mimi. rud. you saw her? how strange! (stops painting) mar. rode in her carriage in grand apparel. just like a duchess. rud. delightful! i'm glad to hear it. mar. (_aside_) you liar! you're pining with love. rud. and mar. now to work! (_they go on working_) rud. (_throwing down his pen_) this pen's too awful! (_remains seated, apparently lost in thought_) mar. (_flinging away his brush_) this infamous paint-brush! (_stares at his canvas, and then without rudolph observing it, he takes from his pocket a bunch of ribbons and kisses it._) rud. ah! mimi! false, fickle-hearted! ah! beauteous days departed! those hands so dainty! oh! fragrant, shining tresses! ah! snow-white bosom! ah! mimi! those brief, glad, golden days! mar. (_putting away his ribbons and staring anew at his canvas_) how is it that my brush with speed mechanical keeps moving, and plasters on the colors quite against my will? and though i would be painting landscapes, meadows, woodlands fair in spring-tide, my brush refuses to perform its office; but paints dark eyes, and two red, smiling lips; the features of musetta haunt me still! rud. (_taking_ mimi's _old bonnet from the table drawer_) and thou, o! rose-pink bonnet, that 'neath her pillow lay, that in her hour of parting she forgot--thou wert the witness of our joy! come to my heart, ah! come! lie close against my heart, since my love is dead! (_clasps the bonnet to his heart_) mar. ah! frivolous musetta! thee can i ne'er forget! my grief affords her pleasure, and yet my weak heart is fain to call her to my fond arms again. rud. (_endeavoring to conceal his emotion from_ marcel, _carelessly questions him_) what time is it now? mar. (_roused from his reverie, gaily replies_) time for our yesterday's dinner. rud. but schaunard's not back yet. (_enter schaunard_ _and_ colline; _the former carries four rolls, and the latter a paper bag._) sch. here we are! rud. how now? mar. how now? (schaunard _places the rolls on the table._) mar. (_disdainfully_) some bread! col. (_taking a herring out of the bag, and putting it on the table_) a dish that's worthy of demosthenes: 'tis a herring! sch. 'tis salted! col. 'our dinner is ready! (_seating themselves at the table, they pretend to be having a sumptuous meal._) mar. this is a food that the gods might envy. sch. (_placing colline's hat on the table, and thrusting a bottle of water into it_) now the champagne in the ice must go. rud. (_to_ marcel, _offering him some bread_) choose, my lord marquis--salmon or turbot? (_his offer is accepted, when, turning to _schaunard, _he proffers another crust of bread._) now, duke, here's a choice vol-au-vent with mushrooms. (_he politely declines, and pours out a glass of water, which he hands to_ marcel.) sch. thank you, i dare not, this evening i'm dancing! (_the one and only tumbler is handed about._ colline, _after voraciously devouring his roll, rises._) rud. (_to_ colline) what? sated? col. (_with an air of great importance_) to business! the king awaits me. mar. (_eagerly_) what plot is brewing? rud. what's in the wind? sch. (_rises and approaches_ colline, _observing with droll inquisitiveness_) what's in the wind? mar. what's in the wind? (colline _struts up and down, full of self-importance._) col. the king requires my services. (_the others surround_ colline, _bowing low to him._) sch. bravo! mar. bravo! rud. bravo! col. (_with a patronizing air_) and then i've got to see guizot! sch. give me a goblet. mar. (_giving him the only glass_) aye, quaff now a bumper! sch. (_solemnly gets on to a chair and raises his glass_) have i permission, oh! my most noble courtier? rud. and col. (_interrupting_) stop that. col. no more fooling. mar. stop that. no more nonsense. col. give me that tumbler. (_taking the glass from_ schaunard) sch. (_motioning his friends to let him speak_) with ardor irresistible poetry fills my spirit. col. and mar. (_yelling_) no. sch. (_complacently_) then something choreographic may suit you! rud., mar. and col. yes, yes! (_amid applause they surround_ schaunard _and make him get off the chair._) sch. some dancing, accompanied by singing? col. well, clear the stage for action. (_moving chairs and tables aside, they prepare for a dance; they suggest various dances._) col. gavotte. mar. minuet. rud. pavanella. sch. (_imitating a spanish measure_) fandango. col. i vote we dance quadrilles first. (_the others approve_) rud. now take your partners. col. i'll lead it. (_pretends to be very busy arranging a quadrille_) sch. (_improvising, beats time with comic pomposity of manner_) la-lera, la-lera, la-lera! rud. (_approaching_ marcel_, and bowing very low, offers him his hand as he gallantly says_) oh! maiden fair and gentle! mar. (_with coy bashfulness of manner, counterfeiting a woman's voice_) my modesty respect, sir, i beg you. sch. lal-lera, lal-lera, lal-lera, la! col. (_giving directions as to the figures, while_ rudolph _and_ marcel _dance the quadrille_) balancez! mar. (_in his ordinary voice_) lal-lera, lal-lera, lal-lera! sch. (_teasingly_) first there's the rond. col. no, stupid! sch. (_with exaggerated contempt_) you've manners like a clown! col. (_offended_) as i take it, you're insulting! draw your sword, sir! (_rushes to the fireplace and seizes the tongs_) sch. (_taking up the poker_) ready! have at you! (_preparing to receive his adversary's attack_) thy hot blood would i drink! col. (_doing likewise_) one of us shall now be gutted! (rudolph _and_ marcel _stop dancing and burst out laughing._) sch. now get a stretcher ready. col. and get a grave-yard, too. (schaunard _and_ colline _fight._) rud. and mar. (_gaily_) while they beat each other's brains out, our fandango we will finish. (_they dance round the combatants, whose blows fall faster. the door opens and_ musetta _enters in a state of great agitation._) mar. (_amazed_) musetta! (_all anxiously cluster round_ musetta) mus. (_hoarsely_) 'tis mimi--'tis mimi who is with me--and is ailing! rud. mimi! mus. she has not strength to climb the staircase. (_through the open door _rudolph_ spies _mimi_, seated on the topmost stair; he rushes to her, followed by _marcel.) sch. (_to _colline) here's the bed: we'll put her on it. (_they drag the bed forward_) rud. (_supporting _mimi_ and leading her towards the bed, aided by _marcel) there! some water! (_musetta_ brings a glass of water and makes _mimi_ sip it.) mimi. (_passionately_) oh, rudolph! rud. gently, lie down there. (_gently lowers her on the bed_) mimi. (_embracing rudolph_) my darling rudolph! ah! let me stay with you! rud. darling mimi! stay here ever! (_he induces _mimi_ to lie down at full length on the bed, and draws the coverlet over her; he then carefully adjusts the pillow be neath her head._) mus. (_taking the others aside and whispering to them_) i heard them saying that mimi had left the rich old viscount; and now was almost dying. ah! but where? after searching, i met her alone just now, almost dead with exhaustion. she murmured: "i'm dying! dying! but listen; i want to die near him. maybe he's waiting! take me thither, musetta!" mar. hush! (_musetta moves farther away from mimi._) mimi. i feel so much better. all here seems just the same as ever. (_with a sweet smile_) ah! it is all so pleasant here! saved from sadness, all is gladness; once again new life is mine! rud. lips delightful, speak again to me! once more enchant me! mimi. ah! beloved! ah! leave me not! mus. (_aside to the others_) what is there to give her? mar. _and_ col. nothing! mus. no coffee? no wine? mar. (_in great dejection_) nothing; the larder's empty. sch. (_looking closely at mimi_) in an hour she'll be dead! mimi. i feel so cold! if i had but my muff here! my poor hands are simply frozen! how shall i get them warm? (_mimi coughs; rudolph takes her hands in his and chafes them._) rud. in mine, in mine, love! silence! for speaking tires you. mimi. tis coughing tires me. i'm used to that, though. (_seeing rudolph's friends, she calls them by name, when they hasten to her side_) good-morrow, marcel! schaunard, colline, good-morrow! all are here, as i see, glad to welcome mimi. rud. hush! mimi, do not talk. mimi. i'll speak low; don't be frightened. (_schaunard and colline mournfully withdraw; the former sits at the table, burying his face in his hands, the latter is a prey to sad thoughts._) mimi. (_motioning marcel to approach_) marcel, now believe me, a good girl is musetta. mar. (_giving musetta his hand_) i know, i know. mus. (_drawing marcel away from mimi, takes off her earrings and gives them to him as she whispers_) look here! sell them, and buy some tonic for her-send for a doctor! (_mimi gradually grows drowsy; rudolph takes a chair and sits down beside the bed._) rud. keep quiet. mimi. you will not leave me? rud. no, no! (_marcel is about to go, when musetta stops him and takes him still further from mimi._) mus. stay, listen! maybe, what she has asked us will be her last request on earth, little darling! i'll go for the muff--i'll come with you. mar. how good you are, musetta! (_musetta and marcel hastily go out._) col. (_who has removed his overcoat while marcel and musetta were talking_) garment antique and rusty! a last good-bye! farewell! faded friend, so tried and trusty, we must part, you and i. for never yet your back did you bow to rich man or mighty! how oft, safe in your pockets spacious, have you concealed philosophers and poets! now that our pleasant friendship is o'er, i would bid thee once more, oh! companion tried and trusty, farewell! farewell! (_he folds up the coat, puts it under his arm, and is about to go, but seeing schaunard, he approaches him, pats him on the back, and mournfully exclaims_) schaunard, our methods possibly may differ, but yet two kindly acts we'll do: (_pointing to the coat_) mine's this one, and yours--leave them alone in there. sch. (_overcome by emotion_) philosopher, you're right! 'tis true; i'll go! (_he looks about him: then, to justify his exit, he takes up the water bottle and goes out after colline, gently closing the door. mimi opens her eyes, and seeing that all have gone, holds out her hand to rudolph, who affectionately kisses it._) mimi. have they left us? (_rudolph nods_) to sleep i only feigned, for i wanted to be alone with you, love. so many things there are that i would tell you. there is one, too, as spacious as the ocean, as the ocean, profound, without limit: you are my love, my all, and all my life! (_putting her arms round rudolph's neck_) rud. ah! mimi! my pretty mimi! mimi. (_letting her arms drop_) you still think i'm pretty! rud. fair as the dawn in spring! mimi. no, the simile fits not; you meant to say: fair as the flame of sunset. "they call me mimi; (_like an echo_) they call me mimi, but i know not why." rud. (_in tender, caressing tones_) back to her nest comes the swallow in spring-tide. (_he takes out the bonnet and gives it to mimi._) mimi. (_gaily_) why, that's my bonnet! (_motions rudolph to put the bonnet on her head_) why, that's my bonnet! (_makes rudolph sit next to her, and rests her head on his breast_) ah! do you remember how we both went shopping when first we fell in love? rud. yes, i remember. mimi. this room was all in darkness! rud. while you, you were so frightened! then the key you mislaid, love. mimi. and to find it you went groping in the darkness. rud. yes, searching, searching. mimi. and you, my young master, now i can tell you frankly, that you soon managed to find it. rud. it was fate that did help me. mimi. it was dark, and my blushes were unnoticed. (_faintly repeating _rudolph's_ words_) "your tiny hand is frozen, let me warm it into life!" it was dark, and my hand then you clasped-(_a sudden spasm half suffocates her; she sinks back fainting_) rud. (_raising her in alarm_) oh! god! mimi! (_at this moment _schaunard_ returns, and hearing _rudolph's_ exclamation, hastens to the bedside._) sch. what now? mimi. (_opens her eyes and smilingly reassures _rudolph_ and _schaunard) nothing; i'm better. rud. (_gently lowering her_) gently, for goodness' sake! mimi. yes, forgive me: now it's over. (musetta _and_ marcel_ cautiously enter; _musetta_ carrying a muff, and her companion a phial._) mus. (_to rudolph_) sleeping? rud. (_approaching marcel_) just resting. mar. i have seen the doctor. he'll come--i bade him hasten. here's the tonic. (_takes a spirit lamp, and placing it upon the table, lights it._) mimi. who is it? mus. i--musetta. (_approaches mimi and gives her the muff. helped by musetta, she sits up in bed, and, with almost infantine glee, seizes the muff_) mimi. so soft it is and feathery! no more will my poor fingers be frozen, for this muff shall keep them warm. (_to _rudolph) did you give me this present? mus. (_eagerly_) yes! mimi. you thoughtless fellow! thank you. it cost you dear. (rudolph _bursts into tears_) weep not: i'm better. why should you weep for me? here love . . . ever with you! . . . (_thrusts her hands into the muff; then she gradually grows drowsy, gracefully nodding her head, as one who is overcome by sleep_) my hands are much warmer: now i will sleep! (rudolph,_ reassured at seeing _mimi_ fall asleep, gently moves away from the bedside, and motioning the others not to make any noise, approaches _marcel.) rud. what said the doctor? mar. he'll come. mus. (_who is busily heating the medicine, brought by _marcel_, over the spirit-lamp, as she unconsciously murmurs a prayer_) oh! mary! blessed virgin! save, of thy mercy, this poor maiden! save her, madonna mine, from death! (rudolph, marcel _and_ schaunard_ whisper together. every now and then _rudolph_ goes on tiptoe to the bed, and then rejoins his companions. _musetta_, interrupting, bids _marcel_ place a book upright on the table, so as to shade the lamp._) here there should be a shade, because the lamp is flickering! like this. (_resuming her prayer_) and, oh! may she recover! madonna! holy mother! i merit not thy pardon, but our little mimi is an angel from heaven! (rudolph _approaches _musetta_, while _schaunard_ goes on tiptoe to the bedside; with a sorrowful gesture he goes back to _marcel.) rud. i still have hope. do you think it serious? mus. not serious. sch. (_hoarsely_) marcel, she is dead! (_marcel in his turn goes up to the bed, and retreats in alarm; a ray of sunshine falls through the window upon mimi's face; musetta points to her cloak, which, with a grateful glance, rudolph takes, and standing upon a chair, endeavors to form a screen by stretching the cloak across the window-pane._) col. (_quietly entering and putting some money on the table near musetta_) how is she? rud. see, now! she's tranquil. (_rudolph, turning round, sees musetta, who makes a sign to him that the medicine is ready; getting off the chair, he is suddenly aware of the strange demeanor of marcel and schaunard._) rud. (_huskily, almost in a speaking voice_) what's the meaning of this going and this coming, and these glances so strange? (_he glances from one to the other in consternation._) mar. (_unable to bear up any longer, hastens to embrace _rudolph_ as he murmurs_) poor fellow! rud. (_flings himself on _mimi's_ bed, lifts her up, shakes her by the hand, and exclaims in tones of anguish_) mimi! mimi! (_he falls, sobbing, upon her lifeless form_) (_terror-stricken, _musetta_ rushes to the bed, utters a piercing cry of grief; then kneels sobbing, at the foot of the bed. _schaunard_, overcome, sinks back into a chair; to the left, _colline_ stands at the foot of the bed, dazed at the suddenness of this catastrophe. _marcel_, sobbing, turns his back to the footlights. the curtain slowly falls._) parsifal: a drama by wagner retold by oliver huckel books by dr. huckel mental medicine some practical suggestions from a spiritual standpoint (cloth, $1.00 net) the melody of god's love an interpretation of the twenty-third psalm (cloth, 75 cts. net) wagner's music dramas retold in english verse parsifal tannhäuser lohengrin rheingold walküre (each, cloth, 75 cents net) thomas y. crowell & co. [illustration] parsifal a mystical drama by richard wagner retold in the spirit of the bayreuth interpretation by oliver huckel mdccccx 1903 t.y. crowell & co. composition and plates by d.b. updike to my wife in loving memory of bayreuth days o.h. contents foreword part i the coming of parsifal part ii the tempting of parsifal part iii the crowning of parsifal list of illustrations parsifal in quest of the holy grail monsalvat, the castle of the grail the communion of the holy grail parsifal healing king amfortas parsifal revealing the holy grail illustrated by franz stassen foreword the parsifal of richard wagner was not only the last and loftiest work of his genius, but it is also one of the few great dramas of modern times,--a drama which unfolds striking and impressive spiritual teachings. indeed, parsifal may be called richard wagner's great confession of faith. he takes the legend of the holy grail, and uses it to portray wonderfully and thrillingly the christian truths of the beauty, the glory, and the inspiring power of the lord's supper, and the infinite meaning of the redeeming love of the cross. he reveals in this drama by poetry and music, and with a marvellous breadth and depth of spiritual conception, this theme (in his own words): "the founder of the christian religion was not wise: he was divine. to believe in him is to imitate him and to seek union with him.... in consequence of his atoning death, everything which lives and breathes may know itself redeemed.... only love rooted in sympathy and expressed in action to the point of a complete destruction of self-will, is christian love." (wagner's letters, 1880, pages 270, 365, 339.) the criticism has sometimes been made that the basic religious idea of parsifal is buddhistic rather than christian; that it is taken directly from the philosophy of schopenhauer, who was perhaps as nearly a buddhist as was possible for an occidental mind to be; that the dominating idea in parsifal is compassion as the essence of sanctity, and that wagner has merely clothed this fundamental buddhistic idea with the externals of christian form and symbolism. this criticism is ingenious. it may also suggest that all great religions in their essence have much which is akin. but no one who reads carefully wagner's own letters during the time that he was brooding over his parsifal can doubt that he was trying in this drama to express in broadest and deepest way the essentials of christian truth. christianity has no need to go to buddhism to find such a fundamental conception as that of an infinite compassion as a revelation of god. the legend of the grail, as wagner uses it, has in it the usual accompaniments of mediaeval tradition,--something of paganism and magic. but these pagan elements are only contrasts to the purity and splendor of the simple christian truth portrayed. the drama suggests the early miracle and mystery plays of the christian church; but more nearly, perhaps, it reminds one of those great religious dramas, scenic and musical, which were given at night at eleusis, near athens, in the temple of the mysteries, before the initiated ones among the greeks in the days of pericles and plato. here at bayreuth the mystic drama is given before its thousands of devout pilgrims and music-lovers who gather to the little town as to a sacred spot from all parts of the world,--from russia, italy, france, england, and america,--and who enter into the spirit of this noble drama and feast of music as if it were a religious festival in a temple of divine mysteries. the sources of wagner's story deserve a few words. the legend of the holy grail took many forms during the middle ages. it was told in slightly varying way in the twelfth century by the french writers robert de borron and chrestien de troyes, and in the early thirteenth century by wolfram von eschenbach in the strong german speech of thuringia. the substance of these legends was that the precious cup, used for the wine at the last supper, and also used to receive the saviour's blood at the cross, was forever after cherished as the holy grail. it was carried from the holy land by joseph of arimathea and taken first to gaul and later to spain to a special sanctuary among the mountains, which was named monsalvat. here it was to be cherished and guarded by a holy band of knights of the grail. the same legend appears in the chronicles of sir thomas malory, but instead of gaul, early britain is the place to which the grail is brought. tennyson's "the holy grail" in his idylls of the king largely follows sir thomas malory's chronicles. the american artist edwin a. abbey in his masterly paintings of the grail legend as portrayed on the walls of the boston public library, also follows malory. wagner, however, uses the version of wolfram von eschenbach, modifying it and spiritualizing it to suit his purposes. the german artist franz stassen, from whom our illustrations are taken, has entered with perfect appreciation into wagner's version of the noble legend. the following rendering of the parsifal is not a close translation of the text, but rather a transfusion of the spirit. it is possibly as nearly a translation as fitzgerald's rendition of omar khayyam, or macpherson's version of the poems of ossian. it is what may be called a free rendering, aiming to give the spirit rather than the language of the original. the mere translations of the words of parsifal, as given in the english texts of h. and f. corder and m.h. glyn, do not adequately represent the full value of the drama. those versions were under the necessity of a strictly literal translation, which was further hampered in order to make the english words fit the music, and the result was far from satisfactory. the literal translation also unfortunately over-emphasizes certain parts and phrases in the drama which are somewhat harsh, but which at bayreuth become much modified and refined, and are, therefore, so represented in this version. the present telling of the story will be found to use all that wagner has given in the words, but with the addition here and thereof interpretative phrases, suggested by the drama itself at bayreuth. its purpose is to give an interpretation, a _cumulative impression_, the spirit of the words, music, and mystic meaning, blended together into one story and picture. it is made after a very careful study of the german text of wagner for essential meanings, and after an appreciative hearing of the great drama itself, on two occasions, at bayreuth. we present it in the form in which such sacred legends seem to find their most natural english setting,--in the form made classic in tennyson's idylls of the king. it may also be interesting to note that the present version was planned ten years ago on a first visit to bayreuth. critical work on the german text and in the literature of the parsifal legends was done later during two years at the universities of berlin and oxford. but the actual work of this translation and interpretation was done in the summer of 1902 at bayreuth, and in part at nuremberg and munich. it may also be stated that this version is issued with the kind permission of messrs. schott and company of london, the owners of the copyright of wagner's words and music. the music of parsifal has been so often described and analyzed in critical papers that it is not necessary here to speak of it in detail. this word, however, may be in place. the marvellous music at bayreuth helped in every way in the interpretation of the drama. every part and phase of the thought and movement were brought forth in the various musical motives, adding emphasis and beauty and intensity of feeling. now the music would whisper of the wondrous grace of the holy sacrament, or of the sweet beauty of god's world, clothed in the radiance of good friday; now it would reveal the sorrows of the gentle herzeleide, or the awful anguish of amfortas, or the deep rumblings of klingsor's black art, or the fascinating music of the flower-maidens. often came the pure tones that told of the guileless one, or the strong chords of mighty faith, or the ebb and swell of mystic bells, or the glory of the sacred spear. now came the regal blasts for parsifal, and often and through it all, the splendid music of the grail itself. the music was like a fragrant atmosphere to the drama, softening and refining what was harsh, giving a needed stress here and there, and investing the whole story with a subtle and uplifting charm. the drama of parsifal teaches its own great lessons of life. yet one or two suggestions of interpretation may not be amiss, for it is confessedly one of the most mystical of modern dramas. it may perchance be considered as representing the strife between paganism and christianity in the early centuries of the church,--the powers of magic and the hot passions of the human heart contending against the advancing power of christian truth and the victorious might of purity as portrayed in the guileless hero. or it may be considered as representing in a mystic legend the spiritual history of christ coming in later presence among the sons of men and imaged in the mystic parsifal. wagner mentions that this scripture was often in his mind when writing parsifal--"hath not god made foolish the wisdom of this world? the foolishness of god is wiser than men; and the weakness of god is stronger than men." or this, further, it may represent, in striking and inspiring way,--that the pure in heart shall win the victories in life; that the guileless are the valiant sons of god; that the heart that resists evil passion and is touched by pity for the world's woe is the heart that reincarnates the passionate purity of the christ and can reveal again the healing power, the holy grail of god. those who desire to study further the mystical and spiritual meanings will find much helpful suggestion in such books as the argument and mystery of parsifal, by charles t. gatty, f.s.a. (london); a study of parsifal, by alfred gurney, m.a. (london); parsifal,--the finding of christ through art, by a.r. parsons (new york); or my musical memories, by rev. h.r. haweis (chapter on "parsifal"). it may be some time before the real parsifal as given at bayreuth is fully appreciated by the english-speaking public, although shortly the special conditions which have hitherto reserved its production to bayreuth alone will be released, and the great drama will be heard in other musical centres. this version is intended to be a vivid reminder of the drama to those who have seen it at bayreuth, and also to give to those who have not seen it a fuller glimpse of the majestic story than has hitherto been possible to find in english. the genius of wagner as a musician has so far overshadowed all else, that his genius as a poet and as an exquisite reteller of the old legends has not been fully appreciated. galahad, as tennyson portrays him, will always hold the first place with english readers as the ideal knight of the holy grail. the matchless diction of tennyson has given the less perfect form of the legend a supreme charm and beauty. but wolfram von eschenbach's parsifal, as spiritualized and humanized in wagner's lyric drama, will be seen to be in fuller accord with the whole cycle and development of the grail legends, and at the same time gives the nobler story. it is a consummate parable of the contending passions and the heavenly aspiration, the ineffable pity and the mystic glory, of the human heart. it portrays an intensely human and heroic life, imaginatively identified with that of the very christ. "however mediaeval the language and symbolism of parsifal may be," says a modern critic, "one cannot but acknowledge the simplicity and power of the story. its spiritual significance is universal. whatever more it may mean, we see clearly that the guileless knight is purity, kundry is the wickedness of the world expressed in its most enticing form, and king amfortas suffering with his open wound is humanity. one cannot read the drama without a thrill, without a clutching at the heart, at its marvellous meaning, its uplifting and ennobling lessons." o.h. baltimore, maryland, january 7th, 1903. parsifal. part i the coming of parsifal within a noble stretch of mountain woods, primeval forest, deep and dark and grand, there rose a glorious castle towering high,-and at its foot a smiling, shimmering lake lay in the still lap of a verdant glade. 't was daybreak, and the arrows of the dawn were shot in golden glory through the trees, and from the castle came a trumpet blast to waken life in all the slumbering host,-warriors and yeomen in the castle halls. and at the trumpet gurnemanz rose up,-ancient and faithful servant of the grail,-who sleeping lay under a spreading oak, and called aloud to two youths sleeping yet: "hey! ho! ye foresters, loving the woods, loving your sleep as well. wake with the day! hear ye the trumpet! come, let us thank god that we have power to hear the call of life, and power to answer as the duty calls!" and up they started, knelt in prayer with him, and offered unto god their morning praise. then gurnemanz: "up now, my gallant youths, prepare the royal bath, and wait the king!... behold, his litter now is coming forth, i see the heralds coming on before.... hail, royal heralds! hail and welcome both! how fares my lord amfortas' health to-day? i hope his early coming to the bath doth presage nothing worse. i fain had thought the healing herb that sir gawain had found with wisest skill and bravest deed might bring some quick and sure relief unto the king." to whom the herald-knight did make reply: "thou knowest all of this dread secret wound,-the shame, the sorrow, and the depth of it, its evil cause and the dark curse upon it,-and yet forsooth thou seemest still to hope?... the healing herb no soothing brought, nor peace. all night the sleepless king has tossed in pain, longing for morning and the cooling bath." then gurnemanz, downcast and saddened, said: "yea, it is useless, hoping thus to ease the pain unless we use the one sure cure,-naught else avails although we search the world. only one healer and one healing thing can staunch the gaping wound and save the king." and eagerly the herald asked: "what cure is this, and who the healer that can save the king?" but gurnemanz quick answered: "see the bath is needing thee, for here doth come the king!" but as he spake, e'er yet the king appeared, another herald, looking far away, beheld a woman coming, riding wild, and quick exclaimed: "see there, a flying witch! ha! how the devil's mare is racing fast with madly flying mane! nearer she comes!... 'tis kundry, wretched kundry, mad old kundry-perhaps she brings us urgent news? who knows? the mare is staggering with weariness,-no wonder, for its flight was through the air,-but now it nears the ground, and seems to brush the moss with sweeping mane. and now, look ye! the wild witch flings herself from off the mare and rushes toward us!" and kundry came, her dark eyes flashing wildly, piercing bright; her black hair loose; her rude garb looser still, yet partly bound with glittering skins of snakes; and panting, staggering ran to gurnemanz, and thrust into his hands a crystal flask with the scant whisper, "balsam--for the king!" and on his asking, "whence this healing balm?" she answered: "farther than thy thought can guess. for if this balsam fail, then araby hath nothing further for the king's relief. ask me no further. i am weak and worn." and now the litter of the king drew near, attended by a retinue of knights. high on the couch the king amfortas lay, his pale face lined with suffering and care; and looking toward the king, then gurnemanz spake with his own sad heart: "he comes, my king,-a helpless burden to his servitors. alas, alas! that these mine eyes should see the sovereign of a strong and noble race, now in the very flower and prime of life, brought low, and made a bounden slave unto a shameful and a stubborn sickness!... ye servitors, be careful of this couch! careful! set down the litter tenderly! i hear the king, our master, groan in pain." then they set down the couch, and soon the king, raising himself a little, spake to them: "my loving thanks, sir knights. rest here awhile. how sweet this morning and these fragrant woods to one who tossed the weary night in pain. and this pure lake with all its freshening waves will lighten pain and brighten my dark woe. where is my dear gawain?" and one spake up: "my lord gawain has hasted quick away. for when the healing herb that he had brought after such daring toils, did disappoint, then he set forth upon another quest." then said the king: "without our word? alas that he should go on useless quests and seem to do despite unto the grail! for it is ordered by divine command that i should suffer for my grievous sin, and naught can help me but one single thing. o woe, if in his far-off quests for me he is ensnared by klingsor's hateful arts! i pray you, sirs, venture no more for me,-it only breaks my peace, and grieves my heart. naught will avail. i only wait for him,-'_by pity 'lightened._' was not this the word?" and gurnemanz: "so thou hast said to us." and softly yet spake on the suffering king: "'_the guileless one._' methinks i know him now! his name is death, for only death can free me!" then gurnemanz to ease the king's sad thoughts held forth the crystal flask with soothing words: "nay, nay, my king. essay once more a cure,-a balsam brought for thee from araby." and the king asked: "whence came this balsam flask, so strange in form, and who has brought it here?" and gurnemanz: "there lies the woman now! the wild-eyed kundry, weak and weary-worn, as if the journey sapped her very life.... up, kundry! here's his majesty the king!" but kundry would not rise, or could not else. then spake the king: "o kundry, restless, strange, am i again thy debtor for such help? yet i will try thy balsam for my wound, and for thy service take my grateful thanks." but kundry muttered: "give no thanks to me. what will it help,--or this, or e'en the bath? and yet, away, i say! on to the bath!" then the king left her, lying on the ground, and off he moved upon the couch of pain, longing to bathe him in the shining lake, hoping against all hope to ease his soul, and quiet in his body the fierce pains. and one spake up: "why lies that woman there,-a foul and snarling thing on holy ground? methinks her healing balm is witching drug to work a further poison in the king.... she hates us! see her now! how hellishly she looks at us with hot and spiteful eyes! she is a heathen witch and sorceress!" but gurnemanz, who knew her well, replied: "what harm has ever come to you from her? and oft she serves us in the kindliest ways. for when we want a messenger to send to distant lands where warrior-knights in fight are serving god, she quick takes up the task; before you scarcely know is gone and back. a marvel is her wondrous speed of flight. nor does she ask your help at any time, nor tire you with her presence, nor her words. but in the hour of danger, she is near,-inspiring by her brave and fiery zeal, nor asking of you all one word of thanks. methinks a curse may still be on her life,-she is so wild and strange, so sad her very eyes. but now, whate'er the past, she is with us, and serves us to atone for earlier guilt. perchance her work may shrive her of her sins. surely she does full well to serve us well, and in the serving-help herself and us." then spake again a knight: "perchance her guilt it was, that brought calamity on all our land." but gurnemanz: "my thought of her goes far in memory to days and years long past. and it was always when she was away and we alone, that sudden mishap fell. this i have seen through many, many years. the agèd king, our titurel beloved, he knew her well for many years beyond. 'twas he who found her sleeping in these woods, all stiff and rigid, pale and seeming dead, when he was building yonder castle-towers. and so did i myself, in recent days, find her asleep and rigid in the woods,-'twas when calamity on us had come so evil and so shameful from our foe,-that dread magician of the mountain heights. say, kundry, wake and answer me this word? where hadst thou been in those dark evil days,-at home, afar, awake or fast asleep,-when our good king did lose the holy spear? why were you not at hand to give us help?" and kundry muttered: "never do i help!" then said a knight: "o brother gurnemanz, if she is now so true in serving us, and if she does such strange and wondrous deeds, then send her for the missing holy spear for which the king and all the land are fain." but gurnemanz with gloomy looks replied: "that were a quest beyond her, beyond all-that lies within the guarded will of god. o how my heart leaps up in memory of that blest symbol of the saviour's power! o wounding, healing, wonder-working spear, companion of the grail in grace divine, a radiant shaft for consecrated hands. what saw i? hands unholy snatched thee up, and sought to wield thee in unholy ways. i see it all again,--that dark and fatal day when our good king amfortas, all too bold, forgetful of the evil in the world, went straying far out from the castle walls, and loitered through the green and shady woods; and there he met a woman passing fair, with great eyes that bewitched him with their light, and as he stayed and lost his heart to her, he lost the spear. for on a sudden came athwart them that foul-hearted, fallen knight, the evil-minded klingsor, and he snatched the holy spear and mocking rushed away. then broke an awful cry from the king's lips; i heard and hurrying fought the evil knight, as did the king, parrying blow on blow, and at the last the king fell wounded sore by that same spear that once was holy health. this is the fatal wound that burns his side,-this wound it is that ne'er will close again." and when the knights asked further of the deed and what of klingsor, the foul-hearted knight, then gurnemanz sat down and told this tale,-the four young knights ensconced around his feet,-"our holy titurel knew klingsor well. for in the ancient days when savage foes distressed the kingdom with their heathen craft, one mystic midnight came a messenger of god to titurel, and gave to him the holy grail, the vessel lustrous pure, wherein the crimson wine blushed rosy-red at that last supper of the feast of love; wherein the later wine of his own blood was caught and cherished from the cruel cross. this gave the angel unto holy titurel and with it gave the radiant sacred spear that pierced the side and broke the suffering heart of him, our heavenly saviour on the cross, so that the water and the blood flowed forth in mingled tide,--the sacrifice of love. and for these precious witnesses of god that told to men of saving-health and power, the holy titurel did build an holy house,-a sanctuary-stronghold on the heights of monsalvat, forever given to god. and ye, blest servants of the holy grail, ye know the sacred ways by which ye came into this holy service. ye gave all and purified your lives and hearts to god. and with the consecration came the power, by vision of the grail, to do high deeds and live the life of warriors of god. this klingsor came to holy titurel and asked to come into the company. long had he lived in yonder heathen vale alone, and shunned by all his kind. i never knew what sin had stained his heart, or why he sought the castle of the grail; but holy titurel discerned his heart and saw the festering evil of his life, and knew unholy purpose filled his soul and steadfastly refused him at the gates. whereat in wrath the evil klingsor swore that if he could not serve the holy grail, the holy grail should serve him by its power; and he would seize it in his own right hand, and some day be the master of them all. henceforth he waged a subtle, ceaseless war against monsalvat and the holy knights. he gave himself to dark and evil life and learned the witchery of magic arts to work the ruin of the holy grail. fair gardens he created by his art, through all the deserts, and therein he placed maidens of winsome witchery and power, who bloomed like flowers in beauty and in grace. and in these subtle snares full many a knight was caught by magic wiles and lured and lost, and no one knew where they had gone or why. then holy titurel, grown old in years, gave up the kingdom to his only son, the brave amfortas. and by ceaseless quest amfortas learned the truth and waged fierce war against this klingsor, evil to the heart, until at last in one unguarded moment, as i have told you, e'en our noble king, the good amfortas, yielded to a sin,-and lost the spear, and had his fatal wound. now with the spear within his evil grasp klingsor exults, and mockingly does tell how his black fingers soon will hold the grail." [illustration] then the young knights who listened to the tale upstarted with the cry: "god give us grace to wrest that sacred spear from impious hands!" but gurnemanz thus checked them: "listen yet! long did our king amfortas kneel before the sanctuary, praying in his pain and seeking for a word of hope from god. at length a radiance glowed around the grail, and from its glory shone a sacred face that spake this oracle of mystic words: _"by pity 'lightened, my guileless one,- wait for him, till my will is done!"_ and as the knights repeated these weird words,-there came wild cries and shouting from the lake: "shame! shame! alas, the shame to shoot the swan!" and as they looked, a wild swan came in sight; it floated feebly o'er the flurried lake and strove to fly, but wounded fluttered down and sank upon the lake-shore, and was dead. and gurnemanz cried out: "who shot the swan? the king had hailed it as a happy sign, whene'er a swan came near him in its flight for since the earliest ages has this bird meant hope and health and holiness to men.-who dared to do this dastard deed of shame?" then came a knight leading a guileless boy and said: "this is the one who shot the swan,-and here more arrows like the cruel shaft that hides itself within the bleeding breast." to whom spake gurnemanz: "what mean'st thou, boy, by such a cruel, shameless deed as this?" but the boy answered: "yea, it was my shot. i shot the swan in flight when high in air." then gurnemanz: "shame to confess such deed! such sacrilege within these holy woods, where seems to dwell the perfect peace of god. were not the woodland creatures kind to thee,-did not the sweet birds sing their songs to thee, when first thou camest to these leafy haunts? and this poor swan, so mild and beautiful,--how could thy heart determine on such deed? it hovered o'er the lake in circling grace, seeking the dear companion of its love,-for e'en the heart of bird doth know sweet love,-and seeming to make sacred all the lake. didst thou not marvel at its queenly flight, and feel a reverence in thine inmost soul? what tempted thee to shoot the fatal shaft, and slay the bird and grieve the loving king?... see where the deadly arrow smote its breast! behold the snowy plumage splashed with blood! the spreading pinions drooping helpless now, and in its eye the agony of death! slain by thy cruel heart that knows no shame! dost thou not see how wicked is thy deed?" then was the young boy stricken with remorse, and drew his hand across his moistened eyes, as if new pity dawned within his soul; then quickly snatching up his strong arched bow, he broke it, and his arrows flung away. and clutching at his breast as if in pain he stood a time in conscious agony,-deep feeling surging through his stricken heart; and then he turned again to gurnemanz with the brave words: "i did not understand what evil i was doing with my bow." "whence art thou?" gurnemanz did ask of him; and dazed he answered: "that i do not know." "but who thy father?"--"that i do not know." "who sent thee here?"--"i do not know e'en that." then gurnemanz: "yet tell me but thy name." and in a strange and dazed way he replied: "once i had many. now, i do not know." and gurnemanz spake sharply, half in wrath, "thou knowest nothing. such a guileless soul,-so wisely foolish, and so foolish wise,-a very child in heart, yet strangely strong, ne'er have i found, except in kundry here.... come, brother-knights, lift up the stricken swan and bear it on these branches to the lake; nor speak of this sad sorrow to the king to further grieve his deep-afflicted heart stricken the king and wounded to his death, this omen he may dwell on to his hurt." and back unto the king's bath went the knights, while gurnemanz spake further to the lad: "speak out thy heart to me. i am thy friend. surely thou knowest much that thou canst say." then spake the boy and told him of his life: "i have a mother,--heartsrue is she called. and on the barren moorland is our home. my bow and arrows have i made myself to scare the eagles in the forest wilds." then gurnemanz: "yea, thou hast told me true, for thou thyself art of the eagle brood. i see a something kingly in thy look. yet better had thy mother taught thy hands to spear and sword than this unmanly bow." whereat the wild witch kundry raised herself from where she lay along the bosky woods, and hoarsely broke in: "yea, his noble sire was gamuret, in battle slain and lost a month before his child had seen the light. and so to save her son from such a death, the lonely mother reared him in the woods, and taught him nothing of the spear and sword, but kept him ever as a guileless child." then spake the lad: "and once i saw a host of men pass by the borders of the wood, a-glitter in the sun, and riding fast on splendid creatures, prancing as they went. oh, i would fain have been like these fair men. but, laughing gaily, on they galloped fast and i ran after them to be like them, and join the glittering host and see the world. but though i ran, they faded from my sight yet have i followed, over hill and dale. day after day i follow on their track, and here i am as now you see me here. my bow has done me service on the way against wild beasts and savage-seeming men." and kundry added: "yea, the fiery boy has sent a terror into many hearts-the wicked always fear the nobly good." then asked the boy in sweetest innocence: "and who are wicked, tell me, and who good?" and kundry spake: "thy mother, she was good. she grieved for thee, but now she grieves no more. for as i lately rode along that way coming with haste from far arabia, i saw her dying, and she spake to me, and sent her blessing to her darling boy." at which the boy with sudden childish rage: "my mother dead! and sent a grace by thee,-thou liest, woman! take thy false words back!" and still impetuous and unreasoning, fighting the facts of life in rebel mood (a child of sudden temper, guileless heart), he seized her, struggling with a furious might to make her unsay what her lips had told. perhaps he might have harmed her in his wrath, had not the agèd gurnemanz come near, and drawn him back, with the sharp-spoken words: "impetuous child, restrain thy violence! this woman harms thee not. she speaks the truth! kundry has seen it, for she never lies." and at the word, the lad grew calm again, and silent stood with still and stony stare, until his heart broke out in woe afresh (a guileless child, not knowing strong control), and he was seized with trembling, and he swooned. then kundry, bearing naught of hate or spite, ran to a pebbly brook that flowed near by, and brought cold water in an ancient horn, sprinkled the lad, and gave him some to drink. and gurnemanz, with kindly look at her, spake out: "thy deed is worthy of the grail,-a cup of water fails not of reward; and sin is conquered by the deeds of good." but kundry muttered still: "i do no good!" then in still lower tone to her own self: "i do no good, i only long for rest. o weary me! would i might never wake! yet dare i sleep? it means calamity to those whom i in vain have tried to serve. resist i cannot! yea, the time has come! i feel the awful spell upon mine eyes,-slumber i must! slave of that evil one who wields his black art from the mountain height. sleep, sleep, to sleep! i must! i must! i must!" with this she crept away and laid her down within a thicket of the forest woods. meanwhile the litter of the king came back with all its retinue of gallant knights. and gurnemanz held up the tottering lad, still sorrowing at the sad news come to him, and slowly led him toward the castle gate, while softly speaking to him graciously: "see how our king amfortas from the bath is carried by his loving servitors. the sun is rising high. the time has come when we shall celebrate our holy feast. there will i lead thee. if thy heart be pure, the grail will be to thee as food and drink." then asked the lad: "what is this thing, the grail?" and gurnemanz: "i may not tell thee that, but if to serve it thou art surely called, then shalt thou know its meaning to the full. somehow i feel and hope that thou shalt know, else what has led thy footsteps to this height. yet no one sees the glory of the grail save those to whom it shall reveal itself." then on they moved, and softly spake the lad: "i scarcely move, and yet i seem to run,-what is the meaning of this strange new thing?" and gurnemanz made answer: "here, my child, there is no space and time, but all is one,-for here we breathe the atmosphere of god,-a boundless here and an eternal now." then on they went, and soon were lost to view within the gateway of a rocky cliff; sometimes came glimpses of them as they climbed the sloping passages within the cliff-a cloistered corridor of carven columns-and paused a moment at some rocky window to see the grandeur of the mountain heights. the soft notes of a trumpet called them up, and silver bells were chiming melodies. at length they reached the noble pillared hall within the castle of the holy grail, for here the sacred feast was always kept,-and here were gathering the blessèd knights. clothed were they all in tunics of gray-blue,-the color of the softened light of heaven,-with mantles of pale scarlet, flowing free,-the very tincture of the blood they served,-and on the mantles snow-white soaring doves, the symbol of the holy spirit's gift. and with a solemn joy they took their place along the tables of communing love; the while from the great vaulted dome above came ever-growing sound of chiming bells. then spellbound stood the lad and gazed around, amazed at all the glory of the hall, and all the solemn splendor of the scene, till gurnemanz stooped down and whispered low: "now give good heed, and if thy heart be pure, and thou art called, then surely thou shalt know." then sang the knights this chorus soft and slow; "o holy feast of blessing, our portion day by day; in thee god's grace possessing, that passeth not away. who doth the right and true, here findeth strength anew; this cup his hand may lift, and claim god's holiest gift." and from the mid-height of the lofty dome the voices of the younger knights replied: "as anguished and holy the dear saviour lowly, for us sinners his own life did offer; so with hearts pure and free, forever do we our lives unto him gladly proffer. he died--our sins atoned for thus,- he died---yet liveth still in us!" and from the topmost of the glorious dome a chorus of fresh boyish voices came: "the faith doth live! the lord doth give the dove, his sacred token! drink at this board the wine outpoured, and eat the bread here broken!" [illustration] and as they sang their sweet antiphonies, a long procession through the splendid hall wended slow way, and bearing in the king, the suffering amfortas in his pain, still lying listless on his royal couch. before him walked a company of boys clothed in pale blue, and bearing high aloft a mystic shrine in cloth of deepest crimson, to signify the royal blood beneath. and others followed bearing silver flagons with wine, and baskets of the finest bread. slowly the king was carried to a couch within the midst, high-raised and canopied, and just before him, of a pure white stone, traced with faint figures of the passion-flower, stood the communion table where was placed the sacred shrine, still covered, of the grail. and when the hymns were ended, and the knights had taken their set places at the board, then there was silence. and from far away, as if from some deep cavern of a tomb, behind the couch where king amfortas lay the muffled voice of agèd titurel spake with long silences between the words: "my son amfortas, art thou at thy post?... wilt thou unveil the grail and bid me live?... or must i die, denied the saving vision?" and king amfortas cried in desperate pain: "o woe is me to bear the burning wound that shames me in the office of the grail! o father, do thou take the sacred trust and let thy holy hands reveal the grail once more, and live! and let me quickly die!" but answered him the agèd titurel: "nay, nay, too feeble i to serve again. i live entombed with but a breath of life, saved by the remnant of the grace of god. my strength all gone, but my poor yearning heart still eager for the vision of the grail; for this alone can bring me comfort now. thine is the office. o unveil the grail! for serving faithfully thou mayst atone for all the grievous sin of thy sad life." but quickly king amfortas stopped the knights who went to do his bidding at the shrine: "nay, leave the holy cup still unrevealed! god grant that none of you may ever know the torment that this vision brings to me which brings to you all rapture and all joy. here do i stand in office, yet accurst,-my heart of lust to guard god's holiest gift, and plead in prayer from lips all stained with sin,-pleading for you who purer are than i! o direst judgment from the god of grace! my inmost soul doth long for his forgiveness, i yearn for sign of his compassion, yet cannot bear his mercy in the grail.... but now the hour is nigh! i seem to see a ray of glory fall upon the cup! the veil is raised! the sacred stream that flows within the crystal, gloriously shines with radiance heaven-born. but as it glows, i feel the well-spring of the blood divine pouring in floods into my anguished heart. and then the full tide of my sinful blood ebbs out in tumult wild through this deep wound here in my side. it leaps in bounds of pain, like torments of the lowest depths of hell,-through this deep wound. like his own wound it is, thrust through with bitter stroke of that same spear, and in the self-same place from which his tears of burning blood wept over man's disgrace in holiest pity and divinest love; and now from me, the highest office holding and charged with holiest trust of god's good grace,-from me the hot, impassioned blood is surging, renewed again by that first awful sin. alas, no deep repentance e'er can save a sinner dyed in sins so scarlet red. naught can avail, but only one sure thing, the healing touch of that thrice-sacred spear, held in the pure hand of the guileless one. have mercy, o have mercy, pitying god! take back my birthright in the sacred trust! take back my life and all i hold most dear! but give me healing, and thy tender love,-and let me die, and come to thee pure-hearted!" and as he ended in an anguished sob, the boys' sweet voices chanted from the dome: _"by pity 'lightened, my guileless one,- wait for him, till my will is done!"_ then softly all the knights cried: "'tis god's will that thou shouldst wait in suffering, yet hope.... fulfil thy duty: and reveal the grail!" while deep the voice of agèd titurel: "unveil the grail! sir knights, unveil the grail!" then they took off the cloth all purple-red, and slowly brought to light the golden shrine, and from it took the antique crystal cup,-forever cherished as the holy grail,-and set it on the table near the king, who writhed in silent anguish on his couch. then agèd titurel: "the blessing now!" and king amfortas bowed in silent prayer before the cup, while an increasing gloom spread through the room, and from the lofty dome the voices of the boys sang soft and low: "take ye, and drink my blood, in vow no death can sever! take ye, my body eat, in love to live forever! remember ye my life and love, and raise your hearts to me above!" and as the verse was ended, came a ray of dazzling light upon the crystal cup, and filled it with a radiant purple glory. and with it came a streaming splendor down that flashed a lustrous beauty all around. and king amfortas, with a brightening face, upraised the holy grail, and gently waved its glory to all sides. and all did kneel, and raised their eyes in joyous reverence toward that bright glory in the darkened room. and once again the agèd titurel's voice: "o rapturous vision of the grace of god!" then king amfortas placed the cup again upon the altar-table of the shrine, and it was covered with the crimson cloth. and from the silver flagons of the wine and from the baskets of the sacred bread, new consecrated by the grail's own light, each knight received his portion gratefully, and all sat down to eat the feast divine. then gurnemanz did beckon to the lad to come and eat. but he was all amazed, and silent stood, nor heeded the kind word. while from the height, boys' voices came again: "wine and bread of consecration, once the lord for our salvation changed for love and pity's sake to the blood which he did shed, to the body which he brake." and answering them, the younger knights replied in sweet antiphony amid the feast: "blood and body, gift of blessing, now he gives for your refreshing, changes by his spirit true to the wine for you outpoured, to the bread that strengthens you." and still in answer did the knights respond, one group in joyous answer to the other: "take ye the bread, change it again, your powers of life inspiring; do as he said, quit you like men, to work out the lord's desiring. "take of the wine, change it anew to life's impetuous torrent; this be the sign, faithful and true,- to fight as duty shall warrant!" then all the knights, with rapture in their hearts, rose joyfully and clasped each other's hands and gave each other the blest kiss of peace, and from their lips and from the dome's great height, and from the younger knights the chorus broke: "blessèd believing! blessèd the loving! blessèd the loving! blessèd believing!" but king amfortas bowed his anguished head, and held his wound all broken out afresh. slowly they carried him from out the hall and slowly marched the knights with solemn joy, bearing the grail within the covered shrine, while bells were chiming in the lofty dome. and then the lad--for he was parsifal-tight clutched his heart in sorrowful distress as king amfortas groaned in bitter woe. he stood in utter anguish overcome, breathing impulsive with deep sympathy, but spake no single word, nor gave one sign that he had understood the solemn feast, or seen the glory of the holy grail. and when the last knight left the festal hall and all the doors were closed, then gurnemanz came to the lad and shook him from the spell and asked: "what sawest thou, what does it mean?" and when he answered not, but shook his head, clutching his heart as if in agony, the patient gurnemanz had patience then no more, but thrust him out and quick made fast the door, with the scant words: "begone, thou guileless lad! guileless thou mayst be; utter fool thou art!" so parsifal went forth into the world, naught knowing of the meaning of it all except the new-stirred pity in his heart. and as the angry gurnemanz returned, and made his way along the pillared hall, he stopped, amazed, and listened, for he heard from far above a gentle voice that sang: _"by pity 'lightened, my guileless one!"_ and from the loftiest dome another voice: "blessèd believing!" parsifal. part ii the tempting of parsifal klingsor the dread magician plied his arts and worked in shame his dastardly black deeds, within the inner keep of a great tower,-the watch-tower of the grim and frowning castle. here in a dark and dismal rocky room, where heaven's light could scarcely find a way, and where around him lay his books and tools of hateful magic, littering the floor, steadfast he looked upon a metal mirror that told the fates to him,--then muttered low: "the time has come! lo, how my tower entices the guileless lad, who cometh like a child with happy heart, and laughter on his lips. come, i must work my work by her who sleeps in heavy slumber underneath my spell; for in the past she did my deadliest deeds." and in the gloom he kindled incense rare, that filled the keep with blue unearthly smoke; and sitting at the mirror once again, he called with mystic gestures to the depths that yawned beneath an opening in the floor: "uprise! come forth! draw near me at my will! thy master calls thee, nameless wanderer, rose-bloom of hell, and ancient devil-queen! a thousand times the earth has known thy face in many forms of woman's wiles and sins,-herodias wert thou in ancient time, and once again gundryggia wert called in old norse days; but thou art kundry now, symbol of woman's wile and cruel craft. come hither, kundry, for thy master calls!" then in the blue light kundry slow appeared. asleep she seemed, and dreaming in her sleep, but sudden wakened with a dreadful cry, a shuddering cry, half laughter, half in pain. and klingsor spake again: "awakest thou? again my spell is potent on thy life; my will again shall use thee for my deeds." but kundry cried in bitter agony, and wailed in fear and anguish at his feet; while klingsor asked her in deep thunder tones: "where hast thou wandered since i used thee last? i know. among the brethren of the grail, who thought thee but a witch and serving-wench. do i not treat thee with a better grace, and use thee for the mightiest of deeds? since thou didst lure for me the brave amfortas-chaste guardian (they thought him) of the grail-thou hast deserted my high name and service. what better hast thou found than me and mine?" then kundry cried in hoarse and broken speech: "o dismal night and shame and wickedness! would i could sleep the deepest sleep of death!" and klingsor asked: "what has there come to thee? has some one else awaked thee from thy sleep?" and trembling kundry answered: "even so. and, oh, the longing to redeem my life!" then klingsor: "yea, with knights so pure in heart, the evil kundry would be heaven-pure." but kundry answered all his mockery: "yea, i did serve them well and faithfully." and klingsor spake with a great voice of scorn: "thou wouldst amend the mischief thou hast done?... they are not worth it! they are fools and weak. i buy them all for price of one sweet sin. the strongest was the weakest in thine arms. and so i ruined him, and won the spear, and left him with the ever-burning wound. but now to-day another must be met,-most dangerous because so godlike pure, for he is shielded by a guileless heart." and kundry cried: "him will i never tempt! thou canst not force me to the hateful deed." but klingsor answered: "yea, thou shalt, thou must. i am thy master and i have the power. thy charms and woes are nothing unto me. laugh at me, if you will. i have the power! yea, i remember all the days of yore,-that once i sought the holier, happier life, within the service of the holy grail; but it was mad ambition, desperate wish, and thou didst quench it for me, devil's-queen, and drown it in thy hellish arts of love. but that is past. now thou art but my slave. and titurel, who scorned me at the gates, and all his knights with their proud king amfortas, through thy dark wiles i ruined utterly. and in my hand i hold their sacred spear and soon shall have their shining holy grail. remember now to use thy wiles again as thou didst love amfortas to his shame." but kundry cried: "o misery and shame! that e'en their king should be so weak with me, and all men weak. o hateful, hateful curse that ruins them and me in sin together! o for the sleep of death to end all this!" and klingsor then: "perhaps thy wish is near, for he who can defy thee, sets thee free. go tempt the guileless boy, and win thy wish." but kundry answered still: "i will not tempt him!" then klingsor: "yea, thou must! it is my will. for this i wakened thee. and fair is he. see, from my window i can watch him come. he scales the ramparts like a hero born. this trumpet i will blow and wake the guards. ho! warders of the gates and walls! to arms! a foe is near!... list to the clash of swords! how my deluded vassals swarm the walls to guard my castle and the maidens here-bewitching creatures fashioned by my art! behold! the guileless lad is not afraid! he fights with bold sir ferris, wrests a sword, and flashes it with fury in their midst." and as he fought, kundry laughed loud and long, and now she groaned in awful agony, then with a sudden shriek was lost to sight. still klingsor spake: "how ill his fiery zeal agrees with the weak spirit of these knights. wounded in arm and limb, they yield, they fly, and carry off a multitude of scars. but what care i, you puny, craven race? would that the weak knights of the holy grail might rise in wrath and slay each other thus! how proudly stands the youth upon the walls! how red the roses in his cheeks are laughing! and how amazed he is, like some sweet child, to see this wondrous garden at his feet! ho! kundry! hast thou gone? i thought i heard thy laughter, or a sudden cry of pain. doubtless already she is hard at work to do my bidding, for she is my slave, and what i tell her, she must surely do. there, there, my gallant lad, so sweet and brave, thou art too young to understand these things. but thou shalt learn,--my arts will teach thee well, and when thy guileless heart shall be ensnared, then thou art weak, and lost,--and mine the grail!" then, wondrous sight! the castle disappeared, save here and there a distant battlement, and through the foliage the palace walls, and windows of arabian tracery. but everywhere were flowers--wondrous flowers-rising in terraces of tropic growth: a splendid garden of luxuriant flowers created by dread klingsor's magic art. and parsifal, astounded at the scene, stood silently upon the castle walls, as to his eye the great flowers seemed to wake, and rush in airy garments here and there. they seemed like maidens and they seemed like flowers, so graceful and so beautiful were they. and as they moved they spoke in rhythmic tones: "here was the tumult and shoutings! here was the clashing of weapons! "horror! our lovers are wounded! here in the palace is carnage! "who is the foe that assails us? accurst shall he be by us all!" but parsifal leaped gaily to their midst, and smiled upon them with unfeigned delight; and cried: "thus do i win my way to you,-the loveliest maidens that mine eyes have seen." and pacified they ask: "thou comest here and wilt not harm us, but be kind to us?" and parsifal: "nowhere such maidens live,-fair flowers of the garden of delight. i could not treat you ill, you are so fair! again you bring sweet childhood's days to me, for you are all so lovely and so bright." and then the maidens welcomed the gay youth and spake to him: "if thou wilt be our friend, then art thou welcome in our happy garden. we do not play for gold, but only love,-the rosebud garlands of the joy of life." then other maidens came in flowers clad, and danced around him with their laughing grace, and sang in tones of winsome witchery: "we are thy fragrant flowers, blooming alone for thee, and full of love's own bliss and life's deep mystery! "come, kiss our rosy lips, for thou our lover art, and taste the nectar sweet of nature's secret heart." and parsifal, still with the guileless heart, and seeing all with only childlike eyes, untouched of evil, nor discerning sin, asked laughingly: "and are you really flowers? i do not know. you are so beautiful." then crowded they around him with their charms, and pleaded with him, "love us ere we die!" crowded each other, jealous of his smile, and struggling eagerly to win his love. but parsifal repulsed their too fond hearts, and shunned their circle of entwining arms with gentle gesture: "sweetest sister-flowers, i like ye better in the flowery dance, and when ye give me space to see your charms. away, sweet sisters, leave me here alone!" then did they chide him: "art afraid of us, or art thou also cold, as well as coward? here butterfly is wooed by loving flowers, and does not know enough to sip the sweet." and parsifal discerned them then, and cried: "begone, false flowers, ye cannot snare my heart!" but as he turned to leave the flowery throng, he heard a sweet voice from a leafy bower say: "parsifal! a moment! parsifal!" and quick he stopped and murmured, "parsifal! who calls me by that gentle mystic name, that once my mother named me in her dreams?" and the voice spake: "o tarry, parsifal! for i have joyous things to tell to thee. ye flowery children, leave him here in peace; he came not here to waste his time in play. go to the wounded lovers waiting you." and so they left him, singing as they went: "must we leave thee, must we sever, oh, the parting pain! gladly would we love thee ever and with thee remain! fair one, proud one, now farewell. guileless, foolish heart, farewell!" and gaily laughing at the guileless youth, they rushed into the palace and were gone. and parsifal spake slowly to himself: "was all this nothing but a passing dream?" but looking whence the other voice had come, he saw the leafy bower had opened wide, and on a flowery couch a maiden lay, more beautiful than heart could ever dream, clad in some light gown of arabian stuff. and parsifal, still standing high aloof, spake courteously: "didst thou call to me and name me who am nameless unto all?" and she replied: "i named thee, guileless lad,-i named thee by thine own name, parsifal. for so thy father gamuret named thee, before he died in that arabian land,-named thee before thine eyes had seen the light, named thee with greeting in his dying breath. here have i waited thee to tell thee all. what drew thee here but the desire to know?" and parsifal: "i never saw, nor dreamed, such wondrous evil things as here to-day. and art thou but another wanton flower that bloomest in this evil garden here?" but she: "o parsifal, thou foolish heart! surely thou seest i am not as these. my home lies far away in distant lands. i did but tarry here to wait for thee and tell thee many things about thyself. i knew thee when thou wert a little babe, smiling upon thy loving mother's breast. thy earliest lisp still laugheth in my ear. and thy dear widowed mother, sweet heartsrue, although she mourned, smiled also in her joy when thou wert come, a laughing new-born love. thy cradle was a nest of softest moss, and her caresses lulled thee to thy sleep. she watched thee lovingly through all thy sleep and waked thee in the morning with her tears of mingled love and pain for him who died. and that thy life should know no strife of men, nor care nor perils as thy sire had known, became her only care. so in the woods she went with thee to hide in quiet there. and there she hoped no evil of the world, nor ways of sinful men would come to thee. didst thou not hear her sorrowful lament when thou didst roam too far or late from home? didst thou not hear her laughter in her joy when she would give thee welcome home again,-when her dear arms were close around thy neck and her sweet kisses on thy loving lips? but thou hast never known what i have known of those last days of thy dear mother's love. thou didst not hear the secret sighs and moans, and at the last the tempest of her grief, when after many days thou didst not come, and not a trace of thee could e'er be found. she waited through the weary days and nights, and then her open tears and cries were stilled, and secret grief was eating at her life, until at last her anguished heart did break, and thy dear mother, gentle heartsrue, died." and parsifal in tenderest grief drew near, and sank in sorrow at the maiden's feet, and cried: "o woe is me! what have i done, o sweetest, dearest, gentlest mother mine, that i thy son shouldst bring thee to thy death? o blind i was, and wretched, and accurst to wander off and leave thy tender love. o faithful, fondest, fairest of all mothers!" and parsifal was weak with pain and grief, and gently did the maiden bend to him and wreathe her arms confiding round his neck. and whisper to him: "since thou knowest grief, let me be comfort to thy sorrowing heart. and let thy bitter woe find sweet relief in consolations of the tenderest love." but parsifal: "yea, yea, i did forget the mother that hath borne me in her love. and how much else have i forgotten now! what have i yet remembered to my good? a blindness seems to hold me in its thrall." then said the maiden: "thou hast spoken true, but full confession endeth sorrow's pain, and sadness brings its fuller gift of wisdom. thy heart has learned its lesson of deep grief; now it should learn its lesson of sweet love, such love as burned in thine own father's heart whene'er he held dear heartsrue to his breast. thy mother with her flaming heart of love gave thee her life,--it throbs within thee now,-and thus she sends her blessing from above, and gives to thee this sweetest kiss of love." and at the words she held him in her arms, and pressed upon his lips a fervent kiss. then there was silence, deep and terrible, as if the destiny of all the world hung in the balance of that fervent kiss. but still she held him in her clinging arms.... then parsifal, as if the kiss had stung his being into horror of new pain, sprang up with anguish in his pallid face,-his hands held tight against his throbbing heart, as if to stifle some great agony,-and at the last he cried with voice of pain: "amfortas! o amfortas! o amfortas! i know it now! the spear-wound in thy side! it burns my heart! it sears my very soul! o grief and horror in my being's depth! o misery! o anguish beyond words! the wound is bleeding here in mine own side!" and as the maiden watched him in her fear, he spake again in fierce and awful strain: "nay, this is not the spear-wound in my side! there let the life-blood flow itself to death! for this is fire and flame within my heart that sways my senses in delirium,-the awful madness of tormenting love! now do i see how all the world is stirred, tossed and convulsed, and often lost in shame by the terrific passions of the heart!" then growing calmer, parsifal spake on, as if an echo of the wail of god over the world's sad suffering and sin: "i seem to see the blessèd holy cup and in its depths the saviour's blood doth glow. the rapture of redemption sweet and mild trembleth afar through all the universe, except within a sin-polluted heart. such is amfortas whom i must redeem. i heard the suffering saviour's sad lament over his sanctuary shamed in sin; i heard his words--'deliver me from hands that have profaned the holiest with guilt! so rang the words within my very soul. yet i, forgetting what my lord had said, have wandered off in boyish foolishness.... o lord, behold my sorrow at thy feet! have mercy on me, blest redeemer mine, and show me how my sin can be atoned!" then came the maiden near in trembling way, as if her wonder was to pity turned, and spake: "my noble knight, fling off this spell! look up, and this heart's love shall comfort thee!" but parsifal with fixed look answered her: "ah, woman, now i know thee who thou art. thy voice it was that pleaded with amfortas; thine eye that smiled away his peace of heart; thy lips that tempted him to taste of sin; this same white throat was bending over him; this proudly tossing head; these laughing curls; so these fair arms were winding round his neck; and every feature soft in flattery; when thou didst bring him agony untold, and stole his soul's salvation with thy kiss! out and away, destroyer of men's souls! take thy pernicious wiles and get thee gone!" but kundry--for 't was she--cried out in grief: "o heart, that feelest for amfortas' woe, hast thou no feeling for my dire distress? thou camest here to save the king from sin, why not save me and bring me my redemption? through endless ages i have waited thee,-for thou dost seem to me a very savior, like him whom long ago i did revile. o that thou knewest my story and the curse which waking, sleeping, joyous, or in woe, brings me forth sorrow and a deep despair. this is my story. once i saw the lord in those sad days of his sad earthly life, for in a previous existence i was also living in fair galilee; these eyes did see him on the dolorous way that led his sorrowing feet to calvary. and in light scorn, i laughed at him.... i laughed." and when she spake these words--"i laughed"-she stopped in pain and for an awful moment her deed spake in the silence, horror-stricken. and parsifal deep shuddered at the word, but she spake on: "i laughed at him. whereat he looked at me. ah! ne'er shall i forget!... and now forever am i seeking him, from age to age and e'en from world to world, to stand once more before him in contrition. sometimes his eye doth seem to glance on me, and then accursèd laughter seizes me, and i am ready for the deeds of hell. i laugh and laugh, but never can i weep. i wander storming, raving, but no tears. the night of madness holds me, but no tears. o could i weep, i know i would be saved. be pitiful, and be a savior to me! for thee, like him, i have derided oft. now do i come to thee with heart of love; let me but rest upon thy breast and weep, take me but to thyself for one short hour, and thou shalt save eternity for me, and in my tears my sin shall be atoned!" but parsifal: "eternity were lost for both of us, if even for an hour i yielded to the sin of loving thee, and in that hour forgot my holy mission. for i am also sent to save thy soul and to deliver thee from curse of lust. the love that burns in thee is only lust. between that and the pure love of true hearts there yawns abyss like that 'twixt heaven and hell; nor can the foul fount e'er be closed in thee, until the pure fount shall be opened wide; nor can thy sinful heart be ever saved by heavy sorrow and much agony; nor e'en by service rendered unto others; only one way can save thy guilty soul-only by giving all to christ's dear love. the curse that rests upon the brotherhood is something different by another's sin. they pine and languish for the holy grail, and yet they know the wondrous fount of life. but thou! what wouldst thou do to save thy soul? o misery! o false and daring deed! thou wouldst see rest and heaven's holy peace, by way of hell, and death's eternal night!" then kundry cried in wildest ecstasy: "and hath a single kiss from me conveyed such boundless knowledge to thine eager soul, and given unto thee a world-wide vision? o let my perfect love embrace thy heart, and it shall quicken thee to godlike power! deliver sin-lost souls! it is thy work! stand as a god revealed! it is thy right! take thou my love, and take this godlike power, and let me perish! thou art all to me!" then parsifal: "i offer thee deliverance, but not in this way, impious one." but kundry: "let me love thee, my divine one! this the deliverance i ask of thee." and parsifal: "love and deliverance shall come to thee in truest, noblest way, if thou wilt guide me to amfortas now." then kundry into maddened fury broke, and cried: "no, never shalt thou find the king. let the doomed king go to his desperate shame. ah! hapless wretch whom i derided laughing, he fell at last by his own sacred spear." then parsifal: "the king was brave and good. who dared to wound him with the sacred spear?" and kundry answered: "he has wounded him! he who can put my laughter into flight! he who enslaves me to his utter will! his spell is on me and doth give me might. yea, and the spear shall also thrust thee through, if thou wilt pity that poor craven's fate! o parsifal, pray give to me thy pity! let but one single hour be mine and thine, and then thou shalt be guided as thou wilt!" and as she spake, she sought to hold him fast, but off he thrust her with the last fierce words: "unhand me, wretched woman! be ye gone!" and kundry beat her breast and cried in rage: "hither, ye powers of darkness! hither, help! seize on the caitiff who defies my will! guard ye the ways, and ward the passage there! ah, parsifal, if thou shouldst fly from hence and learn the ways through all the weary world, the one way that thou seekest to the king-that thou shalt never find! so have i sworn! so do i curse all pathways and all courses that lead thee from me. wander, then, i say! wander forever, but the king find never! i give thee up to klingsor as thy guide,-klingsor my royal lord and magic master." and scarce the words had left her cursing lips, than klingsor's ugly form was on the wall. in his black hands he swung the sacred spear and cried: "halt there, thou cursèd guileless one! feel thou the keenness of thy master's spear!" with that, he hurled it full at parsifal; but miracle of miracles! it stopped above the head of parsifal, and there it floated in the radiant air, a glory. and parsifal, with upward look and prayer, grasped it and wielded with supremest joy, and with it marked upon the air, the cross; and cried: "this sign of holy cross i make, and ban thy cursèd magic evermore and as it soon shall heal the burning wound, so may it wound thy power to utter wreck!" and as the words of parsifal were said, an earthquake shook the castle to the ground, the garden withered into desert waste strewn with the flowers, faded, desolate,-and kundry, crying loud, fell to the earth. so parsifal held high the holy spear and left the garden-waste and broken tower, and all the ruin of the haunts of sin, but stood a moment on the shattered walls and looked at kundry lying on the ground, and spake: "thou knowest where we meet again!" and as he went, sad kundry raised herself a little, and looked after him. o kundry! sinful and yet desiring to be helped, enthralled of sin, yet seeking after god! thou art our human nature, after all,-strange contradiction, mingled love and hate, half demon and half angel in thy moods! parsifal. part iii. the crowning of parsifal morning was breaking in the pleasant land, where rising meadows full of fragrant flowers skirt with their beauty the deep forest wilds, that lead to rocky cliffs among whose peaks lies monsalvat, the castle of the grail. forth from a hut that leans against the rock, close to a woodland spring, came gurnemanz, the faithful knight and noble counsellor, but now a lonely hermit of the woods, clad in the sacred tunic of the grail, grown very old and bent, and hair snow-white. he listened for awhile, then spake: "what moans from yonder thicket come? no forest beast doth utter cry so piteous and sad. this holy morn, the holiest of the year, doth bring to nature a deep-thrilling joy. 't is only humankind that can be sad. ah! there again the grieving and the moans,-methinks i know that sad despairing cry. these brambles i will tear apart and see what their thick undergrowth so well conceals. ah! here she is again! the winter's thorn has been her grave these many weary years. wake, kundry, wake! the winter long is past; the spring has come! awaken with the flowers! how cold she is, and rigid as the dead! i could believe her dead,--and yet i heard her groaning and her piteous moan erstwhile." and kneeling down, he chafed her hands and face, breathed on them to awaken life again; and at the last a tremor thrilled her through. in deep amaze she wakened from her sleep, and opened her sad eyes, with startled cries. long did she gaze on agèd gurnemanz; then she arose, but her whole mien was changed,-the wildness of her former life was gone; a tender softness shone forth from her eyes; a gentle bearing lent an added grace; and without word of question, or of thanks, away she moved as if a serving-maid. then gurnemanz: "hast thou no word for me? are these my thanks, that from the sleep of death i waked thee?" kundry slowly bent her head, and murmured brokenly the words: "to serve,-o let me serve thee and the holy grail." then gurnemanz again: "this were light toil,-for days of saddest peace have come to us, and deeds of valiant arms no more are done. a dark despair is over monsalvat; no messengers are sent to distant parts to stir the hearts of fighting warriors; like every creature of the leafy woods, each man doth serve himself in daily needs." but kundry had perceived the hermit-hut, and knew that she could serve in little things; and unto it she went to find some task. and gurnemanz deep wondered, and he spoke: "how unlike days of yore her step and way,-grace in her step and grace in countenance. perchance god giveth grace to her sad heart. perchance this holy morn hath wrought the change. o day of boundless mercy, 'twas for this-her soul's salvation and another life-that i have wakened her from sleep of death! see, with a pitcher comes she from the hut, and fills it at the spring!... but who is this that now i see approaching through the woods and drawing slowly near the holy spring? yon knight is not a brother of the grail, with all that war accoutrement of gloom." and one drew near, a splendid armored knight, his armor shining black as darkest night, his helmet closed, and lowered was his spear. forward he walked as if he moved in dream, as if a servant of some high emprise, neither to right nor left he turned his face, but seated him beyond the holy spring. and gurnemanz close watched him and his ways and wondered who the splendid knight might be; then ventured near with courteous salute: "all hail to thee, sir knight, and welcome here! art thou astray, and may i give thee aid?... no word for me, but bowing of thy head? perchance my lord is under knightly vow to perfect silence, as my vows bind me to courtesy and service. therefore hear where now thou art and what is due this place. this is a holy woods and this a holy spring, within the domain of the holy grail, where in his armor none hath right to come with helmet closed, and shield and shining spear. besides, dost thou not know what day this is? not know the day? from whence then hast thou come? what heathen darkness hath been thine abode that thou rememberest not this holy day,-the ever-hallowèd good-friday morn? put off thy heavy armor, for the lord, bare of defence, on this most holy day, did freely shed his blood to save the world, and bring the time of kindness and of peace." and silently, without an answering word, the stranger knight fixed in the ground his spear, and at its foot lay down his shield and sword, opened his helmet, placed it on the ground, and knelt in silent prayer before the spear. [illustration] with wonder and deep feeling, gurnemanz had watched the knight, and as he saw him pray and saw the face upturnèd to the light, he knew him, and to kundry softly spake, who now drew near: "thou knowest him. 't is he who long ago laid low the snow-white swan,-he whom in anger i thrust out-of-doors. where has he wandered since that luckless day? but look! behold the spear! it is the spear for which my eager heart has longed and prayed! o holy day, on which the spear comes home! o happy day to which my soul awakes!" and when the knight had ended all his prayer, he slowly rose, and looked about and saw the agèd hermit, snowy-crowned with age; and suddenly he knew that kindly form, and rushed to gurnemanz with eager face, and crying: "good my friend, all hail to thee! thank heaven that i find thee once again!" and gurnemanz: "dost thou remember me, after so many long and weary years, and bent with grief and care as now i am, and covered with the clustering snow of age? but tell me, what has passed since last we met? and how didst thou come here, and whence, and why?" and parsifal--for it was he--replied: "through error and through sufferings i come, through many failures and through countless woes. thus was the guileless one at last enlightened, and taught the depths of pity and of love. and can it be that now the trials are ended and peace has come, and holiness at last? yet here i am within this holy wood, and here art thou, dear servant of the grail. but, do i err, this place seems somehow changed from what it was in days of yore? the life, the joy seem to have vanished, and i feel as if a cloud hung over monsalvat." then gurnemanz: "too true thine every word, but tell me, pray, for whom thou here dost seek?" and with a wondrous light within his eyes, did parsifal with earnest words reply: "i come to him whose piteous moans of pain i heard long years ago, nor understood.-the guileless one went forth from thee a boy, impetuous, fierce, who did not know himself; he comes again a man with tenderest pity, and deep experience and heart enlightened, to be the healer of the stricken king. but long the course by which i learned the way, and bitter all the wanderings, where sin had laid its snares, and sought to curse my soul. many the perils and right fierce the strife, yet clung i to the pathway of the right. and at the last i won the sacred spear by god's good mercy and his boundless love. but even with the spear within my hands oft came a fearful dread upon my heart, lest i might lose this treasure that he gave into my keeping, for never durst i use this sacred spear in battle-blows or strife,-it was for healing wounds, not making them,-and so in many a fight i took the wounds from other weapons, but profaned this never. i bring it home virgin and undefiled, and consecrate it to its healing work. thus does it gleam before thee, even now,-the wonder-working power, the sacred spear!" and gurnemanz, with joyous heart, replied: "o grace and glory, blessèd gift of god! o miracle of holy healing power that thou hast brought us in the sacred spear! sir knight, if it were once a cruel thing that drove thee wandering in the evil world, and if it ever were a curse to strive in subtle snares and temptings manifold, believe me, now the spell is surely broken. here thou art now within the grail's dominion. here wait for thee an eager band of knights. ah! how they need the blessing that thou bringest. for since that morning when thou first wert here, the sorrow and the anguish that thou heard'st have grown until the woe has covered all. and king amfortas, soul and body wracked, did crave in desperation only death, and so refused to show the holy grail. no prayer, no sorrow of his brother-knights could move him to fulfil his sacred trust. close in its shrouded shrine the cup remained. for king amfortas hopes that if his eyes shall see the grail no more, that he may die, and with his life thus end his bitter pain. the holy supper also is denied us,-our daily portion only common food. thereby exhausted is our former strength. no more the cry for succor comes to us, nor call to holy war from distant lands; but pale and wretched wander forth the knights, hopeless and leaderless in these dark days. here in the forest i myself have hid, in quiet waiting for the hour of death, already come unto my warrior-lord, the agèd titurel. for when no more he could behold the vision of the grail, then did his sad heart fail him, and he died." and parsifal in sudden sorrow cried: "what have i done to let this curse go on? why have i wasted all these precious years in wandering, while here was deepest woe? why did i never see the needed truth that no repentance can assuage the grief, no expiation can atone the wrong, until another feels the bitter pain, and takes it willingly to his own heart? here i was chosen to redeem the wrong, and save the anguish of the stricken king, and yet how blind has been my foolish heart! can blindness mean impurity and sin, and may it be that i am all deceived,-my way all lost, my hopes forever gone?" and in the bitter struggle of his soul, and in the self-abasement of his heart, and in the strong reaction that oft comes to spiritual natures, deep and fine, he would have fallen helpless to the ground; but gurnemanz quick caught him in his arms, and led him sinking to a grassy mound, and kundry ran with water for his brow. but gurnemanz: "not so. the holy spring shall now revive our pilgrim's waning strength. my heart sees noble work for him to-day. a sacred mystic duty doth await him. he shall be pure as light, and all the dust of travel and of error washed away!" then from his limbs they took the mighty greaves, and loosed the woven corselet from his side, and bathed his feet and brought him to himself. and straight he asked: "and shall i see the king?" and gurnemanz: "thou shalt behold the king this very day and speak thy word to him. the death-rites of mine agèd warrior-lord, the noble titurel, doth call me to the court; and there again the grail shall be revealed. for king amfortas hath by solemn vow promised once more to open up the shrine, sworn to fulfil the long-neglected office, to sanctify the saintly father's end, and expiate the deep unfilial crime, the added sin, that broke his father's heart." and as he spoke, the kindly kundry bathed the feet of parsifal, who looked at her with gentle wonder and a pitying love, and said: "so humbly hast thou washed my feet, perchance the good and faithful gurnemanz may sprinkle my poor head with holy water, and give my soul his gracious benediction." and gurnemanz took water from the spring, and sprinkled parsifal in holy rite, and uttered over him the benediction: "o guileless one, thrice blessèd be and pure, and free forever from all care and sin!" then kundry from her bosom drew a vial, a golden vial, full of perfumed oil, and poured its soothing fragrance on his feet and dried them with her flowing unbound hair. and parsifal reached out and took the vial, and gave it unto gurnemanz and said: "this woman hath anointed these my feet; let now the faithful servant of the grail, and minister of sainted titurel, anoint my chosen head with holy oil, that i may take the office, as god will, and you to-day may greet me as your king." so gurnemanz performed the kingly rite, anointing parsifal with holy oil, and laid the hands of blessing on his head, and said: "so came the ancient word to us; so with my blessing do i greet thee now, and hail thee as the god-elected king! thou art his guileless one, by pity 'lightened, patient in suffering, and taught by woe. much hast thou suffered to redeem another; god give thee now the grace for crowning all." then parsifal took water from the spring, and came to kundry kneeling at his feet, and sprinkled her with solemn mystic rite, and said: "this be the first work of my trust. kundry, in christ's dear name i sprinkle thee. be thou redeemed and holy evermore!" and in a passion of rejoicing tears she kneeled there and her voice gave praise to god. and parsifal looked on the fields and woods, so fair and radiant in the morning light, and uttered forth the rapture of his heart: "how beautiful these morning meadows are! so fresh, so sweet, so radiantly pure! full many a flower in other days i saw, but full of subtle poison was their breath and they were snares of baneful witchery. but these are god's own blossoms full of grace. these twining vines that burst with purple bloom, these fragrant flowers, so innocent and fair,-they speak to me of loving childhood's days, and tell me of the boundless love of god." then gurnemanz: "on fair good-friday morn, all nature seems a-thrill with new delight." and parsifal: "yet strange that it is so. that darkest day of agony divine might well have cast a pall of gloom o'er all, and plunged all nature into deepest woe." "no, no," the gentle gurnemanz replied, "the saviour's work hath wrought a miracle, and now the grateful tears of penitence are holy dew that falls upon the world, and makes it bloom in fair and lustrous beauty; and all creation knows god's saving work, and praises him for his redeeming grace. no more the agony of that grim cross, but now the joy of man redeemed and saved, freed from the load of sin by conquering faith, and purified by love's great sacrifice. each sprouting blade and meadow-flower doth see something of god's grace in the heart of man; for as the lord was tender unto man, so man in turn will love god's flowering earth. the whole creation therefore doth rejoice, and every bird and flower is full of praise, and nature everywhere is full of god, and sweet has dawned this day of innocence." then kundry, with the tears still in her eyes, looked up at parsifal, and soft he spake: "i saw the hearts that mocked us fade away, but love shall bloom eternal in god's grace. blest tears that speak the blessing in thy heart. but weep no more. god's grace is full of joy,-smile with all nature, joyously redeemed!" [illustration] and down he bent, and on her pure white brow printed the kiss of god's redeeming love. then chimed the distant bells, and louder yet the gradual growing music of sweet sounds. and gurnemanz: "the hour has come, midday. permit me now to lead thee to the grail!" and parsifal was clothed in holy garb,-the dove-embroidered mantle of the grail,-which gurnemanz had brought him from the hut, and grasped the sacred spear and followed on. again they climbed the rocky passages, and reached at last the castle's pillared hall, crowned with the mighty dome of blazing light. slowly the knights in mourning garb marched in, bearing the corpse of saintly titurel. slowly the servitors marched sadly in, bearing the pale amfortas on his couch. and going on in front the acolytes bore in the grail in heavy covered shrine. and as they marched, they sang this solemn hymn: "here do we bear the holy grail, long hidden in this shrine; no more its wondrous grace is seen, no more its glories shine! "here saintly titurel we bear, the faithful knight and king; when he no more the grail could see, he died in sorrowing! "and here amfortas now we bear- god shrive him from the past; for he has sworn to do his trust and show the grail at last!" and suffering amfortas turned and groaned, and raised himself a little on his couch, and cried: "o woe is me! o woe is me! my tears are flowing from my very heart. would i had died before i saw this hour. yet death is mercy that i cannot hope." then solemnly the knights, with sacred awe, uncovered saintly titurel, and looked once more upon that well-belovèd face, and there was sound of weeping everywhere. and sadly did amfortas speak the words: "my father, blest among god's heroes ever! thou before whom the angels loved to bow, forgive me for my most unfilial sin,-i sought for death, yet struck thee to the heart, by holding back the vision of the grail. o thou who now in radiance divine dost see the blest redeemer face to face, beseech for me that when i show the grail it may give life anew to these dear knights-but death to me--sweet death for which i long. o death, kind mercy of the living god, stifle this heart and rid me of my pain! father, i plead with thee to cry to him: 'redeemer, give my son release and peace!'" thereat the knights came pressing up and cried: "unveil the grail and do thine office now! the death-rite of thy father doth demand it!" but in a mad despair amfortas rose, and wildly rushed among the startled knights, and cried: "no, no, i cannot do it now! death is so near me, only let me die! why should i turn again to dreadful life? rather i plead with you to slay me here! see, here i stand, the open wound is here! thus am i poisoned, here flows forth the blood! draw ye your swords and plunge them to the hilt! kill both the sinner and his awful pain! then will the grail forever shine for you, and blessing come to you for evermore!" but all shrank back in terror from the king, who stood in frenzied madness there alone. then parsifal drew near, and slowly spake: "only one weapon serves to kill that pain. the one that struck can staunch thy wound again!" and with the sacred spear he touched the king. and lo! a miracle of healing power!-the wound was staunched and a deep thrill of love changed agony to rapture all divine. and parsifal spake on: "thou art forgiven. body and soul are cleansed by god's free grace thy life for evermore shall happy be within the service of the holy grail. but never more as king, for i have come to take thy place as god hath so decreed. thy sorrows shall be blessings unto thee, for thus by pity was the guileless 'lightened, and god's own son was perfect made by pain. knights of the grail, behold the sacred spear! god gave it me but to restore to you!" and all with reverent joy beheld the spear, and thanked the lord that it had come again to bring the golden days of health and power. and as they looked in rapture and in awe, the spear-point seemed to glow with holy fire and sparkled, turning red like flowing blood. and parsifal spoke on: "o miracle and marvel of the holy power of god. this sacred spear is flowing with the blood, the very blood of that same wondrous saviour, that floweth in the crystal of the grail. the double blessing shall its glory give. open the shrine! reveal the holy grail!" and quick the sacred shrine was opened wide and parsifal long knelt in silent prayer, absorbed in holy rapture at the sight. then suddenly the heavenly splendor fell and flamed and glowed within the sacred cup, while wondrous glory flooded all the hall and filled each heart with deep and holy joy. and from the lofty dome a dove descended, and hovered lovingly o'er parsifal. thus parsifal was crowned of god and man, and slowly did he lift the holy grail, the red blood glowing with its wondrous light, and waved it in the air before the knights, who knelt around him, praising god on high. and there had kundry come with new-found faith and crept within the splendor of the grail and, with its light upon her, died,--redeemed! and still did parsifal hold up the grail, seeming a vision of the very christ, his crimson mantle changed to lustrous whiteness. his lips seemed speaking loving benediction; and marvellous the red glow of the grail; and beautiful the white dove soaring there. while from the heights the softest voices sang: "highest wonder! blest salvation! praise the lord for our redemption!" the end [transcriber's note: this file contains both the english and french versions of this edition of les contes d'hoffman. both the english and the french texts are known to have a significant number of errors, misprints, and inconsistencies. they are here presented without correction. in this text, the "[oe]" marking represents the oe ligature.] new version of les contes d'hoffmann (the tales of hoffman) opera in four acts with an original and novel first act and other important changes book by jules barbier music by j. offenbach new english version by charles alfred byrne as performed, for the first time in america at the manhattan opera house, under the direction of oscar hammerstein. english version, 1907, by steinway & sons. charles e. burden, publisher, steinway hall 107-109 east 14th street new york. dramatis personæ. hoffmann counselor lindorf coppelius dapertutto doctor miracle spalanzani crespel andres cochenille frantz luther nathanael hermann stella giulietta olympia antonia nicklausse the muse a ghost argument act i. in the first act, which is really a prologue, hoffmann, a young poet, enters the tavern of luther to meet his companions, and drinks to drown his sorrows. they think he is in love, but he answers, all that is past, and tells the story of his three loves. act ii. olympia. a physician's drawing room. spalanzani has invited a large company to witness the accomplishments of his daughter, olympia. she sings to general applause, and hoffmann falls desperately in love with her. as the guests go to supper, hoffmann tells her of his passion and thinks he finds a responsive echo in her. there is dancing, and she waltzes him off his feet. a dr. coppelius comes in to say he has been swindled by spalanzani. he slips into olympia's room, from which a noise of breaking is heard. coppelius, out of revenge, has smashed olympia. she was only an automaton. hoffmann is astonished. act iii. giulietta. at venice, in the house of giulietta, beloved of schlemil, who takes the arrival of hoffmann very ungraciously. hoffmann cares nothing for giulietta, but she is bribed by dapertutto to make hoffmann love her, and she succeeds by making him believe, that he is her ideal. but as a proof of his love she wants hoffmann to get the key of her room away from schlemil. hoffmann demands the key; schlemil tells him to come and take it, and they fight. schlemil is killed. hoffmann takes the key and rushes to giulietta's room, and finding nobody, comes back, only to see her riding off in her gondola, laughing at him, and with her arms around another man's neck. hoffmann is disgusted. act iv. antonia. antonia has been told by her father, crespel, to sing no more. when hoffmann, who has long loved her, comes, he wonders why, but he soon learns by overhearing a conversation between crespel and an evil person called doctor miracle that antonia is afflicted with consumption. he then begs her also not to sing, and she promises him. when hoffmann goes, miracle comes in and tells her it is all nonsense, to sing as much as she likes; but she will not break her promise to hoffmann. miracle then causes the ghost of antonia's mother to appear, and to her prayers the girl yields. miracle urges her on and on, until she is utterly exhausted. she falls dying, and her father receives her last breath. hoffmann is heartbroken. epilogue. a return to the scene of the first act. hoffmann has told his stories. his companions leave him. the muse appears and tells him that she is the only mistress to follow, the only one who will remain true to him. his spirit flickers a moment with gratitude. then his head sinks on the table, and he sleeps. the tales of hoffmann act i. (the tavern of martin luther. the interior of a german inn. tables and benches.) chorus of students. drig, drig, drig, master luther, spark of hades, drig, drig, drig, for us more beer, for us thy wine, until morning, fill my glass, until morning, fill our pewter mugs! nathanael. luther is a brave man, tire, lan, laire, t'is to-morrow that we brain him, tire, lan, la! chorus. tire, lon, la! luther (going from table to table). here, gentlemen, here. hermann. his cellar is a goodly spot, tire lon, laire, 'tis tomorrow we devast it, tire lon la! chorus. tire lon la! (knocking of glasses.) luther. here, gentlemen, here. wilhelm. his wife is a daughter of eve, tire lan laire, 'tis to-morrow we abduct her, tire lon la. chorus. tire lon la! luther. here, gentlemen, here. chorus. drig, drig, drig, master luther, etc., etc. (the students sit drinking and smoking.) nathanael. and luther, my goodly vat, what have you done with our hoffman. hermann. t'is your wine poisoned him, you've killed him faith of herrmann, give us back hoffmann. all. give us hoffmann. lindorf (aside). to the devil, hoffmann. nathanael. let them bring him to us or your last day has dawned. luther. gentlemen, he comes. (he opens the door, and nicklausse is with him.) all. hurrah, 'tis he. lindorf (aside). let's watch him. hoffmann (entering with sombre voice). good day, friends. nicklausse. good-day. hoffmann. a chair, a glass, a pipe... nicklausse (mocking). pardon, my lord, without displeasing, i drink, smoke and sit like you... place for two. chorus. he's right... place for both of them. (hoffmann and nicklausse sit down, hoffmann has head in his hands.) nicklausse (humming). notte a giorno mal dormire... hoffmann (brusquely). shut up, in devil's name. nicklausse (quietly). yes, master. hermann (to hoffmann). oh, oh, whence comes this ill temper? nathanael (to hoffmann). it's as if one did not know you. hermann. on what thorn have you trod? hoffmann. alas, on a dead herb with the iced breath of the north. nicklausse. and there by this door, on a drunkard who sleeps. hoffmann. 'tis true... that rascal, by jove, i envy him. a drink. like him, let's sleep in the gutter. hermann. without pillow. hoffmann. the flags. nathanael. without curtains. hoffmann. the sky. nathanael. the rain. hermann. have you a nightmare, hoffmann? hoffmann. no, but to-night, a while since, at the play... all. well? hoffmann. i thought to see again... the deuce... why reopen old wounds? life is short. enjoy it while we can. we must drink, sing, laugh, as we may, left to weep to-morrow! nathanael. then sing the first without asking, we'll do chorus. hoffmann. agreed! nathanael. something gay. hermann. the song of the rat! nathanael. no, for me, i'm tired of it. what we want is the legend of klein-zach... all. 'tis the legand of klein-zach. hoffmann. here goes for klein-zach!... once at the court of eysenach a little dwarf called klein-zach, was covered o'er with a colbac, and his legs they went clic, clac! clic, clac. there's klein-zach. chorus. crick, crack, there's klein-zach. hoffmann. he had a hump in place of stomach, his webbed feet seemed to burst a sack, his nose was with tobacco black. and his head it went crick crack, crick, crack. there's klein-zach. chorus. crick, crack, there's klein-zach. hoffmann. as for the features on his face. (he becomes absorbed.) chorus. as for the features on his face. hoffmann (very slowly). as for the features... (he rises.) oh, her face was charming... i see it, fine as the day, running after her, i, like a fool, left the house paternal, and fled there'on to woods and vales her hair, in sombre rolls, on her neck threw warm shades, her eyes of enveloping azure, cast about glances fresh and pure. and as our car without shock or tremor carried our loves and hearts, her vibrant voice and sweet, to the heav'ns that listened, threw the conq'ring cry, and the eternal echo resounded in my heart. nathanael. oh strangest brain! who are you painting! klein-zach? hoffmann. i speak of her... nathanael. who? hoffmann. nobody... nothing, my spirit is dullish. nothing. klein-zach is better, malformed as he is! chorus. flick, flack, there's klein-zach. hoffmann (throwing away his glass). peuh!... this beer is detestable, let's light up the punch and drink; and may the light-headed roll under the table. chorus. and may the light headed roll under the table. chorus. (the lights go out, luther fires an immense punch bowl.) luther is a brave man, tire la laire, tire lan la. 'tis to-morrow that we poison him, tire lan laire, tire lan la. his cellar is a goodly spot, tire lan laire. 'tis to-morrow we will make it hot, tire lan laire, tire lan la. nicklausse. very good, indeed. at least we are pruned with reason and practical sense! away with languorous hearts. nathanael. let's wager that hoffmann's in love. hoffmann. what then? nathanael. you need not blush, i imagine our friend wilhelm who's there, burns for leonor and finds her divine. hermann loves gretchen and i am near ruined for the fausta. hoffmann (to wilhelm). yes, leonor, thy virtuose. (to hermann.) yes, gretchen, thy doll inert, of icy heart. (to nathanael.) and thy fausta, poor insensate, the courtezan with front of brass. nathanael. morose spirit, many thanks for fausta, gretchen and leonore!... hoffmann. pish. they are all alike. nathanael. then your mistress is such a treasure that you despise so much our own? hoffmann. my mistress, no, no, say rather three charming trio of enchantresses. who are dividing my days. would you like the story of my crazy loves?... chorus. yes, yes! nicklausse. what are you saying of three mistresses? hoffmann. smoke!... before this dead pipe is relighted you will have comprehended, you who in this play where my heart was consumed in good sense took the first prize! (all the students go to their places.) chorus. listen. it is nice to drink, to the telling of a crazy tale, while following the fragrant cloud, that a pipe throws in the air. hoffmann (sitting on corner of table). i begin. chorus. silence. hoffmann. the name of the first was olympia... (the curtain falls as hoffmann is speaking.) act ii. (a physicians room, richly furnished.) hoffman (alone). come! courage and confidence; i become a well of science. i must turn with the wind that blows, to deserve the one i love. i shall know how to find in myself the stuff of a learned man. she is there... if i dared. (he softly lifts the portiere.) 'tis she! she sleeps... how beautiful! ah! together live... both in the same hope, the same remembrance divide our happiness and our sorrow, and share the future. let, let my flame pour in thee the light, let your soul but open to the rays of love. divine hearth! sun whose ardor penetrates and comes to kiss us. ineffable desire where one's whole being melts in a single kiss. let, let my flame, etc., etc. (nicklausse appears.) nicklausse. by jove, i felt sure you'd be here. hoffman (letting portiere fall). chut. nicklausse. why? 'tis there that breathes the dove who's now your amorous care, the beautiful olympia? go, my child, admire! hoffman. yes, i adore her! nicklausse. want to know her better. hoffman. the soul one loves is easy to know. nicklausse. what? by a look... through a window? hoffman. a look is enough to embrace the heavens. nicklausse. what warmth!... at least she knows that you love her. hoffman. no. nicklausse. write her. hoffman. i don't dare. nicklausse. poor lamb! speak to her. hoffman. the dangers are the same. nicklausse. then sing, to get out of the scrape. hoffman. monsieur spalanzani doesn't like music. nicklausse (laughing). yes, i know, all for physics! a doll with china eyes played cleverly with a fan, nearby a little cock in brass; both sang in unison in a marvelous way, danced, gossiped, seemed to live. hoffman. beg your pardon. why this song? nicklausse. the little cock shining and smart, with a very knowing air, three times on himself turned; by some ingenious wheels, the doll in rolling its eyes sighed and said: "i love you." chorus of the invited guests. no, no host, really, receives more richly through good taste his house shines; everything here matches. no, no host really receives more richly. spalanzani. you will be satisfied, gentlemen, in a moment. (he makes sign to cochenille to follow him and exits with him.) nicklausse (to hoffman). at last we shall more nearly see this marvel without equal! hoffman. silence... she is here! (enter spalanzani conducting olympia.) spalanzani. ladies and gentlemen, i present to you my daughter olympia. the chorus. charming. she has beautiful eyes! her shape is very good! see how well apparelled! nothing is wanting! she does very well! hoffman. ah, how adorable she is! nicklausse. charming, incomparable! spalanzani (to olympia). what a success is thine! nicklausse (taking her all in). really she does very well. the chorus. she has beautiful eyes, her shape is very good, see how well apparelled, nothing is really wanting; she does very well. spalanzani. ladies and gentlemen, proud of your applause, and above all anxious to conquer more, my daughter obedient to your least caprice will, if you please... nicklausse (aside). pass to other exercises. spalanzani. sing to a grand air, following with the voice, rare talent the clavichord, the guitar, or the harp, at your choice! cochenille (at the rear). the harp! bass voice (in the wings). the harp! spalanzani. very good, cochenille! go quickly and bring my daughter's harp! (cochenille exits). hoffman (aside). i shall hear her... oh joy! nicklausse (aside). oh, crazy passion! spalanzani (to olympia). master your emotion, my child! olympia. yes. cochenille (bringing the harp). there! spalanzani (sitting beside olympia). gentlemen, attention! cochenille. attention! the chorus. attention! olympia (accompanied by spalanzani). the birds in the bushes. in the heavens the orb of day, all speaks to the young girl of love, of love! there! the pretty song, there! the song of olympia, ha! the chorus. 'tis the song of olympia! olympia. all that sings and resounds has its sighs in turn, moves its heart that trembles with love. there. the little song, there, there, the song of olympia, ha! chorus. 'tis the song of olympia. hoffman (to nicklausse). ah, my friend, what an accent. nicklausse. what runs! (cochenille has taken the harp and all surround olympia. a servant speaks to spalanzani). come gentlemen! your arm to the ladies. supper awaits you! the chorus. supper! that's good... spalanzani. unless you would prefer to dance first. the chorus (with energy). no! no! the supper... good thing... after we'll dance. spalanzani. as you please... hoffman (approaching olympia). might i dare... spalanzani (interrupting). she is a bit tired, wait for the ball. (he touches olympia's shoulder.) olympia. yes. spalanzani. you see. until then will you do me the favor to keep company with my olympia? hoffman. oh happiness! spalanzani (aside, laughing). we'll see what kind a story he'll give her. nicklausse (to spalanzani). won't she take supper? spalanzani. no. nicklausse (aside). poetic soul! (spalanzani goes behind olympia. noise of a spring is heard. nicklausse turns around.) what did you say? spalanzani. nothing, physics! ah, monsieur, physics! (he conducts olympia to a chair. goes out with guests). cochenille. the supper awaits you. the chorus. supper, supper, supper awaits us! no, really, no host receives more richly! (they go out.) hoffman. they are at last gone. ah, i breathe! alone, alone, the two of us (approaching olympia); i have so many things to say, oh my olympia! let me admire you! with your charming looks let me intoxicate myself. (he touches her shoulder). olympia. yes. hoffman. is it not a dream born of fever? i thought i heard a sigh escape your lips! (he again touches her shoulder). olympia. yes. hoffman. sweet avowal, pledge of our love, you are mine, our hearts are united forever! ah! understand you, tell me, this eternal joy of silent hearts. living, with but one soul and with same stroke of wing, rush up to heaven! let, let, my flame show you the light of day! let your soul open to the rays of love. (he presses olympia's hand. she rises and walks up and down, then exits.) you escape me?... what have i done. you do not answer?... speak! have i wounded you? ah! i'll follow your steps! (as hoffmann is about to rush out nicklausse appears.) nicklausse. here, by jove, moderate your zeal! do you want us to drink without you?... hoffman (half crazy). nicklausse, i am beloved by her. loved! by all the gods. nicklausse. by my faith if you knew what they are saying of your beauty! hoffman. what can they say? what? nicklausse. that she is dead. hoffman. great heavens! nicklausse. or is not of this life. hoffman (exalted). nicklausse! i am beloved by her! loved! by all the gods. coppélius (entering, furious). thief! brigand! what a tumble! elias is bankrupt! but i shall find the opportunity to revenge myself... robbed!... me! i'll kill somebody. (coppelius slips into olympia's room.) (everybody enters.) spalanzani. here come the waltzers. cochenille. here comes the round dance. hoffman. 'tis the waltz that calls us. spalanzani (to olympia). take the hand of the gentleman, my child. (touching her shoulder.) come. olympia. yes. (hoffman takes olympia and they waltz. they disappear on left.) chorus. she dances! in cadence. 'tis marvelous, prodigious, room, room, she passes through the air like lightning. the voice of hoffman (outside). olympia! spalanzani. stop them! the chorus. who of us will do it? nicklausse. she will break his head. (hoffman and olympia re-appear. nicklausse rushes to stop them.) a thousand devils! (he is violently struck and falls in an arm chair.) the chorus. patatra!... spalanzani (jumping in). halt! (he touches olympia on the shoulder. she stops suddenly. hoffman, exhausted, falls on a sofa). there! (to olympia) enough, enough, my child. olympia. yes. spalanzani. no more waltzing. olympia. yes. spalanzani (to cochenille). you, cochenille, take her back. (he touches olympia.) cochenille (pushing olympia). go on, go! olympia. yes. (going out, slowly, pushed by cochenille.) ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! the chorus. what can we possibly say? 'tis an exquisite girl, she wants in nothing, she does very well! nicklausse (dolorous voice, pointing to hoffman). is he dead? spalanzani (examining hoffman). no! in fact his eye glass is broken. he is reviving. the chorus. poor young man! cochenille (outside). ah! (he enters, very agitated.) spalanzani. what? cochenille. the man with the glasses... there! spalanzani. mercy! olympia!... hoffman. olympia!... (sound of breaking springs with much noise). spalanzani. ah, heaven and earth, she is broken! hoffman. broken! coppélius (entering). ha, ha, ha, ha, yes. smashed! (hoffman rushes out. spalanzani and coppélius go at each other, fighting.) spalanzani. rascal! coppélius. robber! spalanzani. brigand! coppélius. pagan! spalanzani. bandit! coppélius. pirate! hoffman (pale and terror stricken). an automaton, an automaton. (he falls into an armchair. general laughter.) the chorus. ha, ha, ha, the bomb has burst, he loved an automaton. spalanzani (despairingly). my automaton. all. an automaton, ha, ha, ha, ha! act iii. (in venice. a gallery, in festival attire, in a palace on the grand canal.) (the guests of giulietta are grouped about on cushions.) barcarole. giulietta and nicklausse (in the wings). oh soft night, oh night of love, smile on our bliss serene, all the stars that shine above surround the heaven's queen! time it flies without return, forgetting our tenderness! far from thee i'll ever burn, in lonely strait and stress. passioned zephyrs waft your caresses, passioned zephyrs soft are your kisses. o soft night, oh night of love, smile on our bliss serene; all the stars that shine above surround the heaven's queen. (giulietta and nicklausse enter.) hoffman. for me, by jove, that is not what's enchanting! at the feet of the beauty who gives us joy does pleasure sigh? no, with laughing mouth no sorrows 'ere descanting. bacchic song. friends... love tender with terror, error! love in noise and wine! divine that a burning desire your heart enflames in the fevers of pleasure consume your soul! transports of love, last a day to the devil he who weeps for two soft eyes, to us the better bliss of joyous cries! let's live a day in heaven. the chorus. to the devil whoever weeps for two soft eyes! to us the better bliss of joyous song we'll live a day in heaven! hoffman. the sky lends you its brightness, beauty, but you hide in hearts of steel, hell! bliss of paradise where love meets, oaths, cursed spirits, dreams of life! oh chastity, oh purity, lies! the chorus. to the devil those who weep, etc., etc. schlemil (entering). i see all is joy. congratulations, madame. guilietta. what! why, i've wept for you three whole days. pitichinaccio. good. schlemil (to pitichinaccio). microbe! pitichinaccio. hola! giulietta. calm yourselves! we have a strange poet among us. (presenting) hoffman! schlemil (with bad grace). monsieur! hoffman. monsieur! giulietta (to schlemil). smile on us, i beg, and come take your place at pharaoh! the chorus. bravo! to pharaoh! (giulietta after having invited all to follow her, goes toward door. hoffman offers his hand to giulietta. schlemil comes between.) schlemil (taking giulietta's hand). by heavens! giuletta. to the game, gentlemen, to the game! the chorus. to the game, the game! (all go out except hoffman and nicklausse.) nicklausse. one word! i have two horses saddled. at the first dream that hoffman permits himself, i carry him off. hoffman. and what dream ever could be born by such realities? does one love a courtezan? nicklausse. yet this schlemil... hoffman. i am not schlemil. nicklausse. take care, the devil is clever. dapertutto (appears at back). hoffman. were it so, if he makes me love her, may he damn me, come! nicklausse. let us go. (they go out.) dapertutto (alone). yes!... to fight you. the eyes of giulietta are a sure weapon, it needed that schlemil fail, faith of captain and soldier, you'll do like him. i will that giulietta shall use sorcery on you. (drawing from his finger a ring with a big sparkling diamond.) turn, turn, mirror, where the lark is caught, sparkle diamond, fascinate, draw her... the lark or the woman to this conquering bait comes with wing or with heart; one leaves her life, the other her soul. turn, turn, mirror where the lark is caught. sparkle, diamond, fascinate, attract her. (giulietta appears and advances fascinated toward the diamond that dapertutto holds towards her.) dapertutto (placing the ring on giuliettas finger). giulietta. what do you await from your servant? dapertutto. good, you have divined at seducing hearts above all others wise, you have given me the shade of schlemil! i vary my pleasures and i pray you to get for me to-day the reflection of hoffman! giulietta. what! his reflection. dapertutto. yes. his reflection! you doubt the power of your eyes? giulietta. no. dapertutto. who knows. your hoffman dreams, perhaps better. (severely) yes, i was there, a while back, listening. (with irony) he defies you... giulietta. hoffman? 'tis well!... from this day i'll make him my plaything. (hoffman enters.) dapertutto. 'tis he! (dapertutto goes out. hoffman intends to do the same.) giulietta (to hoffman). you leave me. hoffman (mockingly). i have lost everything. giulietta. what? you too... ah, you do me wrong. without pity, without mercy, go!... go!... hoffman. your tears betrayed you. ah! i love you... even at the price of my life. giulietta. ah, unfortunate, but you do not know that an hour, a moment, may prove fatal? that my love will cost your life if you remain? that schlemil, this night, may strike you in my arms? listen to my prayer; my life is wholly yours. everywhere i promise to accompany your steps. hoffman. ye gods with what bliss ye fire my heart? like a concert divine your voice does move me; with a fire soft yet burning my being is devoured; your glances in mine have spent their flame, like radiant stars and i feel, my well beloved, pass your perfumed breath on my lips and on my eyes. giulietta. yet, to-day, strengthen my courage by leaving me something of you! hoffman. what do you mean? giulietta. listen and don't laugh at me. (she takes hoffman in her arms and finds a mirror.) what i want is your faithful image, to reproduce your features, your look, your visage, the reflection that i see above me bend. hoffman. my reflection? what folly! giulietta. no! for it can detach itself from the polished glass and come quite whole in my heart to hide. hoffman. in your heart? giulietta. in my heart. 'tis i who beg thee, hoffman, give me my wish. hoffman. my reflection? giulietta. your reflection. yes, wisdom or folly, i await, i demand. (ensemble.) hoffman. ecstasy, unappeased bliss, strange and soft terror, my reflection, my soul, my life to you, always to you! giulietta. if your presence i lose, i would keep of you your reflection, your soul, your life; dear one, give them me. giulietta (suddenly). schlemil! (schlemil enters followed by nicklausse, dapertutto, pittichinaccio and others.) schlemil. i was sure of it! together! come, gentlemen, come, 'tis for hoffman, it seems to me that we are abandoned. (ironic laughter.) hoffman. monsieur! giulietta (to hoffman). silence! (aside) i love you, he has my key. pitichinaccio (to schlemil). let us kill him. schlemil. patience! dapertutto (to hoffman). how pale you are! hoffman. me! dapertutto (showing him a mirror). see rather. hoffman (amazed). heavens! giulietta. listen, gentlemen, here come the gondolas, the hour of barcaroles and of farewells! (schlemil conducts the guests out. giulietta goes away throwing a look at hoffman. dapertutto remains. nicklausse goes toward hoffman.) nicklausse. are you coming? hoffman. not yet. nicklausse. why? very well. i understand, good-by. (aside). but i'll watch over him. (he goes out.) schlemil. what do you wait for? hoffman. that you give me a certain key i've sworn to have. schlemil. you shall have this key, sir, only with my life. hoffman. then i shall have one and the other. schlemil. that remains to be seen. on guard! dapertutto. you have no sword (presenting his own). take mine! hoffman. thank you. chorus (in the wings). sweet night, oh night of love, smile on our bliss serene when the stars that shine above greet the heaven'ly queen. (hoffman and schlemil fight. schlemil falls mortally wounded. hoffman bends and takes the key from around his neck. he rushes to giulietta's room. giulietta appears in a gondola.) hoffman (coming back). no one. giulietta (laughing). ha, ha, ha! (hoffmann is in a stupor looking at giulietta.) dapertutto (to giulietta). what will you do with him now? giulietta. i'll turn him over to you. pitichinaccio (entering the gondola) dear angel. (giulietta takes him in her arms.) hoffman (comprehending the infamy of giulietta). vile wretch! nicklausse. hoffman! hoffman--the police! (nicklausse drags hoffmann away. giulietta and pitichinaccia laugh.) act iv. (at munich at crespel's. a room furnished in a bizarre fashion.) antonia (alone. she is seated at the clavichord). she has fled, the dove she has fled far from thee! (she stops and rises.) ah memory too sweet, image too cruel! alas at my knees i hear, i see him! she has fled, the dove. she has fled far from thee; she is faithful ever, and she keeps her troth. beloved, my voice calls thee, all my heart is thine. (she approaches the clavichord again.) dear flower but now open, in pity answer me, thou that knowest if still he loves me, if he keeps his troth. beloved my voice implores thee. may thy heart come to me. (she falls in a chair.) crespel (entering suddenly). unhappy child, beloved daughter, you promised to no longer sing. antonia. my mother in me lived again; my heart while singing thought it heard her. crespel. there is my torment. thy loved mother left thee her voice. vain regrets! through thee i hear her. no, no, i beg... antonia (sadly). your antonia will sing no more! (she goes out slowly.) crespel (alone). despair! a little while again i saw those spots of fire mark her face. god! must i lose her i adore? ah, that hoffman... 'tis he who put in her heart this craze. i fled far as munich... (enter frantz.) crespel. you, frantz, open to nobody. frantz (false exit). you think so... crespel. where are you going? frantz. i'm going to see if anybody rang. as you said... crespel. i said, open to nobody. (shouting) to nobody! this time do you hear? frantz. good heavens! we're not all of us deaf? crespel. all right! the devil take you! frantz. yes, sir, the key is in the door. crespel. idiot! donkey! frantz. its agreed then. crespel. morbleu! (he exits quickly.) frantz (alone). well! what! angry always! strange, peevish, exacting! one would think that one pleased him for his money... day and night i'm on all fours, at the least sign i'm silent; it is just as if i sang! but no, if i sang, his contempt he'd have to modify. i sing alone sometimes, but singing isn't easy! tra la, la, tra, la la! still it isn't voice that i lack, i think, tra la la, tra la la, no, 'tis the method. of course one can't have everything. i sing pretty badly, but dance agreeably, and i do not flatter myself; dancing shows off my advantages. 'tis my one great attraction, but dancing isn't easy. tra la la, tra la la. (he dances and stops.) with women the shape of my leg would do me no harm, tra la la, tra la la! (he falls.) no, 'tis the method. (hoffman enters followed by nicklausse.) hoffman. frantz! this is it. (touches frantz on shoulder.) up, my friend. frantz. hey, who's there? (rises, surprised.) monsieur hoffman! hoffman. myself. well, antonia? frantz. he's gone out, sir. hoffman (laughing). ha, ha, deafer yet than last year... frantz. monsieur honors me, i am very well, thanks to heaven. hoffman. antonia! i must see her. frantz. very well! what a joy for monsieur crespel! (he goes out.) hoffman (sitting before the clavichord). 'tis a song of love that flies away, sad or gay; it takes its turn... antonia (entering suddenly). hoffman!... hoffman (receiving her in his arms). antonia! nicklausse (aside). i am one too many, good night. (he exits.) antonia. ah, i well knew that you loved me still. hoffman. my heart told me that i was regretted, but why were we separated? antonia. i do not know. (ensemble.) hoffman. i have happiness in my heart; to-morrow you'll be my wife happy couple. the future shall be ours! to love let's be faithful, that her eternal chains, keep our hearts conquerors even against time! antonia. i have joy in my heart! to-morrow i'll be your wife, happy couple, the future is ours! each day new songs, your genius opens its wings, my conquering song is the echo of your heart. hoffman (smiling). still, oh my affianced, shall i speak my thought? that, spite of myself, troubles me, music inspires a little jealousy, you love it too much! antonia (smiling). see the strange fantasy! did i love you for it, or it for you? for you are not going to forbid me to sing, as did my father. hoffman. what say you? antonia. yes, my father at present imposes the virtue of silence. hoffman (aside). 'tis strange... can it be?... antonia (drawing him to the clavichord). come here as before; listen, and you'll see if i've lost my voice. hoffman. how your eye lights up, your hand trembles. antonia (making him sit down). here, the soft song of love we sang together. (she sings.) 'tis a song of love that flies off sad or joyful, turn by turn, 'tis a song of love, the new rose smiles on the spring. ah! how long will it be that it lives? together. 'tis a song of love that flies off, etc., etc. hoffman. a ray of flame matches thy beauty. will you see the summer? flower of the soul. together. 'tis a song of love, etc., etc. (antonia puts her hand to her heart.) hoffman. why, what is the matter? antonia (doing same again). nothing. hoffman (listening). chut. antonia. heavens, my father! come, come... (she goes out.) hoffman. no! i must know the last word of this mystery. (he hides. crespel appears.) crespel (looking about him). no, nothing. i thought hoffman was here. may he go to the devil! hoffman (aside). many thanks! frantz (entering). sir. crespel. what? frantz. doctor miracle. crespel. infamous scoundrel, quickly close the door. frantz. yes, sir, the doctor... crespel. he, doctor? no, on my soul, a grave digger, an assassin! who would kill my daughter after my wife. i hear the jingle of his golden vials, from me let him be chased. (miracle suddenly appears. frantz runs away.) miracle. ha, ha, ha, ha! crespel. well, here i am! 'tis me. this good monsieur crespel, i like him, but where is he? crespel (stopping him). morbleu! miracle. ha, ha, ha, ha! i sought for your antonia. well, this trouble she inherited from her mother? still progressing, dear girl. we'll cure her. take me to her. crespel. to assassinate her... if you make one step i'll throw you out of the window. miracle. there now softly, i do not wish to displease you. (he advances a chair.) crespel. what do you, traitor? miracle. to minimize the danger, one must know it. let me question her. crespel and hoffman. terror penetrates me. (ensemble.) (miracle, his hand extended toward antonia's room.) to my conquering power, give way with good grace. near me without terror come take your place. crespel and hoffman. with fright and with horror all my being is cold; a strange terror chains me to this place. i'm afraid. crespel (seating himself). come, speak and be brief. (miracle continues his magnetic passes. the door of antonia's room opens slowly. miracle indicates that he takes antonia's hand and leads her to a chair.) miracle. please sit there. crespel. i am seated. miracle (paying no attention). how old are you, please? crespel. who, me? miracle. i am speaking to your child. hoffman (aside). antonia. miracle. what age (he listens). twenty! crespel. what? miracle. the spring of life. (he appears to feel the pulse.) let me see your hand!... crespel. the hand. miracle (pulling out his watch). chut! let me count. hoffman (aside). god! am i the plaything of a dream? is it a ghost? miracle. the pulse is unequal and fast, bad symptom. sing. crespel (rising). no, no, don't speak... don't have her sing. (the voice of antonia is heard.) miracle. see her face brightens, her eyes are on fire; she carries her hand to her beating heart. (he follows antonia with his gestures. the door of her room closes quickly.) crespel. what is he saying? miracle (rising). it would be a pity truly to leave to death so fine a prey! crespel. shut up! miracle. if you will accept my help, if you would save her days, i have there certain vials i keep in reserve. (he takes vials from pocket which he makes sound like castanets.) crespel. shut up! miracle. of which you should. crespel. shut up! heaven preserve me from listening to your advice, miserable assassin. miracle. of which you should, each morning... (ensemble.) miracle. why, yes, i hear you. a while ago, an instant these vials, poor father, you will be then, i hope, satisfied. crespel. be off, be off, be off! out of this house, satan, beware of the anger and the sorrow of a father. be off! hoffman (aside). from the death that awaits thee i shall know, poor child, how tear thee away, i hope! laugh in vain at a father, satan! miracle (continuing with same coolness). of which you should... crespel. be off! miracle. each morning... crespel. be off! (he pushes miracle out and closes the door.) ah, he's outside and my door is closed! we are at last alone, my beloved girl! miracle (walking through the wall). of which you should each morning... crespel. ah, wretch, come, come, may the waves engulf thee! we'll see if the devil will get thee out. crespel. be off, be off, be off! etc., etc. hoffman (aside). from the death that awaits thee, etc., etc. miracle. of which you should... crespel. get out! miracle. each morning... crespel. get out! (they disappear together.) hoffman (coming down). to sing no more! how obtain from her such a sacrifice? antonia (appearing). well? what did my father say? hoffman. ask me nothing; later you'll know all; a new road opens for us, my antonia!... to follow my steps dismiss from your memory these dreams of future success and glory that your heart to mine confided. antonia. but yourself! hoffman. love calls to both of us, all that is not you is nothing in my life. antonia. very well! here is my hand! hoffman. ah dear antonia, shall i appreciate what you do for me? (he kisses her hands.) your father will perhaps return. i leave you... until to-morrow. antonia. until to-morrow. (hoffman goes out.) antonia (opening one of the doors). of my father easily he has become the accomplice, but come, regrets are superfluous, i promised him. i shall sing no more. (she falls in a chair.) miracle (appearing suddenly behind her.) you will sing no more. do you know what a sacrifice? he imposes on your youth, and have you measured it? grace, beauty, talent, sacred gift; all these blessings that heaven gave for your share, must they be hid in the shadow of a household? have you not heard, in a proud dream, like unto a forest by the wind moving, like a soft shiver of the pressing crowd that murmurs your name and follows you with its eyes? there is the ardent joy and the eternal festival, that the flower of your years is about to abandon, for the middle class pleasures where they would enchain you, and the squalling children who will give you less beauty! antonia (without turning round). ah, what is this voice that troubles my spirit? is it hell that speaks or heaven that warns me? no! happiness is not there, oh cursed voice, and against my pride my love has armed me; glory is not worth the happy shade whence invites me the house of my beloved. miracle. what loves can now be yours, hoffman sacrifices you to his brutality, he only loves in you your beauty, and for him as for the others. soon will come the time of infidelity. (he disappears.) antonia (rising). no, do not tempt me! go away, demon! i will no longer listen. i have sworn to be his, my beloved awaits me, i'm no longer my own and i can't take myself back; and a few moments since, on his heart adored what eternal love did he not pledge me; who will save me from the demon, from myself? my mother, my mother, i love her. (she falls weeping on the clavichord.) miracle (re-appears behind antonia) your mother? dare you invoke her? your mother? but is it not she? who speaks by my voice ingrate, and recalls to you the splendor of the name that you would abdicate? (the portrait lights up and becomes animated.) listen! the voice. antonia! antonia. heavens!... my mother, my mother! the ghost. dear child whom i call, as i used to do, 'tis your mother, 'tis she, listen to her voice. antonia. mother! miracle. yes, yes, 'tis her voice, do you hear? her voice, best counselor, who leaves you a talent the world has lost! the ghost. antonia! miracle. listen! she seems to live aagin, and the distant public by its bravos fills her bliss. antonia. mother! ghost. antonia! miracle. join with her. antonia. yes, her soul calls me as before; 'tis my mother, 'tis she i hear her voice. the ghost. dear child whom i call as i used to do; 'tis your mother, 'tis she; list to her voice. antonia. no, enough, i cannot! miracle. again. antonia. i will sing no more. miracle. again. antonia. what ardor draws and devours me? miracle. again! why stop? antonia (out of breath). i give way to a transport that maddens, what flame is it dazzles my eyes a single moment to live, and my soul flies to heaven. the ghost. dear child whom i call, etc., etc. antonia. 'tis my mother, 'tis she, etc., etc. antonia. ah! (she falls dying on the sofa. miracle sinks in the earth uttering a peal of laughter.) crespel (running in). my child... my daughter... antonia!. antonia (expiring). my father! listen, 'tis my mother who calls me. and he... has returned... 'tis a song of love, flies away, sad or joyful... (she dies.) crespel. no... a single word... just one... my child... speak! come, speak! execrable death! no! pity, mercy... go away! hoffman (coming hurriedly). why these cries? crespel. hoffman!... ah wretch! 'tis you who killed her!... hoffman (rushing to antonia). antonia! crespel (beside himself). blood to color her cheek. a weapon. a knife!... (he seizes a knife and attacks hoffman.) nicklausse (entering and stopping crespel). unhappy man! hoffman (to nicklausse). quick! give the alarm; a doctor... a doctor!... miracle (appearing). present! (he feels antonia's pulse.) dead! crespel (crazy). ah, god, my child, my daughter! hoffman (despairingly). antonia! epilogue. (same scene as first act. the various personages are in the same positions they were in at the end of first act.) hoffmann. there is the story of my loves, and the memory in my heart will always remain. chorus. bravo, bravo, hoffmann. hoffmann. ah, i am mad. for us the craze divine, the spirits of alcohol, of beer and of wine, for us intoxication, chaos where we forget. nicklausse. ah, i understand, three dramas in a drama, olympia... hoffmann. smashed! nicklausse. antonia... hoffmann. dead! nicklausse. giulietta... hoffmann. oh, for her, the last verse of the song of klein-zach. when he drank too much gin or rack, you ought to have seen the two tails at his back, like lilies in a lac, the monster made a sound of flick flack, flic, flac, there's klein-zach. chorus. flick flack, there's klein-zach. chorus. light up the punch, drunk we'll get; and may the weakest roll under the table; luther was a goodly man, tire lan laire, tire lan la, etc., etc. (the students tumultuously go in the next room. hoffmann remains as if in a stupor.) the muse (appearing in an aureole of light). and i? i, the faithful friend, whose hand wiped thy tears? by whom thy latent sorrow exhales in heavenly dreams? am i nothing? may the tempest of passion pass away in thee! the man is no more; the poet revives i love thee hoffmann! be mine! let the ashes of thy heart fire thy genius, whose serenity smiles on thy sorrows. the muse will soften thy blessed sufferings. one is great by love but greater by tears. (she disappears.) hoffmann (alone). oh god! what ecstasy embraces my soul, like a concert divine thy voice hath moved me, with soft and burning fire my being is devoured, thy glances in mine have suffused their flame, like radiant stars. and i feel, beloved muse, thy perfumed breath flutter on my lips and on my eyes! (he falls face on table.) stella (approaching slowly). hoffmann? asleep... nicklausse. no, dead drunk. too late, madame. lindorf. corbleu! nicklausse. oh, here is the counselor, lindorf, who awaits you. (stella keeps her eyes on hoffmann and throws a flower at his feet as she goes out with lindorf.) the end. new version of les contes d'hoffmann (the tales of hoffman) opera in four acts with an original and novel first act and other important changes book by jules barbier music by j. offenbach new english version by charles alfred byrne as performed, for the first time in america at the manhattan opera house, under the direction of oscar hammerstein. english version, 1907, by steinway & sons. charles e. burden, publisher, steinway hall 107-109 east 14th street new york. dramatis personæ. hoffmann counselor lindorf coppelius dapertutto doctor miracle spalanzani crespel andres cochenille frantz luther nathanael hermann stella giulietta olympia antonia nicklausse the muse a ghost les contes d'hoffmann premier acte. la taverne de maitre luther choeur des etudiants. drig! drig! drig! maître luther, tison d'enfer, drig! drig! drig! à nous ta bière, a nous ton vin, jusqu'au matin remplis mon verre, jusqu'au matin remplis les pots d'étain! nathanael. luther est un brave homme; tire lan laire! c'est demain qu'on l'assomme; tire lan la! le choeur. tire lan la! luther (allant de table en table). voilà, messieurs, voilà! hermann. sa cave est d'un bon drille; tire lan laire! c'est demain qu'on la pille tire lan la! le choeur. tire lan la! (bruit de gobelets.) luther. voilà, messieurs, voilà! wilhelm. sa femme est fille d' eve; tire lan laire: c'est demain qu'on l'enlève; tire lan la! le choeur. tire lan la! luther. voilà, messieurs, voilà! le choeur. drig! drig! drig! maître luther etc., etc. (les étudiants s'assoient, boivent et fument dans tous les coins.) nathanael. vive dieu! mes amis, la belle créature! comme au chef-d' [oe]uvre de mozart elle prête l'accent d'une voix ferme et sûre! c'est la grâce de la nature, et c'est le triomphe de l'art! que mon premier toast soit pour elle! je bois à la stella! tous. vivat! à la stella! nathaniel. comment hoffmann n'est-il pas là eh! luther!... ma grosse tonne! qu'as-tu fait de notre hoffmann hermann. c'est ton vin qui l'empoisonne! tu l'as tué, foi d'hermann! tous. rends-nous hoffmann! lindorf (á part). au diable hoffmann! nathanael. morbleu! qu'on nous l'apporte ou ton dernier jour a lui! luther. messieurs, il ouvre la porte, et niklausse est avec lui! tous. vivat! c'est lui! lindorf (à part). veillons sur lui. hoffmann (entrant d'un air sombre). bonjour, amis! nicklausse. bonjour! hoffmann. un tabouret! un verre! une pipe!... nicklausse (railleur). pardon, seigneur!...sans vous déplaire, je bois, fume et m'assieds comme vous!... part à deux! le choeur. c'est juste!... place à tous les deux! (hoffmann et nicklausse s'assoient; hoffmann se prend la tête entre les mains.) nicklausse (fredonnant). notte a giorno mad dormire... hoffmann (brusquement). tais-toi, par le diable!... nicklausse (tranquillement). oui, mon maître. hermann (à hoffmann). oh! oh! d'où vient cet air fâché? nathanael (à hoffmann). c'est à ne pas te reconnaître. hermann. sur quelle herbe as-tu donc marché? hoffmann. hélas! sur une herbe morte au souffle glacé du nord!... nicklausse. et là, près de cette porte, sur un ivrogne qui dort! hoffmann. c'est vrai!... ce coquin-là, pardieu! m'a fait envie! a boire!... et, comme lui, couchons dans le ruisseau. hermann. sans oreiller? hoffmann. la pierre! nathanael. et sans rideau? hoffmann. le ciel! nathanael. sans couvre-pied? hoffmann. la pluie! hermann. as-tu le cauchemar, hoffmann? hoffmann. non, mais ce soir, tout à l'heure, au théâtre... tous. eh bien? hoffmann. j'ai cru revoir... baste!... à quoi bon rouvrir une vieille blessure? la vie est courte!... il faut l'égayer en chemin. il faut boire, chanter et rire à l'aventure, sauf à pleurer demain! nathanael. chante donc le premier, sans qu'on te le demande; nous ferons chorus. hoffmann. soit! nathanael. quelque chose de gai! hermann la chanson du rat! nathanael. non! moi, j'en suis fatigué. ce qu'il nous faut, c'est la légende de klein-zach?... tous. c'est la légende de klein-zach! hoffmann. va pour klein-zach! il était une fois à la cour d'eysenach un petit avorton qui se nommait klein-zach! il était coiffé d'un colbac, et ses jambes faisaient clic, clac! clic, clac! voilà klein-zach! le choeur clic, clac!... voilà klein-zach! hoffmann. il avait une bosse en guise d'estomac; ses pieds ramifiés semblaient sortir d'un sac, son nez était noir de tabac, et sa tête faisait cric, crac, cric, crac, voilà klein-zach. le choeur. cric, crac, voilà klein-zach! hoffmann. quant aux traits de sa figure... (il semble s'absorber peu à peu dans son rêve). le choeur. quant aux traits de sa figure?... hoffmann (très lentement). quant aux traits de sa figure.. (il se lève.) ah! sa figure était charmante!... je la vois, belle comme le jour où, courant après elle, je quittai comme un fou la maison paternelle et m'enfuis à travers les vallons et les bois! ses cheveux en torsades sombres sur son col élégant jetaient leurs chaudes ombres. ses yeux, enveloppés d'azur, promenaient autour d'elle un regard frais et pur et, comme notre char emportait sans secousse nos coeurs et nos amours, sa voix vibrante et douce aux cieux qui l'écoutaient jetait ce chant vainqueur dont l'éternel écho résonne dans mon coeur! nathanael. o bizarre cervelle! qui diable peins-tu là! klein-zach?... hoffmann. je parle d'elle. nathanael. qui? hoffmann (sortant de son rêve). non! personne!... rien! mon esprit se troublait! rien... et klein-zach vaut mieux, tout difforme qu'il est!... le choeur. flic, flac! voilà klein-zach! hoffmann (jetant son verre). peuh!... cette bière est détestable! allumons le punch! grisons-nous! et que les plus fous roulent sous la table. le choeur. et que les plus fous roulent sous la table! (on éteint les lumières. luther allume un immense bol de punch.) luther est un brave homme, tire lan laire, tire lan la, c'est demain qu'on l'assomme, tire lan laire, tire lan la, sa cave est d'un bon drille. tire lan laire tire lan la, c'est demain qu'on la pille, tire lan laire, tire lan la. nicklausse. a la bonne heure, au moins! voilà que l'on se pique de raison et de sens pratique! peste soit des coeurs langoureux! nathanael. gageons qu'hoffmann est amoureux! hoffmann. après?... nathanael. il ne faut pas en rougir, j'imagine. notre ami wilhelm que voilà brûle pour léonor et la trouve divine; hermann aime gretchen; et moi je me ruine pour la fausta! hoffmann (à wilhelm). oui, léonor, ta virtuose!... (a hermann.) oui, gretchen, ta poupée inerte, au coeur glacé! (a nathanael.) et ta fausta, pauvre insensé!... la courtisane au front d'airain! nathanael. esprit morose, grand merci pour fausta, gretchen et léonor!... baste! autant celles-là que d'autres! nathanael. ta maîtresse est donc un trésor que tu méprises tant les nôtres? hoffmann. (haut.) ma maîtresse?...non pas! dites mieux, trois maîtresses, trio charmant d'enchanteresses que se partagèrent mes jours! voulez-vous le récit de ces folles amours?... le choeur. oui, oui! nicklausse. que parles-tu de trois maîtresses? hoffmann. fume!... avant que cette pipe éteinte se rallume tu m'auras sans doute compris, o toi qui dans ce drame où mon coeur se consume du bon sens emportas le prix! (tous les étudiants vont reprendre leurs places.) le choeur. ecoutons! il est doux de boire au récit d'une folle histoire, en suivant le nuage clair que la pipe jette dans l'air! hoffmann (s'asseyant sur le coin d'une table). je commence. le choeur. silence! hoffmann. le nom de la première était olympia! (le rideau tombe, pendant qu'hoffmann parle à tous les étudiants attentifs.) acte ii (un riche cabinet de physician.) hoffman (seul). allons courage et confiance je deviens un puit de science il faut tourner selon le vent pour mériter celle que j'aime. je saurai trouver en moi-même l'étoffe d'un savant elle est là, si j'osais. (il soulève la portière.) c'est elle! elle sommeille! qu'elle est belle! ah! vivre deux! n'avoir qu'une même espérance un même souvenir! partager le bonheur, partager la souffrance, partager l'avenir! laisse, laisse ma flamme verser en toi le jour! laisse éclore ton âme aux rayons de l'amour! foyer divin! soleil dont l'ardeur nous penêtre et nous vient embraser! ineffable désir ou l'on sent tout son être se fondre en un baiser. laisse, laisse ma flamme verser en toi le jour! laisse éclore ton âme aux rayons de l'amour! foyer divin! soleil dont l'ardeur nous pénêtre, et nous vient embraser! ineffable désir où l'on sent tout son être se fondre en un baiser. laisse laisse ma flamme verser en toi le jour! laisse éclore ton âme aux rayons de l'amour! (nicklausse parait.) nicklausse. pardieu... j'étais bien sur de te trouver ici! hoffman (laissant retomber la portière). chut! nicklausse. pourquoi?... c'est là que respire la colombe qui fait ton amoureux souci. la belle olympia... va, mon enfant! admire! hoffman. oui, je l'adore! nicklausse. attends à la connaître mieux. hoffman. l'âme qu'on aime est aisé a connaître! nicklausse. quoi d'un regard?... par la fenêtre? hoffman. il suffit d'un regard pour embrasser les cieux! nicklausse. qu'elle chaleur! au moins sait--elle que tu l'aimes? hoffman. non! nicklausse. ecris lui! hoffman. je n'ose pas. nicklausse. pauvre agneau! parle-lui. hoffman. les dangers sont les mêmes. nicklausse. alors chante morbleu! pour sortir d'un tel pas! hoffman. monsieur spalanzani n'aime pas la musique. nicklausse (riant). oui, je sais, tout pour le physique! une poupée aux yeux d'email jouait au mieux de l'eventail aupres d'un petit coq en cuire; tous deux chantaient à l'unison d'une merveilleuse facon, dansaient, caquetaient, semblaient vivre. hoffman. plait-il? pourquoi cette chanson? nicklausse. le petit coq luisant et vif, avec un air rèbarbatif, tournait par trois sur lui-même; par un rouage ingenieux, la poupée, en roulant les yeux soupirait et disait: "je t'aime"! le choeur des invites. non, aucun hôte, vraiment, ne recoit plus richement! par le gout, sa maison brille! tout s'y trouve réuni. spalanzani. vous serez satisfaits, messieurs. (il fait signe a cochenille et sort.) nicklausse (a hoffman). enfin nous allons voir de près cette merveille. sans pareille! hoffman. silence! la voici. (entrée de spalanzani conduisant olympia.) spalanzani. mesdames et messieurs je vous présente ma fille olypmia. le choeur. charmante! elle à de très beaux yeux! sa taille est fort bien prise! voyez comme elle est mise! il ne lui manque rien! elle est très bien! hoffman. ah qu'elle est adorable! nicklausse. charmante, incomparable! spalanzani (a olympia). quel succès est le tien. nicklausse. vraiment elle est très bien. le choeur. elle à de beaux yeux sa taille est fort bien prise voyez comme elle est mise il ne lui manque rien vraiment elle est très bien. spalanzani. mesdames et messieurs, fière de vos bravos. et surtout impatiente d'en conquerir de nouveaux ma fille, obéissant à vos moindres caprices, va, s'il vous plait... nicklausse (à part). passer a d'autres exercices. spalanzani. vous chanter un grand air, en suivant de la voix, talent rare le clavecin, la guitare, qu la harpe, à votre choix! cochennille (au fond du théâtre). la harpe! une voix de basse. (dans la coulisse.) la harpe! spalanzani. fort bien. cochenille! va vite nous chercher la harpe de ma fille! (cochenille sort.) hoffman (a part). je vais l'entendre... oh joie! nicklausse (a part). o folle passion! spalanzani (a olympia). maitrise ton émotion, mon enfant! olympia. oui. cochenille (avec la harpe). voila! spalanzani (s'asseyant auprès d'olympia). messieurs, attention! cochenille. attention! le choeur. attention! olympia (accompagné par spalanzani). les oiseaux dans la charmille, dans les cieux l'astre du jour, tout parle a la jeune fille d'amour, d'amour, voilà! la chanson gentille voilà! la chanson d'olympia, ha! le choeur. c'est la chanson d'olympia! olympia. tout ce qui chante et résonne et soupire tour à tour, emeut son coeur qui frissonne d'amour! voilà! la chanson mignonne voilà voilà la chanson d'olympia. ha! le choeur. c'est la chanson d'olympia. hoffman (a nicklausse). ah! mon ami, quel accent. nicklausse. quelles gammes!... (tout le monde s'empresse autour d'olympia. un laquais s'addresse a spalanzani). spalanzani. allons, messieurs! la main aux dames... le souper nous attend. le choeur. le souper! bon cela... spalanzani. a moins qu'on ne préfère. danser d'abord!... le choeur (avec energie). non, non, le souper! bonne affaire ensuite on dansera. spalanzani. comme il vous plaira! hoffman (s'approchant d'olympia). oserai-je? spalanzani (intervenant). elle est un peu lasse; attendez le bal. (il touche l'épaule d'olympia.) olympia. oui. spalanzani. vous voyez, jusque là voulez vous me faire la grâce de tenir compagnie à mon olympia? hoffman. o bonheur! spalanzani (à part, riant). nous verrons ce qu'il lui chantera. nicklausse (a spalanzani). elle ne soupe pas. spalanzani. non! nicklausse (à part). ame poetique! (spalanzani passe derrière olympia. on entend le bruit d'un ressort.) plaît-il? spalanzani. rien! la physique! ah monsieur, la physique! (il conduit olympia à un fauteuil et sort avec les invites.) cochenille. le souper vous attend. le choeur (avec enthousiasm). le souper, le souper, le souper nous attend! non, aucun hôte vraiment, ne reçoit plus richement! hoffman. ils se sout éloignes enfin! ah je respire! seuls, seuls, tous deux! (s'approchant d'olympia.) oue j'ai de choses à te dire, o mon olympia! laisse moi t'admirer! de ton regard charmant laisse moi m'enivrer. (il touche légèrement l'épaule d'olympia.) olympia. oui. hoffman. n'est--ce pas un rêve enfanté par la fièvre? j'ai cru voir un soupir s'échapper de ta lèvre! (il touche de nouveau l'épaule d'olympia.) olympia. oui. hoffman. doux aveu, gage de nos amours, tu m'appartieus, nos coeurs sont unis pour toujours! ah comprends-tu, dis moi, cette joie éternelle des coeurs silencieux? vivants, n'être qu'une âme, et du même coup d'aile nous élancer aux cieux! laisse, laisse ma flamme verser en toi le jour! laisse éclore ton âme aux rayons de l'amour! (il presse la main d'olympia. celle ci se léve, parcourt la scène et sort.) tu me fuis? qu'ai je fait? tu ne me réponds pas. parle! t'ai-je irritee? ah je suivrai tes pas! (hoffman s'élance, nicklausse parait.) nicklausse. eh morbleu, modére ton zèle! veux-tu qu'on se grise sans toi?... hoffman (avec ivresse). nicklausse! je suis aimé d'elle! aimié!... dieu puissant. nicklausse. par ma foi si tu savais ce qu'on dit de ta belle! hoffman. qu'en peut on dire? quoi? nicklausse. qu'elle est morte. hoffman. juste ciel! nicklausse. ou ne fut pas en vie. hoffman. nicklausse! je suis aimé d'elle aimé! dieu puissant. (il sort. nicklausse le suit.) coppelius (entrant, furieaux). voleur! brigand! quelle déroute! elias à fait banqueroute! va, je saurai trouver le moment opportun pour me venger... volé! moi!... je tuerai quelqu'un. (coppélius se glisse dans la chambre d'olympia.) (entre tout-le-monde.) spalanzani. voici les valseurs. cochenille. voici la ritournelle. hoffman. c'est la valse qui nous appelle. spalanzani (à olympia). prends la main de monsieur, mon enfant. (lui touchant l'épaule.) allons! olympia. oui. (hoffman enlace la taille d'olympia et ils disparaissent a gauche.) le choeur. elle danse! en cadence! c'est merveilleux! prodigieux! place, place! elle passe elle fend l'air comme un éclair. la voix d'hoffman (dans la coulisse). olympia! spalanzani. qu'on les arrête! le choeur. qui de nous les arrêtera? nicklausse. elle va lui casser la tête!... (hoffman et olympia reparaissent et redescendent.) (nicklausse s'elance pour les arrétèr.) eh, mille diables!... (il est violemment bausculé et tombe sur un fauteuil.) le choeur. patatra! spalanzani (s'élancant). halte là! (il touche olympia à l'épaule. elle s'arrête subitement. hoffman étourdi tombe sur un canapé.) spalanzani. voilà! (à olympia.) assez, assez, ma fille. olympia. oui. spalanzani. il ne faut plus valser. olympia. oui. spalanzani (a cochenille). toi cochenille, reconduis-la. (il touche olympia.) cochenille (poussant olympia). va donc. va! olympia. oui. (en sortant, poussé par cochenille.) ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! le choeur. que voulez vous qu'on dise? c'est une fille exquise, il ne lui manque rien, elle est très bien! nicklausse (d'une voix dolente, en montrant hoffman.) est-il mort? spalanzani (examinant hoffman). non, en somme, son lorgnon seul est en débris il reprend ses esprits. le choeur. pauvre jeune homme! cochenille (dans la coulisse) ah! (il entre, la figure bouleversée.) spalanzani. quoi? cochenille. l'homme aux lunettes ... là. spalanzani. miséricorde! olympia! hoffman. olympia! (on entend un bruit de réssorts qui se brisent avec fracas.) spalanzani. ah! terre et cieux! elle est cassée! hoffman. cassée! coppelius (entrant). ha, ha, ha, ha, oui, fracasseé. (hoffman s'élance et disparaît. spalanzani et coppélius se jettent l'un sur l'autre.) spalanzani. gredin! coppélius. voleur! spalanzani. brigand! coppélius. païen. spalanzani. bandit. coppelius. pirate! hoffman (pale et épouvanté). un automate! un automate! (il tombe sur un fauteuil. eclat de rire général.) le choeur. ha, ha, ha, la bombe éclate il aimait un automate! spalanzani (avec désespoir). mon automate! tous. un automate! ha, ha ha, ha! troisieme acte. (a venise. galerie en fête dans un palais donnant sur le grand canal. les hôtes de giuletta sont groupés sur des coussins.) barcarole giuletta et nicklausse (dans la coulisse.) belle nuit, o nuit d'amour, souris a nos ivresses, nuit plus douce que le jour, o belle nuit d'amour! le temps fuit et sans retour emporte nos tendresses! loin de cet heureux sejour, le temps fuit sans retour zephyrs embrasés versez nous vos caresses; zephyrs embrasés donnez nous vos baisers. belle nuit, o nuit d'amour, souris à nos ivresses nuit plus douce que le jour, o belle nuit d'amour. (giuletta et nicklausse entrent en scène.) hoffman. et moi, ce n'est pas là, pardieu, ce qui m'enchante! aux pieds de la beauté qui nous vient enivrer le plaisir doit il soupirer? non! le rire à la bouche écoutez comme il chante! chant bacchique. amis! l'amour tendre et rêveur, erreur! l'amour dans le bruit et le vin! divin! que d'un brûlant désir votre coeur s'enflamme aux fièvres du plaisir consumez votre âme transports d'amour, durez un jour! au diable celui qui pleure pour deux beaux yeux a nous l'ivresse meilleure des chants joyeux! vivons une heure dans les cieux! le choeur. au diable celui qui pleure, pour deux beaux yeux! a nous l'ivresse meilleure des chants joyeaux vivons une heure dans les cieux! hoffman. le ciel te prête sa clarté, beauté. mais vous chachez ô coeurs de fer, l'enfer! bonheur du paradis où l'amour convie, serments, espoirs maudits, rêves de la vie! o chastetés, o puretés, mentez! le choeur. au diable celui qui pleure, etc., etc. schlemil (entrant en scène). je vois qu'en est en fête. a merveille, madame. giulietta. comment! mais je vous ai pleuré trois grands jours. pitichinaccio. dame. schlemil (a pitichinaccio). avorton! pitichinaccio. hola! giulietta. calmez vous! nous avous un poèté étranger parmi nous. (présentant hoffman.) hoffman! schlemil (de mauvaise grace.) monsieur! hoffman (ironique). monsieur! giulietta (a schlemil). souriez nous, de grâce, et venez prendre place au pharaon! le choeur. vivat! au pharaon! (giulietta après avoir invité tout le monde a la suivre se dirige vers la porte. hoffman offre sa main à giulietta. schlemil intervient vivement.) schlemil (prenant la main de giulietta). morbleu! giulietta. au jeu, messieurs, au jeu. le choeur. au jeu, au jeu. (tout le monde sort moins nicklausse et hoffman.) nicklausse. un mot! j'ai deux chevaux sellés; au premier rêve dont se laisse affoler mon hoffman, je l'enlève. hoffman. et quelles rêves, jamais, pourraient être enfantés par de telles realités? aime-t-on une courtisane? nicklausse. ce schlemil, cependant... hoffman. je ne suis pas schlemil. nicklausse. prends y garde, le diable est malin. (dapertutto parait au fond.) hoffman. le fut-il, s'il me la fait aimer, je consens qu'il me damne allons! nicklausse. allons! (ils sortent.) dapertutto (seul). allez... pour te livrer combat les yeux de giulietta sont une arme certaine. il a fallu que schlemil succombat! foi de diable et de capitaine! tu feras comme lui. je veux que giulietta t'ensorcelle au jourd'hui. (tirant de son doigt une bague ou brille un gros diamant.) tourne, tourne, miroir où se prend l'alouette, scintille, diamant, fascine, attire la... l'alouette ou la femme a cet appât vainqueur vont de l'aile ou du coeur; l'une y laisse sa vie l'autre y perd son âme, tourne tourne miroir ou se prend l'alouette. scintille diamant, fascine, attire-la. (giulietta parait et s'avance, fascinée vers le diamant que dapertutto tend vers elle.) dapertutto (passant la bagne au doit giulietta.) cher ange. giulietta. q'attendez-vous de votre servante? dapertutto. bien, tu m'as deviné, a séduire les coeurs entre toutes savante, tu m'as déjà donné l'ombre de schlemil! je varie mes plaisirs et te prie de m'avoir aujourd hui le reflet d'hoffman! giuletta. quoi! son reflet! dapertutto. oui! son reflet... tu doutes de la puissance de tes yeux? giuletta. non. dapertutto. qui sait? ton hoffman rêve peut être mieux. (avec dureté). oui, j'étais la, tout a l'heure, aux écoutes, il te défie... giuletta. hoffman?... c'est bien!... dés aujourd'hui j'en ferai mon jouet. (hoffman entre.) dapertutto. c'est lui! (dapertutto sort. hoffman fait mine de s'eloigner.) giulietta (à hoffman). vous me quittez? hoffman (railleur). j'ai tout perdu. giulietta. quoi... vous aussi!... ah! vous me faites injure sans pitié, ni merci partez... partez!... hoffman. tes larmes t'ont trahie. ah je t'aime... fut-ce au prix de ma vie. giulietta. ah malheureux, mais tu ne sais donc pas qu'une heure, qu'un moment, peuvent t'être funestes? que mon amour te perd a jamais si tu restes? ne repousse pas ma prière ma vie est à toi toute entière. partont je te promets d'accompagner tes pas. hoffman. o dieu de quelle ivresses embrases tu mon âme? comme un concert divin ta voix me pénêtre; d'un feu doux et brulant mon être est dévoré; tes regards dans les miens ont épanché leur flamme comme des astres radieux et je seus, ô mon bien aimée, passer ton haleine embaumée sur mes lèvres et sur mes yeux. giulietta. aujourd'hui cependant affermis mon courage. en me laissant quelque chose de toi! hoffman. que veux tu dire? giulietta. ecoute et ne ris pas de moi. (elle enlace hoffman et prend un miroir.) ce que je veux c'est ta fidèle image qui reproduit tes traits ton regard ton visage, le reflet que tu vois sur le mien se pencher. hoffman. quoi! mon reflet? quelle folie! giulietta. non! car il peut se détacher, le la glace polie. pour venir tout entier dans mon coeur se cacher. hoffman. dans ton coeur? giulietta. dans mon coeur. c'est moi qui t'en supplies, hoffman, comble mes voeux! hoffman. mon reflet? giulietta. ton reflet. oui sagesse on folie, je l'attends, je le veux! hoffman. extase, ivresse, inassouvie, mon reflet, mon âme et ma vie à toi, toujours à toi! giulietta. si ta présence m'est ravie, je veux garder de toi ton reflet, ton âme et ta vie ami, donne les moi! giulietta (vivement). schlemil! (schlemil entre suivi de nicklausse. dappertutto, pittichinaccio et autres.) schlemil. j'en étais sûr! ensemble! venez, messieurs, venez, c'est pour hoffman à ce qu'il semble, que nous sommes abandonnés. (rires ironiques.) hoffman (presque parlé). monsieur! giulietta (à hoffman). silence! (bas) je t'aime, il a ma clef. pittichinaccio (a schlemil). tuons le. schlemil. patience! dappertutto (à hoffman). comme vous êtes pâle. hoffman. moi! dapertutto (lui présentant le miroir.) voyez plutôt! hoffman (stupéfait, se regardant). ciel! giulietta. ecoutez, messieurs, voici les gondoles, l'heure des barcarolles et celle des adieux! (schlemil reconduit les invités. giulietta sort, jetant un regard à hoffman. dapertutto reste au fond de la scène. nicklausse revient à hoffman.) nicklausse. viens tu? hoffman. pas encore. nicklausse. pourquoi? bien, je comprends, adieu! (a part.) mais je veille sur toi. (il sort.) schlemil. qu'attendez vous, monsieur? hoffman. que vous me donniez certaine clef que j'ai juré d'avoir. schlemil. vous n'aurez cette clef monsieur qu'avec ma vie. hoffman. j'aurai donc l'une ou l'autre. schlemil. c'est ce qu'il faut voir! en garde! dapertutto. vous n'avez pas d'épée (lui présentant le sien). prenez la mienne! hoffman. merci! choeur (dans la coulisse). belle nuit, o nuit d'amour! souris a nos ivresses nuit plus douce que le jour, o belle nuit d'amour! (hoffman et schlemil se battent. schlemil est blessé à mort et tombe. hoffman se penche et lui prend la clef pendue à son cou et s'élance dans l'appartment de giulietta qui parait dans une gondole.) hoffman. personne! giulietta (riant). ha, ha, ha! (hoffman regarde giulietta avec stupeur.) dapertutto (a giulietta). qu'en fais tu maintenant? giulietta. je te l'abandonne. pitichinaccio (entre dans la gondole). cher ange. (giulietta le prend lans ses bras.) hoffman (comprenant l'infamie de giulietta). misérable! nicklausse. hoffman! hoffman! les sbires! (nicklausse entraine hoffman. giulietta et dapertutto rient.) acte iv. (a munich chez crespel. une chambre bizarrement meublee.) antonia (seule. elle est devant le clavecin et chante). elle à fui, la tourterelle, elle à fui loin de toi! (elle s'arrête et se lève.) ah souvenir trop doux! image trop cruelle! hélas à mes genoux, je l'entends, je le vois, elle à fui, la tourterelle, elle à fui loin de toi! mais elle est toujours fidèle et te garde sa foi. bien aime, ma voix t'appelle, tout mon coeur est à toi. (elle se rapproche du clavecin.) chère fleur qui vient d'eclore par pitié reponds moi, toi qui sais s'il m'aime encore, s'il me garde sa foi!... bien aime ma voix t'implore, que ton coeur vienne à moi! (elle se laisse tomber sur une chaise.) crespel (entrant brusquement). malheureuse enfant, fille bien aimèe tu m'avis promis de ne plus chanter. antonia. ma mère s'était en moi ranimée; mon coeur en chantant croyait l'écouter. crespel. c'est la mon tourment. ta mère chérie t'a légué sa voix, regrets superflus! par toi je l'entends. non...non...je t'en prie. antonia (tristement). votre antonia ne chantera plus! (elle sort lentement.) crespel (seul). désespoir! tout a l'heure encore je voyais ces taches de feu colorer son visage, dieu! perdrai-je l'enfant que j'adore? ah, c'est hoffman, c'est lui qui jeta dans son coeur ces ivresses... j'ai fui. jusqu'à munich... (entre frantz.) crespel. toi frantz n'ouvre a personne. frantz. vous croyez... crespel. où vas tu? frantz. je vais voir si l'on sonne comme vous avez dit... crespel. j'ai dit n'ouvre a personne! (criant.) a personne! entends tu, cette fois? frantz. eh, mon dieu, je ne suis pas sourd! crespel. bien! que le diable t'emporte!... frantz. oui monsieur, la clef est sur la porte. crespel. bêlitre! ane bâté! frantz. c'est convenu. crespel. morbleu! (il sort. frantz descend.) frantz (seul). eh bien! quoi, toujours en colère! bizarre, quinteux, exigeant! ah, l'on a du mal a lui plaire pour son argent... jour et nuit je me mets en quatre, au moindre signe je me tais c'est tout comme si je chantais!... encore non, si je chantais, de ses mépris il lui faudrait rabattre. je chante seul quelque fois; mais chanter n'est pas commode! tra la la! tra la la! ce n'est pourtant pas la voix, qui me fait défaut, je crois... tra la la! tra la la! non c'est la méthode. dame! on a pas tout en partage. je chante pitoyablement; mais je danse agréablement, je me le dis sans compliment, corbleu la danse est à mon avantage, c'est là mon plus grand attrait, et danser n'est pas commode. tra la la! tra la la! (il danse. il s'arrête.) près des femmes le jarret n'est pas ce qui me nuirait, tra la la! tra la la! (hoffman entre suivi de nicklausse.) hoffman. frantz! c'est lui... (touchant l'épaule de frantz.) debout l'ami. frantz. hein qui va la (il se relève) monsieur hoffman! hoffman. moi-même! eh bien, antonia? frantz. il est sorti, monsieur. hoffman (riant). ha, ha, plus sourd encore que l'au passe? frantz. monsieur m'honore. je me porte bien, grâce au ciel. hoffman. antonia! va, fais que je la voie! frantz. très bien... quel joie pour monsieur crespel (il sort.) hoffman (s'asseyant devant le clavecin). c'est une chanson d'amour qui s'envole, triste ou folle tour à tour!... antonia (entrant précipitamment). hoffman! hoffman (recevant antonia dans ses bras). antonia. nicklausse (à part). je suis de trop; bonsoir. (il sort.) antonia. ah! je savais bien que tu m'aimais encore. hoffman. mon coeur m'avait bien dit que j'étais regretté mais pour quoi nous a-t-on séparés? antonia. je l'ignore. hoffman. ah j'ai le bonheur dans l'âme! demain tu seras ma femme. heureux epoux l'avenir est à nous! a l'amour soyons fidèles que ses chaines éternelles gardent nos coeurs, du temps même vainqueurs! antonia. ah j'ai le bonheur dans l'âme! demain je serai ta femme. heureux époux, l'avenir est a nous! chaque jour, chansons nouvelles! ton génie ouvre ses ailes! mon chant vainqueur est l'echo de ton coeur! hoffman (souriant). pourtant, ô ma fiancée, te dirai-je une pensée qui me trouble malgre moi? la musique m'inspire un peu de jalousie, tu l'aimes trop! antonia (souriant). voyez l'étrange fantaisie! t'aimé-je donc pour elle, ou elle pour toi? car toi, tu ne vas pas sans doute me défendre de chanter, comme a fait mon père? hoffman. que dis tu? antonia. qui, mon père à présent, m'impose la vertu du silence (vivement) veux tu m'entendre? hoffman (a part). c'est étrange!... est-ce que... antonia (l'entrainant). viens là comme autrefois. ecoute, et tu verras si j'ai perdu ma voix. hoffman. comme ton [oe]il s'anime et comme ta main tremble. antonia (le faisant s'asseoir devant le clavecin). tiens ce doux chant d'amour que nous chantions ensemble. (elle chante.) c'est une chanson d'amour qui s'envole triste ou folle tour a tour; c'est une chanson d'amour. la rose nouvelle, sourit au printemps. las! combien de temps vivra-t-elle? ensemble. c'est une chanson d'amour, qui s'envole, triste ou folle, tour a tour, c'est une chanson d'amour. hoffman. un rayon de flamme pare ta beauté, verras tu l'été, fleur de l'âme? ensemble. c'est une chanson d'amour, etc. (antonia, porte la main à son coeur et semble défaillir.) hoffman. qu'as tu donc? antonia. rien. hoffman (écoutant). chut! antonia. ciel mon père, viens, viens! (elle sort.) hoffman. non, je saurai le mot de ce mystère. (il se cache. crespel parait.) crespel (regardant autour de lui). non, rien. j'ai cru qu'hoffman était ici. puisse-t-il être au diable! hoffman (a part). grand merci! frantz (entrant, a crespel). monsieur! crespel. quoi? frantz. le docteur miracle. crespel. drôle infâme, ferme vite la porte. frantz. oui, monsieur, medicin. crespel. lui, medicin? non, sur mon âme, un fossoyeur, un assassin! qui me tuerait ma fille après ma femme, j'entends le cliquetis de ses flacons dans l'air. loin de moi qu'on le chasse. (miracle parait subitement. frantz se sauve.) miracle. ha, ha, ha, ha! crespel. enfin! miracle. eh bien, me voilà, c'est moi-même. ce bon monsieur crespel, je l'aime! ou donc est-il? crespel (l'arrêtant). morbleu! miracle. ha, ha, ha, ha! je cherchais votre antonia! eh bien! ce mal qu'elle hérita, de sa mère toujours en progrès? chère belle, nous la guérirons. menez moi chez elle. crespel. pour l'assassiner? si tu fais un pas, je te jette par la fenetre. miracle. eh la! tout doux. je ne veux pas vous desplaire. (il avance un fauteuil.) crespel. que fais tu, traitre? miracle. pour conjurer le danger, il faut le connaître, laissez moi l'interroger. crespel et hoffman. l'effroi me pénètre. (miracle la main tendue vers la chambre d'antonia.) a mon pouvoir vainqueur. cède de bonne grâce!... près de moi sans terreur, viens ici prendre place, viens. crespel et hoffman. d'epouvante et d'horreur tout mon être se glace, une étrange terreur m'enchaîne à cete place. j'ai peur. crespel (s'asseyant). allons, parle et sois bref. (miracle continue ses gestes magnétiques. la porte de la chambre d'antonia s'ouvre lentement. miracle indique qu'il prend la main d'antonia invisible, et qu'il la fait asseoir.) miracle (s'asseyant). voulez vous vous asseoir là. crespel. je suis assis. miracle (sans répondre). quel age avez vous, je vous prie? crespel. qui, moi? miracle. je parle à votre enfant. hoffman (a part). antonia? miracle. quel âge?... (il écoute) vingt ans. crespel. hein? miracle. le printemps de la vie. (il fait le geste de tâter le pouls.) voyons la main!... crespel. la main. miracle (tirant sa montre). chut, laissez moi compter. hoffman (à part). dieu! suis-je jouet d'un rêve? est-ce un fantôme? miracle. le pouls est inégal et vif, mauvais symptôme. chantez!... crespel (se levant). non, non, tais-toi!... ne la fais pas chanter! (la voix d'antonia se fait entendre.) miracle. voyez, son front s'anime, et son regard flamboie, elle porte la main à son coeur agité. (il semble suivre antonia du geste. la porte de la chambre se referme brusquement.) crespel. que dit il? miracle (se levant). il serait dommage en vérité, de laisser à la mort si belle proie! crespel. tais-toi! miracle. si vous voulez accepter mon secours, si vous voulez sauver ses jours, j'ai la certains flacons que je tiens en réserve. (il tire plusieurs flacons de sa poche et les fait sonner comme des castagnettes.) crespel. tais toi! miracle. dont il faudrait... crespel. tais-toi! dieu me préserve d'écouter tes conseils misérable assassin!... miracle. dont il faudrait chaque matin... eh! oui, je vous entends, tout a l'heure, a l'instant! des flacons, pauvre père, vous en serez, j'espère. content! crespel. va-t-en, va-t-en, va-t-en! hors de chez moi, satan! redoute la colère, et la douleur d'un père, va-t-en! hoffman (à part). a la mort qui t'attend, je saurai, pauvre enfant, t'arracher, je l'espère! tu ris en vain d'un père, satan! miracle (avec le même flegme.) dont il faudrait... crespel. va-t-en! miracle. chaque matin... crespel. va-t-en! (il pousse miracle dehors et la reforme la porte sur lui.) ah! le voilà dehors et ma porte est fermée! nous sommes seuls enfin, ma fille bien aimée! miracle (rentrant par la muraille). dont il faudrait chaque matin... crespel. ah misérable, viens, viens!... les flots puissent--ils t'engloutir. nous verrons si le diable. t'en fera sortir!... crespel. va-t-en, va-t-en, va-t-en! hors de, etc, etc. hoffman. a la mort qui t'attend, je saurai, etc., etc. miracle. dont il faudrait... crespel. va-t-en!... miracle. chaque matin... crespel. va-t'en. (ils disparaissent ensemble.) hoffman (seul). ne plus chanter! hélas. comment obtenir d'elle un pareil sacrifice? antonia (parait). eh bien, mon père qu'a-t-il dit? hoffman. ne me demand rien, plus tard tu sauras tout; une route nouvelle s'auvre à nous, mon antonia!... pour y suivre mes pas, chasse de ta mémoire, c'est rêves d'avenir, de succés et de gloire, que ton coeur au mien confia. antonia. mais toi même? hoffman. l'amour tous les deux nous convie, tout ce qui n'est pas toi n'est plus rien dans ma vie. antonia. tiens donc! voici ma main! hoffman. ah, chère antonia! pourrai-je reconnaître? ce que tu fais pour moi? (il lui baise les mains.) ton père va peut-être revenir, je te quitte... à demain! antonia. a demain! (hoffman sort.) antonia (allant ouvrir une porte.) de mon père aisément il s'est fait le complice! allons, les pleurs sont superflus, je l'ai promis, je ne chanterai plus. (elle se laisse tomber sur un fauteuil.) miracle (surgissant derrière elle.) tu ne chanteras plus. sais tu quel sacrifice, s'impose ta jeunesse et l'as tu mesuré? la grâce, le talent, don sacré, tous ces biens que le ciel t'a livrés en partage, faut il les enfouir dans l'ombre d'un ménage n'as tu pas entendu, dans un rêve orgueilleux, ainsi qu'une forêt par le vent balancée, ce doux fremissement de la foule pressée qui murmure ton nom et te suit des yeux? voilà l'ardente joie et la fête éternelle que tes vingt ans en fleur sont près d'abandonner, pour les plaisirs bourgeois ou l'ou veut t'enchainer et des marmots d'enfants qui te rendront moins belle! antonia (sans se retourner). ah, qu'elle est cette voix qui me trouble l'esprit? est-ce l'enfer qui parle ou dieu qui m'avertit? non non ce n'est pas là le bonheur, voix mandite, et contre mon orgeuil, mon amour s'est armé, la gloire ne vaut pas l'ombre heureuse ou m'invite la maison de mon bien aimé. miracle. quels amours sont donc les vôtres? hoffman te sacrifie a sa brutalité; il n'aime en toi que ta beauté, et pour lui, comme pour les autres viendra bientôt le temps de l'infidélité. (il disparait.) antonia (se levant). non, ne me tente plus! va-t-en, démon! je ne veux plus t'entendre. j'ai juré d'être à lui, mon bien aimé m'attend, je ne m'appartiens plus et ne puis me reprendre. et tout à l'houre encor, sur son coeur adoré, quel amour eternal ne m'a-t-il pas juré... ah qui me sauvera du démon, de moi-même?... ma mère! ô ma mère, je l'aime!... miracle (reparait). ta mère! oses tu l'invoquer?... ta mère? mais n'est-ce pas elle qui parle par ma voix, ingrate, et te rappelle, la splendeur de son nom que tu veux abdiquer? (le portrait s'éclaire et semble s'animer. c'est le fantôme de la mère.) ecoute! la voix. antonia! antonia. dieu, ma mère, ma mère! le fantome. cher enfant, que j'appelle comme autrefois, c'est ta mère c'est elle, entends sa voix! antonia. c'est elle. miracle. oui, c'est sa voix, l'entends tu? sa voix, meilleure conseillère, qui te lègue un talent que le monde a perdu! le fantome. antonia! miracle. ecoute elle semble revivre et le public lointain de ses bravos l'enivre! antonia (se levant). ma mère! le fantome. antonia! miracle. reprends donc avec elle!... (il saisit un violon et accompagne avec fureur.) antonia. oui, son âme m'appelle comme autrefois! c'est ma mère c'est elle j'entends sa voix! le fantome. cher enfant, que j'appelle comme autrefois! c'est ta mère c'est elle! entends sa voix! antonia. non! assez... je succombe! miracle. encore! antonia. je ne veux plus chanter. miracle. encore! antonia. qu'elle ardeur m'entraine et me dévore? miracle. encore! pourquoi t'arrêter? antonia (haletante). je cède au transport qui m'enivre! quelle flamme éblouit mes yeux!... un seul moment encore a vivre, et mon âme s'envole aux cieux! le fantome. cher enfant que j'appelle, etc. antonia. c'est ma mère c'est elle, etc. antonia. ah! (elle vient, tomber mourante sur le canapé. miracle s'engloutit dans la terre, en poussant un éclat de rire. le fantôme disparait.) crespel (accourant). mon enfant!... ma fille!... antonia! antonia (expirante). mon père ecoutez c'est ma mère, qui m'appelle! et lui... de retour... c'est une chanson d'amour... qui s'envole triste ou folle... (elle meurt.) crespel. non! un seul mot! un seul! ma fille, parle moi. mais parle donc! mort exécrable! non! pitié! grâce! eloigne toi!... hoffman (entrant précipitamment). pourquoi ces cris? crespel. hoffman! ah, miserable! c'est toi qui l'as tuée!... hoffman (courant à antonia). antonia!... crespel (avec égarement). du sang pour colorer sa joue!... une arme, un couteau! (il saisit un coutean et s'élance sur hoffman.) nicklausse (entrant et arrêtant crespel). malheureux! hoffman (a nicklausse). vite donne l'alarme, un médecin, un médecin! miracle (paraissant). présent! il tate le pouls d'antonia. morte! crespel (éperdu). ah, mon dieu, mon enfant ma fille! hoffman (avec desespoir). antonia! epilogue. (même décoration qu'au premier acte.) (on retrouve tous les personnages dans la situation où on les a laissés à la fin du premier acte.) hoffmann. voilà quelle fut l'histoire des mes amours dont la mémoire en mon coeur restera toujours. le choeur. bravo, bravo, hoffmann. hoffmann. ah, je suis fou!... a nous le vertige divin des esprits de l'alcool, de la bièrre et du vin a nous l'ivresse et la folie le nèant par qui l'on oublie. nicklausse. ah! je comprends! trois drames dans un drame olympia? hoffmann. fracassée! nicklausse. antonia. hoffmann. ah pour elle le dernier couplet de la chanson de klein-zach! quand il avait but de genièvre et de rack if fallait voir flotter les pans de son frac comme des herbes dans un lac le monstre faisait flic flac flic flac, voilà klein-zach. le choeur. flic flac, voilà klein-zach. le choeur. allumons le punch!... grisons-nous! et que les plus fous roulent sous la table. luther est un brave homme, tire lan laire, tire lan la! etc., etc. (les étudiants entrent en tumulte dans la salle voisine. hoffmann reste comme frappé de stupeur.) la muse (paraissant). et moi? moi, la fidèle amie dont la main essuya tes yeux? par qui la douleur endormie s'exhale en rêve dans les cieux? ne suis-je rien? que la tempête des passions s'apaise en toi! l'homme n'est plus; renais poète! je t'aime, hoffmann! appartiens-moi! des cendres de ton coeur réchauffe ton génie. dans la sérénité souris à tes douleurs, la muse adoucira ta souffrance bénie, on est grand par l'amour et plus grand par les pleurs! (elle disparaît.) hoffmann (seul). o dieu! de quelle ivresse embrases-tu mon âme, comme un concert divin ta voix m'a pénétré, d'un feu doux et brûlant mon être est dévoré, tes regards dans les miens ont épanché leur flamme, comme des astres radieux. et je sens, ô muse aimée, passer ton baleine embaumée sur mes lèvres et sur mes yeux! (il tombe, le visage sur une table.) (hoffmann, stella, lindorf, nicklausse, les etudiants.) stella (allant vers hoffmann.) hoffmann endormi!... nicklausse. non!... ivre-mort!... trop tard, madame! lindorf. corbleu! nicklausse. tenez, voilà le conseiller lindorf qui vous attend. (stella s'appuie sur le bras de lindorf, s'arrête pour regarder hoffmann, détache une fleur de son bouquet et la jette à ses pieds.) fin transcriber's note: italic text is denoted by _underscores_. every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. the original side-by-side of the german and english version has been replaced by the german version followed by the english version. some changes have been made. they are listed at the end of the text. grand opera under the direction of mr. heinrich conried libretto the original italian, french or german libretto with a correct english translation. hänsel und gretel published by f. rullman. theatre ticket office. 111 broadway, new york. trinity building (rear arcade) the only correct and authorized edition. f. rullman theatre ticket office. choice seats and boxes for the opera and all theatres. opera seats at box office prices. publisher of opera librettos in all languages. [illustration] 111 broadway trinity building (rear arcade), new york. telephone calls, { 3951 } { 3952 } cortlandt. hänsel and gretel a fairy opera in three acts by adelheid wette the music by engelbert humperdinck entered according to act of congress, in the year 1905, by f. rullman, at the office of the librarian of congress at washington. [illustration] published by f. rullman at the theatre ticket office, 111 broadway new york argument. hänsel and gretel is an opera in three acts, the music by engelbert humperdinck and the libretto by adelheid wette. it is the german version of the old nursery legend--babes in the wood. the first scene discloses a wretched homestead. the two children, hänsel and gretel, are at work--the boy making brooms and the girl knitting stockings. they both complain of feeling very hungry, and there isn't a thing in the house. yes, there's a jug of milk that will make nice blanc-mange when mother comes home. hänsel tastes it and gretel raps his fingers. he says he won't work any more and proposes they dance instead. gretel is delighted. he is very awkward at first but she teaches him the steps and they are getting along so famously that they whirl around the room and fall exhausted on the floor. at this moment the mother enters and she is so angry at seeing them do no work that she boxes their ears for it. in her excitement she gives the milk pitcher a push. it falls off the table, breaks in pieces, and spills all the milk. at this she is beside herself and seizes a basket and tells the children to go to the wood and pick strawberries. they must not come home till the basket is full. they run off while she, weary of life, sits sobbing herself to sleep. the father is heard in the distance with a joyous song and enters in a joyful mood. he wakes up his unhappy wife to tell that he has sold all his brooms at the fair for splendid prices and he shows his basket full of provisions. both are thus in fine humor when he asks where the children are. she says she sent them away in disgrace to the ilsenstein. the ilsenstein! he exclaims, where the witches ride on broomsticks and devour little children. exclaiming "oh horror!" she runs out of the house, he after her, to find hänsel and gretel. the second act shows a forest. gretel is making a garland of wild roses while hänsel is looking for strawberries. in the background is the ilsenstein. it is sunset. hänsel crowns gretel queen of the wood and she allows him to taste a strawberry. he gives her one in return and little by little they devour them all. then they are frightened. they want to pick more but it is getting too dark. they want to leave but cannot find the way. gretel fears being in the dark but hänsel is very brave. she sees faces in trees and stumps and he calls out to reassure her. echo answers and he grows frightened too. they huddle together as a thick mist arises which hides the background. gretel, terror-stricken, falls on her knees and hides behind hänsel. at this moment a little man appears, as the mist rises, and quiets them. it is the sandman and he sings them to slumber. half awake they say their evening prayer and sink down on the moss in each other's arms. a dazzling light then appears, the mist rolls itself into a staircase and angels pass down and group themselves about the two sleeping children. in the third act the scene is the same, the mist still hiding the background. the dawn fairy shakes dewdrops on the children. they wake, but hänsel very lazily. they both have had dreams of angels coming to see them with shining wings. the mist now clears away and in the background is seen the witches' house with a fence of gingerbread figures. there are also seen an oven and a cage. hänsel wants to go inside and gretel draws him back. but hänsel says the angels beguiled their footsteps and why shouldn't they nibble a bit at the cottage? they tiptoe to the fence and break off a bit of the cake cautiously. the witch voice from within tells them to go on nibbling. they like the gingerbread. it suits them famously and apparently suits her too as she watches them from her window. but she comes out of the house as they are joyously laughing and throws a rope about hänsel's neck and caresses them. hänsel tries to get away and calls her names, while she goes on saying how she loves them both--they are such dainty morsels. hänsel tries to run away and takes gretel with him. but the witch casts a spell on them and they stand stock-still. then she leads hänsel to the cage and shuts him in and gives him almonds and raisins to fatten him up. she loosens gretel with the magic stick and says how nice and plump she'll be when she's roasted brown. she opens the oven and puts more fagots under it and says the fire will soon be ripe to push gretel in. in her joy she rides wildly round on a broomstick while gretel watches from the house. the witch calls gretel out and opens the oven door. hänsel tells gretel to beware and the witch tells her to peep in the oven. gretel pretends she does not understand. she secretly disenchants hänsel so that when the witch bends over and peeps into the oven they give her a push and in she goes. then they dance wildly about. hänsel throws sweetmeats out of the window. the oven cracks open and falls into bits, while groups of children suddenly surround hänsel and gretel. then they disenchant the gingerbread children who are very grateful. as they are all dragging the gingerbread witch about, the father and mother come in and are overjoyed at finding their children again. dramatis personæ. peter, broom-maker. gertrude, his wife. hänsel, } } their children. gretel, } the witch who eats children. sandman, the sleep fairy. dewman, the dawn fairy. children. the fourteen angels. hänsel und gretel. erstes bild. daheim. erste scene. (_dürftige stube. im hintergrunde rechts eine niedrige thür, in der mitte ein kleines fenster mit aussicht in den wald. links ein herd mit einem rauchfang darüber. gegenüber an der rechten wand hängen besen in verschiedenen formen. hänsel, an der thüre mit besenbinden, gretel, am herde mit strumpfstricken beschäftigt, sitzen auf schemeln einander gegenüber._) gretel. suse, liebe suse, was raschelt im stroh? die gänse gehn barfuss und haben kein' schuh. der schuster hat's leder, kein'n leisten dazu. drum kann er den gänslein auch machen kein' schuh. hänsel. eia popeia, das ist eine not! wer schenkt mir einen dreier zu zucker und brot? verkauf ich mein bettlein und leg mich auf's stroh, sticht mich keine feder und beisst mich kein floh! (_wirft den besen in eine ecke und springt auf._) ach, käm doch die mutter nun endlich nach haus! gretel. auch ich halt's kaum noch vor hunger aus. hänsel. seit wochen nichts als trocken brot; ist das ein elend! potz schwere not! gretel. still, hänsel, denk daran, was vater sagt, wenn mutter manchmal so verzagt: »wenn die not auf's höchste steigt, gott der herr die hand euch reicht!« hänsel. jawohl, das klingt ganz schön und glatt, aber leider wird man davon nicht satt. ach, gretel, wie lang' ist's doch schon her, dass wir nichts gutes geschmauset mehr! eierfladen und butterwecken- kaum weiss ich noch, wie die thun schmecken. (_dem weinen nahe._) ach, gretel, ich wollt'... gretel (_ihm den mund zuhaltend_). still, nicht verdriesslich sein: gedulde dich fein, sieh freundlich drein! dies lange gesicht,--hu, welcher graus! siehst ja wie der leibhaftige griesgram aus! griesgram, hinaus! fort aus dem haus! ich will dich lehren, herz zu beschweren, sorgen zu mehren, freuden zu wehren: griesgram, griesgram, greulicher wicht, griesiges, grämiges galgengesicht, packe dich, trolle dich, schäbiger wicht! hänsel. griesgram, hinaus! halt's nicht mehr aus! immer mich plagen, hungertuch nagen, muss ja verzagen, mag's nicht ertragen! griesgram, griesgram, greulicher wicht, griesiges, grämiges galgengesicht, packe dich, trolle dich, schäbiger wicht! gretel. so recht! und willst du nun nicht mehr klagen, so will ich dir auch ein geheimnis sagen. hänsel. ein geheimnis? wird wohl was rechtes sein! gretel. ja, hör nur, brüderchen! darfst dich schon freun, guck her in den topf, milch ist darin, die schenkte uns heute die nachbarin. mutter kocht uns, kommt sie nach haus, gewiss einen leckeren reisbrei daraus. hänsel (_mit juchzen_). reisbrei, reisbrei, herrlicher brei! giebt's reisbrei, da ist hänsel dabei! wie dick ist der rahm auf der milch! lass schmecken! (_nascht mit dem finger._) herrjemine, den möcht' ich ganz verschlecken! gretel. wie, hänsel, naschen? schämst du dich nicht? fort mit den fingern, du naschhafter wicht! (_giebt ihm eins auf die finger._) und jetzt an die arbeit zurück, geschwind, dass wir beizeiten fertig sind! kommt mutter nach haus, und wir thaten nicht recht, dann, weisst du, geht es den faulpelzen schlecht. hänsel. arbeiten? brr! wo denkst du hin? danach steht mir jetzt nicht der sinn. immer mich plagen, das fällt mir nicht ein, jetzt lass uns tanzen und fröhlich sein! gretel (_entzückt_). tanzen? das wär' auch mir eine lust! dazu ein liedchen aus froher brust, wie's uns die muhme gelehrt zu singen: _tanzliedchen_ soll jetzt lustig erklingen! (_klatscht in die hände._) brüderchen, komm, tanz' mit mir, beide händchen reich' ich dir; einmal hin, einmal her, rund herum, es ist nicht schwer! hänsel. tanzen soll ich armer wicht, schwesterlein, und kann es nicht. darum zeig' mir, wie es brauch, dass ich tanzen lerne auch! gretel. mit den füsschen tapp tapp tapp, mit den händchen klapp klapp klapp, einmal hin, einmal her, rund herum, es ist nicht schwer. hänsel. mit den füsschen tapp tapp tapp, mit den händchen klapp klapp klapp, einmal hin, einmal her, rund herum, es ist nicht schwer. gretel. ei, das hast du gut gemacht, ei, das hätt' ich nicht gedacht! seht mir doch den hänsel an, wie der tanzen lernen kann! mit dem köpfchen nick nick nick, mit dem fingerchen tick tick tick, einmal hin, einmal her, rund herum, es ist nicht schwer! hänsel. mit dem köpfchen nick nick nick, mit dem fingerchen tick tick tick, einmal hin, einmal her, rund herum, es ist nicht schwer! gretel. hänsel, komm und gieb mal acht, wie's die gretel weiter macht! lass uns arm in arm verschränken, unsre schrittchen paarweis lenken! ich liebe tanz und fröhlichkeit und bin nicht gern allein; ich bin kein freund von traurigkeit, und fröhlich will ich sein. tralala, tralala, tralala la la, dreh dich herum, mein lieber hans! (_beide umtanzen sich gegenseitig._) gretel. komm her zu mir, komm her zu mir, zum ringelreigentanz! hänsel. geh weg von mir, geh weg von mir, ich bin der stolze hans! mit kleinen mädchen tanz ich nicht, die sind mir viel zu dumm! gretel. geh, dummer hans, geh, stolzer hans, ich krieg dich doch herum! tralala, tralala, tralala la la, dreh dich herum, mein lieber hans! hänsel. ach, schwesterlein, ach, gretelein, du hast im strumpf ein loch! gretel. ach brüderlein, ach hänselein, du willst mich hänseln noch! mit bösen buben tanz ich nicht, das ist mir viel zu dumm! hänsel. nicht böse sein, lieb schwesterlein, ich krieg dich doch herum! tralala, tralala, tralala, la la, dreh dich doch herum, mein gretelein! {hänsel. { {tanz lustig, heissa, lustig tanz! { lass dich's nicht gereu'n; {und ist der strumpf auch nicht mehr ganz, {die mutter strickt dir 'n neu'n! { dreh dich doch herum! { sei nicht so dumm! { tralala, tralala u. s. w. { {gretel. { {tanz lustig, heissa, lustig tanz! { lass dich's nicht gereu'n; {und ist der schuh' auch nicht mehr ganz, {der schuster flickt dir 'n neu'n! { dreh dich doch herum! { sei nicht so dumm! { tralala, tralala u. s. w. (_mit verschlungenen händen umtanzen sie sich immer ausgelassener, bis sie beide übereinander zu boden purzeln. in diesem augenblick geht die thür auf._) zweite scene. mutter (_mit einer kiepe auf dem rücken_). holla! hänsel und gretel (_erschreckt aufspringend_). himmel, die mutter! (_verlegenheit._) mutter. was ist das für eine geschichte? gretel. der hänsel.... hänsel. die gretel.... gretel. er wollte.... hänsel. ich sollte.... mutter (_in zorn ausbrechend_). wartet, ihr ungezogenen wichte! (_setzt ihre kiepe nieder._) nennt ihr das arbeit? johlen und singen? wie auf der kirmes tanzen und springen? indes die eltern vom frühen morgen bis spät in die nacht sich mühen und sorgen? dass dich! (_giebt hänseln einen puff._) lasst seh'n, was habt ihr beschickt? --wie, gretel, den strumpf nicht fertig gestrickt? --und du?--du, schlingel! in all den stunden nicht mal die wenigen besen gebunden? ihr unnützigen rangen! den stock will ich holen, den faulpelz werd' ich euch beiden versohlen! (_in ihrem eifer hinter den kindern her stösst sie den milchtopf vom tisch, dass er klirrend zu boden fällt._) jesses! nun auch den topf noch zerbrochen! (_weinend._) was soll ich nun zum abend kochen? (_besieht ihren mit milch begossenen rock; hänsel kichert verstohlen._) was, bengel, du lachst mich noch aus? (_mit dem stock hinter hans her, der zur offenen thür hinausrennt._) wart, kommt nur der vater nach haus-(_reisst einen kleinen korb von der wand und drängt ihn gretel in die hand._) marsch, fort--in den wald! dort sucht mir erdbeeren!--nun, wird es bald? (_treibt auch gretel zur stube hinaus und droht mit dem stocke den sich furchtsam umschauenden kindern._) und bringt ihr den korb nicht voll bis zum rand, so hau ich euch, dass ihr fliegt an die wand! (_setzt sich erschöpft an den tisch._) da liegt nun der gute topf in scherben! ja, blinder eifer bringt immer verderben.- herrgott, wirf geld herab! nichts hab' ich zu leben, kein krümchen den würmern zu essen zu geben; kein tröpfchen im topfe, kein krüstchen im schrank, schon lange nichts als wasser zum trank. (_stützt den kopf mit der hand._) müde bin ich--müde zum sterben- herrgott, wirf geld herab--(_legt den kopf auf den arm und schläft ein._) dritte scene. (_man hört eine stimme von draussen:_) ach, wir armen, armen leute! alle tage so wie heute: in dem beutel ein grosses loch und im magen ein gröss'res noch- rallalala, rallalala, hunger ist der beste koch! (_am fenster wird der kopf des vaters sichtbar, der während des folgenden in angeheitertem zustande mit einem kober auf dem rücken in die stube tritt._) ja, ihr reichen könnt euch laben! wir, die nichts zu essen haben, nagen, ach, die ganze woch', sieben tag an einem knoch'! rallalala, rallalala, hunger ist der beste koch! ach, wir sind ja gern zufrieden, denn das glück ist so verschieden, aber, aber wahr ist's doch: armut ist ein schweres joch! rallalala, rallalala, hunger ist der beste koch! (_er setzt seinen kober nieder und tritt an die rampe._) ja ja, der hunger kocht schon gut, sofern er kommandieren thut. allein was nutzt der kommandör, fehlt euch im topf die zubehör? rallalala, rallalala, kümmel ist mein leiblikör! rallalala, rallalala, mutter, schau, was ich bescheer! (_giebt ihr einen derben schmatz._) mutter (_sich die augen reibend_). hoho!- wer spek--spektakelt mir da im haus und rallalakelt aus dem schlaf mich heraus? vater (_lallend_). das tolle tier, im magen hier, das bellte so, das glaube mir! rallalala, rallalala, hunger ist ein tolles tier. rallalala, rallalala, beisst und kratzt, das glaube mir! mutter. so, so! das tolle tier, es ist wohl schier stark angezecht--das glaube mir! vater. nun ja, 's war heut ein heitrer tag! fandst du nicht auch, lieb' weib? mutter (_ärgerlich_). ach geh! du weisst, nicht leiden mag ich wirtshaus-zeitvertreib! vater (_zu seinem kober sich wendend_). auch gut! so sehen wir, wenn's beliebt, was es für heut zu schmausen giebt. mutter. höchst einfach ist das speisregister der abendschmaus--zum henker ist er! teller leer, keller leer, und im beutel ist gar nichts mehr. vater. rallalala, rallalala, lustig, mutter, bin auch noch da! rallalala, rallalala, bringe glück und gloria! (_nimmt den kober und kramt aus._) schau, mutter! wie gefällt dir dies futter? mutter. mann, was seh' ich? speck und butter! mehl und würste!... vierzehn eier- --mann! sie sind jetztunder teuer!- bohnen, zwiebeln und--herrjeh! gar ein viertel pfund kaffee! vater (_kehrt den kober vollends um. ein haufen kartoffeln rollt zur erde. beide fassen sich am arm und tanzen in der stube umher_). rallalala, hopsassa! heute woll'n wir lustig sein! ja, hör nur, mütterchen, wie's geschah! (_die mutter kramt die sachen in den schrank ein, macht feuer im herd an, schlägt eier in eine schüssel u. s. w._) drüben hinterm herrenwald prächt'ge feste giebt's da bald, kirmes, hochzeit, jubiläum, böllerknall und gross tedeum. mein geschäft kommt nun zur blüte; dessen froh sei dein gemüte! sieh! wer feines fest will feiern, der muss kehren, schrubben und scheuern. bot drum meine waren aus, zog damit von haus zu haus: »kauft besen! gute feger! feine bürsten! spinnejäger!« sieh, da verkauft' ich massenweise meine waren zum höchsten preise!- schnell nun her mit topf und pfanne, her mit kessel, schüssel, kanne! beide. vivat hoch die besenbinder! vater. doch halt--wo bleiben die kinder? hänsel! gretel!--wo steckt der hans? wo er steckt? ja, wüsste man's! nur das weiss ich klar wie tag, dass der topf in scherben lag! vater (_zornig_). was? der neue topf entzwei? mutter. und am boden quoll der brei! vater (_mit der faust auf den tisch schlagend_). donnerkeil! so haben die rangen unfug wieder angefangen? mutter. unfug viel und arbeit keine hatten sie getrieben alleine. hörte schon draussen sie juchzen und johlen, hopsen und springen wie wilde fohlen, wusste nicht, wie mir stand der kopf, und vor zorn vater. --zerbrach der topf. hahahaha! (_beide lachen aus vollem halse._) na, zornmütterchen, nimm mir's nicht krumm, solche zorntöpfe find' ich recht dumm! doch sag, wo mögen die kinderchen sein? mutter (_schnippisch_). meinethalben am _ilsenstein_! vater (_erschrocken_). am ilsenstein?--ei, juckt dich das fell? (_nimmt einen besen von der wand._) mutter. den besen lass nur an seiner stell. vater (_lässt den besen fallen und ringt die hände_). wenn sie sich verirrten im walde dort, in der nacht, ohne stern und mond! kennst du nicht den schauerlich düstern ort? weisst nicht, dass die _böse_ dort wohnt? mutter (_betroffen_). die böse? wen meinst du? vater (_mit geheimnisvollem nachdruck_). die _knusperhexe_!-mutter (_fährt zusammen_). die knusperhexe!-(_zurückweichend, da der vater den besen wieder aufnimmt._) mein! sag doch, was soll denn der besen? vater. der besen! der besen! was macht man damit? was macht man damit? es reiten drauf, es reiten drauf die hexen! eine hex' steinalt, haust tief im wald, vom teufel selber hat sie gewalt! um mitternacht, wann niemand wacht, dann reitet sie aus zur hexenjagd. zum schornstein hinaus entschlüpft sie dem haus; auf dem besen, o graus; in saus und braus! über berg und kluft, über thal und gruft durch nebelduft im sturm durch die luft: ja so reiten, ja so reiten, juchheissa, die hexen! mutter. entsetzlich! vater. ja, bei tag, o graus: zum hexenschmaus ins knisper-knasper-knusperhaus die kinderlein, armsünderlein, mit zauberkuchen lockt sie herein. doch übelgesinnt ergreift sie geschwind das arme kuchen knuspernde kind. in den ofen, hitzhell, schiebt's die hexe blitzschnell; dann kommen zur stell, gebräunt das fell, aus dem ofen, aus dem ofen die _lebkuchenkinder_! mutter. und die lebkuchenkinder? vater. die werden gefressen! mutter. von der hexe? vater. von der hexe. mutter (_händeringend_). o graus! hilf, himmel! die kinder! ich halt's nicht mehr aus! (_rennt aus dem hause._) vater (_nimmt die kümmelflasche vom tisch_). he, alte, so wart' doch! nimm mich mit! wir wollen ja beide zum hexenritt! (_eilt ihr nach. der vorhang fällt schnell._) zweites bild. im walde. erste scene. (_im hintergrunde der ilsenstein, von dichtem tannengehölz umgeben. rechts eine mächtige tanne; darunter sitzt gretel auf einer moosbedeckten wurzel und windet einen kranz von hagebutten; neben ihr liegt ein blumenstrauss. links, abseits im gebüsch, hänsel, nach erdbeeren suchend. abendrot._) gretel. ein männlein steht im walde ganz still und stumm; es hat von lauter purpur ein mäntlein um. sagt, wer mag das männlein sein, das da steht im wald allein mit dem purpurroten mäntelein? das männlein steht im walde auf einem bein und hat auf seinem kopfe schwarz käpplein klein. sagt, wer mag das männlein sein, das da steht im wald allein mit dem kleinen schwarzen käppelein? hänsel (_kommt hervor und schwenkt jubelnd sein körbchen_). juchhe! mein erbelkörbchen ist voll bis oben; wie wird die mutter den hänsel loben! gretel. mein kränzel ist auch schon fertig, sieh! so schön wie heute ward's noch nie! (_will den kranz hänsel auf den kopf setzen._) hänsel (_barsch abwehrend_). buben tragen doch so was nicht, 's passt nur für ein mädchengesicht. (_setzt ihr den kranz auf._) hei, gretel, feins mädel! ei, der daus, siehst ja wie die waldkönigin aus! gretel. seh ich wie die waldkönigin aus, so reich' mir auch den blumenstrauss! hänsel. waldkönigin mit scepter und kron', da nimm auch die erbeln, doch nasch' nicht davon! (_reicht ihr mit der einen hand den blumenstrauss, mit der andern das körbchen voll erdbeeren und huckt, gleichsam huldigend, vor ihr nieder. in diesem augenblick ertönt der ruf eines kuckucks._) hänsel. kuckuck! eierschluck! gretel (_schalkhaft_). kuckuck! erbelschluck! (_holt eine beere aus dem körbchen und hält sie hänsel hin, der sie schlürft, als ob er ein ei austränke._) hänsel (_springt auf_). hoho! das kann ich auch! gieb nur acht! (_nimmt einige beeren und lässt sie gretel in den mund rollen._) wir machen's, wie der kuckuck schluckt, wenn er in fremde nester guckt. (_der kuckuck ruft abermals. es beginnt zu dämmern._) hänsel (_greift wieder zu_). kuckuck! eierschluck! gretel (_ebenso_). kuckuck! erbelschluck! hänsel. setzest deine kinder aus! kuckuck! trinkst die fremden eier aus! gluckgluck! (_lässt sich eine ganze handvoll erdbeeren in den mund rollen._) gretel. sammelst erbeln schön zuhauf! kuckuck! schluckst sie, schlauer, selber auf! schluckschluck! (_sie werden immer übermütiger und raufen sich schliesslich um die beeren. hänsel trägt den sieg davon und setzt den korb vollends an den mund, bis er gänzlich leer geworden. indessen hat die dunkelheit immer mehr zugenommen._) gretel (_hänsel den korb entreissend_). hänsel, was hast du gethan! o himmel! alle erbeln gegessen, du lümmel! wart' nur, das giebt ein strafgericht, denn die mutter, die spasst heute nicht! hänsel (_ruhig_). ei was, stell dich doch nicht so an, du, gretel, hast es ja selber gethan! gretel. komm nur, wollen rasch neue suchen! hänsel. im dunkeln wohl gar, unter hecken und buchen? man sieht ja nicht blatt, nicht beere mehr! es wird schon dunkel rings umher! gretel. ach, hänsel, hänsel! was fangen wir an? was haben wir thörichten kinder gethan? wir durften hier gar nicht so lange säumen! hänsel. horch, wie rauscht es in den bäumen! - weisst du, was der wald jetzt spricht? »kindlein!« sagt er, »fürchtet ihr euch nicht?« (_späht unruhig umher._) gretel! ich weiss den weg nicht mehr! gretel (_bestürzt_). o gott! was sagst du? den weg nicht mehr? hänsel (_sich mutig stellend_). was bist du doch für ein furchtsam wicht! ich bin ein bub', ich fürchte mich nicht! gretel. ach, hänsel! gewiss geschieht uns ein leid! hänsel. ach, gretel, geh, sei doch gescheit! gretel. was schimmert denn dort in der dunkelheit? hänsel. das sind die birken im weissen kleid. gretel. und dort, was grinset daher vom sumpf? hänsel (_stotternd_). d--d--das ist ein glimmender weidenstumpf! gretel. was für ein wunderlich gesicht macht er soeben--siehst du's nicht? hänsel (_sehr laut_). ich mach' dir 'ne nase, hörst du's, wicht? gretel (_ängstlich_). da, sieh', das lichtchen--es kommt immer näh'r! hänsel. irrlichtchen hüpfet wohl hin und her! gretel, du musst beherzter sein- wart, ich will einmal tüchtig schrein! (_ruft durch die hohlen hände._) wer da? echo. er da! (_die kinder schmiegen sich erschreckt aneinander._) gretel (_zaghaft_). ist jemand da? echo (_leise_). ja! (_die kinder schaudern zusammen._) gretel. hast du's gehört? 's rief leise: ja! hänsel, sicher ist jemand nah'! (_weinend_:) ich fürcht' mich, ich fürcht' mich!--o wär' ich zu haus! wie sieht der wald so gespenstig aus! hänsel. gretelchen, drücke dich fest an mich! ich halte dich, ich schütze dich! (_ein dichter nebel steigt auf und verhüllt den hintergrund gänzlich._) gretel. da kommen weisse nebelfrauen, sieh', wie sie winken und drohend schauen. sie schweben heran! sie fassen uns an! (_schreiend_:) vater! mutter! (_eilt entsetzt unter die tanne und verbirgt sich, auf die kniee stürzend, hinter hänsel. in diesem augenblicke zerreisst links der nebel; ein kleines graues männchen, mit einem säckchen auf dem rücken, wird sichtbar._) hänsel. sieh' dort das männchen, schwesterlein! was mag das für ein männchen sein? zweite scene. sandmännchen (_nähert sich mit freundlichen gebärden den kindern, die sich allmählich beruhigen, und wirft ihnen während des folgenden sand in die augen_). der kleine sandmann bin ich -s-t! und gar nichts arges sinn ich -s-t! euch kleinen lieb ich innig -s-t! bin euch gesinnt gar minnig -s-t! aus diesem sack zwei körnelein euch müden in die äugelein; die fallen dann von selber zu, damit ihr schlaft in sanfter ruh. und seid ihr fein geschlafen ein, dann wachen auf die sterne, und nieder steigen engelein aus hoher himmelsferne und bringen holde träume. drum träume, kindchen, träume! (_verschwindet. völlige dunkelheit._) hänsel (_schlaftrunken_). sandmann war da! gretel (_ebenso_). lass uns den abendsegen beten! (_sie kauern nieder und falten die hände._) beide. abends, will ich schlafen gehn, vierzehn engel um mich stehn, zwei zu meinen häupten, zwei zu meinen füssen, zwei zu meiner rechten, zwei zu meiner linken, zweie, die mich decken, zweie, die mich wecken, zweie, die mich weisen zu himmelsparadeisen. (_sie sinken aufs moos zurück und schlummern arm in arm verschlungen alsbald ein._) dritte scene. (_plötzlich dringt von obenher ein heller schein durch den nebel, der sich wolkenförmig zusammenballt und die gestalt einer in die mitte der bühne hinabführenden treppe annimmt. vierzehn engel, die kleinsten voran, die grössten zuletzt, schreiten paarweise, während das licht an helligkeit zunimmt, in zwischenräumen die wolkentreppe hinab und stellen sich, der reihenfolge des abendsegens entsprechend, um die schlafenden kinder auf, das erste paar zu häupten, das zweite zu füssen, das dritte rechts, das vierte links; dann verteilen sich das fünfte und sechste paar zwischen die übrigen paare, so dass der kreis der engel vollständig geschlossen wird. zuletzt tritt das siebente paar in den kreis und nimmt als »schutzengel« zu beiden seiten der kinder platz, während die übrigen sich die hände reichen und einen feierlichen reigen um die gruppe aufführen. indem sie sich zu einem malerischen schlussbilde ordnen, schliesst sich langsam der vorhang._) drittes bild. das knusperhäuschen. erste scene. (_scene wie vorhin. der hintergrund noch von nebel verhüllt, der sich während des folgenden langsam verzieht. die engel sind verschwunden._) (_früher morgen. taumännchen tritt auf und schüttelt aus einer glockenblume tautropfen auf die schlafenden kinder; diese beginnen sich zu regen._) taumännchen. der kleine tau-mann heiss' ich--kling! mit mutter sonne reis' ich--klang! von ost bis westen weiss ich--kling! wer faul ist und wer fleissig--klang! ich komm mit lichtem sonnenschein und strahl in eure äugelein, und weck mit kühlem taue, was schläft auf flur und aue. dann springet auf, wer fleissig zur frühen morgenstunde, denn sie hat gold im munde. drum, schläfer, auf, erwachet, der lichte tag schon lachet! (_ab._) gretel (_öffnet die augen, richtet sich halb auf und blickt verwundert um sich, während hänsel sich auf die andere seite legt, um weiter zu schlafen_). wo bin ich? wach ich? ist es ein traum? hier lieg' ich unterm tannenbaum. hoch in den zweigen lispelt es leise, vöglein singen so süsse weise. wohl früh schon waren sie aufgewacht und haben ihr morgenlied dargebracht. guten morgen, liebe vöglein, guten morgen! (_sie erblickt hänsel._) sieh da, der faule siebenschläfer! wart nur, dich weck' ich! (_sie bückt sich zu ihm nieder und singt ihm ins ohr._) tirelireli, 's ist nicht mehr früh! die lerche hat's gesungen und hoch sich aufgeschwungen. (_aufspringend._) tirelireli! hänsel (_der während des liedes erwacht ist, reibt sich die augen, gähnt, dehnt sich und stimmt, gleichfalls aufspringend, munter in gretels weise ein_). kikeriki! 's ist noch früh! ja, hab's wohl vernommen, der morgen ist gekommen, kikeriki! mir ist so wohl, ich weiss nicht wie; so gut wie heute schlief ich nie. gretel. doch höre nur! hier unter dem baum, da hatt' ich einen wunderschönen traum. hänsel. richtig! auch mir träumte so was! gretel. mir träumt' ich hört' ein rauschen und klingen, wie chöre der engel ein himmlisches singen; lichte wölkchen im rosigen schein wallten und wogten ins dunkel herein. siehe, hell ward's mit einem male, lichtdurchflossen vom himmelsstrahle; eine goldene leiter sah ich sich neigen, englein zu mir herniedersteigen, engel mit goldenen flügelein-hänsel (_der ihrer erzählung mit zeichen lebhafter zustimmung gefolgt ist_). vierzehn müssen's gewesen sein! gretel (_erstaunt_). hast du denn alles das auch gesehn? hänsel. freilich! 's war halt wunderschön- und dort hinaus sah ich sie gehn! (_er wendet sich nach dem hintergrunde. in diesem augenblick zerreisst der letzte nebelschleier. an stelle des tannengehölzes erscheint glitzernd im strahl der aufgehenden sonne das »knusperhäuschen« am ilsenstein. links davon in einiger entfernung befindet sich ein backofen, diesem rechts gegenüber ein grosser käfig, beide mit dem knusperhäuschen durch einen zaun von kuchenmännern verbunden._) zweite scene. gretel (_hält hänsel betroffen zurück_). bleib stehn! bleib stehn! hänsel (_eine weile sprachlos vor staunen_). himmel, welch wunder ist hier geschehn! nein, so was hab ich mein tag nicht gesehn! gretel (_gewinnt allmählich die fassung wieder_). wie duftet's von dorten, o schau nur die pracht! von kuchen und torten ein häuslein gemacht! mit fladen, mit torten ist's hoch überdacht! die fenster wahrhaftig wie zucker so blank, rosinen gar saftig den giebel entlang! und--traun! rings zu schaun gar ein lebkuchen-zaun! beide. o herrliches schlösschen, so schmuck du und fein, welch waldes-prinzesschen mag drinnen wohl sein? ach möchte zu hause die waldprinzess sein! bei leckerem schmause mit kuchen und wein sie lüde zur klause uns beide wohl ein! hänsel (_nach einer pause_). alles bleibt still. nichts regt sich da drinnen. komm lass uns hineingehn! gretel (_erschrocken ihn zurückhaltend_). bist du bei sinnen? junge, wie magst du so dreist nur sein? wer weiss, wer da drin wohl im häuschen fein? hänsel. o sieh nur, wie das häuschen uns lacht! (_begeistert._) die englein haben's uns hergebracht! gretel (_sinnend_). die englein?--ei, so wird es wohl sein! hänsel. ja, gretel, sie laden freundlich uns ein! komm, wir knuspern ein wenig vom häuschen! beide. ja, knuspern wir, wie zwei nagemäuschen! (_sie hüpfen hand in hand nach dem hintergrunde, bleiben wiederum stehen und schleichen dann vorsichtig auf den fussspitzen bis an das häuschen heran. nach einigem zögern bricht hänsel an der rechten kante ein stückchen kuchen heraus._) dritte scene. stimme aus dem häuschen. knusper, knusper knäuschen, wer knuspert mir am häuschen? hänsel (_lässt erschrocken das stück zu boden fallen_). gretel (_zaghaft_). der wind! hänsel (_ebenso_). der wind! beide. das himmlische kind. gretel (_hebt das stück wieder auf und versucht es_). hm! hänsel (_gretel begehrlich anschauend_). wie schmeckt das? gretel (_ihn beissen lassend_). da hast du auch was! hänsel (_legt entzückt die hand auf die brust_). hei! gretel (_ebenso_). hei! beide. o köstlicher kuchen, wie schmeckst du nach mehr! mir ist ja, als wenn ich im himmel schon wär! hänsel. hei, wie das schmeckt! 's ist gar zu lecker! gretel. vielleicht gar wohnt hier ein zuckerbäcker! hänsel (_ruft_). he, zuckerbäcker, nimm dich in acht, ein loch wird dir jetzt vom mäuslein gemacht! (_bricht ein grosses stück aus der wand heraus._) stimme aus dem häuschen. knusper, knusper knäuschen, wer knuspert mir am häuschen? hänsel und gretel. der wind, der wind, das himmlische kind! (_der obere teil der hausthüre öffnet sich leise, und der kopf der knusperhexe wird sichtbar. die kinder bemerken sie nicht und schmausen lustig weiter._) gretel. wart, du näschiges mäuschen, gleich kommt die katz' aus dem häuschen! hänsel. knuspre nur zu und lass mich in ruh! gretel (_entreisst ihm ein stück kuchen_). nicht so geschwind, herr wind, herr wind! hänsel (_nimmt es ihr wieder ab_). himmlisches kind, ich nehm, was ich find! (_sie lachen beide hell auf. während des letzten gespräches ist die thüre des häuschens aufgegangen, und die hexe tritt, von den kindern nicht bemerkt, daraus hervor, behutsam auf diese zuschleichend. rasch wirft sie dem ahnungslosen hänsel einen strick um den hals, eben in dem augenblick, als die kinder lachen._) hexe (_kichernd_). hihi, hihi, hihihi! (_die kinder blicken sich erschrocken um._) hänsel (_entsetzt_). lass los!--wer bist du? hexe (_gretel übers gesicht streichelnd_). engelchen! und du, mein zuckerbengelchen! ihr kommt mich besuchen?--das ist nett! liebe kinder!--so rund und fett! hänsel. wer bist du, garstige?--lass mich los! hexe. na, herzchen, zier dich nicht erst gross! wisst denn, dass euch vor mir nicht graul: ich bin _rosina leckermaul_, höchst menschenfreundlich stets gesinnt, unschuldig wie ein kleines kind. drum hab ich die kleinen kinder so lieb, so lieb--ach zum aufessen lieb! (_sie streichelt die kinder wieder._) hänsel (_barsch abwehrend_). geh!--bleib mir doch aus dem gesicht! hörst du? ich mag dich nicht! hexe. hihihi! was seid ihr für leckere teufelsbrätchen, besonders du, mein herzig mädchen! (_lockend._) kommt, kleine mäuslein, kommt in mein häuslein! sollt es gut bei mir haben, will drinnen köstlich euch laben. schokolade, torten, marzipan, kuchen, gefüllt mit süsser sahn', johannisbrot und jungfernleder und reisbrei--auf dem ofen steht er- rosinen, mandeln und feigen, 's ist alles im häuschen eur eigen! hänsel. ich geh nicht mit dir, garstige frau!- du bist gar zu freundlich. hexe. schau, schau, wie schlau, ihr kinder, ich mein's doch so gut mit euch, seid ja bei mir wie im himmelreich! kommt, kleine mäuslein! kommt in mein häuslein! sollt es gut bei mir haben, will drinnen köstlich euch laben! (_sie will hänsel fortziehen._) gretel. was willst du meinem bruder thun? hexe. gutes, mein kind, sehr gutes! i nun, mit allerhand vortrefflichen sachen will ich ihn zart und wohlschmeckend machen und ist er dann recht zahm und brav, geduldig und fügsam wie ein schaf, dann--höre, hänsel, ich sag dir's ins ohr: dir steht eine grosse freude bevor! hänsel. so sag's doch laut und nicht ins ohr! welche freude steht mir bevor? hexe. ach, liebe püppchen, hören und sehn wird euch bei diesem vergnügen vergehn! hänsel. ei, meine augen und ohren sind gut, haben wohl acht, was schaden mir thut. gretel, trau nicht dem gleissenden wort. (_leise._) schwesterchen, komm, wir laufen fort! (_er hat sich allmählich von der schlinge befreit und will mit gretel fortlaufen; sie werden aber von der hexe zurückgehalten, die gebieterisch ihren stab gegen die beiden erhebt._) hexe. halt! (_macht mit dem stabe die gebärde des hexenbannes. die bühne verfinstert sich._) hocus pocus, hexenschuss! rühr dich, und dich beisst der fluss! nicht mehr vorwärts, nicht zurück, bann dich mit dem bösen blick; kopf steh starr dir im genick! (_neue gebärde; die spitze des stabes fängt an zu leuchten._) hocus pocus, nun kommt jocus! kinder, schaut den zauberknopf! äuglein, stehet still im kopf!- nun zum stall hinein, du tropf! hocus pocus, bonus jocus, malus locus, hocus pocus! (_leitet den starr auf den knopf blickenden hänsel zum stalle und schliesst hinter ihm die gitterthüre, während gretel regungslos dasteht. die bühne erhellt sich wieder._) hexe (_vergnügt zu gretel_). nun, gretelchen, sei vernünftig und nett! der hänsel wird nun balde fett. wir wollen ihn, so ist's am besten, mit mandeln und rosinen mästen. ich geh ins haus und hol sie schnell- du rühre dich nicht von der stell! (_hinkt ins haus._) gretel (_starr und unbeweglich_). hu--wie mir vor der hexe graut! hänsel. gretel! pst! sprich nicht so laut! sei hübsch gescheit und gieb fein acht auf jedes, was die hexe macht. zum schein thu alles, was sie will- da kommt sie schon zurück--pst! still! hexe (_dem hänsel aus einem korbe mandeln und rosinen hinstreuend_). nun, jüngelchen, ergötze dein züngelchen! friss, vogel, oder stirb- kuchen-heil dir erwirb! (_wendet sich zu gretel und entzaubert sie mit einem wachholderbusch._) hocus pocus, holderbusch! schwinde, gliederstarre, husch! nun wieder kregel, süsses kleinchen, rühr mir geschwind die runden beinchen! geh, zuckerpüppchen, flink und frisch und decke drinnen hübsch den tisch! schüsselchen, tellerchen, messerchen, gäbelchen, serviettchen für mein schnäbelchen; und mach nur alles recht hurtig und fein, sonst sperr ich auch dich in den stall hinein! (_sie droht kichernd; gretel geht ins haus._) hexe (_zu dem sich schlafend stellenden hänsel_). der lümmel schläft ja nun--sieh mal an, wie doch die jugend schlafen kann! na, schlaf nur brav, du gutes schaf, bald schläfst du deinen ewigen schlaf. doch erst muss mir die gretel dran; mit dir, mein liebchen, fang ich an, bist so niedlich, zart und rund, wie gemacht für hexen-mund! (_sie öffnet die backofenthür und riecht hinein._) der teig ist gar, wir können voran machen. hei, wie im ofen die scheite krachen! (_schiebt noch ein paar holzscheite unter und reibt sich dann schmunzelnd die hände._) ja, gretelchen, wirst bald ein brätelchen! schau, schau, wie ich schlau bin, so schlau! sollst gleich im backofen hucken und nach dem lebkuchen gucken. und bist du dann drin--schwaps, geht die thür--klaps! dann ist fein gretelchen mein brätelchen! das brätelchen soll sich verwandeln in kuchen mit zucker und mandeln! im zauberofen mein wirst du ein lebkuchen fein! (_in wilder freude ergreift sie einen besenstiel und reitet ausgelassen auf ihm ums haus. gretel steht lauschend am kleinen fenster._) hurr, hopp, hopp, hopp! galopp, galopp! mein besengaul, hurr, hopp, nit faul! sowie ich's mag am lichten tag spring kreuz und quer um häuschen her! bei dunkler nacht, wann niemand wacht, zum hexenschmaus am schornstein raus! aus fünf und sechs, so sagt die hex, mach sieb und acht, so ist's vollbracht; und neun ist eins, und zehn ist keins, und viel ist nichts, die hexe spricht's. so reitet sie bis morgens früh- prr! besen! hüh! (_vom besen steigend hinkt die hexe zu hänsel und kitzelt ihn mit einem besenreis wach._) auf, auf, mein jüngelchen! zeig mir dein züngelchen! (_hänsel streckt die zunge heraus._) (_schnalzend._) schlicker, schlecker, lecker, lecker! kleines leckres schlingerchen, zeige mir dein fingerchen! (_hänsel streckt ein stöckchen heraus._) jemine, je! wie ein stöckchen, o weh! bübchen, deine fingerchen sind elende dingerchen! (_ruft._) mädel! gretel! (_gretel zeigt sich an der thür._) bring rosinen und mandeln her; hänsel meint, es schmeckt nach "mehr!" (_gretel bringt in einem korbe rosinen und mandeln; sie stellt sich, während die hexe sie dem hänsel reicht, hinter sie und macht gegen hänsel die entzauberungsgebärde mit dem wachholderbusch._) gretel (_leise_). hocus pocus, holderbusch! schwinde, gliederstarre--husch! hexe (_sich rasch umwendend_). was sagtest du, mein gänselchen! gretel. meint' nur: wohl bekomm's, mein hänselchen! hexe. hihihi! mein gutes tröpfchen, da--steck dir was ins kröpfchen! friss, vogel, und stirb- kuchen-heil dir erwirb! (_sie öffnet die backofenthür; hänsel giebt gretel lebhafte zeichen._) hänsel (_leise die stallthür öffnend_). schwesterlein, hüt dich fein! hexe (_gretel gierig betrachtend_). wie wässert mir das mündchen nach diesem süssen kindchen! komm, gretelchen! zuckermädelchen! sollst in den backofen hucken und nach den lebkuchen gucken, sorgfältig schaun--ja, ob sie schon braun da, oder ob's zu früh- 's ist kleine müh! hänsel (_aus dem stall schleichend_). schwesterlein, hüt dich fein! gretel (_sich ungeschickt stellend_). ei, wie fang ich's an, dass ich komme dran? hexe. musst dich nur eben ein bisschen heben, kopf vorgebeugt- 's ist kinderleicht! hänsel (_immer näher den beiden_). schwesterlein, hüt dich fein! gretel (_schüchtern_). bin gar so dumm, nimm mir's nicht krumm; drum zeige mir eben, wie soll ich mich heben? hexe (_macht eine ungeduldige bewegung_). kopf vorgebeugt! 's ist kinderleicht! (_indem sie sich vorbeugt und mit halbem leibe hineinkriecht, geben ihr hänsel und gretel von hinten einen derben stoss, sodass sie vollends hineinfliegt, und schlagen dann rasch die thür zu._) hänsel und gretel. und bist du dann drin--schwaps! geht die thür--klaps! du bist dann statt gretelchen ein brätelchen! (_hänsel und gretel fallen sich jubelnd in die arme, fassen sich bei der hand und tanzen._) juchhei! nun ist die hexe tot, mausetot! nun ist geschwunden angst und not! juchhei! nun ist die hexe still, mäuschenstill, und kuchen giebt's die hüll und füll! juchhei! nun ist zu end der graus, hexengraus! und böser zauberspuk ist aus! drum lasst uns fröhlich sein, tanzen im feuerschein, halten im knusperhaus herrlichsten freudenschmaus! juchhei, juchhei! (_sie umfassen sich und walzen zum knusperhaus, wo sie alle herrlichkeiten in besitz nehmen. im hexenofen knistert es gewaltig und die flamme schlägt hoch empor; dann erfolgt ein starker krach, und der ofen stürzt zusammen. hänsel und gretel eilen herbei, und stehen erstaunt da. ihre verwunderung steigt aufs höchste, als sie die kinder gewahr werden, deren kuchenhülle inzwischen abgefallen ist._) vierte scene. gretel (_nach einer weile_). da, sieh nur die artigen kinderlein, wo mögen die hergekommen sein? die kuchenkinder (_ganz leise_). erlöst--befreit für alle zeit! gretel. geschlossen sind ihre äugelein; sie schlafen und singen doch so fein! kuchenkinder (_leise_). o rühre mich an, dass ich erwachen kann! hänsel (_verlegen_). rühr du sie doch an--ich traue mir's nicht. gretel. ja, streicheln will ich dies hübsches gesicht! (_sie streichelt das nächste kind; dieses öffnet die augen und lächelt._) andre kuchenkinder. o rühre auch mich--auch mich rühr' an, dass ich die äuglein öffnen kann. (_gretel geht streichelnd zu den übrigen kindern, die lächelnd die augen öffnen, ohne sich zu rühren; endlich ergreift hänsel den wachholder._) hänsel. hocus pocus, holderbusch! schwinde, gliederstarre--husch! die kuchenkinder (_springen auf, schliessen sich zu einem ringelreigen um hänsel und gretel und verbeugen sich zierlich_). habt dank, habt dank euer leben lang! juchhei! die hexerei ist nun vorbei; nun singen und springen wir froh und frei! kommt, kinderlein, zum ringelreihn, reicht allzumal die händchen fein! drum singt und springt, drum tanzt und singt, dass laut der jubelruf durchdringt den wald, und rings erschallt von lust der wald. hänsel und gretel. die englein haben's im traum gesagt in stiller nacht, was nun so herrlich uns der tag hat wahr gemacht. ihr englein, die uns so treu bewacht bei tag und nacht, habt lob und dank für all die pracht, die uns hier lacht. die kuchenkinder. habt dank, habt dank euer leben lang! letzte scene. (_aus dem hintergrund ertönt die stimme des vaters._) vater. rallalala, rallalala, wären doch unsre kinder da! rallalala, rallalala.-(_er erblickt hänsel und gretel._) juch--! ei, da sind sie ja! hänsel und gretel (_den eltern entgegen eilend_). vater! mutter! mutter. kinderchen! vater. da sind ja die armen sünderchen! (_frohe umarmung; unterdes haben zwei knaben die hexe als grossen lebkuchen aus den trümmern des zauberofens gezogen. der vater stellt dieselbe vor sich hin._) vater. kinder, schaut das wunder an, wie solch hexlein hexen kann, wie sie hart, knusperhart selber nun zum kuchen ward! merkt des himmels strafgericht: böse werke dauern nicht! wenn die not aufs höchste steigt, gott der herr die hand uns reicht! alle. wenn die not aufs höchste steigt, gott der herr die hand uns reicht! (_indem die kinder einen lustigen reigen um die gruppe tanzen, fällt der vorhang._) ende. hänsel and gretel. act i. at home. scene i. (_small, poorly furnished room. in the background a door, a small window near it with a view into the forest. on the left a fireplace, with chimney above it. on the walls many brooms of various sizes. hänsel sits near the door, making brooms, and gretel opposite him by the fireplace, knitting a stocking._) gretel. susy, little susy, pray what is the news? the geese are running barefoot, because they've no shoes! the cobbler has leather, and plenty to spare, why can't he make the poor goose a new pair? hänsel. then they'll have to go barefoot! eia-popeia, pray what's to be done? who'll give me milk and sugar, for bread i have none? i'll go back to bed and i'll lie there all day; where there's nought to eat, then there's nothing to pay! gretel. then we'll have to go hungry! hänsel. if mother would only come home again! yes, i am so hungry, i don't know what to do! for weeks i've eaten nought but bread- it's very hard, it is indeed! gretel. hush, hänsel, don't forget what father said, when mother, too, wished she were dead: "when past bearing is our grief, then 'tis heaven will send relief!" hänsel. yes, yes, that sounds all very fine, but you know off maxims we cannot dine! o gret, it would be such a treat if we had something nice to eat! eggs and butter and suet paste, i've almost forgotten how they taste. (_nearly crying._) o gretel, i wish-gretel. hush, don't give way to grumps; have patience awhile, no doleful dumps! this woful face, whew! what a sight! looks like a horrid old crosspatch fright! crosspatch, away! leave me, i pray! just let me reach you, quickly i'll teach you how to make trouble, soon mount to double! crosspatch, crosspatch, what is the use, growling and grumbling, full of abuse? off with you, out with you, shame on you, goose! hänsel. crosspatch, away! hard lines, i say. {hänsel. { { when i am hungry, { surely i can say so, { cannot allay so, { can't chase away so! { {gretel. { { if i am hungry, { i'll never say so, { will not give way so, { chase it away so! gretel. that's right. now, if you leave off complaining, i'll tell you a most delightful secret! hänsel. o delightful! it must be something nice! gretel. well, listen, brotherkin--won't you be glad! look here in the jug, here is fresh milk, 'twas given to-day by our neighbour, and mother, when she comes back home, will certainly make us a rice-blancmange. hänsel (_joyfully dances round the room_). rice-blancmange! when blancmange is anywhere near, then hänsel, hänsel, hänsel, is there! how thick is the cream on the milk; let's taste it! o gemini! wouldn't i like to drink it! (_tasting it._) gretel. what, hänsel, tasting? aren't you ashamed? out with your fingers quick, greedy boy! (_gives him a rap on the fingers._) get back to your work again, be quick, that we may both have done in time! if mother comes and we haven't done right, then badly it will fare with us to-night! hänsel. work again? no, not for me! that's not my idea at all; it doesn't suit me! it's such a bore! dancing is jollier far, i'm sure! gretel (_delighted_). dancing, dancing! o yes, that's better far; and sing a song to keep us in time! one that our grandmother used to sing us: sing then, and dance in time to the singing! (_claps her hands_.) brother, come and dance with me, both my hands i offer thee; right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again! hänsel (_tries to do it, but awkwardly_). i would dance, but don't know how, when to jump, and when to bow; show me what i ought to do, so that i may dance like you. gretel. with your foot you tap, tap, tap; with your hands you clap, clap, clap; right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again! hänsel. with your hands you clap, clap, clap; with your foot you tap, tap, tap; right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again! gretel. that was very good indeed, o, i'm sure you'll soon succeed! try again, and i can see hänsel soon will dance like me! (_claps her hands._) with your head you nick, nick, nick; with your fingers you click, click, click; right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again. hänsel. with your head you nick, nick, nick; with your fingers you click, click, click; right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again! gretel. brother, watch what next i do, you must do it with me too. you to me your arm must proffer, i shall not refuse your offer! come! both. what i enjoy is dance and jollity, love to have my fling; in fact, i like frivolity, and all that kind of thing. gretel. tralala, tralala, tralala! come and have a twirl, my dearest hänsel, come and have a turn with me, i pray; come here to me, come here to me, i'm sure you can't say nay! hänsel (_gruffly_). go away from me, go away from me, i'm much too proud for you: with little girls i do not dance, and so, my dear, adieu! gretel. go, stupid hans, conceited hans, you'll see i'll make you dance! tralala, tralala, tralala! come and have a twirl, my dearest hänsel, come and have a turn with me, i pray! hänsel. o gretel dear, o sister dear, your stocking has a hole! gretel. o hänsel dear, o brother dear, d'you take me for a fool? with naughty boys i do not dance, and so, my dear, adieu! hänsel. now don't be cross, you silly goose, you'll see i make you dance! {gretel. { { tralala, tralala, tralala! {come and have a twirl, my dearest hänsel, {come and have a turn with me, i pray. {sing lustily hurrah! hurrah! {while i dance with you; {and if the stockings are in holes, {why, mother'll knit some new! { {hänsel. { { tralala, tralala, tralala! {sing lustily hurrah! hurrah! {while i dance with you; {and if the shoes are all in holes, {why mother'll buy some new! { tralala, tralala, tralala! (_they dance round each other as before. they then seize each other's hands and go round in a circle, quicker and quicker, until at length they lose their balance and tumble over one another on the floor._) scene ii. (_at this moment the door opens, the mother appears, whereupon the children jump up quickly._) mother. hallo! hänsel and gretel. heavens! here's mother! mother. what is all this disturbance? gretel. 'twas hänsel, he wanted-hänsel. 'twas gretel, she said i-mother. silence, idle and ill-behaved children! (_the mother comes in, unstraps the basket, and puts it down._) call you it working, yodelling and singing? as though 'twere fair time, hopping and springing! and while your parents from early morning till late at night are slaving and toiling! take that! (_gives hänsel a box on the ear._) now come, let's see what you've done. why, gretel, your stocking not ready yet? and you, you lazybones, have you nothing to show? pray how many besoms have you finished? i'll fetch my stick, you useless children, and make your idle fingers tingle! (_in her indignation at the children she gives the milk-jug a push, so that it falls off the table with a smash._) gracious! there goes the jug all to pieces! what now can i cook for supper? (_she looks at her dress, down which the milk is streaming. hänsel covertly titters._) how, saucy, how dare you laugh? (_goes with a stick after hänsel, who runs out at the open door._) wait, wait till the father comes home! (_with sudden energy she snatches a basket from the wall, and pokes it into gretel's hands._) off, off, to the wood! there seek for strawberries! quick, away! and if you don't bring the basket brimful, i'll whip you so that you'll both run away! (_the children run off into the wood. she sits down exhausted by the table._) alas! there my poor jug lies all in pieces! yes, blind excitement only brings ruin. o heaven, send help to me! nought have i to give them-(_sobbing._) no bread, not a crumb, for my starving children! no crust in the cupboard, no milk in the pot-(_resting her head on her hands._) weary am i, weary of living! father, send help to me! (_lays her head down on her arm and drops to sleep._) scene iii. (_a voice is heard in the distance._) tralala, tralala! little mother, here am i! tralala, tralala! bringing luck and jollity! (_rather nearer._) o, for you and me, poor mother, every day is like the other; with a big hole in the purse, and in the stomach an even worse. tralala, tralala! hunger is the poor man's curse! tralala, tralala! hunger is the poor man's curse! (_the father appears at the window, and during the following he comes into the room in a very happy mood, with a basket on his back._) 'tisn't much that we require, just a little food and fire! but alas! it's true enough, life on some of us is rough! hunger is a customer tough! (_or_) yes, the rich enjoys his dinner, while the poor grows daily thinner! strives to eat, as well he may, somewhat less than yesterday! (_complainingly._) tralala, tralala! hunger is the devil to pay! tralala, tralala! hunger is the devil to pay! (_he puts down his basket._) yes, hunger's all very well to feel, if you can get a good square meal; but when there's nought, what can you do, supposing the purse be empty too? tralalala, tralalala! o for a drop of mountain dew! tralalala, tralalala! mother, look what i have brought! (reels over to his sleeping wife and gives her a smacking kiss.) mother (_rubbing her eyes_). oho!- who's sing-sing-singing all around the house, and tra-la-la-ing me out of my sleep? father (_inarticulately_). how now!- the hungry beast within my breast called so for food i could not rest! tralala, tralala! hunger is an urgent beast! tralala, tralala! pinches, gnaws, and gives no rest! mother. so, so! and this wild beast, you gave him a feast. he's had his fill, to say the least! father. well, yes! h'm! it was a lovely day, don't you think so, dear wife? (_wants to kiss her._) mother (_pushing him angrily away, excitedly_). have done! you have no troubles to bear, 'tis i must keep the house! father. well, well,--then let us see, my dear, what we have got to eat to-day. mother. most simple is the bill of fare, our supper's gone, i know not where! larder bare, cellar bare, nothing, and plenty of it to spare! father. tralalala, tralalala! cheer up, mother, for here am i, bringing luck and jollity! (_he takes his basket and begins to display he contents._) look, mother, doesn't all this food please you? mother. man, man, what see i? ham and butter, flour and sausage- eggs, a dozen.... (husband, and they cost a fortune!) turnips, onions, and--for me! nearly half a pound of tea! both. tralala, tralala, hip hurrah! won't we have a festive time! tralala, hip hurrah! won't we have a happy time! now listen how it all came about! father (_turns the basket topsy-turvy, and a lot of potatoes roll out. he seizes her by the arm and dances round the room. sits down. meanwhile the mother packs away the things, lights a fire, breaks eggs into a saucepan, etc._). yonder to the town i went, there was to be a great event, weddings, fairs, and preparation for all kinds of jubilation! now's my chance to do some selling, and for that you may be thankful! he who wants a feast to keep, he must scrub and brush and sweep. so i brought my best goods out, tramped with them from house to house: "buy besoms! good besoms! buy my brushes! sweep your carpets, sweep your cobwebs!" and so i drove a roaring trade, and sold my brushes at the highest prices! now make haste with cup and platter, bring the glasses, bring the kettle- here's a health to the besom-maker! mother. here's a health to the besom-maker! father. but stay, why, where are the children? hänsel, gretel, what's gone with hans? mother. gone with hans? o, who's to know? but at least i do know this, that the jug is smashed to bits. father. what! the jug is smashed to bits? mother. and the cream all run away. father (_striking his fist on the table in a rage_). hang it all! so those little scapegraces have been again in mischief! mother (_hastily_). been in mischief? i should think so! nought have they done but their mad pranking; as i came home i could hear them hopping and cutting the wildest capers, till i was so cross that i gave a push- and the jug of milk was spilt! father. and the jug of milk was spilt! ha ha ha ha! (_both laughing._) such anger, mother, don't take it ill, seems stupid to me, i must say! but where, where think you the children can be? mother (_snappishly and curtly_). for aught i know, at the ilsenstein! father (_horror-struck_). the ilsenstein! come, come, have a care! (_fetches a broom from the wall._) mother. the besom, just put it away again! father (_lets the broom fall and wrings his hands_). my children astray in the gloomy wood, all alone without moon or stars! mother. o heaven! father. dost thou not know the awful magic place, the place where the evil one dwells? mother (_surprised_). the evil one! what mean'st thou? father (_with mysterious emphasis_). the gobbling ogress! (_the mother draws back, the father takes up the broom again._) mother. the gobbling ogress! but--tell me, what help is the besom! father. the besom, the besom, why what is it for? they ride on it, they ride on it, the witches! an old witch within that wood doth dwell and she's in league with the powers of hell. at midnight hour, when nobody knows, away to the witches' dance she goes. up the chimney they fly, on a broomstick they hie- over hill and dale, o'er ravine and vale, through the midnight air they gallop full tear- on a broomstick, on a broomstick, hop hop, hop hop, the witches! mother. o horror! but the gobbling witch? father. and by day, they say, she stalks around, with a crinching, crunching, munching sound, and children plump and tender to eat she lures with magic gingerbread sweet. on evil bent, with fell intent, she lures the children, poor little things, in the oven red-hot she pops all the lot; she shuts the lid down until they're done brown, in the oven, in the oven, (_expressively._) the gingerbread children! mother. and the gingerbread children? father. are served up for dinner! mother. for the ogress? father. for the ogress! mother. o horror! heav'n help us! the children! o what shall we do? (_runs out of the house._) father. hi, mother, mother, wait for me! (_takes the whisky bottle from the table and follows her._) we'll both go together the witch to seek! (_the curtain falls quickly._) act ii. in the forest. scene i. (_the curtain rises. the middle of the forest. in the background is the ilsenstein, thickly surrounded by fir-trees. on the right is a large fir-tree, under which gretel is sitting on a mossy tree-trunk and making a garland of wild roses. by her side lies a nosegay of flowers. amongst the bushes on the left is hänsel, looking for strawberries. sunset._) gretel (_humming quietly to herself_). there stands a little man in the wood alone, he wears a little mantle of velvet brown. say, who can the mankin be, standing there beneath the tree, with the little mantle of velvet brown? his hair is all of gold, and his cheeks are red, he wears a little black cap upon his head. say, who can the mankin be, standing there so silently, with the little black cap upon his head? (_she holds up the garland of roses, and looks it all round._) with the little black cap upon his head! hänsel (_comes out, swinging his basket joyfully_). hurrah! my strawberry basket is nearly brimful! o won't the mother be pleased with hänsel! gretel (_standing up_). my garland is ready also! look! i never made one so nice before! (_tries to put the wreath on hänsel's head._) hänsel (_drawing back roughly_). you won't catch a boy wearing that! it is only fit for a girl! (_puts the wreath on her._) ha, gretel! "fine feathers!" o the deuce! you shall be the queen of the wood! gretel. if i am to be queen of the wood, then i must have the nosegay too! hänsel (_gives her the nosegay_). queen of the wood, with sceptre and crown, i give you the strawberries, but don't eat them all! (_he gives the basket full of strawberries into her other hand, at the same time kneeling before her in homage. at this moment the cuckoo is heard._) cuckoo, cuckoo, how d'you do? gretel. cuckoo, cuckoo, where are you? (_takes a strawberry from the basket and pokes it into hänsel's mouth; he sucks it up as though he were drinking an egg._) hänsel (_jumping up_). oho, i can do that just like you! (_takes some strawberries and lets them fall into gretel's mouth._) let us do like the cuckoo too, who takes what doesn't belong to him! (_it begins to grow dark._) hänsel (_helping himself again_). cuckoo, how are you? gretel. cuckoo, where are you? hänsel. in your neighbour's nest you go. gretel (_helping herself_). cuckoo, cuckoo! hänsel. cuckoo, why do you do so? (_pours a handful of strawberries into his mouth._) gretel. and you are very greedy too! tell me, cuckoo, why are you? hänsel. cuckoo, cuckoo! (_they get rude and begin to quarrel for the strawberries. hänsel gains the victory, and puts the whole basket to his mouth until it is empty._) gretel (_horrified, clasping her hands together_). hänsel, what have you done? o heaven! all the strawberries eaten. you glutton! listen, you'll have a punishment from the mother--this passes a joke! hänsel (_quietly_). now come, don't make such a fuss; you, gretel, you did the same thing yourself! gretel. come, we'll hurry and seek for fresh ones! hänsel. what, here in the dark, under hedges and bushes? why, naught can we see of fruit or leaves! it's getting dark already here! gretel. o hänsel! o hänsel! o what shall we do? what bad disobedient children we've been! we ought to have thought and gone home sooner! (_cuckoo behind the scenes, rather nearer than before._) hänsel. hark, what a noise in the bushes! know you what the forest says? "children, children," it says, "are you not afraid?" (_hänsel spies all around uneasily, at last he turns in despair to gretel._) gretel, i cannot find the way! gretel (_dismayed_). o god! what say you? not know the way? hänsel (_pretending to be very brave_). why, how ridiculous you are! i am a boy, and know not fear! gretel. o hänsel, some dreadful thing may come! hänsel. o gretel, come, don't be afraid! gretel. what's glimmering there in the darkness? hänsel. that's only the birches in silver dress. gretel. but there, what's grinning so there at me? hänsel (_stammering_). th--that's only the stump of a willow-tree. gretel (_hastily_). but what a dreadful form it takes, and what a horrid face it makes! hänsel (_very loud_). come, i'll make faces, you fellow! d'you hear? gretel (_terrified_). there, see! a lantern, it's coming this way! hänsel. will-o'-the-wisp is hopping about- gretel, come, don't lose heart like this! wait, i'll give a good loud call! (_goes back some steps to the back of the stage and calls through his hands._) who's there? echo. you there! there! (_the children cower together._) gretel. is some one there? echo. where? here! gretel (_softly_). did you hear? a voice said, "here!" hänsel, surely some one's near. (_crying._) i'm frightened, i'm frightened, i wish i were home! i see the wood all filled with goblin forms! hänsel. gretelkin, stick to me close and tight, i'll shelter you, i'll shelter you! (_a thick mist rises and completely hides the background._) gretel. i see some shadowy women coming! see, how they nod and beckon, beckon! they're coming, they're coming, they'll take us away! (_crying out, rushes horror-struck under the tree and falls on her knees, hiding herself behind hänsel._) father! mother! ah! hänsel. see there, the mankin, sister dear! i wonder who the mankin is? (_at this moment the mist lifts on the left; a little grey man is seen with a little sack on his back._) scene ii. sandman (_the sleep fairy_). (_the little man approaches the children with friendly gestures, and the children gradually calm down. he is strewing sand in the children's eyes._) i shut the children's peepers, sh! and guard the little sleepers, sh! for dearly do i love them, sh! and gladly watch above them, sh! and with my little bag of sand, by every child's bedside i stand; then little tired eyelids close, and little limbs have sweet repose. and if they're good and quickly go to sleep, then from the starry sphere above the angels come with peace and love, and send the children happy dreams, while watch they keep! then slumber, children, slumber, for happy dreams are sent you through the hours you sleep. (_disappears. darkness._) hänsel (_half asleep_). sandman was there! gretel (_ditto_). let us first say our evening prayer. (_they cower down and fold their hands._) both. when at night i go to sleep, fourteen angels watch do keep: two my head are guarding, two my feet are guiding, two are on my right hand, two are on my left hand, two who warmly cover, two who o'er me hover, two to whom 'tis given to guide my steps to heaven. (_they sink down on to the moss, and go to sleep with their arms twined round each other. complete darkness._) scene iii. (_here a bright light suddenly breaks through the mist which forthwith rolls itself together into the form of a staircase, vanishing in perspective, in the middle of the stage. fourteen angels, in light floating garments, pass down the staircase, two and two, at intervals, while it is getting gradually lighter. the angels place themselves, according to the order mentioned in the evening hymn, around the sleeping children; the first couple at their heads, the second at their feet, the third on the right, the fourth on the left, the fifth and sixth couples distribute themselves amongst the other couples, so that the circle of the angels is completed. lastly the seventh couple comes into the circle and takes its place as "guardian angels" on each side of the children. the remaining angels now join hands and dance a stately step around the group. the whole stage is filled with an intense light. whilst the angels arrange themselves in a picturesque tableau, the curtain slowly falls._) act iii. the witch's house. scene i. (_the curtain rises. scene the same as the end of act ii. the background is still hidden in mist, which gradually rises during the following. the angels have vanished. morning is breaking. the dawn fairy steps forward and shakes dewdrops from a bluebell over the sleeping children._) dewman (_dawn fairy_). i'm up with early dawning, and know who loves the morning, who'll rise fresh as a daisy, who'll sink in slumber lazy! ding! dong! ding! dong! and with the golden light of day i chase the fading night away, fresh dew around me shaking, and hill and dale awaking. then up, with all your powers enjoy the morning hours, the scent of trees and flowers- then up, ye sleepers, awaken! the rosy dawn is smiling, then up, ye sleepers, awake, awake! (_hurries off singing. the children begin to stir. gretel rubs her eyes, looks around her, and raises herself a little, whilst hänsel turns over on the other side to go to sleep again._) gretel. where am i? waking? or do i dream? how come i in the wood to lie? high in the branches i hear a gentle twittering, birds are beginning to sing so sweetly; from early dawn they are all awake, and warble their morning hymn of praise. dear little singers, little singers, good morning! (_turns to hänsel._) see there, the sleepy lazybones? wait now, i'll wake him! tirelireli, it's getting late! tirelireli, it's getting late! the lark his flight is winging, on high his matin singing, tirelireli! tirelireli! hänsel (_suddenly jumps up with a start_). kikeriki! it's early yet! kikeriki! it's early yet! yes, the day is dawning; awake, for it is morning! kikeriki! kikeriki! i feel so well, i know not why! i never slept so well, no, not i! gretel. but listen, hans; here 'neath the tree a wondrous dream was sent to me! hänsel (_meditatively_). really! i, too, had a dream! gretel. i fancied i heard a murmuring and rushing, as though the angels in heav'n were singing; rosy clouds above me were floating- hovering and floating in the distance away, sudden--all around a light was streaming, rays of glory from heaven beaming, and a golden ladder saw i descending, angels adown it gliding, such lovely angels with shining golden wings. hänsel (_interrupting her quickly_). fourteen angels there must have been! gretel (_astonished_). and did you also behold all this? hänsel. truly, 'twas wondrous fair! and upward i saw them float. (_he turns towards the background; at this moment the last remains of the mist clear away. in place of the fir-trees is seen the "witch's house at the ilsenstein," shining in the rays of the rising sun. a little distance off, to the left, is an oven; opposite this, on the right, a large cage, both joined to the witch's house by a fence of gingerbread figures._) scene ii. gretel (_holds hänsel back in astonishment_). stand still, be still! hänsel (_surprised_). o heaven, what wondrous place is this, as ne'er in all my life have i seen! gretel (_gradually regains her self-possession_). what odor delicious! o say, do i dream? both. a cottage all made of chocolate cream. the roof is all covered with turkish delight the windows with lustre of sugar are white; and on all the gables the raisins invite, and think! all around is a gingerbread hedge! o magic castle, how nice you'd be to eat! where hides the princess who has so great a treat? ah, could she but visit our little cottage bare, she'd ask us to dinner, her dainties to share! hänsel (_after a while_). no sound do i hear; no, nothing is stirring! come, let's go inside it! gretel (_pulling him back horrified_). are you senseless? hänsel, however can you make so bold? who knows who may live there, in that lovely house? hänsel. o look, do look how the house seems to smile! (_enthusiastically._) ah, the angels did our footsteps beguile! gretel (_reflectively_). the angels? yes, it must be so! hänsel. yes, gretel, the angels are beck'ning us in! come, let's nibble a bit of the cottage. both. come, let's nibble it, like two mice persevering! (_they hop along, hand in hand, towards the back of the stage; then stand still, and then steal along cautiously on tiptoe to the house. after some hesitation hänsel breaks off a bit of cake from the right-hand corner._) scene iii. a voice from the house. nibble, nibble, mousekin, who's nibbling at my housekin? who's nibbling at my housekin? (_hänsel starts, and in his fright lets the piece of cake fall._) hänsel. o, did you hear? gretel (_somewhat timidly_). the wind-hänsel. the wind! both. the heavenly wind! gretel (_picks up the piece of cake and tastes it_). h'm! hänsel (_looking longingly at gretel_). d'you like it? gretel (_lets hänsel bite it_). just taste and try it! hänsel (_lays his hand on his breast in rapture_). hi! gretel (_ditto_). hi! both. hi, hi! o cake most delicious, some more i must take! it's really like heaven to eat such plum-cake! hänsel. o how good, how sweet, how tasty! gretel. how tasty, how sweet! it's p'r'aps the house of a sweety-maker! hänsel. hi, sweety-maker! have a care! a little mouse your sweeties would share! (_he breaks a big piece of cake off the wall._) a voice from the house. nibble, nibble, mousekin, who's nibbling at my housekin? hänsel and gretel. the wind, the wind, the heavenly wind! (_the upper part of the house-door opens gently, and the witch's head is seen at it. the children at first do not see her, and go on feasting merrily._) gretel. wait, you gobbling mousekin, here comes the cat from the housekin! hänsel (_taking another bite_). eat what you please, and leave me in peace! gretel (_snatches the piece from his hand_). don't be unkind, sir wind, sir wind! hänsel (_takes it back from her_). heavenly wind, i take what i find! both (_laughing_). ha, ha, ha! the witch (_who had meanwhile opened the whole door, and had been warily stealing up to the children, throws a rope round the neck of hänsel, who, without any misgivings, turns his back to her_). hi, hi! hi, hi! hänsel (_horror-struck_). let go! who are you? let me go! the witch (_drawing the children towards her_). angels both! (and goosey-ganders!) (_caresses the children._) you've come to visit me, that is sweet! you charming children, so nice to eat! hänsel (_makes despairing efforts to free himself_). who are you, ugly one? let me go! the witch. now, darling, don't you give yourself airs! dear heart, what makes you say such things? i am rosina dainty-mouth, and dearly love my fellow-men. i'm artless as a new born child! that's why the children to me are so dear, so dear, so dear, ah, so che-arming to eat! (_caresses hänsel._) hänsel (_turning roughly away_). go, get you gone from my sight! i hate, i loathe you quite! the witch. hi hi! hi hi! these dainty morsels i'm really gloating on, and you, my little maiden, i'm doting on! come, little mousey, come into my housey! come with me, my precious, i'll give you sweetmeats delicious! of chocolate, tarts, and marzipan you shall both eat all you can, and wedding-cake and strawberry ices, blancmange, and everything else that nice is, and raisins and almonds, and peaches and citrons are waiting- you'll both find it quite captivating, yes, quite captivating! hänsel. i won't come with you, hideous fright! you are quite too friendly! the witch. see, see, see how sly! dear children, you really may trust me in this, and living with me will be perfect bliss! come, little mousey, come into my housey! come with me, my precious, i'll give you sweetmeats delicious! gretel. but say, what will you with my brother do? the witch. well, well! i'll feed and fatten him up well, with every sort of dainty delicious, to make him tender and tasty. and if he's brave and patient too, and docile and obedient like a lamb, then, hänsel, i'll whisper it you, i have a great treat in store for you! hänsel. then speak out loud and whisper not. what is the great treat in store for me? the witch. yes, my dear children, hearing and sight in this great pleasure will disappear quite! hänsel. eh? both my hearing and seeing are good! you'd better take care you do me no harm! (_resolutely._) gretel, trust not her flattering words, come, sister, come, let's run away! (_he has in the meantime got out of the rope, and runs with gretel to the foreground. here they are stopped by the witch, who imperiously raises against them both a stick which hangs at her girdle, with repeated gestures of spellbinding._) the witch. hold! (_the stage becomes gradually darker._) hocus pocus, witches' charm! move not, as you fear my arm! back or forward do not try, fixed you are by the evil eye! head on shoulders fixed awry! hocus, pocus, now comes jocus, children, watch the magic head, eyes are staring, dull as lead! now, you atom, off to bed! (_fresh gestures; then she leads hänsel, who is gazing fixedly at the illuminated head, into the stable, and shuts the lattice door upon him._) hocus pocus, bonus jocus, malus locus, hocus pocus, bonus jocus, malus locus! (_the stage gradually becomes lighter, whilst the light of the magic head diminishes. the witch, contentedly to gretel, who still stands there motionless._) now gretel, be obedient and wise, while hänsel's growing fat and nice. we'll feed him up, you'll see my reason, and with sweet almonds and raisins season. i'll go indoors, the things to prepare, and you remain here where you are! (_she grins as she holds up her finger warningly, and goes into the house._) gretel (_stiff and motionless_). o, what a horrid witch she is! hänsel (_whispering hastily_). gretel, sh! don't speak so loud! be very sharp, watch well and see whatever she may do to me! pretend to do all she commands- o, there she's coming back, sh! hush! (_the witch comes out, satisfies herself that gretel is still standing motionless, and then spreads before hänsel almonds and raisins from a basket._) the witch. now, little man, come prithee enjoy yourself! (_sticking a raisin into hänsel's mouth._) eat, minion, eat or die! here are cakes, o so nice! (_turns to gretel and disenchants her with a juniper-branch._) hocus pocus, elder-bush! rigid body loosen, hush! (_gretel moves again._) now up and move again, bright and blithesome, limbs are become again supple and lithesome. go, my poppet, go my pet, you the table now shall set, little knife, little fork, little dish, little plate, little serviette for my little mate! now get everything ready and nice, or else i shall lock you up too in a trice! (_she threatens and titters. gretel hurries off. the witch, to hänsel, who pretends to be asleep._) the fool is slumb'ring, it does seem queer how youth can sleep and have no fear! well, sleep away, you simple sheep, soon you will sleep your last long sleep! but first with gretel i'll begin- off you, dear maiden, i will dine; you are so tender, plump, and good, just the thing for witches' food! (_she opens the oven door and sniffs in it, her face lighted up by the deep red glare of the fire._) the dough has risen, so we'll go on preparing. hark, how the sticks in the fire are crackling! (_she pushes a couple more faggots under, the fire flames up and then dies down again. the witch rubbing her hands with glee._) yes, gretel mine, how well off you i'll dine! see, see, o how sly! when in the oven she's peeping, quickly behind her i'm creeping! one little push, bang goes the door, clang! then soon will gretel be just done to a t! and when from the oven i take her she'll look like a cake from the baker, by magic fire red changed into gingerbread! see, see how sly! hi hi! hi hi! (_in her wild delight she seizes a broomstick and begins to ride upon it._) so hop, hop, hop, gallop, lop, lop! my broomstick nag, come do not lag! (_she rides excitedly round on the broomstick._) at dawn of day i ride away, am here and there and everywhere! (_she rides again; gretel meanwhile is watching at the window._) at midnight hour, when none can know, to join the witches' dance i go! and three and four are witches' lore, and five and six are witches' tricks, and nine is one, and ten is none, and seven is nil, or what she will! and thus they ride till dawn of day! (_hopping madly along, she rides to the back of the stage and vanishes for a time behind the cottage. here the witch becomes visible again; she comes to the foreground, where she suddenly pulls up and dismounts._) prr, broomstick, hi! (_she hobbles back to the stable and tickles hänsel with a birch twig till he awakes._) up, awake, my mankin young; come show to me your tongue! (_hänsel puts his tongue out. the witch smacks with her tongue._) dainty morsel! dainty morsel! little toothsome mankin come, now let me see your thumb! (_hänsel pokes out a small bone._) gemini! oho! o how scraggy, how lean! urchin, you're a scraggy one, as bad as a skeleton! (_calls._) maiden, gretel! (_gretel appears at the door._) bring some raisins and almonds sweet, hänsel wants some more to eat. (_gretel runs into the house, and returns immediately with a basket full of almonds and raisins._) gretel. here are the almonds. (_whilst the witch is feeding hänsel, gretel gets behind her and makes the gestures of disenchantment with the juniper-branch._) gretel (_softly_). hocus pocus, elder-bush, rigid body loosen, hush! the witch (_turning suddenly round_). what were you saying, little goose? gretel (_confusedly_). only--much good may it do to hans! the witch. eh? gretel (_louder_). much good may it do to hans! the witch. he he he, my little miss, i'll stop your mouth with this! (_sticks a raisin into gretel's mouth._) eat, minion, eat or die! here are cakes, o so nice! (_she opens the oven door; the heat has apparently diminished. meanwhile hänsel makes violent signs to gretel._) hänsel (_softly opening the stable door_). sister dear, o beware! the witch (_looking greedily at gretel_). she makes my mouth water, this pretty little daughter! come, gretel mine, sugar-maiden mine! (_gretel comes towards her._) peep in the oven, be steady, see if the gingerbread's ready! carefully look, pet, whether it's cooked yet, but if it wants more, shut quick the door! (_gretel hesitates._) hänsel (_slipping out of the stable)_. sister dear, have a care! gretel (_making herself out very awkward_). i don't understand what i have to do! the witch. just stand on tip-toe, head bending forward; try it, i pray, it's merely play! hänsel (_pulling gretel back by her frock_). sister dear, now take care! gretel (_shyly_). i'm such a goose, don't understand! you'll have to show me how to stand on tip-toe! the witch (_makes a movement of impatience_). do as i say, it's merely play! (_she begins creeping up to the oven, muttering all the time, and just as she is bending over it, hänsel and gretel give her a good push, which sends her toppling over into it, upon which they quickly shut the door._) hänsel and gretel (_mocking her_). then "one little push, bang goes the door, clang!" you, not gretel, then will be just done to a t! (_hänsel and gretel fall into one another's arms._) both. hurrah! now sing the witch is dead, really dead! no more to dread! hurrah! now sing the witch is still, deathly still! we can eat our fill! now all the spell is o'er, really o'er! we fear no more! (_they seize each other's hands._) yes, let us happy be, dancing so merrily; now the old witch is gone, we'll have no end of fun! hey! hurrah, hurrah! hip hurrah! hip hurrah! hurrah! (_they take each other round the waist and waltz together, first in the front of the stage, and then gradually in the direction of the witch's house. when they get there hänsel breaks loose from gretel and rushes into the house, shutting the door after him. then from the upper window he throws down apples, pears, oranges, gilded nuts, and all kinds of sweetmeats into gretel's outstretched apron. meanwhile the oven begins crackling loudly, and the flames burn high. then there is a loud crash, and the oven falls thundering into bits. hänsel and gretel, who in their terror let their sweetmeats all fall down, hurry towards the oven startled, and stand there motionless. their astonishment increases when they become aware of a troop of children around them, whose disguise of cakes has fallen from them._) hänsel and gretel (_spoken_). there, see those little children dear, i wonder how they all came here! scene iv. the gingerbread children (_motionless and with closed eyes, as the cake figures were before_). we're saved, we're freed for evermore! gretel. your eyes are shut--pray who are you? you're sleeping, and yet you're singing too! the gingerbread children (_always very softly_). o touch us, we pray, that we may all awake! hänsel (_to gretel, embarrassed_). o touch them for me, i dare not try! gretel. yes, let me stroke this innocent face! (_she caresses the nearest child, who opens its eyes and smiles._) other gingerbread children (_softly_). o touch me too, o touch me too, that i also may awake! (_gretel goes and caresses all the rest of the children, who open their eyes and smile, without moving; meanwhile hänsel seizes the juniper-branch._) hänsel. hocus pocus, elder-bush! rigid body loosen, hush! some of the children (_jump up and hurry towards hänsel and gretel from all sides_). we thank, we thank you both! the children. the spell is broke and we are free, we'll sing and we'll dance and we'll shout for glee! come, children all, and form a ring, join hands together while we sing. then sing and spring, then dance and sing, for cakes and all good things we bring. then sing and spring, then dance and sing, that through the wood our song of praise may sound, and echo repeat it all around! we thank, we thank, we thank! hänsel. the angels whispered in dreams to us in silent night what this happy, happy day has brought tonight. (_four gingerbread children at a time surround hänsel and gretel, and bow gracefully to them._) gretel. ye angels, who have watched o'er our steps and led them right, we thank for all our joy and wondrous delight. the gingerbread children (_who all press round hänsel and gretel to shake hands with them_). we'll thank you both all our life! father (_behind the scene_). tralala, tralalala! were our children only here! tralala, tralalala! (_the father appears in the background with the mother, and stops when he sees the children._) ha! why, they're really there! last scene. hänsel (_running towards them_). father! mother! gretel (_the same_). father! mother! mother. children dear! father. o welcome, poor children innocent! (_joyfully embracing. meanwhile two of the boys have dragged the witch, in the form of a big gingerbread cake, out of the ruins of the magic oven. at the sight of her they all burst into a shout of joy. the boys place the witch in the middle of the stage._) father. children, see the wonder wrought, how the witch herself was caught unaware in the snare laid for you with cunning rare! all the rest. see, o see the wonder wrought, how the witch herself was caught unaware in the snare laid for us with cunning rare! (_the two boys drag the witch in the cottage._) father. such is heaven's chastisement; evil works will have an end. "when past bearing is our grief, then 'tis heaven will send us sure relief!" all. "when past bearing is our grief, then 'tis heaven will send relief!" the end. f. rullman theatre ticket office. choice seats and boxes for the opera and all theatres. opera seats at box office prices. publisher of opera librettos in all languages. [illustration] 111 broadway trinity building (rear arcade), new york. telephone calls {3951} cortlandt. {3952} weber pianos heinrich conried, director of the conried metropolitan opera company, writes as follows: new york, may 12, 1904. "from time to time during the past operatic season i have been impressed with the wonderful resources of the weber pianos which we have been using at the metropolitan. "subjected to immense usage by reason of our numerous rehearsals, these instruments nevertheless retain their exquisite tone-quality. "i know of no piano that would give us better satisfaction, and it is my desire that the weber piano shall continue to be used at the metropolitan opera house." heinrich conried. [illustration: copyright by amie dupont heinrich conried] "mr. conried's letter, following as it does the tribute of maurice grau to the weber piano when he was at the head of the metropolitan opera house organization, shows the great place long ago won and always retained by the weber among the greatest people in the musical world, and demonstrates that this artistic instrument has in that atmosphere the proper setting for its merits."--_the music trades._ the weber piano company aeolian hall, 362 fifth ave., near 34th st., new york catalog upon request, agents in all principal cities transcriber's notes: the title on the cover image shows "hansel und gretel"; this has been changed to "hänsel und gretel" in the transcribed text. a missing speaker's name in the german version following "herrjemine, den möcht' ich ganz verschlecken!" has been added. an additional header for "dritte scene" in the third act has been removed. the following is a list of other changes made to the original. the first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. rühr dich, und dich deisst der fluss! rühr dich, und dich beisst der fluss! in the background is the ilsensein. in the background is the ilsenstein. for weaks i've eaten nought but bread for weeks i've eaten nought but bread as through 'twere fair time, hopping and springing! as though 'twere fair time, hopping and springing! gracious! there's goes the jug all to pieces! gracious! there goes the jug all to pieces! he wears a little black cup upon his head. he wears a little black cap upon his head. a thick mist rises and competely hides the background. a thick mist rises and completely hides the background. the duenna _a comic opera_ dramatis personae as originally acted at covent-garden theatre, nov. 21, 1775 don ferdinand _mr. mattocks_. don jerome _mr. wilson_. don antonio _mr. dubellamy_. don carlos _mr. leoni_. isaac mendoza _mr. quick_. father paul _mr. mahon_. father francis _mr. fox_. father augustine _mr. baker_. lopez _mr. wewitzer_. donna louisa _mrs. mattocks_. donna clara _mrs. cargill_. the duenna _mrs. green_. masqueraders, friars, porter, maid, _and_ servants. scene--seville. act i. scene i.--_the street before_ don jerome's _house_. _enter_ lopez, _with a dark lantern_. _lop_. past three o'clock!--soh! a notable hour for one of my regular disposition, to be strolling like a bravo through the streets of seville! well, of all services, to serve a young lover is the hardest.--not that i am an enemy to love; but my love and my master's differ strangely.--don ferdinand is much too gallant to eat, drink, or sleep:--now my love gives me an appetite--then i am fond of dreaming of my mistress, and i love dearly to toast her.--this cannot be done without good sleep and good liquor: hence my partiality to a featherbed and a bottle. what a pity, now, that i have not further time, for reflections! but my master expects thee, honest lopez, to secure his retreat from donna clara's window, as i guess.--[_music without_.] hey! sure, i heard music! so, so! who have we here? oh, don antonio, my master's friend, come from the masquerade, to serenade my young mistress, donna louisa, i suppose: so! we shall have the old gentleman up presently.--lest he should miss his son, i had best lose no time in getting to my post. [_exit_.] _enter_ don antonio, _with_ masqueraders _and music_. song.--_don ant_. tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain so gently speak thy master's pain? so softly sing, so humbly sigh, that, though my sleeping love shall know who sings--who sighs below, her rosy slumbers shall not fly? thus, may some vision whisper more than ever i dare speak before. _i. mas_. antonio, your mistress will never wake, while you sing so dolefully; love, like a cradled infant, is lulled by a sad melody. _don ant_. i do not wish to disturb her rest. _i. mas_. the reason is, because you know she does not regard you enough to appear, if you awaked her. _don ant_. nay, then, i'll convince you. [_sings_.] the breath of morn bids hence the night, unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair; for till the dawn of love is there, i feel no day, i own no light. donna louisa--_replies from a window_. waking, i heard thy numbers chide, waking, the dawn did bless my sight; 'tis phoebus sure that woos, i cried, who speaks in song, who moves in light. don jerome--_from a window_. what vagabonds are these i hear, fiddling, fluting, rhyming, ranting, piping, scraping, whining, canting? fly, scurvy minstrels, fly! trio. _don. louisa_. nay, prithee, father, why so rough? _don ant_. an humble lover i. _don jer_. how durst you, daughter, lend an ear to such deceitful stuff? quick, from the window fly! _don. louisa_ adieu, antonio! _don ant_ must you go? _don. louisa_. & _don ant_. we soon, perhaps, may meet again. for though hard fortune is our foe, the god of love will fight for us. _don jer_. reach me the blunderbuss. _don ant_. & _don. louisa_. the god of love, who knows our pain-_don jer_. hence, or these slugs are through your brain. [_exeunt severally_.] scene ii--_a piazza_. _enter_ don ferdinand _and_ lopez. _lop_. truly, sir, i think that a little sleep once in a week or so--_don ferd_. peace, fool! don't mention sleep to me. _lop_. no, no, sir, i don't mention your lowbred, vulgar, sound sleep; but i can't help thinking that a gentle slumber, or half an hour's dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the thing---_don ferd_. peace, booby, i say!--oh, clara dear, cruel disturber of my rest! _lop_. [_aside_.] and of mine too. _don ferd_. 'sdeath, to trifle with me at such a juncture as this!-now to stand on punctilios!--love me! i don't believe she ever did. _lop_. [_aside_.] nor i either. _don ferd_. or is it, that her sex never know their desires for an hour together? _lop_. [_aside_.] ah, they know them oftener than they'll own them. _don ferd_. is there, in the world, so inconsistent a creature as clara? _lop_. [_aside_.] i could name one. _don ferd_. yes; the tame fool who submits to her caprice. _lop_. [_aside_.]i thought he couldn't miss it. _don ferd_. is she not capricious, teasing, tyrannical, obstinate, perverse, absurd? ay, a wilderness of faults and follies; her looks are scorn, and her very smiles--'sdeath! i wish i hadn't mentioned her smiles; for she does smile such beaming loveliness, such fascinating brightness--oh, death and madness! i shall die if i lose her. _lop_. [_aside_.] oh, those damned smiles have undone all! air--_don ferd_. could i her faults remember, forgetting every charm, soon would impartial reason the tyrant love disarm: but when enraged i number each failing of her mind, love still suggests each beauty, and sees--while reason's blind. _lop_. here comes don antonio, sir. _don ferd_. well, go you home--i shall be there presently. _lop_. ah, those cursed smiles! [_exit_.] _enter_ don antonio. _don ferd_. antonio, lopez tells me he left you chanting before our door--was my father waked? _don ant_. yes, yes; he has a singular affection for music; so i left him roaring at his barred window, like the print of bajazet in the cage. and what brings you out so early? _don ferd_. i believe i told you, that to-morrow was the day fixed by don pedro and clara's unnatural step-mother, for her to enter a convent, in order that her brat might possess her fortune: made desperate by this, i procured a key to the door, and bribed clara's maid to leave it unbolted; at two this morning, i entered unperceived, and stole to her chamber--i found her waking and weeping. _don ant_. happy ferdinand! _don ferd_. 'sdeath! hear the conclusion.--i was rated as the most confident ruffian, for daring to approach her room at that hour of the night. _don ant_. ay, ay, this was at first. _don ferd_. no such thing! she would not hear a word from me, but threatened to raise her mother, if i did not instantly leave her. _don ant_. well, but at last? _don ferd_. at last! why i was forced to leave the house as i came in. _don ant_. and did you do nothing to offend her? _don ferd_. nothing, as i hope to be saved!--i believe, i might snatch a dozen or two of kisses. _don ant_. was that all? well, i think, i never heard of such assurance! _don ferd_. zounds! i tell you i behaved with the utmost respect. _don ant_. o lord! i don't mean you, but in her. but, hark ye, ferdinand, did you leave your key with them? _don ferd_. yes; the maid who saw me out, took it from the door. _don ant_. then, my life for it, her mistress elopes after you. _don ferd_. ay, to bless my rival, perhaps. i am in a humour to suspect everybody.--you loved her once, and thought her an angel, as i do now. _don ant_. yes, i loved her, till i found she wouldn't love me, and then i discovered that she hadn't a good feature in her face. air. i ne'er could any lustre see in eyes that would not look on me; i ne'er saw nectar on a lip, but where my own did hope to sip. has the maid who seeks my heart cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art? i will own the colour true, when yielding blushes aid their hue. is her hand so soft and pure? i must press it, to be sure; nor can i be certain then, till it, grateful, press again. must i, with attentive eye, watch her heaving bosom sigh? i will do so, when i see that heaving bosom sigh for me. besides, ferdinand, you have full security in my love for your sister; help me there, and i can never disturb you with clara. _don ferd_. as far as i can, consistently with the honour of our family, you know i will; but there must be no eloping. _don ant_. and yet, now, you would carry off clara? _don ferd_. ay, that's a different case!--we never mean that others should act to our sisters and wives as we do to others'.--but, tomorrow, clara is to be forced into a convent. _don ant_. well, and am not i so unfortunately circumstanced? tomorrow, your father forces louisa to marry isaac, the portuguese--but come with me, and we'll devise something i warrant. _don ferd_. i must go home. _don ant_. well, adieu! _don ferd_. but, don antonio, if you did not love my sister, you have too much honour and friendship to supplant me with clara-air--_don ant_. friendship is the bond of reason; but if beauty disapprove, heaven dissolves all other treason in the heart that's true to love. the faith which to my friend i swore, as a civil oath i view; but to the charms which i adore, 'tis religion to be true. [_exit_.] _don ferd_. there is always a levity in antonio's manner of replying to me on this subject that is very alarming.--'sdeath, if clara should love him after all. song. though cause for suspicion appears, yet proofs of her love, too, are strong; i'm a wretch if i'm right in my fears, and unworthy of bliss if i'm wrong. what heart-breaking torments from jealousy flow, ah! none but the jealous--the jealous can know! when blest with the smiles of my fair, i know not how much i adore: those smiles let another but share, and i wonder i prized them no more! then whence can i hope a relief from my woe, when the falser she seems, still the fonder i grow? [_exit_.] scene iii.--_a room in_ don jerome's _house_. _enter_ donna louisa _and_ duenna. _don. louisa_. but, my dear margaret, my charming duenna, do you think we shall succeed? _duen_. i tell you again, i have no doubt on't; but it must be instantly put to the trial. everything is prepared in your room, and for the rest we must trust to fortune. _don. louisa_. my father's oath was, never to see me till i had consented to---_duen_. 'twas thus i overheard him say to his friend, don guzman,--_i will demand of her to-morrow, once for all, whether she will consent to marry isaac mendoza; if she hesitates, i will make a solemn oath never to see or speak to her till she returns to her duty_.--these were his words. _don. louisa_. and on his known obstinate adherence to what he has once said, you have formed this plan for my escape.--but have you secured my maid in our interest? _duen_. she is a party in the whole; but remember, if we succeed, you resign all right and title in little isaac, the jew, over to me. _don. louisa_. that i do with all my soul; get him if you can, and i shall wish you joy most heartily. he is twenty times as rich as my poor antonio. air. thou canst not boast of fortune's store, my love, while me they wealthy call: but i was glad to find thee poor- for with my heart i'd give thee all. and then the grateful youth shall own i loved him for himself alone. but when his worth my hand shall gain, no word or look of mine shall show that i the smallest thought retain of what my bounty did bestow; yet still his grateful heart shall own i loved him for himself alone. _duen_. i hear don jerome coming.--quick, give me the last letter i brought you from antonio--you know that is to be the ground of my dismission.--i must slip out to seal it up, as undelivered. [_exit_.] _enter_ don jerome _and_ don ferdinand. _don jer_. what, i suppose you have been serenading too! eh, disturbing some peaceable neighbourhood with villainous catgut and lascivious piping! out on't! you set your sister, here, a vile example; but i come to tell you, madam, that i'll suffer no more of these midnight incantations--these amorous orgies, that steal the senses in the hearing; as, they say, egyptian embalmers serve mummies, extracting the brain through the ears. however, there's an end of your frolics.--isaac mendoza will be here presently, and to-morrow you shall marry him. _don. louisa_. never, while i have life! _don ferd_. indeed, sir, i wonder how you can think of such a man for a son-in-law. _don jer_. sir, you are very kind to favour me with your sentiments-and pray, what is your objection to him? _don ferd_. he is a portuguese, in the first place. _don jer_. no such thing, boy; he has forsworn his country. _don. louisa_. he is a jew. _don jer_. another mistake: he has been a christian these six weeks. _don ferd_. ay, he left his old religion for an estate, and has not had time to get a new one. _don. louisa_. but stands like a dead wall between church and synagogue, or like the blank leaves between the old and new testament. _don jer_. anything more? _don ferd_. but the most remarkable part of his character is his passion for deceit and tricks of cunning. _don. louisa_. though at the same time the fool predominates so much over the knave, that i am told he is generally the dupe of his own art. _don ferd_. true; like an unskilful gunner, he usually misses his aim, and is hurt by the recoil of his own piece. _don jer_. anything more? _don. louisa_. to sum up all, he has the worst fault a husband can have--he's not my choice. _don jer_. but you are his; and choice on one side is sufficient--two lovers should never meet in marriage--be you sour as you please, he is sweet-tempered; and for your good fruit, there's nothing like ingrafting on a crab. _don. louisa_. i detest him as a lover, and shall ten times more as a husband. _don jer_. i don't know that-marriage generally makes a great change-but, to cut the matter short, will you have him or not? _don. louisa_. there is nothing else i could disobey you in. _don jer_. do you value your father's peace? _don. louisa_. so much, that i will not fasten on him the regret of making an only daughter wretched. _don jer_. very well, ma'am, then mark me--never more will i see or converse with you till you return to your duty--no reply--this and your chamber shall be your apartments; i never will stir out without leaving you under lock and key, and when i'm at home no creature can approach you but through my library: we'll try who can be most obstinate. out of my sight!--there remain till you know your duty. [_pushes her out_.] don ferd_. surely, sir, my sister's inclinations should be consulted in a matter of this kind, and some regard paid to don antonio, being my particular friend. _don jer_. that, doubtless, is a very great recommendation!--i certainly have not paid sufficient respect to it. _don ferd_. there is not a man living i would sooner choose for a brother-in-law. _don jer_. very possible; and if you happen to have e'er a sister, who is not at the same time a daughter of mine, i'm sure i shall have no objection to the relationship; but at present, if you please, we'll drop the subject. _don ferd_. nay, sir, 'tis only my regard for my sister makes me speak. _don jer_. then, pray sir, in future, let your regard for your father make you hold your tongue. _don ferd_. i have done, sir. i shall only add a wish that you would reflect what at our age you would have felt, had you been crossed in your affection for the mother of her you are so severe to. _don jer_. why, i must confess i had a great affection for your mother's ducats, but that was all, boy. i married her for her fortune, and she took me in obedience to her father, and a very happy couple we were. we never expected any love from one another, and so we were never disappointed. if we grumbled a little now and then, it was soon over, for we were never fond enough to quarrel; and when the good woman died, why, why,--i had as lieve she had lived, and i wish every widower in seville could say the same. i shall now go and get the key of this dressing-room--so, good son, if you have any lecture in support of disobedience to give your sister, it must be brief; so make the best of your time, d'ye hear? [_exit_.] _don ferd_. i fear, indeed, my friend antonio has little to hope for; however, louisa has firmness, and my father's anger will probably only increase her affection.--in our intercourse with the world, it is natural for us to dislike those who are innocently the cause of our distress; but in the heart's attachment a woman never likes a man with ardour till she has suffered for his sake.--[_noise_.] so! what bustle is here--between my father and the duenna too, i'll e'en get out of the way. [_exit_.] _re-enter_ don jerome _with a letter, pulling in_ duenna. _don jer_. i'm astonished! i'm thunderstruck! here's treachery with a vengeance! you, antonio's creature, and chief manager of this plot for my daughter's eloping!--you, that i placed here as a scarecrow? _duen_. what? _don jer_. a scarecrow--to prove a decoy-duck! what have you to say for yourself? _duen_. well, sir, since you have forced that letter from me, and discovered my real sentiments, i scorn to renounce them.--i am antonio's friend, and it was my intention that your daughter should have served you as all such old tyrannical sots should be served--i delight in the tender passions and would befriend all under their influence. _don jer_. the tender passions! yes, they would become those impenetrable features! why, thou deceitful hag! i placed thee as a guard to the rich blossoms of my daughter's beauty. i thought that dragon's front of thine would cry aloof to the sons of gallantry: steel traps and spring guns seemed writ in every wrinkle of it.--but you shall quit my house this instant. the tender passions, indeed! go, thou wanton sibyl, thou amorous woman of endor, go! _duen_. you base, scurrilous, old--but i won't demean myself by naming what you are.--yes, savage, i'll leave your den; but i suppose you don't mean to detain my apparel--i may have my things, i presume? _don jer_. i took you, mistress, with your wardrobe on--what have you pilfered, eh? _duen_. sir, i must take leave of my mistress; she has valuables of mine: besides, my cardinal and veil are in her room. _don jer_. your veil, forsooth! what, do you dread being gazed at? or are you afraid of your complexion? well, go take your leave, and get your veil and cardinal! so! you quit the house within these five minutes.--in--in--quick!--[_exit_ duenna.] here was a precious plot of mischief!--these are the comforts daughters bring us! air. if a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life, no peace shall you know, though you've buried your wife! at twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her- oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter! sighing and whining, dying and pining, oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter! when scarce in their teens they have wit to perplex us, with letters and lovers for ever they vex us; while each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her; oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter! wrangling and jangling, flouting and pouting, oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter! _re-enter_ donna louisa, _dressed as_ duenna, _with cardinal and veil, seeming to cry_. this way, mistress, this way.--what, i warrant a tender parting; so! tears of turpentine down those deal cheeks.--ay, you may well hide your head--yes, whine till your heart breaks! but i'll not hear one word of excuse--so you are right to be dumb. this way, this way. [_exeunt_.] _re-enter_ duenna. _duen_. so, speed you well, sagacious don jerome! oh rare effects of passion and obstinacy! now shall i try whether i can't play the fine lady as well as my mistress, and if i succeed, i may be a fine lady for the rest of my life--i'll lose no time to equip myself. [_exit_.] scene iv.--_the court before_ don jerome's _house. enter_ don jerome _and_ donna louisa. _don jer_. come, mistress, there is your way--the world lies before you, so troop, thou antiquated eve, thou original sin! hold, yonder is some fellow skulking; perhaps it is antonio--go to him, d'ye hear, and tell him to make you amends, and as he has got you turned away, tell him i say it is but just he should take you himself; go--[_exit_ donna louisa.] so! i am rid of her, thank heaven! and now i shall be able to keep my oath, and confine my daughter with better security. [_exit_]. scene v.-_the piazza. enter_ donna clara _and_ maid. _maid_. but where, madam, is it you intend to go? _don. clara_. anywhere to avoid the selfish violence of my mother-inlaw, and ferdinand's insolent importunity. _maid_. indeed, ma'am, since we have profited by don ferdinand's key, in making our escape, i think we had best find him, if it were only to thank him. _don. clara_. no--he has offended me exceedingly. [_retires_]. _enter_ donna louisa. _don. louisa_. so i have succeeded in being turned out of doors--but how shall i find antonio? i dare not inquire for him, for fear of being discovered; i would send to my friend clara, but then i doubt her prudery would condemn me. _maid_. then suppose, ma'am, you were to try if your friend donna louisa would not receive you? _don. clara_. no, her notions of filial duty are so severe, she would certainly betray me. _don. louisa_. clara is of a cold temper, and would think this step of mine highly forward. _don. clara_. louisa's respect for her father is so great, she would not credit the unkindness of mine. [donna louisa _turns and sees_ donna clara _and_ maid.] _don. louisa_. ha! who are those? sure one is clara--if it be, i'll trust her. clara! [_advances_.] _don. clara_. louisa! and in masquerade too! _don. louisa_. you will be more surprised when i tell you, that i have run away from my father. _don. clara_. surprised indeed! and i should certainly chide you most horridly, only that i have just run away from mine. _don. louisa_. my dear clara! [_embrace_.] _don. clara_. dear sister truant! and whither are you going? _don. louisa_. to find the man i love, to be sure; and, i presume, you would have no aversion to meet with my brother? _don. clara_. indeed i should: he has behaved so ill to me, i don't believe i shall ever forgive him. air. when sable night, each drooping plant restoring, wept o'er the flowers her breath did cheer, as some sad widow o'er her babe deploring, wakes its beauty with a tear; when all did sleep whose weary hearts did borrow one hour from love and care to rest, lo! as i press'd my couch in silent sorrow, my lover caught me to his breast! he vow'd he came to save me from those who would enslave me! then kneeling, kisses stealing, endless faith he swore; but soon i chid him thence, for had his fond pretence obtain'd one favour then, and he had press'd again, i fear'd my treacherous heart might grant him more. _don. louisa_. well, for all this, i would have sent him to plead his pardon, but that i would not yet awhile have him know of my flight. and where do you hope to find protection? _don. clara_. the lady abbess of the convent of st. catherine is a relation and kind friend of mine--i shall be secure with her, and you had best go thither with me. _don. louisa_. no; i am determined to find antonio first; and, as i live, here comes the very man i will employ to seek him for me. _don. clara_. who is he? he's a strange figure. _don. louisa_. yes; that sweet creature is the man whom my father has fixed on for my husband. _don. clara_. and will you speak to him? are you mad? _don. louisa_. he is the fittest man in the world for my purpose; for, though i was to have married him to-morrow, he is the only man in seville who, i am sure, never saw me in his life. _don. clara_. and how do you know him? _don. louisa_. he arrived but yesterday, and he was shown to me from the window, as he visited my father. _don. clara_. well, i'll begone. _don. louisa_. hold, my dear clara--a thought has struck me: will you give me leave to borrow your name, as i see occasion? _don. clara_. it will but disgrace you; but use it as you please: i dare not stay.--[_going_.]--but, louisa, if you should see your brother, be sure you don't inform him that i have taken refuge with the dame prior of the convent of st. catherine, on the left hand side of the piazza which leads to the church of st. anthony. _don. louisa_. ha! ha! ha! i'll be very particular in my directions where he may not find you.--[_exeunt_ donna clara _and_ maid.]--so! my swain, yonder, has, done admiring himself, and draws nearer. [_retires_.] _enter_ isaac _and_ don carlos. _isaac_. [_looking in a pocket-glass_.] i tell you, friend carlos, i will please myself in the habit of my chin. _don car_. but, my dear friend, how can you think to please a lady with such a face? _isaac_. why, what's the matter with the face? i think it is a very engaging face; and, i am sure, a lady must have very little taste who could dislike my beard.--[_sees_ donna louisa.]--see now! i'll die if here is not a little damsel struck with it already. _don. louisa_. signor, are you disposed to oblige a lady who greatly wants your assistance? [_unveils_.] _isaac_. egad, a very pretty black-eyed girl! she has certainly taken a fancy to me, carlos. first, ma'am, i must beg the favour of your name. _don. louisa_. [_aside_.] so! it's well i am provided.--[_aloud_.]--my name, sir, is donna clara d'almanza. _isaac_. what? don guzman's daughter? i'faith, i just now heard she was missing. _don. louisa_. but sure, sir, you have too much gallantry and honour to betray me, whose fault is love? _isaac_. so! a passion for me! poor girl! why, ma'am, as for betraying you, i don't see how i could get anything by it; so, you may rely on my honour; but as for your love, i am sorry your case is so desperate. _don. louisa_. why so, signor? _isaac_. because i am positively engaged to another--an't i, carlos? _don. louisa_. nay, but hear me. _isaac_. no, no; what should i hear for? it is impossible for me to court you in an honourable way; and for anything else, if i were to comply now, i suppose you have some ungrateful brother, or cousin, who would want to cut my throat for my civility--so, truly, you had best go home again. _don. louisa_. [_aside_.] odious wretch!--[_aloud_.]--but, good signor, it is antonio d'ercilla, on whose account i have eloped. _isaac_. how! what! it is not with me, then, that you are in love? _don. louisa_. no, indeed, it is not. _isaac_. then you are a forward, impertinent simpleton! and i shall certainly acquaint your father. _don. louisa_. is this your gallantry? _isaac_. yet hold--antonio d'ercilla, did you say? egad, i may make something of this--antonio d'ercilla? _don. louisa_. yes; and if ever you wish to prosper in love, you will bring me to him. _isaac_. by st. iago and i will too!--carlos, this antonio is one who rivals me (as i have heard) with louisa--now, if i could hamper him with this girl, i should have the field to myself; hey, carlos! a lucky thought, isn't it? _don car_. yes, very good--very good! _isaac_. ah! this little brain is never at a loss--cunning isaac! cunning rogue! donna clara, will you trust yourself awhile to my friend's direction? _don. louisa_. may i rely on you, good signor? _don. car_. lady, it is impossible i should deceive you. air. had i a heart for falsehood framed, i ne'er could injure you; for though your tongue no promise claim'd, your charms would make me true. to you no soul shall bear deceit, no stranger offer wrong; but friends in all the aged you'll meet, and lovers in the young. but when they learn that you have blest another with your heart, they'll bid aspiring passion rest, and act a brother's part: then, lady, dread not here deceit, nor fear to suffer wrong; for friends in all the aged you'll meet, and brothers in the young. _isaac_. conduct the lady to my lodgings, carlos; i must haste to don jerome. perhaps you know louisa, ma'am. she's divinely handsome, isn't she? _don. louisa_. you must excuse me not joining with you. _isaac_. why i have heard it on all hands. _don. louisa_. her father is uncommonly partial to her; but i believe you will find she has rather a matronly air. _isaac_. carlos, this is all envy.--you pretty girls never speak well of one another.--[_to_ don carlos.] hark ye, find out antonio, and i'll saddle him with this scrape, i warrant. oh, 'twas the luckiest thought! donna clara, your very obedient. carlos, to your post. duet. _isaac_. my mistress expects me, and i must go to her, or how can i hope for a smile? _don. louisa_. soon may you return a prosperous wooer, but think what i suffer the while. alone, and away from the man whom i love, in strangers i'm forced to confide. _isaac_. dear lady, my friend you may trust, and he'll prove your servant, protector, and guide. air. _don car_. gentle maid, ah! why suspect me? let me serve thee--then reject me. canst thou trust, and i deceive thee? art thou sad, and shall i grieve thee? gentle maid, ah i why suspect me? let me serve thee--then reject me. trio. _don. louisa_. never mayst thou happy be, if in aught thou'rt false to me. _isaac_. never may he happy be, if in aught he's false to thee. _don car_. never may i happy be, if in aught i'm false to thee. _don. louisa_. never mayst thou, &c. _isaac_. never may he, &c. _don car_. never may i, &c. [_exeunt_.] act ii. scene i.--_a library in_ don jerome's _house_. _enter_ don jerome _and_ isaac. _don jer_. ha! ha! ha! run away from her father! has she given him the slip? ha! ha! ha! poor don guzman! _isaac_. ay; and i am to conduct her to antonio; by which means you see i shall hamper him so that he can give me no disturbance with your daughter--this is a trap, isn't it? a nice stroke of cunning, hey? _don jer_. excellent! excellent i yes, yes, carry her to him, hamper him by all means, ha! ha! ha! poor don guzman! an old fool! imposed on by a girl! _isaac_. nay, they have the cunning of serpents, that's the truth on't. _don jer_. psha! they are cunning only when they have fools to deal with. why don't my girl play me such a trick? let her cunning overreach my caution, i say--hey, little isaac! _isaac_. true, true; or let me see any of the sex make a fool of me!-no, no, egad! little solomon (as my aunt used to call me) understands tricking a little too well. _don jer_. ay, but such a driveller as don guzman! _isaac_. and such a dupe as antonio! _don jer_. true; never were seen such a couple of credulous simpletons! but come, 'tis time you should see my daughter--you must carry on the siege by yourself, friend isaac. _isaac_. sir, you'll introduce---_don jer_. no--i have sworn a solemn oath not to see or to speak to her till she renounces her disobedience; win her to that, and she gains a father and a husband at once. _isaac_. gad, i shall never be able to deal with her alone; nothing keeps me in such awe as perfect beauty--now there is something consoling and encouraging in ugliness. song give isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast, but health and good humour to make her his toast; if straight, i don't mind whether slender or fat, and six feet or four--we'll ne'er quarrel for that. whate'er her complexion, i vow i don't care; if brown, it is lasting--more pleasing, if fair: and though in her face i no dimples should see, let her smile--and each dell is a dimple to me. let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen, and her eyes may be e'en any colour but green; for in eyes, though so various in lustre and hue, i swear i've no choice--only let her have two. 'tis true i'd dispense with a throne on her back, and white teeth, i own, are genteeler than black; a little round chin too's a beauty, i've heard; but i only desire she mayn't have a beard. _don jer_. you will change your note, my friend, when you've seen louisa. _isaac_. oh, don jerome, the honour of your alliance---_don jer_. ay, but her beauty will affect you--she is, though i say it who am her father, a very prodigy. there you will see features with an eye like mine--yes, i'faith, there is a kind of wicked sparkling-sometimes of a roguish brightness, that shows her to be my own. _isaac_. pretty rogue! _don jer_. then, when she smiles, you'll see a little dimple in one cheek only; a beauty it is certainly, yet, you shall not say which is prettiest, the cheek with the dimple, or the cheek without. _isaac_. pretty rogue! _don jer_. then the roses on those cheeks are shaded with a sort of velvet down, that gives a delicacy to the glow of health. _isaac_. pretty rogue! _don jer_. her skin pure dimity, yet more fair, being spangled here and there with a golden freckle. _isaac_. charming pretty rogue! pray how is the tone of her voice? _don jer_. remarkably pleasing--but if you could prevail on her to sing, you would be enchanted--she is a nightingale--a virginia nightingale! but come, come; her maid shall conduct you to her antechamber. _isaac_. well, egad, i'll pluck up resolution, and meet her frowns intrepidly. _don jer_. ay! woo her briskly--win her, and give me a proof of your address, my little solomon. _isaac_. but hold--i expect my friend carlos to call on me here. if he comes, will you send him to me? _don jer_. i will. lauretta!--[_calls_.]--come--she'll show you to the room. what! do you droop? here's a mournful face to make love with! [_exeunt_.] scene ii.--donna louisa's _dressing-room_. _enter_ isaac _and_ maid. _maid_. sir, my mistress will wait on you presently. [_goes to the door_.] _isaac_. when she's at leisure--don't hurry her.--[_exit_ maid.]--i wish i had ever practised a love-scene--i doubt i shall make a poor figure--i couldn't be more afraid if i was going before the inquisition. so, the door opens--yes, she's coming--the very rustling of her silk has a disdainful sound. _enter_ duenna _dressed_ as donna louisa. now dar'n't i look round, for the soul of me--her beauty will certainly strike me dumb if i do. i wish she'd speak first. _duen_. sir, i attend your pleasure. _isaac_. [_aside_.] so! the ice is broke, and a pretty civil beginning too!--[_aloud_.] hem! madam--miss--i'm all attention. _duen_. nay, sir, 'tis i who should listen, and you propose. _isaac_. [_aside_.] egad, this isn't so disdainful neither--i believe i may venture to look. no--i dar'n't--one glance of those roguish sparklers would fix me again. _duen_. you seem thoughtful, sir. let me persuade you to sit down. _isaac_. [_aside_.] so, so; she mollifies apace--she's struck with my figure! this attitude has had its effect. _duen_. come, sir, here's a chair. _isaac_. madam, the greatness of your goodness overpowers me--that a lady so lovely should deign to turn her beauteous eyes on me so. [_she takes his hand, he turns and sees her_.] _duen_. you seem surprised at my condescension. _isaac_. why, yes, madam, i am a little surprised at it.--[_aside_.] zounds! this can never be louisa--she's as old as my mother! _duen_. but former prepossessions give way to my father's commands. _isaac_. [_aside_.] her father! yes, 'tis she then.--lord, lord; how blind some parents are! _duen_. signor isaac! _isaac_. [_aside_.] truly, the little damsel was right--she has rather a matronly air, indeed! ah! 'tis well my affections are fixed on her fortune, and not her person. _duen_. signor, won't you sit? [_she sits_.] _isaac_. pardon me, madam, i have scarce recovered my astonishment at your condescension, madam.--[_aside_.] she has the devil's own dimples, to be sure! _duen_. i do not wonder, sir, that you are surprised at my affability-i own, signor, that i was vastly prepossessed against you, and, being teased by my father, i did give some encouragement to antonio; but then, sir, you were described to me as quite a different person. _isaac_. ay, and so you were to me, upon my soul, madam. _duen_. but when i saw you i was never more struck in my life. _isaac_. that was just my case, too, madam: i was struck all of a heap, for my part. _duen_. well, sir, i see our misapprehension has been mutual--you expected to find me haughty and averse, and i was taught to believe you a little black, snub-nosed fellow, without person, manners, or address. _isaac_. [_aside_.] egad, i wish she had answered her picture as well! _duen_. but, sir, your air is noble--something so liberal in your carriage, with so penetrating an eye, and so bewitching a smile! _isaac_. [_aside_.] egad, now i look at her again, i don't think she is so ugly! _duen_. so little like a jew, and so much like a gentleman! _isaac_. [_aside_.] well, certainly, there is something pleasing in the tone of her voice. _duen_. you will pardon this breach of decorum in praising you thus, but my joy at being so agreeably deceived has given me such a flow of spirits! _isaac_. oh, dear lady, may i thank those dear lips for this goodness?--[_kisses her_.] [_aside_.]why she has a pretty sort of velvet down, that's the truth on't. _duen_. o sir, you have the most insinuating manner, but indeed you should get rid of that odious beard--one might as well kiss a hedgehog. _isaac_. [_aside_.] yes, ma'am, the razor wouldn't be amiss--for either of us.--[_aloud_.] could you favour me with a song? _duen_. willingly, though i'm rather hoarse--ahem![_begins to sing_.] _isaac_. [_aside_.] very like a virginia nightingale!--[_aloud_.] ma'am, i perceive you're hoarse--i beg you will not distress---_duen_. oh, not in the least distressed. now, sir. song. when a tender maid is first assay'd by some admiring swain. how her blushes rise if she meet his eyes, while he unfolds his pain! if he takes her hand, she trembles quite! touch her lips, and she swoons outright! while a pit-a-pat, &c. her heart avows her fright. but in time appear fewer signs of fear; the youth she boldly views: if her hand he grasp, or her bosom clasp, no mantling blush ensues! then to church well pleased the lovers move, while her smiles her contentment prove; and a pit-a-pat, &c. her heart avows her love. _isaac_. charming, ma'am! enchanting! and, truly, your notes put me in mind of one that's very dear to me--a lady, indeed, whom you greatly resemble! _duen_. how i is there, then, another so dear to you? _isaac_. oh, no, ma'am, you mistake; it was my mother i meant. _duen_. come, sir, i see you are amazed and confounded at my condescension, and know not what to say. _isaac_. it is very true, indeed, ma'am; but it is a judgment, i look on it as a judgment on me, for delaying to urge the time when you'll permit me to complete my happiness, by acquainting don jerome with your condescension. _duen_. sir, i must frankly own to you, that i can never be yours with my father's consent. _isaac_. good lack! how so? _duen_. when my father, in his passion, swore he would never see me again till i acquiesced in his will, i also made a vow, that i would never take a husband from his hand; nothing shall make me break that oath: but if you have spirit and contrivance enough to carry me off without his knowledge, i'm yours. _isaac_. hum! _duen_. nay, sir, if you hesitate---_isaac_. [_aside_.] i'faith no bad whim this!--if i take her at her word, i shall secure her fortune, and avoid making any settlement in return; thus i shall not only cheat the lover, but the father too. oh, cunning rogue, isaac! ay, ay, let this little brain alone! egad, i'll take her in the mind! _duen_. well, sir, what's your determination? _isaac_. madam, i was dumb only from rapture--i applaud your spirit, and joyfully close with your proposal; for which thus let me, on this lily hand, express my gratitude. _duen_. well, sir, you must get my father's consent to walk with me in the garden. but by no means inform him of my kindness to you. _isaac_. no, to be sure, that would spoil all: but, trust me when tricking is the word--let me alone for a piece of cunning; this very day you shall be out of his power. _duen_. well, i leave the management of it all to you; i perceive plainly, sir, that you are not one that can be easily outwitted. _isaac_. egad, you're right, madam--you're right, i'faith. _re-enter_ maid. _maid_. here's a gentleman at the door, who begs permission to speak with signor isaac. _isaac_. a friend of mine, ma'am, and a trusty friend--let him come in--[_exit_ maid.] he's one to be depended on, ma'am. _enter_ don carlos. so coz. [_talks apart with_ don carlos.] _don car_. i have left donna clara at your lodgings, but can nowhere find antonio. _isaac_. well, i will search him out myself. carlos, you rogue, i thrive, i prosper! _don car_. where is your mistress? _isaac_. there, you booby, there she stands. _don car_. why, she's damned ugly! _isaac_. hush! [_stops his mouth_.] _duen_. what is your friend saying, signor? _isaac_. oh, ma'am, he is expressing his raptures at such charms as he never saw before. eh, carlos? _don car_. ay,--such as i never saw before, indeed! _duen_. you are a very obliging gentleman. well, signor isaac, i believe we had better part for the present. remember our plan. _isaac_. oh, ma'am, it is written in my heart, fixed as the image of those divine beauties. adieu, idol of my soul!--yet once more permit me----[_kisses her_.] _duen_. sweet, courteous sir, adieu! _isaac_. your slave eternally! come, carlos, say something civil at taking leave. _don car_. i'faith, isaac, she is the hardest woman to compliment i ever saw; however, i'll try something i had studied for the occasion. song. ah! sure a pair was never seen so justly form'd to meet by nature! the youth excelling so in mien, the maid in ev'ry grace of feature. oh, how happy are such lovers, when kindred beauties each discovers; for surely she was made for thee, and thou to bless this lovely creature! so mild your looks, your children thence will early learn the task of duty- the boys with all their father's sense, the girls with all their mother's beauty! oh, how happy to inherit at once such graces and such spirit! thus while you live may fortune give each blessing equal to your merit! [_exeunt_.] scene iii.--_a library in_ don jerome's _house_. don jerome _and_ don ferdinand _discovered_. _don jer_. object to antonio! i have said it. his poverty, can you acquit him of that? _don ferd_. sir, i own he is not over rich; but he is of as ancient and honourable a family as any in the kingdom. _don jer_. yes, i know the beggars are a very ancient family in most kingdoms; but never in great repute, boy. _don ferd_. antonio, sir, has many amiable qualities. _don jer_. but he is poor; can you clear him of that, i say? is he not a gay, dissipated rake, who has squandered his patrimony? _don ferd_. sir, he inherited but little; and that his generosity, more than his profuseness, has stripped him of; but he has never sullied his honour, which, with his title, has outlived his means. _don jer_. psha! you talk like a blockhead! nobility, without an estate, is as ridiculous as gold lace on a frieze coat. _don ferd_. this language, sir, would better become a dutch or english trader than a spaniard. _don jer_. yes; and those dutch and english traders, as you call them, are the wiser people. why, booby, in england they were formerly as nice, as to birth and family, as we are: but they have long discovered what a wonderful purifier gold is; and now, no one there regards pedigree in anything but a horse. oh, here comes isaac! i hope he has prospered in his suit. _don ferd_. doubtless, that agreeable figure of his must have helped his suit surprisingly. _don jer_. how now? [don ferdinand _walks aside_.] _enter_ isaac. well, my friend, have you softened her? _isaac_. oh, yes; i have softened her. _don jer_. what, does she come to? _isaac_. why, truly, she was kinder than i expected to find her. _don jer_. and the dear little angel was civil, eh? _isaac_. yes, the pretty little angel was very civil. _don jer_. i'm transported to hear it! well, and you were astonished at her beauty, hey? _isaac_. i was astonished, indeed! pray, how old is miss? _don jer_. how old? let me see--eight and twelve--she is twenty. _isaac_. twenty? _don jer_. ay, to a month. _isaac_. then, upon my soul, she is the oldest-looking girl of her age in christendom! _don jer_. do you think so? but, i believe, you will not see a prettier girl. _isaac_. here and there one. _don jer_. louisa has the family face. _isaac_. [_aside_.] yes, egad, i should have taken it for a family face, and one that has been in the family some time, too. _don jer_. she has her father's eyes. _isaac_. [_aside_.]truly, i should have guessed them to have been so! if she had her mother's spectacles, i believe she would not see the worse. _don jer_. her aunt ursula's nose, and her grandmother's forehead, to a hair. _isaac_. [_aside_.]ay, 'faith, and her grandfather's chin, to a hair. _don jer_. well, if she was but as dutiful as she's handsome--and hark ye, friend isaac, she is none of your made-up beauties--her charms are of the lasting kind. _isaac_. i'faith, so they should--for if she be but twenty now, she may double her age before her years will overtake her face. _don jer_. why, zounds, master isaac! you are not sneering, are you? _isaac_. why now, seriously, don jerome, do you think your daughter handsome? _don jer_. by this light, she's as handsome a girl as any in seville. _isaac_. then, by these eyes, i think her as plain a woman as ever i beheld. _don jer_. by st. iago! you must be blind. _isaac_. no, no; 'tis you are partial. _don jer_. how! have i neither sense nor taste? if a fair skin, fine eyes, teeth of ivory, with a lovely bloom, and a delicate shape,--if these, with a heavenly voice and a world of grace, are not charms, i know not what you call beautiful. _isaac_. good lack, with what eyes a father sees! as i have life, she is the very reverse of all this: as for the dimity skin you told me of, i swear 'tis a thorough nankeen as ever i saw! for her eyes, their utmost merit is not squinting--for her teeth, where there is one of ivory, its neighbour is pure ebony, black and white alternately, just like the keys of a harpsichord. then, as to her singing, and heavenly voice--by this hand, she has a shrill, cracked pipe, that sounds for all the world like a child's trumpet. _don jer_. why, you little hebrew scoundrel, do you mean to insult me? out of my house, i say! _don ferd_. [_coming forward_.] dear sir, what's the matter? _don jer_. why, this israelite here has the impudence to say your sister's ugly. _don ferd_. he must be either blind or insolent. _isaac_. [_aside_.]so, i find they are all in a story. egad, i believe i have gone too far! _don ferd_. sure, sir, there must be some mistake; it can't be my sister whom he has seen. _don jer_. 'sdeath! you are as great a fool as he! what mistake can there be? did not i lock up louisa, and haven't i the key in my own pocket? and didn't her maid show him into the dressing-room? and yet you talk of a mistake! no, the portuguese meant to insult me--and, but that this roof protects him, old as i am, this sword should do me justice. _isaac_. i[_aside_.] must get off as well as i can--her fortune is not the less handsome. duet. _isaac_. believe me, good sir, i ne'er meant to offend; my mistress i love, and i value my friend to win her and wed her is still my request, for better for worse--and i swear i don't jest. _don jer_. zounds! you'd best not provoke me, my rage is so high! _isaac_. hold him fast, i beseech you, his rage is so high! good sir, you're too hot, and this place i must fly. _don jer_. you're a knave and a sot, and this place you'd best fly. _isaac_. don jerome, come now, let us lay aside all joking, and be serious. _don jer_. how? _isaac_. ha! ha! ha! i'll be hanged if you haven't taken my abuse of your daughter seriously. _don jer_. you meant it so, did not you? _isaac_. o mercy, no! a joke--just to try how angry it would make you. _don jer_. was that all, i'faith? i didn't know you had been such a wag. ha! ha! ha! by st. iago! you made me very angry, though. well, and you do think louisa handsome? _isaac_. handsome! venus de medicis was a sybil to her. _don jer_. give me your hand, you little jocose rogue! egad, i thought we had been all off. _don ferd_. [_aside_.] so! i was in hopes this would have been a quarrel; but i find the jew is too cunning. _don jer_. ay, this gust of passion has made me dry--i am seldom ruffled. order some wine in the next room--let us drink the poor girl's health. poor louisa! ugly, eh! ha! ha! ha! 'twas a very good joke, indeed! _isaac_. [_aside_.] and a very true one, for all that. _don jer_, and, ferdinand, i insist upon your drinking success to my friend. _don ferd_. sir, i will drink success to my friend with all my heart. _don jer_. come, little solomon, if any sparks of anger had remained, this would be the only way to quench them. trio. a bumper of good liquor will end a contest quicker than justice, judge, or vicar; so fill a cheerful glass, and let good humour pass. but if more deep the quarrel, why, sooner drain the barrel than be the hateful fellow that's crabbed when he's mellow. a bumper, &c. [_exeunt_.] scene iv.--isaac's _lodgings_. _enter_ donna louisa. _don. louisa_. was ever truant daughter so whimsically circumstanced as i am? i have sent my intended husband to look after my lover--the man of my father's choice is gone to bring me the man of my own: but how dispiriting is this interval of expectation! song. what bard, o time, discover, with wings first made thee move? ah! sure it was some lover who ne'er had left his love! for who that once did prove the pangs which absence brings, though but one day he were away, could picture thee with wings? what bard, &c. _enter_ don carlos. so, friend, is antonio found? _don car_. i could not meet with him, lady; but i doubt not my friend isaac will be here with him presently. _don. louisa_. oh, shame! you have used no diligence. is this your courtesy to a lady, who has trusted herself to your protection? _don car_. indeed, madam, i have not been remiss. _don. louisa_. well, well; but if either of you had known how each moment of delay weighs upon the heart of her who loves, and waits the object of her love, oh, ye would not then have trifled thus! _don car_. alas, i know it well! _don. louisa_. were you ever in love, then? _don car_. i was, lady; but, while i have life, i will never be again. _don. louisa_. was your mistress so cruel? _don car_. if she had always been so, i should have been happier. song. oh, had my love ne'er smiled on me, i ne'er had known such anguish; but think how false, how cruel she, to bid me cease to languish; to bid me hope her hand to gain, breathe on a flame half perish'd; and then with cold and fixed disdain, to kill the hope she cherish'd. not worse his fate, who on a wreck, that drove as winds did blow it, silent had left the shatter'd deck, to find a grave below it. then land was cried--no more resign'd, he glow'd with joy to hear it; not worse his fate, his woe, to find the wreck must sink ere near it! _don. louisa_. as i live, here is your friend coming with antonio! i'll retire for a moment to surprise him. [_exit_.] _enter_ isaac _and_ don antonio. _don ant_. indeed, my good friend, you must be mistaken. clara d'almanza in love with me, and employ you to bring me to meet her! it is impossible! _isaac_. that you shall see in an instant. carlos, where is the lady?-[don carlos _points to the door_.] in the next room, is she? _don ant_. nay, if that lady is really here, she certainly wants me to conduct her to a dear friend of mine, who has long been her lover. _isaac_. psha! i tell you 'tis no such thing--you are the man she wants, and nobody but you. here's ado to persuade you to take a pretty girl that's dying for you! _don ant_. but i have no affection for this lady. _isaac_. and you have for louisa, hey? but take my word for it, antonio, you have no chance there--so you may as well secure the good that offers itself to you. _don ant_. and could you reconcile it to your conscience to supplant your friend? _isaac_. pish! conscience has no more to do with gallantry than it has with politics. why, you are no honest fellow if love can't make a rogue of you; so come--do go in and speak to her, at least. _don ant_, well, i have no objection to that. _isaac_. [_opens the door_.] there--there she is--yonder by the window--get in, do.--[_pushes him in, and half shuts the door_.] now, carlos, now i shall hamper him, i warrant! stay, i'll peep how they go on. egad, he looks confoundedly posed! now she's coaxing him. see, carlos, he begins to come to--ay, ay, he'll soon forget his conscience. _don car_. look--now they are both laughing! _isaac_. ay, so they are--yes, yes, they are laughing at that dear friend he talked of--ay, poor devil, they have outwitted him. _don car_, now he's kissing her hand. _isaac_, yes, yes, faith, they're agreed--he's caught, he's entangled. my dear carlos, we have brought it about. oh, this little cunning head! i'm a machiavel--a very machiavel! _don car_, i hear somebody inquiring for you--i'll see who it is. [_exit_.] _re-enter_ don antonio _and_ donna louisa. _don ant_. well, my good friend, this lady has so entirely convinced me of the certainty of your success at don jerome's, that i now resign my pretensions there. _isaac_. you never did a wiser thing, believe me; and, as for deceiving your friend, that's nothing at all--tricking is all fair in love, isn't it, ma'am? _don. louisa_. certainly, sir; and i am particularly glad to find you are of that opinion. _isaac_. o lud! yes, ma'am--let any one outwit me that can, i say! but here, let me join your hands. there you lucky rogue! i wish you happily married from the bottom of my soul! _don. louisa_. and i am sure, if you wish it, no one else should prevent it. _isaac_. now, antonio, we are rivals no more; so let us be friends, will you? _don ant_. with all my heart, isaac. _isaac_. it is not every man, let me tell you, that would have taken such pains, or been so generous to a rival. _don ant_. no, 'faith, i don't believe there's another beside yourself in all spain. _isaac_. well, but you resign all pretensions to the other lady? _don ant_. that i do, most sincerely. _isaac_. i doubt you have a little hankering there still. _don ant_. none in the least, upon my soul. _isaac_. i mean after her fortune. _don ant_. no, believe me. you are heartily welcome to every thing she has. _isaac_. well, i'faith, you have the best of the bargain, as to beauty, twenty to one. now i'll tell you a secret--i am to carry off louisa this very evening. _don. louisa_. indeed! _isaac_. yes, she has sworn not to take a husband from her father's hand--so i've persuaded him to trust her to walk with me in the garden, and then we shall give him the slip. _don. louisa_. and is don jerome to know nothing of this? _isaac_. o lud, no! there lies the jest. don't you see that, by this step, i over-reach him? i shall be entitled to the girl's fortune, without settling a ducat on her. ha! ha! ha! i'm a cunning dog, an't i? a sly little villain, eh? _don ant_. ha! ha! ha! you are indeed! _isaac_. roguish, you'll say, but keen, eh? devilish keen? _don ant_. so you are indeed--keen--very keen. _isaac_. and what a laugh we shall have at don jerome's when the truth comes out i hey? _don. louisa_. yes, i'll answer for it, we shall have a good laugh, when the truth comes out, ha! ha! ha! _re-enter_ don carlos. _don car_. here are the dancers come to practise the fandango you intended to have honoured donna louisa with. _isaac_. oh, i shan't want them; but, as i must pay them, i'll see a caper for my money. will you excuse me? _don. louisa_. willingly. _isaac_. here's my friend, whom you may command for any service. madam, our most obedient--antonio, i wish you all happiness.-[_aside_.] oh, the easy blockhead! what a tool i have made of him!-this was a masterpiece! [_exit_.] _don. louisa_. carlos, will you be my guard again, and convey me to the convent of st. catherine? _don ant_. why, louisa--why should you go there? _don. louisa_. i have my reasons, and you must not be seen to go with me; i shall write from thence to my father; perhaps, when he finds what he has driven me to, he may relent. _don ant_. i have no hope from him. o louisa! in these arms should be your sanctuary. _don. louisa_. be patient but for a little while--my father cannot force me from thence. but let me see you there before evening, and i will explain myself. _don ant_. i shall obey. _don. louisa_. come, friend. antonio, carlos has been a lover himself. _don ant_. then he knows the value of his trust. _don car_. you shall not find me unfaithful. trio. soft pity never leaves the gentle breast where love has been received a welcome guest; as wandering saints poor huts have sacred made, he hallows every heart he once has sway'd, and, when his presence we no longer share, still leaves compassion as a relic there. [_exeunt_.] act iii. scene i.--_a library in_ don jerome's _house_. enter_ don jerome _and_ servant. _don jer_. why, i never was so amazed in my life! louisa gone off with isaac mendoza! what! steal away with the very man whom i wanted her to marry--elope with her own husband, as it were--it is impossible! _ser_. her maid says, sir, they had your leave to walk in the garden, while you were abroad. the door by the shrubbery was found open, and they have not been heard of since. [_exit_.] _don jer_. well, it is the most unaccountable affair! 'sdeath! there is certainly some infernal mystery in it i can't comprehend! _enter_ second servant, _with a letter_. _ser_. here is a letter, sir, from signor isaac. [_exit_.] _don jer_. so, so, this will explain--ay, isaac mendoza--let me see-[_reads_.] _dearest sir, you must, doubtless, be much surprised at my flight with your daughter!_--yes, 'faith, and well i may--_i had the happiness to gain her heart at our first interview_--the devil you had!--_but, she having unfortunately made a vow not to receive a husband from your hands, i was obliged to comply with her whim!_--so, so!--_we shall shortly throw ourselves at your feet, and i hope you will have a blessing ready for one, who will then be your son-in-law_. isaac mendoza. a whim, hey? why, the devil's in the girl, i think! this morning, she would die sooner than have him, and before evening she runs away with him! well, well, my will's accomplished--let the motive be what it will--and the portuguese, sure, will never deny to fulfil the rest of the article. _re-enter_ servant, _with another letter_. _ser_. sir, here's a man below, who says he brought this from my young lady, donna louisa. [_exit_.] _don jer_. how! yes, it's my daughter's hand, indeed! lord, there was no occasion for them both to write; well, let's see what she says-[_reads_.] _my dearest father, how shall i entreat your pardon for the rash step i have taken--how confess the motive?_--pish! hasn't isaac just told me the motive?--one would think they weren't together when they wrote.--_if i have a spirit too resentful of ill usage, i have also a heart as easily affected by kindness_.--so, so, here the whole matter comes out; her resentment for antonio's ill usage has made her sensible of isaac's kindness--yes, yes, it is all plain enough. well. _i am not married yet, though with a man who, i am convinced, adores me_.--yes, yes, i dare say isaac is very fond of her. _but i shall anxiously expect your answer, in which, should i be so fortunate as to receive your consent, you will make completely happy your ever affectionate daughter,_ louisa. my consent! to be sure she shall have it! egad, i was never better pleased--i have fulfilled my resolution--i knew i should. oh, there's nothing like obstinacy! lewis! [_calls_.] _re-enter_ servant. let the man who brought the last letter, wait; and get me a pen and ink below.--[_exit_ servant.] i am impatient to set poor louisa's heart at rest. [_calls_.]holloa! lewis! sancho! _enter_ servants. see that there be a noble supper provided in the saloon to-night; serve up my best wines, and let me have music, d'ye hear? _ser_. yes, sir. _don jer_. and order all my doors to be thrown open; admit all guests, with masks or without masks.--[_exeunt_ servants.] i'faith, we'll have a night of it! and i'll let them see how merry an old man can be. song. oh, the days when i was young. when i laugh'd in fortune's spite; talk'd of love the whole day long, and with nectar crown'd the night! then it was, old father care, little reck'd i of thy frown; half thy malice youth could bear, and the rest a bumper drown. truth, they say, lies in a well, why, i vow i ne'er could see; let the water-drinkers tell, there it always lay for me. for when sparkling wine went round, never saw i falsehood's mask; but still honest truth i found in the bottom of each flask. true, at length my vigour's flown, i have years to bring decay; few the locks that now i own, and the few i have are grey. yet, old jerome, thou mayst boast, while thy spirits do not tire; still beneath thy age's frost glows a spark of youthful fire. [_exit_.] scene ii.--_the new piazza_. _enter_ don ferdinand _and_ lopez. _don ferd_. what, could you gather no tidings of her? nor guess where she was gone? o clara! clara! _lop_. in truth, sir, i could not. that she was run away from her father, was in everybody's mouth; and that don guzman was in pursuit of her, was also a very common report. where she was gone, or what was become of her, no one could take upon them to say. _don ferd_. 'sdeath and fury, you blockhead! she can't be out of seville. _lop_. so i said to myself, sir. 'sdeath and fury, you blockhead, says i, she can't be out of seville. then some said, she had hanged herself for love; and others have it, don antonio had carried her off. _don ferd_. 'tis false, scoundrel! no one said that. _lop_. then i misunderstood them, sir. _don ferd_. go, fool, get home! and never let me see you again till you bring me news of her.--[_exit_ lopez.] oh, how my fondness for this ungrateful girl has hurt my disposition. _enter_ isaac. _isaac_. so, i have her safe, and have only to find a priest to marry us. antonio now may marry clara, or not, if he pleases. _don ferd_. what! what was that you said of clara? _isaac_. oh, ferdinand! my brother-in-law that shall be, who thought of meeting you? _don ferd_. but what of clara? _isaac_. i'faith, you shall hear. this morning, as i was coming down, i met a pretty damsel, who told me her name was clara d'almanza, and begged my protection. _don ferd_. how! _isaac_. she said she had eloped from her father, don guzman, but that love for a young gentleman in seville was the cause. _don ferd_. oh, heavens! did she confess it? _isaac_. oh, yes, she confessed at once. but then, says she, my lover is not informed of my flight, nor suspects my intention. _don ferd_. [_aside_.] dear creature! no more i did indeed! oh, i am the happiest fellow!--[_aloud_.] well, isaac? _isaac_. why then she entreated me to find him out for her, and bring him to her. _don ferd_. good heavens, how lucky! well, come along, let's lose no time. [_pulling him_.] _isaac_. zooks! where are we to go? _don ferd_. why, did anything more pass? _isaac_. anything more! yes; the end on't was, that i was moved with her speeches, and complied with her desires. _don ferd_. well and where is she? _isaac_. where is she? why, don't i tell you? i complied with her request, and left her safe in the arms of her lover. _don ferd_. 'sdeath, you trifle with me!--i have never seen her. _isaac_. you! o lud no! how the devil should you? 'twas antonio she wanted; and with antonio i left her. _don ferd_. [_aside_.] hell and madness!--[_aloud_.] what, antonio d'ercilla? _isaac_. ay, ay, the very man; and the best part of it was, he was shy of taking her at first. he talked a good deal about honour, and conscience, and deceiving some dear friend; but, lord, we soon overruled that! _don ferd_. you did! _isaac_. oh, yes, presently.--such deceit! says he.--pish! says the lady, tricking is all fair in love. but then, my friend, says he.-psha! damn your friend, says i. so, poor wretch, he has no chance.-no, no; he may hang himself as soon as he pleases. _don ferd_. [_aside_.] i must go, or i shall betray myself. _isaac_. but stay, ferdinand, you han't heard the best of the joke. _don ferd_. curse on your joke! _isaac_. good lack! what's the matter now? i thought to have diverted you. _don ferd_. be racked! tortured! damned! _isaac_. why, sure you are not the poor devil of a lover, are you?-i'faith, as sure as can be, he is! this is a better joke than t'other. ha! ha! ha! _don ferd_. what! do you laugh? you vile, mischievous varlet!-[_collars him_.] but that you're beneath my anger, i'd tear your heart out! [_throws him from him_.] _isaac_. o mercy! here's usage for a brother-in-law! _don ferd_. but, hark ye, rascal! tell me directly where these false friends are gone, or, by my soul----[_draws_.] _isaac_. for heaven's sake, now, my dear brother-in-law, don't be in a rage! i'll recollect as well as i can. _don ferd_. be quick, then! _isaac_. i will, i will!--but people's memories differ; some have a treacherous memory: now mine is a cowardly memory--it takes to its heels at sight of a drawn sword--it does i'faith; and i could as soon fight as recollect. _don ferd_. zounds! tell me the truth, and i won't hurt you. _isaac_. no, no, i know you won't, my dear brother-in-law; but that ill-looking thing there---_don ferd_. what, then, you won't tell me? _isaac_. yes, yes, i will; i'll tell you all, upon my soul!--but why need you listen, sword in hand? _don ferd_. why, there.--[_puts up_.] now. _isaac_. why, then, i believe they are gone to--that is, my friend carlos told me he had left donna clara--dear ferdinand, keep your hands off--at the convent of st. catherine. _don ferd_. st. catherine! _isaac_. yes; and that antonio was to come to her there. _don ferd_. is this the truth? _isaac_. it is indeed; and all i know, as i hope for life! _don ferd_. well, coward, take your life; 'tis that false, dishonourable antonio, who shall feel my vengeance. _isaac_. ay, ay, kill him; cut his throat, and welcome. _don ferd_. but, for clara! infamy on her! she is not worth my resentment. _isaac_. no more she is, my dear brother-in-law. i'faith i would not be angry about her; she is not worth it, indeed. _don ferd_. 'tis false! she is worth the enmity of princes! _isaac_. true, true, so she is; and i pity you exceedingly for having lost her. _don ferd_. 'sdeath, you rascal! how durst you talk of pitying me? _isaac_. oh, dear brother-in-law, i beg pardon! i don't pity you in the least, upon my soul! _don ferd_. get hence, fool, and provoke me no further; nothing but your insignificance saves you! _isaac. [aside_.] i'faith, then, my insignificance is the best friend i have.--[_aloud_.] i'm going, dear ferdinand.--[_aside_.] what a curst hot hot-headed bully it is! [_exeunt severally_.] scene iii.--_the garden of the convent_. _enter_ donna louisa _and_ donna clara. _don. louisa_. and you really wish my brother may not find you out? _don. clara_. why else have i concealed myself under this disguise? _don. louisa_. why, perhaps because the dress becomes you: for you certainly don't intend to be a nun for life. _don. clara_. if, indeed, ferdinand had not offended me so last night-_don. louisa_. come, come, it was his fear of losing you made him so rash. _don. clara_. well, you may think me cruel, but i swear, if he were here this instant, i believe i should forgive him. song. by him we love offended, how soon our anger flies! one day apart, 'tis ended; behold him, and it dies. last night, your roving brother, enraged, i bade depart; and sure his rude presumption deserved to lose my heart. yet, were he now before met in spite of injured pride, i fear my eyes would pardon before my tongue could chide. _don. louisa_. i protest, clara, i shall begin to think you are seriously resolved to enter on your probation. _don. clara_. and, seriously, i very much doubt whether the character of a nun would not become me best. _don. louisa_. why, to be sure, the character of a nun is a very becoming one at a masquerade: but no pretty woman, in her senses, ever thought of taking the veil for above a night. _don. clara_. yonder i see your antonio is returned--i shall only interrupt you; ah, louisa, with what happy eagerness you turn to look for him! [_exit_.] _enter_ don antonio. _don ant_. well, my louisa, any news since i left you? _don. louisa_. none. the messenger is not yet returned from my father. _don ant_. well, i confess, i do not perceive what we are to expect from him. _don. louisa_. i shall be easier, however, in having made the trial: i do not doubt your sincerity, antonio; but there is a chilling air around poverty, that often kills affection, that was not nursed in it. if we would make love our household god, we had best secure him a comfortable roof. song.--_don antonio_. how oft, louisa, hast thou told, (nor wilt thou the fond boast disown,) thou wouldst not lose antonio's love to reign the partner of a throne! and by those lips that spoke so kind, and by that hand i've press'd to mine, to be the lord of wealth and power, by heavens, i would not part with thine! then how, my soul, can we be poor, who own what kingdoms could not buy? of this true heart thou shalt be queen, in serving thee, a monarch i. thus uncontroll'd, in mutual bliss, i rich in love's exhaustless mine, do thou snatch treasures from my lips, and i'll take kingdoms back from thine! _enter_ maid _with a letter_. _don. louisa_. my father's answer, i suppose. _don ant_. my dearest louisa, you may be assured that it contains nothing but threats and reproaches. _don. louisa_. let us see, however.--[reads.] _dearest daughter, make your lover happy: you have my full consent to marry as your whim has chosen, but be sure come home and sup with your affectionate father_. _don ant_. you jest, louisa! _don. louisa_. [_gives him the letter_..] read! read! _don ant_. 'tis so, by heavens! sure there must be some mistake; but that's none of our business.--now, louisa, you have no excuse for delay. _don. louisa_. shall we not then return and thank my father? _don ant_. but first let the priest put it out of his power to recall his word.--i'll fly to procure one. _don. louisa_. nay, if you part with me again, perhaps you may lose me. _don ant_. come, then--there is a friar of a neighbouring convent is my friend; you have already been diverted by the manners of a nunnery; let us see whether there is less hypocrisy among the holy fathers. _don. louisa_. i'm afraid not, antonio--for in religion, as in friendship, they who profess most are the least sincere. [_exeunt_.] _re-enter_ donna clara. _don. clara_, so, yonder they go, as happy as a mutual and confessed affection can make them, while i am left in solitude. heigho! love may perhaps excuse the rashness of an elopement from one's friend, but i am sure nothing but the presence of the man we love can support it. ha! what do i see! ferdinand, as i live! how could he gain admission? by potent gold, i suppose, as antonio did. how eager and disturbed he seems! he shall not know me as yet. [_lets down her veil_.] _enter_ don ferdinand. _don ferd_. yes, those were certainly they--my information was right. [_going_.] _don. clara_. [_stops him_.] pray, signor, what is your business here? _don ferd_. no matter--no matter! oh! they stop.--[_looks out_.] yes, that is the perfidious clara indeed! _don. clara_. so, a jealous error--i'm glad to see him so moved. [_aside_.] _don ferd_. her disguise can't conceal her--no, no, i know her too well. _don. clara_. [_aside_.] wonderful discernment!--[_aloud_.] but, signor---_don ferd_. be quiet, good nun; don't tease me!--by heavens, she leans upon his arm, hangs fondly on it! o woman, woman! _don. clar_. but, signor, who is it you want? _don ferd_. not you, not you, so prythee don't tease me. yet pray stay--gentle nun, was it not donna clara d'almanza just parted from you? _don. clara_. clara d'almanza, signor, is not yet out of the garden. _don ferd_. ay, ay, i knew i was right! and pray is not that gentleman, now at the porch with her, antonio d'ercilla? _don. clara_. it is indeed, signor. _don ferd_. so, so; but now one question more--can you inform me for what purpose they have gone away? _don. clara_. they are gone to be married, i believe. _don ferd_. very well--enough. now if i don't mar their wedding! [_exit_.] _don. clara_. [_unveils_.] i thought jealousy had made lovers quicksighted, but it has made mine blind. louisa's story accounts to me for this error, and i am glad to find i have power enough over him to make him so unhappy. but why should not i be present at his surprise when undeceived? when he's through the porch, i'll follow him; and, perhaps, louisa shall not singly be a bride. song. adieu, thou dreary pile, where never dies the sullen echo of repentant sighs! ye sister mourners of each lonely cell inured to hymns and sorrow, fare ye well! for happier scenes i fly this darksome grove, to saints a prison, but a tomb to love! [_exit_.] scene iv.--_a court before the priory_. _enter_ isaac, _crossing the stage_, don antonio _following_. _don ant_. what, my friend isaac! _isaac_. what, antonio! wish me joy! i have louisa safe. _don ant_. have you? i wish you joy with all my soul. _isaac_. yes, i come here to procure a priest to marry us. _don ant_. so, then, we are both on the same errand; i am come to look for father paul. _isaac_. ha! i'm glad on't--but, i'faith, he must tack me first; my love is waiting. _don ant_. so is mine--i left her in the porch. _isaac_. ay, but i'm in haste to go back to don jerome. _don ant_. and so am i too. _isaac_. well, perhaps he'll save time, and marry us both together--or i'll be your father, and you shall be mine. come along--but you are obliged to me for all this. _don ant_. yes, yes. [_exeunt_.] scene v.--_a room in the priory_. father paul, father francis, father augustine, _and other_ friars, _discovered at a table drinking_. glee and chorus. this bottle's the sun of our table, his beams are rosy wine we, planets, that are not able without his help to shine. let mirth and glee abound! you'll soon grow bright with borrow'd light, and shine as he goes round. _paul_. brother francis, toss the bottle about, and give me your toast. _fran_. have we drunk the abbess of st. ursuline? _paul_. yes, yes; she was the last. _fran_. then i'll give you the blue-eyed nun of st. catherine's. _paul_. with all my heart.--[_drinks_.] pray, brother augustine, were there any benefactions left in my absence? _aug_. don juan corduba has left a hundred ducats, to remember him in our masses. _paul_. has he? let them be paid to our wine-merchant, and we'll remember him in our cups, which will do just as well. anything more? _aug_. yes; baptista, the rich miser, who died last week, has bequeathed us a thousand pistoles, and the silver lamp he used in his own chamber, to burn before the image of st. anthony. _paul_. 'twas well meant, but we'll employ his money better-baptista's bounty shall light the living, not the dead. st. anthony is not afraid to be left in the dark, though he was.--[_knocking_.] see who's there. [father francis _goes to the door and opens it_.] _enter_ porter. _port_. here's one without, in pressing haste to speak with father paul. _fran_. brother paul! [father paul _comes from behind a curtain with a glass of wine, and in his hand a piece of cake_.] _paul_. here! how durst you, fellow, thus abruptly break in upon our devotions? _port_. i thought they were finished. _paul_. no, they were not--were they, brother francis? _fran_. not by a bottle each. _paul_. but neither you nor your fellows mark how the hours go; no, you mind nothing but the gratifying of your appetites; ye eat, and swill, and sleep, and gourmandise, and thrive, while we are wasting in mortification. _port_. we ask no more than nature craves. _paul_. 'tis false, ye have more appetites than hairs! and your flushed, sleek, and pampered appearance is the disgrace of our order-out on't! if you are hungry, can't you be content with the wholesome roots of the earth? and if you are dry, isn't there the crystal spring?--[_drinks_.] put this away,--[_gives the glass_] and show me where i am wanted.--[porter _drains the glass_.--paul, _going, turns_.] so you would have drunk it if there had been any left! ah, glutton! glutton! [_exeunt_.] scene vi.--_the court before the priory_. _enter_ isaac _and_ don antonio. _isaac_. a plaguey while coming, this same father paul.--he's detained at vespers, i suppose, poor fellow. _don ant_. no, here he comes. _enter_ father paul. good father paul, i crave your blessing. _isaac_. yes, good father paul, we are come to beg a favour. _paul_. what is it, pray? _isaac_. to marry us, good father paul; and in truth thou dost look like the priest of hymen. _paul_. in short, i may be called so; for i deal in repentance and mortification. _isaac_. no, no, thou seemest an officer of hymen, because thy presence speaks content and good humour. _paul_. alas, my appearance is deceitful. bloated i am, indeed! for fasting is a windy recreation, and it hath swollen me like a bladder. _don ant_. but thou hast a good fresh colour in thy face, father; rosy, i'faith! _paul_. yes, i have blushed for mankind, till the hue of my shame is as fixed as their vices. _isaac_. good man! _paul_. and i have laboured, too, but to what purpose? they continue to sin under my very nose. _isaac_. efecks, father, i should have guessed as much, for your nose seems to be put to the blush more than any other part of your face. _paul_. go, you're a wag. _don ant_. but to the purpose, father--will you officiate for us? _paul_. to join young people thus clandestinely is not safe: and, indeed, i have in my heart many weighty reasons against it. _don ant_. and i have in my hand many weighty reasons for it. isaac, haven't you an argument or two in our favour about you? _isaac_. yes, yes; here is a most unanswerable purse. _paul_. for shame! you make me angry: you forget who i am, and when importunate people have forced their trash--ay, into this pocket here-or into this--why, then the sin was theirs.--[_they put money into his pockets_.] fie, now how you distress me! i would return it, but that i must touch it that way, and so wrong my oath. _don ant_. now then, come with us. _isaac_. ay, now give us our title to joy and rapture. _paul_. well, when your hour of repentance comes, don't blame me. _don ant_. [_aside_.] no bad caution to my friend isaac.--[_aloud_.] well, well, father, do you do your part, and i'll abide the consequences. _isaac_. ay, and so will i. _enter_ donna louisa, _running_. _don. louisa_. o antonio, ferdinand is at the porch, and inquiring for us. _isaac_. who? don ferdinand! he's not inquiring for me, i hope. _don ant_. fear not, my love; i'll soon pacify him. _isaac_. egad, you won't. antonio, take my advice, and run away; this ferdinand is the most unmerciful dog, and has the cursedest long sword! and, upon my, soul, he comes on purpose to cut your throat. _don ant_. never fear, never fear. _isaac_. well, you may stay if you will; but i'll get some one to marry me: for by st. iago, he shall never meet me again, while i am master of a pair of heels. [_runs out_.--donna louisa _lets down her veil_.] _enter_ don ferdinand. _don ferd_. so, sir, i have met with you at last. _don ant_. well, sir. _don ferd_. base, treacherous man! whence can a false, deceitful soul, like yours, borrow confidence, to look so steadily on the man you've injured! _don ant_. ferdinand, you are too warm: 'tis true you find me on the point of wedding one i loved beyond my life; but no argument of mine prevailed on her to elope.--i scorn deceit, as much as you. by heaven i knew not that she had left her father's till i saw her! _don ferd_. what a mean excuse! you have wronged your friend, then, for one, whose wanton forwardness anticipated your treachery--of this, indeed, your jew pander informed me; but let your conduct be consistent, and since you have dared to do a wrong, follow me, and show you have a spirit to avow it. _don. louisa_. antonio, i perceive his mistake--leave him to me. _paul_. friend, you are rude, to interrupt the union of two willing hearts. _don ferd_. no, meddling priest! the hand he seeks is mine. _paul_. if so, i'll proceed no further. lady, did you ever promise this youth your hand? [_to_ donna louisa, _who shakes her head_.] _don ferd_. clara, i thank you for your silence--i would not have heard your tongue avow such falsity; be't your punishment to remember that i have not reproached you. _enter_ donna clara, _veiled_. _don. clara_. what mockery is this? _don ferd_. antonio, you are protected now, but we shall meet. [_going_, donna clara _holds one arm, and_ donna louisa _the other_.] duet. _don. louisa_. turn thee round, i pray thee, calm awhile thy rage. _don. clara_. i must help to stay thee, and thy wrath assuage. _don. louisa_. couldst thou not discover one so dear to thee? _don. clara_. canst thou be a lover, and thus fly from me? [_both unveil_.] _don ferd_. how's this? my sister! clara, too--i'm confounded. _don. louisa_. 'tis even so, good brother. _paul_. how! what impiety? did the man want to marry his own sister? _don. louisa_. and ar'n't you ashamed of yourself not to know your own sister? _don. clara_. to drive away your own mistress---_don. louisa_. don't you see how jealousy blinds people? _don. clara_. ay, and will you ever be jealous again? _don ferd_. never--never!--you, sister, i know will forgive me--but how, clara, shall i presume---_don. clara_. no, no; just now you told me not to tease you--"who do you want, good signor?" "not you, not you!" oh you blind wretch! but swear never to be jealous again, and i'll forgive you. _don ferd_. by all---_don. clara_. there, that will do--you'll keep the oath just as well. [_gives her hand_.] _don. louisa_. but, brother, here is one to whom some apology is due. _don ferd_. antonio, i am ashamed to think---_don ant_. not a word of excuse, ferdinand--i have not been in love myself without learning that a lover's anger should never be resented. but come--let us retire, with this good father, and we'll explain to you the cause of this error. glee and chorus. oft does hymen smile to hear wordy vows of feign'd regard; well, he knows when they're sincere, never slow to give reward for his glory is to prove kind to those who wed for love. [_exeunt_.] scene vii--_a grand saloon in_ don jerome's _house_. _enter_ don jerome, lopez, _and_ servants. _don jer_. be sure, now, let everything be in the best order--let all my servants have on their merriest faces: but tell them to get as little drunk as possible, till after supper.--[_exeunt_ servants.] so, lopez, where's your master? shan't we have him at supper? _lop_. indeed, i believe not, sir--he's mad, i doubt! i'm sure he has frighted me from him. _don jer_. ay, ay, he's after some wench, i suppose: a young rake! well, well, we'll be merry without him. [_exit_ lopez.] _enter a_ servant. _ser_. sir, here is signor isaac. [_exit_.] _enter_ isaac. _don jer_. so, my dear son-in-law--there, take my blessing and forgiveness. but where's my daughter? where's louisa? _isaac_. she's without, impatient for a blessing, but almost afraid to enter. _don jer_. oh, fly and bring her in.--[_exit_ isaac.] poor girl, i long to see her pretty face. _isaac_. [_without_.] come, my, charmer! my trembling angel! _re-enter_ isaac _with_ duenna; don jerome _runs to meet them; she kneels_. _don jer_. come to my arms, my--[_starts back_.] why, who the devil have we here? _isaac_. nay, don jerome, you promised her forgiveness; see how the dear creature droops! _don jer_. droops indeed! why, gad take me, this is old margaret! but where's my daughter? where's louisa? _isaac_. why, here, before your eyes--nay, don't be abashed, my sweet wife! _don jer_. wife with a vengeance! why, zounds! you have not married the duenna! _duen_. [_kneeling_.] oh, dear papa! you'll not disown me, sure! _don jer_. papa! papa! why, zounds! your impudence is as great as your ugliness! _isaac_. rise, my charmer, go throw your snowy arms about his neck, and convince him you are---_duen_. oh, sir, forgive me! [_embraces him_.] _don jer_. help! murder! _enter_ servants. _ser_. what's the matter, sir? _don jer_. why, here, this damned jew has brought an old harridan to strangle me. _isaac_. lord, it is his own daughter, and he is so hard-hearted he won't forgive her! _enter_ don antonio _and_ donna louisa; _they kneel_. _don jer_. zounds and fury! what's here now? who sent for you, sir, and who the devil are you? _don ant_. this lady's husband, sir. _isaac_. ay, that he is, i'll be sworn; for i left them with a priest, and was to have given her away. _don jer_. you were? _isaac_. ay; that's my honest friend, antonio; and that's the little girl i told you i had hampered him with. _don jer_. why, you are either drunk or mad--this is my daughter. _isaac_. no, no; 'tis you are both drunk and mad, i think--here's your daughter. _don jer_. hark ye, old iniquity! will you explain all this, or not? _duen_. come then, don jerome, i will--though our habits might inform you all. look on your daughter, there, and on me. _isaac_. what's this i hear? _duen_. the truth is, that in your passion this morning you made a small mistake; for you turned your daughter out of doors, and locked up your humble servant. _isaac_. o lud! o lud! here's a pretty fellow, to turn his daughter out of doors, instead of an old duenna! _don jer_. and, o lud! o lud! here's a pretty fellow, to marry an old duenna instead of my daughter! but how came the rest about? _duen_. i have only to add, that i remained in your daughter's place, and had the good fortune to engage the affections of my sweet husband here. _isaac_. her husband! why, you old witch, do you think i'll be your husband now? this is a trick, a cheat! and you ought all to be ashamed of yourselves. _don ant_. hark ye, isaac, do you dare to complain of tricking? don jerome, i give you my word, this cunning portuguese has brought all this upon himself, by endeavouring to overreach you, by getting your daughter's fortune, without making any settlement in return. _don jer_. overreach me! _don. louisa_. 'tis so, indeed, sir, and we can prove it to you. _don jer_. why, gad, take me, it must be so, or he never could put up with such a face as margaret's--so, little solomon, i wish you joy of your wife, with all my soul. _don. louisa_. isaac, tricking is all fair in love--let you alone for the plot! _don ant_. a cunning dog, ar'n't you? a sly little villain, eh? _don. louisa_. roguish, perhaps; but keen, devilish keen! _don jer_. yes, yes; his aunt always called him little solomon. _isaac_. why, the plagues of egypt upon you all! but do you think i'll submit to such an imposition? _don ant_. isaac, one serious word--you'd better be content as you are; for, believe me, you will find that, in the opinion of the world, there is not a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule than a knave become the dupe of his own art. _isaac_. i don't care--i'll not endure this. don jerome, 'tis you have done this--you would be so cursed positive about the beauty of her you locked up, and all the time i told you she was as old as my mother, and as ugly as the devil. _duen_. why, you little insignificant reptile!---_don jer_. that's right!--attack him, margaret. _duen_. dare such a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty?--a walking rouleau?--a body that seems to owe all its consequence to the dropsy! a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown dough! a beard like an artichoke, with dry, shrivelled jaws that would disgrace the mummy of a monkey? _don jer_. well done, margaret! _duen_. but you shall know that i have a brother who wears a sword-and, if you don't do me justice-_isaac_. fire seize your brother, and you too! i'll fly to jerusalem to avoid you! _duen_. fly where you will, i'll follow you. _don jer_. throw your snowy arms about him, margaret.--[_exeunt_ isaac _and_ duenna.] but, louisa, are you really married to this modest gentleman? _don. louisa_. sir, in obedience to your commands, i gave him my hand within this hour. _don jer_. my commands! _don ant_. yes, sir; here is your consent, under your own hand. _don jer_. how! would you rob me of my child by a trick, a false pretence? and do you think to get her fortune by the same means? why, 'slife! you are as great a rogue as isaac! _don ant_. no, don jerome; though i have profited by this paper in gaining your daughter's hand, i scorn to obtain her fortune by deceit. there, sir--[_gives a letter_.] now give her your blessing for a dower, and all the little i possess shall be settled on her in return. had you wedded her to a prince, he could do no more. _don jer_. why, gad, take me, but you are a very extraordinary fellow! but have you the impudence to suppose no one can do a generous action but yourself? here, louisa, tell this proud fool of yours that he's the only man i know that would renounce your fortune; and, by my soul! he's the only man in spain that's worthy of it. there, bless you both: i'm an obstinate old fellow when i'm in the wrong; but you shall now find me as steady in the right. _enter_ don ferdinand _and_ donna clara. another wonder still! why, sirrah! ferdinand, you have not stole a nun, have you? _don fred_. she is a nun in nothing but her habit, sir--look nearer, and you will perceive 'tis clara d'almanza, don guzman's daughter; and, with pardon for stealing a wedding, she is also my wife. _don jer_. gadsbud, and a great fortune! ferdinand, you are a prudent young rogue, and i forgive you: and, ifecks, you are a pretty little damsel. give your father-in-law a kiss, you smiling rogue! _don. clara_. there, old gentleman; and now mind you behave well to us. _don jer_. ifecks, those lips ha'n't been chilled by kissing beads! egad, i believe i shall grow the best-humoured fellow in spain. lewis! sancho! carlos! d'ye hear? are all my doors thrown open? our children's weddings are the only holidays our age can boast; and then we drain, with pleasure, the little stock of spirits time has left us.--[_music within_.] but, see, here come our friends and neighbours! _enter_ masqueraders. and, i'faith, we'll make a night on't, with wine, and dance, and catches--then old and young shall join us. finale. _don jer_. come now for jest and smiling, both old and young beguiling, let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay, till we banish care away. _don. louisa_. thus crown'd with dance and song, the hours shall glide along, with a heart at ease, merry, merry glees can never fail to please. _don ferd_. each bride with blushes glowing, our wine as rosy flowing, let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay, till we banish care away. _don ant_. then healths to every friend the night's repast shall end, with a heart at ease, merry, merry glees can never fail to please. _don. clar_. nor, while we are so joyous, shall anxious fear annoy us; let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay, till we banish care away. _don jer_. for generous guests like these accept the wish to please, so we'll laugh and play, so blithe and gay, your smiles drive care away. [_exeunt omnes_.] [illustration: castle of andalusia pedrillo--oh! you most beautiful goddess. act ii. scene i. painted by singleton. publish'd by longman & co. engraved by c. warren. 1807.] the castle of andalusia; a comic opera, in three acts; by john o'keeffe, esq. as performed at the theatre royal, covent garden. printed under the authority of the managers from the prompt book. with remarks by mrs. inchbald. london: printed for longman, hurst, rees, orme, and brown, paternoster-row. edinburgh: printed by james ballantyne & co. remarks. a reader must be acquainted with o'keeffe on the stage to admire him in the closet. yet he is entitled to more praise, in being the original author of a certain species of drama, made up of whim and frolic than numberless retailers of wit and sentiment with whom that class of readers are charmed, who are not in the habit of detecting plagiarism. from operas, since the beggar's opera, little has been required by the town except music and broad humour. the first delights the elegant, the second the inelegant part of an audience; by which means all parties are gratified. had o'keeffe written less, his reputation would have stood higher with the public; and so would that of many an author beside himself: but when a man makes writing his only profession--industry, and prudent forecast for the morrow, will often stimulate him to produce, with heavy heart, that composition which his own judgment condemns. yet is he compelled to bear the critic's censure, as one whom vanity has incited to send forth crude thoughts with his entire good will, and perfect security as to the high value they will have with the world. let it be known to the world, that more than half the authors who come before them thus apparently bold and self-approved, are perhaps sinking under the shame of their puerile works, and discerning in them more faults, from closer attention and laudable timidity, than the most severe of their censurers can point out. these observations might be some apology for this opera, if it required any. but it has pleased so well in representation, that its deserts as an exhibition are acknowledged; and if in reading there should appear something of too much intricacy in the plot, or of improbability in the events, the author must be supposed to have seen those faults himself; though want of time, or, most likely, greater reliance upon the power of music than upon his own labour, impelled him gladly to spare the one, in reverence to the other. the songs have great comic effect on the stage; particularly those by some of the male characters: and the mistakes which arise from the impositions of spado are highly risible. as the reader, to form a just judgment on "the castle of andalusia," should see it acted; so the auditor, to be equally just, must read it. dramatis personæ. don fernando _mr. johnstone._ spado _mr. munden._ pedrillo _mr. fawcett._ don cæsar _mr. townsend._ don scipio _mr. emery._ philippo _mr. king._ rapino _mr. abbot._ calvette _mr. atkins._ vasquez _mr. klanert._ don juan _mr. davenport._ don alphonso _mr. braham._ victoria _mrs. atkins._ catilina _mrs. mills._ isabella _mrs. powell._ lorenza _signora storace._ banditti, servants, _&c._ _scene,--spain._ the castle of andalusia. * * * * * act the first. scene i. _a cavern with winding stairs, and recesses cut in the rock; a large lamp hanging in the centre; a table, wine, fruits, &c. in disorder.--at the head don cæsar; on each side spado, sanguino, rapino, and others of the banditti._ air i. and chorus. don cæsar. _here we sons of freedom dwell,_ _in our friendly, rock-hewn cell;_ _pleasure's dictates we obey,_ _nature points us out the way,_ _ever social, great and free,_ _valour guards our liberty._ air. don cæsar. _of severe and partial laws,_ _venal judges, alguazils;_ _dreary dungeons' iron jaws,_ _oar and gibbet--whips or wheels,_ _let's never think_ _while thus me drink_ _sweet muscadine_! _o life divine!_ chorus.--_here we sons of freedom dwell_, &c. _don cæsar._ come, cavaliers, our carbines are loaded, our hearts are light: charge your glasses, bacchus gives the word, and a volley makes us immortal as the rosy god.--fire! _spado._ ay, captain, this is noble firing--oh, i love a volley of grape-shot.--are we to have any sky-light in our cave? [_looking at sanguino's glass._ _don cæsar._ oh, no! a brimmer round.--come, a good booty to us to-night. [_all drink._ _spado._ booty! oh, i love to rob a fat priest.--stand, says i, and then i knock him down. _sang._ my nose bleeds. [_looks at his handkerchief._] i wonder what colour is a coward's blood? _spado._ don't you see it's red? _sang._ ha! call me coward, [_rises in fury._] sirrah? captain! cavaliers!--but this scar on my forehead contradicts the miscreant. _spado._ scar on your forehead!--ay, you will look behind you, when you run away. _sang._ i'll stab the villain--[_draws stilletto._]--i will, by heaven. _don cæsar._ pho, sanguino! you know when a jest offers, spado regards neither time, place, nor person. _all._ [_interposing._] don't hurt little spado. _spado._ [_hiding behind._] no, don't hurt little spado. _sang._ run away! armies have confessed my valour: the time has been--but no matter. [_sits._ _don cæsar._ come, away with reflection on the past, or care for the future; the present is the golden moment of possession.--let us enjoy it. _all._ ay, ay, let us enjoy it. _don cæsar._ you know, cavaliers, when i entered into this noble fraternity, i boasted only of a little courage sharpened by necessity, the result of my youthful follies, a father's severity, and the malice of a good-natured dame. _spado._ captain, here's a speedy walk-off to old women. _all._ [_drink_] ha! ha! ha! ha! _don cæsar._ when you did me the honour to elect me your captain, two conditions i stipulated:----though at war with the world abroad, unity and social mirth should preside over our little commonwealth at home. _spado._ yes, but sanguino's for no head--he'll have ours a commonwealth of fists and elbows. _don cæsar._ the other, unless to preserve your own lives, never commit a murder. _spado._ i murdered since that----a bishop's coach-horse. _all._ ha! ha! ha! _don cæsar._ hand me that red wine. air ii.--don cæsar. _flow, thou regal purple stream,_ _tinctur'd by the solar beam,_ _in my goblet sparkling rise,_ _cheer my heart and glad my eyes._ _my brain ascend on fancy's wing,_ _'noint me, wine, a jovial king._ _while i live, i'll lave my clay,_ _when i'm dead and gone away,_ _let my thirsty subjects say,_ _a month he reign'd, but that was may._ [_thunder._] _don cæsar._ hark, how distinct we hear the thunder through this vast body of earth and rock.--rapino, is calvette above, upon his post? _rap._ yes. _don cæsar._ spado, 'tis your business to relieve the centinel. _spado._ relieve! what's the matter with him? _don cæsar._ come, come, no jesting with duty--'tis your watch. _spado._ let the wolves watch for me--my duty is to get supper ready.--[_thunder._]--go up! od's fire, do you think i'm a salamander?--d'ye hear? _sang._ no sport, i fear. _don cæsar._ then call calvette, lock down the trap-door, and get us some more wine from the cistern. _spado._ wine! ay, captain; and this being a night of peace, we'll have a dish of olives. _sang._ no, peace! we'll up and scour the forest presently. but well thought on; a rich old fellow, one don scipio, has lately come to reside in the castle on the skirts of the forest--what say you to plunder there? _don cæsar._ not to-night--i know my time--i have my reasons--i shall give command on that business. but where's the stranger we brought in at our last excursion? _rap._ he reposes in yonder recess. _spado._ ay, egad, there he lies, with a face as innocent--[_aside._]--if my fellow-rooks would but fly off, i'd have the pigeon here within all to myself. _cal._ [_appears at the top of the winding stairs, with a lanthorn._] a booty. _sang._ good news, cavaliers; here comes calvette. _cal._ a booty! _sang._ what! where? _cal._ soft--but one man! _sang._ but one man! is he alone? _cal._ quite. _spado._ one man, and alone--that's odd! _cal._ he seems in years, but his habit, as well as i could distinguish, speaks him noble. [_descends._ _don cæsar._ then he'll fight.--my arms! _spado._ oh, he'll fight--get my arms; no, my legs will do for me. [_aside._ _sang._ come, my carbine--quick! _don cæsar._ to the attack of one man--paltry! only you, calvette, sanguino, rapino, and spado go; the rest prepare for our general excursion. _spado._ captain, don't send me; indeed i'm too rash! _don cæsar._ come, come, leave buffoonery, and to your duty. [_calvette and rapino ascend; the rest go in at several recesses; spado, the last, ascends up slowly._ _enter don alphonso._ _don alph._ i find myself somewhat refreshed by my slumber; at such a time to fall into the hands of these ruffians, how unlucky! i'm pent up here; my rival, fernando, once my friend, reaches don scipio's castle, weds my charming victoria, and i lose her for ever; but if i could secure an interview, love should plead my cause. air iii.--don alphonso. _the hardy sailor braves the ocean,_ _fearless of the roaring wind;_ _yet his heart, with soft emotion,_ _throbs to leave his love behind._ _to dread of foreign foes a stranger,_ _tho' the youth can dauntless roam,_ _alarming fears paint every danger_ _in a rival, left at home._ _spado returns down the stairs._ _spado._ [_aside._] now for some talk with our prisoner here--stay, are they all out of ear-shot? how the poor bird sings in its cage! i know more of his affairs than he thinks of, by overhearing his conversation at the inn at lorca. _don alph._ how shall i escape from these rascals? oh, here is one of the gentlemen. pray, sir, may i take the liberty-_spado._ no liberty for you.--yet upon certain conditions, indeed--give me your hand. _don alph._ [_aside._] impudent scoundrel! _spado._ signor, i wish to serve you--and serve you i will; but i must know the channel, before i make for the coast; therefore, to examine you with the pious severity of an holy inquisitor, who the devil are you? _don alph._ a pious adjuration truly!--[_aside._]--sir, my name is alphonso, and i am son of a banker at madrid. _spado._ banker! oh! i thought he sung like a young goldfinch. _don alph._ perhaps, by trusting this fellow, i may make my escape. [_aside._ _spado._ i'll convince him i know his secrets, and then i hold his purse-strings. _don alph._ you won't betray me? _spado._ honour among thieves. _don alph._ then you must know, when your gang attacked me yesterday evening-_spado._ you were posting full gallop to don scipio's castle, on the confines of the forest here. _don alph._ hey! then perhaps you know my passion for-_spado._ donna victoria, his daughter. _don alph._ then you know that she's contracted-_spado._ to your friend don fernando de zelva, who is now on his journey to the castle, and, to the destruction of your hopes, weds the lady on his arrival. _don alph._ true, while i am pent up in this cursed cavern; but how you got my story, i---_spado._ no matter! i could let you out of this cursed cavern. _don alph._ and will you? _spado._ ah, our trap-door above requires a golden key. _don alph._ your comrades have not left me a piastre. _spado._ will you give me an order on your father's bank for fifty pieces, and i'll let you out? _don alph._ you shall have it. _spado._ a bargain. i'll secure your escape. _enter don cæsar, behind._ _don cæsar._ how's this? _spado._ zounds, the captain ramirez! [_aside._]--ay, you dog, i'll secure you for an escape! do you think i'd set you at liberty without the captain's orders? betray my trust for a bribe! what the devil do you take me for? [_in a seeming rage._] oh, captain, i did not see you. _don cæsar._ what's the matter? _spado._ nothing, only our prisoner here was mistaken in his man--that's all. let you escape, indeed! _don alph._ here's a rascal! _spado._ rascal! d'ye hear him? he has been abusing me this half hour, because i would not convey him out without your knowledge. oh, what offers he did make me! but my integrity is proof against gallions, escurials, perus, and mexicos. _don cæsar._ begone instantly to your comrades. [_spado ascends._] signor, no occasion to tamper with my companions; you shall owe your liberty to none but me. i'll convey you to the cottage of the vines, belonging to the peasant philippo, not far from don scipio's castle; there you may rest in safety to-night, and-_don alph._ ah, captain! no rest for me. _don cæsar._ look ye, signor, i am a ruffian, perhaps worse, but venture to trust me.--a picklock may be used to get to a treasure--don't wish to know more of me than i now chuse to tell you; but, if your mistress loves you as well as you seem to love her, to-morrow night she's yours. _don alph._ my good friend! _don cæsar._ now for philippo--i don't suppose you wish to see any of our work above--ha! ha! ha!--well, well, i was once a lover, but now-air iv.--don cæsar. _on by the spur of valour goaded,_ _pistols primed, and carbines loaded,_ _courage strikes on hearts of steel;_ _while each spark,_ _through the dark_ _gloom of night,_ _lends a clear and cheering light,_ _who a fear or doubt can feel?_ _like serpents now, through thickets creeping,_ _then on our prey, like lions, leaping!_ _calvette to the onset leads us,_ _let the wand'ring trav'ler dread us!_ _struck with terror and amaze,_ _while our swords with lightning blaze._ [thunder. _thunder to our carbines roaring,_ _bursting clouds in torrents pouring,_ _each a free and roving blade,_ _ours a free and roving trade,_ _to the onset let's away,_ _valour calls, and we obey._ [exeunt. scene ii. _a forest._ _a stormy night._ _enter don fernando._ _don fer._ pedrillo! [_calling._] what a dreadful night, and horrid place to be benighted! pedrillo!--i fear i've lost my servant; but by the pace i rode since i left ecceija, don scipio's castle can't be very far distant: this was to have been my wedding night, if i arrived there. pedrillo! pedrillo! [_calling._ _ped._ [_within_] sir! _don fer._ where are you, sirrah? _ped._ quite astray, sir. _don fer._ this way. _enter pedrillo, groping his way._ _ped._ any body's way, for i have lost my own.--do you see me, sir? _don fer._ no indeed, pedrillo! [_lightning._ _ped._ you saw me then, sir. [_thunder._] ah, this must frighten the mules, they'll break their bridles; i tied the poor beasts to a tree. _don fer._ well, we may find them in the morning, if they escape the banditti, which i am told infests this forest. _ped._ banditti! [_a shot without._] ah! we are dead men. _don fer._ somebody in trouble! _ped._ no, somebody's troubles are over. _don fer._ draw and follow me, pedrillo. _ped._ lord, sir! ha'n't we troubles enough of our own? _don fer._ follow! who can deny assistance to his fellow creature in distress? [_draws._--_exit._ _ped._ what fine creatures these gentlemen are!--but for me, i am a poor, mean, rascally servant--so i'll even take my chance with the mules. air v.--pedrillo. _a master i have, and i am his man,_ _galloping, dreary, dun,_ _and he'll get a wife as fast as he can,_ _with a haily, gaily, gambo raily,_ _giggling, niggling,_ _galloping galloway, draggle tail, dreary dun._ _i saddled his steed so fine and so gay,_ _galloping, dreary, dun,_ _i mounted my mule, and we rode away,_ _with our haily, &c._ _we canter'd along until it grew dark,_ _galloping, dreary, dun,_ _the nightingale sung instead of the lark,_ _with her, &c._ _we met with a friar, and ask'd him our way,_ _galloping, dreary, dun,_ _by the lord, says the friar, you're both gone astray,_ _with your, &c._ _our journey, i fear, will do us no good,_ _galloping, dreary, dun,_ _we wander alone, like the babes in the wood,_ _with our, &c._ _my master is fighting, and i'll take a peep,_ _galloping, dreary, dun,_ _but now i think better, i'd better go sleep,_ _with my, &c._ [exit. scene iii. _a thicker part of the forest.--large tree and stone cross._ _enter don scipio, attacked by sanguino, rapino, and calvette._ _sang._ now, rapino, lop off his sword-arm. _don scipio._ forbear! there's my purse, you rascals! [_throws it down._ _sang._ fire! _spado._ [_peeping from the large tree._] no, don't fire. _sang._ i am wounded--hew him to pieces. [_as don scipio is nearly overpowered_, _enter don fernando>._ _don fer._ ha! what murderous ruffians! [_engages the banditti, who precipitately disperse several ways._ _spado._ holloa! the forest is surrounded with inquisitors, alguazils, corrigidores, and holy fathers. _don scipio._ oh, i hav'n't fought so much these twenty years! _spado._ eh, we have lost the field, cursed dark; though i think i could perceive but one man come to the relief of our old don here. _don scipio._ but where are you, signor? approach, my brave deliverer. _spado._ so, here's a victory, and nobody to claim it! i think i'll go down and pick up the laurel. [_descends from the tree._] i'll take the merit of this exploit, i may get something by it. _don scipio._ i long to thank, embrace, worship this generous stranger, as my guardian angel. _spado._ [_aside._] i may pass for this angel in the dark--villains! scoundrels! robbers! to attack an honest old gentleman on the king's highway!--but i made the dogs scamper! [_vapouring about._ _don scipio._ oh dear! this is my preserver! _spado._ who's there! oh, you are the worthy old gentleman i rescued from these rascal banditti. _don scipio._ noble, valiant stranger--i-_spado._ no thanks, signor; i have saved your life; and a good action rewards itself. _don scipio._ a gallant fellow, 'faith--eh, as well as i could distinguish in the dark, you looked much taller just now. [_looking close at him._ _spado._ when i was fighting? true, anger raises me--i always appear six foot in a passion: besides, my hat and plume added to my height. _don scipio._ [_by accident treading on the purse._] hey, the rogues have run off without my purse too. _spado._ o, ho! [_aside._]--what, i have saved your purse, as well as your precious life! well, of a poor fellow, i am the luckiest dog in all spain. _don scipio._ poor! good friend, accept this purse, as a small token of my gratitude. _spado._ nay, dear sir! _don scipio._ you shall take it. _spado._ lord, i am so awkward at taking a purse. [_takes it._ _don scipio._ hey, if i could find my cane too;--i dropped it somewhere hereabouts, when i drew to defend myself. [_looking about._ _spado._ zounds! i fancy here comes the real conqueror--no matter--i've got the spoils of the field. [_aside--chinks the purse, and retires._ _don scipio._ ah, my amber-headed cane! [_still looking about._ _enter don fernando._ _don fer._ the villains! _don scipio._ ay, you made them fly like pigeons, my little game-cock! _don fer._ oh, i fancy this is the gentleman that was attacked. not hurt, i hope, sir? _don scipio._ no, i'm a tough old blade--oh, gadso, well thought on--feel if there's a ring in the purse, it's a relic of my deceased lady, it's with some regret i ask you to return it. _don fer._ return what, sir? _don scipio._ a ring you'll find in the purse. _don fer._ ring and purse! really, sir, i don't understand you. _don scipio._ well, well, no matter--a mercenary fellow! [_aside._ _don fer._ the old gentleman has been robbed, and is willing that i should reimburse his losses. [_aside._ _don scipio._ it grows lighter: i think i can distinguish the path i lost--follow me, my hero, and [_as going, suddenly turns, and looks steadfastly at don fernando._] zounds, signor, i hope you are not in a passion, but i think you look six feet high again. _don fer._ a strange, mad old fellow this! [_aside._ _don scipio._ these rascals may rally, so come along to my castle, and my daughter victoria shall welcome the preserver of her father. _don fer._ your daughter victoria! then, perhaps, sir, you are don scipio, my intended father-in-law? _don scipio._ eh! why, zounds! is it possible that you can be my expected son, fernando? _don fer._ the same, sir; and was on my journey to your castle, when benighted in the forest here. _don scipio._ oh, my dear boy! [_embraces him._] damned mean of him to take my purse though--[_aside._] ah, fernando, you were resolved to touch some of your wife's fortune before-hand. _don fer._ sir--i-_don scipio._ hush! you have the money, and keep it--ay, and the ring too; i'm glad it's not gone out of the family--hey, it grows lighter--come-_don fer._ my rascal pedrillo is fallen asleep somewhere. _don scipio._ no, we are not safe here--come then, my dear--brave, valiant--cursed paltry to take my purse though. [_aside.--exeunt._ _spado._ [_who had been listening, advances._] so, then, our old gentleman is father to victoria, my young banker alphonso's mistress, and the other is fernando, his dreaded rival--this is the first time they ever saw each other too--he has a servant too, and his name pedrillo--a thought strikes me; if i could, by cross paths, but get to the castle before them, i'll raise a most delicious commotion--in troubled waters i throw my fishing-hook--[_whistle without._]--excuse me, gentlemen, i'm engaged. [_exit--a distant whistle heard without._ scene iv. _an apartment in scipio's castle._ _enter victoria and catilina._ _catil._ nay, dear madam, do not submit to go into the nunnery. _vic._ yes, catilina, my father desires i shall take the veil, and a parent's voice is the call of heaven! _catil._ heaven! well, though the fellows swear i'm an angel, this world is good enough for me--dear ma'am, i wish i could but once see you in love. _vic._ heigho! catilina, i wonder what sort of gentleman this don fernando is, who is contracted to me, and hourly expected at the castle. _catil._ a beautiful man, i warrant--but, ma'am, you're not to have him. hush! dame isabel, not content with making your father, by slights and ill usage, force your brother, poor don cæsar, to run about the world, in the lord knows what wild courses, but she now has persuaded the old gentleman to pass her daughter on don fernando, for you--there, yonder she is, flaunting, so be-jewelled and be-plumed--well, if i was you, they might take my birthright--but my husband--take my man--the deuce shall take them first! ah, no! if ever i do go to heaven, i'll have a smart lad in my company.--send you to a nunnery! _vic._ was my fond mother alive!--catilina, my father will certainly marry this dame isabel; i'm now an alien to his affections, bereft of every joy and every hope, i shall quit the world without a sigh. air v.--victoria. _ah, solitude, take my distress,_ _my griefs i'll unbosom to thee,_ _each sigh thou canst gently repress,_ _thy silence is music to me._ _yet peace from my sonnet may spring,_ _for peace let me fly the gay throng,_ _to soften my sorrows i sing,_ _yet sorrow's the theme of my song._ [_exit victoria._ _catil._ i quit this castle as soon as ever donna victoria enters a nunnery--shall i go with her? no, i was never made for a nun--ay, i'll back to the vineyard, and if my sweetheart, philippo, is as fond as ever, who knows--i was his queen of all the girls, though the charming youth was the guitar, flute, fiddle, and hautboy of our village. air vi.--catilina. _like my dear swain, no youth you'd see_ _so blithe, so gay, so full of glee,_ _in all our village, who but he_ _to foot it up so featly--_ _his lute to hear,_ _from far and near,_ _each female came,_ _both girl and dame,_ _and all his boon_ _for every tune,_ _to kiss 'em round so sweetly._ _while round him in the jocund ring,_ _we nimbly danced, he'd play or sing,_ _of may the youth was chosen king,_ _he caught our ears so neatly._ _such music rare_ _in his guitar,_ _but touch his flute_ _the crowd was mute,_ _his only boon,_ _for every tune,_ _to kiss us round so sweetly._ [exit. _enter vasquez, introducing spado._ _vas._ i'll inform dame isabel, sir--please to wait a moment. [_exit vasquez._ _spado._ sir!--this dame isabel is, it seems, a widow-gentlewoman, whom don scipio has retained ever since the death of his lady, as supreme directress over his family, has such an ascendancy, prevailed on him even to drive his own son out of his house, and, ha! ha! ha! is now drawing the old don into a matrimonial noose, ha! ha! ha! egad, i am told, rules the roast here in the castle--yes, yes, she's my mark--hem! now for my story, but my scheme is up, if i tell her a single truth--ah, no fear of that.--oh, this way she moves-_enter dame isabel and vasquez._ _isab._ don scipio not returned! a foolish old man, rambling about at this time of night! stay, vasquez, where's this strange, ugly little fellow you said wanted to speak with me? _vas._ [_confused._] madam, i did not say-_spado._ no matter, young man--hem! [_exit vasquez._ _isab._ well, sir, pray who are you? _spado._ [_bowing obsequiously._] madam, i have the honour to be confidential servant and secretary to don juan, father to don fernando de zelva. _isab._ don fernando! heavens! is he arrived? here, vasquez, lopez, diego! [_calling._ _spado._ hold, madam! he's not arrived: most sagacious lady, please to lend your attention for a few moments to an affair of the highest importance to don scipio's family. my young master is coming-_isab._ well, sir! _spado._ incog. _isab._ incog! _spado._ madam, you shall hear--[_aside._]--now for a lie worth twenty pistoles--the morning before his departure, don fernando calls me into his closet, and shutting the door, "spado," says he, "you know this obstinate father of mine has engaged me to marry a lady i have never seen, and to-morrow, by his order, i set out for don scipio, her father's castle, for that purpose; but," says he, striking his breast with one hand, twisting his mustaches with the other, and turning up his eyes--"if, when i see her, she don't hit my fancy, i'll not marry her, by the----"--i sha'n't mention his oath before you, madam. _isab._ no, pray don't, sir. _spado._ "therefore," says he, "i design to dress pedrillo, my arch dog of a valet, in a suit of my clothes, and he shall personate me at don scipio's castle, while i, in a livery, pass for him--if i like the lady, i resume my own character, and take her hand; if not, the deceit continues, and pedrillo weds donna victoria, just to warn parental tyranny how it dares to clap up marriage, without consulting our inclinations." _isab._ here's a discovery! so then, it's my poor child that must have fallen into this snare--[_aside._] well, good sir. _spado._ "and, (continued he) spado, i appoint you my trusty spy in this don scipio's family; to cover our designs, let it be a secret that you belong to me, and i sha'n't seem even to know you--you'll easily get a footing in the family (says he) by imposing some lie or other upon a foolish woman, i'm told, is in the castle. dame isabel i think they call her." _isab._ he shall find i am not so easily imposed upon. _spado._ i said so, madam; says i, a lady of dame isabel's wisdom must soon find me out, was i to tell her a lie. _isab._ ay, that i should, sir. _enter vasquez._ _vas._ oh, madam! my master is returned, and don fernando de zelva with him. [_exit vasquez._ _isab._ don fernando! oh, then, this is the rascally valet, but i'll give him a welcome with a vengeance! _spado._ hold, madam! suppose, for a little sport, you seem to humour the deceit, only to see how the fellow acts his part; he'll play the gentleman very well, i'll warrant; the dog is an excellent mimic; for, you must know, ma'am, this pedrillo's mother was a gipsy, his father a merry andrew to a mountebank, and he himself five years trumpeter to a company of strolling players. _isab._ so, i was likely to have a hopeful son-in-law! good sir, we are eternally indebted to you for this timely notice of the imposition. _spado._ madam, i've done the common duties of an honest man--i have been long in the family, and can't see my master making such a fool of himself, without endeavouring to prevent any mischance in consequence. _isab._ dear sir, i beseech you be at home under this roof; pray be free, and want for nothing the house affords. _spado._ [_bows._] good madam! i'll want for nothing i can lay my fingers on. [_aside._] [_exit spado._ _isab._ heavens! what an honest soul it is! what a lucky discovery! oh, here comes my darling girl! _enter lorenza, magnificently dressed._ _lor._ oh, cara madre! see, behold!--can i fail of captivating don fernando? don't i look charming? _isab._ why, lorenza, i must say the toilet has done its duty; i'm glad to see you in such spirits, my dear child! _lor._ spirits! ever gay, ever sprightly, cheerful as a lark--but how shall i forget my florence lover, my dear ramirez? _isab._ i request, my dear, you'll not think of this ramirez--even from your own account of him, he must be a person of most dissolute principles--fortunately he knows you only by your name of lorenza. i hope he won't find you out here. _lor._ then farewell, beloved ramirez! in obedience to your commands, madam, i shall accept of this don fernando; and as a husband, i will love him if i can-air vii.--lorenza. _love! gay illusion!_ _pleasing delusion,_ _with sweet intrusion,_ _possesses the mind._ _love with love meeting,_ _passion is fleeting;_ _vows in repeating_ _we trust to the wind._ _faith to faith plighted,_ _love may be blighted;_ _hearts often slighted_ _will cease to be kind._ _enter vasquez._ _vas._ madam--my master and don fernando. _isab._ has don fernando a servant with him? _vas._ no, madam. _isab._ oh, when he comes, take notice of him. _enter don scipio and fernando._ _don scipio._ oh, my darling dame, and my delicate daughter, bless your stars that you see poor old scipio alive again--behold my son-in-law and the preserver of my life--don fernando, there's your spouse, and this is donna isabella, a lady of vast merit, of which my heart is sensible. _don fer._ madam! [_salutes._ _isab._ what an impudent fellow! [_aside._ _don scipio._ dear fernando, you are as welcome to this castle as flattery to a lady, but there she is--bill and coo--embrace--caress her. [_fernando salutes lorenza._ _lor._ if i had never seen ramirez, i should think the man tolerable enough! [_aside._ _don scipio._ ha! ha! this shall be the happy night--eh, dame isabel, by our agreement, before the lark sings, i take possession of this noble tenement. _don fer._ don scipio, i hoped to have the honour of seeing your son. _don scipio._ my son! who, cæsar? oh, lord! he's--he was a--turned out a profligate--sent him to italy--got into bad company--don't know what's become of him--my dear friend, if you would not offend me, never mention don cæsar in my hearing. egad--eh, my dainty dame, is not don fernando a fine fellow? _isab._ yes, he's well enough for a trumpeter. _don scipio._ trumpeter! [_with surprise._] what the devil do you mean by that? oh, because i sound his praise; but, madam, he's a cavalier of noble birth, title, fortune, and valour-_isab._ don scipio, a word if you please. [_takes him aside._ _lor._ [_to fernando._] si--signor, our castle here is rather a gloomy mansion, when compared to the beautiful cassinos on the banks of the arno. _don fer._ arno! true, don scipio said in his letter, that his daughter had been bred at florence. _lor._ you have had an unpleasant journey, signor? _don fer._ i have encountered some difficulties by the way, it is true, madam; but am amply repaid by the honour and happiness i now enjoy. [_bows._ _lor._ sir!--i swear he's a polite cavalier! [_aside._] won't you please to sit, sir? i fancy you must be somewhat weary. [_sits._ _don scipio._ what the devil! eh, sure--what this fellow only don fernando's footman! how! it can't be! _isab._ a fact; and presently you'll see don fernando himself in livery. _don scipio._ look at the impudent son of a gipsy--sat himself down--zounds! i'll-_isab._ hold! let him play off a few of his airs. _don scipio._ a footman! ay, this accounts for his behaviour in the forest--don fernando would never have accepted my purse--[_taps his shoulder._]--hey, what, you've got there! _don fer._ will you please to sit, sir? [_rises._ _don scipio._ yes, he looks like a trumpeter. [_aside._] you may sit down, friend. [_with contempt._ _don fer._ a strange old gentleman! _enter vasquez._ _vas._ sir, your servant pedrillo is arrived. [_exit vasquez._ _isab._ servant pedrillo! ay, this is fernando himself. [_apart, joyfully to scipio._ _don fer._ oh, then the fellow has found his way at last. don scipio--ladies--excuse me a moment. [_exit fernando._ _lor._ what a charming fellow! _don scipio._ what an impudent rascal! _ped._ [_without._] is my master this way? _don scipio._ master! ay, this is fernando. _enter pedrillo, with a portmanteau._ _ped._ oh dear! i've got among the gentlefolks--i ask pardon. _isab._ how well he does look and act the servant! _don scipio._ admirable; yet i perceive the grandee under the livery. _isab._ please to sit, sir. [_with great respect._ _lor._ a livery servant sit down by me! _don scipio._ pray sit down, sir. [_ceremoniously._ _ped._ sit down! [_sits._] oh, these must be the upper servants of the family--her ladyship here is the housekeeper, i suppose--the young tawdry tit, lady's maid--(hey, her mistress throws off good clothes,) and old whiskers, don scipio's butler. [_aside._ _enter don fernando._ _don fer._ pedrillo! how! seated! what means this disrespect? _ped._ sir, [_rises to him._] old whiskers, the butler there, asked me to sit down by signora the waiting-maid here. _don fer._ sirrah! _ped._ yes, sir. _don scipio._ sir and sirrah! how rarely they act their parts! i'll give them an item, though, that i understand the plot of their comedy. [_aside._ air viii.--quintetto. d. scipio. _signor!_ [to pedrillo.] _your wits must be keener,_ _our prudence to elude,_ _your fine plot,_ _tho' so pat,_ _will do you little good._ ped. _my fine plot!_ _i'm a sot,_ _if i know what_ _these gentlefolks are at._ fer. _past the perils of the night,_ _tempests, darkness, rude alarms;_ _phoebus rises clear and bright,_ _in the lustre of your charms._ lor. _o, charming, i declare,_ _so polite a cavalier!_ _he understands the duty_ _and homage due to beauty._ d. scipio. _bravo! o bravissimo!_ lor. _caro! o carissimo!_ _how sweet his honey words,_ _how noble is his mien!_ d. scipio. _fine feathers make fine birds,_ _the footman's to be seen._ _but both deserve a basting!_ ped. _since morning i've been fasting._ d. scipio. _yet i could laugh for anger._ ped. _oh, i could cry for hunger._ d. scipio. _i could laugh._ ped. _i could cry._ d. scipio. _i could quaff._ ped. _so could i._ d. scipio. _ha! ha! ha! i'm in a fit._ ped. _oh, i could pick a little bit._ d. scipio. _ha! ha! ha!_ ped. _oh! oh! oh!_ lor. _a very pleasant party!_ d. fer. _a whimsical reception!_ d. scipio. _a whimsical deception!_ _but master and man, accept a welcome hearty._ d. fer.} _accept our thanks sincere, for such a welcome hearty._ ped. } act the second. scene i. _an antique apartment in the castle._ _enter don cæsar, with precaution._ _don cæsar._ thus far i've got into the castle unperceived--i'm certain sanguino means the old gentleman a mischief, which nature bids me endeavour to prevent. i saw the rascal slip in at the postern below; but where can he have got to! [_a sliding panel opens in the wainscot, and sanguino comes out._] yes, yonder he issues, like a rat or a spider.--how now, sanguino! _sang._ captain ramirez! _don cæsar._ on enterprize without my knowledge! what's your business here? _sang._ revenge! look--[_shows a stilletto._] if i meet don scipio-_don cæsar._ a stilletto! i command you to quit your purpose. _sang._ what, no satisfaction for my wound last night, and lose my booty too! _don cæsar._ your wound was chance--put up--we shall have noble booty here, and that's our business--but you seem to know your ground here, sanguino? _sang._ i was formerly master of the horse to count d'olivi, the last resident here, so am well acquainted with the galleries, lobbies, windings, turnings, and every secret lurking place in the castle. _don cæsar._ i missed spado at the muster this morning--did he quit the cave with you? _spado._ [_without._] as sure as i'm alive, it's fact, sir.-_don cæsar._ isn't that spado's voice? _sang._ impossible! _don cæsar._ hush! [_they retire._ _enter don scipio and spado._ _don scipio._ yes, i've heard of such places; but you say you have been in the cave where these ruffian banditti live? _spado._ most certainly, sir: for, after having robbed me of five hundred doubloons, the wicked rogues barbarously stripped, and tied me neck and heels, threw me across a mule, like a sack of corn, and led me blindfold to their cursed cavern. _don scipio._ ah, poor fellow! _spado._ there, sir, in this sculking hole the villains live in all manner of debauchery, and dart out upon the innocent traveller, like beasts of prey. _don scipio._ oh, the tigers! just so they fastened upon me last night, but your sham fernando, and i, made them run like hares; i gave him my purse for his trouble. _spado._ and he took it! what a mean fellow!--you ought not to have ventured out unarmed--i always take a blunderbuss when i go upon the road--the rascal banditti are most infernal cowards. _don scipio._ what a glorious thing to deliver these reprobates into the hands of justice! _spado._ ah, sir, 'twould be a blessed affair--oh, i'd hang them up like mad dogs! _don scipio._ well, you say you know the cave? _spado._ yes, yes, i slipped the handkerchief from my eyes and took a peep, made particular observations of the spot; so get a strong guard, and i'll lead you to the very trap-door of their den. _don scipio._ 'egad, then we'll surprise them, and you'll have the prayers of the whole country, my honest friend. _spado._ heaven knows, sir, i have no motives for this discovery but the public good, so i expect the country will order me a hundred pistoles, as a reward for my honesty. _don cæsar._ here's a pretty dog! [_apart._ _sang._ ay, ay, he ha'n't long to live. [_apart._ _don scipio._ an hundred pistoles! _spado._ sir, have an eye upon their captain, as they call him, he's the most abandoned, impudent profligate--[_suddenly turning sees cæsar, who shows a pistol._] captain did i say? [_terrified._] oh, no; the captain's a very worthy good-natured fellow--i meant a scoundrel, who thinks he ought to be captain, one sanguino, the most daring, wicked, and bloody villain that--[_turning the other may, perceives sanguino with a pistol._] but indeed, i found sanguino an honest, good-natured fellow too- [_with increased terror._ _don scipio._ hey, a bloody, wicked, honest, good-natured fellow! what is all this? _spado._ yes; then, sir, i _thought_ i saw these two gentlemen, and at that instant, i _thought_ they looked so terrible, that with the fright i _awoke_. _don scipio._ awoke! what the devil then, is all this but a dream you have been telling me? _spado._ ay, sir, and the most frightful dream i ever had in my life. i'm at this instant frightened out of my wits. _don scipio._ you do look frightened indeed--poor man! i thought this cave was-_spado._ don't mention cave, or i faint--heigho! _enter_ vasquez. _vas._ dame isabel wants to speak with you, sir. _don scipio._ i'll wait on her. _spado._ yes, i'll wait on her. [_going hastily._ _don scipio._ you! she don't want you. _spado._ dear sir, she can't do without me at this time. [_exit_ scipio.] i come. [_going._ _don cæsar._ no, you stay.- [_pulls him back._ _spado._ ah, my dear captain. [_affecting surprise and joy._] what, and my little sanguino too! who could have thought of your finding me out here? _don cæsar._ yes, you are found out. [_significantly._ _spado._ such discoveries as i have made in the castle!-_don cæsar._ you're to make discoveries in the forest too. _sang._ our cave! _spado._ oh, you overheard that! didn't i hum the old fellow finely? ha! ha! ha! _sang._ and for your reward, traitor, take this to your heart. [_offers to stab him._ _don cæsar._ hold, sanguino. _spado._ nay, my dear sanguino, stay! what the devil--so here i can't run a jest upon a silly old man, but i must be run through with a stilletto! _don cæsar._ come, spado, confess what really brought you here. _spado._ business, my dear sir, business; all in our own way too, for i designed to let every man of you into the castle this very night, when all the family are in bed, and plunder's the word--oh, such a delicious booty! pyramids of plate, bags of gold, and little chests of diamonds! _sang._ indeed! _spado._ sanguino, look at the closet. _sang._ well! _spado._ a glorious prize! _sang._ indeed! _spado._ six chests of massy plate! look, only look into the closet; wait here a moment, and i'll fetch a master key that shall open every one of them. _don cæsar._ hey! let's see those chests. _sang._ massy plate! quick, quick, the master key. _spado._ i'll fetch it. _sang._ do but make haste, spado. _spado._ i will, my dear boy. [_exeunt sanguino and don cæsar._ my good--honest--oh, you two thieves! [_aside._ _enter_ don scipio. _don scipio._ now, spado, i--hey, where is my little dreamer? but why is this door open? this closet contains many valuables--why will they leave it open? let's see- [_goes into the closet._ _enter spado with a portmanteau._ _spado._ [_as entering._] i have no key--however, i have stolen don fernando's portmanteau as a peace-offering for these two rascals! are you there? what a pity the coming of my fellow-rogues! i should have had the whole castle to myself--oh, what a charming seat of work for a man of my industry--[_speaking at closet door._] you find the chests there--you may convey them out at night, and as for cutting don scipio's throat--that i leave to-_enter don scipio._ _don scipio._ cut my throat!--what, are you at your dreams again? _spado._ [_aside._] oh, zounds!--yes, sir, as i was telling you. _don scipio._ of a little fellow you have the worst dreams i ever heard. _spado._ shocking, sir--then i thought-_don scipio._ hold, hold, let me hear no more of your curst dreams. _spado._ i've got off, thanks to his credulity. [_aside._ _don scipio._ what portmanteau's that? _spado._ 'sdeath, i'm on again! [_aside._ _don scipio._ fernando's, i think. _spado._ [_affecting surprise._] what, my master's?--'egad so it is--but i wonder who could have brought it here.--ay, ay, my fellow servant pedrillo is now too grand to mind his business;--and my master, i find, though he has taken the habit, scorns the office of a servant--so i must look after the things myself. _don scipio._ ay, ay, take care of them. _spado._ yes, sir, i'll take care of them! _don scipio._ ha! ha! ha! what a strange whimsical fellow this master of yours! with his plots and disguises.--think to impose upon me too.--but i think i'm far from a fool. _spado._ [_looking archly at him._] that's more than i am. _don scipio._ so he pretends not to know you, though he has sent you here as a spy, to see what you can pick up? _spado._ yes, sir, i came here to see what i can pick up. [_takes up the portmanteau._ _don scipio._ what an honest servant!--he has an eye to every thing! [_exit don scipio._ _spado._ but before i turn honest, i must get somewhat to keep me so. air x.--spado. _in the forest here hard by,_ _a bold robber late was i,_ _sword and blunderbuss in hand,_ _when i bid a trav'ler stand;_ _zounds, deliver up your cash,_ _or straight i'll pop and slash,_ _all among the leaves so green-o!_ _damme, sir,_ _if you stir,_ _sluice your veins,_ _blow your brains,_ _hey down,_ _ho down,_ _derry, derry down,_ _all amongst the leaves so green-o._ ii. _soon i'll quit the roving trade,_ _when a gentleman i'm made;_ _then so spruce and debonnaire,_ _'gad, i'll court a lady fair;_ _how i'll prattle, tattle, chat,_ _how i'll kiss her, and all that,_ _all amongst the leaves so green-o!_ _how d'ye do?_ _how are you?_ _why so coy?_ _let us toy,_ _hey down,_ _ho down,_ _derry, derry down,_ _all amongst the leaves so green-o._ iii. _but ere old, and grey my pate,_ _i'll scrape up a snug estate:_ _with my nimbleness of thumbs,_ _i'll soon butter all my crumbs._ _when i'm justice of the peace,_ _then i'll master many a lease,_ _all amongst the leaves so green-o._ _wig profound,_ _belly round,_ _sit at ease,_ _snatch the fees,_ _hey down,_ _ho down,_ _derry, derry down,_ _all amongst the leaves so green-o._ [_exit._ scene ii. _an apartment._ _enter don fernando._ _don fer._ a wild scheme of my father's, to think of an alliance with this mad family; yes, don scipio's brain is certainly touched beyond cure, his daughter, my cara sposa of italy, don't suit my idea of what a wife should be--no, the lovely novice, this poor relation of dame isabel, has caught my heart. i'm told to-morrow she's to be immured in a convent; what if i ask dame isabel, if--but she, and indeed don scipio, carry themselves very strangely towards me--i can't imagine what's become of my rascal pedrillo. _enter pedrillo, in an elegant morning gown, cap and slippers._ _ped._ strange, the respect i meet in this family. i hope we don't take horse after my master's wedding. i should like to marry here myself,--before i unrobe i'll attack one of the maids!--faith, a very modish dress to go courting in,--hide my livery, and i am quite gallant. _don fer._ oh here's a gentleman i ha'n't seen before! _ped._ tol de rol! _don fer._ pray, sir, may i--pedrillo, [_surprised._] where have you--hey! what, ha! ha! ha! what's the matter with you? _ped._ matter!--why, sir, i don't know how it was, but somehow or other last night, i happened to sit down to a supper of only twelve covers, cracked two bottles of choice wine, slept in an embroider'd bed, where i sunk in down, and lay till this morning like a diamond in cotton.--so, indeed, sir, i don't know what's the matter with me. _don fer._ i can't imagine how, or what it all means. _ped._ why, sir, don scipio, being a gentleman of discernment, perceives my worth, and values it. _don fer._ then, sir, if you are a gentleman of such prodigious merit, be so obliging, with submission to your cap and gown, as to--pull off my boots. _enter vasquez._ _vas._ sir, the ladies wait breakfast for you. [_to pedrillo, with great respect._ _don fer._ my respects, i attend them. _vas._ you! i mean his honour here. _ped._ oh, you mean my honour here. _don fer._ well, but perhaps, my good friend, i may like a dish of chocolate as well as his honour here. _vas._ chocolate, ha! ha! ha! [_with a sneer._ _fed._ chocolate, ha! ha! ha! _don fer._ i'll teach you to laugh, sirrah! [_beats pedrillo._ _ped._ teach me to laugh! you may be a good master, but you've a very bad method--but, hey for chocolate and the ladies. [_exeunt pedrillo and vasquez._ _don fer._ don scipio shall render me an account for this treatment; bear his contempt, and become the butt for the jests of his insolent servants! as i don't like his daughter, i have now a fair excuse, and indeed a just cause, to break my contract, and quit his castle; but then, i leave behind the mistress of my soul--suppose i make her a tender of my heart--but that might offend, as she must know my hand is engaged to another--when i looked, she turned her lovely eyes averted--doom'd to a nunnery! air xi.--fernando. _my fair one, like the blushing rose,_ _can sweets to every sense disclose:_ _those sweets i'd gather, but her scorn_ _then wounds me like the sharpest thorn._ _with sighs each grace and charm i see_ _thus doom'd to wither on the tree,_ _till age shall chide the thoughtless maid,_ _when all those blooming beauties fade._ hey, who comes here? this is the smart little girl who seems so much attached to the beautiful novice--no harm to speak with her-_enter catilina._ so my pretty primrose! _catil._ how do you do, mr--[_pert and familiar._] i don't know your name. _don fer._ not know my name! you must know who i am though, and my business here, child? _catil._ lord, man, what signifies your going about to sift me, when the whole family knows you're don fernando's footman. _don fer._ am i faith? ha! ha! ha! i'll humour this--well then, my dear, you know that i am only don fernando's footman? _catil._ yes, yes, we know that, notwithstanding your fine clothes. _don fer._ but where's my master? _catil._ don fernando! he's parading the gallery yonder, in his sham livery and morning gown. _don fer._ oh, this accounts for twelve covers at supper and the embroider'd bed; but who could have set such a jest going? i'll carry it on though--[_aside._] so then after all i am known here? _catil._ ay, and if all the impostors in the castle were as well known, we shou'd have no wedding to-morrow night. _don fer._ something else will out--i'll seem to be in the secret, and perhaps may come at it--[_aside._] ay, ay, that piece of deceit is much worse than ours. _catil._ that! what, then you know that this italian lady is not don scipio's daughter, but dame isabel's, and her true name lorenza? _don fer._ here's a discovery! [_aside._] o yes, i know that. _catil._ you do! perhaps you know too, that the young lady you saw me speak with just now is the real donna victoria? _don fer._ is it possible! here's a piece of villany! [_aside._] charming! let me kiss you, my dear girl. [_kisses her._ _catil._ lord! he's a delightful man! _don fer._ my little angel, a thousand thanks for this precious discovery. _catil._ discovery!--well, if you did not know it before, marry hang your assurance, i say--but i must about my business, can't play the lady as you played the gentleman, i've something else to do; so i desire you won't keep kissing me here all day. [_exit._ _don fer._ why what a villain is this don scipio! ungrateful to--but i scorn to think of the services i rendered him last night in the forest; a false friend to my father, an unnatural parent to his amiable daughter! here my charmer comes. [_retires._ _enter victoria._ _vict._ yes, catilina must be mistaken, it is impossible he can be the servant,--no, no; that dignity of deportment, and native elegance of manner, can never be assumed; yonder he walks, and my fluttering heart tells me this is really the amiable fernando, that i must resign to dame isabel's daughter. _don fer._ stay, lovely victoria! _vict._ did you call me, sir?--heavens, what have i said! [_confused._] i mean, signor, would you wish to speak with donna victoria? i'll inform her, sir. [_going._ _don fer._ oh, i could speak to her for ever, for ever gaze upon her charms, thus transfixed with wonder and delight. _vict._ pray, signor, suffer me to withdraw. _don fer._ for worlds i would not offend! but think not, lady, 'tis the knowledge of your quality that attracts my admiration. _vict._ nay, signor. _don fer._ i know you to be don scipio's daughter, the innocent victim of injustice and oppression; therefore i acknowledge to you, and you alone, that, whatever you may have heard to the contrary, i really am fernando de zelva. _vict._ signor, how you became acquainted with the secret of my birth i know not; but, from an acquaintance so recent, your compliment i receive as a mode of polite gallantry without a purpose. _don fer._ what your modesty regards as cold compliments, are sentiments warm with the dearest purpose; i came hither to ratify a contract with don scipio's daughter; you are she, the beautiful victoria, destined for the happy fernando. _vict._ pray rise, signor:--my father perhaps, even to himself, cannot justify his conduct to me: but to censure that, or to pervert his intentions, would, in me, be a breach of filial duty. air xii.--victoria. _by woes thus surrounded, how vain the gay smile_ _of the little blind archer, those woes to beguile!_ _though skilful, he misses, his aim it is cross'd,_ _his quiver exhausted, his arrows are lost._ _your love, though sincere, on the object you lose,_ [aside] _how sweet is the passion! ah, must i refuse?_ _if filial affection that passion should sway,_ _then love's gentle dictates i cannot obey._ _don fer._ and do you, can you, wish me to espouse donna lorenza, isabella's daughter?--say, you do not, do but satisfy me so far. _vict._ signor, do not despise me if i own, that, before i saw in you the husband of don scipio's daughter, i did not once regret that i had lost that title. _don fer._ a thousand thanks for this generous, this amiable condescension.--oh, my victoria! if fortune but favours my design, you shall yet triumph over the malice of your enemies. _vict._ yonder is dame isabel, if she sees you speaking to me, she'll be early to frustrate whatever you may purpose for my advantage. signor, farewell! _don fer._ my life, my love, adieu! air xiii. duet.--victoria _and_ fernando. don fer. _so faithful to my fair i'll prove,_ vict. _so kind and constant to my love,_ don fer. _i'd never range,_ vict. _i'd never change,_ both. _nor time, nor chance, my faith shall move._ vict. _no ruby clusters grace the vine,_ don fer. _ye sparkling stars forget to shine,_ vict. _sweet flowers to spring,_ don fer. _gay birds to sing,_ both. _those hearts then part that love shall join._ [_exeunt._ _enter fernando._ _don fer._ this is fortunate; the whole family, except victoria, are firmly possessed with the idea that i am but the servant.--well, since they will have me an impostor, they shall find me one: in heaven's name, let them continue in their mistake, and bestow their mock victoria upon my sham fernando. i shall have a pleasant and just revenge for their perfidy; and, perhaps, obtain don scipio's real, lovely daughter, the sum of my wishes.--here comes don scipio--now to begin my operations. _enter don scipio._ [_as wishing don scipio to overhear him._] i'm quite weary of playing the gentleman, i long to get into my livery again. _don scipio._ get into his livery! [_aside._ _don fer._ these clothes fall to my share, however; my master will never wear them after me. _don scipio._ his master! ay, ay. [_aside._ _don fer._ i wish he'd own himself, for i'm certain don scipio suspects who i am. _don scipio._ suspect? i know who you are, [_advancing to him._] so get into your livery again as fast as you can. _don fer._ ha, my dear friend, don scipio, i was-_don scipio._ friend! you impudent rascal! i'll break your head, if you make so free with me. none of your swaggering, sirrah--how the fellow acts! it wasn't for nothing he was among the strolling players; but, hark ye, my lad, be quiet, for you're blown here, without the help of your trumpet. _don fer._ lord, your honour, how came you to know that i am pedrillo? _don scipio._ why, i was told of it by your fellow--hold, i must not betray my little dreamer though--[aside.]--no matter who told me; i--but here comes your master. _don fer._ pedrillo! the fellow will spoil all; i wish i had given him his lesson before i began with don scipio. [_aside._ _don scipio._ i hope he'll now have done with his gambols. _don fer._ sir, my master is such an obstinate gentleman, as sure as you stand here, he'll still deny himself to be don fernando. _don scipio._ will he? then i'll write his father an account of his vagaries. _enter pedrillo._ _ped._ master, shall i shave you this morning? _don scipio._ shave! oh, my dear sir, time to give over your tricks and fancies. _ped._ [_surprised._] my tricks and fancies! _don fer._ yes, sir, you are found out. _ped._ i am found out! _don scipio._ so you may as well confess. _ped._ what the devil shall i confess? _don scipio._ he still persists! hark ye, young gentleman, i'll send your father an account of your pranks, and he'll trim your jacket for you. _ped._ nay, sir, for the matter of that, my father could trim your jacket for you. _don scipio._ trim my jacket, young gentleman! _ped._ why, he's the best tailor in cordova. _don scipio._ his father's a tailor in cordova! _don fer._ ay, he'll ruin all--[_aside._]--let me speak to him. tell don scipio you are the master. [_apart to pedrillo._ _ped._ i will, sir--don scipio, you are the master. _don scipio._ what! _don fer._ stupid dog!--[_apart to pedrillo._]--say you are fernando, and i am pedrillo. _ped._ i will--sir, you are fernando, and i am pedrillo. _don fer._ dull rogue! [_aside._] i told you, sir, he'd persist in it. [_apart to don scipio._ _don scipio._ yes, i see it; but i tell you what, don fernando.--[_lorenza sings without._] my daughter! zounds! don't let your mistress see you any more in this cursed livery.--look at the gentleman, hold up your head--egad, pedrillo's acting was better than your natural manner. _don fer._ ah, sir, if you were to see my master dressed--the livery makes such an alteration! _don scipio._ true! curse the livery. _ped._ it's bad enough; but my master gives new liveries on his marriage. _don fer._ an insensible scoundrel! [_aside._ _enter lorenza._ _lor._ oh, caro, signor, every body says that you are [_to don fernando._] not don fernando. _don scipio._ every body's right, for here he stands like a young tailor of cordova. [_to pedrillo._ _lor._ oh, what? then this is pedrillo? [_to fernando._ _don fer._ at your service, ma'am. [_bowing._ _ped._ that pedrillo! then, who the devil am i? _don fer._ here, rogue, this purse is yours--say you are don fernando. [_apart to pedrillo._ _ped._ oh, sir--now i understand you.--true, don scipio, i am all that he says. _don scipio._ hey! now that's right and sensible, and like yourself; but i'll go bustle about our business, for we'll have all our love affairs settled this evening. [_exeunt don scipio and fernando._ _lor._ so, then, you're to be my husband, ha! ha! ha! _ped._ eh! _lor._ well, if not, i can be as cold as you are indifferent. air xiv.--lorenza. _if i my heart surrender,_ _be ever fond and tender,_ _and sweet connubial joys shall crown_ _each soft rosy hour:_ _in pure delight each heart shall own_ _love's triumphant pow'r._ _see brilliant belles admiring,_ _see splendid beaux desiring,_ _all for a smile expiring,_ _where'er lorenza moves._ _to balls and routs resorting,_ _o bliss supreme, transporting!_ _yet ogling, flirting, courting,_ _'tis you alone that loves._ _if i my heart surrender, &c._ [exeunt. act the third. scene i. _a grand saloon._ _enter don scipio and vasquez._ _don scipio._ d'ye hear, vasquez? run to father benedick, tell him to wipe his chin, go up to the chapel, put on his spectacles, open his breviary,--find out matrimony, and wait till we come to him.--[_exit vasquez._] then, hey, for a brace of weddings! air xv.--don scipio. _then hey for a lass and a bottle to cheer,_ _and a thumping bantling every year!_ _with skin as white as snow,_ _and hair as brown as a berry!_ _with eyes as black as a sloe,_ _and lips as red as a cherry;_ _sing rory tory,_ _dancing, prancing,_ _laugh and lie down is the play,_ _we'll fondle together,_ _in spite of the weather,_ _and kiss the cold winter away._ _laugh while you live,_ _for as life is a jest,_ _who laughs the most,_ _is sure to live best._ _when i was not so old,_ _i frolick'd among the misses;_ _and when they thought me too bold,_ _i stopped their mouths with kisses._ _sing rory, tory, &c._ i wonder, is don fernando drest--oh, here comes the servant, in his proper habiliments! _enter don fernando, in a livery._ ay, now, my lad, you look something like. _don fer._ yes, your honour, i was quite sick of my grandeur--my passing so well in this disguise gives me a very humble opinion of myself. [_aside._ _don scipio._ but, pedrillo, is your master equipped? 'faith, i long to see him in his proper garb. _don fer._ why, no, sir, we're a little behind hand with our finery, on account of a portmanteau of clothes that's mislaid somewhere or other. _don scipio._ portmanteau! oh, it's safe enough--your fellow servant has it. _don fer._ fellow servant? _don scipio._ ay, the little spy has taken it in charge--oh, here comes the very beagle. _enter spado._ well, my little dreamer, look; pedrillo has got into his own clothes again. _spado._ [_surprised and aside._] don fernando in a livery! or is this really a servant? zounds! sure i ha'n't been telling truth all this while!--we must face it though--ah, my dear old friend!--glad to see you yourself again. [_shakes hands._ _don fer._ my dear boy, i thank you--[_aside._]--so, here's an old friend i never saw before. _don scipio._ tell pedrillo where you have left your master's portmanteau. while i go lead him in triumph to his bride. [_exit._ _don fer._ pray, my good, new, old friend, where has your care deposited this portmanteau? _spado._ gone! [_looking after don scipio._ _don fer._ the portmanteau gone! _spado._ ay, his senses are quite gone. _don fer._ where's the portmanteau that don scipio says you took charge of? _spado._ portmanteau! ah, the dear gentleman! portmanteau did he say? yes, yes, all's over with his poor brain; yesterday his head run upon purses, and trumpeters, and the lord knows what; and to-day he talks of dreamers, spies, and portmanteaus.--yes, yes, his wits are going. _don fer._ it must be so; he talked to me last night and to-day of i know not what, in a strange incoherent style. _spado._ grief--all grief. _don fer._ if so, this whim of my being pedrillo is, perhaps, the creation of his own brain,--but then, how could it have run through the whole family?--this is the first time i ever heard don scipio was disordered in his mind. _spado._ ay, we'd all wish to conceal it from your master, lest it might induce him to break off the match, for i don't suppose he'd be very ready to marry into a mad family. _don fer._ and pray, what are you, sir, in this mad family? _spado._ don scipio's own gentleman, these ten years--yet, you heard him just now call me your fellow servant.--how you did stare when i accosted you as an old acquaintance!--but we always humour him--i should not have contradicted him, if he had said i was the pope's nuncio. _don fer._ [_aside._] oh, then i don't wonder at dame isabel taking advantage of his weakness. _spado._ another new whim of his,--he has taken a fancy, that every body has got a ring from him, which, he imagines, belonged to his deceased lady. _don fer._ true, he asked me something about a ring. _don scipio._ [_without._] i'll wait on you presently. _enter don scipio._ _don scipio._ ha, pedrillo, now your disguises are over, return me the ring. _spado._ [_apart to fernando._] you see he's at the ring again. _don scipio._ come, let me have it, lad; i'll give you a better thing, but that ring belonged to my deceased lady. _spado._ [_to fernando._] his deceased lady!--ay, there's the touch. _don fer._ poor gentleman! [_aside._ _don scipio._ do let me have it--zounds, here's five pistoles, and the gold of the ring is not worth a dollar. _spado._ we always humour him; give him this ring, and take the money. [_apart.--gives fernando a ring._ _don fer._ [_presents it to don scipio._] there, sir. _don scipio_ [_gives money._] and there, sir--oh, you mercenary rascal! [_aside._] i knew 'twas in the purse i gave you last night in the forest. _spado._ give me the cash, i must account for his pocket money. [_apart to, and taking the money from fernando._ _ped._ [_without._] pedrillo! pedrillo! sirrah! _don scipio._ run, don't you hear your master, you brace of rascals?--fly! [_exit spado._ _don scipio._ [_looking out._] what an alteration! _enter pedrillo, richly dressed._ _ped._ [_to fernando._] how now, sirrah! loitering here, and leave me to dress myself, hey! [_with great authority._ _don fer._ sir, i was--- [_with humility._ _ped._ was!--and are--and will be, a lounging rascal, but you fancy you are still in your finery, you idle vagabond! _don scipio._ bless me, don fernando is very passionate, just like his father. _don fer._ [_aside._] the fellow, i see, will play his part to the top. _ped._ well, don scipio,--a hey! an't i the man for the ladies? [_strutting._] i am, for i have studied ovid's art of love. _don scipio._ yes, and ovid's metamorphoses too, ha! ha! ha! _ped._ [_aside._] he! he! he! what a sneaking figure my poor master cuts!--egad! i'll pay him back all his domineering over me.--pedrillo! _don fer._ your honour? _ped._ fill this box with naquatoch. [_gives box._ _don fer._ yes, sir. [_going._ _ped._ pedrillo! _don fer._ sir? _ped._ perfume my handkerchief. _don fer._ yes, sir. [_going._ _ped._ pedrillo! _don fer._ sir? _ped._ get me a toothpick. _don fer._ yes, sir. [_going._ _ped._ pedrillo! _don fer._ [_aside._] what an impudent dog!--sir? _ped._ nothing--abscond. _don fer._ [_aside._] if this be my picture, i blush for the original. _ped._ master, to be like you, do let me give you one kick. [_aside to fernando._ _don fer._ what! _ped._ why, i won't hurt you much. _don fer._ i'll break your bones, you villain. _ped._ ahem! tol de rol. _don scipio._ pedrillo! _ped._ sir? [_forgetting himself._ _don fer._ [_apart._] what are you at, you rascal? _ped._ ay, what are you at, you rascal? avoid! _don fer._ i'm gone, sir. [_exit._ _ped._ cursed ill-natured of him, not to let me give him one kick. [_aside._ _don scipio._ don fernando, i like you vastly. _ped._ so you ought--tol de rol.--who could now suspect me to be the son of a tailor, and that, four hours ago, i was a footman! [_aside._] tol de rol. _don scipio._ son-in-law, you're a flaming beau!--egad, you have a princely person. _ped._ all the young girls--whenever i got behind--inside of a coach,--all the ladies of distinction, whether they were making their beds, or dressing the--dressing themselves at the toilet, would run to the windows,--peep through their fingers, their fans i mean, simper behind their handkerchiefs, and lisp out in the softest, sweetest tones, "oh, dear me, upon my honour and reputation, there is not such a beautiful gentleman in the world, as this same don pedrill--fernando." _don scipio._ ha! ha! ha! can't forget pedrillo.--but come, ha' done with your pedrillos now--be yourself, son-in-law. _ped._ yes, i will be yourself, son-in-law, you are sure of that honour, don scipio; but pray, what fortune am i to have with your daughter? you are a grey-headed old fellow, don scipio, and by the course of nature, you know, you cannot live long. _don scipio._ pardon me, sir, i don't know any such thing. _ped._ so when we put a stone upon your head---_don scipio._ put a stone upon my head! _ped._ yes, when you are settled--screwed down, i shall have your daughter to maintain, you know. _don scipio._ [_aside._] a narrow-minded spark! _ped._ not that i would think much of that, i am so generous. _don scipio._ yes, generous as a dutch usurer! [_aside._ _ped._ the truth is don scipio, i was always a smart young gentleman. [_dances and sings._ _don scipio._ a hey! since don fernando turns out to be such a coxcomb, 'faith, i'm not sorry that my own child, has escaped him:--a convent itself is better than a marriage with a monkey.--the poor thing's fortune though!--and then my son--i begin now to think i was too hard upon cæsar--to compare him with this puppy--but i must forget my children, dame isabel will have me upon no other terms. [_aside._ _ped._ d'ye hear, don scipio, let us have a plentiful feast. _don scipio._ was ever such a conceited, empty, impudent--- [_exit._ _ped._ yes, i'm a capital fellow, ha! ha! so my fool of a master sets his wits to work after a poor girl, that, i am told, they are packing into a convent, and he dresses me up as himself, to carry the rich italian heiress. donna victoria--well, i'm not a capital fellow; but i was made for a gentleman--gentleman! i'm the neat pattern for a lord--i have a little honour about me--a bit of love too; ay, and a scrap of courage, perhaps--hem! i wish i'd a rival to try it though--odd, i think i could fight at any weapon, from a needle to a hatchet. _enter philippo, with a letter and basket._ _phil._ signor, are you don fernando de zelva? _ped._ yes, boy. _phil._ here's a letter for you, sir, from don alphonso. _ped._ i don't know any don alphonso, boy. what's the letter about? _phil._ i think, sir, 'tis to invite you to a feast. _ped._ a feast!--oh, i recollect now--don alphonso, what! my old acquaintance! give it me, boy. _phil._ but, are you sure, sir, you're don fernando? _ped._ sure, you dog!--don't you think i know myself?--let's see, let's see--[_opens the letter, and reads._] _signor, though you seem ready to fall on to a love-feast, i hope a small repast in the field won't spoil your stomach_--oh, this is only a snack before supper--_i shall be, at six o'clock this evening_--you dog, it's past six now--_in the meadow, near the cottage of the vines, where i expect you'll meet me_--oh dear, i shall be too late!--_as you aspire to donna victoria, your sword must be long enough to reach my heart, alphonso._ my sword long enough! [_frightened._] oh, the devil!--feast! zounds, this is a downright challenge! _phil._ i beg your pardon, signor, but if i hadn't met my sweetheart, catilina, you would have had that letter two hours ago. _ped._ oh, you have given it time enough, my brave boy. _phil._ well, sir, you'll come? _ped._ eh! yes, i dare say he'll come. _phil._ he! _ped._ yes, i'll give it him, my brave boy. _phil._ him! sir, didn't you say you were---_ped._ never fear, child, don fernando shall have it. _phil._ why, sir, an't you don fernando? _ped._ me! not i, child--no, no, i'm not fernando, but, my boy, i would go to the feast, but you have delayed the letter so long, that i have quite lost my stomach--go, my fine boy. _phil._ sir, i---_ped._ go along, child, go! [_puts philippo off._] however, don fernando shall attend you--but here comes my sposa-_enter lorenza, reading a letter._ _dearest lorenza,_ _by accident i heard of your being in the castle--if you don't wish to be the instrument of your mother's imposition, an impending blow, which means you no harm, this night shall discover an important secret relative to him, who desires to resign even life itself, if not your_ ramirez. my love! [_kisses the letter._] i wish to be nothing, if not your lorenza; this foolish fernando! [_looking at pedrillo._] but, ha! ha! ha! i'll amuse myself with him--looks tolerably now he's dressed--not so agreeable as my discarded lover alphonso, though. [_aside._ _ped._ i'll accost her with elegance--how do you do, signora? _lor._ very well, sir, at your service.--dresses exactly like prince radifocani. _ped._ now i'll pay her a fine compliment--signora, you're a clever little body--will you sit down, signora? [_hands a chair._ _lor._ so polite too! _ped._ oh, i admire politeness. [_sits._ _lor._ this would not be good manners in florence, though. _ped._ oh! [_rises._] i beg pardon--well, sit in that chair; i'll assure you, donna victoria, i don't grudge a little trouble for the sake of good manners. [_places another chair._ _lor._ voi cette motto gentile. [_courtesies._ _ped._ yes, i sit on my seat genteelly--i find i understand a good deal of italian--now to court her--hem! hem! what shall i say? hang it, i wish my master had gone through the whole business, to the very drawing of the curtains.--i believe i ought to kneel though--[_aside._--_kneels._]--oh, you most beautiful goddess, you angelic angel! [_repeats._ _for you, my fair, i'd be a rose,_ _to bloom beneath that comely nose;_ _or, you the flower, and i the bee,_ _my sweets i'd sip from none but thee._ _was i a pen, you paper white,_ _ye gods, what billet-doux i'd write!_ _my lips the seal, what am'rous smacks_ _i'd print on yours, if sealing-wax._ _no more i'll say, you stop my breath,_ _my only life, you'll be my death._ [rises. well said, little pedrillo! [_wipes his knees._ _lor._ there is something in don fernando's passion extremely tender, though romantic and extravaganza. _ped._ oh, for some sweet sounds! signora, if you'll sing me a song, i'll stay and hear it, i'm so civil. _lor._ with pleasure, sir. air xvi.--lorenza. _heart beating,_ _repeating,_ _vows in palpitation,_ _sweetly answers each fond hope;_ _pr'ythee leave me,_ _you'll deceive me,_ _after other beauties running,_ _smiles so roguish, eyes so cunning,_ _show where points the inclination._ [exeunt. scene ii. _a gallery of the castle._ _enter fernando, alphonso, and victoria._ _don fer._ give me joy, alphonso; father benedick, in this dear and wished-for union, has this moment made me the happiest of mankind. _don alph._ then it is certain all you have told me of my victoria? _vict._ true, indeed, alphonso, that name really belongs to me. _don alph._ no matter, as neither lineage, name, or fortune, caught my heart, let her forfeit all, she is still dear to her alphonso. _don fer._ courage, alphonso--i'll answer you shall be no exception to the general joy of this happy night. _don alph._ happy, indeed, if blest with my lorenza. air xvii.--alphonso. _come, ye hours, with bliss replete,_ _bear me to my charmer's feet!_ _cheerless winter must i prove,_ _absent from, the maid i love;_ _but the joys our meetings bring,_ _show the glad return of spring._ [exeunt. scene iii. _a view of the outside of the castle, with moat and drawbridge._ _enter don cæsar and spado._ _don cæsar._ you gave my letter to the lady? _spado._ yes, i did, captain ramirez. _don cæsar._ lucky, she knows me only by that name. [_aside._ _spado._ a love-affair, hey,--oh, sly! _don cæsar._ hush! mind you let us all in by the little wicket in the east rampart. _spado._ i'll let you in, captain, and a banditti is like a cat, where the head can get in, the body will follow. _don cæsar._ soft! letting down the drawbridge for me now may attract observation. [_looks out._] yonder i can get across the moat. _spado._ but, captain! [_calling._] my dear captain! if you fall into the water, you may take cold, my dear sir,--i wish you were at the bottom, with a stone about your neck! [_aside._ air xviii.--don cæsar. _at the peaceful midnight hour,_ _ev'ry sense, and ev'ry pow'r,_ _fetter'd lies in downy sleep;_ _then our careful watch we keep,_ _while the wolf, in nightly prowl,_ _bays the moon, with hideous howl,_ _gates are barr'd, a vain resistance!_ _females shriek; but no assistance._ _silence, or you meet your fate;_ _your keys, your jewels, cash and plate;_ _locks, bolts, bars, soon fly asunder,_ _then to rifle, rob, and plunder._ [_exit don cæsar._ _spado._ i see how this is--our captain's to carry off the lady, and my brethren all the booty, what's left for me then? no, devil a bit they'll give me--oh, i must take care to help myself in time--got nothing yet, but that portmanteau, a few silver spoons, and tops of pepper-castors; let's see, i've my tools here still--[_takes out pistols._] 'egad, i'll try and secure a little before these fellows come, and make a general sweep--eh, [_looks out._] my made-up fernando! [_retires._ _enter pedrillo._ _ped._ he! he! he! yes, my master has certainly married the little nunnery-girl--ha! ha! ha! alphonso to demand satisfaction of me! no, no, don fernando is a master for the gentlemen, i am a man for the ladies. air xix.--pedrillo. _a soldier i am for a lady,_ _what beau was e'er arm'd completer?_ _when face to face,_ _her chamber the place,_ _i'm able and willing to meet her._ _gad's curse, my dear lasses, i'm ready_ _to give you all satisfaction;_ _i am the man,_ _for the crack of your fan,_ _tho' i die at your feet in the action._ _your bobbins may beat up a row-de dow,_ _your lap-dog may out with his bow wow wow,_ _the challenge in love,_ _i take up the glove,_ _tho' i die at your feet in the action._ _spado_ [_advances._] that's a fine song, signor. _ped._ hey! did you hear me sing? _spado._ i did, 'twas charming. _ped._ then take a pinch of my macquabah. [_offers, and spado takes._ _spado._ now, signor, you'll please to discharge my little bill. _ped._ bill! i don't owe you any-_spado._ yes, you do, sir; recollect, didn't you ever hire any thing of me? _ped._ me! no! _spado._ oh, yes; i lent you the use of my two fine ears, to hear your song, and the use of my most capital nose, to snuff up your macquabah. _ped._ eh! what the deuce, do you hire out your senses and organs, and-_spado._ yes, and if you don't instantly pay the hire, i'll strike up a symphonia on this little barrel organ here. [_shows a pistol._ _ped._ hold, my dear sir--there--[_gives money._]--i refuse to pay my debts!--sir, i'm the most punctual--[_frightened._] but if you please, rather than hire them again, i'd chuse to buy your fine nose, and your capital ears, out and out. _spado._ hark ye! [_in a low tone._] you owe your donship to a finesse of mine, so mention this, and you are undone, sirrah! _ped._ sir! [_frightened._] dear sir! [_spado presents pistol._]--oh, lord, sir! [_exit._ _spado._ i suspect presently this house will be too hot for me, yet the devil tempts me strongly to venture in once more. if i could but pick up a few more little articles--ecod, i'll venture, though i feel an ugly sort of tickling under my left ear--oh, poor spado. [_exit._ scene iv. _a hall in the castle._ _enter spado._ _spado._ so many eyes about--i can do nothing; if i could but raise a commotion to employ their attention--oh! here's don juan, father to fernando, just arrived--yes, if i could but mix up a fine confusion now--ay, that's the time to pick up the loose things--but hold, i am told this don juan is very passionate--heh! to set him and don scipio together by the ears--ears!--i have it. _enter don juan in a travelling dress._ _don juan._ egad, my coming will surprise my son fernando, and don scipio too--tell him i'm here--i hope i'm time enough for the wedding. _spado._ [_slily._] a grim-looking old gentleman! [_bows obsequiously._ _don juan._ who's dog are you? _spado._ how do you do, signor? _don juan._ why, are you a physician? _spado._ me a physician! alack-a-day, no, your honour, i am poor spado. _don juan._ where's don scipio? what the devil, is this his hospitality? he has heard that i am here? _spado._ he hear! ah, poor gentleman--hear! his misfortune! _don juan._ misfortune! what, he's married again? _spado._ at the brink. _don juan._ marry, and near threescore! what, has he lost his senses? _spado._ he has nearly lost one, sir. _don juan._ but where is he? i want to ask him about it. _spado._ ask! then you must speak very loud, sir. _don juan._ why, what, is he deaf? _spado._ almost, sir, the dear gentleman can scarce hear a word. _don juan._ ah, poor fellow! hey! isn't yonder my son? [_walks up._ _spado._ now if i could bring the old ones together, i should'nt doubt of a quarrel. _enter don scipio._ _don scipio._ ah, here's my friend, don juan! spado, i hope he ha'n't heard of his son's pranks. _spado._ hear! ah! poor don juan's hearing! i've been roaring to him these five minutes. _don scipio._ roaring to him! _spado._ he's almost deaf. _don scipio._ bless me! _spado._ you must bellow to him like a speaking trumpet. [_exit spado._ _don scipio._ [_very loud._] don juan, you are welcome. _don juan._ [_starting._] hey! strange that your deaf people always speak loud--[_very loud._] i'm glad to see you, don scipio. _don scipio._ when people are deaf themselves, they think every body else is too--how long have you been this way? [_bawling._ _don juan._ just arrived. [_bawling in his ear._ _don scipio._ i mean as to the hearing. [_very loud._ _don juan._ ay, i find it's very bad with you. [_bawling._] zounds, i shall roar myself as hoarse as a raven! _don scipio._ ah, my lungs can't hold out a conversation--i must speak by signs. [_motions to drink._ _don juan._ what now, are you dumb too? _enter vasquez. whispers scipio._ _don scipio._ oh, you may speak out, nobody can hear but me. _don juan._ [_to vasquez._] pray, is this crazy fool, your master here, going to be married? _don scipio._ what! [_surprised._ _vas._ [_to scipio._] don fernando would speak to you, sir. [_exit vasquez._ _don scipio._ i wish he'd come here and speak to this old blockhead, his father.--[_takes his hand._]--don juan, you are welcome to my house--but i wish you had stayed at home. _don juan._ i am much obliged to you. _don scipio._ you will soon see your son--as great an ass as yourself. _don juan._ an ass! you shall find me a tiger, you old whelp! _don scipio._ why, zounds! you're not deaf! _don juan._ a mad--ridiculous!-_enter fernando and victoria._ fernando! hey, boy, what the devil dress is this? _don fer._ my father--sir--i--i-_don scipio_. [_to victoria._] what are you doing with that fellow? _vict._ your pardon, dearest father, when i own that he is now my husband. _don scipio._ eh! eh! by this ruin, this eternal disgrace upon my house, am i punished for my unjust severity to my poor son, don cæsar--married to that rascal! _don juan._ call my son a rascal! _don scipio._ zounds, man! who's thinking of your son? but this fellow to marry the girl, and disgrace my family! _don juan._ disgrace! he has honoured your family, you crack-brained old fool! _don scipio._ a footman honour my family, you superannuated, deaf old idiot! _enter dame isabella._ oh, dame, fine doings! pedrillo here has married my daughter. _don juan._ but why this disguise?--what is all this about? tell me, fernando. _isab._ what, is this really don fernando? _don scipio._ do you say so, don juan? _don juan._ to be sure. _don scipio._ hey! then, dame, your daughter is left to the valet--no fault of mine, though. _isab._ what a vile contrivance! _don fer._ no, madam, yours was the contrivance, which love and accident have counteracted, in justice to this injured lady. _isab._ oh, that villain spado! _don juan._ spado? why that's the villain told me you were deaf. _don scipio._ why, he made me believe you could not hear a word. _isab._ and led me into this unlucky error. [_exit isabella._ _don juan._ oh, what a lying scoundrel! _enter spado, behind._ _spado._ i wonder how my work goes on here!--[_roars in don juan's ear._] i give you joy, sir. _don juan._ i'll give you sorrow, you rascal! [_beats him._ _don scipio._ i'll have you hang'd, you villain! _spado._ hang'd! dear sir, 'twould be the death of me. _pedrillo._ [_without._] come along, my cara sposa--tol-de-rol-_enter pedrillo._ how do you do, boys and girls?--zounds! my old master! _don juan._ pedrillo! hey-dey! here's finery! _ped._ i must brazen it out.--ah, don juan, my worthy dad! _don juan._ why, what in the name of--but i'll beat you to a mummy, sirrah! _ped._ don't do that--i'm going to be married to an heiress, so mustn't be beat to a mummy.--stand before me, spouse. [_gets behind lorenza._ _don juan._ let me come at him. _spado._ stay where you are, he don't want you. _don fer._ dear sir. _don scipio._ patience, don juan; your son has got my daughter--so our contract's fulfilled. _don juan._ yes, sir; but who is to satisfy me for your intended affront, hey? _don scipio._ how shall i get out of this--i'll revenge all upon you, you little rascal! to prison you go--here, a brace of alguazils, and a pair of handcuffs. _spado._ for me! the best friend you had in the world! _don scipio._ friend, you villain! that sha'n't save your neck. _spado._ why, i've saved your throat. _don scipio._ how, sirrah? _spado._ only two of the banditti here in the castle, this morning. _don scipio._ oh, dear me! _spado._ but i got them out. _don scipio._ how? how? _spado._ i told them they should come and murder you this evening. _don scipio._ much obliged to you.--oh, lord! [_a crash and tumultuous noise without; banditti rush in, armed; don cæsar at their head--fernando draws, and stands before victoria._ _band._ this way! _don scipio._ oh, ruin! i'm a miserable old man! where's now my son, don cæsar?--if i hadn't banished him, i should now have a protector in my child. _don cæsar._ then you shall.--hold! [_to banditti._] my father! [_kneels to don scipio._ _don scipio._ how! my son, don cæsar! _don cæsar._ yes, sir; drove to desperation by--my follies were my own--but my vices---_don scipio._ were the consequence of my rigour.--my child! let these tears wash away the remembrance. _don cæsar._ my father! i am unworthy of this goodness.--i confess even now i entered this castle with an impious determination to extort by force-_sang._ captain, we didn't come here to talk. give the word for plunder. _band._ ay, plunder! [_very tumultuous._ _don cæsar._ hold! _spado._ ay, captain, let's have a choice rummaging. [_cocks his pistol._ _ped._ oh, lord! there's the barrel-organ! _don cæsar._ stop! hold! i command you. _don scipio._ oh, heavens! then is ramirez the terrible captain of the cut-throats--the grand tiger of the cave?--but all my fault! the unnatural parent should be punished in a rebellious child. my life is yours. _don cæsar._ and i'll preserve it as my own.--retire, and wait your orders. [_exeunt all banditti but spado._ _don scipio_ what, then, you won't let me be murdered. my dear boy! my darling! forgive me!--i--i--i pardon all. _don cæsar._ then, sir, i shall first beg it for my companions; if reclaimed, by the example of their leader, their future lives will show them worthy of mercy; if not, with mine let them be forfeit to the hand of justice. _don scipio._ some, i believe, may go up--eh, little spado, could you dance upon nothing? _spado._ yes, sir; but our captain, your son, must lead up the ball. [_bows low._ _don scipio._ ha! ha! ha! well, you know, though ill bestowed, i must try my interest at madrid.--children, i ask your pardon; forgive me, victoria, and take my blessing in return. _vict._ and do you, sir, acknowledge me for your child? _don scipio._ i do, i do; and my future kindness shall make amends for my past cruelty. _ped._ ha, here comes my sposa--eh! got a beau already? _enter alphonso and lorenza._ _don cæsar._ my beloved lorenza! } [_embrace._ _lor._ my dearest. _don alph._ my good captain! as i knew this lady only by the name of victoria, you little imagined, in your friendly promises to me, you were giving away your lorenza; but, had i then known we both loved the same mistress, i should, ere now, have relinquished my pretensions. _lor._ my good-natured alphonso! accept my gratitude, my esteem; but my love is, and ever was, in the possession of---_don cæsar._ dear father, this is the individual lady whose beauty, grace, and angelic voice, captivated my soul at florence; if she can abase her spotless mind, to think upon a wretch stained with crimes, accompany her pardon with your approbation. _don scipio._ isabel has been too good, and i too bad a parent!--ha! ha! ha! then fate has decreed you are to be my daughter, some way or other. _ped._ yes; but has fate decreed that my sposa is to be another man's wife? _spado._ and, sir, [_to scipio._] if fate has decreed that your son is not to be hanged, let the indulgence extend to the humblest of his followers. [_bows low._ _don scipio._ ha! ha! ha! well, though i believe you a great, little rogue, yet it seems you have been the instrument of bringing about things just as they should be. _don juan._ they are not as they should be, and i tell you again, don scipio, i will have---_don scipio._ well, and shall have--a bottle of the best wine in andalusia, sparkling muscadel, bright as victoria's eye, and sweet as lorenza's lip: hey, now for our brace of weddings--where are the violins, lutes, and cymbals? i say, let us be merry in future; and past faults our good-humoured friends will forget and forgive. glee.--finale. _social powers, at pleasure's call,_ _welcome here to hymen's hall;_ _bacchus, ceres, bless the feast,_ _momus lend the sprightly jest,_ _songs of joy elate the soul,_ _hebe fill the rosy bowl,_ _every chaste and dear delight_ _crown with joy this happy night._ [exeunt. the end. [illustration: fontainbleau mrs casey--here your honor here's your honor's bill. act iii scene i. publishd by longman & co.] fontainbleau; a comic opera. in three acts; by john o'keeffe, esq. as performed at the theatre royal covent, garden. printed under the authority of the managers from the prompt book. with remarks by mrs. inchbald. london: printed for longman, hurst, rees, and orme, paternoster row. william savage, printer, london. remarks. the title of this play gives a sensation of both pain and pleasure.--fontainbleau was a favourite residence of a number of the french kings, and the spot where the princes of the blood resorted, with all the nobility of the land, when the sports of the field, or the course, were the particular objects of their pastime. pastime is a word no longer used in the vocabulary of the court of france--every moment has now its impending cares, and teems with the fate of empires! at the time this opera was written, (in 1784) the late duke of orleans frequently visited england, and was remarkable for his passionate attachment to british modes and manners. the character of colonel epaulette, in this drama, was supposed to be founded on this, his highness's extravagant partiality. there is that trait, indeed, of the duke's propensity, in epaulette; but in all other respects, the colonel neither soars, nor grovels, with his royal archetype, in any one action of notoriety. the author would not take the liberty to characterise a foreigner, without dealing, at the same time, equally free with one of his own countrymen. the part of lackland was taken more exactly from life, than that of epaulette, from a gentleman well known abroad by every english traveller; and whose real name is so very like the fictitious one here adopted, that a single letter removed, would make the spelling just the same. the reader will observe in this lackland, so much of debased nature, and of whimsical art; so much of what he has probably met with upon journeys, or amongst common intruders at home, that he will regret, that the author, in his delineation, swerves now and then from that standard of truth, to which he, possibly, at first meant to adhere; and for the sake of dramatic effect, has made this hero, in effrontery, proceed somewhat too far beyond its usual limits. the family of the bulls, especially miss bull and her father, are likewise portraits rather too bold; but they are humorous pictures, and, no doubt, perfect copies of such citizens, as inhabited london a few centuries past. squire tallyho gives, like them, some idea of former times; for his manners do not exactly correspond with those of the modern gentlemen of the turf. lapoche is, perhaps, an exact frenchman of the time in which he was drawn; and, as such, the most agreeable object for an englishman's ridicule. the mistakes which occur, to both mr. and mrs. bull, in respect to this insignificant, and that pompous man, epaulette, are incidents of very rich humour, though they place the opera more in that class of the drama, which is called farce, than in that of comedy. such is the incident, but more excellent in its kind, of lackland's courtship of miss dolly, and her equal affection for her three suitors. the real lovers, in this piece, would all be extremely insipid, but that they all sing; and music is called, "the voice of love." when music had fewer charms for the british nation, operas were required to possess more of interesting fable than at present is necessary--for now, so rapturous is the enjoyment derived from this enchanting art, even by the vulgar, that plot, events, and characters of genuine worth, would be cast away in a production, where music had a share in bestowing delight. dramatis personæ. lord winlove _mr. incledon._ sir john bull _mr. waddy._ colonel epaulette _mr. farley._ squire tallyho _mr. munden._ lackland _mr. lewis._ henry _mr. bellamy._ lapoche _mr. melvin._ lady bull _mrs. davenport._ rosa _miss bolton._ miss dolly bull _miss waddy._ celia _miss davies._ mrs. casey _mrs. dibdin._ nannette _mrs. liston._ fontainbleau. act the first. scene i. _a town.--sign on one side, the lily of france, on the other, the british lion._ _bells ring.--enter mrs. casey and first waiter._ _mrs. casey._ come, bob, what are you about, boy? the company tumble in upon us like smoke; quick, all the cooks at work, do you hear me now? [_bell rings._ _1 waiter._ yes, ma'am. coming, coming. [_exit._ _lackland._ [_within._] you scoundrel, i'll teach you to talk to a gentleman! _2 waiter._ [_within._] oh, very well, very well, sir. _mrs. casey._ hey day! _enter second waiter, stumbling in._ what's the matter now? _2 waiter._ only mr. lackland, ma'am; you know you ordered me to keep the globe for the large company; there, he takes possession of it; and though i told him it was bespoke, he would dine no where else:--orders a bottle of champagne, and because i didn't fly with it, kicked me down stairs, though i cried coming up, sir. _mrs. casey._ champagne, and not a louis in his pocket!--d'ye hear, tell mr. lackland, it's my desire he'll quit my house. _2 waiter._ your desire! ecod, ma'am, he said he'd make you bounce. _mrs. casey._ make me bounce! a shabby, spunging----though without a second coat, the fellow's as proud as a galway merchant.--make me bounce in my own house!--pretty well, that, upon my honour! _lack._ [_within._] what! house! _mrs. casey._ run, don't you hear? _lack._ [_within._] where is that infernal---_2 waiter._ infernal! that's you, ma'am, he's calling. _mrs. casey._ hush! here he is. [_exit second waiter._] because i'm a lone woman, he thinks to impose upon the house. _enter lackland._ _lack._ landlady, your attendance is shameful! _mrs. casey._ why, the truth is, sir, my waiters have enough to do if they properly attend on folks who have money to pay for what they call for. [_takes out her snuff box._ _lack._ [_takes a pinch._] and even your snuff, is execrable! _mrs. casey._ lookye, mr. lackland, that you're a gentleman every body knows; and you've a good estate, only it's all gone; and you're allowed to be a six bottle man, and a choice companion. ah! the beginning of a good song at the latter end of a bottle is a capital thing for a house--now, here, during the race time, i'll give you your board at the table d'hôte, and money in your pocket to pay the reckoning, if you'll only be a good jolly fellow, and encourage the company to drink, by a funny song, or a comical story. _lack._ what! live by entertaining a company? _mrs. casey._ yes; that's what i call earning your bread like a gentleman. _lack._ make me your decoy-duck? mrs. casey, you're a widow, you'll oblige me if you'll marry somebody immediately. _mrs. casey._ and why so, pray? _lack._ madam, that i might have the superlative honour of twisting your husband by the nose. [_bows gravely._ _mrs. casey._ well, upon my honour, you're a very mannerly fellow! but i wish i had a husband, for your sake--oh, i wish i had a husband! _enter gagger._ _gag._ madam, there's a paris chaise stopped, and the master of the lily of france has got hold of them already. _mrs. casey._ then he shall soon quit his hold, that he shall, as sure as my name is casey.--bob, do you go and try to bring them this way, and i'll go see the rooms prepared myself. [_goes to the door._] ah, my dearee, i wish i had a husband! [_exeunt mrs. casey and gagger._ _lack._ [_looking._] an english officer. [_retires._ _enter henry and french postboy._ _henry._ there--[_throws money into the boy's hat, who is discontented._] never satisfied! _postb._ monsieur, c'est toût poste royale, de paris jusqu'a fontainbleau. _henry._ oh, double postage for the horses! ay, ay, if we approach a mansion of the grand monarque, we must pay for it.--seven posts. [_gives more money._ [_exit postboy._ _lack._ [_comes forward._] by heaven, my old college chum, harry seymour! _henry._ pray, friend, can you direct me to the best--[_stops, and looks attentively on lackland._] is it possible? but i heard something of this--can you be charles lackland? _lack._ how d'ye do, harry? _henry._ my poor fellow! [_with concern._] but how has all this come about? _lack._ eh? _henry._ i feel for you, sincerely! _lack._ what d'ye mean? oh, my--[_looking at his clothes._] pshaw! never mind a man's outside; i've a heart within, equally warm to an old friend, in snow, or sunshine. _henry._ that i have passed so many happy, happy days with! _lack._ have--ay, and will again. _henry._ all gone?--play, i suppose? _lack._ ay, my dear fellow! play, and pleasure, and--but what the devil, musty melancholy! come to sport here at the races, eh? flush? _henry._ why, 'faith, lackland, as to cash, my affairs, at present, are little better than your own. _lack._ ahem! egad, that's rather unlucky for us both. _henry._ but my mind, my dear charles! i am this moment the most unhappy--in a word, you see me here an exile, fled from the hands of justice!--you remember my sister rosa? _lack._ what, little romping rose, that used to steal our fish, and throw our cards in the fire? eh, did i dream, or wasn't there a match talked of, between her and lord winlove? _henry._ all over, my dear lackland! guided only by the weakness of her sex, and the art of ours, she was prevailed on by lord winlove to take the road to the continent; i overtook them at rochester, demanded reparation of my sister's character by an instant marriage--i was violent--my lord's pride, hurt at a charge, which, perhaps, he did not deserve--a pistol was the umpire--he lost his life, and, in apprehension that a verdict might endanger mine, i was compelled to assume the disguise of a woman, to effect my escape. _lack._ bravo! shot a lord! i wing'd a marquis yesterday--poor rosa! where is she now? _henry._ i have lodged her in the convent of villeneuve. _lack._ and have taken the races of fontainbleau in your way back to paris? _henry._ i'll tell you frankly, though you'll say, rather inconsistent with my present situation; i'm drawn hither purely by the hopes of meeting an amiable young lady, who engaged my conversation at the sunday opera, in paris. _lack._ her name?--good family, eh? _henry._ i'm a total stranger to both--talks of her brother's having horses to run, and of their intention of being there at the races. _lepoche._ [_without._] je n'y manquerai pas. _lack._ [_aside._] this cursed tailor! now i shall be dunned and pestered! _enter lapoche._ _lap._ monsieur lackland, i ville no longer vait for my---_lack._ [_apart to him._] hush! i'll make your fortune--a customer, rolling in money. captain, if you're unprovided with neat lodgings, and a good tailor, here's your man, and there's his house. _lap._ oh, de new customer! bon--speak de goot vort for me. _lack._ he has good apartments. _lap._ oh, very goot--speake more. _lack._ i will. [_to lapoche._] this ill-looking little rascal- [_to henry._ _lap._ much obligé to you. _lack._ [_apart to henry._] if you are slack in cash, [_loud._] you'll find his lodgings convenient. _lap._ very convenient, because---_lack._ [_apart._] because when he asks for his money, you may kick him down stairs. _lap._ much obligé to you, sir. [_bows to lackland._ _lack._ [_apart._] my way of doing things. [_loud._] wasn't i a good customer, lapoche? _lap._ oui, it does a tradesman's heart goot to see you--[_aside._]--outside of his door. _lack._ i paid you eight livres a week, wasn't it? _lap._ oui, monsieur, you did--[_aside._]--promise me dat. _lack._ [_looking._] ladies! must attend where beauty calls--[_pulls down his ruffles._] my dear henry, at your time, i am yours; from a beef steak to a bottle of burgundy--can't stay now--you know i was always a philander among the ladies. [_exit._ _lap._ always great gander among the ladies. _henry._ poor lackland! _lap._ lately from londres, monsieur? i was vonce great man in londres; but now i am anoder man. _henry._ another man! what, then, my motley friend, i suppose you have a character for every country? _lap._ oui, i have appear in many character, but londres vas my grand theatre--ah! england is de great field of battle for us soldiers of fortune; and ven i could no longer fight my vay---_henry._ why, then you---_lap._ oui, i ran avay. ah, monsieur! in england, i vas high, and i vas low--i vas dit, and i vas dat:--i vas cook, parfumeur, maitre de langue, juggle, and toos drawer--in short i vas every ting. _henry._ and pray, my good friend, what are you now? _lap._ i am now myself, in my true charactere--a tailor, à votre service. _henry._ a tailor! what, and come here to the races of fontainbleau, to sport your louis d'ors upon the jockeys of france? _lap._ non, monsieur, but i am come here to sport de pretty jacket upon de jockeys of france. ah! i vill show so fine de green jockey, de blue jockey, and de red jockey!--dey may talk of vip and spur, but de beauty of de race come from my shear and timble. _henry._ pray, which is your best hotel here? _lap._ hotel! ah, monsieur, vy no lodge in my house? so convenient for de single gentilhomme!--[_aside._] i will not tell him of de lady, my lodger, because i love her myself. _henry._ well, i don't know but private lodgings, at this time, may be preferable to the noise and bustle of an hotel. _lap._ eh bien, monsieur, vill you look at my lodgment? _henry._ with all my heart. _lap._ je vous attend.--[_calls._] nannette!--and if you like them, you may send your baggage and little ting after you.--nannette! prepare for de new lodger. [_exeunt._ _enter gagger, and mrs. casey, from tavern._ _gag._ this way, sir john--this way, your honour! madam, it's sir john bull, and lady bull, and miss bull, and all the family. _sir john._ [_without._] i wish, my lady bull, you'd let robin have rolled us up to the door. _mrs. casey._ ha! upon my honour, it is sir john bull and his lady--this is the truth of an english family. _enter sir john and lady bull, french inn-keeper, four french porters, with small bandboxes, &c._ _mrs. casey._ sir john, you are welcome from paris. _sir j. b._ welcome from paris! [_mimicking._]---where the devil are you taking us? such a way, to walk over your damned pavement! _lady b._ oh fie, sir john! do you consider where you are? when english gentlemen come to france, they should leave their dammes at dover. _sir j. b._ i wish i had left you, or myself there, damme!--what are these fellows doing with the things? _lady b._ don't you see, the gentlemen are porters, sir john? _sir j. b._ porters! pickpockets--paid by the ounce: one thames street porter, would take the whole seven and their bundles on his knot; here's a proof- _enter robin, with a very large trunk._ my trunk, robin? _rob._ yes, your honour; four of the monsieurs trying to carry it, dropped it in the dirt, yonder. [_puts it down._ _lady b._ robin, you must immediately find colonel epaulette's lodge, and let him know we are arrived. _sir j. b._ yes, when you've taken care of the trunks:--and, d'ye hear, robin, you'll find squire tally-ho there, tell him that i'm come, and that dolly's longing to see him. [_exit robin._] but where is she? _lady b._ ay, where's dolly bull? _enter miss dolly bull._ _miss dolly b._ here i am, mamma. [_to mrs. casey._] ma'am, pray which is the inn? _lady b._ inn! hotel, miss, if you please. _miss dolly b._ miss! mademoiselle, if you please, ma'am. _sir john b._ aha! well said dolly--there was french upon french. _lady b._ dear sir, which is the hotel? [_to french innkeeper._ _sir j. b._ how cursed polite, to a waiter too! only because he's french. [_aside._ _french innk._ dis vay, mademoiselle--i keep de lily of france. [_bowing._ _sir j. b._ let's in, i'm plaguy hungry. _french innk._ ah, monsieur, de nice vermecelle-soup, de bon ragout, and de grande salade. _sir j. b._ ragouts! pshaw! _mrs. casey._ d'ye hear, george, carry that big piece of roast beef up to the lion. _sir j. b._ [_goes to her._] ay, and carry me up to the lion, i like to dine in good company:--who are you madam? _mrs. casey._ i'm mrs. casey, at your service, sir; and i keep this house, the lion of england. _sir j. b._ and are you english? _mrs. casey._ yes, that i am, born in dublin; an honest irish woman, upon my honour. air.--mrs. casey. _the british lion is my sign, a roaring trade i drive on, right english usage, neat french wine, a landlady must thrive on. at table d'hôte, to eat and drink, let french and english mingle, and while to me they bring the chink, 'faith, let the glasses jingle._ _your rhino rattle, come men and cattle. come all to mrs. casey. of trouble and money, my jewel, my honey! i warrant, i'll make you easy._ _let love fly here on silken wings, his tricks i shall connive at; the lover, who would say soft things, shall have a room in private: on pleasures i am pleas'd to wink, so lips and kisses mingle, for, while to me, they bring the chink, 'faith, let the glasses jingle, your rhino rattle, &c._ _sir j. b._ bravo, mrs. casey!--introduce me to your roast beef. [_exeunt lady bull, dolly, and porters._ _enter lackland._ _lack._ sir john bull, i think they call him, from the city--[_aside._] monsieur, je vous veux parler-_sir j. b._ don't vow parley me, i am english. _lack._ you are?--your pardon, i see it in your honest face. _sir j. b._ well, what have you to say to my honest face? _lack._ say? me!--damme, if i have any thing to say--but, only--how d'ye do? _sir j. b._ why, pretty well; how are you?--a damned impudent fellow! [_aside._ _lack._ and how have you left all friends in a--a--a--throgmorton street? _sir j. b._ throgmorton street! _lack._ that is--i mean--you're come to fontainbleau, and just arrived:--my heart warmed at the sight of my countryman, for i'm english too,--a little unfortunate, but---_sir j. b._ you're poor, eh? _lack._ why, sir,--i have had money-_sir j. b._ and what did you do with it? _lack._ sir, i laid it out in experience. _sir j. b._ oh! then, i suppose, now, you're a very cunning fellow. _lack._ i know the world, sir--i have had rent rolls, lands, tenements, hereditaments, mansions, arables, pastures, streams, stewards, beasts, tenants, quarter-days, and such other incumbrances. _sir j. b._ what, and you've got rid of them all? _lack._ oh, yes. _sir j. b._ you're a devilish clever fellow:--but couldn't you have got your teeth drawn at the same time?--i suppose, now, you've little use for them. _lack._ ha! ha! ha! very clever--smart and clever!--oh, you vile dog! [_aside._] as you're english, i feel an attachment;--harkye--a damned sharping place, this--you may profit by my advice; avoid strangers, particularly our own countrymen;--all upon the sharp--they'll introduce themselves, intrude their conversation, amuse you with some flam of their families, and spending fortunes, and losses; and the story generally ends in borrowing money from you, that is, if you are fool enough to lend it.--now, my dear sir, 'tis my pleasure to warn a gentleman, like you, of the tricks and deceptions, of these sort of fellows. _sir j. b._ i'm very much obliged to you--give me your hand--will you eat a bit of mutton with us? _lack._ sir, i should be proud of the honour, but something awkward--this dishabille!--and as i understand you have ladies, you know, they expect a man--the fellow here over the way, detains a handsome suit of mine, only for--sir, if you could oblige me with a guinea, i should repay you with many thanks. _sir j. b._ what, when the arables come back!--a guinea--well, i don't mind as far as--distress in a strange country, is--what's your name? _lack._ lackland, at your service. _sir j. b._ a guinea, you say--there, mr. lackland--- [_gives a guinea._ _lack._ sir, i am eternally obliged to you.--i fancy i may pass in these clothes, eh? _sir j. b._ yes, yes, you may pass--[_aside._]--for a shoplifter. _lack._ waiter! [_calling._]--if you'll give me leave, i'll treat you with a flask of most excellent champagne. [_goes to tavern._ _sir j. b._ treat with champagne! my own money too!--champagne! and i doubt if the fellow has got a shirt to his ruffles. _lack._ upon my soul, you're a very fine old gentleman!--mind my advice--i warn you against our countrymen--they'll only borrow your money, and laugh at you after!--ha! ha! ha! _sir j. b._ ha! ha! ha! so they'll laugh at me after! ha! ha! ha! _lack._ now you know their tricks; mind you keep your hand on your cash. _sir j. b._ yes, yes; the moment they talk of throgmorton street, you may be sure i will, ha! ha! ha! _lack._ ha! ha! ha! very well--ha! ha! ha!--bless your jolly face, how a laugh becomes it! ha! ha! ha! _sir j. b._ my jolly face!--good--ha! ha! ha! _lack._ ha! ha! ha! i'm thinking how surprised you'll be, when i pay you this guinea to-morrow! _sir j. b._ i shall be surprised, indeed! _lack._ ay, i have bought my experience by wholesale. _sir j. b._ yes, and you now retail it out at a guinea a dose. _lack._ my dear sir, i shall always acknowledge myself your debtor. _sir j. b._ i dare say you will. _enter second waiter._ _lack._ show a room, scoundrel! and change for a guinea. [_exeunt, laughing._ scene ii. _a chamber at lapoche's house.--folding doors a little open._ _enter rosa, reading._ rosa. _canst thou forget, what tears that moment fell, when, warm in youth, i bade the world farewell! as with cold lips i kiss'd the sacred veil, the shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale._ poor eloisa in her cloister, spoke my sentiments!--i begin to repent my elopement.--by this time the abbess has heard of my departure from the convent.--heigho! i wonder if lord winlove has got my letter--i wish he was come! air.--rosa. _oh, ling'ring time! why with us stay, when absent love we mourn? and why so nimbly glide away, at our true love's return?_ _ah, gentle time! the youth attend, whose absence here i mourn; the cheerful hours, in pity, send, that bring my love's return!_ _i feel my heart with rapture beat, no longer shall i mourn; my lover soon, with smiles i'll meet, and hail his dear return._ _enter nannette._ _nan._ madam, here's a gentleman wants---_rosa._ my lord winlove himself!--why didn't i wish sooner? [_exit nannette._ _enter lord winlove._ _lord w._ my charming rosa! _rosa._ oh, my lord! _lord w._ my dear creature! how could you think of fontainbleau, of all places--and at such a time too! so full of english, and fifty people that may know both you and me! safer, as i advised you, waiting for me at villeneuve, and, by a cross route, got to paris. _rosa._ nay, don't be angry with me! if i had remained at all in the village, the abbess might have discovered my retreat; for, though in my noviciate, i dare say, she's highly incensed at my escape. _lord w._ your letter says, you got out of the convent in boy's clothes, ha! ha! ha! _rosa._ yes; and i was e'en obliged to change them before i reached fontainbleau. oh, my lord! this is a wicked step of me! _lord w._ the impiety was mine, my love! to rob heaven of an angel--but how unlucky! here, my dear, you've got into the house of this lapoche--the most busy little coxcomb! _rosa._ i wish, indeed, i had been any where else! _lord w._ well, we may get from hence to-night: my death, from that rencontre with your brother, is every where believed. _rosa._ my dear lord! now only yours--i know no guide but your opinion. _lord w._ my sweet rosa! though i wasn't to be threatened into a marriage, by the young chamont, your brother, when he overtook us at rochester; on my return to england, i shall, with pride, acknowledge my sweet rosa to be lady winlove. air.--lord winlove. _flow'rs their beauties all surrender, when the sun withdraws his ray; now they shine in borrow'd splendour, painted by the beam of day. with each good fair eden planted, ev'ry sweet that sense could move, passion, sighs, though all is granted, no enjoyment without love. dearest maid! thy smiles bestowing, bright and gay, my hours shall be; by this heart, with rapture glowing, thou art light and love to me._ _enter nannette._ _nan._ oh, madam! madam! here my master has brought in a new lodger with him; the charmingest, beautifulest young officer--our countryman too!-_lord w._ young officer! _nan._ i ask pardon, sir; i didn't see you. _lord w._ then i see the necessity for our immediate departure: i'll instantly order a chaise, and remove you, my love, out of this group of jockeys, grooms, peers, and pickpockets. [_exit._ _nan._ ah, madam! see all the men in the globe, give me an englishman after all!--this pretty officer--[_opens the folding doors wider--henry discovered asleep on a sofa._]--dear madam, look! asleep--yes, he complained to my master, that he had been up all night. [_makes signs to rosa, to go and kiss him._ _rosa._ oh fie, nannette!--d'ye hear, nannette, when that gentleman returns, you'll call me to him. [_exit._ _nan._ lud, how nice we are!--then i'll win the gloves myself--[_stealing softly towards him--henry stirs._] oh lud! he's awake! _henry._ [_coming forward._] this travelling by night--thought to have slept in the chaise; but, not a wink---_nan._ did you call, sir? _henry._ who are you, my little countrywoman? _nan._ nanny, sir, at your service: [_courtesies._]--master will call me nannette, though, in the french fashion. _henry._ oh, you're the little english fille de chambre to monsieur lapoche, the french tailor? _nan._ at your service, sir. air.--nannette. _indeed, i'll do the best i can to please so kind a gentleman, you lodge with us, and you shall see, how careful poor nannette will be: so nice, so neat, so clean your room, with beau-pots for the sweet perfume! an't please you, sir, when you get up, your coffee brown, in china cup, dinner, desert, and bon souper, sur mon honneur, at night you be, with waxen taper light to bed by poor nannette, your chambermaid._ _enter lapoche, gets round, and turns nannette from henry._ _lap._ ah! here is fine doings in my house!--and you come here vid your vaxen taper, and your caper; your smile and your smirk, on dis english boy--pardi! i vill knock his head against de--[_turns to henry._] hope you had a good sleep, sir. [_to nannette._] get you down stair--i vill tump his nose flat; allez, allez! [_exit nannette._] i hope you find every ting agreeable, sir--hope nobody disturb you, and dat you like your apartements;--here you have all conveniency; here you may have two course and desert; s'il vous plait, you may invite your english friend to drink de bon vin--here in my house you may all get so merry, and so drunk, and laugh and roar, and sing, and knock your fistes against von anoder's head, so friendly, à la mode de londres--aha!--you please to valk dis vay, sir; i vill show you your chambre à manger. _enter nannette._ _nan._ here is---_lap._ go, get you gone. vat, you come again here, peeping at de men. _nan._ monsieur, i only want---_lap._ you vant! oui, i know vat you vant. allez, allez! begar, i shall have no girl to myself--all de girl in my house vill come after dis jolie garçon! _nan._ sir, you won't let me tell you, that colonel epaulette has sent to know if his new liveries are finished; and the great english squire, mr. tally-ho, has sent for his hunting frock. _lap._ colonel epaulette and squire tally-ho, monsieur, dese are my great customer; dey match de two horse to run on de race to-morrow: dat squire tally-ho is fine man. ah! i do love to vork for milor anglaise!--dis vay, s'il vous plait, monsieur--you vill excuse a me--[_to nannette._] come, he vill excuse a you too. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _another room at lapoche's._ _enter rosa._ _rosa._ i wonder what can keep lord winlove! i wish we were once upon the road!--this anxiety is tormenting; i long, though why desire, to see england, when all i love, is here? _enter nannette._ oh, nannette, is the gentleman come? _nan._ no, ma'am, but i desired the boy to show him to this apartment. _henry._ [_without._] what! is the lady this way? _nan._ the devil take the blockhead! may i die, if it isn't the young english officer, he's sending up here. _rosa._ shut the door, i'll be seen by nobody--undone! my brother henry!- _enter henry._ _henry._ is it possible? can it be!--my dear, will you step down a moment? [_exit nannette._] my sister rosa! _rosa._ what shall i do? _henry._ escaped from the convent, i suppose?--tell me, rosa, what--lost to every sense of virtue! to fly from the only place that could afford an asylum for your shame? _rosa._ my dear brother! though appearances are against me, yet, when you are acquainted with certain circumstances, which prudence forbids me, at present, to account for---_henry._ talk of prudence, and your fame blemished--your character departed with its destroyer.--but, of your lord winlove's memory, let me be tender, as his life has answered for his share in your offence. _rosa._ [_aside._] he does not know yet of my lord's being alive--i dread his return--their meeting again must, indeed, be fatal. _henry._ tell me, rosa, why would you quit the convent? _rosa._ [_aside._] i must get henry out of the house before my lord winlove comes back! how shall i?--come, take me, i'll go with you there this instant--do forgive me; come, dear brother! _henry._ yes, yes; i'll lodge you once more:--yet how perplexing! if i quit fontainbleau at this juncture, i may lose my wished-for interview, with the unknown charmer that brought me hither. _rosa._ [_aside._] ruin! i think i hear--if it should be lord winlove!--come, henry, i have but little preparation, and will immediately attend you. _henry._ be assured i won't part with you now, untill i again deliver you to the lady abbess, with a strict charge, that she'll strengthen your spiritual chains. [_aside._] and yet the sympathy of my own heart, inclines me to excuse the weakness of my sister's. _duett.--henry and rosa._ _brooks, to your sources, ah, quickly return! tear drop on tear, and give life to the urn; truth and virtue pass away, ere i for another my true love betray._ [exeunt. act the second. scene i. _the course.--a shouting within._ _enter tallyho and jockey._ _tall._ huzza! ecod, dick, my boy, you did the thing nicely! _jockey._ didn't i, your honour? i said i'd win for you--huzza! _tall._ huzza! we've banged the monsieurs. hey for yorkshire! d'ye hear--see whirligig well rubbed down, and give her a horn of egg, milk, oil, and saffron; and while you lead her down the course in triumph, let the french horns play, _britons strike home_. [sings.] _merry be the first of august._--let's see, besides the fifteen thousand from this french colonel epaulette,--ay, i shall win twenty thousand by the day; and then my slang match to-morrow--eh, dick? _jockey._ ay, sir; whirligig and old england against the globe--huzza! [_exit._ _enter english waiter._ _eng. wait._ sir, my mistress would be glad to know how many she must provide dinner for. _tall._ eh! dinner!--true: tell old moll casey to knock her whole house into one room, and to roast, boil, bake, and fricassee, as if she hadn't an hour to live--we're a roaring, screeching party--- _enter lackland._ _lack._ yes, tell your mistress we're a numerous party--i've left my name at the bar. [_calling out._ [_exit waiter._ _tall._ yes, i dare say they have your name in the bar--i see, by his grin, he wants to come captain borrowman, but 'twon't do. [_aside._ _lack._ ah, tallyho, my dear fellow, i give you joy--upon my honour i never saw finer running in the whole course of---_tall._ i won't lend you sixpence. _lack._ sir! _tall._ it's a fine day. _lack._ why, sir, as to the--ha! ha! ha! upon my soul, you are the most---_tall._ so i am, ha! ha! ha! _lack._ ha! ha! ha! oh, i have you, ha! ha! ha! _tall._ no, you han't, ha! ha! ha! nor you won't have me, ha! ha! ha! i'm not to be had--know a thing or two--up to all--if you're flint, i'm steel. _lack._ well, but don't strike fire to me--reserve your flashes of wit or---_tall._ you will catch them, as your coat is a kind of tinder, ha! ha! ha! _lack._ sir, i desire you will find some other subject for your jokes. _tall._ true, your coat is rather a thread-bare subject, ha! ha! ha!--touching the cash makes a body so comical, ha! ha! ha! _lack._ cash; ay, your wit is sterling to-day, tallyho, and as you carry your brains in your pocket, i wish you'd change me a twenty pound joke. _tall._ ha! ha! ha! ah, well, lackland, you're so full of jokes, that you even laugh at the elbows, ha! ha! ha! that is the best humoured suit of clothes-_lack._ [_calmly._] sir, if you were any body else, upon my honour, i'd knock you down! _tall._ hold, if you raise your arm, you'll increase the laugh--come, don't be angry, [_looks out._] and i'll help you to a graver sort o'coat, that's not quite so much upon the broad grin, ha! ha! ha! hush! i'll introduce you to colonel epaulette yonder. _lack._ [_looking._] that, ay, a right frenchman; one might guess by his mirth that he has lost to day. _tall._ true; but i keep up the old saying, ha! ha! ha! they may laugh that win. _lack._ i've heard the most unaccountable stories of his attempt at our style of doing things. _tall._ yes, i'm his tutor; i teach him all our polite accomplishments. _lack._ polite! then i suppose he can drink, swear, play at cricket, and smoke tobacco. _tall._ yes, he comes on, but i'll give him up to you--or you to him, to get rid of you. [_aside._ _lack._ yet, i am told this french gentleman has a most benevolent heart--a man of much worth. _tall._ yes, he is worth twenty thousand a year. _lack._ i like a man of twenty thousand a year--hem! tell him who i am. [_with great consequence._ _tall._ i'll tell him, you're a wrangling mastiff, pointer-made--he thinks so highly of our courage, with him, the boldest bully, is the bravest briton, ha! ha! ha!--he's so fond of our english customs, ha! ha! ha! why, he'd introduce himself to a duchess, with a zounds; and thinks if he can come out with a dozen dammes or so, he speaks very good english. _enter colonel epaulette, singing._ colonel e. _rule britannia, britannia rule de vay._ ah, my victorious squire--[_sings._] _if you should like, de yorkshire tyke, an honest lad behold me._ _both._ tol lol de rol, &c. _colonel e._ i lose five tousand to you on dis match--dere is one tousand on de paris bank, two de bank of england, von drummond, and von child. [_gives notes._ _lack._ tallyho, as i have none of my own, i'll adopt that child. _colonel e._ [_looks at lackland with admiration._] ha! ha! ha! le drole! _tall._ oh yes, it's a very good joke. [_puts up notes._] colonel, this here is squire what d'ye call him--squire, that there is colonel thing-o-me, and now you know one another, shake fists. _lack._ sir, your most obedient. _tall._ colonel, this is an honest fellow, and a finished gentleman; a jig or allemande--robin gray or mallbrook--he'll whip you through with a small sword, or break your head with a cudgel. _colonel e._ i'm much oblig'd to him, but is he fond of play? _tall._ play! he'll pull the longest straw for a twenty pound joke, or run with you in a sack for a ginger-bread hat. _lack._ sir, my friend tallyho is rather lavish in his recommendations--i have the honour to be known, and, indeed, live with some persons, not of the lowest order, in this, and--every country. _tall._ yes, he has so many great acquaintances, and so polite himself--look at his hat--he has almost saluted away the front cock. _lack._ i hate ceremony, but one must be civil, you know. _tall._ says so many good things too!--a capital bon motter. _lack._ hang it!--no, tallyho, my wit is rather o' the--sometimes, indeed, comes out with a little sally, that---_colonel e._ sir, i should be proud to be introduced to your little sally. _lack._ ha! ha! ha! you shall, colonel--my little molly, and my little jenny, and--ha! ha! ha! you see what i am, colonel--rather an ordinary fellow, [_conceitedly._] but the ladies do squint at me, now and then, ha! ha! ha!--overheard a most diverting confab amongst that group of ladies yonder, as i passed them--oh, dear! look at him, says one--at who? says another--that smart gentleman, says a third--i vow, a monstrous pretty fellow, says a fourth--but who is he? perhaps he's the english ambassador--oh, madam, not he, oh, not him, no, no--but at last they all concluded, from a certain something in my air, that i can be no other than--the emperor, incog.--ha! ha! ha! _all._ ha! ha! ha! _tall._ well said, master emperor! ha! ha! ha! but i will new robe your imperial majesty. [_apart to lackland._] i'll touch him for a coat for you--a man of high taste in our modes. [_apart to the colonel._] i'll try and get him to change a suit with you. _lack._ why, i must say, i'm somewhat partial to the newmarket style. _colonel e._ i tink his coat look de oldmarket style. _tall._ yes, but from your coat, and your feathered head, he took you for a drummer. _colonel e._ sacré dieu! he did not--zounds--damme! _tall._ [_to the colonel._] yes; but he's such a shot, he'd snuff a candle on your head! _colonel e._ sir, i vill snuff my head myself; and i vill snuff my nose myself, in spite of any body. [_takes snuff in a hasty manner._ _lack._ colonel, without offence to your nose, lend me your little finger. _tall._ do, he'll give it you again. _colonel e._ [_shaking hands with lackland._] ah, i see he is de true englishman; for he has de courage to fight, and de good nature to forgive.--mr. lackland, vill you dine vid me to-morrow? _lack._ dine! my dear fellow, i'll breakfast with you--i'll stay a whole month in your house. _colonel e._ [_with joy._] indeed! _tall._ yes, and you'll find it cursed hard to get him out of it, he's so friendly. _colonel e._ [_to lackland._] gi' me your hand--you're a most hospitable fellow! zounds! damme! _lack._ oh, pray, tallyho, isn't that your sister celia? _tall._ [_looking._] yes, that's sister celia. _lack._ haven't seen her some time--a fine girl, indeed! _tall._ i wish i'd left her behind, in paris.--badger'd--pestered with petticoats, when one has their betts and their business to mind. _colonel e._ i vill vait on de lady. _lack._ yes, we'll all wait on the lady.--i shall engage her hand at the ball to-night. _tall._ lackland, be quiet: she has a fortune. _lack._ well, has her money spoiled her dancing? _tall._ no; but i am her guardian, master emperor. _lack._ ha! ha! ha! then, by heaven! i'll attack miss buffalo, or what is that--the grocer's---_tall._ what, then you have thrust your copper face into sir john bull's family? _lack._ bull! ay, i thought it was some beast or other. _colonel e._ oh, my lady de bull--oh, dat is she, dat is recommend to me by a noble duke in paris. _tall._ the daughter doll is a fine filly--we start for matrimony, on our return to paris. _lack._ after dinner, i'll challenge him in pint bumpers of casey's burgundy. _colonel e._ and i sall shake an elbow, and set de merry caster. _tall._ very well, very well, gentlemen, have at you both--yoicks--hurrah! air.--tallyho. _i'm yours at any sort of fun, my buck, i'll tell you so; a main to fight, a nag to run, but say the word, 'tis done and done, all's one to tallyho._ _upon a single card i'll set a thousand pound, or so. but name the thing, i'll bind the bet, and, if i lose, i'll scorn to fret; all's one to tallyho._ _suppose you challenge in a glass, sweet doll, my pretty doe; and think your love could mine surpass, i'd swallow hogsheads, for my lass, all's one to tallyho._ [exeunt. _enter celia, calling after them._ _celia._ brother! why, brother! was there ever such a mad mortal! lud, i wish he'd left me in paris. i wish i hadn't left england--fontainbleau!--better to have shone on the steyne, at brighton--bless me! i wish i had only one dear beau, if but to keep me out o'the way o'the coaches--talk of french gallantry, and attention to the ladies! i protest, we've quite spoiled them--no, i find i have no chance here, while rivalled by eclipse, gimcrack, and whirligig--now, if love would but throw the handsome officer in my way, that entertained me so agreeably at the sunday opera, at paris. _enter henry and rosa._ _henry._ [_seeing celia._] yes, 'tis she, 'tis my charming unknown. [_aside._ _celia._ is that lady with him? [_rosa takes henry's arm._] takes him by the arm!--i wonder women haven't some regard to decency, in public! [_exit, singing._ _rosa._ [_agitated, and looking about._] if lord winlove follows me,--death to him, or my brother, must be the consequence. [_aside._] henry, if you design to take me to the convent to-night, we shall be too late--the gate's shut at vespers. _henry._ [_looking after celia,_] 'sdeath, if i lose her now, difficult, perhaps, to meet again--and, if i quit rosa, she'll--- _enter lapoche._ _lap._ ah, mademoiselle rosa! i'm glad you have escape from dat cruel rogue of a--[_henry turns._] my dear friend, i am so overjoice i overtake a you--i did vash you all over dis great horse field--i did ask a for you all de littel jockeyboy, and i vas vip, and push, and kick, and tump about, from dis a post, to dat a post-_henry._ well, pray what did you want with me? _lep._ only in your hurry, i did forget to give you de receipt for your lodging money. _henry._ oh, i forgot to pay you, that's it; but i wasn't gone.--[_looking out._] if she mixes in that crowd, i shall certainly lose her--may i venture to leave rosa in this fellow's care? [_aside._] lepoche, i want to speak to a person yonder, you'll oblige me exceedingly, if you'll not quit this lady till i return. _lep._ [_apart._] i varrant i vil stick close. _henry._ rosa, i shall be back in a few minutes. [_exit._ _lap._ [_aside._] ah, dat you may never come back, except to pay a me. _rosa._ cruel henry! so severely to censure me for a passion, of which, your own heart is so susceptible! _lap._ oh my dearest, sweetest---_rosa._ tell me, have you seen the gentleman since? _lep._ de pretty gentilhomme dat love a you? oui. _rosa._ where? _lep._ dis morning, in my looking glass. _rosa._ how perplexing! tell me, man--i mean the gentleman that--has that gentleman been to inquire for me since? _lep._ ah, sly coquin--i have hear all about you--you, 'scape from de convent in man's coat, to de gentleman--den here you run avay vid de captain from de gentleman, and now, i see it in your eye, you vant to run back to de gentleman again. _rosa._ you're not much out there. _lep._ i see she love me ver much. [_aside._] i vill go see vere de captain is got--hush you little devil of a sly pretty rogue! [_exit._ _rosa._ how perverse! by loitering here, lord winlove and henry must certainly meet, and i have the worst to dread from their violence of temper. _enter lapoche._ _lap._ all is safe--your captain is facing up to anoder lady--come to my house vid me. _rosa._ 'tis certainly the surest, and speediest means of seeing my lord again--then the necessity of relieving him from the anxiety, into which, my absence must have thrown him--i'm strongly tempted, notwithstanding the impertinence of this fellow. _lep._ she ver fond of me, vonce i have her in my power, if she be unkind--up i lock her for de lady abbess. [_aside._] oh, you pretty pattern for a tailor's wife--i do adore de dimple of your chin--your hand soft as englis broad cloth--your lip, genoa velvet, and your eye bright as de birmingham button. scene ii. _another part of the course._ _enter celia and henry._ _henry._ charming creature! since the joy inspired by your conversation at the opera, and the grief of such a hopeless parting, to the instant of this lucky meeting, i have not enjoyed a moment's peace. _celia._ you think this a lucky meeting, sir; i congratulate you on your good fortune, and leave you to the enjoyment of your happiness. [_courtesies and going, he takes her hand._ _henry._ one moment, my love! _celia._ very fine, this; so here my captive presumes to make his conqueror a prisoner of war! _henry._ i am your captive, your slave--thus i kiss my chain; [_kisses her hand._] and thus on my knee-_celia._ stop, you'll soil your regimentals. _henry._ dear, charming--[_aside._] i wish i knew her name. _celia._ ha! ha! ha! do forgive me. _henry._ i am enchanted with your gaiety, charmed with your beauty-_celia._ 'pray, were you ever enchanted, or charmed before? _henry._ but never lov'd till now. _celia._ oh, if you're serious, i must--come, come, come, i'll talk no more to you; walk that way, and i'll walk this way. _henry._ nay, but my angel-_celia._ well, well, i know all that, but if you really expect to meet me in the field again, you must send me a challenge by my brother--eh--but i'll not tell you, for you seem to be conceited enough already. air.--celia. _no hurry i'm in to be married, but if it's the will of my brother, i'd much rather stay, yet, since in the way, i as well may have you as another._ _a strange custom this, to be marry'd, though follow'd by father and mother, the grave and the gay, but, since in the way, i as well may have you as another._ _a prude, though she long to be marry'd, endeavours her wishes to smother, i'd give you her nay, but, since in the way, i as well may have you as another._ [exit. _henry._ charming woman! _tallyho._ [_without._] yoics! i'll bring in the stragglers--i'm the boy to fill the rooms, and empty the bottles. _henry._ oh, here's tallyho--as this brother she speaks of, is a man of the turf, probably he knows him--i'll just ask him, and--then for my sister rosa. _enter tallyho._ _tall._ i'm an excellent whipper-in for the bottle--oh, ho! [_looking at henry, then takes him under the arm._] come along. _henry._ where? _tall._ to get drunk, to be sure--you wear his majesty's cloth, and go to bed sober, when my english whirligig has beat the mounseers!--such a pack of jolly dogs! such burgundy!--won't you come and get drunk with us? _henry._ certainly, my boy--but, pray, tallyho, can you tell me--you saw the young lady that parted from me now--admirably handsome!---_tall._ handsome! yes, every body says she's like me. _henry._ i shall soon call her mine. _tall._ the devil you shall! _henry._ i have some hopes; the only obstacle is a brother--but, perhaps, you know him--one of our stupid, thick-headed fellows, without an idea, beyond a cock, or a horse. _tall._ for fifty pounds, i have as many ideas as you. _henry._ you! _tall._ yes, mr. captain; who gave you commission to talk o'my thick head? _henry._ what a blunder! [_aside._] but, really, squire, is that young lady your sister? _tall._ celia? yes, to be sure she is my sister, and that's your share of her too. [_snaps his fingers._] she has a great fortune, and you captains are damned poor--but, huzza! i have it, tol de rol lol!--[_sings and capers._] you shall fill your pockets with french gold--louis d'ors, sous and souces, you damned son of a--give me your hand. _henry._ now, what--what is all-_tall._ you shall go halves in my slang match to-morrow. colonel epaulette has matched his black prince, to run against my kick-him-jenny--it's play or pay.--you shall back his black prince, take all the odds--i will get my jockey to lame kick-him-jenny; and, to give a colour for her not being able to run, i've mounted sir john bull to take an airing on her, ha! ha! ha!--i warrant she plays him some prank or other, so, as he's a bad horseman, i'll lay her accident upon him--she can't run--pays forfeit--you sweep the field--touch them all--and when you've gathered in the cash, we'll meet privately, and divide it, even, fair and honest, in our pockets--damme, there's our snug ten thousand a piece with a twopenny nail! _henry._ and this, perhaps, you call honour? _tall._ yes, 'tis good turf honour. _henry._ what! to be a scoundrel? _tall._ oh, very well; if you're so nice--ay, now, you're a very delicate chicken! but, harkye, the next time you see sister celia, don't look at her. [_going_ _henry._ stop, tallyho--i think i'll punish my knowing one. [_aside._] on second thoughts, i will join with you in this roguery. _tall._ then you're a cursed honest fellow--my sister's yours. _henry._ ay, with her consent---_tall._ her consent! if we make the match, what has her consent to do with it?--but i'll settle that--come, you shall have it from her own mouth, this instant. _henry._ but what shall i do with rosa? [_aside, and looking out._ _tall._ what, are you making a set, my pointer? come, and be merry with us--why, i'll get drunk to-night, though i'm in love up to the saddle girts--oh, my darling dolly! _henry._ oh, miss bull--ay, we shall soon have you a bridegroom too. _tall._ yes, ha! ha! ha! i shall soon be a happy bull-calf. _duett.--henry and tallyho._ tall. _your hand_, henry. _your hand_, tall. _my hero_, henry. _my buck_, tall. _no more words_; henry. _no more pother_! tall. } _my sister is yours_, } henry. } _your sister is mine_, both. _and the bargain is struck_, tall. _my brother!_ henry. _my brother!_ both. _the field round_, tall. _we'll slang 'em_, henry. _we'll slang 'em_, tall. _and if they complain, the captain shall bang 'em._ henry. _in this and that, and every nation_, tall. _every rank, and every station, all, all declare, that cheating is fair,_ henry. _if it takes but the knowing one in._ tall. _miss polly, how coy! with her amorous boy, cries, dear sir! oh fie, sir! and bridles her chin; you impudent man, you, how can you? how can you?_ henry. _'tis all_ tall. _'tis all_ both. _to take the knowing one in; for all declare, that cheating is fair, if it takes but the knowing one in._ [exeunt. scene iii. _an apartment in the hotel._ _enter sir john bull, with a large patch upon his forehead, and french waiter._ _sir j. b._ ah, see when they catch me upon a race horse again!--that scoundrel, tallyho, did it to break my neck--above all the beasts o'the field, to mount me upon kick-him-jenny! but i must get something to this cut--have you no 'pothecaries here in france? [_waiter bows, and cringes._] i say, get me a doctor--[_waiter bows and cringes._]--i want a surgeon. [_loud._ _waiter._ oui, you be sir john- [_bows, &c._ _sir j. b._ d'ye understand?--i was riding, and tallyho's mare threw me--[_roaring, waiter bowing, &c._] you scoundrel! what, d'ye stand grinning at me? get somebody to dress my head. _waiter._ oui, monsieur. [_exit._ _sir j. b._ oh dear, oh dear! get me once out of france--then my wife and daughter! such a pair of mademoiselles, as they are making of themselves, to receive this great french colonel epaulette----egad, here they come, in full puff! _enter lady bull and dolly, extravagantly dressed._ _sir j. b._ [_bows ridiculously._] a-la-mode de paree! _miss dolly b._ bless me, papa, what's the matter? _lady b._ what, have you been fighting, sir john? [_looking at his forehead._ _sir j. b._ fighting! no, my lady bull--i got upon kick-him-jenny, she threw me off, and broke my head. [_eying them curiously._ _lady b._ what is he at now? _sir j. b._ eh, nothing. [_looking, and smothering a laugh._] george, get me a pipe. _miss dolly b._ la, papa, let's have no piping here! _lady b._ pipes! what man, d'ye think you're at dobney's bowling-green? _miss dolly b._ consider, we are now at fontainbleau, in france, papa, the very country seat of the beau monde. _sir j. b._ oh, very well--mrs. casey, get me yesterday's ledger. _lady b._ ledger! oh, now, he's got to garraway's--i tell you again, you are not at margate, raffling for twopenny toys. _miss dolly b._ or dancing in your boots, at dandelion, papa--la now, do, pa, get into the mode, like us! _sir j. b._ thank you, daughter, but i'm not quite so modish. _lady b._ but, consider, my dear, if colonel epaulette does us the honour of a visit, how he'll be shocked at your appearance! _sir j. b._ thank you, thank you, wife; but i don't think i'm quite so shocking. _lady b._ then, if he does introduce us to the prince--sir john, to tell you a secret, i have already sent for one mr. lapoche, a celebrated french tailor, to make you a new suit of clothes for the occasion. _sir j. b._ a french tailor for me!--very well, very well, ladies. _enter first waiter._ _waiter._ mr. lackland, madam; would you chuse to see him? _sir j. b._ ay, ay, let the poor devil come up. [_exit waiter._ _lady b._ mr. lackland! ay, here's more of your--a pretty thing, to come all the way to france, to pick up english acquaintances! and then, such a paltry--shabby--- _enter lackland, elegantly dressed in colonel epaulette's clothes._ _lack._ ladies, your most obedient--how d'ye do, bull? _sir j. b._ [_looking at him with surprise._] shabby!--eh!--why, in the name of--oh! ho!--ha! ha! ha!--recovered the arables, or another old fool from throgmorton street? _lack._oh, pray don't let my presence disconcert any body--ladies, i dined with my friend tallyho, and colonel epaulette; the colonel understanding that i admitted sir john here, to some share of my notice, begged i'd make his respects, and that he'd wait on you immediately. _lady b._ now, miss bull, summon all the graces. _miss dolly b._ oh, lud! and the powder's all--the duchess's barber must titivate me up directly. _lack._ miss, don't mind me--people say i'm particular--but i'm the most condescending--bull, be seated. _sir j. b._ bull! i will not be seated. _lack._ yes, she is a fine girl, indeed. _sir j. b._ who, doll? yes, doll's a dev'lish fine girl, and i shall give fourscore thousand pounds with her. _lack._ what!--[_aside._] this may prove a good hit--but such a vulgar family!--hearkye--pray--[_with haughtiness and contempt._] you've kept shop? _sir j. b._ fifteen years--the grasshopper, on garlick hill. _lack._ and you sold raisins, and-_sir j. b._ yes, i did, and figs too. _lady b._ d'ye hear him? _lack._ [_aside._] hem! yes, i'll marry her--a dowdy--he's a seller of figs--yet, fourscore thousand-_sir j. b._ and yet, do you know---_lack._ [_puts him back gently._] softly--ma'am, [_to miss dolly bull._]--upon my soul, you're a very fine creature! _miss dolly b._ sir! [_aside._] lord, i like him, vastly! _lack._ i say, ma'am, i--but, hold--i had best begin with a compliment to the mother though--ma'am,--[_looks first at lady bull, then at sir john._]--figs! [_stifling a laugh._] ma'am, your dress is extremely elegant--admirably fancied--and---_sir j. b._ yet if i was to advise---_lack._ [_puts him back, without looking at him._] be quiet, bull--with so many native charms--difficult to say, whether ornaments grace the person, or the person ornaments the dress. _miss dolly b._ he's vastly well bred, mamma. _lady b._ yes, but speaks english too plain for a gentleman. _lack._ miss bull's spirit and good humour, is the emblem of english liberty, and your ladyship, [_bows._] the ninon de l'enclos of britain. _sir j. b._ [_aside._] ninon-don--talks french--i lent him a guinea too--well! _lack._ i presume, ladies, you go to the ball to-night--if disengaged, miss, i should be proud of the honour of your hand. _miss dolly b._ yes, sir, with all my heart, sir. _sir j. b._ your heart, hussy! didn't you promise squire tallyho? _miss dolly b._ true, papa; but then, i hadn't seen this gentleman. _lady b._ haven't i hopes of colonel epaulette, for you? _miss dolly b._ ay, but none of us have ever seen the colonel--he mayn't like me, and, perhaps, i mayn't like him. _lady b._ dolly, you're too ready with your yes. _lack._ consider, if your ladyship had always cruelly said no, miss dolly could never have been the admiration of the court of versailles. _sir j. b._ yes, and i dare say---_lack._ softly, my honest fellow. _sir j. b._ [_stamping._] what d'ye mean, friend--honest fellow! i don't believe you know who you're talking to!--[_aside._] oh, oh! tallyho is likely to be jockeyed here--[_calls out._] bob, if squire tallyho comes, show him---_lady b._ show him out of the house. _miss dolly b._ what! the squire? _tallyho sings without._ _at six in the morning, by most of the clocks, we rode to kilruddery, in search of a fox. tol de rol lol._ _lack._ here comes tallyho--yes, casey's burgundy has quite done him up. _lady b._ fontainbleau! one might as well be at ascot heath. _enter tallyho, drunk, and singing._ tall. _or, i'll leap over you, your blind gelding and all, tol de rol_--ha! ha! ha! sir john, i am so sorry you should be hurt by that fall! _sir j. b._ ha! ha! ha! yes, i see you are very sorry. _tall._ but how is your leg? _sir j. b._ my leg! it's my forehead. _tall._ ah! ha! my old prize fighter! _sir j. b._ i've been fighting your battles here.- [_lady bull looks scornfully at tallyho._ _tall._ right, sir john--[_observing her._] for i see, if the grey mare's the better horse, i lose the filly. _lady b._ i can't stay with this savage. _lack._ will your ladyship honour me--miss dolly, your lily hand- [_takes her hand._ _tall._ [_interposing._] no matter whether her hand is a lily, or a tulip, or a daffydowndilly--by your leave, neighbour- [_gets between dolly and lackland._ _lack._ sir, you know i am always ready to correct insolence; if a man insults me, 'tisn't his fortune can protect him--[_turning to sir j. bull._] pr'ythee, bull, step and ask if i left my snuff-box in the bar below. mr. tallyho, when you're inclined to quarrel, i am always ready to go out with you. _tall._ my lady bull will go out with you, and i wish her much joy of her company. [_bows very low._ [_exit lackland, leading lady bull._ sir john, i am so hurt that my mare should--how is your collar bone now? _sir j. b._ pshaw! don't you see it's my forehead--go out with him! isn't that one of your sword and pistol terms? _tall._ oh yes, at those amusements, in a small room, that gentleman is, indeed, pretty company. _miss dolly b._ lord, he must be charming company, in a small room! [_with great glee._ _sir j. b._ an impudent dog! to send me out for his snuff-box too. _miss dolly b._ i do like him monstrously! _tall._ like him! why, doll, you're a fox upon a double ditch--none can tell which side you'll leap--ho, ho! what, am i thrown out here, old hurlo-thrumbo? _sir j. b._ me--i don't know what this fellow has been about here, among them, with his snuff, and his feathers--but where have you been, tallyho? i tell you, if you'd have doll, you must stick to her, my boy. _miss dolly b._ ay, that you must, indeed, my boy--lord, squire, what has made you so tipsy? _tall._ love and burgundy--swallowing your health, my sweet dolly douse-sings. _had diana been there, she'd been pleas'd to the life. and one of the lads got a goddess to wife._ [_takes her hand._ when you come across my noddle--tipsy-gipsy--i get upon the half cock, and then--a dozen bumpers makes me--tol de rol lol--ha! ha! ha! old dad--how cursed comical you looked, when kick-him-jenny flung you over her ears, ha! ha! ha! damme, you came upon all fours, like a tom cat with a parachute, ha! ha! ha! _miss dolly b._ ha! ha! ha! oh, what a rare fellow you are, ha! ha! ha!--what fine game you do make of my father! ha! ha! ha! _sir j. b._ game o'your father! why, you confounded jade-_tall._ sir john, i am sorry my mare broke your nose. _sir j. b._ zounds! don't you see it's my forehead?--but, however, i forgive you, since--ha! ha! ha!--i'm so pleas'd at your winning the race to-day, and beating the mounseers, that, if i'd twenty daughters, and each with a plumb in her mouth, you should have them all. _tall._ [_looking at his tablets._] plumb! oh, true, sir jackey, my lad, i have you down here, for a fifty. _sir j. b._ how? _tall._ that you owe me. _sir j. b._ me? i never borrowed sixpence of you, in my life. _tall._ no, but you lost fifty pounds though. _sir j. b._ [_alarmed._] lost! oh, lord! i had a fifty pound note in my pocket book--[_takes out his pocket book._] no, 'faith, here it is. _tall._ then you may as well give it me, jackey. _sir j. b._ give it you! for what? _tall._ why, don't you know you laid me fifty pounds upon the colonel's joan of arc, and didn't my whirligig beat her? _sir j. b._ damn your whirligig! _miss dolly b._ oh, lord, father! how can you damn his whirligig? _tall._ come, fifty pounds here--down with your dust! _miss dolly b._ ay, papa, down with your dust! _sir j. b._ you hussy! i'll dust your gown for you! _tall._ why, didn't you lay? _sir j. b._ lay! i remember, i said, i thought the brown horse run the fastest. _tall._ yes, but when i laid fifty he'd lose, didn't you say done? _sir j. b._ and so you come the dun upon me--pho, pho! none of your jokes, man. _tall._ jokes! you shall pay me in earnest. _sir j. b._ pay you--what the devil, do you think i'll give you fifty pounds, because one horse thrusts his nose out before another? doll, that's a rogue! _tall._ rogue! cut while you're well--i'll make no more words--that bet was done and done, and if you don't pay me, i'll post you at tattersal's--indeed, i will, sir jackey, my lad. _miss dolly b._ never mind old fogrum--run away with me. [_apart to tallyho._ _sir j. b._ oh, very well--there--[_gives a note._] by winning fifty pounds, you lose my daughter, and fourscore thousand; and now post that at tattersal's, tally, my lad--dolly, child, go to your mamma. _miss dolly b._ i won't--i won't go to my mamma--i'll meet you, bye and bye, at the colonel's. [_apart to tallyho._ _sir j. b._ you won't--you shall, hussy! _miss dolly b._ i won't--i won't--[_crying and sobbing._] oh, the cruelty of old tough fathers, to force young, tender maidens, away from the sweet, amiable swains, that so dearly love them! oh! oh! oh! _sir j. b._ go in there, you jade! [_forces her off._] how cunning you look now, tally, my lad! [_exeunt miss bull and sir john._ _tall._ don't force her away from her beautiful swain--[_looks disappointed, and whistles._] so, here's a pretty commence! but if doll meets me at the colonel's, i'll whip her off; and if captain henry has laid the betts upon my slang match, i shall roll in rhino--first, marry doll, in private--then, london--hey for a wedding, in full cry, and, then for the dear delights of london! air.--tallyho. _in london, my life is a ring of delight; in frolics, i keep up the day and the night, i snooze at the hummums till twelve, perhaps later; i rattle the bell, and i roar up the waiter; "your honour," says he, and he tips me a leg; he brings me my tea, but i swallow an egg; for tea in a morning's a slop i renounce, so i down with a glass of the right cherry bounce. with swearing--tearing! ranting--jaunting! slashing--smashing! smacking--cracking! rumbling--tumbling! laughing--quaffing! smoking--joking! swagg'ring--stagg'ring! so thoughtless, so knowing, so green, and so mellow! this--this is the life of a frolicsome fellow._ _my phaeton i mount, and the plebs they all stare, i handle my reins, and my elbows i square; my ponies so plump, and as white as a lily! through pallmall i spank it, and up piccadilly; till, losing a wheel, egad, down i come, smack! so, at knightsbridge, i throw myself into a hack, at tattersal's, fling a leg over my nag; then visit for dinner, then dress in a bag. with swearing, &c._ act the third. scene i. _town._ _enter first waiter._ _1 waiter._ here, you, george!--i say, george! _enter second waiter._ _2 waiter._ what the deuce a bawling do you keep! _1 waiter._ what d'ye mean running about the streets, with your hands in your pockets, at such a time, and the house full of company, and---_2 waiter._ why, didn't mistress desire me to look for captain huff, in order to see if he could bully this here mr. lackland out of the house; as there's no chance of his ever being able to pay his bill here? _1 waiter._ bully him out! i don't think the captain and his whole regiment can do that. _lackland and mrs. casey without._ _mrs. casey._ mr. lackland, i desire you'll leave my house. _2 waiter._ see, what a woman's tongue can do!--here he comes, and my mistress at his heels. _lack._ upon my honour, mrs. casey, i'm amazed that any gentleman would enter your doors! _mrs. casey._ upon my honour, mr. lackland, you may take yourself out of my doors! _1 waiter._ she's done it--here comes the poor beau! _enter lackland and mrs. casey._ _mrs. casey._ why, i tell you, sir harry bisque's valet has locked up all his master's baggage in it, and you can have that chamber no more. _lack._ i'll ruin your house--no more carriages--i'll bring no more coronets about your doors, to inquire after me, madam--by heaven, i'll ruin your house! _mrs. casey._ ay, my house may be ruined, indeed, if i haven't money to pay my wine merchant. i'll tell you what, my honest lad, i've no notion of folks striving to keep up the gentleman, when they cannot support it; and when people are young and strong, can't see any disgrace in taking up a brown musket, or the end of a sedan chair, or--a knot--[_looking at his shoulders._] any thing better than bilking me, or spunging upon my customers, and flashing it away in their old clothes. _lack._ see when you'll get such a customer as i was! haven't i left the mark of a dice box upon every table?--was there a morning i didn't take a sandwich? or a day passed, without my drinking my four bottles? _mrs casey._ four bottles! but how many did you pay for? _lack._ never mind that, that's my affair--by heaven, madam, i'll ruin your house!--d'ye hear? [_calling._] carry my baggage over to the lily. _mrs. casey._ ay, take his baggage upon a china plate, for it's a nice affair. _lack._ hey, my baggage! [_calling._ _mrs. casey._ ah, man, what signifies your conceit?--such a bashaw! here you come and call, like a lord, and drink like a lord, and there you are in my books six whole pages, without a scratch, like a lord ogh, you've run up a thumping bill, and, i warrant, you'll pay it like a lord. [_courtesies ironically._ _lack._ that i shall, ma'am; produce your bill. [_takes out a purse, and chinks it._ _mrs. casey._ oh, miracles will never cease--well, i said all along, that your honour was a prince. [_courtesies._ _lack._ madam, my bill! _mrs. casey._ lord, your honour, what need your honour mind the bill now? sure your honour may pay it any time. [_courtesies._ _lack._ very true, mrs. casey, so i can. [_puts up the purse._ _mrs. casey._ but, however, since your honour insists upon paying it now, you shall see it--here, bob! [_calling._] squire lackland's bill--then heavens save your handsome face, and your handsome hand, and your handsome leg--pretend to be without money!--oh dear, how jokish these gentlemen are!--here, bob, squire lackland's bill--quick, quick! [_exit mrs. casey and servants._ _lack._ i am sure, i'm vastly obliged to colonel epaulette, for this recruit of finance, if 'twas only to rescue me from this irish harpy--come, i do very well--oh, lucky, lucky cards!--after paying her bill, i shall have as much as will set me up at the faro bank--dem it, i mustn't--cannot think of this grocer's daughter--vile city bulls and bears--no, no, tallyho may have her--oh, here he comes! _enter tallyho, crossing quick, and singing._ oh, tallyho! _tall._ couldn't stop to speak to a duke--not even a clerk of the course. _lack._ i'll bet you fifty guineas, you stop with me though. _tall._ but my little doe doll waits for me at colonel epaulette's--a word--she's going off with me--so i must leave my match in the hands of my jockeys--soho, puss! [_going._ _lack._ a word. _tall._ what the devil, d'ye think people of business can stand gabbling--lose time with people that's got no money--this is a place of sport, and those that can't---_lack._ what d'ye mean, sir--gabbling!--can't sport!--sir, i have spirit, and ability- [_shows the purse._ _tall._ spunk and rhino! _lack._ gabble--can't sport--there--[_gives him the purse, and takes out a pack of cards._] the highest card against that, if you dare--can't sport!--you shall find me spunk. _tall._ you're spunk--tol de rol lol--at you, my merry harrier. _lack._ [_cutting the cards._] trey. _tall._ [_cutting._] his nob.--i have won! [_mimicking lackland, and puts up the purse._ _lack._ damnation! [_tallyho sings, going._] tallyho, you'll never miss it--return me the purse. _tall._ the purse--to be sure, my dear boy, you shall have it--there's the purse. [_takes out the money, and throws him the empty purse._ sings.] "_then he leap'd over lord anglis's wall, and seem'd to say, little i value you all._" [exit, singing. _lack._ perdition seize cards, dice--every cursed tool of fortune--that infernal--blind--partial hag! oh here comes mrs. casey, with her sedan chair, and brown musket, upon me--what--what shall i do? _enter mrs. casey, waiters, boots, cook, &c._ _mrs. casey._ here, your honour--here's your honour's bill--bob has drawn it out fairly-_lack._ damn you and bob! _mrs. casey._ what d'ye say, honey? _lack._ what, do you think a gentleman has nothing else to do, but to encumber his pockets, and to carry about lumps of cursed, heavy gold, when you and bob take a fancy to thrust long scrawl papers into his hand? _mrs. casey._ why, didn't you desire me to get your bill? and hadn't you your purse out just now to pay me? _lack._ there, you see my purse out just now, but nothing in that. _mrs. casey._ well, upon my honour, this is a pretty caper!--all because i'm a lone woman--i see there's no doing without a bit of a man after all. _lack._ well, i find marriage is the dernier resort after all. _1 waiter._ your honour will remember the waiters? _cook._ the cook, your honour? _boots._ your honour won't forget jack boots? _lack._ jack boots too!--scoundrels--saucy--impertinent--insolent--- [_drives off waiter, cook, &c._ _enter lepoche._ _lep._ monsieur lackland, i hear you have hooked up some cash; so, before it's all gone, pay me my money. _lack._ you too!--you little infernal miscreant, i'll pay you! [_beats him._ _lep._ ah misericorde! ah pauvre moi! [_exit._ _lack._ in spite of figs, raisins, canvass sleeves, and moist sugar, have at miss bull, of garlick hill, and her fourscore thousand! [_exit._ _enter lepoche, peeping._ _lep._ vat, is he gone? [_softly._]'tis vell for him he is gone; monsieur lackland, you be von damned scoundrel, villain of de rogue--rascal! [_vaunting._] and i voud break your--- _enter robin, from mrs. casey's house._ _robin._ i say, master-_lep._ [_starts, much frightened._] heigho! oh, if it had been monsieur lackland, how i voud--hem!--vat you vant, monsieur? [_imperiously._ _robin._ what do i want? i want you, if you're the french tailor. _lep._ oh, i must not affront my customer--[_aside._] vel, sir, i be de taileur, a votre service. [_bows._ _robin._ then, my master, sir john bull, is ever so impatient for you. _lep._ oh, sir john bull--ah, to take measure of him, for de new clothes--malpeste! i ave as much business as de grand financier. _robin._ will you come? _lep._ aprez vous, monsieur. _robin._ what? _lep._ after you, monsieur. _robin._ oh! [_exeunt, lepoche, ceremoniously._ scene ii. _sir john's apartments in the hotel._ _enter first waiter, introducing colonel epaulette in an english dress._ _colonel e._ only tell sir john and my lady de bull, dat colonel epaulette is come to vait on dem. _waiter._ sir! _colonel e._ dat colonel epaulette is come to vait on dem. _waiter._ i shall, sir. [_exit._ _colonel e._ by all i can hear, de must be vile bourgeois, but on account of my lord's recommendation, i must show dem some civility, and squire tallyho tells me, dey have a fine daughter too--ay, my english dress is lucky upon de occasion--dey must be vonderfully pleased vid it. lepoche, my taileur, has not been in london for noting, and i am much oblige to mr. lackland for his advice in my affairs--i hope dey did tell my ladyde bull too, dat i vas coming to wait on her. [_retires._ _enter sir john bull, in a passion, and robin._ _sir j. b._ you've been, sirrah, but where have you been? _robin._ why, wasn't i sent for the french tailor? _sir j. b._ the french tailor! oh, to take measure of me--well, where is he? _robin._ i don't know, he came into the house with me. _sir j. b._ very well; since it must be so, go, and send him here.--[_exit robin._] ha! ha! ha! any thing to please mademoiselle my wife, since i must be a jackanapes, and have a french tailor, ha! ha! ha! oh, 'gad here he is! _colonel e._ oh, dis must be sir john--[_aside._] sir, i am your most obedient servant. _sir j. b._ servant, friend! _colonel e._ i presume, you are sir john de bull. _sir j. b._ ay. _colonel e._ sir, i have receive a lettre, from my friend de duke---_sir j. b._ his friend the duke--what a grand tailor it is! [_aside._ _colonel e._ i ave great reason to tink i am dear to him, and he recommend you to me in de highest terms. _sir j. b._ sir, if you are dear to your friends, no doubt but your terms will be high to me. _colonel e._ sir! _sir j. b._ however, since my wife will have it so--out with your shears. _colonel e._ sir! _sir j. b._ let's see your book of patterns. _colonel. e._ pattern! _sir j. b._ yes, to chuse my colour. _colonel e._ i carry de colour! vat, you take me for an ensign?--but i excuse, as de custom of your country gives a privilege-_sir j. b._ i can't answer for my country, but you shall have my custom--now, pray, friend, how many men may you have? _colonel e._ about a tousand. _sir j. b._ [_aside._] a thousand journeymen! must have great business. _colonel e._ about a tousand in my regiment. _sir j. b._ oh, you work for a regiment? _colonel e._ vork! i no understand vat he mean--sir, de ladies---_sir j. b._ you understand the work for the ladies? _colonel e._ monsieur, in compliance vid the lettre of his grace, i shall show every civilite, and, if you please, vill ave de honour of introduce my lady de bull, and mademoiselle, her daughter, to de prince. _sir. j. b._ you! my lady bull introduced by a tailor! _colonel e._ tailor! aha! sir, if you vere not an englishman, your life--your life, sir, should answer for dis affront--but from my respect to your country, i pardon you. _sir j. b._ affront! what! are you above your business, you proud monkey, you? _colonel e._ you are under some gross error, or you are a person void of manners--if de former, you are a fool by nature; if de latter, a clown by habit--and as both is beneath my resentment, i sall look to my noble friend for an explanation of dis affront offered to colonel epaulette. [_exit._ _sir j. b._ colonel epaulette! oh, the devil! what a blunder i have made!--[_calls out._] my lady--my lady bull! _enter lady bull._ _lady b._ what's the matter--what's the matter now with you, sir john? _sir j. b._ the mischief to play--here has been colonel epaulette, and i unfortunately mistook him for the french tailor that i expected, to take orders for my new clothes. _lady b._ sir john, why will you ever attempt to speak to persons of distinction?--take a colonel of the gendesarmes for a tailor--how absurd!--[_calls._] who waits?--sir john, pray stay and explain this affair. _sir j. b._ me!--damme, i wouldn't face him again for the pay of his whole regiment. [_exit._ _lady b._ [_passionately._] who waits, i say? _enter robin._ show that gentleman up stairs. _robin._ who, madam? _lady b._ the tailor, as your master calls him. _robin._ the tailor--oh, here he comes, madam. [_exit._ _lady b._ ay, here is the colonel, endeed--no regimentals--yes, i heard of his dressing entirely in the english manner. _enter lepoche._ [_courtesies very respectfully._] sir, i almost blush to see you, and scarce know how to apologize for sir john's mistake. _lep._ madam, i vait upon sir john, to---_lady b._ really, sir, he's ashamed to appear in your presence, after----but he has contracted such unfashionable habits, that he---_lep._ madam, i vill equip him vid de fashionable habit, dat he need not shame to appear in de royal presence. _lady b._ sir, you have had a loss to-day? _lep._ oui, i lose my lodger. _lady b._ by this day's running? _lep._ oui, they did run away. _lady b._ sir, i mean the match. _lep._ oui, dey make de match. _lady b._ but, sir, i wish better success to your joan. _lep._ [_aside._] success to my joan! _lady b._ but, for all your turf amusements, i dare say, you are a great man in the cabinet--in committees--privy councils, and board of works. _lep._ board of vorks! [_aside._] ay, she mean my shopboard. _lady b._ and, i warrant, you are in all the deep french political secrets--you know all the ministers' measures. _lep._ oui, i take all deir measures. _lady b._ we were informed, sir, in paris, that you were much with the prince. _lep._ oui, i am quite free in de family. _lady b._ and, when it suits you to introduce us to his highness-_lep._ me? non!--de prince? i could introduce you to de head butler indeed-_lady b._ introduce us to the butler!--ay, ay, from sir john's rustic behaviour, the colonel here, thinks us fit for no better company. _enter sir john, lepoche takes out pattern-book._ oh, sir john, i have been endeavouring to apologize for you, to the colonel here. _lep._ [_looks about._] colonel! _sir j. b._ egad, i fancy this is the tailor, indeed. _lep._ i am, at your service, sir. _lady b._ how! _sir j. b._ ha! ha! ha! my lady, why will you pretend to speak to persons of distinction?--mistake a tailor, for a colonel, and a gendesarmes! ha! ha! ha! _lady b._ a tailor! then you're a very impudent little fellow! _lep._ vell, miss, your moder voud not call me so. _sir j. b._ her mother, you villain! _lady b._ sir john, pray don't abuse the young man. _sir j. b._ abuse! you little rascal, how dare you have the impudence to be taken for a colonel?--get away, this instant, or, i'll crop you, with your own shears--get along, you rascal. [_pushes out lepoche._ _enter robin._ _robin._ madam, there's miss dolly gone off,--and mrs. casey says, it's upon some marriage scheme, or other. _lady b._ my daughter! _sir j. b._ my doll! _robin._ and from what i can learn from squire tallyho's man, she's to meet his master. _lady b._ there's your honest yorkshireman, sir john bull! _robin._ i think they say, sir, she's gone to colonel epaulette's lodge. _sir j. b._ ay, there's your honourable frenchman, my lady bull!--but, come along--i'll have my daughter!--rob me of my child!--oh, for a search warrant!--oh, for an english jury! come along. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _an apartment in the colonel's lodge._ _enter colonel epaulette and miss dolly bull._ _colonel e._ miss, i do congratulate my felicity in meeting of you. _miss dolly b._ i'm sure, i'm much obliged to you, indeed, colonel. _colonel e._ [_aside._] if i could get her, instead of my fille de opera, i should be up vid her fader, for calling me a tailor. _miss dolly b._ [_aside, looking out._] lord, i wonder what keeps squire tallyho! _colonel e._ miss, vas you ever in love? _miss dolly b._ not above nine times, i thank you, sir. [_courtesies._ _colonel e._ hey! _miss dolly b._ nine! yes, three times before i got out of my slips--twice at hackney boarding school--i don't reckon my guitar-master--then frank frippery--mr. pettitoe--no, sir, only eight, for i never would listen to the handsome staymaker, of duck lane. _colonel e._ miss, vill you be in love de ninth time, and run avay vid me? _miss dolly b._ lord, sir, are you going to run away? _colonel e._ oui, i vill scamper off vid you. _miss dolly b._ oh, now i understand you--but why scamper off, sir, when i'm sure mamma would consent? _colonel e._ oui, consent--but dat is so mechanique!-_miss dolly b._ true, sir, it does sound of bow bell; and, as you say, scampering off is such a funny thing, he! he! he!--[_aside._] ecod, i've a great mind, if i should, how squire tallyho would be surprised! _colonel e._ allons, ma chere. [_going._ _miss dolly b._ stop, will you excuse me afterwards to squire tallyho? _colonel e._ for vat? _miss dolly b._ because i promised to run away with him. _colonel e._ indeed! _miss dolly b._ yes, but don't tell mamma--sure, 'twas for that i came here to meet him. _colonel e._ yes, but here i come first. _miss dolly b. true_, sir, and first come, first served, as pa used to say, in the shop at home--he! he! he! _colonel e._ come, then, my dearest angel!--aha--stay, mademoiselle, i vill order my gentilhomme to pack up some poudre, and pomade, and my dancing pump, as von cannot tell vat may happen--den, hey for love and pleasure! [_exit._ _miss dolly b._ [_calling after him._] colonel, make haste! _tall._ [_without._] halloo, doll! hip, my dainty dolly! _miss dolly b._ squire tallyho!--oh, dear, what shall i do? _enter tallyho._ _tall._ well, doll, are you ready, my sweet gosling?--i've got a fine rosy, drunken friar here--but, when i get you over into yorkshire, we'll be married over again--you remember my chaplain, honest parson thump? _miss dolly b._ lord, squire, don't tell me of parson thump--what kept you so long?--here have i been crying my eyes out for you. _tall._ crying--fudge--show--why, your eyes do look as if---ah, come now, you've an onion in your handkerchief? _miss dolly b._ no, indeed, as i hope for--he! he! he! _tall._ now, now, there--now, what's that for? _miss dolly b._ i was laughing, to think of our marriage. _tall._ i begin to think, marriage is no laughing matter, doll--now, i tell you truly, i like you as well as any thing i ever saw--good points--fancy, thirteen hands high, and, by my lady's account, rising nineteen years last grass--but i tell you some things you must learn, to be my wife.--my mother, you must know, was a fine lady, all upon the hoity-toities, and so, good for nothing--says father to me, one evening, as the last whiff of his fourth pipe sighed to the tears of the third tankard--gaby, my dear boy, never marry a woman that can't breakfast on beef--carve a goose--won't withdraw from table, before "king and constitution," and sing a jolly song at first bidding--and then, says he, [_snores._] take care o'the girls, gaby--and dropping asleep--yes, father, says i, i'll take care o'the girls--and with that, i slipped a brace of yellow boys out of his purse, and, next day, bought peggy trundle, the housemaid, a pair of bath garters, silver shoe-buckles, and a marquisate pin, for her stomacher, he! he! he! _miss dolly b._ i shouldn't ha' thought of your entertaining me with your old father's pipe, and peggy trundle's stomachers--if you're come here to run away with me, why, do the thing at once, and let's have no more talk about it. _tall._ true, doll, such a fortune as yours, don't offer every day--i've a chaise at the door, and a sulky for father dominic, and, as your dad may be for pursuing us, i won't depend upon those rascally french postboys--it's all crack, smack, jabber, grin, and bustle--great noise, and little work, with them--no, no, i'll put on a jacket and great boots--a good disguise too--i'll drive you myself, gee up, my queen--you'll see how we'll tatter the road--do it there, whipcord--shave the signpost--ah, softly up hill, good bully--bit of hay to cool their mouths--pint o' twopenny, and a new lash--then, spank the unicorn slapdash--gee up--once we're coupled, let sir john come whistle for you--gee up--ah, button--do it there--softly, my honies--gee-ah! ha! [_imitating._ [_exit._ _miss dolly b._ upon my word, this is clever--so, a gentleman can't go to be married, without his great boots! and t'other youth couldn't go without his dancing pumps--ecod, if one of my old sweethearts was to step in now, i am so vexed, i should be strongly tempted to give them both the double. _lackland._ [_without._] oh, the lady's this way. _miss dolly b._ who have we now? i protest, the sprightly, elegant gentleman, that sent papa for his snuff box--he's a vastly pretty fellow! _enter lackland._ _lack._ at last i have found her--i hate courtship--no occasion here, i fancy--so sans ceremonie--here goes--[_aside._] ma'am, your most obedient-_miss dolly b._ how d'ye do, sir? [_a short courtesy._ _lack._ well, my dear, 'tis at last settled-_miss dolly b._ sir! _lack._ yes, though with some difficulty; i am now determined to marry you. _miss dolly b._ marry me! _lack._ a fact--but don't let your joy carry you away. _miss dolly b._ you'll carry me away! _lack._ i said i would, and i never break my word. _miss dolly b._ said! to who, pray? _lack._ to myself--and you know, if a gentleman breaks his word to himself, what dependence can the world have on him--you're a fine creature--but i would not tell a lie for all the women in france. _miss dolly b._ [_aside._] what a high notion of honour!--a much handsomer man too, than either tallyho, or the colonel--ecod, he's a charming, flashy beau!--i have a great mind---_lack._ [_aside._] just as i thought--of fifty lovers with this young lady, i see, the last is the most welcome. _miss dolly b._ i vow, i've a mind--but pa says you've no money. _lack._ me! no money! pleasant enough that, 'faith, ha! ha! ha!--why, he might as well say i borrowed a guinea from him. _miss dolly b._ ecod, now i remember, he did say it too. _lack._ oh, well, he was right--why, what an old lying--but--he's your father, therefore let it be so, ha! ha! well, i have no money--[_with pretended irony._] i am the poorest dog in nature, ha! ha! ha! well, that is very good, 'faith--such a joke---_miss dolly b._ joke? lord, i knew it was--i thought you must have been very rich, by your fine clothes. _lack._ clothes--oh, i've only borrowed them from somebody, or other, you know--where could i get money to buy such clothes as these, ha! ha! ha!--well, this is excellent, ha! ha! ha! _miss dolly b._ ha! ha! ha! i knew you must have a great estate. _lack._ me!--oh, i haven't an acre, nor, may be, a mansion in herefordshire--nor, perhaps, i haven't a house in portman square. _miss dolly b._ portman square! _lack._ without a guinea in the funds--perhaps, at this moment, i haven't half a crown in the world, i'm such a miserable dog, ha! ha! ha! _miss dolly b._ ha! ha! ha! estate in herefordshire!--oh, lud! then we can make, at least--ay, twenty hogsheads of cyder. _lack._ make cyder--hem! oh, you elegant----[_aside._] garlick hill! _miss dolly b._ i've a monstrous mind--now answer me one question, that's all--if i should consent to run off with you, would you leave me standing here, for great travelling boots, or your dancing pumps? _lack._ me! not for the pigot diamond! _miss dolly b._ no?--come along. _lack._ where? _miss dolly b._ lord, don't you know? _lack._ if we had but a chaise, and a priest-_miss dolly b._ one's in the house, and t'other's at the door below. _lack._ indeed! my dear, you're young, and frank--i throw myself, and all my fortune, at your feet, in spite of figs, raisins, canvass sleeves, and moist sugar--oh, you amazing fine creature! _miss dolly b._ oh, you astonishing charming man! [_exeunt._ _enter colonel epaulette, speaks as entering._ _colonel e._ all is ready--allons, ma chere mademoiselle. _enter tallyho, in french boots, &c. speaks as entering._ _tall._ well, doll, here i am, booted and pistoled--[_looks about._] how! _colonel e._ aha! de lady is gone. _tall._ ay, where is she gone? _colonel e._ oui, vere have you put her? _tall._ [_resolutely._] yes, tell me what you have done with her. _colonel e._ moi?--i did leave her here. _tall._ you mean, you found her here, master poacher. _enter sir john bull._ _tall._ so, there, you wouldn't give your daughter to an honest englishman, and now, she's whipped up by a poaching frenchman!--i give you joy of your son-in-law, my old nag, ha! ha! ha! _sir j. b._ [_to colonel e._] where is doll? _colonel e._ ask dat gentleman dat did stole her. _sir j. b._ hearkye, you yorkshire bite, you sha'n't rob me of my child. _tall._ what, the devil, are you mad, old holofernes! it's that there greyhound has whipped up little puss. _sir j. b._ i believe it. _colonel e._ diable m'emporte--zounds--splutter and oons--it is no such ting. _tall._ it is. _colonel e._ it is not--you are as wrong in dis, as when you took me for a taileur. _sir j. b._ where have you hid my child? restore her, or, i'll cressy and agincourt you--i'll be a black prince to you. why, dolly bull! [_calling.--exit._ _colonel e._ nay, but, sir john---_tall._ i am so vexed and perplexed--oh, if i had you at dover, i'd fight you--ay, with a pair of queen anne's pocket pistols. _colonel e._ monsieur, any thing to oblige you--i vil fight, or let it alone--all von to me--ma foi! who's there? [_calls._] hey! le fleche, justine!- [_exit._ _tall._ oho! since i find i am jockeyed in this match, i must look sharp to my other matches--see what captain henry has been about--this french pony is now in his own stall, and let him stay there--a silly tit! to prefer monsieur, to such a tight lad as i!--but if i get once back to dear london, with a fob full of french gold, see, if i let the finest lady in the land fetter my gamarets. scene iv. lepoche's house. _enter lepoche, strutting._ _lep._ aha! 'tis certain dat i ave someting in my air dat is grande--i wrong my bon addresse and figure, to stick to dis taileur trade; oui, dat is de reason of madame rosa's scorn. if de lady de bull did take me for a colonel, dressed as i vas, vat must i be a-la-mode de noblesse?--aha! i have a tought; i vill surprise madam rosa into de love for my person! [_sings._] oui, le marquis de papillon clothes fit me exactement--how lucky i did not take dem home yesterday!--aha! oh, here come de madame rosa! [_retires._ _enter rosa._ _rosa._ ah, could i again behold my dearest lord--every separation, from those we love, seems a chasm in existence--no danger, i think, from my brother henry; he's now too busy with his own love, to give any interruption to mine: and, yet, i think, had his passion for this young lady but commenced previous to that of lord winlove's for me, henry would not now lament the life, which, he imagines, he has taken. _enter lopoche in a tawdry dress--kneels before her._ _rosa._ [_not recollecting him._] pray, sir, if i may-_lep._ heigho! behold de gentilhomme dat love a you--throw your arms round my neck like solitaire, and give me kiss, my charming fair. _rosa._ trifling--impertinent! _lep._ impertinent--aha! [_rises in a passion._] do you know who you talk to, mademoiselle?--impertinent!--you are great lady, indeed, but i vas just now, (little as you may tink of me) taken for a colonel, by my lady de bull, though, perhaps, not so great as you, but, by gar, she vas tree times as big--impertinent!--see, i vill be revenge--may i never set a stitch, but i vill have satisfaction--i am enragé! _enter nannette._ you, nannette, stand out of my valk, or i may put my feet upon you. _nan._ oh, lud, what's the matter? _rosa._ nannette, step with me into my chamber. [_exit._ _lep._ dere you may stay in your chamber--aha! since you scorn me, madame runavay, i vill deliver you up to de lady abbess. _nan._ but miss rosa wants me. _lep._ i vant you, and i am your maître--[_towards the door._] you vant a gentilhomme, do you?--but, dere, madam, you may play vid your pincushion--vantrebleu! aha; i am so fine and clever, i must ave somebody--nannette, you come and kiss me. _nan._ pooh! nonsense! _lep._ comment! _nan._ lud, sir, what signifies your strutting about there like a jackdaw, and there's the foreman waiting to take home that suit of clothes on you. [_exit._ _lep._ so--i vas just now impertinent, and now i am jackdaw--fort bien!--de devil's in all de vomen about me to-day--[_knocking without._] malpeste!--[_looking._] here is dat lord winlove returned again--by gar, he vill cut my throat--best hide a littel. [_exit._ _enter lord winlove._ _lord w._ no, i cannot drive her from my heart--let me not condemn her too hastily--i'll first know to a certainty who accompanied her from this house yesterday morning--my death, from that rencontre with henry, is everywhere believed, and even a reward offered for apprehending him--well, one comfort, i'm a living witness of his innocence--but now for his lovely sister--ah, see where she sits! dissolved in grief and tears. [_runs out to her._ _enter henry._ _henry._ here you, lepoche! where is this fellow?--what has he done with rosa? 'pray heaven she ha'n't given him the slip! now, with tallyho's consent, and the amiable celia's acceptance of my passion, i've no alloy to my golden delights, but the mournful memory of lord winlove, thus revived, in my unhappy sister's recent elopement.--was she still in possession of her unsullied name, i, of my celia's love, and the esteem of such a friend as lord winlove could have been--fortune might do her worst. air.--henry. _let fame sound her trumpet, and cry, "to the war!" let glory re-echo the strain; the full tide of honour may flow from the scar, and heroes may smile on their pain. the treasures of autumn let bacchus display, and stagger about with his bowl, on science, let sol beam the lustre of day, and wisdom give light to the soul. let india unfold her rich gems to the view, each virtue, each joy to improve; oh, give me the friend, that i know to be true, and the fair, that i tenderly love! what's glory, but pride? a vain bubble, is fame, and riot, the pleasure of wine. what's riches, but trouble? and title's a name; but friendship and love, are divine._ _enter lord winlove and rosa._ _henry._ lord winlove alive! _lord w._ sorry to see me so, henry? _henry._ i own, my lord, i am surprised, yet rejoice to find my hand guiltless of blood, and you still possessed of power to heal my honour, in doing justice to my unhappy sister. forgive my former weakness, i now only appeal to your humanity. _lord w._ my dear henry, i never looked upon your sister, but with the ardent wish, of an honourable connexion--a jealous honour hurried you to rashness, and the fondest love rendered me imprudent: thus, we see, the noblest principles, if guided only by our passions, may prove destructive. _enter celia, running._ _celia._ oh, my dear captain! but i didn't know you had company--a thousand pardons--[_courtesies round._] but, upon my word, i don't know how to apologize for this strange intrusion of mine--captain, don't be vain, if i make this horrible news of your danger, an excuse for my coming hither. _henry._ a thousand thanks for this kind solicitude!--my lord--sister--give me leave to introduce a lady, who, i hope, will soon honour our family by the dearest tie. _miss dolly b._ [_without._] run, husband, or they'll catch us. _enter lackland and miss dolly bull._ _lack._ let's rally, and face the enemy. _enter sir john and lady bull._ _sir j. b._ so, you're a pretty jade! but i'll--- [_advancing._ _lack._ no abuse. [_stops him._ _sir j. b._ what! not my own daughter? _lack._ nobody must abuse my wife. _sir j. b._ wife! i shall go mad!--my daughter married to a fellow that i saw this morning in white shoes, and a black shirt? _lady b._ ay, you would have english. _sir j. b._ i hope he's a rogue. [_lackland bows._ _henry._ your son-in-law! _sir j. b._ if he was myself--i hope he's a rogue-_lady b._ tell me dolly, how dare you take up with that person? _miss dolly b._ why, la, mamma! when the colonel and 'squire tallyho left me, i was glad to catch at any body. _lack._ what's that you say, mrs. lackland?--i'm very much obliged to you--you have done me infinite honour! [_makes a low bow._ _enter tallyho._ _tall._ eh, what, have you all got about the winning-post here? _miss dolly b._ yes, and now, you may canter off to newmarket. _tall._ lackland, i give you joy of little ginger, for she was never good, egg, or bird. _enter colonel epaulette._ _colonel e._ how do you, good folks, damme? ah, miss dolly coquin, run away! _miss dolly b._ yes, colonel, and didn't even wait for my dancing pumps! _colonel e._ how is my good lady de bull? zounds! _lady b._ sir, if you're a frenchman, behave like one. _colonel e._ i vill never behave myself, damme! _tall._ oh, captain, you made the betts against my mare--when do we share, my trojan? _henry._ sir, i don't understand---_tall._ why, didn't i pay forfeit, and let the colonel's black prince walk over the course to-day? _henry._ and, seriously, did you dare to think that i'd join in such a scandalous affair? _tall._ then you may fling your cap at celia. _henry._ hush! you laid me five thousand yourself--consent to my marriage with your sister, or i'll proclaim you, not only here, at fontainbleau, but at every racecourse in england. _tall._ i'm had--yes, and tricked, choused, slanged, and banged! celia, take him against the field--clever--has nicked me, that have nicked hundreds! _henry._ i fancy, the first real good ever produced by gaming; our winning is but a decoy, its joys, built upon the grief of others, and our losses stop but in ruin, or dishonour. _tall._ may be so; but, as i set out a young pigeon, i'll die an old rook. _sir j. b._ but how shall i get this rook [_to lackland._] out of my pigeon-house? _colonel e._ ah, pauvre lackland! i ave procure de commission for you, in my regiment. _lack._ thank you, colonel, but while i can raise the price of a drumstick, i'll never draw a sword against my country. _sir j. b._ what!--your hand, my briton!--you shall never want a nail for your hat, in my parlour, at dinner time--you shall post my books, and take the whip hand of my lady's gig on a sunday. _lack._ drive a gig! my dear dad, you shall rattle up in your vis-a-vis, to the astonishment of all garlick hill. _sir j. b._ my dearee and i ride, side by side, in a vis-a-vis! ha! ha! ha! _tall._ yes, and if you whip your gig down to yorkshire, i'll mount her ladyship upon whirligig, and, sir jackey, my lad, up you go again upon kick-him-jenny. _sir j. b._ i'll see you astride the dragon, upon bow steeple first--but now i'll invite you all to the british lion, where french claret shall receive the zest of english hospitality--eh, my antigallican son-in-law? _lack._ well said, bull; but mind, i'll have no illiberal prejudices in my family--general national reflections, are unworthy the breast of an englishman; and, however in war, each may vindicate his country's honour, in peace, let us not know a distance, but the streights of dover. finale. lord w. _this patriot fire, within each heart, for ever let us nourish._ rosa. _of glory still, the golden mart, may england ever flourish!_ henry. _let fashion, with her glitt'ring train, abroad, awhile deceive us;_ celia. _we long to see dear home again, the love of england must remain, and that can never leave us. this patriot fire, &c._ sir j. b. _my future range, the stock exchange, 'tis there i'll mend my paces; nor gig, nor nag, jack bull shall drag, to french, or english races._ lady b. _at feast, or ball, at grocers' hall, 'tis there i'll mend my paces; yet nothing keep me from a peep, at french or english races._ chorus. _now of each doubt, and perplexity eas'd, from fontainbleau we prance, in hopes with our errors, our friends will be pleas'd, as 'tis our way in france._ the end. [transcriber notes: obvious misspellings and omissions have been corrected. the original text displayed the two versions, english and french, in two column format, english on left, french on right. this e-text lists the english version first, followed by the french version. the [oe] ligature has been replaced with simply "oe". bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by underscores.] [illustration] grand opera librettos french and english text and music of the principal airs faust by gounod boston: oliver ditson company: new york lyon & healy, inc. _chicago_ winthrop rogers, ltd. _london_ opera scores all the vocal scores have english text together with the foreign text mentioned below. unless otherwise specified, these books are bound in paper. grand operas =aïda= =giuseppe verdi= =2.50= in four acts. italian text =bohemian girl= =michael w. balfe= =2.00= in three acts =carmen= =georges bizet= =2.50= in four acts. french text =cavalleria rusticana= =pietro mascagni= =2.00= in one act. italian text =faust= =charles gounod= =2.00= in five acts. french text =lakmé= =léo delibes= =3.00= in three acts =maritana= =william vincent wallace= =2.50= in three acts =mignon= =ambroise thomas= =2.50= in three acts. italian text =samson and delilah= =camille saint-saëns= =2.50= in three acts =trovatore, il= =giuseppe verdi= =2.00= in four acts. italian text light operas =bells of corneville, the; or, the chimes of normandy= in three acts =robert planquette= =2.50= =billee taylor; or, the reward of virtue= in two acts =edward solomon= =1.50= =boccaccio; or, the prince of palermo= in three acts =franz von suppé= =2.50= =doctor of alcantara, the= in two acts =julius eichberg= =1.50= =fatinitza= =franz von suppé= =2.50= in three acts. german and italian text =martha= =friedrich von flotow= =2.50= in four acts. german and italian text =mascot, the= =edmond audran= =2.50= in three acts =olivette= =edmond audran= =2.00= in three acts =pinafore, h. m. s.; or, the lass that loved a sailor= in two acts =sir arthur sullivan= =1.50= =sorcerer, the= =sir arthur sullivan= =1.75= in two acts =stradella= =friedrich von flotow= =2.00= in three acts send for descriptive circular p--oratorios, cantatas, operas and operettas. oliver ditson company faust _a lyric drama in five acts_ book by j. barbier and m. carré music by charles gounod 30 boston: oliver ditson company: new york chicago: lyon & healy, inc. london: winthrop rogers, ltd. copyright mcmvi by oliver ditson company characters faust _tenor_ mephistopheles _bass-baritone_ valentine, marguerite's brother _baritone_ wagner, a student _baritone_ marguerite _soprano_ siebel, a youth _soprano_ martha, friend of marguerite _mezzo-soprano_ peasants, townspeople, soldiers, students, priests, boys, etc. the scene is in germany in the sixteenth century. prefatory note the legend of the magician faust and his compact with the devil comes from remote antiquity. at first in the form of folk tales in many lands, through ballads and the primitive drama it found its way into literature. it remained for the master-poet, goethe, to fuse all the elements of the legend into an imaginative drama of unequaled ethical and poetic interest, to give the story the form in which it appeals most strongly to the modern mind. innumerable musical works of every form have drawn inspiration from the story of faust. wagner's concert-overture, liszt's symphony, and the beautiful fragments by schumann are among the noblest of such works. stage versions of the legend have been numerous, but the first really poetic creation was spohr's opera of "faust," composed in 1813. since its appearance there has been an abundance of faust operas by english, german, french and italian composers down to the imaginative but fragmentary "mefistofele" of boito (1868). but of all the stage versions that have claimed the public attention, that of barbier and carré, made after goethe's drama and set to music by charles gounod, is far and away the most popular, and may be regarded, in its lyric dress, as the most successful also. there exists scarcely a single rival to the popularity of gounod's "faust" among opera-goers. the love story with which the french librettists concerned themselves exclusively is wholly goethe's conception, and finds no place in the old legends concerning the magician faust. with true gallic instinct they seized this pathetic episode as being best adapted for a lyric setting, and making the most potent appeal to the emotions of the spectators. but to the composer himself is due the credit of suggesting the story of faust as a suitable subject for musical treatment. the story of the action act i.--faust, an aged philosopher, who has grown weary of life, and of the vain search for the source of all knowledge, decides, after a nightlong vigil, to end his existence by taking poison. in the act of raising the cup to his lips his hand is arrested by the sound of merry voices of maidens singing in the early morning of the joy of living. again he essays to drink, but pauses to listen to the song of the reapers on their way to the fields, voicing their gratitude to god. excited to a frenzy of rage, faust curses all that is good and calls upon the evil one to aid him. mephistopheles appears, and offers gold, glory, boundless power; but the aged doctor craves youth, its passions and delights. the fiend agrees that all shall be his if he but sign a compact, by which the devil serves faust on earth, but in the hereafter below the relation is to be reversed. faust wavers at first, but a vision of marguerite appears, which inflames his ardor and dispels his hesitation; he drinks the potion and is transformed into a young and handsome man. act ii.--a kermesse or town fair. groups of students, soldiers, old men, maids and matrons fill the scene. valentine, the brother of marguerite, about to leave for the wars, commends his sister to the care of siebel, who timidly adores her. while wagner, a student, is attempting a song, he is interrupted by mephistopheles who volunteers to sing him a better one (the mocking "calf of gold"). then the fiend causes a fiery liquor to flow miraculously from the tavern sign, and proposes the health of marguerite. valentine resents the insult, but his sword is broken in his hand, and mephistopheles draws a magic circle around himself and bids defiance to the rapiers of the soldiers. these, now suspecting his evil nature, hold their cruciform sword-hilts toward mephistopheles, who cowers away at the holy symbol. the fête is resumed; in the midst of the revelry marguerite enters, returning home from church. faust offers to escort her home, but she timidly declines his assistance, and leaves him enamoured of her beauty. the act closes with a merry dance of the townspeople. act iii.--the scene shows the garden of marguerite's dwelling. siebel enters to leave a nosegay on the doorstep of his charmer. the flowers he plucks wither at his touch, due to an evil spell cast upon him by the fiend, which he, however, breaks by dipping his hand in holy water. faust and mephistopheles conceal themselves in the garden after having left a casket of jewels on the doorstep near siebel's modest offering. marguerite returns home and seats herself at the spinning-wheel, singing the while a song of the "king of thule." but she interrupts the song to dream of the handsome stranger who had spoken to her at the fête. upon discovering the jewels, she cannot forbear to adorn herself. while thus occupied, faust and his evil ally appear. the latter engages the girl's flighty neighbor, martha, in conversation, while faust pleads his passion's cause successfully with marguerite. act iv.--betrayed and deserted by her lover, marguerite must bear the scorn of her former companions. siebel alone is faithful, and speaks comforting words. she goes to the church to pray; but her supplications are interrupted by the mocking fiend at her elbow, by the accusing cries of demons, and by the stern chants of the worshipers. finally mephistopheles appears to the sight of the wretched girl, who swoons with terror. the return of the victorious soldiers brings back valentine, who hears evil stories of his sister's condition. aroused by an insulting serenade which mephistopheles, accompanied by faust, sings beneath marguerite's window, valentine engages in a duel with the latter and is wounded to the death. dying, he curses marguerite, who comes from the church to his side, and accuses her of bringing him to his end. act v.--marguerite, her reason shaken by her misfortunes, has killed her child, and for this crime she is thrown into prison, and condemned to die. faust, aided by mephistopheles, obtains access to her cell and urges her to fly with him; but her poor mind cannot grasp the situation, and recurs only to the scenes of their love. when she sees faust's companion, she turns from him in horror, falls upon her knees, and implores the mercy of heaven. as she sinks in death, mephistopheles pronounces her damned, but a heavenly voice proclaims her pardoned; and while a celestial choir chants the easter hymn the soul of marguerite is seen borne up to heaven by angels. faust falls to his knees, and the devil crouches beneath the shining sword of an archangel. first performed at the théâtre lyrique, paris, march 19, 1859, with the following cast: le docteur faust _mm. barbot_ méphistophélès _balanqué_ valentin _reynald_ wagner _cibot_ marguerite _mmes. miolan-carvalho_ siebel _faivre_ martha _duclos_ act i. scene i. _faust's study._ (night. faust discovered, alone. he is seated at a table covered with books and parchments; an open book lies before him. his lamp is flickering in the socket.) _faust._ no! in vain hath my soul aspired, with ardent longing, all to know,--all in earth and heaven. no light illumines the visions, ever thronging my brain; no peace is given, and i linger, thus sad and weary, without power to sunder the chain binding my soul to life always dreary. nought do i see! nought do i know! (he closes the book and rises. day begins to dawn.) again 'tis light! on its westward course flying, the somber night vanishes. (despairingly.) again the light of a new day! o death! when will thy dusky wings above me hover and give me--rest? (seizing a flask on the table.) well, then! since death thus evades me, why should i not go in search of him? hail, my final day, all hail! no fears my heart assail; on earth my days i number; for this draught immortal slumber will secure me, and care dispel! (pours liquid from the flask into a crystal goblet. just as he is about to raise it to his lips, the following chorus is heard, without.) _cho. of maidens._ why thy eyes so lustrous hidest thou from sight? bright sol now is scatt'ring beams of golden light; the nightingale is warbling its carol of love; rosy tints of morning now gleam from above; flow'rs unfold their beauty to the scented gale; nature all awakens- of love tells its tale. _faust._ hence, empty sounds of human joys flee far from me. o goblet, which my ancestors so many times have filled, why tremblest thou in my grasp? (again raising the goblet to his lips.) _cho. of laborers_ (without). the morn into the fields doth summon us, the swallow hastes away! why tarry, then? to labor let's away! to work let's on, the sky is bright, the earth is fair, our tribute, then, let's pay to heav'n. _cho. of maidens and laborers._ praises to god! _faust._ god! god! (he sinks into a chair.) but this god, what will he do for me? (rising.) will he return to me youth, love, and faith? (with rage.) cursed be all of man's vile race! cursed be the chains which bind him in his place! cursed be visions false, deceiving! cursed the folly of believing! cursed be dreams of love or hate! cursed be souls with joy elate. cursed be science, prayer, and faith! cursed my fate in life and death! infernal king, arise! * * * * * scene ii. faust and mephistopheles. _mep._ (suddenly appearing). here am i! so, i surprise you? satan, sir, at your service! a sword at my side; on my hat a gay feather;- a cloak o'er my shoulder; and altogether, why, gotten up quite in the fashion! (briskly.) but come, doctor faust, what is your will? behold! speak! are you afraid of me? _faust._ no. _mep._ do you doubt my power? _faust._ perhaps. _mep._ prove it, then. _faust._ begone! _mep._ fie! fie! is this your politeness! but learn, my friend, that with satan one should conduct in a different way. i've entered your door with infinite trouble. would you kick me out the very same day? _faust._ then what will you do for me? _mep._ anything in the world! all things. but say first what you would have. abundance of gold? _faust._ and what can i do with riches? _mep._ good. i see where the shoe pinches. you will have glory. _faust._ still wrong. _mep._ power, then. _faust._ no. i would have a treasure which contains all. i wish for youth. oh! i would have pleasure, and love, and caresses, for youth is the season when joy most impresses. one round of enjoyment, one scene of delight, should be my employment from day-dawn till night. oh, i would have pleasure, and love, and caresses; if youth you restore me, my joys i'll renew! _mep._ 'tis well--all thou desirest i can give thee. _faust._ ah! but what must i give in return? _mep._ 'tis but little: in this world i will be thy slave, but down below thou must be mine. _faust._ below! _mep._ below. (unfolding a scroll.) come, write. what! does thy hand tremble? whence this dire trepidation? 'tis youth that now awaits thee--behold! (at a sign from mephistopheles, the scene opens and discloses marguerite, spinning.) _faust._ oh, wonder! _mep._ well, how do you like it? (taking parchment.) _faust._ give me the scroll! (signs.) _mep._ come on then! and now, master, (taking cup from the table.) i invite thee to empty a cup, in which there is neither poison nor death, but young and vigorous life. _faust._ (taking cup and turning toward marguerite.) o beautiful, adorable vision! i drink to thee! (he drinks the contents of the cup, and is transformed into a young and handsome man. the vision disappears.) _mep._ come, then. _faust._ say, shall i again behold her? _mep._ most surely! _faust._ when? _mep._ this very day! _faust._ 'tis well. _mep._ then let's away. _both._ 'tis pleasure i covet, 'tis beauty i crave; i sigh for its kisses, its love i demand! with ardor unwonted i long now to burn; i sigh for the rapture of heart and of sense. (exeunt. the curtain falls.) act ii. scene i. _the kermesse._ (one of the city gates. to the left, an inn, bearing the sign of the god bacchus.) wagner, students, burghers, soldiers, maidens, and matrons. _studs._ wine or beer, now, which you will! so the glass quick you fill! and replenish at our need: at our bouts we drink with speed! _wag._ now, young tipplers at the cask, don't refuse what i ask- drink to glory! drink to love! drain the sparkling glass! _studs._ we young tipplers at the cask won't refuse what you ask- here's to glory! here's to love! drain the sparkling glass! (they drink.) _soldiers._ castles, hearts, or fortresses, are to us all one. strong towers, maids with fair tresses, by the brave are won; he, who hath the art to take them, shows no little skill; he, who knows the way to keep them, hath more wisdom still. _citizens._ on holy-days and feast-days, i love to talk of war and battles. while the toiling crowds around worry their brains with affairs, i stroll calmly to this retreat on the banks of the gliding river, and behold the boats which pass while i leisurely empty my glass. (citizens and soldiers go to back of stage.) (a group of young girls enters.) _girls._ merry fellows come this way, yes, they now advance; let us, then, our steps delay, just to take one glance. (they go to right of stage. a second chorus of students enters after them.) _studs._ sprightly maidens now advance, watch their conquering airs; friends be guarded, lest a glance take you unawares. _matrons._ (watching the students and young girls). behold the silly damsels, and the foolish young men; we were once as young as they are, and as pretty again. (all join in the following chorus, each singing as follows.) _mats._ (to the maidens). ye strive hard to please, your object is plain. _studs._ beer or wine, wine or beer, nought care i, with heart of cheer. _soldiers._ on, then, let's on; brave soldiers are we, to conquest we'll on. _citizens._ come, neighbor! in this fine weather let us empty a bottle together! _maidens._ they wish to please us, but 'tis in vain! if you are angry, little you'll gain. _young students._ they are bright little maidens, 'tis plain; we'll contrive their favor to gain. (the soldiers and students, laughing, separate the women. all the groups depart.) * * * * * scene ii. wagner, siebel, valentine, students, and afterwards mephistopheles. _val._ (advancing from the back of the stage and holding in his hand a small silver medal). o sacred medallion, gift of my sister dear to ward off danger and fear, as i charge with my brave battalion, rest thou upon my heart. _wag._ here comes valentine, in search of us, doubtless. _val._ let us drain the parting cup, comrades, it is time we were on the road. _wag._ what sayst thou? why this sorrowful farewell? _val._ like you, i soon must quit these scenes, leaving behind me marguerite. alas! my mother no longer lives, to care for and protect her. _sie._ more than one friend hast thou who faithfully will thy place supply. _val._ my thanks! _sie._ on me you may rely. _stud._ in us thou surely mayst confide. _val._ even bravest heart may swell in the moment of farewell. loving smile of sister kind, quiet home i leave behind. oft shall i think of you whene'er the wine-cup passes round, when alone my watch i keep. but when danger to glory shall call me, i still will be first in the fray, as blithe as a knight in his bridal array. careless what fate shall befall me when glory shall call me. _wag._ come on, friends! no tears nor vain alarms; quaff we good wine, to the success of our arms! drink, boys, drink! in a joyous refrain bid farewell, till we meet again. _cho._ we'll drink! fill high! once more in song our voices let us raise. _wag._ (mounting on a table). a rat, more coward than brave, and with an exceedingly ugly head, lodged in a sort of hole or cave, under an ancient hogshead. a cat- * * * * * scene iii. mephistopheles and the preceding. _mep._ (appearing suddenly among the students and interrupting wagner). good sir! _wag._ what! _mep._ if it so please ye i should wish to mingle with ye a short time. if your good friend will kindly end his song, i'll tell ye a few things well worth the hearing. _wag._ one will suffice, but let that one be good. _mep._ my utmost i will do your worships not to bore. i. calf of gold! aye in all the world to your mightiness they proffer, incense at your fane they offer from end to end of all the world. and in honor of the idol kings and peoples everywhere to the sound of jingling coins dance with zeal in festive circle, round about the pedestal. satan, he conducts the ball. ii. calf of gold, strongest god below! to his temple overflowing crowds before his vile shape bowing, the monster dares insult the skies. with contempt he views around him all the vaunted human race, as they strive in abject toil, as with souls debased they circle round about the pedestal. satan, he conducts the ball. _all._ satan, he conducts the ball. _cho._ a strange story this of thine. _val._ (aside). and stranger still is he who sings it. _wag._ (offering a cup to mephistopheles). will you honor us by partaking of wine? _mep._ with pleasure. ah! (taking wagner by the hand, and scrutinizing his palm.) behold what saddens me to view. see you this line? _wag._ well! _mep._ a sudden death it presages,- you will be killed in mounting to th' assault! _sie._ you are then a sorcerer! _mep._ even so. and your own hand shows plainly to what fate condemns. what flower you would gather shall wither in the grasp. _sie._ i? _mep._ no more bouquets for marguerite. _val._ my sister! how knew you her name? _mep._ take care, my brave fellow! some one i know is destined to kill you. (taking the cup.) your health, gentlemen! pah! what miserable wine! allow me to offer you some from my cellar? (jumps on the table, and strikes on a little cask, surmounted by the effigy of the god bacchus, which serves as a sign to the inn.) what ho! thou god of wine, now give us drink! (wine gushes forth from cask, and mephistopheles fills his goblet.) approach, my friends! each one shall be served to his liking. to your health, now and hereafter! to marguerite! _val._ enough! if i do not silence him, and that instantly, i will die. (the wine bursts into flame.) _wag._ hola! _cho._ hola! (they draw their swords.) _mep._ ah, ha! why do you tremble so, you who menace me? (he draws a circle around him with his sword. valentine attacks; his sword is broken.) _val._ my sword, o amazement! is broken asunder. _all_ (forcing mephistopheles to retire by holding toward him the cross-shaped handles of their swords). gainst the powers of evil our arms assailing, strongest earthly might is unavailing. but thou canst not charm us, look hither! while this blest sign we wear thou canst not harm us. (exeunt.) * * * * * scene iv. mephistopheles, then faust. _mep._ (replacing his sword). we'll meet anon, good sirs,--adieu! _faust_ (enters). why, what has happened? _mep._ oh, nothing! let us change the subject! say, doctor, what would you of me? with what shall we begin? _faust._ where bides the beauteous maid thine art did show to me? or was't mere witchcraft? _mep._ no, but her virtue doth protect her from thee, and heaven itself would keep her pure. _faust._ it matters not! come, lead me to her, or i straightway abandon thee. _mep._ then i'll comply! 'twere pity you should think so meanly of the magic power which i possess. have patience! and to this joyous tune. right sure am i, the maiden will appear. * * * * * scene v. (students, with maidens on their arms, preceded by musicians, take possession of the stage. burghers in the rear, as at the commencement of the act.) students, maidens, burghers, etc., afterwards siebel and marguerite. _cho._ (marking waltz time with their feet). as the wind that sportively plays, at first will light dust only raise, yet, at last, becomes a gale, so our dancing and our singing, soft at first, then loudly ringing, will resound o'er hill and dale. (the musicians mount upon the table, and dancing begins.) _mep._ (to faust). see those lovely young maidens. will you not ask of them to accept you? _faust._ no! desist from thy idle sport, and leave my heart free to reflection. _sie._ (entering). marguerite this way alone can arrive. _some of the maidens_ (approaching siebel). pray seek you a partner to join in the dance? _sie._ no: it has no charm for me. _cho._ as the wind that sportively plays, at first will light dust only raise, yet, at last, becomes a gale, so our dancing and our singing, soft at first, then loudly ringing, will resound o'er hill and dale. (marguerite enters.) _faust._ it is she! behold her! _mep._ 'tis well! now, then, approach! _sie._ (perceiving marguerite and approaching her). marguerite! _mep._ (turning round and finding himself face to face with siebel). what say you? _sie._ (aside). malediction! here again! _mep._ (coaxingly). what, here again, dear boy? (laughing). ha, ha! a right good jest! (siebel retreats before mephistopheles, who then compels him to make a circuit of the stage, passing behind the dancers.) _faust_ (approaching marguerite, who crosses the stage). will you not permit me, my fairest demoiselle, to offer you my arm, and clear for you the way? _mar._ no, sir. i am no demoiselle, neither am i fair; and i have no need to accept your offered arm. (passes faust and retires.) _faust_ (gazing after her). what beauty! what grace! what modesty! o lovely child, i love thee! i love thee! _sie._ (coming forward, without having seen what has occurred). she has gone! (he is about to hurry after marguerite, when he suddenly finds himself face to face with mephistopheles--he hastily turns away and leaves the stage.) _mep._ well, doctor! _faust._ well. she has repulsed me. _mep._ (laughing). ay, truly, i see, in love, you know not how to make the first move. (he retires with faust, in the direction taken by marguerite.) _some of the maidens_ (who have noticed the meeting between faust and marguerite). what is it? _others._ marguerite. she has refused the escort of yonder elegant gentleman. _studs._ (approaching). waltz again! _maidens._ waltz always! act iii. scene i. marguerite's garden. (at the back a wall, with a little door. to the left a bower. on the right a pavilion, with a window facing the audience. trees, shrubs, etc.) siebel, alone. (he enters through the little door at the back, and stops on the threshold of the pavilion, near a group of roses and lilies.) _sie._ i. gently whisper to her of love, dear flow'r; tell her that i adore her, and for me, oh, implore her, for my heart feels alone for her love's pow'r. say in sighing i languish, that for her, in my anguish, beats alone, dearest flow'r, my aching heart. (plucks flowers.) alas! they are wither'd! (throws them away.) can the accursed wizard's words be true? (plucks another flower, which, on touching his hand, immediately withers.) "thou shalt ne'er touch flower again but it shall wither!" i'll bathe my hand in holy water! (approaches the pavilion, and dips his fingers in a little font suspended to the wall.) when day declines, marguerite hither comes to pray, so we'll try again. (plucks more flowers.) are they wither'd? no! satan, thou art conquer'd! ii. in these flowers alone i've faith, for they will plead for me; to her they will reveal my hapless state. the sole cause of my woe is she, and yet she knows it not. but in these flowers i've faith, for they will plead for me. (plucks flowers in order to make a bouquet, and disappears amongst the shrubs.) * * * * * scene ii. mephistopheles, faust, and siebel. _faust._ (cautiously entering through the garden door). we are here! _mep_. follow me. _faust._ whom dost thou see? _mep._ siebel, your rival. _faust._ siebel? _mep._ hush! he comes. (they enter the bower.) _sie._ (entering with a bouquet in his hand). my bouquet is charming indeed? _mep._ (aside). it is indeed! _sie._ victory! tomorrow i'll reveal all to her. i will disclose to her the secret that lies concealed in my heart: a kiss will tell the rest. _mep._ (aside, mockingly). seducer! (exit siebel, after fastening bouquet to the door of the pavilion.) * * * * * scene iii. faust and mephistopheles. _mep._ now attend, my dear doctor! to keep company with the flowers of our friend, i go to bring you a treasure, which outshines them beyond measure, and of beauty past believing. _faust._ leave me! _mep._ i obey. deign to await me here. (disappears.) * * * * * scene iv. faust. _faust._ (alone). what new emotion penetrates my soul! love, a pure and holy love, pervades my being. o marguerite, behold me at thy feet! all hail, thou dwelling pure and lowly, home of an angel fair and holy, all mortal beauty excelling! what wealth is here, a wealth outbidding gold, of peace, and love, and innocence untold! bounteous nature! 'twas here by day thy love was taught her, thou here with kindly care didst o'er-shadow thy daughter through hours of night! here waving tree and flower made her an eden bower of beauty and delight, for one whose very birth brought down heaven to our earth. all hail, thou dwelling pure and lowly, home of an angel fair and holy. * * * * * scene v. faust, mephistopheles. _mep._ (carrying a casket under his arm). what ho! see here! if flowers are more potent than bright jewels, then i consent to lose my power. (opens the casket and displays the jewels.) _faust._ let us fly; i ne'er will see her more. _mep._ what scruple now assails thee? (lays the casket on the threshold of the pavilion.) see on yonder step, the jewels snugly lie; we've reason now to hope. (draws faust after him, and disappears in the garden. marguerite enters through the doorway at the back, and advances silently to the front.) * * * * * scene vi. marguerite. _mar._ (alone). fain would i know the name of the fair youth i met? fain would i his birth and station also know? (seats herself at her wheel in the arbor, and arranges the flax upon the spindle.) i. "once there was a king in thulé, who was until death always faithful, and in memory of his loved one caused a cup of gold to be made." (breaking off.) his manner was so gentle! 'twas true politeness. (resuming the song.) "never treasure prized he so dearly, naught else would use on festive days, and always when he drank from it, his eyes with tears would be o'erflowing." ii. (she rises, and takes a few paces.) "when he knew that death was near, as he lay on his cold couch smiling, once more he raised with greatest effort to his lips the golden vase." (breaking off.) i knew not what to say, my face red with blushes! (resuming the song.) "and when he, to honor his lady, drank from the cup the last, last time, soon falling from his trembling grasp, then gently passed his soul away." nobles alone can bear them with so bold a mien, so tender, too, withal! (she goes toward the pavilion.) i'll think of him no more! good valentine! if heav'n heeds my prayer, we shall meet again. meanwhile i am alone! (suddenly perceiving the bouquet attached to the door of the pavilion.) flowers! (unfastens the bouquet.) they are siebel's, surely! poor faithful boy! (perceiving the casket.) but what is this? from whom did this splendid casket come? i dare not touch it- yet see, here is the key!--i'll take one look! how i tremble--yet why?--can it be much harm just to look in a casket! (opens the casket and lets the bouquet fall.) oh, heaven! what jewels! can i be dreaming? or am i really awake? ne'er have i seen such costly things before! (puts down the casket on a rustic seat, and kneels down in order to adorn herself with the jewels.) i should just like to see how they'd look upon me those brightly sparkling ear-drops! (takes out the ear-rings.) ah! at the bottom of the casket is a glass: i there can see myself!- but am i not becoming vain? (puts on the ear-rings, rises, and looks at herself in the glass.) ah! i laugh, as i pass, to look into a glass; is it truly marguerite, then? is it you? tell me true! no, no, no, 'tis not you! no, no, that bright face there reflected must belong to a queen! it reflects some fair queen, whom i greet as i pass her. ah! could he see me now, here, deck'd like this, i vow, he surely would mistake me, and for noble lady take me! i'll try on the rest. the necklace and the bracelets i fain would try! (she adorns herself with the bracelets and necklace, then rises.) heavens! 'tis like a hand that on mine arm doth rest! ah! i laugh, as i pass, to look into a glass; is it truly marguerite, then? is it you? tell me true! no, no, no, 'tis not you! no, no, that bright face there reflected must belong to a queen! it reflects some fair queen, whom i greet as i pass her. oh! could he see me now, here, deck'd like this, i vow, he surely would mistake me, and for noble lady take me! * * * * * scene vii. marguerite and martha. _mart._ just heaven! what is't i see? how fair you now do seem! why, what has happened? who gave to you these jewels? _mar._ (confused). alas! by some mistake they have been hither brought. _mart._ why so? no, beauteous maiden, these jewels are for you; the gift are they of some enamor'd lord. my husband, i must say, was of a less generous turn! (mephistopheles and faust enter.) * * * * * scene viii. mephistopheles, faust, and the before-named. _mep._ (making a profound bow). tell me, i pray, are you martha schwerlein? _mart._ sir, i am! _mep._ pray pardon me, if thus i venture to present myself. (aside, to faust.) you see your presents are right graciously received. (to martha.) are you, then, martha schwerlein? _mart._ sir, i am. _mep._ the news i bring is of an unpleasant kind: your much-loved spouse is dead, and sends you greeting. _mart._ great heaven! _mar._ why, what has happened? _mep._ stuff! (marguerite hastily takes off the jewels, and is about to replace them in the casket.) _mart._ oh woe! oh, unexpected news! _mar._ (aside). how beats my heart now he is near! _faust_ (aside). the fever of my love is lull'd when at her side! _mep._ (to martha). your much-loved spouse is dead, and sends you greeting! _mart._ (to mephistopheles). sent he nothing else to me? _mep._ (to martha). no. we'll punish him for't; upon this very day we'll find him a successor. _faust_ (to marguerite). wherefore lay aside these jewels? _mar._ (to faust). jewels are not made for me; 'tis meet i leave them where they are. _mep._ (to martha). who would not gladly unto you present the wedding-ring? _mart._ (aside). indeed! (to mephistopheles). you think so? _mep._ (sighing). ah me! ah, cruel fate! _faust_ (to marguerite) pray lean upon mine arm! _mar._ (retiring). leave me, i humbly pray! _mep._ (offering his arm to martha). take mine! _mart._ (aside). in sooth, a comely knight! (taking his arm.) _mep._ (aside). the dame is somewhat tough! (marguerite yields her arm to faust, and withdraws with him. mephistopheles and martha remain together.) _mart._ and so you are always traveling! _mep._ a hard necessity it is, madame! alone and loveless. ah! _mart._ in youth it matters not so much, but in late years 'tis sad indeed! right melancholy it is in solitude our olden age to pass! _mep._ the very thought doth make me shudder. but still, alas! what can i do? _mart._ if i were you, i'd not delay, but think on't seriously at once. _mep._ i'll think on't! _mart._ at once and seriously! (they withdraw. faust and marguerite re-enter.) _faust._ art always thus alone? _mar._ my brother is at the wars, my mother dear is dead! by misadventure, too, my dear sister have i lost. dear sister mine! my greatest happiness was she. sad sorrows these; when our souls with love are filled, death tears the loved one from us! at morn, no sooner did she wake, than i was always at her side! the darling of my life was she! to see her once again, i'd gladly suffer all. _faust._ if heaven, in joyous mood, did make her like to thee, an angel must she indeed have been! _mar._ thou mock'st me! _faust._ nay, i do love thee! _mar._ (sighing). flatterer! thou mock'st me! i believe thee not! thou seekest to deceive. no longer will i stay, thy words to hear. _faust_ (to marguerite). nay, i do love thee! stay, oh stay! heaven hath with an angel crown'd my path. why fear'st thou to listen? it is my heart that speaks. (re-enter mephistopheles and martha.) _mart._ (to mephistopheles). of what now are you thinking? you heed me not--perchance you mock me. now list to what i say.- you really must not leave us thus! _mep._ (to martha). ah, chide me not, if my wanderings i resume. suspect me not; to roam i am compelled! need i attest how gladly i remain. i hear but thee alone. (night comes on.) _mar._ (to faust). it grows dark,--you must away. _faust_ (embracing her). my loved one! _mar._ ah! no more! (escapes.) _faust._ ah, cruel one, would'st fly? (pursuing her.) _mep._ (aside, whilst martha angrily turns her back to him). the matter's getting serious, i must away. (conceals himself behind a tree.) _mart._ (aside). what's to be done? he's gone! what ho, good sir! (retires.) _mep._ yes, seek for me--that's right! i really do believe the aged beldame would actually have married satan! _faust_ (without). marguerite! _mart._ (without). good sir! _mep._ your servant! * * * * * scene ix. mephistopheles. _mep._ 'twas high time! by night, protected, in earnest talk of love, they will return! 'tis well! i'll not disturb their amorous confabulation! night, conceal them in thy darkest shade. love, from their fond hearts shut out all troublesome remorse. and ye, o flowers of fragrance subtle, this hand accurs'd doth cause ye all to open! bewilder the heart of marguerite! (disappears amid the darkness.) * * * * * scene x. faust and marguerite. _mar._ it groweth late, farewell! _faust._ i but implore in vain. let me thy hand take, and clasp it, and behold but thy face once again, illum'd by that pale light, from yonder moon that shines, o'er thy beauteous features shedding its faint but golden ray. _mar._ oh, what stillness reigns around, oh, ineffable mystery! sweetest, happiest feeling, i list; a secret voice now seems to fill my heart. still its tone again resoundeth in my bosom. leave me awhile, i pray. (stoops and picks a daisy.) _faust._ what is it thou doest? _mar._ this flower i consult. (she plucks the petals of the daisy.) _faust_ (aside). what utters she in tones subdued? _mar._ he loves me!--no, he loves me not! he loves me!--no!--he loves me! _faust._ yes, believe thou this flower, the flower of loves. to thine heart let it tell the truth it would teach,- he loves thee! know'st thou not how happy 'tis to love? to cherish in the heart a flame that never dies! to drink forever from the fount of love! _both._ we'll love for ever! _faust._ oh, night of love! oh, radiant night! the bright stars shine above; oh, joy, this is divine! i love, i do adore thee! _mar._ mine idol fond art thou! speak, speak again! thine, thine i'll be; for thee i'll gladly die. _faust._ oh, marguerite! _mar._ (suddenly tearing herself from faust's arms). ah, leave me! _faust._ cruel one! _mar._ fly hence! alas! i tremble! _faust._ cruel one! _mar._ pray leave me! _faust._ would'st thou have me leave thee? ah! see'st thou not my grief? ah, marguerite, thou breakest my heart! _mar._ go hence! i waver! mercy, pray! fly hence! alas! i tremble! break not, i pray, thy marguerite's heart! _faust._ in pity-_mar._ if to thee i'm dear, i conjure thee, by thy love, by this fond heart, that too readily its secret hath revealed, yield thee to my prayer,- in mercy get thee hence! (kneels at the feet of faust.) _faust_ (after remaining a few moments silent, gently raising her). o fairest child, angel so holy, thou shalt control me, shalt curb my will. i obey; but at morn-_mar._ yes, at morn, very early. _faust._ one word at parting. repeat thou lovest me. _mar._ adieu! (hastens towards the pavilion, then stops short on the threshold, and wafts a kiss to faust.) _faust._ adieu! were it already morn! * * * * * scene xi. faust, mephistopheles. _mep._ fool! _faust._ you overheard us? _mep._ happily. you have great need, learned doctor, to be sent again to school. _faust._ leave me! _mep._ deign first to listen for a moment, to the speech she rehearses to the stars. dear master, delay. she opens her window. (marguerite opens the window of the pavilion, and remains with her head resting on her hand.) * * * * * scene xii. the preceding. marguerite. _mar._ he loves me! wildly beats my heart! the night-bird's song, the evening breeze, all nature's sounds together say, "he loves thee!" ah! sweet, sweet indeed now is this life to me! another world it seems; the very ecstasy of love is this! with to-morrow's dawn, haste thee, oh dear one, haste thee to return! yes, come! _faust._ (rushing to the window, and grasping her hand). marguerite! mar. ah! _mep._ (mockingly). ho! ho! (marguerite, overcome, allows her head to fall on faust's shoulder. mephistopheles opens the door of the garden, and departs, laughing derisively. the curtain falls.) act iv. scene i. _marguerite's room._ siebel and marguerite. _sie._ (quietly approaching). marguerite! _mar._ siebel! _sie._ what, weeping still! _mar._ alas! thou alone art kind to me. _sie._ a mere youth am i. and yet i have a manly heart, and i will sure avenge thee. the seducer's life shall forfeit pay. _mar._ whose life? _sie._ need i name him? the wretch who thus hast deserted thee! _mar._ in mercy, speak not thus! _sie._ dost love him still, then? _mar._ ay, i love him still! but not to you, good siebel, should i repeat this tale. _sie._ i. when all was young, and pleasant may was blooming, i, thy poor friend, took part with thee in play; now that the cloud of autumn dark is glooming, now is for me, too, mournful the day. hope and delight have passed from life away. ii. we were not born with true love to trifle, nor born to part because the wind blows cold. what though the storm the summer garden rifle, oh, marguerite! oh, marguerite! still on the bough is left a leaf of gold. _mar._ bless you, my friend, your sympathy is sweet. the cruel ones who wrong me thus cannot close against me the gates of the holy temple. thither will i go to pray for him and for our child. (exit. siebel follows slowly after.) * * * * * scene ii. _interior of a church._ marguerite, then mephistopheles. (women enter the church and cross the stage. marguerite enters after them, and kneels.) _mar._ o heaven! permit thy lowly handmaiden to prostrate herself before thine altar. _mep._ no, thou shalt not pray! spirits of evil, haste ye at my call, and drive this woman hence! _cho. of demons._ marguerite! _mar._ who calls me? _cho._ marguerite! _mar._ i tremble!--oh, heaven! my last hour is surely nigh! (the tomb opens and discloses mephistopheles, who bends over to marguerite's ear.) _mep._ remember the glorious days when an angel's wings protected thy young heart. to church thou camest then to worship, nor hadst thou then sinned 'gainst heaven. thy prayers then issued from an unstained heart and on the wings of faith did rise to the creator. hear'st thou their call? 'tis hell that summons thee! hell claims thee for its own! eternal pain, and woe, and tribulation, will be thy portion! _mar._ heaven! what voice is this that in the shade doth speak to me? what mysterious tones are these! _religious cho._ when the last day shall have come, the cross in heaven shall shine forth, this world to dust shall crumble. _mar._ ah me! more fearful still becomes their song. _mep._ no pardon hath heaven left for thee! for thee e'en heaven hath no more light! _religious cho._ what shall we say unto high heav'n? who shall protection find when innocence such persecution meets? _mar._ a heavy weight my breast o'erpowers,- i can no longer breathe! _mep._ nights of love, farewell! ye days of joy, adieu! lost, lost for aye art thou! _mar. and cho._ heav'n! hear thou the prayer of a sad, broken heart! a bright ray send thou from the starry sphere her anguish to allay! _mep._ marguerite, lost, lost art thou! _mar._ ah! (he disappears.) * * * * * scene iii. the street. valentine, soldiers, then siebel. _cho._ our swords we will suspend over the paternal hearth; at length we have returned. sorrowing mothers no longer will bewail their absent sons. * * * * * scene iv. valentine and siebel. _val._ (perceiving siebel, who enters). ah, siebel, is it thou? _sie._ dear valentine! _val._ come, then, to my heart! (embracing him). and marguerite? _sie._ (confused). perhaps she's yonder at the church. _val._ she doubtless prays for my return. dear girl, how pleased she'll be to hear me tell my warlike deeds! _cho._ glory to those who in battle fall, their bright deeds we can with pride recall. may we, then, honor and fame acquire, their glorious deeds our hearts will inspire! for that dear native land where we first drew breath, her sons, at her command proudly brave e'en death. at their sacred demand who on us depend, our swords we will draw, their rights to defend. homeward our steps we now will turn,- joy and peace await us there! on, on at once, nor loiter here; on, then, our lov'd ones to embrace,- affection calls, fond love doth summon us, yes, many a heart will beat when they our tale shall hear. _val._ come, siebel, we'll to my dwelling and o'er a flask of wine hold converse. (approaching marguerite's house.) _sie._ nay, enter not! _val._ why not, i pray?--thou turn'st away; thy silent glance doth seek the ground- speak, siebel--what hath happened? _sie._ (with an effort.) no! i cannot tell thee! _val._ what mean'st thou? (rushing toward house.) _sie._ (withholding him.) hold, good valentine, take heart! _val._ what is't thou mean'st! (enters the house.) _sie._ forgive her! shield her, gracious heaven! (approaches the church. faust and mephistopheles enter at the back; mephistopheles carries a guitar.) * * * * * scene v. faust and mephistopheles. (faust goes towards marguerite's house, but hesitates.) _mep._ why tarry ye? let us enter the house. _faust._ peace! i grieve to think that i brought shame and sorrow hither. _mep._ why see her again, then, after leaving her? some other sight might be more pleasing. to the sabbath let us on. _faust_ (sighing). oh, marguerite! _mep._ my advice, i know, availeth but little against thy stubborn will. doctor, you need my voice! (throwing back his mantle, and accompanying himself on the guitar.) i. maiden, now in peace reposing, from thy sleep awake, hear my voice with love imploring, wilt thou pity take? but beware how thou confidest even in thy friend, ha! ha! ha! if not for thy wedding finger he a ring doth send. ii. yes, sweet maiden, i implore thee,- oh, refuse not this,- smile on him who doth adore thee, bless him with thy kiss. but beware how thou confidest, even in thy friend, ha! ha! ha! if not for thy wedding finger he a ring doth send. (valentine rushes from the house.) * * * * * scene vi. valentine and the before-named. _val._ good sir, what want you here? _mep._ my worthy fellow, it was not to you that we addressed our serenade! _val._ my sister, perhaps, would more gladly hear it! (valentine draws his sword, and breaks mephistopheles' guitar.) _faust._ his sister! _mep._ (to valentine) why this anger? do ye not like my singing? _val._ your insults cease! from which of ye must i demand satisfaction for this foul outrage? which of ye must i now slay? (faust draws his sword.) 'tis he! _mep._ your mind's made up, then! on, then, doctor, at him, pray! _val._ oh, heaven, thine aid afford, increase my strength and courage, that in his blood my sword may wipe out this fell outrage! _faust._ what fear is this unnerves my arm? why falters now my courage? dare i to take his life, who but resents an outrage? _mep._ his wrath and his courage i laugh alike to scorn! to horse, then, for his last journey the youth right soon will take! _val._ (taking in his hand the medallion suspended round his neck). thou gift of marguerite, which till now hath ever saved me, i'll no more of thee--i cast thee hence! accursed gift, i throw thee from me! (throws it angrily away.) _mep._ (aside). thou'll repent it! _val._ (to faust). come on, defend thyself! _mep._ (to faust, in a whisper). stand near to me, and attack him only; i'll take care to parry! (they fight.) _val._ (falling). ah! _mep._ behold our hero, lifeless on the ground! come, we must hence--quick, fly! (exit, dragging faust after him.) * * * * * scene vii. (enter citizens, with lighted torches; afterwards siebel and marguerite.) _cho._ hither, hither, come this way- they're fighting here hard by! see, one has fallen; the unhappy man lies prostrate there. ah! he moves--yes, still he breathes; quick, then, draw nigh to raise and succor him! _val._ 'tis useless, cease these vain laments. too often have i gazed on death, to heed it when my own time hath come! (marguerite appears at the back, supported by siebel.) _mar._ (advancing, and falling on her knees at valentine's side). valentine! ah, valentine! _val._ (thrusting her from him). marguerite! what would'st thou here?--away! _mar._ o heav'n! _val._ for her i die! poor fool! i thought to chastise her seducer! _cho._ (in a low voice, pointing to marguerite). he dies, slain by her seducer! _mar._ fresh grief is this! ah, bitter punishment. _sie._ have pity on her, pray! _val._ (supported by those around him). marguerite, give ear awhile; that which was decreed hath duly come to pass. death comes at its good pleasure: all mortals must obey its behest. but for you intervenes an evil life! those white hands will never work more; the labors and sorrows that others employ, will be forgotten in hours of joy. darest thou live, ingrate? darest thou still exist? go! shame overwhelm thee! remorse follow thee! at length _thy_ hour will sound. die! and if god pardons thee hereafter, so may this life be a continual curse! _cho._ terrible wish! unchristian thought! in thy last sad hour, unfortunate! think of thy own soul's welfare. forgive, if thou wouldst be forgiven. _val._ marguerite; i curse you! death awaits me. i die by your hand; but i die a soldier. (dies.) _cho._ god receive thy spirit! god pardon thy sins! (curtain.) act v. scene i. a prison. marguerite asleep; faust and mephistopheles. _faust._ go! get thee hence! _mep._ the morn appears, black night is on the wing. quickly prevail upon marguerite to follow thee. the jailer soundly sleeps--here is the key, thine own hand now can ope the door. _faust._ good! get thee gone! _mep._ be sure thou tarry not! i will keep watch without. (exit.) _faust._ with grief my heart is wrung! oh, torture! oh, source of agony and remorse eternal! behold her there the good, the beauteous girl, cast like a criminal into this vile dungeon; grief must her reason have disturbed, for, with her own hand, alas! her child she slew! oh, marguerite! _mar._ (waking). his voice did sure unto my heart resound. (rises.) _faust._ marguerite! _mar._ at that glad sound it wildly throbs again amid the mocking laugh of demons. _faust._ marguerite! _mar._ now am i free. he is here. it is his voice. yes, thou art he whom i love. fetters, death, have no terrors for me; thou hast found me. thou hast returned. now am i saved! now rest i on thy heart! _faust._ yes, i am here, and i love thee, in spite of the efforts of yon mocking demon. (faust attempts to draw her with him. she gently disengages herself from his arms.) _mar._ stay! this is the spot where one day thou didst meet me. thine hand sought mine to clasp. "will you not permit me, my fairest demoiselle, to offer you my arm, and clear for you the way?" "no, sir. i am no demoiselle, neither am i fair; and i have no need to accept your offered arm." _faust._ what is't she says? ah me! ah me! _mar._ and the garden i love is here, odorous of myrtle and roses, where every eve thou camest in with careful step, as night was falling. _faust._ come, marguerite, let us fly! _mar._ no! stay a moment! _faust._ o heav'n, she does not understand! * * * * * scene ii. mephistopheles and the preceding. _mep._ away at once, while yet there's time! if longer ye delay, not e'en my power can save ye. _mar._ see'st thou yon demon crouching in the shade? his deadly glance is fixed on us; quick! drive him from these sacred walls. _mep._ away! leave we this spot, the dawn hath appeared; hear'st thou not the fiery chargers, as with sonorous hoof they paw the ground? (endeavoring to drag faust with him.) haste ye, then,--perchance there yet is time to save her! _mar._ o heaven, i crave thy help! thine aid alone i do implore! (kneeling.) holy angels, in heaven bless'd, my spirit longs with ye to rest! great heaven, pardon grant, i implore thee, for soon shall i appear before thee! _faust._ marguerite! follow me, i implore! _mar._ holy angels, in heaven bless'd, my spirit longs with ye to rest! great heaven, pardon grant, i implore thee, for soon shall i appear before thee! _faust._ o marguerite! _mar._ why that glance with anger fraught? _faust._ marguerite! _mar._ what blood is that which stains thy hand! away! thy sight doth cause me horror! (falls.) _mep._ condemned! _cho._ saved! christ hath arisen! christ hath arisen! christ is born again! peace and felicity to all disciples of the master! christ hath arisen! (the prison walls open. the soul of marguerite rises towards heaven. faust gazes despairingly after her, then falls on his knees and prays. mephistopheles turns away, barred by the shining sword of an archangel.) end of the opera. acte premier. scène premiere. _le cabinet de faust._ (faust, seul. sa lampe est près de s'eteindre. il est assis devant une table chargée de parchemins. un livre est ouvert devant lui.) _faust._ rien!...--en vain j'interroge, en mon ardente veille, la nature et le créateur; pas une voix ne glisse à mon oreille un mot consolateur! j'ai langui triste et solitaire, sans pouvoir briser le lien qui m'attache encore à la terre!... je ne vois rien!--je ne sais rien!... (il ferme le livre et se lève. le jour commence à naitre.) le ciel pâlit!--devant l'aube nouvelle la sombre nuit s'évanouit!... (avec désespoir.) encore un jour!--encore un jour qui luit!... o mort, quand viendras-tu m'abriter sous ton aile? (saisissant une fiole sur la table.) eh bien! puisque la mort me fuit, pourquoi n'irais-je pas vers elle?... salut! ô mon dernier matin! j'arrive sans terreur au terme du voyage; et je suis, avec ce breuvage, le seul maître de mon destin! (il verse le contenu de la fiole dans une coupe de cristal. au moment où il va porter la coupe à ses lèvres, des voix de jeunes filles se font entendre au dehors.) _choeur de jeunes filles._ paresseuse fille qui sommeille encor! déjà le jour brille sous son manteau d'or. déjà l'oiseau chante ses folles chansons; l'aube caressante sourit aux moissons; le ruisseau murmure, la fleur s'ouvre au jour, toute la nature s'éveille à l'amour! _faust._ vains échos de la joie humaine, passez, passez votre chemin!... o coupe des aïeux, qui tant fois fus pleine, pourquoi trembles-tu dans ma main?... (il porte de nouveau la coupe à ses lèvres.) _choeur des laboureurs_ (dehors). aux champs l'aurore nous rappelle; le temps est beau, la terre est belle; béni soit dieu! a peine voit-on l'hirondelle, qui vole et plonge d'un coup d'aile dans le profondeur du ciel bleu! _jeunes filles et labs._ béni soit dieu! _faust._ (_reposant la coupe_) dieu! (il se laisse retomber dans son fauteuil.) mais ce dieu, que peut-il pour moi! (se levant.) me rendra-t'il l'amour, l'espérance et la foi? (avec rage.) maudites soyez-vous, ô voluptés humaines! maudites soient les chaînes qui me font ramper ici-bas! maudit soit tout ce qui nous leurre, vain espoir qui passe avec l'heure, rêves d'amour ou de combats! maudit soit le bonheur, maudites la science, la prière et la foi! maudite sois-tu, patience! a moi, satan! à moi! * * * * * scène ii. faust, mephistopheles. _mep._ (apparaissant). me voici!... d'où vient ta surprise! ne suis-je pas mis à ta guise? l'épée au côté, la plume au chapeau, l'escarcelle pleine, un riche manteau sur l'épaule;--en somme un vrai gentilhomme! eh bien! que me veux-tu, docteur! parle, voyons!...--te fais-je peur? _faust._ non. _mep._ doutes-tu ma puissance?... _faust._ peut-être! _mep._ mets-la donc à l'épreuve!... _faust._ va-t'en! _mep._ fi!--c'est là ta reconnaissance! apprends de moi qu'avec satan l'on en doit user d'autre sorte, et qu'il n'était pas besoin de l'appeler de si loin pour le mettre ensuite à la porte! _faust._ et que peux-tu pour moi? _mep._ tout.--mais dis-moi d'abord ce que tu veux;--est-ce de l'or? _faust._ que ferais-je de la richesse? _mep._ bien! je vois où le bât te blesse! tu veux la gloire? _faust._ plus encor! _mep._ la puissance! _faust._ non! je veux un trésor qui les contient tous!... je veux la jeunesse! a moi les plaisirs, les jeunes maîtresses! a moi leurs caresses! a moi leurs désirs? a moi l'énergie des instincts puissants, et la folle orgie du coeur et des sens! ardente jeunesse, a moi tes désirs! a moi ton ivresse! a moi tes plaisirs!... _mep._ fort bien! je puis contenter ton caprice _faust._ et que te donnerai-je en retour? _mep._ presque rien: ici, je suis à ton service, mais là-bas tu seras au mien. _faust._ là-bas?... _mep._ là-bas. (lui présentant un parchemin.) allons, signe.--eh quoi! ta main tremble! que faut-il pour te décider? la jeunesse t'appelle; ôse la regarder!... (il fait un geste. au fond du théâtre s'ouvre et laisse voir marguerite assise devant son rouet et filant.) _faust._ o merveille!... _mep._ eh bien! que t'ensemble? (prenant le parchemin.) _faust._ donne!... (il signe.) _mep._ allons donc! (prenant la coupe restée sur la table.) et maintenant, maître, c'est moi qui te convie a vider cette coupe où fume en bouillonnant non plus la mort, non plus le poison;--mais la vie! _faust._ (prenant la coupe et se tournant vers marguerite.) a toi, fantôme adorable et charmant!... (il vide la coupe et se trouve métamorphosé en jeune et élégant seigneur. la vision disparaît.) _mep._ viens! _faust._ je la reverrai? _mep._ sans doute. _faust._ quand? _mep._ aujourd'hui. _faust._ c'est bien! _mep._ en route! _faust._ a moi les plaisirs, les jeunes maîtresses! a moi leurs caresses! a moi leurs désirs! _mep._ a toi la jeunesse, a toi ses désirs, a toi son ivresse, a toi ses plaisirs! (ils sortent.--la toile tombe.) acte deuxième. scène première. _la kermesse._ (une des portes de la ville. a gauche un caborte à l'enseigne du bacchus) wagner, etudiants, bourgeois, soldats, jeunes filles, matrones. _etuds._ vin ou bière, bière ou vin, que mon verre soit plein! sans vergogne, coup sur coup, un ivrogne boit tout! _wag._ jeune adepte que ta gloire, de tonneau tes amours, n'en excepte soient de boire que l'eau! toujours! (ils trinquent et boivent.) _soldats._ filles ou forteresses, c'est tout un, morbleu! vieux burgs, jeunes maîtresses sont pour nous un jeu! celui qui sait s'y prendre sans trop de façon, les oblige à se rendre en payant rançon! _bourgeois._ aux jours de dimanche et de fête, j'aime à parler guerre et combats; tandis que les peuples là-bas se cassent la tête. je vais m'asseoir sur les coteaux qui sont voisins de la rivière, et je vois passer les bateaux en vidant mon verre! (bourgeois et soldats remontent vers le fond du théâtre.) (un groupe de jeunes filles entre en scène.) _les jeunes filles_ (regardant de côté). voyez ces hardis compères qui viennent là-bas; ne soyons pas trop sévères, retardons le pas. (elles gagnent la droite du théâtre. un second choeur d'étudiants entre à leur suite.) _deuxième cho. d'etuds._ voyez ces mines gaillardes et ces airs vainqueurs! amis, soyons sur nos gardes, tenons bien nos coeurs! _cho. de mats._ (observant les étudiants et les jeunes filles). voyez après ces donzelles courir ces messieurs! nous sommes aussi bien qu'elles, sinon beaucoup mieux! (ensemble.) _mats._ (aux jeunes filles). vous voulez leur plaire nous le voyons bien _etuds._ vin ou bière, bière ou vin, que mon verre soit plein! _sols._ pas be beauté fière! nous savons leur plaire en un tour de main! _bourg._ vidons un verre de ce bon vin! _jeunes filles._ de votre colère nous ne craignons rien! _jeunes etuds._ voyez leur colère, voyez leur maintien! (les étudiants et les soldats séparent les femmes en riant. tous les groupes s'éloignent et disparaissent.) * * * * * scène ii. wagner, siebel, etudiants, valentin. _val._ (paraissant an fond; il tient une petite médaille à la main). o sainte médaille, qui me viens de ma soeur, au jour de la bataille, pour écarter la mort, reste là sur mon coeur! _wag._ ah! voici valentin qui nous cherché sans doute! _val._ un dernier coup, messieurs, et mettons-nous en route! _wag._ qu'as-tu donc?... quels regrets attristent nos adieux? _val._ comme vous, pour longtemps, je vais quitter ces lieux; j'y laisse marguerite, et, pour veiller sur elle, ma mère n'est plus là! _sie._ plus d'un ami fidèle saura te remplacer a ses côtés! _val._ (lui serrant la main). merci! _sie._ sur moi tu peux compter! _etuds._ compte sur nous aussi! _val._ avant de quitter ces lieux, sol natal de mes aïeux, a toi, seigneur et roi des cieux, ma soeur je confie. daigne de tout danger toujours la protéger, cette soeur si chérie. délivré d'une triste pensée, j'irais chercher la gloire au sein des ennemis, le premier, le plus brave au fort de la mêlée, j'irai combattre pour mon pays. et si vers lui dieu me rappelle, je viellerai sur toi fidèle, o marguerite! _wag._ allons, amis! point de vaines alarmes! a ce bon vin ne mêlons pas de larmes! buvons, trinquons, et qu'un joyeux refrain nous mette en train! _etuds._ buvons, trinquons, et qu'un joyeux refrain nous mette en train! _wag._ (montant sur an escabeau). un rat plus poltron que brave, et plus laid que beau, logeait au fond d'une cave, sous un vieux tonneau; un chat.... * * * * * scène iii. les mêmes. mephistopheles. _mep._ (paraissant tout à coup au milieu des étudiants et interrompant wagner). pardon! _wag._ hein? _mep._ parmi vous, de grâce permettez-moi de prendre place! que votre ami d'abord achève sa chanson! moi, je vous en promets plusieurs de ma façon! _wag._ (descendant de son escabeau). une seule suffit, pourvu qu'elle soit bonne! _mep._ je ferai de mon mieux pour n'ennuyer personne! i. le veau d'or est toujours debout; on encense sa puissance d'un bout du monde à l'autre bout! pour fêter l'infâme idole, peuples et rois confondus, au bruit sombre des écus dansent une ronde folle autour de son piédestal?... et satan conduit le bal! ii. le veau d'or est vainqueur des dieux; dans son gloire dérisoire le monstre abjecte insulte aux cieux! il contemple, ô rage étrange! a ses pieds le genre humain se ruant, le fer en main, dans le sang et dans la fange où brille l'ardent métal!... et satan conduit le bal! _tous._ et satan conduit le bal! _cho._ merci de ta chanson! _val._ (à part). singulier personnage! _wag._ (tendant un verre à mephistopheles). nous ferez vous l'honneur de trinquer avec nous? _mep._ volontiers!... (saisissant la main de wagner et l'examinant.) ah! voici qui m'attriste pour vous! vous voyez cette ligne? _wag._ eh bien? _mep._ fâcheux presage! vous vous ferez tuer en montant à l'assaut! _sie._ vous êtes donc sorcier? _mep._ tout juste autant qu'il faut pour lire dans ta main que le ciel te condamne a ne plus toucher une fleur sans qu'elle se fane! _sie._ moi! _mep._ plus de bouquets à marguerite!... _val._ ma soeur!... qui vous a dit son nom? _mep._ prenez garde, mon brave! vous vous ferez tuer par quelqu'un que je sais! (prenant le verre des mains de wagner.) a votre santé!... (jetant le contenu du verre, après y avoir trempé ses lèvres.) peuh! que ton vin est mauvais!... permettez-moi de vous en offrir de ma cave! (frappant sur le tonneau, surmonté d'un bacchus, qui sert d'enseigne au cabaret.) holà! seigneur bacchus! à boire!... (le vin jaillit du tonneau. aux étudiants.) approchez-vous! chacun sera servi selon ses goûts! a la santé que tout à l'heure vous portiez, mes amis, à marguerite! _val._ (lui arrachant le verre des mains). assez!... si je ne te fais taire à l'instant, que je meure! (le vin s'enflamme dans la vasque placée audessous du tonneau.) _wag. et les etuds._ holà!... (ils tirent leurs épées.) _mep._ pourquoi trembler, vous qui me menacez? (il tire un cercle autour de lui avec son épée.--valentin s'avance pour l'attaquer.--son épée se brise.) _val._ mon fer, ô surprise! dans les airs se brise!... _val., wag., sie. et les etuds._ (forçant mephistopheles à reculer et lui présentant la garde de leurs épées). de l'enfer qui vient émousser nos armes! nous ne pouvons pas repousser les charmes! mais puisque tu brises le fer, regarde!... c'est une croix qui, de l'enfer, nous garde! (ils sortent.) * * * * * scène iv. mephistopheles, puis faust. _mep._ (remettant son épée au fourreau). nous nous retrouverons, mes amis!--serviteur! _faust_ (entrant en scène). qu'as-tu donc? _mep._ rien!--a nous deux, cher docteur! qu'attendez-vous de moi? par où commencerai-je? _faust._ où se cache la belle enfant que ton art m'a fait voir?--est-ce un vain sortilège? _mep._ non pas! mais contre nous sa vertu la protège; et le ciel même la défend! _faust._ qu'importe? je le veux! viens! conduis-mois vers elle! ou je me sépare de toi! _mep._ il suffit!... je tiens trop à mon nouvel emploi pour vous laisser douter un instant de mon zèle! attendons!... ici même, à ce signal joyeux, la belle et chaste enfant va paraître à vos yeux! * * * * * scène v. (les étudiants et les jeunes filles, bras dessus, bras dessous, et précédés par des joueurs de violon, envahissent la scène. ils sont suivie par les bourgeois qui ont paru au commencement de l'acte.) les mêmes, étudiants, jeunes filles, bourgeois, puis siebel et marguerite. _cho._ (marquant la mesure en marchant). ainsi que la brise légère soulève en épais tourbillons la poussière des sillons, que la valse nous entraîne! faites retentir la plaine de l'éclat de nos chansons! (les musiciens montent sur les bancs; la valse commence.) _mep._ (à faust). vois ces filles gentilles! ne veux-tu pas aux plus belles d'entre elles offrir ton bras? _faust._ non! fais trêve a ce ton moqueur! et laisse mon coeur a son rêve!... _sie._ (rentrant en scène). c'est par ici que doit passer marguerite! _quelques jeunes filles._ (s'approchant de siebel). faut-il qu'une fille á danser vous invite? _sie._ non!... non! je ne veux pas valser!... _cho._ ainsi que la brise légère soulève en épais tourbillons la poussière des sillons, que la valse nous entraîne! faites retentir la plaine de l'éclat de nos chansons!... (marguerite paraît.) _faust._ ah!... la voici ... c'est elle!... _mep._ eh bien, aborde-la! _sie._ (apercevant marguerite et faisant un pas vers elle). marguerite!... _mep._ (se retournant et se trouvant face à face avec siebel). plaît-il!... _sie._ (à part). maudit homme! encor là!... _mep._ (d'un ton mielleux). eh quoi! mon ami! vous voilà!... (en riant). ah, vraiment, mon ami! (siebel recule devant mephistopheles, qui lui fait faire ainsi la tour du théâtre en passant derrière le groupe des danseurs.) _faust_ (abordant marguerite qui traverse la scène). ne permettrez-vous pas, ma belle demoiselle, qu'on vous offre le bras pour faire le chemin? _mar._ non, monsieur! je ne suis demoiselle, ni belle, et je n'ai pas besoin qu'on me donne la main. (elle passe devant faust et s'éloigne.) _faust_ (la suivant des yeux). pas le ciel! que de grâce ... et quelle modestie!... o belle enfant, je t'aime!... _sie._ (redescendant en scene sans avoir vu ce qui vient de se passer). elle est partie! (il va pour s'élancer sur la trace de marguerite; mais, se trouvant de nouveau face à face avec mephistopheles, il lui tourne le dos et s'éloigne par le fond du théâtre.) _mep._ (à faust). eh bien? _faust._ on me repousse!... _mep._ (en riant). allons! à tes amours je vois qu'il faut prêter secours!... (il s'éloigne avec faust du même côté que marguerite.) _quelques jeunes filles_ (s'adressant à trois ou quatre d'entre elles qui ont observé le rencontre de faust et de marguerite). qu'est-ce donc!... _deuxième groupe de jeunes filles._ marguerite, qui de ce beau seigneur refuse la conduite!... _etuds._ (se rapprochant). valsons encor! _jeunes filles._ valsons toujours! acte troisième. scène première. le jardin de marguerite. (au fond, un mur percé d'une petite porte. a gauche, un bosquet. a droite, un pavillon dont la fenêtre fait face au public. arbres et massifs.) _sie._ (seul). (il est arrêté près d'un massif de roses et de lilas.) i. faites-lui mes aveux, portez mes voeux, fleurs écloses près d'elle, dites-lui qu'elle est belle ... que mon coeur nuit et jour languit d'amour! révélez à son âme le secret de ma flamme! qu'il s'exhale avec vous parfums plus doux!... (il cueille une fleur.) fanée!... hélas! (il jette la fleur avec dépit.) ce sorcier que dieu damne m'a porté malheur! (il cueille une autre fleur qui s'effeuille encore.) je ne puis sans qu'elle se fane toucher une fleur!... si je trempais mes doigts dans l'eau bénite?... (il s'approche du pavillon et trempe ses doigts dans un bénitier accroché au mur.) c'est là que chaque soir vient prier marguerite! voyons maintenant! voyons vite!... (il cueille deux ou trois fleurs.) elles se fanent?... non!... satan, je ris de toi ... ii. c'est en vous que j'ai foi; parlez pour moi! qu'elle puisse connaître l'ardeur qu'elle a fait naître, et dont mon coeur troublé n'a point parlé! si l'amour l'effarouche, que la fleur sur sa bouche sache au moins déposer un doux baiser!... (il cueille des fleurs pour former un bouquet et disparaît dans les massifs du jardin.) * * * * * scène ii. mephistopheles, faust, puis siebel. _faust_ (entrant doucement en scène). c'est ici? _mep._ suivez-moi! _faust._ que regardes-tu là? _mep._ siebel, votre rival. _faust._ siebel! _mep._ chut!... le voilà! (il se cache avec faust dans un bosquet.) _sie._ (rentrant en scène, avec un bouquet à la main). mon bouquet n'est-il pas charmant? _mep._ (à part). charmant! _sie._ victoire! je lui raconterai demain toute l'histoire; et, si l'on veut savoir le secret de mon coeur, un baiser lui dira le reste! _mep._ (à part) séducteur! (siebel attache le bouquet à la porte du pavillon et sort.) * * * * * scène iii. faust, mephistopheles. _mep._ attendez-moi là, cher docteur! pour tenir compagnie aux fleurs de votre élève, je vais vous chercher un trésor plus merveilleux, plus riche encor que tous ceux qu'elle voit en rêve! _faust._ laisse-moi! _mep._ j'obéis!... daignez m'attendre ici? (il sort.) * * * * * scène iv. faust. _faust_ (seul). quel trouble inconnu me pénètre! je sens l'amour s'emparer de mon être. o marguerite! tes pieds me voici! salut! demeure chaste et pure, où se devine la présence d'une âme innocente et divine!... que de richesse en cette pauvreté! en ce réduit, que de félicité!... o nature, c'est là que tu la fis si belle! c'est là que cette enfant a grandi sous ton aile, a dormi sous tes yeux? là que, de ton haleine enveloppant son âme, tu fis avec amour épanouir la femme en cet ange des cieux! salut! demeure chaste et pure, où se devine! la prèsence d'une âme innocente et divine!... que de richesse en cette pauvreté! en ce réduit, que de félicité!... salut! demeure chaste et pure, où se devine la présence d'une âme innocente et divine!... * * * * * scène v. faust, mephistopheles. (mephistopheles reparaît, une cassette sous le bras.) _mep._ alerte! la voilà!... si le bouquet l'emporte sur l'écrin, je consens à perdre mon pouvoir! (il ouvre l'écrin.) _faust._ fuyons!... je veux ne jamais la revoir! _mep._ quel scrupule vous prend!... (plaçant l'écrin sur le seuil du pavillon.) sur le seuil de la porte, voici l'écrin placé!... venez!... j'ai bon espoir! (il entraine faust et disparaît avec lui dans le jardin. marguerite entre par la porte du fond et descend en silence jusque sur le devant de la scène.) * * * * * scène vi. marguerite. _mar._ (seule). je voudrais bien savoir quel était ce jeune homme, si c'est un grand seigneur, et comment il se nomme? (elle s'assied dans le bosquet, devant son rouet, et prend son fuseau autour duquel elle prépare de la laine.) i. "il était un roi de thulé, qui, jusqu'à la tombe fidèle, eut, en souvenir de sa belle, une coupe en or ciselé!..." (s'interrompant.) il avait bonne grâce, à ce qu'il m'a semble. (reprenant sa chanson.) "nul trésor n'avait plus de charmes! dans les grands jours il s'en servait, et chaque fois qu'il y buvait, ses yeux se remplissaient de larmes!..." ii. (elle se lève et fait quelques pas.) "quand il sentit venir la mort, entendu sur sa froide couche, pour la porter jusqu'à sa bouche sa main fit un suprême effort!..." (s'interrompant.) je ne savais que dire, et j'ai rougi d'abord. (reprenant sa chanson.) "et puis, en l'honneur de sa dame, il but un dernière fois; la coupe trembla dans ses doigts, et doucement il rendit l'âme!" les grands seigneurs ont seuls des airs si résolus, avec cette douceur. (elle se dirige vers le pavillon.) allons! n'y pensons plus! cher valentin, si dieu m'écoute, je te reverrai!... me voilà toute seule!... (au moment d'entrer dans la pavillon, elle aperçoit la bouquet suspendu à la porte.) un bouquet! (elle prend le bouquet.) c'est de siebel, sans doute! pauvre garçon! (apercevant la cassette.) que vois-je là? d'où ce riche coffret peut-il venir?... je n'ose y toucher, et pourtant ...--voici la clef, je crois!... si je l'ouvrais!... ma main tremble!... pourquoi! je ne fais, en l'ouvrant, rien de mal, je suppose!... (elle ouvre la cassette et laisse tomber le bouquet.) o dieu! que de bijoux!... est-ce un rêve charmant qui m'éblouit, ou si je veille!- mes yeux n'ont jamais vu de richesse pareille!... (elle place la cassette tout ouverte sur une chaise et s'agenouille pour se parer.) si j'osais seulement me parer un moment de ces pendants d'oreille! (elle tire des boucles d'oreilles de la cassette.) voici tout justement, au fond de la cassette, un miroir!... comment n'être pas coquette? (elle se pare des boucles d'oreilles, se lève et se regarde dans le miroir.) ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir!... est-ce toi, marguerite? réponds-moi, réponds vite!- non! non!--ce n'est plus toi! ce n'est plus ton visage! c'est la fille d'un roi, qu'on salue au passage! ah! s'il était ici! s'il me voyait ainsi!... comme une demoiselle il me trouverait belle!... achevons la métamorphose! il me tarde encor d'essayer le bracelet et le collier. (elle se pare du collier d'abord, puis du bracelet.--se levant.) dieu! c'est comme une main qui sur mon bras se pose! ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir! est-ce toi, marguerite? réponds-moi, réponds vite!- non! non!--ce n'est plus toi! ce n'est plus ton visage! c'est la fille d'un roi, qu'on salue au passage!... ah! s'il était ici! s'il me voyait ainsi!... comme une demoiselle il me trouverait belle!... ah! s'il était ici!... * * * * * scène vii. marguerite, marthe. _mart._ (entrant par le fond). que vois-je, seigneur dieu!... comme vous voilà belle, mon ange!...--d'où vous vient ce riche écrin? _mar._ (avec confusion). hélas! on l'aura par mégarde apporté! _mart._ que non pas! ces bijoux sont á vous, ma chère demoiselle! oui! c'est là le cadeau d'un seigneur amoureux! (soupirant.) mon cher époux jadis était moins généreux! (mephistopheles et faust entrent en scène.) * * * * * scène viii. les mêmes, mephistopheles, faust. _mep._ dame marthe schwerlein, s'il vous plait? _mart._ qui m'appelle? _mep._ pardon d'oser ainsi nous présenter chez vous! (bas à faust.) vous voyez qu'elle a fait bel accueil aux bijoux? (haut.) dame marthe schwerlein? _mart._ me voici! _mep._ la nouvelle que j'apporte n'est pas pour vous mettre en gaité:- votre mari, madame, est mort et vous salue! _mart._ ah!... grand dieu!... _mar._ qu'est ce donc? _mep._ rien!... (marguerite baisse les yeux sous le regard de mephistopheles, se hâte d'ôter le collier, le bracelet et les pendants d'oreilles et de les remettre dans la cassette.) _mart._ o calamité! o nouvelle imprévue!... ensemble. _mar._ (à part). malgré moi mon coeur tremble et tressaille à sa vue! _faust_ (à part). la fièvre de mes sens se dissipe à sa vue! _mep._ (à marthe). votre mari, madame, est mort et vous salue! _mart._ ne m'apportez-vous rien de lui! _mep._ rien!... et, pour le punir, il faut dès aujourd'hui chercher quelqu'un qui le remplace! _faust_ (à marguerite). pourquoi donc quitter ces bijoux? _mar._ ces bijoux ne sont pas à moi!... laissez, de grâce! _mep._ (à marthe). que ne serait heureux d'échanger avec vous la bague d'hyménée? _mart._ (à part). ah, bah! (haut.) plait-il? _mep._ (soupirant). hélas! cruelle destinée!... _faust_ (à marguerite). prenez mon bras un moment! _mar._ (se défendant). laissez!... je vous en conjure!... _mep._ (de l'autre côté du théâtre, à marthe). votre bras!... _mart._ (à part). il est charmant! _mep._ (à part). la voisine est un peu mûre! (marguerite abandonne son bras à faust et s'éloigne avec mephistopheles et marthe restent seuls en scène.) _mart._ ainsi vous voyagez toujours? _mep._ dure nécessité, madame! sans ami, sans parents!... sans femme. _mart._ cela sied encore aux beaux jours! mais plus tard, combien il est triste de vieillir seul, en égoïste! _mep._ j'ai frémi souvent, j'en conviens, devant cette horrible pensée! _mart._ avant que l'heure en soit passée! digne seigneur, songez-y bien! _mep._ j'y songerai! _mart._ songez-y bien! (ils sortent. entre faust et marguerite.) _faust._ eh quoi! toujours seule?... _mar._ mon frère est soldat; j'ai perdu ma mère; puis ce fut un autre malheur, je perdis ma petite soeur! pauvre ange!... elle m'était bien chère!... c'était mon unique souci; que de soins, hélas!... que de peines! c'est quand nos âmes en sont pleines que la mort nous les prend ainsi!... sitôt qu'elle s'éveillait, vite il fallait que je fusse là!... elle n'aimait que marguerite! pour la voir, la pauvre petite, je reprendrais bien tout cela!... _faust._ si le ciel, avec un sourire, l'avait faite semblable à toi, c'était un ange!... oui, je le croi!... _mar._ vous moquez-vous!... _faust._ non! je t'admire! _mar._ (souriant). je ne vous crois pas et de moi tout bas vous riez sans doute!... j'ai tort de rester pour vous écouter!... et pourtant j'écoute!... _faust._ laisse-moi ton bras!... dieu ne m'a t'il pas conduit sur ta route?... pourquoi redouter, hélas! d'écouter?... mon coeur parle; écoute!... (mephistopheles et marthe reparaissent.) _mart._ vous n'entendez pas, ou de moi tout bas vous riez sans doute! avant d'écouter, pourquoi vous hâter de vous mettre en route? _mep._ ne m'accusez pas, si je dois, hélas! me remettre en route. faut-il attester qu'on voudrait rester quand on vous écoute? (la nuit commence à tomber.) _mar._ (à faust). retirez-vous!... voici la nuit. _faust_ (passant son bras autour de la taille de marguerite). chère âme! _mar._ laissez-moi! (elle se dégage et s'enfuit.) _faust_ (la poursuivant). quoi! méchante!... on me fuit! _mep._ (à part, tandis que marthe, dépitée, lui tourne le dos). l'entretien devient trop tendre! esquivons nous! (il se cache derrière un arbre.) _mart._ (à part). comment m'y prendre? (se retournant.) eh bien! il est parti!... seigneur!... (elle s'éloigne.) _mep._ oui! cours après moi!... ouf! cette vieille impitoyable de force ou de gré, je crois, allait épouser le diable! _faust_ (dans la coulisse). marguerite! _mart._ (dans la coulisse). cher seigneur! _mep._ serviteur! * * * * * scène ix. mephistopheles. _mep._ (seul). il était temps! sous le feuillage sombre voici nos amoureux qui reviennent!... c'est bien! gardons nous de troubler un si doux entretien! o nuit, étends sur eux ton ombre! amour, ferme leur âme aux remords importuns! et vous, fleurs aux subtils parfums, epanouissez-vous sous cette main maudite! achevez de troubler le coeur de marguerite!... (il s'éloigne et disparaît dans l'ombre.) * * * * * scène x. faust, marguerite. _mar._ il se fait tard! adieu! _faust_ (la retenant). quoi! je t'implore en vain! attends! laisse ma main s'oublier dans la tienne! (s'agenouillant devant marguerite.) laisse-moi, laisse-moi contempler ton visage sous la pâle clarté dont l'astre de la nuit, comme dans un nuage, caresse ta beauté!... _mar._ o silence! ô bonheur! ineffable mystère! enivrante langueur! j'écoute!... et je comprends cette voix solitaire qui chante dans mon coeur! (dégageant sa main de celle de faust.) laissez un peu, de grâce!... (elle se penche et cueille une marguerite.) _faust._ qu'est se donc? _mar._ un simple jeu! laissez un peu! (elle effeuille la marguerite.) _faust._ que dit ta bouche à voix basse!... _mar._ il m'aime!--il ne m'aime pas!- il m'aime!--pas!--il m'aime!--pas! --il m'aime! _faust._ oui!... crois en cette fleur éclose sous tes pas!... qu'elle soit pour ton coeur l'oracle du ciel même!... il t'aime!... comprends-tu ce mot sublime et doux?... aimer! porter en nous une ardeur toujours nouvelle!... nous enivrer sans fin d'une joie éternelle! _faust et mar._ eternelle!... _faust._ o nuit d'amour ... ciel radieux!... o douces flammes!... le bonheur silencieux verse les cieux dans nos deux âmes!... _mar._ je veux t'aimer et te chérir! parle encore! je t'appartiens!... je t'adore!... pour toi je veux mourir!... _faust._ marguerite!... _mar._ (se dégageant des bras de faust). ah!... partez!... _faust._ cruelle!... me séparer de toi!... _mar._ je chancelle!... _faust._ ah! cruelle!... _mar._ (suppliante). laissez-moi!... _faust._ tu veux que je te quitte hélas!... vois ma douleur. tu me brises le coeur, o marguerite!... _mar._ partez! oui, partez vite! je tremble!... hélas!... j'ai peur! ne brisez pas le coeur de marguerite! _faust._ par pitié!... _mar._ si je vous suis chère, par votre amour, par ces aveux que je devais taire, cédez à ma priére!... cédez à mes voeux! (elle tombe aux pieds de faust.) _faust_ (après un silence, la relevant doucement). divine pureté!... chaste innocence, dont la puissance triomphe de ma volonté!... j'obéis!... mais demain! _mar._ oui, demain!... dès l'aurore!... demain toujours!... _faust._ un mot encore!... répète-moi ce doux aveu!... tu m'aimes!... _mar._ adieu!... (elle entre dans le pavillon.) _faust._ félicité du ciel.... ah ... fuyons.... (il s'élance vers la porte du jardin. mephistopheles lui barre le passage.) * * * * * scène xi. faust. mephistopheles. _mep._ tête folle!... _faust._ tu nous écoutais. _mep._ par bonheur. vous auriez grand besoin, docteur, qu'on vous renvoyât à l'école. _faust._ laisse-moi. _mep._ daignez seulement écouter un moment ce qu'elle va conter aux étoiles, cher maître. tenez; elle ouvre sa fenêtre. (marguerite ouvre la fenêtre du pavillon et s'y appuie un moment en silence, la tête entre les mains.) * * * * * scène xii. les mêmes. marguerite. _mar._ il m'aime; ...quel trouble en mon coeur, l'oiseau chante!...le vent murmure!... toutes les voix de la nature semblent me répéter en choeur: il t'aime!...--ah! qu'il est doux de vivre!... le ciel me sourit; ...l'air m'enivre!... est-ce de plaisir et d'amour que la feuille tremble et palpite?... demain?...--ah! presse ton retour, cher bien-aimé!...viens!... _faust._ (s'élançant vers la fenêtre et saisissant la main de marguerite). marguerite!... _mar._ ah!... _mep._ ho! ho! (marguerite reste un moment interdite et laisse tomber sa tête sur l'épaule de faust; mephistopheles ouvre la porte du jardin et sort en ricanant. la toile tombe.) acte quatrieme. scène premiere. _la chambre de marguerite._ marguerite, siebel. _sie._ (s'approchant doucement de marguerite). marguerite! _mar._ siebel!... _sie._ encore des pleurs. _mar._ (se levant). hélas! vous seul ne me maudissez pas. _sie._ je ne suis qu'un enfant, mais j'ai le coeur d'un homme et je vous vengerai de son lâche abandon! je le tuerai! _mar._ qui donc? _sie._ faut-il que je le nomme? l'ingrat qui vous trahit!... _mar._ non!... taisez-vous?... _sie._ pardon! vous l'aimez encore? _mar._ oui!... toujours! mais ce n'est pas à vous de plaindre mon ennui j'ai tort, siebel, de vous parler de lui. _sie._ i. si la bonheur à sourire t'invite, joyeux alors, je sens un doux émoi; si la douleur t'accable, marguerite, o marguerite, je pleure alors, je pleure comme toi! ii. comme deux fleurs sur une même tige, notre destin suivant le même cours, de tes chagrins en fière je m'afflige, o marguerite, comme une soeur, je t'aimerai toujours! _mar._ soyez béni, siebel! votre amitié m'est douce! ceux dont la main cruelle me repousse, n'ont pas fermé pour moi la porte du saint lieu; j'y vais pour mon enfant ... et pour lui prier dieu! (elle sort; siebel la suit à pas lents.) * * * * * scène ii. _l'église._ marguerite, puis mephistopheles. (quelques femmes traversent la scène et entrent dans l'église. marguerite entre après elles et s'agenouille.) _mar._ seigneur, daignez permettre à votre humble servante de s'agenouiller devant vous! _mep._ non!... tu ne prieras pas!... frappez-la d'épouvante! esprits du mal, accourez tous! _voix de démons invisibles._ marguerite! _mar._ qui m'appelle? _voix._ marguerite! _mar._ je chancelle! je meurs!--dieu bon! dieu clément! est-ce déjà l'heure du châtiment? (mephistopheles parait derrière un pilier et se penche à l'oreille de marguerite.) _mep._ souviens-toi du passé, quand sous l'aile des anges, abritant ton bonheur, tu venais dans son temple, enchantant ses louanges, adorer le seigneur! lorsque tu bégayais une chaste prière d'une timide voix, et portais dans ton coeur les baisers de ta mère, et dieu tout à la fois! écoute ces clameurs! c'est l'enfer qui t'appelle!... c'est l'enfer qui te suit! c'est l'éternel remords et l'angoisse éternelle dans l'éternelle nuit! _mar._ dieu! quelle est cette voix qui me parle dans l'ombre? dieu tout puissant! quel voile sombre sur moi descend!... _chant religieux_ (accompagné par les orgues). quand du seigneur le jour luira, sa croix au ciel resplendira, et l'univers s'écroulera ... _mar._ hélas!... ce chant pieux est plus terrible encore!... _mep._ non! dieu pour toi n'a plus de pardon! le ciel pour toi n'a plus d'aurore! _cho. religieux._ que dirai-je alors au seigneur? où trouverai-je un protecteur, quand l'innocent n'est pas sans peur! _mar._ ah! ce chant m'ètouffe et m'oppresse! je suis dans un cercle de fer! _mep._ adieu les nuits d'amour et les jours pleins d'ivresse! a toi malheur! a toi l'enfer! _mar. et le cho. religieux._ seigneur, accueillez la prière des coeurs malheureux! qu'un rayon de votre lumière descende sur eux! _mep._ marguerite! sois maudite! a toi l'enfer! _mar._ ah! (il disparait.) * * * * * scène iii. _la rue._ valentin, soldats, puis siebel. _cho._ déposons les armes; dans nos foyers enfin nous voici revenus! nos mères en larmes, nos mères et nos soeurs ne nous attendront plus. * * * * * scène iv. valentin, siebel. _val._ (apercevant siebel). eh! parbleu! c'est siebel! _sie._ cher valentin.... _val._ viens vite! viens dans mes bras. (il l'embrasse.) et marguerite? _sie._ (avec embarras). elle est à l'église, je crois. _val._ oui, priant dieu pour moi.... chère soeur, tremblante et craintive, comme elle va prêter une oreille attentive au récit de nos combats! _cho._ gloire immortelle de nos aïeux, sois-nous fidèle mourons comme eux! et sous ton aile, soldats vainqueurs, dirige nos pas, enflamme nos coeurs! vers nos foyers hâtons le pas! on nous attend; la paix est faite! plus de soupirs! ne tardons pas! notre pays nous tend les bras! l'amour nous rit! l'amour nous fête! et plus d'un coeur frémit tout bas au souvenir de nos combats! l'amour nous rit! l'amour nous fête! et plus d'un coeur frémit tout bas au souvenir de nos combats! gloire immortelle. * * * * * _val._ allons, siebel! entrons dans la maison! le verre en main, tu me feras raison! _sie._ (vivement). non! n'entre pas! _val._ pourquoi?...--tu détournes la tête? ton regard fuit le mien?...--siebel, explique-toi! _sie._ eh bien!--non, je ne puis! _val._ que veux-tu dire? (il se dirige vers la maison.) _sie._ (l'arretant). arrêté! sois clément, valentin! _val._ (furieux). laisse-moi! laisse-moi! (il entre dans la maison.) _sie._ pardonne-lui! (seul.) mon dieu! je vous implore! mon dieu, protégez-la. (il s'éloigne; mephistopheles et faust entrent en scène; mephistopheles tient une guitare à la main.) * * * * * scène v. faust, mephistopheles. (faust se dirige vers la maison de marguerite et s'arrête.) _mep._ qu'attendez-vous encore? entrons dans la maison. _faust._ tais-toi, maudit!... j'ai peur de rapporter ici la honte et le malheur. _mep._ a quoi bon la revoir, après l'avoir quitté? notre présence ailleurs serait bien mieux fêtée! la sabbat nous attend! _faust._ marguerite! _mep._ je vois que mes avis sont vains et que l'amour l'emporte! mais, pour vous faire ouvrir la porte, vous avez grand besoin du secours de ma voix! (faust, pensif, se tient à l'écart. mephistopheles s'accompagne sur sa guitare.) i. "vous qui faites l'endormie, n'entendez-vous pas, o catherine, ma mie, ma voix et mes pas ...?" ainsi ton galant t'appelle, et ton coeur l'en croit! n'ouvre ta porte, ma belle, que la bague au doigt! ii. "catherine que j'adore, pourquoi refuser a l'amant qui vous implore un si doux baiser?..." ainsi ton galant supplie, et ton coeur l'en croit! ne donne un baiser, ma mie, que la bague au doigt! (valentin sort de la maison.) * * * * * scène vi. les mêmes. valentin. _val._ que voulez-vous, messieurs? _mep._ pardon! mon camarade, mais ce n'est pas pour vous qu'était la sérénade! _val._ ma soeur l'écouterait mieux que moi, je le sais! (il degaine et brise la guitare de mephistopheles d'un coup d'épée.) _faust._ sa soeur! _mep._ (à valentin). quelle mouche vous pique? vous n'aimez donc pas la musique? _val._ assez d'outrage!... assez!... a qui de vous dois-je demander compte de mon malheur et de ma honte?... qui de vous deux doit tomber sous mes coups?... (faust tire son épée.) c'est lui!... _mep._ vous le voulez?...--allons, docteur, à vous!... _val._ redouble, ô dieu puissant, ma force et mon courage! permets que dans son sang je lave mon outrage! _faust_ (à part). terrible et frémissant, il glace mon courage! dois-je verser le sang du frère que j'outrage?... _mep._ de son air menaçant, de son aveugle rage, je ris!... mon bras puissant va détourner l'orage!... _val._ (tirant de son sein la médaille que lui a donnée marguerite). et toi qui préservas mes jours, toi qui me viens de marguerite, je ne veux plus de ton secours, médaille maudite!... (il jette la médaille loin de lui.) _mep._ (à part). tu t'en repentiras! _val._ en garde!... et défends-toi!... _mep._ (à faust). serrez-vous contre moi!... et poussez seulement, cher docteur!... moi, je pare. _val._ ah! (valentin tombe.) _mep._ voici notre héros étendu sur le sable!... au large maintenant! au large!... (il entraîne faust. arrivent marthe et des bourgeois portant des torches.) * * * * * scène vii. valentin, marthe, bourgeois, puis siebel et marguerite. _mart. et les bourg._ par ici!... par ici, mes amis! on se bat dans la rue!...- l'un d'eux est tombé là!--regardez ... le voici!... ii n'est pas encore mort!...--on dirait qu'il remue!...- vite, approchez!... il faut le secourir! _val._ (se soulevant avec effort). merci! de vos plaintes, faites-moi grace!... j'ai vu, morbleu! la mort en face trop souvent pour en avoir peur!... (marguerite paraît au fond soutenue par siebel.) _mar._ valentin!... valentin!... (elle écarte la foule et tombe à genoux près de valentin.) _val._ marguerite! ma soeur!... (il la repousse.) que me veux-tu?... va-t'en _mar._ o dieu!... _val._ je meurs par elle!... j'ai sottement cherché querelle a son amant! _la foule_. (à demi voix, montrant marguerite). il meurt, frappé par son amant! _mar._ douleur cruelle! o châtiment!... _sie._ (à valentin). grâce pour elle!... soyez clément! _val._ (soutenu par ceux qui l'entourent). ecoute-moi bien, marguerite!... ce qui doit arriver arrive à l'heure dite! la mort nous frappé quand il faut, et chacun obéit aux volontés d'en haut!... --toi!... te voilà dans la mauvaise voie! tes blanches mains ne travailleront plus! tu renîras, pour vivre dans la joie, tous les devoirs et toutes les vertus! va! la honte t'accable le remords suit tes pas! mais enfin l'heure sonne! meurs! et si dieu te pardonne, soit maudite ici-bas. _la foule._ o terreur, ô blasphème a ton heure suprême, infortuné, songe, hélas, a toi-même, pardonne, si tu veux être un jour pardonné! _val._ marguerite! soit maudite! la mort t'attend sur ton grabat! moi je meurs de ta main et je tombe en soldat! (il meurt.) _la foule._ que le seigneur ait son âme et pardonne au pêcheur. (la toile tombe.) acte cinquième. scène première. la prison. marguerite, endormie, faust, mephistopheles. _faust._ va t'en! _mep._ le jour va luire.--on dresse l'échafaud! décide sans retard marguerite à te suivre. le geôlier dort.--voici les clefs.--il faut que ta main d'homme la délivre. _faust._ laisse-moi! _mep._ hâtez-vous.--moi, je veille au dehors. (il sort.) _faust._ mon coeur est pénètré d'épouvante!--o torture! o source de regrets et d'éternels remords! c'est elle!--la voici, la douce créature jetée au fond d'une prison comme une vile criminelle! le désespoir égara sa raison son pauvre enfant, ô dieu! tué par elle! marguerite! _mar._ (s'éveillant). ah! c'est lui!--c'est lui! le bien-aimé! (elle se lève.) a son appel mon coeur s'est ranimé. _faust._ marguerite! _mar._ au milieu de vos éclats de rire, démons qui m'entourez, j'ai reconnu sa voix! _faust._ marguerite! _mar._ sa main, sa douce main m'attire! je suis libre! il est là! je l'entends! je la vois. oui, c'est toi, je t'aime, les fers, la mort même ne me font plus peur! tu m'as retrouvé, me voilà sauvé! c'est toi; je suis sur ton coeur! _faust._ oui, c'est moi, je t'aime, malgré l'effort même du démon moqueur, je t'ai retrouvé, te voilà sauvé, c'est moi, viens sur mon coeur! _mar._ (se dégageant doucement de ses bras). attends!... voici la rue où tu m'as vue pour la premiere fois!... où votre main osa presque effleurer mes doigts! "--ne permettez-vous pas, ma belle demoiselle, qu'on vous offre le bras pour faire le chemin?" "--non, monsieur, je ne suis demoiselle ni belle, et je n'ai pas besoin qu'on me donne la main!" _faust._ oui, mon coeur se souvient!--mais fuyons! l'heure passe! _mar._ et voici le jardin charmant, parfumé de myrte et de rose, où chaque soir discrètement tu pénétrais à la nuit close. _faust._ viens, marguerite, fuyons! _mar._ non, reste encore. _faust._ o ciel, elle ne m'entends pas! * * * * * scène ii. les mêmes. mephistopheles. _mep._ alerte! alerte! ou vous êtes perdus! si vous tardez encor, je ne m'en mêle plus! _mar._ le démon! le démon!--le vois-tu?... là ... dans l'ombre fixant sur nous son oeil de feu! que nous veut-il?--chasse-le du saint lieu! _mep._ l'aube depuis longtemps a percé la nuit sombre, la jour est levé de leur pied sonore j'entends nos chevaux frapper le pavé. (cherchant à entraîner faust.) viens! sauvons-la. peut-être il en est temps encore! _mar._ mon dieu, protégez-moi!--mon dieu, je vous implore! (tombant à genoux.) anges purs! anges radieux! portez mon âme au sein des cieux! dieu juste, à toi je m'abandonne! dieu bon, je suis à toi!--pardonne! _faust._ viens, suis-moi! je le veux! _mar._ anges purs, anges radieux! portez mon âme au sein des cieux! dieu juste, à toi je m'abandonne! dieu bon, je suis à toi!--pardonne! anges purs, anges radieux! portez mon âme au sein des cieux! (bruit au dehors.) _faust._ marguerite! _mar._ pourquoi ce regard menaçant? _faust._ marguerite! _mar._ pourquoi ces mains rouges de sang? (le repoussant.) va!... tu me fais horreur! (elle tombe sans mouvement.) _mep._ jugée! _cho. des anges._ sauvée! christ est ressuscité! christ vient de renaître! paix et félicité aux disciples du maître! christ vient de renaître. christ est ressuscité! (les murs de la prison se sont ouverts. l'âme de marguerite s'élève dans les cieux. faust la suit des yeux avec désespoir; il tombe à genoux et prie. mephistopheles est à demi renversé sous l'épée lumineuse de l'archange.) fin. [illustration: act i: a moi les plaisirs (oh, i would have pleasure)] [illustration: act ii. waltz and chorus-1] [illustration: act ii. waltz and chorus-2] [illustration: act iii: o nuit d'amour (o night of love)] [illustration: act iv: soldiers chorus] [illustration: act v: anges pur, anges radieux (holy angels, in heaven blest)] standard opera librettos all librettos have english text. additional texts are indicated by italic letters, as follows: _i_, italian; _g_, german; _f_, french. those marked with (*) contain no music. all the others have the music of the principal airs. price, 30 cents each, net. a-g title text composer africaine, l' _i._ _giacomo meyerbeer_ aïda _i._ _giuseppe verdi_ armide _f._ _c. w. von gluck_ ballo in maschera, un (the masked ball) _i._ _giuseppe verdi_ barbe-bleue (blue beard) _f._ _jacques offenbach_ barbiere di siviglia, il (barber of seville) _i._ _gioacchino a. rossini_ bartered bride _g._ _frederich smetana_ belle hélèna, la _f._ _jacques offenbach_ bells of corneville (chimes of normandy) _robert planquette_ *billee taylor _edward solomon_ *boccaccio _franz von suppé_ bohemian girl, the _michael wm. balfe_ do. _i._ do. carmen _f._ _georges bizet_ do. _i._ do. cavalleria rusticana _i._ _pietro mascagni_ chimes of normandy (bells of corneville) _robert planquette_ cleopatra's night _henry hadley_ contes d'hoffmann, les (tales of hoffmann) _f._ _jacques offenbach_ crispino e la comare (the cobbler and the fairy) _i._ _luigi and f. ricci_ crown diamonds, the _f._ _d. f. e. auber_ dame blanche, la _f. a. boieldieu_ damnation of faust, the _f._ _hector berlioz_ dinorah _i._ _giacomo meyerbeer_ *doctor of alcantara, the _julius eichberg_ don giovanni _i._ _w. a. mozart_ don pasquale _i._ _gaetano donizetti_ *dorothy _alfred cellier_ dumb girl of portici, the (masaniello) _i._ _d. f. e. auber_ elisire d'amore, l' _i._ _gaetano donizetti_ *erminie _i._ _edward jakobowski_ ernani _i._ _giuseppe verdi_ etoile du nord, l' (the star of the north) _i._ _giacomo meyerbeer_ fatinitza _franz von suppé_ faust _f._ _charles gounod_ do. _i._ do. favorita, la _i._ _gaetano donizetti_ fidelio _g._ _l. van beethoven_ figlia del reggimento, la (daughter of the regiment)_i._ _gaetano donizetti_ fille de madame angot, la _f._ _charles lecocq_ flauto magico, il (the magic flute) _i._ _w. a. mozart_ do. _g._ do. fledermaus, die (the bat) _g._ _johann strauss_ flying dutchman, the _richard wagner_ do. _g._ do. fra diavolo. _i._ _d. f. e. auber_ freischütz, der _g._ _carl maria von weber_ do. _i._ do. *gillette (_la belle coquette_) _edmond audran_ gioconda, la _i._ _amilcare ponchielli_ giroflé-girofla _f._ _charles lecocq_ götterdämmerung, die _g._ _richard wagner_ boston: oliver ditson company new york: chas. h. ditson & co. chicago: lyon & healy, inc. order of your local dealer made in u. s. a. standard opera librettos all librettos have english text. additional texts are indicated by italic letters, as follows: _i_, italian; _g_, german; _f_, french. those marked with (*) contain no music. all the others have the music of the principal airs. price, 30 cents, each prices are postage extra, except in first and second zones from boston and new york g-z title text composer grand duchess of gerolstein, the _f._ _jacques offenbach_ *hamlet _ambroise thomas_ jewess, the _i._ _jacques f. halévy_ königin von saba (queen of sheba) _g._ _karl goldmark_ lakmé _i._ _léo delibes_ lily of killarney, the _sir jules benedict_ linda di chamounix _i._ _gaetano donizetti_ lohengrin _g._ _richard wagner_ do. _i._ do. *lovely galatea, the _franz von suppé_ lucia di lammermoor _i._ _gaetano donizetti_ lucrezia borgia _i._ do. *madame favart _jacques offenbach_ manon _f._ _jules massenet_ maritana _wm. vincent wallace_ marriage of figaro _i._ _w. a. mozart_ martha _i._ _friedrich von flotow_ masaniello (dumb girl of portici) _i._ _d. f. e. auber_ *mascot, the _edmond audran_ masked ball _i._ _giuseppe verdi_ meistersinger, die (the mastersingers) _g._ _richard wagner_ mefistofele _i._ _arrigo boito_ merry wives of windsor, the _otto nicolai_ mignon _i._ _ambroise thomas_ mikado, the _sir arthur s. sullivan_ *nanon _richard genée_ norma _i._ _vincenzo bellini_ *olivette _edmond audran_ orpheus _c. w. von gluck_ otello _i._ _giuseppe verdi_ pagliacci, i _i._ _r. leoncavallo_ parsifal _g._ _richard wagner_ pinafore (h. m. s.) _sir arthur s. sullivan_ prophète, le _i._ _giacomo meyerbeer_ puritani, i _i._ _vincenzo bellini_ rheingold, das (the rhinegold) _g._ _richard wagner_ rigoletto _i._ _giuseppe verdi_ robert le diable _i._ _giacomo meyerbeer_ roméo et julietta _f._ _charles gounod_ romeo e giulietta _i._ do. ruddigore _sir arthur s. sullivan_ samson et dalila _f._ _camille saint-saëns_ semiramide _i._ _gioacchino a. rossini_ siegfried _g._ _richard wagner_ sonnambula, la _i._ _vincenzo bellini_ *sorcerer, the _sir arthur s. sullivan_ *spectre knight, the _alfred cellier_ *stradella _friedrich von flotow_ tannhäuser _g._ _richard wagner_ traviata, la _i._ _giuseppe verdi_ tristan und isolde _g._ _richard wagner_ trovatore, il _i._ _giuseppe verdi_ ugonotti, gli (the huguenots) _i._ _giacomo meyerbeer_ verkaufte braut, die (the bartered bride) _g._ _friedrich smetana_ walküre, die _g._ _richard wagner_ william tell _i._ _gioacchino a. rossini_ zauberflöte, die (the magic flute) _g._ _w. a. mozart_ boston: oliver ditson company: new york chicago: lyon & healy, inc. london: winthrop rogers, ltd. order of your local dealer made in u. s. a. songs from the operas * * * * * edited by h. e. krehbiel _bound in paper, cloth back, $2.50 each, net_ _in full cloth, gilt.... 3.50 each, net_ in these volumes of _the musicians library_ the editor has presented in chronological order the most famous arias from operas of every school. beginning with songs from the earliest italian productions, a comprehensive view of operatic development is given by well-chosen examples from german, french, and later italian works, down to contemporary musical drama. each song or aria is given in its original key with the original text, and a faithful and singable english translation. each volume contains an interesting preface by mr. krehbiel, with historic, descriptive, and interpretative notes on each song. portraits of the most noted composers represented are given in each volume. size of each volume, 9-1/2 × 12-1/2 inches. soprano songs from the operas contains twenty-three numbers by nineteen composers. the music covers 188 pages, the prefatory matter 25 pages. portraits are given of beethoven, bellini, gluck, gounod, meyerbeer, mozart, rossini, verdi, and weber. mezzo soprano songs from the operas contains thirty numbers by twenty-five composers. the music covers 186 pages, the prefatory matter 29 pages. portraits are given of auber, bizet, donizetti, handel, massenet, saint-saëns, spontini, thomas, and wagner. alto songs from the operas contains twenty-nine numbers by twenty-two composers. the music covers 176 pages, the prefatory matter 20 pages. portraits are given of glinka, gluck, handel, lully, meyerbeer, purcell, rossini, thomas, and verdi. tenor songs from the operas contains twenty-nine numbers by twenty-one composers. the music covers 192 pages, the prefatory matter 27 pages. portraits are given of beethoven, bizet, gluck, gounod, mascagni, massenet, verdi, wagner, and weber. baritone and bass songs from the operas contains twenty-seven numbers by twenty-four composers. the music covers 188 pages, the prefatory matter 20 pages. portraits are given of bellini, bizet, cherubini, gounod, halévy, handel, mozart, ponchielli, and tchaikovsky. boston: oliver ditson company: new york chicago: lyon & healy, inc. london: winthrop rogers, ltd. _order of your local dealer_ note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 38654-h.htm or 38654-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38654/38654-h/38654-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38654/38654-h.zip) transcriber's note: text in italics is surrounded by underscores (_italics_). [illustration: the market place in nuremburg] everychild's series great opera stories taken from original sources in old german by millicent s. bender illustrated new york the macmillan company 1935 all rights reserved copyright, 1912, by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published september, 1912. reprinted march, 1913; june, 1915; january, september, 1916; november, 1917 july, 1931; november, 1935. printed in the united states of america contents page children of kings 1 haensel and gretel 35 the master singers 57 lohengrin, the knight of the swan 101 the flying dutchman 137 tannhäuser, the minstrel knight 156 great opera stories [illustration] children of kings i once upon a time, in a lonely glade between high mountains far, far above the world of men, there stood a hut. it was a miserable, tumbledown, little hut, and the mosses of many summers clung to its sloping roof. it had a bent stovepipe where its chimney should have been, a slanting board in place of a doorstep, and just one, poor, little, broken window. yet it was not its forlorn appearance alone that made the hut hide behind the shadows of the grim forest, far away from the sight of man. it had more, much more than that to be ashamed of. for a hideous witch lived there,--and with her, a goosegirl. they lived alone, those two,--the goosegirl, with the joy of youth in her heart; and the witch, unmindful of joy or youth, thinking only of magic and evil and hate. while the goosegirl had been growing from babyhood to girlhood, from girlhood to womanhood, dreaming and wondering and wishing,--she knew not what,--the witch had been trying to make her as ugly and as wicked as herself. but try as she would, the heart of the goosegirl was so pure that evil could find no spot in it to lodge. as for her face, each passing year left it lovelier than the last. the sunshine was no brighter than her yellow hair, the sky no bluer than her clear blue eyes. the lone lily before the hut envied the whiteness of her skin, and the birch tree in the woods, the slenderness of her form. now it chanced upon a sunny afternoon in summer that the goosegirl lay on her back in the long grass before the hut. now and then she tossed a handful of corn to her quacking geese or played with a wreath of wild daisies. but her thoughts were far away. her eyes were full of the wonder of things,--of the sun that shone, the brook that laughed, the flowers that bloomed, the birds that sang, and the blue sky over all. and her dreams were full of the world of men, which she had never seen and to which she longed to go. something within her whispered that happiness was to be found there, and the goosegirl desired happiness above all things. and she desired kindness and love, too, although she had never heard of them, and did not know what they were. as far back as she could remember, ever since she was a tiny little child, the goosegirl had lived in the wretched hut. and the hideous witch had been her only companion. the goosegirl wondered whether all the people in the world of men had such gruesome bodies, such ugly faces, such evil ways, as the witch. she had never seen any one else, so she could not tell. for fear of the witch no one had ever come that way. winter and summer, summer and winter, it had always been the same. the goosegirl's dreams were suddenly interrupted by the hoarse voice of the witch. "where are you, good-for-naught?" came from the doorway. "idle, i'll be bound, when there's work to be done!" the goosegirl turned her eyes toward the figure of the witch, and, familiar as it was, for the thousandth time she shuddered with disgust. the crooked back, the burning eyes peering out from under the tangled hair, the rags, the ugliness,--oh, must she always stay? she arose slowly and walked toward the door. with hands outstretched she begged the hideous creature to set her free and to let her go down to the world of men to seek for happiness. "i will never become a witch," she implored. "oh, please let me go." the witch's crooked mouth widened into a horrible smile. one yellow tooth stuck out. "not make a witch of you, indeed! wait and see! i'll bend your proud back!" then brandishing her cane, she muttered savagely: "get to work. there's bread to knead!" the frightened goosegirl ran for bowl and flour, and set to work. meanwhile the witch took out some dark powders. she mumbled strange words over them, and while the goosegirl, with busy hands but unseeing eyes, kneaded and kneaded and kneaded, the witch poured the powders into the dough. poor goosegirl! her bread was soon finished, but it was a foul-smelling bread, and it contained enough poison to kill a dozen men. soon afterward the witch, chuckling fiendishly, took up her basket and hobbled away to the grim forest. but the goosegirl, full of horror for the deed she had been made to do, sat motionless, staring straight ahead. would her life never, never change? with a sigh she called to her geese and wandered back to her place in the grass. ah, that there should be so much evil in such a beautiful world! she looked at the dancing shadows of the fluttering leaves. they were beautiful. there was beauty in the thin, blue line of smoke as it climbed lazily upward from the broken chimney. two turtledoves cooed above her head. the sunlight shimmered upon the wings of the buzzing bumblebees and made them shine like gold. all, all was beautiful. were people the only ugly things? the goosegirl gazed toward the world of men far, far below, and wondered. presently her fingers, wandering idly over the grass, found the wreath of daisies. idly she placed it upon her head. "look at me, geese!" she cried. "look at me! am i ugly, too?" with the geese at her heels, she ran swiftly toward the pool and peered earnestly into its clear depths. her hair hung in long golden strands on each side of her face, her eyes shone like stars, her cheeks were flushed. "ah!" she exclaimed happily. "i am beautiful! geese dear, i am beautiful, very beautiful!" and she gazed and gazed again. suddenly a song broke the silence. the goosegirl started. for it was a song of youth and joy, the like of which she had never heard before in all her life. then, down from the mountains, out of the woods, straight to that lonely glade, came a youth, a ragged youth, but a noble youth, with a sword at his side, a bundle on his back, and a smile on his lips. his bearing was so proud, he looked so straight ahead, with eyes both fearless and true, that the goosegirl held her breath as he halted before her. "hey, pretty queen of the geese," he said. "how goes the world with you? have you no greeting for me?" the goosegirl continued to stare, saying nothing, her eyes wide with wonder. finally she found her voice, and in a whisper just loud enough for him to hear, ventured timidly: "are you a man?" "from top to toe!" exclaimed the youth, and laughed. how he laughed! he threw back his head, his white teeth gleamed, and the distant hills rang with the joyous sound. even the goosegirl was forced to smile at her own ignorance. such merriment soon made them the best of friends, and before long, seated side by side in the grass, the youth told the goosegirl whence he had come and whither he was roving. a king's son was he, of noble name and fortune. high up among the mountains stood his father's castle, and there, amid the luxuries of the court, he had been reared. but when he had grown old enough to wander, the luxury had palled, the court life had fettered his free spirit. "up and away!" cried a summons from within his heart. and so, while no one watched, he had stolen forth, with naught but a sword by his side, a bundle on his back, and a song on his lips. and he had wandered over the mountains, through the valleys, up and down, in and out, in search of adventure. the goosegirl heard the marvelous tale to the end. then in faltering tones, but with shining eyes, she said slowly: "oh, that i might go with you!" the youth smiled scornfully. "king's son and beggar maid!" exclaimed he, shaking his head. but as he looked into her face he stopped short. the nobility of her expression, her simple beauty, drew him nearer. ah! this was no beggar maid. there was something regal in the pose of that golden head, the glance of those clear blue eyes. what a companion she would make for now and forevermore! he forgot the rags, he forgot the geese, he forgot the hut. "have you courage?" he asked, gazing at her searchingly. in answer she placed her hand in his. so he took off her wreath of white daisies and placed it within his jacket, close to his heart. and he opened his bundle and drew forth a golden crown, which he placed upon her head. then crying: "up and away!" he led her to the edge of the grim wood. at that instant, however, the sky began to darken with rushing clouds. broad flashes of lightning blazed forth, thunder rolled, and the wind blew furiously through the trees. the geese flapped their wings in terror and gathered about the goosegirl. she stood still, staring before her in fear. she was turned to stone. she could not move. her feet were fixed to the ground. "what makes you stand so still and stare?" cried the king's son. "oh, i am afraid!" answered the goosegirl. "i cannot go! i am bewitched!" "fear is but shame," declared the king's son, angrily. "you have lied to me. you are not fit to wander with a king's son. you are only a beggar maid, after all." then, overpowered by his wrath, he made ready to go, adding: "farewell. you shall never see me any more. no, never again, unless a star from heaven falls into the lily yonder." and pointing to the lone lily by the door of the hut, he rushed into the grim forest and was lost to sight. ii the goosegirl, saddened, disheartened, hid her golden crown and dragged herself wearily into the hut. the hideous witch, returning with her venomous load, soon followed. and evening came. all was still. but for the thin column of smoke rising from the stovepipe one would not have known that any life was there. just as the golden edge of the moon peeped over the eastern mountain a loud song burst upon the air. and a moment later a fiddler, clad in leather jacket and boots, appeared, emerging from the grim wood. he strode forth boldly as befitted an honest man who had nothing to fear. seeing the miserable, tumbledown hut with its smoking chimney, he stopped. "ah, ha!" cried he. "here's the journey's end." then, looking back into the woods and waving his cap, he shouted at the top of his voice: "come on, master wood-cutter. come on, master broom-maker. here's the witch's den. come on!" and master wood-cutter and master broom-maker came on. but how they came! they slunk out of the woods in fear and trembling, teeth chattering, knees shaking, eyes bulging. they took but one look at the tumbledown hut and then made for the nearest tree, behind which they cowered, shivering from head to toe. "not so loud! not so loud! master fiddler, please. she may hear you," they protested. "ha-ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!" laughed the fiddler. "don't you want her to hear you? what did you come for, then, pray tell me?" and so he half dragged, half pushed, the two cowardly braggarts toward the witch's door. "you may knock first," said the polite broom-maker through his chattering teeth to the wood-cutter. "no, indeed. you may have the honor," responded the wood-cutter, and his knees knocked together as he bowed. since there was no way out of it, the broom-maker moved toward the door. he tapped once with the knuckle of his forefinger, gently, like a little mouse. then in a wee, small voice, he said: "good wife, won't you buy a broom?" no answer came from within the hut. emboldened by the silence, master wood-cutter joined his comrade at the door of the hut. then he, too, rapped a little bit, just like a penny hammer. "most honored wise-woman!" he whispered. but no answer came. all was as still as before. "there's no one at home," said both at once. and they strutted boldly to and fro, grinning from ear to ear. "stand aside!" said the fiddler. he pushed them away and strode toward the door. with his clenched fist he banged once, twice, thrice. and he lifted his voice. my, what a voice it was! the very woods rang with the sound of it. "witch! hag! foul woman!" he shouted. "open the door!" there was a moment's silence. but presently the door creaked on its rusty hinges, and there stood the witch, in all her ugliness, leaning upon a cane. the wood-cutter and the broom-maker gave her one glance and then, stricken with terror, they fled as fast as their legs could carry them to the first tree. there they waited, trembling and quaking, to see what the dread creature would do. they would not venture out, no, not they. they had wives and children to care for, and it was no business for men of their kind. no, indeed! meanwhile the witch was croaking in her awful voice: "who comes here to my hut in the woods? hey, fellows, what do you want?" "what do i want?" mocked the fiddler, who had bravely stood his ground. looking at her calmly, he dropped on one knee, with a comical smile: "ah, fair dame, those red, red eyes and that one yellow tooth of yours have made me sick with love and longing. listen to my suit, i pray." the witch looked at him in surprise as he rose to his feet. could it be that he was not afraid of her? he looked her straight in the eyes, fearless and brave. so she scowled. he smiled. she shook her cane. he laughed. well! well! her magic was powerless against a man like that. let him tell his tale and be gone. so it came to pass that the fiddler called the wood-cutter and the broom-maker and bade them state their business. but they bobbed and scraped and hemmed and hawed and chattered and giggled so long that the fiddler had to come to the rescue. the king of the world of men had died, and since the king's son had run away and could not be found, there was no one to rule the town of hellabrun. so the people had sent the wood-cutter and the broom-maker to ask the wise-witch what was to be done. they wanted a ruler straightway and did not know where to find one. the witch pondered long, frowning savagely. then she told the wood-cutter and the broom-maker to go back and tell the people that the first person who knocked at the town gate at noon on the morrow would be worthy to wear the crown. pleased with this prophecy the wood-cutter and the broom-maker hurried away through the grim forest toward the town of hellabrun in the world of men. but the fiddler did not go. he had caught a glimpse of a golden head and a pair of blue eyes at the window; and the sight of one so fair in such a hut told him that there was work for him to do here. "why do you stay?" snarled the witch. the fiddler gave her a sharp glance. "i'm setting a snare for the little golden bird that you keep in the hut." the witch started. she clenched her fist wrathfully, but her eyes fell before his steady glance. "let out the golden bird," sang the fiddler, cheerily, "or i will go in, i will go in." the witch looked this way and that. she could not meet his eyes. muttering savagely, she hobbled toward the door. a moment later she dragged forth the trembling goosegirl. the fiddler was amazed. such beauty! such pride! she was fit to sit upon a throne! "who are you, maiden?" he asked. "and how came you here?" slowly and sadly the words fell from the goosegirl's lips. she knew not who she was. the witch had told her to call her "grandmother." more than that she could not say. the fiddler's eyes traveled from the goosegirl to the hideous witch and back again. this fair maid kin to that foul creature! no, no, it was not possible. as if divining his thought, the witch wagged her head maliciously and sneered: "no, she is no kin of mine. but worse, far worse. you may know all. a hangman's daughter is she; that's it, a hangman's daughter." "it is not true," shouted the fiddler. then turning to the weeping goosegirl, he cried: "believe her not. look at your hands, girl, your white, white hands, and your hair, your golden hair. there's nobility in your face. believe in yourself, and you will sit beside the king's son on a throne. be not afraid. pray, girl, pray!" the goosegirl fell upon her knees and lifted her eyes to heaven. her voice rose from the depths of her being and cried out to the mother and father whom she had never seen. her golden hair covered her like a mantle, her face was radiant. still kneeling, she held her crown of gold toward heaven and prayed to god for help, for guidance, for strength. and as she prayed, a shining star shot from heaven, downward, downward, straight into the lone lily by the door of the hut. the goosegirl uttered a cry of joy. putting the crown upon her head, she arose, exclaiming: "i'm free! i'm free! i'm free!" then, followed by her geese and the fiddler, she rushed into the grim wood toward the world of men. iii when morning dawned and the grim wood with all its terrors lay behind the king's son, he came at last to the town of hellabrun in the world of men. weary and footsore, faint from hunger and thirst, yet dauntless still, he stopped before an inn near the town gate and begged for work. "i would earn an honest penny," he said, "to buy my daily bread. have you any work for me?" the innkeeper, who was a rough, ill-natured fellow, smiled with contempt as he looked upon the white hands and noble face of the youth before him. so he declared gruffly: "all i need is a swineherd!" "a swineherd!" the voice of the king's son echoed the loathsome word, while a look of disgust overspread his face. but only for a moment; then, quick as thought, came the vision of the goosegirl, so sweet and fair despite her humble calling. "all work is noble to those that are of noble mind," thought he. his hand stole to his heart and touched the wreath of white daisies there. "i will be your swineherd," he answered sturdily. then he seated himself beneath a tree to await the orders of the innkeeper. now it happened to be a day of great excitement in hellabrun, and as the morning wore away, a chattering, restless crowd of people--men, women, and even little children--assembled in the market place. with eager eyes they scanned the two soldiers who, armed with long spears, stood on guard before the closed and barred town gate. there were lean men and fat men; men in rich clothes and men in rags. there were tinkers and tailors, soldiers and sailors, and their wives and their sweethearts. here were wise doctors in black gowns, there gray-bearded counselors leaning upon canes. wee babes in arms crowed and laughed, boys romped, girls danced. and all awaited the noontide hour and the coming of their king. "will he ride upon a snow-white charger?" asked one. "nay, he will be carried aloft, seated upon a golden throne," replied another. "his robes will be of richest velvet," said a third. "and a jeweled crown will be upon his head," said a fourth. "perhaps a beautiful queen with ropes of pearls about her neck will sit upon the throne at his side," ventured a fifth. "tell us again what the wise-witch promised," called one from the crowd to the wood-cutter and the broom-maker, who were strutting proudly to and fro. nothing loath, master broom-maker and master wood-cutter pushed their way to the front of the admiring crowd. then they stood with heads high, chests stuck out, feet wide apart and arms waving, and told their story for the fiftieth time. and since with each telling the story had grown and grown, it was a marvelous tale, indeed. they told of the grim forest and the many dangers through which they had passed before they arrived at the witch's den. "the woods were full of lions and tigers," said the wood-cutter. "but i felled every one with one mighty blow of my broom," said the broom-maker. "and an ogre with fiery eyes sat behind each tree; and a dragon snorting steam held guard before the den of the witch. but we feared them not. we slew them all. we went so boldly forward that the witch quaked and hid herself in fear when she saw us coming." "'tis not truth that you speak," cried out a young voice, and the crowd fell back amazed at the sight of the king's son. who was this ragged fellow who dared to interrupt the thrilling story? down with him! and they beat him with their sticks and pelted him with stones and called him names. but just as they were about to drive him from the market place the town clock struck the hour. a sudden hush fell upon the crowd. the people stood still. with eager, expectant faces turned toward the gate they waited, while the bell pealed forth its twelve long notes. ding-dong! ding-dong! ding-dong! it was noon! the guards pulled out the long bolts. an excited murmur came from the crowd. then all was still, as still as before. the guards turned the huge knobs. the door swung on its hinges, and there stood--a goosegirl and her flock of geese. her feet were bare. her dress was tattered and torn. but her shining hair covered her like a mantle, and a golden crown was upon her head. her cheeks were red. her eyes, glowing as from an inner light, sought among the sea of faces, and found that of the king's son alone. then, with arms outstretched, she walked slowly toward him, crying softly: "i have come to be your queen." queen! the breathless crowd stared in amazement one moment longer. then the amazement gave way to laughter, the laughter to anger, the anger to fury. "ha-ha-ha! this is no queen!" they shouted angrily. "we have been fooled. this is only a goosegirl. strike her! beat her!" the king's son enfolded the goosegirl in his arms. "stop!" he cried to the mob. "i am a king's son, and she is my queen." "listen to the ragged fellow!" shouted the people. "he says he is a king's son! ha-ha-ha! stone them! hit them! a swineherd! a goosegirl! drive them out! out! out!" and so the king's son and the goosegirl were driven away from the town of hellabrun, and the angry people returned in disappointment to their homes. only one little pure-hearted girl lingered at the town gate and gazed with eyes of faith after the fleeing pair. when she could see them no longer, she fell upon the ground and wept and wept. "why do you cry, little girl?" she was asked. "oh, that was the king," she sobbed--"the king and his bride." iv during all the long summer days the king's son and the goosegirl wandered over hill and dale, through field and forest, far away from the world of men. and the king's son shielded the goosegirl with his love and brought her berries to eat and the skins of wild animals to rest upon, and was gentle, oh, very gentle! and the goosegirl made the king's son glad with the sight of her beauty and the sound of her light-hearted laughter. and they were happy with a happiness that surpassed all that they had ever felt or dreamed. but then autumn came. the wind moaned piteously through the trees, driving brown leaves in whirling gusts before their eyes. winter followed, covering the grim woods with a mantle of shining white. their clothes were thin. their feet were bare, and it was cold--bitter, bitter cold. so they wandered on and on, day after day, until at last, faint with hunger, sick with despair, they came, all unknowingly, to the lonely glade between the high mountains where the witch's hut stood. the hideous witch was no longer there. because they believed she had prophesied falsely, the infuriated people of hellabrun had burned her at the stake. only the broom-maker and the wood-cutter were in the miserable tumble-down hut; while out in the grim forest were the fiddler and the one pure-hearted little girl, seeking, ever seeking, with eyes of faith for the rightful king and queen. with steps that faltered, and eyes half closed, the king's son and the goosegirl crept into the glade. tottering feebly, hand in hand, they approached the door of the hut, and knocking, begged for shelter, for food, for drink. the face of the wood-cutter appeared at the window for a brief moment. blinded by his distrust, he saw only two beggar children before the door. "away with you! we have naught to give," he shouted as he slammed the broken shutter. hopelessly, sadly, the king's son bore the goosegirl to the snow-covered mound beneath the linden tree. whither could he turn to get his loved one food? ah, foolish, foolish king's son who would not rule, who could not beg! the goosegirl, clinging to him tenderly, felt his despair, saw his eyes fill with tears. crying out that she was not ill, but was well and strong, she rose to her feet. to cheer him, she tripped lightly to and fro, singing a gay little song. faster and faster twinkled her little feet, brighter and brighter grew her smiles. but weaker and weaker became her voice, paler and paler her face, until she fell, fainting, into the snow. then the king's son rushed to her and took her in his arms. he wrapped his cloak about her and carried her back to the mound. she opened her eyes and smiled. "king! my king!" she whispered. like a flash the king's son remembered his crown. he opened the bundle and took it out. "do not sell your crown, o king!" murmured the goosegirl. "i will! i must!" replied the king's son. "it will bring you bread." he arose hastily, broke the shining crown into pieces, and ran toward the hut. rap! rap! rap! "let me in!" he cried impatiently. "do you want to break down the door?" replied the broom-maker, appearing at the window. "i care not," answered the king's son. "here is gold. now will you give me bread?" gold? the greedy eyes of the broom-maker gave the glittering fragments one glance. then he called the wood-cutter. and they whispered, and they searched all through the miserable hut until they found the poisoned bread, the foul-smelling bread, which the goosegirl had made as the witch had directed on that bright summer day long, long ago. with it in their hands they ran to the window. they handed it to the king's son, and he gave them gold, his golden crown, in its stead. the king's son snatched the loaf and ran joyfully toward the mound and fell at the goosegirl's feet, crying: "i'm bringing bread, dear one! bread! take it! eat it!" "not i alone," answered the goosegirl. "you, too." so they broke the bread in two, and, laughing happily, they ate it eagerly. they ate it all to its bitter, bitter end. then, clasped in each other's arms, they lay down to sleep and dreamed of rosy clouds of glory wafting them toward sunny lands of everlasting bliss; and dreaming, slept and--knew no more. and the snowflakes fell softly, silently, and covered them with a shining robe of fleeciest white. a little later, the fiddler and the little pure-hearted girl, followed by a troop of children, entered the glade, all seeking, still seeking with eyes of faith, for the rightful king and queen. as they approached the snow-covered mound the snow suddenly ceased falling; and the sunset glow from the west shone down and revealed the kingly children asleep forevermore. [illustration] haensel and gretel i long ago, in half-forgotten days, a little hut stood at the edge of a great forest. it was rather a meek, shamefaced little hut, for the forest was great and beautiful, and the hut was small and ugly. still, it had a glowing fireplace inside, and a brick chimney on top, and it was somebody's home, which--after all--is the principal thing. a broom-maker named peter lived there with his wife gertrude and their two children, haensel and gretel. the broom-maker was poor, oh, very, very poor, and that is why his home was not beautiful to see. but he was an honest, upright man who loved his family, and had he been able, i am sure, he would have housed them in a marble palace. unfortunately, however, the broom-making business had been unusually poor that year. indeed, on the very day that our story begins, peter and his wife were both away from home in quest of work, and only haensel and gretel were to be seen inside the hut. lest you should not know, it might be well to mention that haensel was the boy. he was busily engaged--or, at least, he was supposed to be--in making brooms, while gretel, the girl, had her knitting in hand. but it was extremely difficult to keep their thoughts or their eyes, either, upon such stupid work. each breeze that blew in through the open window brought an invitation from the fascinatingly sunlit grassy spot before the door. even the trees in the forest beyond beckoned to them with their tall branches. besides, there was another cause for rebellion on that particular afternoon. to tell the truth, the children were hungry. moreover, since there seemed to be absolutely nothing in the house to eat, it was quite likely that they would remain hungry, which was the worst part of all. haensel, after the manner of boys, threw his work into the farthest corner of the room and fairly shouted: "i just wish mother would come home! i'm hungry, that's what i am. for a week i've eaten nothing but bread, and little of that. oh, gret, it would be such a treat if we had something good to eat!" now gretel, as it happened, was every bit as hungry as he, but, after the manner of girls, she sought to comfort him. "don't be an old crosspatch," she said. "if you'll stop complaining, i'll tell you a secret. but you must smile first!" haensel smiled. she went on: "do you see that jug over there on the table? well--it's full of milk. somebody left it here. and if you're good, mother will stew rice in it when she comes home." haensel had heard such stories before. "don't believe it," said he. "it's too good to be true." nevertheless he went to see. and when his eyes assured him that what was in the jug really looked like milk, he was overcome with the temptation to find out whether it tasted like milk, also. first he gave a sly glance at gretel and then down went his forefinger into the jug! "haensel! aren't you ashamed, you greedy boy? out with your finger!" for gretel had caught him in the act. "get back to your work in a hurry, for you know if mother comes before we've finished, there'll be trouble." haensel, however, was not inclined toward work that afternoon. in fact, he was in a very rebellious mood, altogether. "don't let's work," suggested he. "let's dance." now you must remember that gretel was only a little girl with twinkling feet that loved to dance and a merry voice that loved to sing. so do not judge her too harshly, even though she quickly dropped her tiresome knitting. their wooden shoes--for they were the style in those days--clattered over the board floor; they clapped their hands, their childish voices rang out, and they had, all in all, a most beautiful time. they forgot their empty stomachs; they forgot their aching fingers. gretel, who was clever in such things, taught haensel some new steps. and he, less awkward than usual, learned them so quickly that gretel praised him for his aptness. her words made him as proud as a peacock. he seized her hands in both of his own. round and round they whirled, faster and faster, until suddenly, losing their balance, they fell, laughing loudly, in one heap on the floor. and then--the door opened. "gracious goodness!" they cried. "it's mother!" and up they jumped in double-quick time. yes, it was mother, and an angry mother at that. "what does this mean?" she exclaimed, "all the noise and clatter? where is your work, you good-for-nothing children?" the children, half penitent, wholly frightened, looked at each other. haensel blamed gretel, gretel blamed haensel. the mother blamed them both. she scolded, she raged, she brandished a stick, and i confess i am afraid to think of what her anger might have led her to do next. but just at that moment, in her excitement, she gave the milk jug a push, and down it went, breaking into a thousand pieces, with the precious milk running in little streams all over the floor. that was the last straw! what was there left to be cooked for supper? the furious woman snatched a basket from a nail on the wall. she thrust it into gretel's hand. "off with you both to the wood!" she cried. "and hurry up, too! pick strawberries for supper! if the basket isn't full, you'll get a whipping. yes, that's what you'll get." she shook her fist to make the admonition more impressive. scarcely had they gone, however, when the woman, completely exhausted, sat down by the table and began to weep and moan. you see, she was really not an ill-natured woman at all. poverty had embittered her, and the mere thought that her children might be starving, caused her to lose entire control of her feelings. it had been a long, wearisome, and disappointing day, and now, even at its end, her own irritability had caused another calamity. angry with herself, the world, and everything, she rested her head on her arms and sobbed herself to sleep. do you know the old verse, "it is always darkest just before dawn"? now, if the mother had been patient only a little longer, all would have been well. but then there would have been no story to tell. the mother was still sleeping when the father came home. he was singing joyfully, and he awoke her with a kiss. "see," he cried happily, "my brooms are all sold. there was a festival in the town to-day, and every one must needs be clean. such a sweeping and a dusting and a cleaning! i drove a roaring trade, i tell you. so, here's butter and eggs and ham and sausage. and tea, too. hurry up, good wife, and get supper ready!" the mother packed away the things. she lighted the fire. she hustled and bustled about. suddenly the father, missing the children, inquired: "where are haensel and gretel?" he went to the door to call. "don't call," answered the mother. "they were naughty, and i sent them to the woods in disgrace." "the woods!" exclaimed the father, and his voice was full of horror. "it is growing dark," he said, "and my children are in those gloomy woods without stars or moon to guide them! don't you know that there is enchantment in those woods? don't you know that the witch walks there?" his voice sank to a whisper. "which witch?" asked the woman, thoroughly alarmed. "the crust witch, the gobbling witch! she who rides on a broomstick at the midnight hour, when no one is abroad, over hill and vale, over moor and dale!" "oh! oh! oh! but what does she gobble?" "have you never heard? all day long, she stalks around, with a crinching, crunching, munching sound and lures little children with gingerbread sweet. she lures little children, the poor little things, into her oven, all red-hot; then she shuts the lid down, pop, pop!--until they're done brown." "oh, horror!" cried the mother, wringing her hands. "oh, what shall we do?" "go seek them!" said the father. and in another moment without hats, shawl, anything, they had run out of the hut. ii the sunset glow lighted the forest. it bathed the stately trees in rose and gold. it shone on the cool carpet of leaves and wild flowers, and played with the garlands of bright-colored vines. but the purple mist of twilight that hung over the distant fir-colored hill sent gray shadows down. they crept behind the hedges and bushes, warning the birds, the bees, and the flowers that night was drawing nigh. one lingering ray of sunshine lit the mossy rock upon which gretel sat. she was weaving a wreath of wild flowers and singing a little song, while haensel ran hither and thither, filling his basket with red strawberries. so, if you have imagined that they were at all unhappy, you see you were quite mistaken. indeed, they were entirely, wonderfully, breathlessly happy. i doubt if they gave their mother's scolding a single thought. as for their home, they had quite forgotten all about it, which, for aught i know, may have been part of the enchantment. at any rate, they had never had a better time. when haensel's basket was full, gretel's wreath was finished. so they played at being king and queen of the wood, and gretel wore the wreath, and haensel knelt in homage before her, presenting her with the basket of berries. whereupon, as a reward, she gave him some of the ripest ones to taste. soon tiring of this they went on to another game. a cuckoo called from a tree near by, and they imitated his call, seeking each other behind tall tree trunks. but saddest of all to tell, they ate the strawberries while they played--yes, every single one. when they attempted to find fresh ones, they discovered that it had grown too dark. there were black shadows under the hedges and bushes now. a gray blanket of clouds was spread over the sky. then fear came. for they could not find their way. gretel saw strange figures glimmering behind the birches. she saw strange faces grinning at her from every mossy tree stump. now it was haensel who sought to comfort her. a mist arose and shut them in. advancing dimly through it, they spied a lantern. haensel said it was a will-o'-the-wisp. they heard a call. he said it was the echo. when gretel began to whimper and cry, haensel held her fast in his arms. but the shadows of strange things continued to nod and beckon. one shadow grew and grew and grew. it moved toward them, and both children cowered down in fear. their eyes never left it. suddenly the shadow took shape, and there stood an odd little gray man. he had a long white beard. he leaned on a staff, and he carried a sack on his back. strange to say, the moment that the children saw his calm smile and his friendly gestures they were not afraid any more. he came toward them, chanting a quiet song about restful sleep and happy dreams. before they knew what he was about, he had sprinkled sand into their tired eyes. then haensel and gretel folded their hands and sleepily whispered their evening prayer. with their arms about each other's necks they sank slowly into the soft moss and soon were fast asleep. the little man disappeared as he had come, into the mist. but the mist became roseate. it rolled itself into a fleecy cloud, which mounted higher and higher until it touched the sky. what magic was this? it changed again into a marvelous golden stairway! and down the stairway floated beautiful guardian angels with dazzling wings and golden wands. they grouped themselves about the sleeping children, at their heads, at their feet, all about them. waving their golden wands, they sent down showers of wonderful dreams. oh, such gleaming, glistening, unutterable dreams! iii scarcely had the sun peeped over the eastern horizon than the dew fairy came fluttering into the woodland. her wings were tinged with the first blush of dawn and her garments were tipped with rosy light. she carried armfuls of bluebells, and as she flitted lightly about, sweet music rippled on the air. how she smiled when she saw haensel and gretel asleep under the tall fir tree! "up, ye sleepers! awake! awake!" she sang. then, sprinkling dew from the bluebells into their eyes, she vanished into the sunlit air. gretel rubbed her eyes sleepily and raised herself from the moss. was she still in the beautiful greenwood? ah, yes, she must be there. for birds were merrily chirping overhead. there were glimpses of bright blue sky between the leaf-laden branches. "wake up, lazy bones!" she called to haensel. he jumped up with a start, stretched himself, yawned once or twice, looked about. oh, the wonderful, wonderful forest! the sun had mounted higher in the sky. the woods were filled with a mellow radiance. the morning mists had cleared away. and, most astonishing of all, on the very hill so lately hidden by dark trees and fleecy clouds, they beheld a most entrancing sight. a house stood there. but such a house! it was as beautiful--as beautiful,--in short, i am afraid to tell you how undescribably beautiful it was. the walls were of sweetest sugar candy, glistening like diamonds in the sun; the roof was of chocolate cake, all soft and creamy; and the gables were ornamented with raisins, like little eyes. on one side there was a strange-looking cage; on the other, a huge, strange-looking oven; and both were joined to the house by a fence made of the daintiest gingerbread figures imaginable. "oh," cried haensel, "did you ever see anything so wonderful?" "no, i never did," answered gretel. "a princess must live in that." they stared and stared, while their mouths watered and their fingers itched prodigiously. haensel wished to go boldly inside, but the mere thought of doing anything so rash frightened gretel. "well, the angels led us here," reflected haensel. "ye-es, that's true, they did," conceded gretel. "come on. let's just nibble a little bit," tempted haensel. and so, hand in hand, they hopped along, like two little mice, toward the magic house. then they stole cautiously forward on tiptoe, until, at length, they were within reaching distance. haensel's hand went out. he broke off a bit. quick as lightning came a squeaking voice from the inside: "nibble, nibble, mousekin, who's nibbling at my housekin?" haensel started back in fear. "'twas only the wind," said gretel. "let's taste it." they did. since it tasted better than anything they had ever eaten before, they feasted merrily for a while, never heeding the voice of the witch or her ugly form, either, which, a little later, appeared at the door. i have no doubt that they would be feasting yet, if the witch had not then and there stealthily stolen upon them. with a deft movement she threw a rope about haensel's neck and held him fast. the children's delight turned to terror. for she was a loathsome sight to see. bent, toothless, with unkempt hair and clawlike hands, she looked the picture of a witch indeed. in spite of her appearance, however, she spoke to them in a very kindly manner. she called them pretty names, told them that they were nice and plump, and that they would make excellent gingerbread. she even caressed haensel, which made him very angry. wriggling and squirming, he managed to loosen the rope and seizing gretel by the hand, ran--alas! only a short distance. for the witch, holding aloft a juniper branch, circled it in the air, repeating these strange words: "hocus, pocus, witch's charm, move not, as you fear my arm!" the children stood stock-still. they were stiff from head to toe. fortunately, by this time they had undergone so many strange adventures that they had learned fairly well how to conduct themselves. "watch carefully all she does!" whispered haensel, as the witch led him away to the cage and gave him nuts and raisins to fatten him. "i will," said gretel. therefore, when, a few moments later, the witch disenchanted her in order that she might prepare the table, gretel listened attentively to the words: "hocus, pocus, elder bush, rigid body, loosen hush!" no sooner had gretel run into the house than the witch was seized with a fit of wild joy. she thrust more fagots into the fire, laughing wickedly when the flames flared higher and higher. she mounted her broomstick and rode about, shouting a weird song. gretel watched her from the doorway. that broomstick ride gave her an opportunity. she stole to the cage, and, whispering, "hocus, pocus, elder bush, rigid body, loosen hush!" she set haensel free. but he did not move. no, not yet. for the witch had come back. she was rubbing her hands with glee. her face wore an evil smile. oh, the fine meal she would have! haensel was not plump enough. gretel must be eaten first. so, opening the oven door, she called gretel and told her to look inside. but clever gretel pretended not to understand. would not the witch show her how? angry, impatient, muttering to herself, the witch crept nearer to the oven, and when she was about to bend over it, haensel and gretel gave her one good, hard push from behind. she toppled over and fell in. bang! bang! went the door. she was safe inside. how the fire crackled and roared. a moment later there was a great crash and the oven fell to pieces. haensel and gretel, much terrified, started to run away, but found themselves, to their great surprise, entirely surrounded by a troop of little children. "it's the fence," exclaimed haensel, "the gingerbread fence!" and so it was. the gingerbread had fallen off, and real children stood there, motionless, with closed eyes, murmuring softly: "oh, touch us, we pray, that we may all awake!" "pooh! if that's all they want!" said gretel, proudly, and she repeated: "hocus, pocus, elder bush, rigid body, loosen hush!" instantly life came back to the whole troop. they hurried toward haensel and gretel from all sides. they danced, they sang! two boys ran to the oven and dragged out the witch in the form of a big gingerbread cake. then the merrymaking began in earnest. they made a big circle, and round and round it they danced. last but not least, they ate up the candy house. at any rate, that is what they were doing when their mothers and fathers found them there that afternoon. [illustration] the master singers i across the wide sea, amid the green hop fields of southern germany, is the old, old city of nuremberg. shut off from the busy world outside by its great wall of stone, it has stood unchanged through all the passing centuries. there are the same narrow, crooked streets leading to the public squares, where quaintly carved stone fountains stand. there are the same many gabled, lofty houses, with oriole windows that open outward. there are latticed doorways with plaster figures that beckon and bless and welcome. and the gray castle, the grass-grown moat, the dark, pillared church, all tell stories of the days of long ago. in those days men dreamed dreams and sang songs as they sat on the bench or in the market place. the cobbler at his last, the baker before the oven, the silversmith by the fire, even the little apprentice, watching and learning, looked out upon a fair world and found it good. so while hands were busy, thoughts roved far and wide, and fancy wove many a song to sing by the fireside on wintry nights. but not only by the fireside were those songs sung in the days when nuremberg was young. the good people there prized the art of song too highly for that alone. "though a man's lot be humble," they said, "his thoughts may be rich in fancy; he may have a song to sing." so they formed a guild devoted to the cultivation of poetry and music, and the members of this guild were called master singers. every man who wished to enter the guild was obliged to write some verses,--according to the rules of the guild; and to compose appropriate music for those verses,--according to the rules of the guild; and, finally, to sing them both together,--according to the rules of the guild. then if the masters approved of his performance, he became one of the master singers of nuremberg. and great was the honor conferred upon him when he reached this high estate! many had tried, but few had been chosen. indeed, the entire guild was composed of but twelve members. these were, for the most part, worthy men, devoted to their trades and to music. and each one had a boy apprenticed to him, to whom he taught cobbling or soap-making or baking or tailoring by day, and the art of song by night. among the master singers of nuremberg none is better remembered than hans sachs. he was a cobbler by trade and a poet by nature, and his songs and verses have outlived his boots by many a year. it is of his part in a song festival of the master singers hundreds of years ago that our story has to tell. ii it began on the day before the feast of st. john in st. catherine's church, which was really not the proper place for a love affair to begin at all. but what did eva pogner or sir walter von stolzing care for that? the only thing that mattered to them was the joyous springtime which had stolen in through the open chancel window and had warmed their hearts toward everything in the world,--but most of all toward each other. sir walter stood leaning against a great stone pillar at the back of the church. he wore a blue velvet suit, his hat had a long white plume, and he was as handsome a young knight as one could ever wish to see. pretty eva sat in the last pew with her maid magdalena by her side. her head was bent, and her eyes were upon her prayer book, as befitted a modest maiden. still she saw sir walter very plainly. in fact, somehow, she caught every message that his dark eyes sent across the church. and her cheeks turned rosy, and her heart grew warmer than ever the springtime had made it. indeed, those glances so confused her that she lost her place in the hymn book. magdalena noticed it and nudged her mistress sharply. so eva sent one glance back to the fascinating young knight, just a little frightened one; and then she joined in the closing hymn. but when she lifted up her joyous young voice and made it ring high above all the rest, sir walter stared harder than ever. the young knight had loved this light-hearted maiden since he had first seen her in her father's house. and his only wish was to win her for his bride. but how? suppose she were already promised to some one else! while these mingled thoughts of joy and doubt possessed him, a ray of sunshine crept into the dark church. it lingered on eva's head, making a halo of her golden hair. a moment later he saw two eyes, mirroring some of the sky's own blue, dart him a shy glance. and he heard a voice so sweet that he was sure the angels themselves stood still to listen. come what might, thought he, he would speak to her that very day. the service was over. one by one the people filed slowly between the dark pillars, and out of the church, into the bright sunshine. only eva and magdalena lingered, smiling and chatting with friends and neighbors as they walked slowly along. as they approached the pillar behind which sir walter stood, he stepped forward. the long, white plume of his hat swept the floor as he bowed in greeting. "one word, my fair maid, i entreat," he began. strange to say, the moment eva heard his voice she discovered that she had forgotten her handkerchief. perhaps it was in the pew. magdalena must return for it. then, with the maid safely out of hearing, eva turned her mischievous face to sir walter. she was ready to listen, so he spoke. did eva look upon him with favor? might he hope? scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when magdalena was back again, handkerchief in hand. "come, eva," she said; "it is growing late." but eva was in no hurry, with this gallant cavalier close at hand. perhaps he wished to tell her a beautiful story. had magdalena seen her scarfpin? it was gone. was it there on the floor? "good lena, go back and find it," said the artful eva. and lena went back, grumbling, and searched here, there, and everywhere. meanwhile sir walter improved his opportunity. the words hurried to his lips. he begged eva to tell him whether light and happiness, or gloom and doubt, were to be his portion. the answering words were trembling on eva's lips ready to be spoken. but there stood the ubiquitous magdalena again, with the scarfpin! "we must go home," she said. "come. here's your kerchief and your pin. but where's my prayer book? oh, alackaday! i've left it in the pew!" back she bustled once more. these interruptions served to make sir walter more impatient than ever. would he never be able to make love in peace? he took a long breath, leaned forward, and whispered eagerly: "may i hope? or are you promised to some one else?" and for answer, while eva hid her eyes for fear they would tell of her love too soon, there was magdalena again! "yes, sir walter," said magdalena, and she curtsied low, wishing to be most polite to this handsome young man. "yes, sir walter," she repeated. "our eva is betrothed." betrothed? sir walter was stunned into silence; misery spread itself like a black cloud over his face. nor did the reply please miss eva, either. she quickly interrupted, saying: "but no one knows who the bridegroom will be. no, not until to-morrow." sir walter knit his brows. that was amazing! was it a puzzle? what did it mean? eva and magdalena hastened to explain. after all, it was very simple. out in the meadows near nuremberg a song festival was to be held to-morrow. it was to be a great singing match. and eva's father had promised part of his fortune, and his daughter besides, to the singer who should win the prize. eva herself was to crown the victor with a wreath of laurel. "but," they continued, "he must be a master singer. no one may even try for the prize who is not a member of the guild." "are you not a master singer, sir walter?" inquired eva, timidly, and it was plain that she wished with all her heart to hear him say yes. poor sir walter! until that moment he had never heard of the master singers. as for the song contest, he never even knew that there was to be such a thing. what was to be done? could no one help? walter was in despair, and eva, who by this time knew the man she wished to marry, was on the verge of tears. a shaft of light streamed across the church. the door was opened, then closed with a bang. a youth ran in hastily. he noticed no one. he wore a businesslike air, as he hurried this way and that. he was david, apprentice to hans sachs, the shoemaker. from the expression on magdalena's face when she saw david, it was easy to see how matters stood! her heart was affected, too, and david was the cause. she looked at him admiringly a moment, then gave a little cough. david started. he hastened toward her, smiling and holding out his hands. ah! it was his own true love, lena! but she must not detain him. he was busy. there was to be a trial meeting. "a trial meeting!" exclaimed magdalena, joyfully. "just the thing!" now the handsome knight would have a chance. she beamed happily upon david. "you must explain everything to him!" she cried, and whispered the directions eagerly. but mr. david was stubborn. he had no time. there was the platform to be set, the curtains to be hung, the chairs and the benches to be arranged. and it was late. "david, dear david," coaxed lena, with her face close to his, "if you'll help sir walter to become a master singer, i'll bring you a basket full of the best things you ever ate." and before david had time to refuse, the clever lena had seized eva's hand and had hurried with her from the church. scarcely were they gone, than with a great shouting the jolly apprentices danced into the church. they hopped and skipped about, joking and laughing, as they made ready for the meeting. they pulled one another's hair, they played leapfrog over the chairs, they pushed, they shoved, but they worked, too, and in a twinkling the church was transformed into a meeting place. there stood the marker's platform, for all the world like a great box, with black curtains on all four sides. to the right of it were the benches for the masters, and in plain view of all was the great chair for the candidate. sir walter had, all unconsciously, seated himself in the great chair. his eyes stared moodily ahead. he heard nothing, saw nothing, of all the fun about him. he was buried in deepest gloom. he had promised eva that he would become a poet, a singer, for her sake, and he wished to do so, but where and how was he to begin? her father would not allow her to marry any one but a master singer. how could he become a master singer in one day? while these thoughts passed through the young knight's mind, young david stood watching. suddenly he shouted: "now begin!" walter gave a jump. "eh, what?" he stuttered. "begin the song," said david. "that's what the marker says, and then you must sing up. don't you know that?" sir walter shook his head. he knew nothing. "he's a stupid fellow for all his fine clothes," thought david. then he said aloud: "don't you know that the marker is the man who sits in the curtained box and marks the mistakes?" no. sir walter did not know that. "don't you know that the singer may have seven mistakes, seven,--and no more?" sir walter did not know that, either. "well, well! and you want to become a master singer in one day. i've studied for years and years with hans sachs, my master, and i'm not a master singer yet. you have a lot to learn," and david gave a great sigh and scratched his head with his forefinger. then, like the kind-hearted fellow that he was, but with half a thought fixed upon lena's cakes, he began to explain. he explained the rules for high tones and low tones, for standing and sitting, for breathing and ending, for grace notes and middle notes, for rhyming and tuning; and the more he explained, the more perplexed poor sir walter became. his spirits dropped, dropped, down to his very boots. indeed, his discouragement was so great that i fear he would have been much inclined to run away if at that moment the master singers had not come in. veit pogner, the rich silversmith, came first. and tagging behind him, talking excitedly, and gesticulating while he talked, was the marker of the guild, the town clerk, sixtus beckmesser. the rest came after. but their voices could not be heard. the town clerk was so busy telling master pogner that he hoped to win his daughter on the morrow, and that he would serenade her that very night, that no one else had a chance to say anything. imagine a short man, a fat man, a man with thin, crooked legs, a mincing gait, a head too bald, a face too red; in short, a clown of a man. that was sixtus beckmesser. then think of two squinting eyes fastened upon master pogner's money. that was the secret of the town clerk's love for pretty eva. he was as different from sir walter as night is from day, as sorrow is from joy, as falsehood is from truth. but he was determined to win in the song contest. and he had many powers, good and evil, to help him, as you shall see. sir walter stepped forward, and veit pogner greeted him kindly. surely so handsome a knight should be favored. hans sachs came forward, also. and all agreed that sir walter should be given an opportunity. only beckmesser snarled with rage, for the young knight was a formidable rival. "ha! ha!" croaked he to himself. "just wait. let him try to sing! i'll show him what singing is." sir walter was bidden to seat himself in the candidate's chair. and, with a smile that was far from friendly, sixtus beckmesser, slate and chalk in hand, entered the marker's box and pulled the curtains together behind him. then in a harsh tone he called out:-"now begin!" walter mused a moment and then began his song. the words, the music, flowed forth unbidden from his full heart. he sang of the springtime which came into the sleeping forest, and, with thousands of heavenly voices, awakened the birds, the bees, the flowers. he sang of murmuring brooks, of rustling leaves, and of winter all forlorn, lurking in the woodlands, loath to depart. and as he sang, groans of discouragement came from within the marker's box. there was the sound of chalk scratches, once, twice, and again. walter hesitated a moment. then he went on. he sang of the awakening of the woods to life, to happiness. his voice rose high in joyous refrain. but a loud groan came from the marker's box. another scratch--another. walter took a long breath. he did not care. with thoughts of his fair eva in mind, he sang on. he sang of love, which, like springtime in the woodland, had awakened his heart. he sang of the thrill of life it brought, the happiness, the all-surpassing joy. suddenly the curtains were roughly pushed apart, and beckmesser rushed out, slate in hand. it was covered on both sides with marks! "can no one stop him?" he cried as he jumped frantically about. "the slate is full," and he laughed exultingly. the masters joined in the laughter, for, it was true, sir walter had sung according to no rule of the guild. only hans sachs and veit pogner, realizing the beauty and poetry of the song, tried to argue for the young knight. but their opinions were overruled. the master singers decreed that sir walter had lost his chance. he must be silent and sing no more. sixtus beckmesser remained triumphant, and walter left the church while the masters pronounced the decree,-"outdone and outsung." iii the day of toil was over. twilight came, and then the cool and quiet evening. a bright moon rode on high. it peeped in and out, between the gables, behind the church spire, and promised fair weather for the morrow. "midsummer day, midsummer day, and the song festival so gay,--" sang the jolly 'prentice boys, as they appeared at their masters' house doors to close the shutters for the night. david stood on the little grass plot before his master's cottage, also. but he was not in so merry a mood. he was a serious young man with a sweetheart of his own, and he had no time for frivolity or nonsense. let silly boys caper as they wished. so he pulled down the shutters and never noticed magdalena, who had slipped out of veit pogner's great house across the street and was hastening toward him. the boys snickered and beckoned to one another in great glee. a well-laden basket was on magdalena's arm, and even her voice had an inviting sound. "david, dear, turn around!" she called. david hastened eagerly to her side. the boys, too, with broad grins overspreading their faces, crept forward on tiptoes to listen. "see, david," they heard lena say, "here's something nice for you. take a peep inside. doesn't that make your mouth water? but tell me first, what of sir walter?" "there's nothing much to tell," answered david, quite unconcerned. "he was outsung and outdone!" "outsung and outdone!" gasped magdalena. "take your hands off of my basket. no, sir! none of my goodies for you!" and she flounced off, murmuring: "what's to be done? oh, what's to be done?" david stared after her. he was dumfounded. but the boys jeered and pointed their fingers at him. they had heard it all. laughing and singing, they formed a ring, and capered about david, who became very angry, and struck out blindly right and left. but the more he raved and raged, the more they teased and tormented, until, all of a sudden, a tall figure stood before them. it was hans sachs, the cobbler. annoyance was written all over his good-humored face. his honest blue eyes sent out sparks of anger. the boys hung their heads. "what does this mean?" he cried. "to bed! to bed!" the apprentices stole shamefacedly away. "and you"--he continued, taking the crest-fallen david by the ear, "put the new shoes on the lasts and get into the house. no song to-night, sir!" they entered the workshop. all was still on the narrow street for a little while. eva and her father sauntered homeward from their evening walk. they lingered for a few moments beneath the linden tree before the door, enjoying the evening air. then they entered the house for supper. lights glimmered in the windows. a dog barked in the distance. peace pervaded the quiet town. hans sachs appeared again at his workshop door. he flung it open and peered down the street, then he looked up at the sky. the gentle evening breeze fanned his cheeks. how refreshing it was! how pleasant it would be to work out of doors to-night! and, calling david, he ordered him to place his bench, his stool, the light, the tools outside, beneath the tree. "you will not work in this light, master?" queried david. "be quiet," retorted hans sachs, shortly. "go to bed!" "sleep well, master." "good night," answered hans sachs, as he sat down by the bench and took up his tools. but he did not work. the silvery moonlight cast a glamor over the town. it softened the outlines of all that he looked upon and made them vague, uncertain, beautiful. the evening breeze wafted down the sweet scent of the elder blossoms, and a delicious languor overcame him. the soul of the poet arose in the body of the cobbler, and, as if under a spell, he sat motionless, oblivious to shoes, lasts, tools, everything. the song of spring that the young knight had sung that afternoon began to haunt him. faintly, elusively, it came to his mind, like the distant echo of a melody heard in a dream. musing upon sir walter, who, like the birds in the woodland, had sung the song his heart had told him to sing, he did not see eva trip lightly from her father's house. she paused before him. hans sachs looked up. the sweet girl, swaying back and forth like a bird on a bough, looked more like a happy thought than a physical reality. eva broke the silence shyly. "good evening, master," she said. "still working?" instantly hans sachs' face wore a genial smile of welcome. "ah, little eva," he answered, "you have come to speak about those new shoes for to-morrow, i'll be bound." now, as you no doubt have already guessed, artful miss eva had come for no such purpose at all. to tell the truth, she had feared to ask her father aught concerning the trial meeting of the master singers that afternoon. for she knew it would be far easier to wheedle the story from her old friend hans sachs. with a fine affectation of unconcern she began her questioning. but little did she know hans sachs. he, as it happened, was quite clever enough to divine her plan. he suspected that she must have some hidden reason for this sudden interest in the trial meeting. at least, he thought, it would do no harm to find out. so he spoke harshly of sir walter, and pretended that he had sung abominably at the trial meeting. indeed, the masters were quite right in rejecting him! and all the time he watched eva's expression and laughed, oh, how he laughed, in his sleeve! eva flushed crimson. she flew into a temper. "a nice lot of masters, indeed!" she flung the words at hans sachs. "little do they know of fine singing, or you either, for that matter." then she rushed angrily away, and crossed the street to her own home. hans sachs smiled tenderly. he nodded his head wisely as he gazed after her. "ah!" he said to himself, "that's just what i thought! that's just what i thought!" and still shaking his head, he gathered up his tools and entered the workshop. he closed the door behind him; that is, he nearly closed the door,--nearly, not entirely, which was most fortunate, as you shall see. not long afterward sir walter von stolzing came hastening down the street. his face was full of sorrow. all his hopes of winning eva were gone. he would see her once more, and then bid her farewell forever. eva saw him coming. running toward him, she greeted him gladly and led him to the garden seat, beneath the shade of the linden tree. and there the young knight told her of his failure. as he spoke of the narrow-minded masters who had spurned his song, his voice grew bitter. "ah," he continued, "all hope is gone unless you will marry me to-night." eva assented eagerly. and so, in excited whispers, just loud enough for hans sachs to hear, the two lovers planned to run away. losing no time, eva ran into the house and donned magdalena's cloak. then, bidding the maid seat herself by the window in her stead, she hurried to join sir walter. just as the two lovers made ready under cover of the darkness to dive down the narrow street, clever hans sachs threw his workshop door wide open, and the broad stream of bright light from his lamp flooded their path. eva and sir walter fell back. they could not pass that way. the cobbler would be sure to see them. they looked in the opposite direction. no. there was the watchman, and skulking in his wake was still another figure. who could that be? he was coming that way. oh, this would never do. in despair the lovers rushed back to the friendly shadows beneath the linden tree. meanwhile hans sachs, who had no objection to their marriage, but who felt a great distaste for elopements, had brought out his tools, and had seated himself at his workbench once more. he, too, spied a strange figure slinking down the street toward pogner's house. well he knew those thin legs, that fat body, the too bald head, the too red face. it was beckmesser, the town clerk, the marker of the guild. he had come to serenade the fair eva. he would show her what fine singing was. and he looked up at her window expectantly, as he tuned his lute. at the same moment hans sachs, chuckling softly to himself, broke out in a loud song accompanied by an outrageous hammering upon a pair of shoes. his big voice rang out so lustily that it completely drowned the tinkle, tinkle of the town clerk's lute. beckmesser became frantic with rage. suppose miss eva should hear! suppose she should think he was singing in that atrocious manner. a slim chance he would have to win her to-morrow! he gazed at the closed shutters then he ran to hans sachs, scolding and pleading with him to be silent. what did master beckmesser want? and master sachs was most indignant. those were his shoes that he was working upon. a man must keep at his trade. and the jolly cobbler went on hammering and singing as loudly as before. the panic of master beckmesser increased. he paced angrily to and fro. he put his fingers to his ears. and if hans sachs had not been so big and strong, it is not hard to imagine what he would have done next. at last when the window in pogner's house opened wide and revealed a maiden seated there, hans sachs ceased. he had a plan. he consented to listen to beckmesser's serenade if he might be permitted to mark each error by tapping on his lapstone. for there were shoes to be finished, and that was the only way. the plan did not please beckmesser at all, but, since he had no choice, he was forced to agree. so, by way of beginning, he strummed a prelude on his lute, and looked for favor at the figure in the window. but before he had time to get his breath hans sachs had struck the shoe a mighty blow and had shouted,-"now begin!" beckmesser started. then he began to sing. but a sorry performance it was. the nervousness, the anger, the malice, had entered his voice and had made it harsh and squeaky by turns. he sang a line. it was out of tune. down went the hammer. he scowled and began another line. it did not rhyme. the hammer fell again. and so, becoming more and more enraged, beckmesser sang more and more falsely, so that hans sachs was kept busy beating a veritable tattoo upon his lapstone. beckmesser squeaked, he bawled, he howled, and all the time hans sachs hammered and hammered, until both shoes were done. this howling and hammering awakened the people in the houses all about. shutters were pushed back, windows were opened, nightcaps appeared and sleepy voices ordered them to be silent. david, hearing the tumult, peered out. when he saw a strange man before the window serenading a lady whom he at once perceived to be his lena, he rushed out, cudgel in hand. he fell upon the unfortunate musician, who yelled so loudly that the whole neighborhood was aroused. the apprentices rushed out and fell upon david, and the masters rushed out and fell upon the apprentices, and before any one knew what it was all about, everybody was hitting everybody else. the clamor and commotion grew and grew apace. people came running from all sides, and joined in the general hubbub and confusion. only hans sachs kept a cool head. seeing that eva and her knight were about to make use of the excitement to run away, he intercepted them. first he pushed eva into her father's house. then, grasping walter by the arm, he thrust him into his own workshop and, following him, closed the door. the street fight continued. suddenly the sound of the watchman's horn was heard in the distance. the crowd was seized with a panic of fear. as if by magic, it dispersed. the people suddenly disappeared into the houses, down the alleys, behind doors, anywhere. the lights were extinguished. all was still. when the sleepy watchman came to that street, he rubbed his eyes, stared about him in surprise, and then shook his head. could he have been dreaming? he thought that he had heard a noise. holding his torch aloft, he blew his horn and cried out: "to my words, ye people, hearken: all your houses straight way darken! 'tis ten o'clock, all fires put out! let naught of evil lurk about. praised be the lord!" then he went his way. and the moon shone down upon the peaceful streets of nuremberg. iv midsummer day dawned. long before the town was awake, while sir walter still slumbered in an inner room of the cottage, hans sachs sat in the great armchair by the open window. the morning sunshine fell upon his head as he bent over the thick and musty volume he held in his hands. but who shall say he was reading as he turned the time-worn leaves over and over? his mind wandered far afield,--to the early days of his beloved nuremberg, to the trades, to himself, the humble cause of last night's brawl. and the thought of the two young lovers came to him. he would like so much to help them, if he could only find a way. so absorbed was he that he scarcely noticed the youth david who came to offer him the basket of goodies, which magdalena had given him as a token of forgiveness. and so the moments passed. hans sachs resumed his reading, until at length the chamber door was opened and sir walter stood upon the threshold. bidding his host good morning, he walked slowly toward him. "ah, good morning, sir knight," replied hans sachs, forgetful of the great book, which slid to the floor as he arose. "i hope you rested well." "thank you. the sleep that i had was restful," answered sir walter, in a dreamy and preoccupied tone. then he exclaimed rapturously,-"but i had a most beautiful dream!" "a dream?" hans sachs was all attention. "tell it to me!" "i dare not. i fear it will fade away," said sir walter. "nay. it is of such dreams that poetry is made,"--and the eyes of the cobbler gleamed with an inner radiance. "poems are but dreams made real." thus urged and encouraged, the young knight sang the story of his dream. and hans sachs was moved by the rare beauty of the poetry and music. hastily procuring pen and ink, he bade sir walter sing it over again while he transcribed the words to paper. then, as the song continued, the kind-hearted master added bits of advice in a low tone. he showed the young knight how he could keep the words and melody as beautiful as his dream, and still obey the rules of correct singing. charging him not to forget the tune, hans sachs insisted that sir walter array himself in his richest garments and accompany him to the song festival. "for," concluded he, "something may happen. who can tell?" and so the two men entered the inner room together. hans sachs was right. something did happen, and very soon, too. scarcely was that door closed than the one leading to the street was cautiously pushed open. and a too bald head, a too red face, and two squinting, crafty eyes peeped in. then, assured that no one was about, a wretched figure limped after. it was beckmesser, the town clerk, but a sore and aching beckmesser; a beckmesser who could neither sit, nor stand,--a miserable beckmesser, whose disposition had not been at all improved by the cudgeling that he had received. slowly and painfully he came forward. and since there was no one at hand, he shook his fist and scowled savagely at the bright sunshine and the soft air. as he hopped and limped about the room, he came, by chance, to the table whereon lay the paper upon which hans sachs had written. he took it up, inquisitively sniffing, as he ran his eye over it. what was this? a trial song, and a love song at that? and, hearing the chamber door open, he, then and there, stuck the paper into his pocket. how hans sachs smiled when he saw what the crafty creature had been about! "very well, master beckmesser," said he. "since you've already pocketed the song, and since i do not wish you to be known as a thief, i gladly give it to you." "and you'll never tell any one that you composed it?" squeaked beckmesser. "no, i'll never tell any one that i composed it," and hans sachs turned away to hide his laughter, for he knew full well that no master beckmesser could learn and sing that song that day. but the miserable beckmesser was beside himself with joy. such a song, composed by a master like hans sachs and sung by a singer like sixtus beckmesser, could not fail to win the prize! rubbing his hands with glee, he hobbled and stumbled from the room. the time for the song festival came at last. the worthy people of nuremberg,--the bakers, the cobblers, the tailors, the tinkers, with their wives and their sweethearts, all clad in the brightest of holiday clothes, journeyed to the open meadow at some distance behind the town. and there a scene of jollity and merriment awaited them. gayly decorated boats sailed to and fro, bringing more burghers from near and far. under tents of colored bunting merry people were eating and drinking. flags flew, bands played; there was dancing and singing, laughter and joy. and the 'prentices in all the glory of floating ribbons and many-colored flowers ran this way and that, ordering the tradespeople to the benches one moment and dancing with the prettiest girls the next. suddenly a shout was heard: "the master singers! the master singers!" and a hush fell over the company, as the 'prentices marched solemnly forward and cleared the way. the standard bearer came first, and following him, veit pogner, leading the fair eva by the hand. she was richly dressed, and looked radiant as the morning itself. attending her were other splendidly gowned maidens, among whom was the one that david thought the most lovely of all. then came the master singers. and when the people saw their beloved hans sachs among the rest, they shouted and waved their hats in loyal greeting. the master singers took their seats on the platform, a place of honor in their midst having been assigned to eva and her maidens. several 'prentices ran forward and heaped up a little mound of turf, which they beat solid and then strewed with flowers. the time for the prize singing was at hand. "unmarried masters, forward to win! friend beckmesser, it is time. begin!" the 'prentices conducted beckmesser to the mound. he put up one aching leg, then the other. he stood wavering uncertainly a moment, then toppled over. "the thing is rickety," he snarled. "make it secure." the boys set hastily to work, slyly snickering, while they beat the turf with their spades. and the people near at hand giggled and whispered: "what a lover!"--"i wouldn't care for him if i were the lady."--"he's too fat."--"look at his red face."--"where's his hair?" with the help of the 'prentices beckmesser again hobbled up on the mound. striving to set his feet securely, he looked right and left. then he made a grand bow. the standard bearer called out,-"now, begin." and he began. he sang such a song as nuremberg had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. mixed with the tune of the new song was the miserable serenade he had sung the night before. as for the new words that he had tried to learn, they were gone completely. his mind was blank. so he ducked his head and took a peep at the paper, and instead of the words, "morning was gleaming with roseate light, the air was filled with scent distilled,"-beckmesser sang,- "yawning and steaming with roseate light, my hair was filled with scent distilled,"-and much more besides that was far worse. the people muttered to each other. they could not understand what it was all about. the masters stared in perplexity. finally, as the singer became more and more confused, and sang a jumble of ridiculous and meaningless words, they all burst into a loud peal of laughter. the sound of laughter stung beckmesser to fury. he stumbled angrily from the mound and, shaking his fist at hans sachs, declared that if the song was poor, it was not his fault. hans sachs was to blame. he had written it. then he threw the paper on the platform and, rushing madly through the crowd, disappeared. the people were in confusion, the masters were amazed. they all turned to hans sachs for an explanation. he picked up the paper, smoothed it out, handed it to the masters, and said: "no, the song is not mine. i could not hope to compose anything so beautiful." beautiful? the masters were incredulous. hans sachs must be joking. but he went on. "yes, beautiful. master beckmesser has sung it incorrectly. the one who wrote it could render it in a manner that would prove its beauty beyond a doubt." raising his voice, he called: "let the one who can sing the song step forward." and to the great surprise of all, sir walter von stolzing, clad in glittering knightly apparel, came from the crowd. he bowed courteously to the masters, and won the hearts of all by his noble looks and his manly bearing. he stepped lightly upon the mound, mused a moment, and then began his song of the dream. and, as before, the words, the music, gushed forth from his full heart. he put all his love, all his yearning, into the melody he sang. his voice swelled upward like the rising tide. and when it reached the full, the rapture of it touched the hearts of all who listened. the song was finished. a hush fell upon the masters and people alike. but only for a moment; soon a glad shout arose: "master singer! master singer!" and sir walter von stolzing knew that the victory was his. they led him to the fair eva and placed her hand in his. while the people waved and sang, she placed a wreath of laurel upon his head. it was his beautiful dream coming true. then the masters hung a chain of gold around his neck, which showed that he was a member of the guild. sir walter thought of the treatment that he had received the day before at the trial meeting, and he was about to refuse. but hans sachs arose and spoke gravely of the reverence due to the art of song. and walter forgot his bitterness, and thought only of his love and future happiness with eva by his side. and so with the people singing, "hail, all hail nuremberg's beloved hans sachs," midsummer day and the song festival came to an end. [illustration] lohengrin, the knight of the swan i long years ago a maiden, fair as the morning itself, wandered through a lonely greenwood in the duchy of brabant. she was elsa, only daughter of the late duke of brabant, who had died but a short time before this story begins. although elsa was the rightful owner of all the wooded lands and fertile fields for miles and miles around, she was far from happy. although summer lay warm and fragrant over those lands, and flowers blossomed along her pathway, yet elsa's heart was heavy within her. she was full of sorrow. for, not long before, while walking in those self-same woods, her brother godfrey had suddenly and unaccountably disappeared from her side. elsa had searched and searched. she had wept, she had prayed, but all in vain. no trace of him had she found anywhere. spent with grief and anxiety, she had run to her guardian, frederick of telramund, and told him the story. but frederick had repulsed her with unkind glances and cruel words. he had even accused her of doing away with her poor brother, that she might claim the entire duchy of brabant for herself. this guardian, frederick of telramund, knew well enough that elsa was incapable of so foul a deed. he knew that she had loved her brother godfrey far too well to do him harm. but frederick had coveted the rich lands and vast possessions of brabant for many a year. and he was determined to get them now by fair means or foul. moreover, he had married the pagan princess ortrud, who was every whit as evil-minded and ambitious as he. ortrud's father, a heathen prince, had once owned part of brabant, and they were confident that, with godfrey and elsa out of the way, they could lay claim to the whole duchy. how they plotted and schemed together against poor elsa! do you wonder, then, that elsa walked through the forest on that morning long ago, with downcast eyes, oblivious to all save her own sad thoughts? her father was dead, her brother was gone, her guardian had proved false. to whom should she turn for guidance? weary and perplexed, she sank down beneath the sheltering branches of a friendly tree near by. all was calm and still. her tired eyes rested upon the deep blue dome of the sky, and thoughts of god, the all-father, filled her mind. ah, she could put her trust in him. and a prayer for help arose from her heart. perhaps it was the answer to her prayer, perhaps it was only a dream, but then and there elsa saw a marvelous vision. the heavens opened, and disclosed a noble knight. enveloped in heavenly light, this knight descended to earth, and stood before elsa. he smiled upon her, and, like a miracle, she became tranquil and unafraid. he was so strong, so stalwart, so brave! his shining white armor glittered in the sunlight. a glistening sword hung by his side, a golden horn from his shoulder. his eyes were kind. there was comfort in his voice. "arise!" spoke he, "and go your way. be of good cheer, and fear not, for when your need is sorest, i will come to defend you." then he vanished. elsa was alone in the greenwood. ii just at this time the king of all germany came down to brabant. with pomp and ceremony he came, bringing rough knights from saxony and brave nobles from thuringia, all good men and true, to bear him company. henry the first was he, a wise king and a just. people called him henry the fowler because he was so fond of hunting. it may be, however, that it was not the hunt that he loved so much as the great out-of-doors, the wide plains, the wild forests, the winding rivers. whenever he summoned his faithful subjects to discuss affairs of peace or war, he chose some meeting place under the blue sky, in god's temple, where men breathe deeply, think clearly, and judge rightly. so, when at brabant king henry found no duke to greet him; when, instead, he heard of strife, of discord, and of strange whispers, he sat himself down beneath a giant oak on the bank of the winding river scheldt. and the trumpeters blew a great blast, the herald proclaimed the king's presence, the trusty men who had come to bear him company stood at arms, while the brabantians gathered from north and south, from east and west, of the duchy to hearken to the king's word. "i had come here, my good people," began the king, "to ask the aid of your forces in subduing the wild hungarian foe. full well do i know that as loyal german subjects you are ready to answer your country's call. but i find discord in your midst, strife and confusion. therefore have i called you together to learn the causes thereof and to deal justly with the offenders, be it possible." the people of brabant were pleased with the king's words and looked to frederick of telramund to make answer. frederick arose. behind him stood his wife, the dark-haired princess ortrud, ready to prompt him should he hesitate. but false frederick did not hesitate. his voice did not tremble, although he spoke with much show of grief. he made a low obeisance to the king and besought sympathy for the sad tale he was about to tell. he told how the dying duke had intrusted elsa and godfrey to his care, how tenderly he had reared them, how devotedly he had loved them, and how sorely the mysterious disappearance of godfrey had grieved him. and then, he continued, he had been forced to believe that elsa had murdered her brother in order to claim the whole duchy for herself--or mayhap--for some secret lover. therefore he, frederick of telramund, and his wife ortrud, by right of inheritance, besought the king to make them duke and duchess of brabant. "an astounding story indeed!" the free-men muttered to each other. the nobles looked at frederick and shook their heads. "the man must be sure of his proof to make such an accusation," said they, as they turned toward the king. king henry sat with bowed head, in deep thought. he ran his hand over his forehead, pondered a moment, and then murmured: "so foul a deed!" aloud he said: "i would see this maid. i would look upon her face. i would hear her tale. and may god guide my judgment aright." hanging his shield on the giant oak behind him, king henry swore never to wear it again until justice had been done. and all the german nobles drew their swords and thrust them, points down, into the ground, swearing never to wear them again until justice had been done. and the men of brabant laid their swords at their feet, swearing the same. then the herald summoned elsa. she came, the fair-haired elsa, clad all in white, with her train of ladies, all in white, behind her. they paused, and she, with hands clasped and eyes cast down, advanced timidly, slowly, alone, until she stood before the king. her golden hair, unbound, hung a cloud of glory about her. how young she was! how lovely! the rough knights gazed upon her, and their eyes filled with tears. surely no maiden with such a face could be guilty of such a crime. the king spoke very gently. was she elsa of brabant? she bowed her head. did she know the heavy charge that had been brought against her? she bowed again. was she willing that he, king henry, should judge her? once more her head was bowed in assent. and it was only when the king asked whether she was guilty of this murder that elsa found voice. she wrung her hands piteously, and exclaimed, "oh, my poor, poor brother!" a dreamy look was upon elsa's face as she told her story. her voice trembled, and her eyes strayed over the distant hills. it was as though she saw it all again. she told of that day in the woods, her sad walk alone, her deep grief, her utter weariness. she told of her rest beneath the friendly tree and of the blue heaven overhead. but when she told of her prayer to god for guidance in her distress, her faltering voice grew stronger, braver. rapturously, she told of her dream, and of the noble knight whose white armor had glittered in the sunlight, of his sword, his horn, and, last, of his promise. "him will i trust!" she cried. "he shall my champion be!" the knights, the nobles, the king, were startled. but frederick of telramund cried out. "such words do not mislead me. see! does she not speak of a secret lover? what further proof do you need? here stand i, and here's my sword, both ready to fight for my honor." now since king henry believed that god in his wisdom would surely give might to the hands that fought for right, he asked frederick if he were ready to fight for life or death to uphold this charge that he had brought. frederick answered, "yes." then the king turned to elsa, and asked her if she were willing to have her champion fight for life or death to prove her blameless. elsa answered, "yes," and, to the great astonishment of all, named her unknown knight as her champion. "none other will i have," she said. "he will come to defend me, and upon him will i bestow my father's lands. aye, should he deign to wed me, i will be his bride." "then cry out the summons," ordered the king. the herald stepped forth with his trumpeters four. placing one to the east and one to the west, one to the north, and one to the south, he bade them blow a great blast. "let him who dares to fight for elsa of brabant come forth!" the trumpet's call, the herald's words, fell on the clear air. the echo sounded and resounded. there was a long pause. all was still. the dark-haired ortrud curled her lips scornfully, and an evil smile lit the face of frederick of telramund. "once more, o king!" implored elsa, "once more let the summons be sounded!" and she fell upon her knees at his feet. the king nodded. the trumpeters blew another blast. again the herald cried out: "let him who dares to fight for elsa of brabant come forth!" again the notes died away on the clear air. again the echo sounded, resounded. another long pause. all was as still as before. only the voice of elsa in prayer was heard. oh, how she prayed! her need was great. surely the noble knight of her dream would not fail her. god had sent him to her in the greenwood. he would send him now. she would put her trust in him. and she bowed her head in her hands. suddenly the men on the river bank were seen peering eagerly into the distance. they beckoned, they waved, they whispered. others ran to join them. and they, too, gazed, then pointed excitedly down the river. what strange sight was there? what was it that glittered, glistened from afar? its brightness dazzled the eyes. ah! it was lost to view behind the curving shore. no, it appeared again. behold a wonder! a swan, a snow-white swan was gliding gracefully toward them. it drew a boat, a silver boat. and in the boat, erect, his bright armor glittering in the sun, stood a knight. he leaned upon his sword. a helmet was on his head, a shield on his shoulder, a horn by his side. the swan drew him nearer. he approached the very bank. oh, wondrous sight! a gallant knight had been sent by heaven to defend the fair-haired maiden. might had come to fight for right. the men were awestruck. in silence, entranced, they gazed at the swan, the boat, the heaven-appointed knight. the king, from his seat beneath the giant oak, surveyed the scene in bewilderment. elsa felt the excitement, heard the murmurs, still dared not lift her head. but the face of frederick was dark and gloomy to see, and ortrud cowered down in terror and shuddered strangely when she beheld the snow-white swan. the noble knight had stepped to the shore. casting a loving look at his dear swan, he bade it a tender farewell, and watched it sadly as it glided away, over the water, around the curve, out of sight. then he turned. elsa, rising, uttered a cry of joy when she saw his face. it was he! the noble knight of her dream! so strong, so stalwart, so brave! he had come. there was naught to fear. solemnly, with long strides, armor glistening, sword clanking, helmet in hand, the swan knight advanced and stood before the king. he made a low obeisance, then announced that he had come to champion a guiltless maid who had been falsely accused of a woeful crime. he looked at elsa. "elsa," he said, "do you choose me as your defender?" "yes," she cried. "and if i prove victorious, will you be my bride?" "yes." surely there was little that she would not promise this noble knight who had come from afar to defend her. and elsa threw herself at his feet, vowing to give him all she had, even her life, if need be. but the swan knight raised her and, looking into her eyes, asked but one promise, a strange one. if he was to defend her, if he was to be her husband, she must trust him utterly. she must never ask his name. no, she must not even think of it, or who he was, or from whence he came. at that moment it seemed very easy for elsa to promise so simple a thing. but the swan knight was very solemn, and he repeated the words slowly, saying,- "mark this well, elsa. these questions ask me never, nor think upon them ever, from whence i hither came, what is my rank or name." she listened carefully, then promised gladly never to doubt him, always to obey him. it was such a little thing, and was he not her shield, her angel, her preserver? so the king arranged the fight. three saxons advanced for the swan knight, three men of brabant for frederick of telramund. with three solemn paces they measured the ground. the king struck his sword three times against his shield, and the battle was on. "oh, let the arm of right be strong, and feeble be the arm of wrong," sang the men. and it was so. god gave might to the arm of the knight. but a few passes and falsehood and deceit were vanquished. frederick the traitor lay prostrate on the ground with the sword of the swan knight pointed at his throat. still the knight spared his life. he bade him go his way and sin no more. justice had been done. king henry took his shield from the tree behind him. the saxons, the thuringians, the brabantians, resumed their swords. god had been with them that day under the blue sky, and so amid great rejoicing they bore elsa and her swan knight from the field. iii night hung over the palace. sounds of revelry, a trumpet's blast, burst from the gayly illuminated abode of the knights. but within the apartments of the duchess elsa all was dark and still. opposite stood the cathedral wherein, on the morrow, elsa would become the swan knight's bride. though the delicate spires of the cathedral pointed to a starry sky, dark shadows lurked about the portico. and in the gloom of these shadows, two figures sat, two abject, miserable figures,--frederick of telramund and ortrud his wife. despoiled of their rich garments and shunned by all, they knew not which way to turn. since the stranger knight was now guardian of brabant, banishment was their fate, poverty their portion. after the manner of evildoers, each charged the other with their misfortune. false frederick, who had been willing enough to listen to the promptings of his witch-wife, now upraided her for having used sorcery to accomplish her wicked ends. it was she who had urged him to falsehood, he said; she who had induced him to turn traitor; she who had blackened his ancient name and besmirched his honor. stung to fury by the recital of his woes, he called her evil names. he even wished for his sword in order to strike her dead. but ortrud was not a sorceress for nothing. she knew how to cool his wrath. she taunted him, in turn, for showing cowardice in the fight. she called him weak of heart and feeble of purpose. she spoke thus: "who is this swan knight who has vanquished the once powerful frederick? from whence has he come? and what is his power? only witchcraft has brought him, witchcraft and magic. and magic will take him away. if but one small point of his body can be injured, he will be helpless and at our mercy." frederick took heart when he heard these words. perhaps all was not over yet. perhaps ortrud's black magic and his strength could be used to some purpose before the marriage day dawned. if doubt could be instilled into the mind of elsa, if she could be made to forget her promise, the spell would be broken. or, if the swan knight could be weakened, they would regain their lost power over brabant. so they plotted and planned, heads close together, as the night wore away. toward morning a light glimmered in the apartments of the lovely elsa. soon she appeared on the balcony singing a little song. ortrud crept near and called to her. she called in a piteous tone, her voice full of misery. she wept loudly and begged meekly for forgiveness. she pretended a repentance for all her former misdeeds that she was far from feeling. elsa looked down and listened. when she beheld the once haughty ortrud clad in rags, on her knees, her heart melted. she held out her hands in pity. that was just what the wicked ortrud was waiting for. the rest was easy. a few more tears, a little more make-believe penitence, and she knew she would be forgiven. and sad to tell, it was so. elsa, full of love and new-found happiness, took ortrud into her abode. she gave her a splendid gown and allowed her to assist in the marriage preparations. and the wicked ortrud improved her opportunities. artfully, she turned the conversation to the approaching wedding, to the stranger knight who had come by magic. was not elsa afraid that he would just as magically disappear? but elsa need not fear. ortrud would always be her friend. elsa tried to shake off the disquiet that ortrud's words caused. but the seed of suspicion was planted in her mind, and it grew, just as the wicked ortrud meant that it should. meanwhile from his place behind the dark pillars of the cathedral, frederick had seen the first rosy streaks of dawn appear in the east. he had heard the watchman in the tower give the signal of the new day, and he had seen the answer flash from the distant turret. rage overwhelmed him. for he knew that elsa's marriage morn had come. the sleeping palace awoke to life and activity. servants hurried to and fro preparing for the festival. the herald stepped forth followed by his trumpeters four. they summoned the people, who came in gala array from all sides. groups of richly clad nobles walked proudly down the palace steps and stood before the cathedral, waiting. all eyes were fixed upon the balcony before the abode of the duchess elsa. all at once, a number of pages appeared there. they descended, two by two, clearing the way to the cathedral steps and crying aloud: "make way, make way, our lady elsa comes!" the crowd, hushed and expectant, fell back. then, down the stairway, across the balcony, came a long train of fair ladies. their satin dresses swept the ground. bright jewels sparkled and flashed as they advanced slowly toward the cathedral steps. there they halted, ranging themselves on each side to allow the duchess elsa to pass between them. she, the fairest of them all, walked alone. her dress of richest brocade trailed its heavy folds behind her. ropes of pearls were about her neck, and bound her golden hair. her head was held high, and her face was more beautiful than anything else in the world. for joy illumined it and made it shine like a star. was she not going to meet her knight, him whom god had sent to defend her? her foot was upon the lowest step. she was about to ascend to the cathedral when she was rudely pushed aside. ortrud had sprung forward, crying,-"get back! i'll go first. my rank is higher than yours, and i shall not walk behind you!" elsa turned in astonishment. was this the meek ortrud who had come to her begging forgiveness, pleading repentance? the people cried out in anger. but ortrud, unheeding, went on: "my husband may be in disgrace, but he is greater than you all. he will rule you yet. as for the husband you are to marry,--" and she looked at the frightened elsa,--"who is he? what is his rank? you dare not even ask his name!" poor elsa protested. she tried to say that she did not care to know her swan knight's name. heaven had sent him, and she was content. his face bore the stamp of noble birth, and she would always trust him. but her voice faltered as she spoke. the seed of suspicion had taken root, and dark doubts arose to torment her. at that moment, when the consternation was greatest, the king appeared on the palace steps. with him, in proud array, were the good men and true who had come to bear him company. and following them all was the swan knight. his bearing seemed nobler than ever, as he trod proudly forward to claim his bride. but when he saw the wicked ortrud and the false frederick, who by this time had joined in denouncing him and questioning his name, his face clouded. king henry, also, seeing the strife, pressed forward through the crowd, giving orders to push aside the wicked couple. the swan knight took elsa tenderly into his arms for a moment, looking deep into her eyes. then, led by the king, the marriage procession proceeded into the cathedral. iv the wedding festival was over. with flaming torches held aloft and joyous voices raised in song, the procession of ladies and nobles led the bride and bridegroom to their flower-bedecked chamber. then, showering blessings upon them, they departed. the torchlights faded in the distance; the sound of march and song grew faint. it died away. elsa and her swan knight were alone. there was a brief silence while they gazed at each other in rapture. she, so lovely, was his inmost heart's desire. he, so brave, was the beloved knight of her dream. their voices grew soft with happiness, and on their faces was the glow of a deep joy. too soon, however, at the sound of her name on her lover's lips, a shade stole over elsa's bright face. "ah!" thought she, "i can never call him by his name, for i shall never know what it is." then, like a flash, all of ortrud's taunts came to her mind. and following them, all the dark doubts, the vague suspicions, arose again to torment her. first she sat in moody silence. but soon a strange curiosity showed itself in her speech. would the fetters that bound the swan knight's lips ne'er be loosened? must she, his wife, always remain in ignorance? if he loved her truly, he would surely whisper his secret ever so softly into her ear. no one should ever know. she would guard the secret well, locking it within her very heart. thus she pleaded and begged, but the swan knight pretended not to hear her. he spoke of other things, striving to distract her mind. but elsa would not be put off. her eyes were fixed upon the knight, and her face, but lately aglow with wonder and delight, was clouded with unbelief and suspicion. the knight was distressed by this sudden change. he reminded her gently of the confidence that he had placed in her promise. he warned her tenderly of the sorrows that would befall if she did not cease her questioning. he had given up so much honor, yes, and glory besides, to stay by her side. would she not trust him utterly? scarcely had elsa heard the words "glory and honor" than a horrible fear seized her. "he had come by magic," ortrud had said, "and by magic he would go." now she knew how it would befall. soon he would tire of her and would return to the honor and glory from which he had come. stricken with terror, she fancied that she already heard the swan coming to carry him away. it was too much to bear! cost what it might, she must learn who he was. "where do you come from?" she cried "who are you?" "ah, elsa!" answered the knight, sadly, "what have you done?" but before he could utter another word, frederick of telramund burst into the room with drawn sword in hand. elsa saw him first. she forgot her doubt. she forgot her question. she thought only that the swan knight, her lover, was in danger. "save yourself!" she shrieked. "your sword, your sword!" she thrust it into his hand. he drew it quickly. there was a short parry, one blow; and base frederick lay dead at the swan knight's feet. then the swan knight turned to elsa. his eyes were tender, but, oh, how pitying! their glance pierced elsa's heart, and filled her with despair for what she had done. his voice was sad as he bade her clothe herself in bridal raiment and go before the king. there, on the morrow, he would make fitting answer and tell her the rank he bore. and so saying, he walked sorrowfully out of the flower-bedecked room. the next day dawned bright and clear. as was his wont, king henry the fowler sat beneath the giant oak on the bank of the winding river scheldt. by his side stood the nobles from saxony and thuringia who had come to bear him company. and before him were assembled the men of brabant, from north and south, from east and west, of the duchy. slowly, with measured strides, four men walked into their midst. they bore the body of frederick of telramund on a bier, which they placed before the king. the nobles looked anxiously at one another. what strange happening was this? for, closely following, tottering feebly, came the duchess elsa and her train of ladies. solemnly they marched with eyes downcast, while she, who but lately had been radiant with happiness, was sad and pale. her eyes, unseeing, stared in anguish straight ahead! the king stepped quickly forward. he looked inquiringly into her face as he led her to a seat beside him. elsa could not meet his eyes. she moistened her lips twice, thrice, but no sound came. just then a shout arose from the men: "hail, all hail, the hero of brabant!" they cried. the swan knight entered. his armor glittered in the sunlight. a sword hung at his side, a horn from his shoulder. how strong he was! how brave! but how strangely sad was his face. he advanced, helmet in hand, and stood before the king. making a low obeisance, he strode toward the bier of the dead frederick. he uncovered the body, and then solemnly asked the king's pardon for having killed this man who had stolen by stealth upon him. "nay, ask not our pardon!" spoke the just king. "we approve your deed!" and all the men of brabant nodded in assent. but that was not all the swan knight had to tell. his wife, elsa of brabant, had broken her promise. she had asked his name. and since it was a law of the order to which he belonged, he would make public answer to her question. but then he must depart to the distant land from which he had come. astonishment spread like wildfire among the people. as for elsa, she sat like a creature of stone. only ortrud, who had crept near to listen, smiled in ill-concealed triumph. the swan knight's face was suffused with holy light. the eyes of his soul seemed to be peering far, far away into the distance beyond the winding river, beyond the gray hills, perhaps to the very gates of heaven itself. he told the tale of a marvelous temple rising from the heights of mount salvat, wherein, upon a mystic shrine, rested the sacred chalice called the holy grail. he told of the few chosen knights who guarded the wondrous grail, and who, by its heaven-given powers, were protected from baneful harm and endowed with supernatural might. whenever an innocent cause needed a champion, whenever a grievous wrong had been done, one of the knights sallied forth and defended the one who had been falsely accused. but it was a law that no one might know from whence he came or by what name he was called. for if once the truth were revealed, his power was gone; the knight must hasten back to the temple of the grail. the swan knight's voice rose higher. like some rare, sweet strain of music, it fell upon the air: "the grail obeying, here to you i came; my father parsifal, a crown he weareth, his knight am i and lohengrin my name!" the shadow of a great awe crept into the eyes of all who heard. they stared at lohengrin in silence. only elsa sank moaning to the ground. lohengrin caught her in his arms. "oh, elsa, dear one," he cried, "why did you strive to learn my secret? now i must leave you forever. had you but remained faithful to your promise for one year, even your brother godfrey would have come back to you. here is my sword, my horn, my ring. should he ever return, give them to him. the sword will help him in battle, the horn will give him aid in an hour of need, and the ring will remind him of lohengrin, who defended you. now farewell! the grail calls me. my swan is here." while he had been speaking, the snow-white swan, drawing the empty boat, had glided quietly up the winding river. it stood at the shore. the people gazed at it mournfully. even lohengrin greeted it in sadness. suddenly the dark-haired ortrud, who had been watching, approached the shore. she leaned over the snow-white swan, and when she saw the golden circlet about its neck, she laughed fiendishly. "it is he!" she cried. "it is godfrey! my magic changed him into a swan, and a swan he shall remain!" and she grinned exultingly at elsa. lohengrin, about to enter the boat, stopped at the sound of ortrud's voice. he listened a moment. then he fell upon his knees and prayed, while all the people waited breathlessly. his prayer was lifted up in silence and borne, who shall say where--to what high and holy presence? for as he prayed a white dove descended and hovered over the boat. seeing that his prayer was answered, lohengrin rose to his feet enraptured. he took the chain from the neck of the swan. the swan sank into the water. and where it had been stood godfrey, the rightful duke of brabant. elsa fell into her brother's arms with a glad cry. then together they watched lohengrin enter his boat which, drawn by the dove, glided slowly down the winding river, and out of mortal sight forevermore. [illustration] the flying dutchman i a storm on the ocean is a fearful thing to see. it roars, it flashes, it races huge waves mountain-high one after the other, it dashes them furiously against the sharp rocks, it howls, it blows, and it tosses great ships about as though they were tiny toys. once, long, long ago there was just such a storm as this off the cape of good hope, that most southern point of africa. for the evil spirit who ruled the seas in those days, and who had many servants to do his bidding, had ordered one of them, the wind storm, to sweep over the waters far and wide. perhaps the evil spirit wanted to add to the treasures that he had gathered from all the ships he had wrecked--treasures that he kept far beneath the water. at any rate, the wind storm did as he was told. he lashed the mighty waves into anger so that they crashed against the jagged rocks of the cape, and all the ships that were abroad scudded swiftly along before him in fear. "go home," whistled the wind storm through the sails. "go back to your safe harbors. there is no room for you on this sea. i need it all--all--all." and the ships scurried into their harbors--all but one. the captain of that ship was not afraid of the wind storm nor of the evil spirit, either, for that matter. his ship was strong, and so was his will. he was determined to go around the cape. he stood at the prow while the ship rocked violently to and fro. the salt spray dashed over him, but still he defied the wind storm. "i will not go back," he cried, and he swore a mighty oath. "i'll sail on and round that cape if i sail forever." now the evil spirit happened to be lurking beneath the angry waters, and he heard the oath. "very well," cried he. "sail on forever and ever, then! sail on until you find a maiden fair who will be willing to die for love of you!" and so it came to pass. through all the long years that followed, the ship sailed on and on. in fair or foul weather, over smooth or stormy seas, under blue or gray skies, the strange voyage continued year after year. sometimes the captain in his despair would steer straight for the craggy rocks, hoping to be dashed to pieces, but the rocks would not harm his ship. he steered in the path of terrible pirates, but when the pirates saw the ship, they crossed themselves and hurried away. the blustering tempest would not harm it, nor the eddying whirlpool. it just sailed on and on. the sailors, who had been young and lively, grew old and silent. their hearts were as gray as their heads, for though the days grew into weeks, the weeks into years, the years into centuries, still there was no rest for them. their faces became as white as ghosts, and some say that the blood left their bodies and crept into the sails. at any rate, the strong, white ship turned black and weather-beaten, and the strong, white sails, red, red as blood. only the captain remained forever young and handsome, and each seven years as the ship sailed into some harbor, he was allowed to go on shore to seek the maiden fair who would deliver him and his crew from their fate and set them at rest. but alas! no such maiden had he ever found. many maidens had he met and loved, and many had loved him, too, but to be true to him forever and to die for him,--that was quite another matter. and so each time "the flying dutchman" had gone on again, until once at the end of a seven years' period he came to the coast of norway. ii heigho, heigho! sang the sailors of a gay norwegian bark as they cast anchor in a sheltered bay on the coast of norway to escape the tempest, which had been tossing them about on the open sea. what though the south wind had driven them a few miles out of their course? the sunrise of another day would find them safe at home after their long voyage. in fancy, they could already see the dear ones on the shore, waving, smiling, welcoming! so "heigho, heigho for to-morrow!" sang they. only daland, the captain, was full of gloom. impatient was he, also, for had he not expected to spend that very night by his own fireside with his daughter senta? and now to wait here, so near and yet so far, with a raging sea between him and his peaceful home, was an ordeal, indeed. to battle with those angry waves had been no easy task, either. a little sleep would not harm him, thought he. now you must know that in those days the seas were full of dread pirates and bold robbers who prowled about seeking plunder, and so, before daland lay down to sleep, he called his steersman and bade him keep sharp watch. the steersman did--for a little while. but he, too, was tired. first he sang right lustily a merry song about the distant climes where he had traveled, and of the kind winds that would send him back to his sweetheart. soon, however, his voice faltered; it grew fainter and fainter. his head nodded once, twice. he, too, was asleep. then, while no one watched, slowly, quietly, out of the west, came an old weather-beaten vessel with red, red sails, straight into that very bay. only you and i know whence it came, and how endless had been its wanderings. so silently did it sail, so ghostly were its movements, that no one on all daland's boat heard a single sound. no one heard the noiseless dropping of the anchor, the lowering of those red, red sails. nor did any one hear the sigh of relief with which the worn sailors crept away to their berths, nor see the hope and longing that lit their pale faces as they saw their captain spring eagerly to the shore. perhaps the captain stamped too heavily up and down on the wet sand, glad to feel the solid earth under his feet once more. perhaps he raised his arms to heaven and cried aloud to god to help him now find the maiden fair who would love him truly forever. why, i do not know, but just then daland awoke with a start. a strange vessel alongside! how he chided the drowsy steersman! a strange captain on the shore! quickly he leaped to the sand to greet him! "whence come you?" asked daland, "and whither are you going?" the dutchman replied but little. "holland," he said, "and a wanderer seeking shelter for his vessel from the storm." home he had none, nor wife, nor child, and gladly would he pay of his treasures for one night at somebody's hospitable hearth. and while daland was marveling at this strange tale, and had begun to tell of his own home so near and yet so far away, the stranger, at a sign, had received a huge chest from his ship and was opening it before daland's eyes. if "all the wild flowers of the forest, all the lilies of the prairie," all the glorious colors of sunrise and sunset, if the rainbow itself, had been packed away in a chest to be suddenly opened before you, perhaps you would have been surprised, too. gold was there, and silver was there, and the white sheen of pearls, and the bright sparkle of diamonds, and the deep glow of rubies, all there dancing, glittering, in daland's astonished eyes. was this some marvelous dream? when he found that the treasure was real, he remembered senta, and offered the dutchman his home for the night, telling him that his daughter ... the dutchman caught the word "daughter." had daland a daughter? would he give her to him for a wife? and daland, who had been thinking what a fine husband such a man, with a ship full of treasures, would be for his daughter, lost no time, and said yes. then hope came again to the heart of the dutchman. he was impatient to see this maiden who, he silently prayed, might be the one to deliver him from his fate. and while he prayed, the wind changed, the clouds broke, a ray of sunshine peeped through, the sea became smooth as glass. "you'll see her this day," said daland. and so, bidding the sailors raise anchor, daland went aboard his boat, the dutchman aboard his, and with a heigho, heigho, they sailed out of the bay. iii daland's home stood, as a sailor's home should, near the sea. through its white-curtained windows one could see far out over the blue water, to the broad horizon, where ships hovered like white birds against the sky. inside the house all was as sweet and clean as the willing hands of old marie, the house-keeper, could make it. the walls, rough and unpainted, were almost covered with flat blue maps and sailor's charts, save where, over the wide doorway, a single picture hung. it was the picture of a man; a man with a pale face, a long, black beard, and strange, foreign-looking clothes. but i do not need to tell you who he was. you know the story behind those melancholy eyes that looked out so sadly from the picture. you have heard it this very day. had you entered that sunny room on a certain afternoon long, long ago, you would have seen a group of happy girls, under the direction of marie, all diligently spinning. and, had you stopped to listen, you would have heard merry chatter and light-hearted snatches of song mingled with the whir-r, whir-r, whir-r-r of those quick-turning wheels. how they joked, and laughed, and sang, those girls of long ago! did i say all? no, not all. for there was one who sat quite apart, her idle hands in her lap, her young face uplifted, and her dreaming eyes fixed on the portrait over the door. she was senta, the daughter of daland. once, when senta was very young, old marie had told her the history of that pale man in the picture, and the sadness of his fate, and that of his unhappy crew, had touched her tender heart. and, because she was an imaginative girl, who fancied strange things, the picture of the flying dutchman, wandering over unknown seas, came back to her mind again and again. she thought of him by day; she dreamed of him by night. she even began to imagine that god had destined her to be that maiden fair whose love would deliver him from his mournful roaming. but certainly she never breathed such a strange thought to a single soul. until that day! then, as all the busy girls laughingly teased her for her idleness, and twitted her for being in love with a mere shadow instead of with the real, strong, young hunter eric, who wanted to marry her, she grew impatient. to still their chatter, she cried out fretfully: "oh, girls, cease your foolish songs and your spinning! i am tired of all the humming and buzzing. do you want me to join you? listen, and i'll sing the ballad of the flying dutchman. then you'll know why his sad fate touches my heart." senta began her singing. the girls stopped their wheels to listen, and as they listened, their eyes grew round with wonder. they, too, pitied the poor captain and his unhappy crew. but when senta described these aimless wanderings that nothing could change except that maiden fair who would be willing to die for love, the girls interrupted her. "oh!" cried they. "where in all the world is there such a maiden?" "here!" answered senta, and she sang: "angel above, oh! bring to me the pale man sailing o'er the sea!" do you wonder that all the girls, even marie, started up in alarm when they heard that strange prayer? no doubt they thought senta had gone out of her mind. loudly they called, until eric the hunter came running into the room. he reasoned, he pleaded with senta, but all in vain. she could think of nothing but the story of the man whose picture hung on the wall. just when the excitement was greatest, a cry from without told of the approach of daland's boat. there was no time for foolish thoughts, then. a meal must be prepared, the table set, the glasses filled! away hurried the girls and old marie. in a moment daland was at the door. who was that pale visitor, so strangely like the picture above his head, entering behind him? senta stared from one to the other. she could scarcely greet her father. she knew at once who this stranger was, just as you know and as i know. but daland knew not. he, proud and happy, thinking of that ship full of treasures, lost no time in telling senta that this was the man he had chosen to be her husband on the morrow, if she were willing. senta was quite willing, for had she not loved this stranger for a long, long time? as for the flying dutchman, he gazed into those trusting eyes, and was filled with a great joy and a greater hope. often when tossed about on the cruel waves had he dreamed of a maiden just as fair, just as pure as this one who now stood before him. if she would but be constant, all would be well, thought he. and, as he gazed, he heard her sweet voice saying, "whoever thou art, whatever thy fate, i will be thy love, i will be thy mate." iv the marriage feast was quickly prepared. the jolly sailor boys, the pretty peasant girls, all lent helping hands, and soon the merrymaking on board the gayly lighted ship began. only on the black ship with the red sails was there darkness and silence. suddenly a young girl walked hastily down to the shore. it was senta, the daughter of daland, and closely following her, came eric the hunter. he begged her to hearken to his wooing once more. he pleaded with her to give up that mysterious stranger who had come between them. had she forgotten all her promises? must her father's rash command be obeyed? because eric was an old friend, and because senta was a kind-hearted girl, she listened patiently to all that he had to say. not that a single word could have altered her determination to live and to die, if need be, for the flying dutchman. she loved him too well for that. even while she listened to eric, she thought tenderly of her new lover and of how good god had been to allow her to be the maiden fair who would relieve his endless suffering. perhaps it was just that tender thought showing in her face that the dutchman mistook for regret. for, at that very moment, when eric was pleading so earnestly, and senta was listening so patiently, the dutchman came down to the shore. he looked first at eric, then at senta, and like a flash came the thought that here was another girl who would not keep her promise. there had been so many like that. he did not stop to ask or to reason. frantic with disappointment and despair, he rushed blindly over the rocks toward his ship. "to sea! to sea forevermore!" cried he. now, you know senta had not ceased loving him at all. so, although eric tried to detain her, she ran swiftly after the dutchman. she clung to him, crying out her love, and vowing eternal faithfulness again and again. so loudly did she cry, that daland and marie came hurrying, too. the dutchman managed to loosen her arms, to free himself. he waved her back, and a great change came over his face. gone were all thoughts of himself and of his sad fate. he thought only of this pure maiden who was willing to die for his sake. he knew now that he loved her too well to let her pay such an awful price. rather would he sail on and on forever. warning her not to come nearer, he leaped into his boat. then, as the gray sailors unfurled the red, red sails and the black ship plunged forward, he stretched out his arms and told who he was. "the flying dutchman am i, the scourge of the sea," he shouted. daland, marie, eric, crossed themselves and looked after him in horror. not so, senta. she had always known who he was. she would save him. she would be faithful until death. with a glad cry, she leaped forward and cast herself into the seething sea. the waves closed over her. and as they closed a strange thing happened. at the very same moment, the black ship, the red sails, the sailors, all disappeared. only a rosy light lay over the water where they had been. and in that rosy light, which ascended from the blue water to the blue sky, were seen, in close embrace, the angel forms of the flying dutchman and his maiden fair, floating onward and upward, toward their eternal rest. [illustration: the wartburg] tannhäuser, the minstrel knight i this is a tale of long ago. it is a tale of the days of knighthood and minstrelsy; of the days when field and forest rang with the clash of arms, and baronial halls echoed with the sound of harp and voice; when brave knights vied with one another not only in jousts and tourneys at arms, but in tournaments of song as well. in those strange days a majestic castle, called the wartburg, stood on a lofty peak overlooking the green and peaceful valleys of thuringia. the landgrave herman and his niece, the beautiful princess elizabeth, lived there, and they were attended by a splendid court of nobles, knights, and fair ladies. the wartburg was the scene of many gay festivals. time and again the good people of thuringia would gather from near and far to watch gallant, armor-clad knights ride out with lance and spear to mimic warfare. but more often they would gather within the great castle hall to listen to the melodies of well-tuned harps and sweet-voiced singers in tournaments of song. the white hand of the beautiful princess placed the laurel wreath of victory most often upon the brow of one bold young minstrel knight, tannhäuser by name. his was the rarest gift of poetry, his the sweetest voice. nor was any one more beloved than he. his prowess in battle, his skill with lance and spear, his fearless eye, had made him a favorite of the landgrave; while his noble bearing, the light touch of his fingers upon the harp strings, and his clear young voice had won the heart of the proud princess. but tannhäuser, unmindful of these great gifts of fortune, had, in a rash moment, quarreled with his companions. angry beyond reason, forgetful of both friendship and love, he had cast himself away from the wartburg, and had sought the solace of solitude. opposite the wartburg, black and foreboding against the blue of the sky, like a giant of old, towered a mountain, the horselburg. and thither, sad to relate, the footsteps of the errant minstrel knight led the way. now, it seems that when venus, the goddess of love, was banished from the earth, she hid herself away from the eyes of all righteous men, deep within the heart of that very mountain, the horselburg. brooding over her fancied wrongs, she lived there and plotted evil against mankind. her domain was a wonderful cave, all shadows and mystery; and her subjects were strange creatures of the underworld. and, the story went, from a couch of gold where she sat arrayed in richest garments, she lured guileless wanderers through an unseen portal in the mountain side, straight into her kingdom. and while her siren voice cast its spell, while her fatal beauty wove its charm, the poor wanderer was powerless. he followed, and followed, forever and a day, and knew not where. but the face of the earth saw him no more. do you wonder, with such a story abroad, that the horselburg was shunned by old and young? but what cared the bold minstrel knight for strange goddesses or their powers? tannhäuser was clad in all the trappings of knighthood; he had his armor, his lance; the harp of his minstrelsy hung by his side. so he came to the foot of the horselburg, dreamily, heedlessly, but unafraid. still, as he paused to rest beneath an over-hanging rock at the mouth of a cave, he fancied that he heard the sound of rushing water. he started, looking both to the right and to the left. there was no water to be seen. a moment later the faint tinkle of bells fell upon his ear; then the echo of a distant melody followed. he arose and peered into the cave. his venturesome spirit prompted him to take one step forward,--then another. through the shadows he detected the glimmer of many lights, now red, now violet, now blue. what was the rosy haze that enveloped him? and the faint music that drew him on and on? a delicate odor assailed his nostrils. a delicious languor overcame him. "where am i?" he called. but the only answer was the clang as of a closing door, and the sound of a rippling laugh. a moment later, led by unseen magic, blinded by light and overpowered by sound, he stumbled into a region of enchantment, into the presence of venus herself. a fascinating, bewitching goddess was venus, and tannhäuser lingered at her feet for a long time. her magic drew a veil before his eyes, which blinded and enthralled him. and he mistook the mocking cruelty of her face for beauty and the lure of her glance for kindness and love. so he played upon his harp and sang marvelous new songs to her and knelt before her to pay her homage. he forgot all about the past, his knighthood, his minstrelsy, his home, his friends. he even forgot his god. nymphs danced before him, elfin creatures made music for him, strange flowers delighted his eyes, and all was an unceasing round of pleasure day after day. there was no sun to shine, no moon, no stars. spring never came, nor winter. it was all as though the world had never been. still there came a day at last when tannhäuser awoke. he awoke as if from a dream. for a sound had pierced the very rocks and reached his ears. it was the chime of distant church bells. tannhäuser ran his hand across his forehead and staggered to his feet. he remembered. with the remembrance came a loathing and a longing that were pain. he hated the perfume-laden mists about him, the strange flowers, and the nymphs with their songs and endless whirling dances. he longed for a breath of pure woodland air, for the sight of rain-freshened grass, for the sound of the lark's song at dawn. so he seized his harp and sang to venus and begged her to let him go back to earth. "oh, goddess," he implored, "let me go." but venus only smiled a dreamy smile and spoke in soft whispers of the charm of her domain. and the dancers circled about in a maddening whirl, ever faster and faster. the odor of the strange flowers became still heavier. sparkling points of light gleamed among the shadows. a mysterious blue lake appeared in the hazy distance, and misty clouds of rose and gold floated in the air. but tannhäuser still remembered. he loathed the never-ending delights; the ceaseless ease and rest; the songs, the odors, the mist. ah! for but a sight of heaven's clear blue, its clouds and sun of noonday, its moon and stars of night; the changing round of seasons, seed time and harvest; the mingled joys and pains; and work, thrice-blessed work! tannhäuser took up his harp and sang to venus once more. the strings rang with the vigor of his touch; his voice soared high in heart-stirring refrain. he promised that as long as he had life he would sing the praises of venus. wherever he might roam, her name--and hers alone--would bring a song to his lips. as her champion would he fare forth upon the earth again. all this he promised, if she would only set him free. anger overwhelmed the goddess--but she hesitated no longer. let him spread her fame and name through the upper world that had banished her! with one sweep of her arms she broke the chains of enchantment that bound tannhäuser fast. crying,-"if all hope is lost, return to me!" she bade him depart. at that moment a terrific crash rent the air. it seemed as though the earth had been burst asunder. the mists, the gleaming figures, the cave, disappeared; and-tannhäuser found himself lying on a grassy knoll in a sunlit valley. on one side was the black and gloomy horselburg; on the other a lofty peak crowned by the wartburg, stately, grand, majestic, as of yore. flowers bloomed all about; the sky was serene and beautiful; birds sang; a gentle breeze swayed the trees. from the cliff above came the sound of a pipe. a young shepherd was watching his flock there, and he sang a tender little song, all sweetness and melody. the simple beauty of it, the purity, touched tannhäuser's heart, and as he listened his eyes filled with tears. suddenly the sonorous tones of men's voices filled the air. then down the winding pathway and through the valley came the tramp, tramp, tramp, of many feet. and to the solemn strains of a song of prayer a band of pilgrims passed slowly by on the way to rome to seek pardon for their sins. the little shepherd bared his head until the last pilgrim had passed him by. then, waving his cap, he shouted: "god speed, god speed! say one prayer for me!" but tannhäuser sat as one spellbound, until all at once, deeply overcome, he fell upon his knees. ah, where could _he_ look for pardon for _his_ sins? the memory of all that ill-spent time in the venusburg rushed upon him. could he pray to the god whom he had forgotten? tears choked his voice, and although a prayer arose from his heart it found no utterance. he lay prone upon the ground, weeping bitterly. the song of the pilgrims, the measured tread of their feet, grew faint and still fainter. it died away in the distance. quiet ruled the peaceful valley again, for even the shepherd boy had gathered his flock and gone silently away. soon, however, the cheery sound of hunters' horns and the answering bay of dogs broke the silence. a moment later, a pack of dogs ran down the forest path from the wartburg, followed by the landgrave herman and his knights, all clad in hunting dress. seeing the figure of a knight lying upon the ground, their curiosity was at once aroused. one of the party, sir wolfram, ran hastily forward. a single glance was enough. "tannhäuser!" he cried. "is it you?" tannhäuser arose hastily, striving to control his emotion and bowed mutely to the landgrave. at first the knights were uncertain whether he had come back as friend or foe. but his humble, downcast looks soon spoke for him. so they welcomed him gladly into their midst. but tannhäuser was loath to stay. he knew that if once the knights learned where he had been, they would shrink from him in horror. looking into their friendly faces, he was overwhelmed with disgust for all that wicked time in the venusburg. he longed to fly from their sight. since he would not listen to the entreaties of the landgrave and his knights, sir wolfram, tannhäuser's old friend, added his plea: "have you forgotten elizabeth?" he asked. "elizabeth!" tannhäuser exclaimed in a tone of awe,--elizabeth, the beautiful princess, whose name he had forgotten--what of her? then wolfram, speaking softly,--for he loved the beautiful princess also,--told tannhäuser all. he told of that rare prize--the princess's love--which had remained constant during tannhäuser's long absence. many knights had striven to win her, but she had remained true to the one who had gone away. while tannhäuser had strayed in distant lands, she had stayed in her bower saddened and alone, never gracing the tournaments with her presence, never coming forth to witness joust or tourney. would he forsake a love like that? deeply touched, tannhäuser listened until the end. then the light of a great joy and a great hope illumined his face. if elizabeth, the proud princess, had not forgotten him, perhaps he might still continue as a minstrel knight in the wartburg. "lead me to her," he cried,--"to her." so the landgrave sounded his horn, and to the lively baying of the dogs and the joyous song of the knights the whole party proceeded to the wartburg. ii when the news of tannhäuser's return spread through the wartburg, there was great rejoicing. smiles of gladness appeared on every face. tall knights held out hands of welcome; small pages hastened to do him honor. him whom they should have loathed, they greeted as a comrade, hailed as a hero. for they knew not where he had been. and the joy of the princess elizabeth surpassed that of all the rest. misery vanished from her face. delight took its place. all her years of sadness were forgotten, and as she entered the hall of the minstrels, a song of joy sprang unbidden from her lips. had not the knight to whom she had given her heart returned from his wanderings in foreign lands? and would he not take his place among the minstrels as of old in a tournament of song on that very day? his melodious harp and his rich voice would ring out once again, and hers would be the hand to crown him with the wreath of victory. the princess smiled happily as she walked through the great hall and joined her uncle, the landgrave, upon the throne. the landgrave watched her approach, and his face beamed with pride. was there ever a more beautiful princess? her lovely face was aglow. her eyes shone with a luster as deep as that of the jewels about her neck. her skin was fairer than the lilies that she held in her hand. from the shining tresses of her hair where a little golden crown sent out glittering sparks of light to the last heavy fold of silvery satin that trailed behind her, she was a creature to be honored, to be reverenced, to be loved. "how glad i am to have you at my side once more!" whispered the landgrave as they made ready to receive the nobles and fair ladies who had been bidden to the contest. for already the measured tread of many feet was heard in the distance. presently through the pillared doorway, to the sound of martial music and the fluttering of flags, the guests entered the hall, and in stately procession approached the throne. then, after a bow from the landgrave and a word of greeting from the princess, the pages led each to a place in the huge semicircle of seats that half filled the hall. when all had arrived, the landgrave arose, and, turning first to his guests and then to the minstrels who were seated on low benches facing them all, made his address of greeting. he told of the many song festivals that had been held within the ancient hall, and how each had added to the fair fame of the nation. many deeds, many emotions, had been celebrated in song, said he, but the sweetest of all--love--remained--and would be the theme of that day's contest. the minstrel who could sing most worthily about love would receive love's prize as a reward--the hand of elizabeth, the princess. "up then, arouse ye! sing, o gallant minstrels! attune your harps to love! great is the prize." a great shout of approval marked the end of the landgrave's speech. "hail, all hail, lord of thuringia!" cried hundreds of voices. when all was still, two little pages carried a golden cup containing the names of the singers to the princess. she drew one folded paper and handed it to the pages. they read the name and then advanced to the middle of the hall. in high, clear voices they called out,-"sir wolfram von eschenbach, begin!" there was a short pause while sir wolfram rose to his feet. tannhäuser sat, as if in a dream, leaning upon his harp. his eyes strayed through the open doorway far across the peaceful valley to the dark and gloomy mountain beyond. and though an inner voice whispered: "turn away your eyes, sir knight! 'tis the abode of evil to which your thoughts are wandering. have a care, or magic power will rule you again!" he heeded it not. but the eyes of wolfram sought the pure face of the princess on the throne. his hands evoked a tender, rippling strain from the harp--and he began to sing. he sang a quiet song of unselfish love, pure love, which doubts not and trusts ever; which gives more than it seeks. he sang of a love, half sacrifice, wholly devotion--which asks nothing, wants nothing, but gives, always gives. his song fell like a gentle prayer upon the ears of his listeners. "bravo!" they cried, when he had finished. "you have done well, sir wolfram. bravo!" and they clapped their hands and nodded in approval, whispering and smiling at one another. all but tannhäuser. his face had changed. it had become angry, impatient, defiant. this gentle strain that spoke of endless devotion and sacrifice; was that love? no, no. he arose abruptly. he seemed to be looking beyond the familiar hall and the well-known faces, to some unseen vision of delight. an uncanny smile played about his lips. he touched the harp strings, and they jangled with strange harmonies. the people were startled, alarmed. they half rose from their seats. was it madness that inspired the knight? ah! if they but knew. tannhäuser, heeding naught, lifted his voice and sang. and while he sang, the spell of enchantment enmeshed him again. rose-colored mists swam before his eyes and blinded him. he heard the far-off strains of music, he saw the dancing figures, and a siren voice urged him on. he thought of endless pleasure, ceaseless delight. again he forgot work, thrice-blessed work. he forgot the ancient hall; he forgot the pure presence of elizabeth; he forgot his god. he sang a wicked song, an evil song, a song of sinful pleasure, a song of venus. he had vowed that he would sing her praises forevermore. now he would keep his word. his voice soared high in a wild hymn of praise. "would you know love?" he cried, flinging aside his harp and stretching out his arms: "fly to venus. she can teach you!" his words struck the people like a thunder-bolt and left them stunned, horrified. suddenly, like a wave of anger, arose the tumult of cries. "listen! hear him! oh! most horrible! he has been in the venusburg." the ladies hurried in consternation and affright from the hall. only elizabeth stood, pale and trembling, leaning against the throne. all her delight was turned to misery once more. the landgrave, the minstrels, the nobles, gathered together and gazed with horror upon tannhäuser, who, oblivious of all save the evil vision, gazed enraptured, straight ahead. the horror of the men soon gave way to indignation, the indignation in turn to fury and hatred. as from one throat, a mighty shout went up,-"kill him!" and with one accord they drew their swords and pressed upon tannhäuser to slay him. but at that instant a white figure with trailing draperies rushed toward them. she threw herself before tannhäuser, shielding him with her body. it was elizabeth, the princess. "stop," she cried. "stay your hands!" the men fell back in amazement as she fell upon her knees before them. she, the proud princess, most cruelly wronged, would she shield one who had fallen so low? yes, she would shield him, even with her life. he had sinned. ah, how he had sinned! but he had sinned against god, and god must be his judge. who were they to judge him and deny him the opportunity to repent? would they rob his soul of its eternal peace? thus she pleaded and begged for tannhäuser's life, while tears rained down her white cheeks. the men were touched. anger slowly gave way to calm. one by one they sheathed their swords and turned toward the landgrave. meanwhile tannhäuser, at the sound of elizabeth's pleading voice, turned his head. as though just awakened from an evil dream, he stared at her kneeling figure, the drawn swords, the horror-stricken faces. suddenly he remembered all that he had said, all that he had done. the enormity of his sin rushed upon him. he realized how he had outraged friendship, love, religion, all that was holy, pure, and good. in fearful contrition he fell upon the floor, sobbing and crying out in his misery and distress. where could he look for pardon now? suddenly, through the open doorway, there came the sound of the song of the pilgrim band on its way to rome. it was a song of prayer and praise, a song of repentance and confession, a song of peace with god. it brought hope and a promise of comfort. silence filled the great hall as the notes died away in the distance. only elizabeth's face, white and pleading, was lifted toward the landgrave's in silent prayer. the landgrave gazed at tannhäuser's bent figure, and feelings of pity mingled with the loathing he felt. advancing solemnly toward tannhäuser, he bade him arise and join the band of pilgrims now on its way to rome. no other way was open to one who had sinned as he had sinned. and, if after confession, he was pardoned for his grievous wrong, he might return to the wartburg. otherwise they never wished to see him again. at these words tannhäuser sprang to his feet. the echo of the pilgrim's voice still lingered in the air. he listened a moment while a ray of hope illumined his anguish-stricken face. then with a cry "to rome! to rome!" he hastened from the room. [illustration: tannhäuser at the bier of elizabeth (after a painting by von kaulbach)] iii the road to rome was rough and thorny, beset with hardship, fraught with suffering. but tannhäuser, full of new-found hope, wholly repentant, longing for pardon, pushed eagerly onward. no pilgrim was of humbler mien, nor was any of more contrite spirit. the thought of elizabeth's devotion and her prayers dispelled all his former pride of sin, and made the hardships of the journey seem all too light for his remorseful soul. when other pilgrims sought smooth pathways through meadow and valley, he trod unshod amid rocks and thorns. when they refreshed their lips at cool mountain springs, he continued hungry and thirsty on his way. snow and ice did not daunt him, nor the scorching rays of the sun, nor the tempest's roar. he gave of his life blood freely and faltered not. the other pilgrims found shelter and rest in hospices high up among the mountains. he made his bed in the drifting snow, the ice, the cold. lest the beauty of italy delight his eyes, he went blindfolded over its vine-clad hills, through its blooming meadows. for his heart burned with penitence, and his soul ached for pardon. thus the weeks lengthened into months, and a long year went by. at last the chime of bells was heard in the distance; the white towers of rome were outlined against the blue italian sky. weary and footsore, the pilgrims crept one by one to the holy shrine, and, one by one, each was told that his sins would be forgiven and was bidden to go rejoicing on his way and sin no more. finally tannhäuser's time came. with a cry of relief he prostrated himself before the throne and confessed his awful sin, his wasted years, his deep repentance. he had dwelt in an unholy place, he had been the slave of sinful pleasure, he had blasphemed his god,--but awakening had come at last. was there pardon for such as he? the first solemn words of answer with their accents of horror brought tannhäuser to his feet in terror. as in a dream he listened. no. there could be no pardon for such a sin. he was pronounced accursed forevermore. the judgment continued: "as this barren staff i hold ne'er will put forth a flower or a leaf thus shalt thou never more behold salvation or thy sins relief." tannhäuser heard no more. hopeless and despairing, he staggered wildly from the room and away into the darkness. what mattered it which way he wandered--now, since he was an outcast and accursed forever? ah, to find a path that would lead to forgetfulness! the pilgrims had already gone on their way homeward to thuringia. from out of the distance, their joyous song of praise fell upon the air. tannhäuser took up his staff and followed in their wake, hopeless and alone. meanwhile throughout the long year the princess elizabeth had waited and prayed day after day. and sir wolfram, watching her devotion from afar, had grieved to see her body become weak with pain, and her face white and drawn with sorrow and suffering. at last there came a day when, kneeling at her shrine on the forest path, the sound of the pilgrims' return broke in upon her prayers. "they have come back!" she whispered as she rose to her feet. the song, the steady tramp of feet, grew louder and louder. on and on came the pilgrims. and, singing of god's goodness and his divine grace, they passed elizabeth and wolfram, one by one. but he for whom she had prayed was not among them. he had not returned. he had not been forgiven. her prayers had been in vain. all her strength was gone. with a last look at the valley lying peaceful, in the glow of early eventide, and with a farewell glance at sir wolfram, she passed wearily upward toward the castle. night fell. the sky grew dark with clouds save where, over the wartburg, a single star hung. suddenly, through the gloom, a dejected and footsore wanderer made his way. it was tannhäuser. as his eyes fell upon the familiar scene, and upon sir wolfram, in knightly array, all his misery rushed upon him anew. oh, if he could but find the path that led to forgetfulness, the path of pleasure, the path to venus! in the days of his care-free youth, it had been but a step, but now, laden with sin, weighted with the knowledge of evil, bowed with repentance and suffering, his feet would not lead him there. with a loud cry he stretched forth his arms and called,-"venus, goddess, do you hear my call?" suddenly the roseate light, the same alluring sounds of music, the same sweet odors, enthralled him again. venus, reclining upon her couch, appeared amid the rosy clouds. "take me!" cried tannhäuser, rushing forward to throw himself beside her. at that moment, the slow and solemn chant of a funeral dirge sounded from afar. tannhäuser started. his arms fell by his side. he turned his head. down the path from the wartburg, the knights were bearing a bier. lighted torches were at the head, the foot. a bell was tolling. voices were singing in praise of elizabeth, the beautiful princess, who had gone to join the angel band, the fairest angel of all the host. "ah! elizabeth!" exclaimed tannhäuser. with a despairing cry, he staggered toward the bier. ah, yes, it was she, she who had prayed for him, she who had loved him more than he knew. better death beside her than life in sin! bending over elizabeth's body, he sank slowly to the ground, and god took him home. for it is said that not long afterward the barren staff of the head of the church blossomed and put forth leaves of green. and thus the lord in his mercy forgave tannhäuser, the sinner, and entered him into the kingdom of heaven. printed in the united states of america. * * * * * * transcriber's note: in the table of contents, page 155 has been changed to the correct page, 156. inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) the ring of the niblung the rhinegold: prelude the valkyrie: first day of the trilogy siegfried: second day of the trilogy the twilight of the gods: third day of the trilogy the rhinegold & the valkyrie by richard wagner with illustrations by arthur rackham translated by margaret armour london william heinemann new york doubleday pace & co 1910 [illustration: "raging, wotan rides to the rock! . . . . . . . like a storm-wind he comes!"] list of illustrations "raging, wotan rides to the rock! . . . . . . . . like a storm-wind he comes" plate 01 the frolic of the rhine-maidens plate 02 the rhine-maidens teasing alberich plate 03 "mock away! mock! the niblung makes for your toy!" plate 04 "seize the despoiler! rescue the gold! help us! help us! woe! woe!" plate 05 freia, the fair one plate 06 "the rhine's pure-gleaming children told me of their sorrow" plate 07 fasolt suddenly seizes freia and drags her to one side with fafner plate 08 the gods grow wan and aged at the loss of freia plate 09 mime, howling. "ohé! ohé! oh! oh!" plate 10 mime writhes under the lashes he receives plate 11 alberich drives in a band of niblungs laden with gold and silver treasure plate 12 "ohé! ohé! horrible dragon, o swallow me not! spare the life of poor loge! plate 13 "hey! come hither, and stop me this cranny!" plate 14 "erda bids thee beware" plate 15 fafner kills fasolt plate 16 "to my hammer's swing hitherward sweep vapours and fogs! hovering mists! donner, your lord, summons his hosts!" plate 17 "the rhine's fair children, bewailing their lost gold, weep" plate 18 "this healing and honeyed draught of mead deign to accept from me." "set it first to thy lips" plate 19 hunding discovers the likeness between siegmund and sieglinde plate 20 sieglinde prepares hunding's draught for the night plate 21 "siegmund the walsung thou dost see! as bride-gift he brings thee this sword" plate 22 brünnhilde plate 23 fricka approaches in anger plate 24 brünnhilde slowly and silently leads her horse down the path to the cave plate 25 "father! father! tell me what ails thee? with dismay thou art filling thy child!" plate 26 brünnhilde stands for a long time dazed and alarmed plate 27 brünnhilde with her horse, at the mouth of the cave plate 28 "i flee for the first time and am pursued: warfather follows close . . . . . . . he nears, he nears, in fury! save this woman! sisters, your help!" plate 29 "there as a dread dragon he sojourns, and in a cave keeps watch over alberich's ring" plate 30 the ride of the valkyries plate 31 "appear, flickering fire, encircle the rock with thy flame! loge! loge! appear!" plate 32 as he moves slowly away, wotan turns and looks sorrowfully back at brünnhilde plate 33 the sleep of brünnhilde plate 34 the rhinegold characters gods: wotan, donner, froh, loge nibelungs: alberich, mime giants: fasolt, fafner goddesses: fricka, freia, erda rhine-maidens: woglinde, wellgunde, flosshilde scenes of action i. at the bottom of the rhine ii. open space on a mountain height near the rhine iii. the subterranean caverns of nibelheim iv. open space as in scene ii. first scene _at the bottom of the rhine_ _a greenish twilight, lighter above than below. the upper part is filled with undulating water, which streams respectively from right to left. towards the bottom the waves resolve themselves into a mist which grows finer as it descends, so that a space, as high as a mans body from the ground, appears to be quite free from the water, which floats like a train of clouds over the gloomy stretch below. steep rocky peaks jut up everywhere from the depths, and enclose the entire stage. the ground is a wild confusion of jagged rocks, no part of it being quite level, and on every side deeper fisures are indicated by a still denser gloom. woglinde circles with graceful swimming movements round the central rock._ woglinde weia! waga! roll, o ye billows, rock ye our cradle! wagala weia! wallala, weiala, weia! wellgunde [_from above._ woglinde, watchest alone? woglinde if wellgunde came we were two. wellgunde [_dives down to the rock_. how keepest thou watch? woglinde [_swimming off, eludes her_. wary of thee. [_they playfully tease and chase one another_. flosshilde [_from above_. heiaha weia! ho! ye wild sisters! wellgunde flosshilde, swim! woglinde flies: help me to hinder her flying. flosshilde [_dives down between the two at play._ the sleeping gold badly ye guard; watch with more zeal the slumberer's bed, or dear you'll pay for your sport! [_they swim asunder with merry cries. flosshilde tries to catch first the one, then the other. they elude her, and then combine to chase her, darting like fish from rock to rock with jests and laughter. meanwhile alberich climbs out of a dark ravine on to a rock. he pauses, still surrounded by darkness, and watches the frolic of the rhine-maidens with increasing pleasure._ alberich hey, hey! ye nixies! ye are a lovely, lovable folk! from nibelheim's night fain would i come, would ye be kind to me. [_the maidens, as soon as they hear alberich's voice, stop playing._ woglinde hei! who is there? wellgunde a voice! it grows dark! flosshilde who listens below? [_they dive down and see the nibelung._ woglinde and wellgunde fie! the loathsome one! [illustration: plate 02, the frolic of the rhine-maidens.] flosshilde [_swimming up quickly._ look to the gold! father warned us of such a foe. [both the others follow her, and all three gather quickly round the central rock. alberich you above there! the three rhine-maidens what wouldst thou below there? alberich do i spoil sport by standing and gazing here? dived ye but deeper, fain the niblung would join in your frolic and play. wellgunde he wishes to join us? woglinde is he in jest? alberich ye gleam above me so glad and fair! if one would only glide down, how close in my arms fondly clasped she would be! flosshilde i laugh at my fears: the foe is in love. wellgunde the amorous imp! woglinde let us approach him. [she sinks down to the top of the rock, whose base alberich has reached. alberich lo! one of them comes! woglinde climb up to me here! alberich [_climbs with gnome-like agility, though with repeated checks, to the summit of the rock. irritably._ horrid rock, so slippery, slimy! i slide and slip! my hands and feet vainly attempt to hold on to the slithery surface! vapour damp fills up my nostrils- accursed sneezing! [_he has got near woglinde,_ woglinde [_laughing._ sneezing tells that my suitor comes! alberich be thou my love! adorable child! [_he tries to embrace her._ woglinde [_escaping from him._ here thou must woo, if woo me thou wilt! [_she swims up to another rock._ alberich [_scratching his head._ alas! not yet caught? come but closer! hard i found what so lightly thou didst. woglinde [_swims to a third rock lower down._ deeper descend: thou'lt certainly seize me! alberich [_clambers down quickly._ down there it is better! woglinde [_darts upwards to a higher rock at the side._ but better still higher! wellgunde and flosshilde [_laughing_ ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! alberich how capture this coy, elusive fish? wait for me, false one! [_he tries to climb after her in haste._ wellgunde [_has sunk down to a lower rock on the other side._ heia! my friend there! dost thou not hear? alberich [_turning round._ what? didst thou call? wellgunde be counselled by me: forsake woglinde, climb up to me now! alberich [_climbs hastily over the river-bottom towards wellgunde._ thou art more comely far than that coy one; her sheen is duller, her skin too smooth. but thou must deeper dive to delight me! wellgunde [_sinking down till she is a little nearer him._ well, now am i near? alberich not near enough. thine arms around me tenderly throw, that i may fondle thy neck with my fingers, and closely may cling to thy bosom with love and with longing. wellgunde art thou in love? for love art thou pining? approach and show me thy face and thy form. fie! thou horrible hunchback, for shame! swarthy, horny-skinned rogue of a dwarf! find thou a sweetheart fonder than i? alberich [_tries to detain her by force_ i may not be fair, but fast i can hold! wellgunde [_swimming up quickly to the middle rock._ hold firm, or i will escape! woglinde and flosshilde [_laughing._ ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! alberich [_angrily calling after wellgunde._ fickle maid! bony, cold-blooded fish! fair if i seem not, pretty and playful smooth and sleek- hei! if i am so loathsome give thy love to the eels! flosshilde what ails thee, dwarf? daunted so soon? though two have been wooed, still a third waits thee, solace sweet fain at a word to grant! alberich soothing song sounds in my ear! 'twas well i found three and not one! the chance is i charm one of many, whilst, single, no one would choose me! hither come gliding, and i will believe! flosshilde [_dives down to alberich._ how senseless are ye, silly sisters, not to see he is fair! alberich [_hastening towards her._ i well may deem them dull and ill-favoured, seeing how lovely thou art! flosshilde sing on! thy song, so soft and sweet, entrancing sounds in my ear! alberich [_caressing her with confidence._ my heart burns and flutters and fails, flattered by praises so sweet! flosshilde [_gently resisting him._ thy grace and beauty make glad my eye; and thy smile refreshes my soul like balm [_she draws him tenderly towards her._ dearest of men! alberich sweetest of maids! flosshilde wert thou but mine! alberich wert mine for ever! flosshilde [_ardently._ to be pierced by thy glance, to be pricked by thy beard, to see and to feel them for aye! might thy hair hard as bristles flow ever more enraptured flosshilde wreathing! and thy form like a frog's, and the croak of thy voice- o could i, dumb with amaze, marvel forever on these! woglinde and wellgunde [_dive down close to them and laugh._ ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! alberich [_starting in alarm._ wretches, dare ye thus scoff? flosshilde [_suddenly darting away from him._ a suitable end to the song. [_she swims up quickly with her sisters._ woglinde and wellgunde [_laughing._ ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! alberich [_in a wailing voice._ woe's me! ah, woe's me! alas! alas! the third one, so dear, does she too betray? o sly and shameful worthless and dissolute wantons! live ye on lies alone, o ye false nixie brood? the three rhine maidens wallala! wallala! lalalelai leialalei! heia! heia! ha! ha! shame on thee goblin, scolding down yonder! cease, and do as we bid thee! faint-hearted wooer, why couldst not hold the maid, when won, more fast? true are we, and troth we keep with lovers when once caught. grasp then and hold; away with all fear! in the waves we scarce can escape. wallala! lalaleia! leialalei! heia! heia! ha hei! [_they swim apart hither and thither, now lower, now higher, to provoke alberich to give chase._ [illustration: plate 03, the rhine-maidens teasing alberich.] alberich fiercely within me passionate fires consume and flame! love and fury, wild, resistless, lash me to frenzy! so laugh and lie your fill- one of you i desire, and one must yield to my yearning! [_he starts chasing them with desperate energy. he climbs with terrible agility, and, springing from rock to rock, tries to catch one maiden after another. they keep eluding him with mocking laughter. he stumbles and falls into the abyss, and clambers up quickly again and resumes the chase. they sink down a little towards him; he almost reaches them, but falls, back again, and once more tries to catch them. at last he pauses out of breath, and, foaming with rage, stretches his clenched fist up towards the maidens._ alberich if but this fist had one! [_he remains speechless with rage, gazing upwards, when he is suddenly attracted and arrested by the following spectacle. through the water a light of continually increasing brilliance breaks from above, and, at a point near the top of the middle rock, kindles to a radiant and dazzling golden gleam. a magical light streams from this through the waves._ woglinde look, sisters! the wakener laughs to the deep. wellgunde through the billows green the blissful slumberer greets. flosshilde he kisses the eyelid, making it open; bathed in splendour, behold it smiles, sending, like a star, gleaming light through the waves. the three rhine-maidens [_swimming gracefully round the cliff together._ heia jaheia! heia jaheia! wallala la la la leia jahei! rhinegold! rhinegold! radiant delight, how glorious and glad thy smile, over the water shooting effulgence afar! heia jahei! heia jaheia! waken, friend! wake in joy! that we may please thee, merry we'll play, waters afire, billows aflame, as, blissfully bathing, dancing and singing, we dive and encircle thy bed! rhinegold! rhinegold! heia jaheia! heia jaheia! wallala la la la heia jahei! [_with increasing mirthful abandonment the maidens swim round the rock. the water is filled with a glimmering golden light._ alberich [_whose eyes, strongly attracted by the radiance, stare fixedly at the gold._ what is it, sleek ones, that yonder gleams and shines? the three rhine-maidens where dost thou hail from, o churl, of the rhinegold not to have heard? wellgunde knows not the elf of the famed eye golden that wakes and sleeps in turn? woglinde of the star resplendent down in the depths whose light illumines the waves? the three rhine-maidens [_together_ see how gaily we glide in the glory! wouldst thou also be bathed in brightness, come, float and frolic with us! wallala la la leia lalei! wallala la la leia jahei! alberich has the gold no value apart from your games? it were not worth getting! woglinde he would not scoff, scorning the gold, did he but know all its wonders! wellgunde that man surely the earth would inherit who from the rhinegold fashioned the ring which measureless power imparts. flosshilde our father told us, and strictly bade us guard with prudence the precious hoard that no thief from the water might steal it. be still, then, chattering fools. wellgunde o prudent sister, why chide and reproach? hast thou not heard that one alone can hope to fashion the gold? woglinde only the man who love defies, only the man from love who flies can learn and master the magic that makes a ring of the gold. wellgunde secure then are we and free from care: for love is part of living; no one would live without loving. woglinde and least of all he, the languishing elf, with pangs of love pining away. flosshilde i fear him not who should surely know, by his savage lust almost inflamed. [illustration: plate 04 "mock away! mock away! the niblung makes for your toy!"] wellgunde a brimstone brand in the surging waves, in lovesick frenzy hissing loud. the three rhine-maidens [_together._ wallala! wallaleia la la! join in our laughter, lovable elf! in the golden glory how gallant thy sheen! o come, lovely one, laugh as we laugh! heia jaheia! heia jaheia! wallala la la la leia jahei! [_they swim, laughing, backwards and forwards in the light._ alberich [_his eyes fixed on the gold, has listened attentively to the sisters rapid chatter._ could i truly the whole earth inherit through thee? if love be beyond me my cunning could compass delight? [_in a terribly loud voice._ mock away! mock! the niblung makes for your toy! [_raging he springs on to the middle rock, and clambers to the top. the maidens scatter, screaming, and swim upwards on different sides._ the three rhine maidens heia! heia!heia jahei! save yourselves! the elf is distraught! swirling waters splash at every leap: the creature's crazy with love! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! alberich [_reaching the topwith a last spring._ still undismayed? go, wanton in darkness. water-born brood! [_he stretches his hand out towards the gold._ my hand quenches your light; i tear the gold from the rock; forged be the ring for revenge! bear witness, ye floods- i forswear love and curse it! [_he tears the gold from the rock with terrific force, and immediately plunges with it into the depths, where he quickly disappears. sudden darkness envelops the scene. the maidens dive down after the robber._ the three rhine maidens seize the despoiler! rescue the gold! help us! help us! woe! woe! [_the water sinks with them. from the lowest depth alberich's shrill, mocking laughter rings up. the rocks are hidden by impenetrable darkness. the whole stage from top to bottom is filled with black waves, which for some time appear to sink even lower._ [illustration: plate 05 "seize the despoiler! rescue the gold! help us! help us! woe! woe!"] second scene _the waves have gradually changed into clouds which, becoming lighter and lighter by degrees, finally disperse in a fine mist. as the mist vanishes upwards in light little clouds an open space on a mountain height becomes visible in the dim light which precedes dawn. at one side wotan with fricka beside him both asleep, lie on a flowery bank. the dawning day illumines with increasing brightness a castle with glittering pinnacles which stands on the summit of a cliff in the background. between this and the foreground a deep valley is visible through which the rhine flows._ fricka [_awakes; her gaze falls on the castle, which has become plainly visible; alarmed._ wotan [_continuing to dream._ the happy hall of delight is guarded by gate and door: manhood's honour, power for aye, rise to my lasting renown! fricka [_shakes him._ up from deceitful bliss of a dream! my husband, wake and consider! wotan [_awakes and raises himself slightly. his glance is immediately arrested by the view of the castle._ the walls everlasting are built! on yonder summit the gods' abode proudly rears its radiant strength! as i nursed it in dream and desired it to be, strong it stands, fair to behold, brave and beautiful pile! fricka while thou rejoicest, joyless am i. thou hast thy hall; my heart fears for freia. heedless one, hast thou forgotten the price that was to be paid? the work is finished, and forfeit the pledge: hast thou then no care for the cost? wotan my bargain well i remember with them who built the abode. 'twas a pact tamed them, the obstinate race, so that this hallowed hall they have built me. it stands--the strong ones' doing:- fret not thou, counting the cost. fricka o laughing, insolent lightness! mirth how cruel and callous! had i but known of thy pact, the trick had never been played; but far from your counsels ye men kept the women, that, deaf to us and in peace, alone ye might deal with the giants. so without shame ye promised them freia, freia, my beautiful sister, proud of playing the thief. what remains holy or precious to men once grown greedy of might? wotan [_calmly._ from such greed was fricka then free herself when the castle she craved? fricka i was forced to ponder some means to keep my husband faithful, true to me when his fancy tempted him far from his home. halls high and stately, decked to delight thee, were to constrain thee to peaceful repose. but thou hadst the work designed intent on war alone; it was to add more to thy might still, to stir up to tumult still fiercer that built were the towering walls wotan wouldst thou, o wife! in the castle confine me, to me, the god, must be granted, faithful at home, the right to wage war and conquer the world from without. ranging and changing all men love: that sport at least thou must leave me. fricka cold, hard-hearted, merciless man! for the idle baubles, empire and sway, thou stakest in insolent scorn love and a woman's worth! wotan when i went wooing, to win thee i staked ungrudging, gladly one of my eyes: what folly now then to scold! women i honour beyond thy desire! i will not abandon frei, the fair: such never was my intent. fricka [_ anxiously looking towards a point not on the stage._ then succour her now: defenceless, in fear, hither she hastens for help! freia [_enters as if flying from someone._ help me, sister! shield me, o brother! from yonder mountain menaces fasolt: he comes to bear me off captive. wotan let him come! sawest thou loge? fricka to this tricky deceiver o why wilt thou trust? he always snares thee anew, though from his snares thou hast suffered. wotan i ask for no aid where simple truth suffices; but to turn the spite of foes to profit, craft and cunning alone can teach, as by loge employed. he whose advice i obeyed has promised ransom for freia: on him my faith i have fixed. fricka and art left in the lurch. the giants come. lo! hither they stride: where lingers now thine ally? freia where tarry ye, my brothers, when help ye should bring me, weak and bartered away by my kin? o help me, donner! hither! hither! rescue freia, my froh! fricka now the knaves who plotted and tricked thee abandon thee in thy need. [_fasolt and fafner, both of gigantic stature, enter, armed with stout clubs._ fasolt soft sleep sealed thine eyes while we, both sleepless, built the castle walls: working hard wearied not, heaping, heaving heavy stones. tower steep, door and gate keep and guard thy goodly castle halls. [_pointing to the castle._ there stands what we builded, shining fair beneath the sun. enter in and pay the price! wotan name, workers, your wage. what payment will appease you? fasolt we made the terms that seemed to us meet. hast thou forgot so soon? freia, the fair one, holda, the free one- the bargain is we bear her away. wotan (quickly.) ye must be mad to moot such a thing! ask some other wage; freia i will not grant. fasolt _stands for a space speechless with angry surprise._ what is this? ha! wouldest deceive?- go back on thy bond? what thy spear wards are they but sport, all the runes of solemn bargain? fafner o trusty brother! fool, dost now see the trick? fasolt son of light, light, unstable, hearken! have a care! in treaties keep thou troth! what thou art thou art only by treaties, for, built on bonds, there are bounds to thy might. though cunning thou, more clever than we: though we once freemen, are pledged to peace, cursed be all thy wisdom;- peaceful promises perish!- wilt thou not open, honest and frank stand fast by a bargain once fixed. a stupid giant tells thee this: o wise one, take it from him! [illustration: plate 06, freia, the fair one] wotan how sly to judge us serious when plainly we were but jesting! the beautiful goddess light and bright- for churls what charm could she have? fasolt jeerest thou? ha! how unjust! ye who by beauty rule, proud and radiant race! how foolish, striving for towers of stone, woman's love to pledge- price of walls and of halls! we dolts, despising ease, sweating with toil-hardened hands, have worked, that a woman with gentle delight in our midst might sojourn and ye call the pact a jest? fafner cease thy childish chatter; no gain look we to get. freia's charms mean little; but it means much, if from the gods we remove her. golden apples ripen within her garden; she alone grows the apples and tends them. the goodly fruit gives to her kinsfolk, who eat thereof, youth everlasting. sick and pale, their beauty would perish, old and weak, wasting away, were not freia among them. [_roughly._ from their midst, therefore, freia must forth! wotan [_aside._ loge lingers long! fasolt we wait for thy word! wotan ask some other wage! fasolt no other: freia alone! fafner thou there, follow us! [_fafner and fasolt press towards freia. froh and donner enter in haste._ freia help! help from the harsh ones! froh to me, freia! [_clasping freia in his arms._ [_to fafner._ back, overbold one! froh shields the fair one! donner [_confronting the giants._ fasolt and fafner, have ye not felt with what weight my hammer falls? fafner what means thy threat? fasolt what wouldst thou here? no strife we desire; we want but our due reward. donner oft i've doled out giants their due: come, your reward is here waiting, full measure and more! [_he swings his hammer._ wotan [_stretching out his spear between the combatants._ hold, thou fierce one! nothing by force! all bonds and treaties my spear protects; spare then thy hammer's haft! freia woe's me! woe's me! wotan forsakes me! fricka can such be thy thought, merciless man? wotan [_turns away and sees loge coming._ there comes loge! hot is thy haste smoothly to settle thy sorry, badly-made bargain! loge [_has come up out of the valley in the background._ what is this bargain that i am blamed for?- the one with the giants that thou thyself didst decide? o'er hill and o'er hollow drives me my whim; house and hearth i do not crave. donner and froh, they dream but of roof and room: wedding, must have a home in which to dwell, a stately hall, a fortress fast. it was such wotan wished. hall and house, castle, court, the blissful abode now stands complete and strong. i proved the lordly pile myself; in fear of flaws, scanning it close. fasolt and fafner faithful i found; firm-bedded is each stone. i was not slothful like many here: who calls me sluggard, he lies! wotan cunningly thou wouldst escape! warned be, and wisely turn from attempts to deceive. of all the gods i alone stood by thee as thy friend, in the gang that trusted thee not. now speak, and to the point! for when the builders at first as wage freia demanded, i gave way only, trusting thy word when thou didst solemnly promise to ransom the noble pledge. loge perplexed to puzzle, plans to ponder for its redeeming- that promise i gave; but to discover what cannot be, what none can do, no man can possibly promise. fricka see the treacherous rogue thou didst trust! froh named art loge, but liar i call thee! donner accursèd flame, i will quench thy fire! loge from their shame to shelter, foolish folk flout me. [_donner threatens to strike loge._ wotan [_stepping between them._ forbear and let him alone! ye wot not loge's wiles. his advice, given slowly, gains both in weight and in worth. fafner do not dally; promptly pay! fasolt long waits our reward. wotan _turns sternly to loge._ speak up surly one! fail me not! how far hast thou ranged and roamed? loge still with reproach is loge paid! concerned but for thee, thorough and swift, i searched and ransacked to the ends of the earth to find a ransom for freia fair to the giants and just. in vain the search, convincing at last that the world contains nothing so sweet that a man will take it instead of woman's love and delight. [_all seem surprised and taken aback._ where life moves and has being, in water, earth and air i questioned, asking of all things, where weak still is strength, and germs only stirring, what men thought dear- and stronger deemed- than woman's love and delight. but where life moves and has being my questions met but with laughter and scorn. in water, earth and air woman and love will none forego. [_varied gestures of amazement._ one man, one only, i met who, renouncing love, prized ruddy gold above any woman's grace. the rhine's pure-gleaming children told me of their sorrow. the nibelung, night-alberich, wooed for the favour of the swimmers in vain, and vengeance took, stealing the rhinegold they guard. he thinks it now a thing beyond price, greater than woman's grace. for their glittering toy thus torn from the deep the sorrowful maids lamented. they pray, wotan, pleading to thee, that thy wrath may fall on the robber the gold too they would have thee grant them to guard in the water for ever. loge promised the maidens to tell thee, and, keeping faith, he has told. [illustration: plate 07 "the rhine's pure-gleaming children told me of their sorrow"] wotan dull thou must be or downright knavish! in parlous plight myself, what help have i for others? fasolt [_who has been listening attentively, to fafner._ the niblung has much annoyed us; i greatly grudge him this rhinegold; but such his craft and cunning, he has never been caught. fafner other malice ponders the niblung; gains he might from gold listen, loge! tell us the truth. what wondrous gift has the gold, that the dwarf desires it so? loge a plaything, in the waves providing children with laughter and sport, it gives, when to golden ring it is rounded, power and might unmatched; it wins its owner the world. wotan [_thoughtfully._ rumours i have heard of the rhinegold; runes of riches hide in its ruddy glow; pelf and power are by the ring bestowed. fricka [_softly to loge._ could this gaud, this gleaming trinket forged from the gold, be worn by a woman too? loge the wife who wore that glittering charm never would lose her husband's love- that charm which dwarfs are welding, working in thrall to the ring. fricka [_coaxingly to wotan._ o could but my husband come by the ring! wotan _as if falling more and more under the influence of a spell._ methinks it were wisdom, won i the ring to my service. but say, loge, how shall i learn to forge and fashion it true? loge a magic rune can round the golden ring. no one knows it, yet plain the spell to him who happy love forswears. [_wotan turns away in annoyance._ that suits thee not; thou art too late too. alberich did not delay; fearless he mastered the potent spell, [_harshly._ and wrought aright was the ring. donner _to wotan._ we should all be under the dwarf, were not the ring from him wrested. wotan the ring i must capture! froh lightly now, without cursing love it were won. loge just so: without guile, as in children's games! wotan then tell us how. loge by theft! what a thief stole steal thou from the thief; how better could object be won? but with baleful arms battles alberich. wary, wise must be thy scheming, if the thief thou wouldst confound, _with warmth._ and restore the ruddy and golden toy, the rhinegold, to the maidens. for this they pray and implore. wotan the river-maidens? what profit were mine? fricka of that billow-born brood bring me no tidings, for they have wooed to my woe full many a man to their caves. _wotan stands silent, struggling with himself. the other gods gaze at him in mute suspense. fafner, meanwhile, has been consulting aside with fasolt._ fafner worth far more than freia were the glittering gold. eternal youth, too, were his who could use the charm in its quest. [_fasolt's gestures indicate that he is being convinced against his will. fafner and fasolt approach wotan again._ fafner hear, wotan, our word while we wait; freia we will restore you, and will take paltrier payment: the niblung's red-gleaming gold will guerdon us giants rude. wotan ye must be mad! with what i possess not how can i, shameless ones, pay you? fafner hard labour went to those walls; how easy with fraud-aided force (what our malice never achieved) the niblung to break and bind! [illustration: plate 08, fasolt suddenly seizes freia and drags her to one side with fafner] wotan [_more quickly._ why should i make war on the niblung?- fight, your foe to confound? insolent and greedily grasping dolts you grow through my debt! fasolt [_suddenly seizes freia and drags her to one side with fafner._ maiden, come! we claim thee ours! as pledge thou shalt be held till the ransom is paid. freia [_screaming_. woe's me! woe's me! woe! fafner from your midst we bear her forth! till evening--mark it well i- as a pledge she is ours. we will return then. but when we come, if the rhinegold be not ready, the rhinegold bright and red-fasolt the respite is ended, freia is forfeit and bides among us for aye! freia sister! brothers! save me! help! [_the giants hasten off, dragging freia with them._ froh up! follow fast! donner fall now the heavens! [_they look inquiringly at wotan._ freia [_in the distance._ save me! help! loge [_looking after the giants._ downward over stock and stone striding they go; through the ford across the rhine wade now the robbers. sad at heart hangs freia, thrown rudely over rough shoulders! heia! hei! the louts, how they lumber along! through the rhine valley they reel. not till riesenheim's march is reached will they rest! [_he turns to the gods._ how darkly wotan doth dream! what ails the high, happy gods? [_a pale mist, gradually increasing in density, fills the stage. seen through it the gods look more and more wan and aged. all stand in dismay and apprehension regarding wotan, whose eyes are fixed broodingly on the ground._ loge does a mist mock me? tricks me a dream? dismayed and wan, how swiftly ye fade! lo! the bloom forsakes your cheeks, and quenched is the light of your eyes! courage, froh! day's but begun! from thy hand, donner, the hammer is falling! and why frets fricka? sees she with sorrow that wotan's hair, growing grey, has made him gloomy and old? fricka woe's me! woe's me! what does it mean? [illustration: plate 09, the gods grow wan and aged at the loss of freia.] donner my hand sinks down. froh my heart stands still. loge i have it: hear what ye lack! of freia's fruit ye have not partaken to-day. the golden apples within her garden restored you your strength and your youth, ate ye thereof each day. the garden's guardian in pledge has been given. on the branches dries and droops the fruit, to drop soon and decay. my loss is lighter, for still did freia, stingy to me, stint the delectable fruit. not half as godlike am i, ye high ones, as you! [_freely, but quickly and harshly._ but ye trusted solely to the fruit that makes young, as well both the giants wist. your life they played for, plotted to take; contrive so that they fail. lacking the apples, old and worn, grey and weary, wasting, the scoff of the world, the gods must pine and pass. fricka [_anxiously_ wotan, alas! unhappy man! see what thy laughing lightness has brought us- scoff and scorn for all! wotan [_coming to a sudden resolve, starts up._ up, loge, and follow me! to nibelheim hastening downward, i go in search of the gold. loge the rhine-daughters thy aid invoked: not vainly they hoped for thy help then? wotan [_angrily._ fool, be silent! freia, the fair one- freia's ransom we go for. loge where thou wouldst go gladly i lead. shall we dive sheer through the depths of the rhine? wotan not through the rhine. loge then swift let us swing through this smoky chasm. together, come, creep we in! [_he goes in front and vanijhes at the side through a cleft, from which, immediately afterwards, sulphurous vapour streams forth._ wotan ye others wait till evening here; the golden ransom when got will again make us young. [_he descends after loge into the chasm. the sulphurous vapour which rises from it spreads over the whole stage and quickly fills it with thick clouds. those who remain behind are soon hidden._ donner fare thee well, wotan! froh good luck! good luck! fricka o come back soon to thy sorrowing wife! [_the sulphurous vapour darkens till it becomes a black cloud, which rises upwards from below. this then changes to a dark, rocky cavern which keeps rising, so that the stage seems to sink deeper and deeper into the earth._ third scene _from various points in the distance ruddy lights gleam out. an increasing clamour, as of smiths at work, is heard on all sides. the clang of the anvils dies away. a vast subterranean chasm becomes visible which seems to open into narrow gorges on all sides. alberich drags the screaming mime out of a side cleft._ alberich héhé! héhé! come here! come here! mischievous dwarf! prettily pinched promptly thou'lt be hast thou not ready, wrought to my wish, the dainty thing i desire! mime [_howling._ ohé! ohé! oh! oh! let me alone! it is forged; heeding thy hest i laboured hard till it was done! take but thy nails from my ear! alberich then why this delay to show thy work? mime i feared that something might still be wanting. [illustration: plate 10 mime, howling. "ohé! ohé! oh! oh!"] alberich what is there to finish? mime [_embarrassed._ here--and there---alberich how here and there? hand me the thing! [_he tries to catch hold of his ear again. in his terror mime drops a piece of metal-work which he has been clutching convulsively. alberich picks it up hastily and examines it with care._ rogue, observe! see how all wrought is well finished and feat, done as desired! the simpleton wants slyly to trick me and keep by cunning the wonderful work, though all his skill came alone from my craft. thou art discovered, thief. [_he puts the tarnhelm on his head._ the helmet fits the head; but will the spell prosper too? [_very softly._ "night and darkness, seen of none!" [_he vanishes, and a pillar of cloud takes his place._ brother, canst see me? mime [_looks round in amaze._ where art thou? i see no one. alberich [_invisible._ then feel me instead, thou lazy scamp! take that for thy thievish thoughts! mime [_writhes under the lathes he receives, the sound of which is heard without the whip being seen._ ohé! ohé! oh! oh! oh! alberich [_invisible and laughing._ ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! i thank thee, blockhead; thy work has stood the test. hoho! hoho! nibelungs all bow now to alberich! for he is everywhere, waiting and watching; peace and rest are past for ever; ye must all serve him, though see him can none; where he cannot be spied look out for his coming; none shall escape from his thraldom! [_harshly._ hoho! hoho! hearken, he nears: the nibelung's lord! [_the pillar of cloud disappears in the background. alberich's scolding voice is heard more and more faintly. mime lies huddled up in pain. wotan and loge come down through a cleft in the rock._ loge nibelheim here. through pale mists gleaming, how bright yonder fiery sparks glimmer! mime oh! oh! oh! wotan i hear loud groans. who lies on the ground? [illustration: plate 11, mime writhes under the lashes he receives.] loge [_bends over mime._ why all this whimpering noise? mime ohé! ohé! oh! oh! loge hei, mime! merry dwarf! who beats and bullies thee so? mime leave me in peace, pray. loge so much is certain, and more still. hark! help i promise thee, mime! [_he raises him with difficulty._ mime what help for me? to do his bidding my brother can force me, for i am bound as his slave. loge but, mime, how has he thus made thee his thrall? mime by evil arts fashioned alberich a yellow ring, from the rhinegold forged, at whose mighty magic trembling we marvel; this spell puts in his power the nibelung hosts of night. happy we smiths moulded and hammered, making our women trinkets to wear- exquisite nibelung toys- and lightly laughed at our toil. the rogue now compels us to creep into caverns, for him alone to labour unthanked. through the golden ring his greed can divine where untouched treasure in hidden gorge gleams. we still must keep spying, peering and delving: must melt the booty, which, molten, we forge without pause or peace, to heap up higher his hoard. loge just now, then, an idler roused him to wrath? mime poor mime, ah! my lot was the hardest. i had to work, forging a helmet, with strict instructions how to contrive it; and well i marked the wondrous might bestowed by the helm that from steel i wrought. hence i had gladly held it as mine, and, by its virtue risen at last in revolt: perchance, yes, perchance the master himself i had mastered, and, he in my power, had wrested the ring from him and used it that he might serve me, the free man, [_harshly_ as now i must serve him, a slave! loge and wherefore, wise one, sped not the plan? mime ah! though the helm i fashioned, the magic that lurks therein i foolishly failed to divine. he who set the task and seized the fruits- from him i have learnt, alas i but too late! all the helmet's cunning craft. from my sight he vanished, but, viciously lashing, swung his arm through unseen. [_howling and sobbing._ this, fool that i am, was all my thanks! [_he rubs his back. wotan and loge laugh._ loge [_to wotan._ confess, our task will call for skill. wotan yet the foe will yield, use thou but fraud. mime [_observes the gods more attentively._ who are you, ye strangers that ask all these questions? loge friends to thee, who from their straits will free all the nibelung folk. mime [_shrinking back in fear when he hears alberich returning._ hark! have a care! alberich comes! [he runs to and fro in terror. wotan we'll wait for him here. [_he sits down calmly on a stone. alberich, who has taken the tarnhelm from his head and hung it on his girdle, is brandishing his scourge and driving before him a band of nibelungs from the gorges below. these are laden with gold and silver treasure, which, urged on by alberich, they pile up so as to form a large heap._ alberich hither! thither! héhé! hoho! lazy herd! haste and heap higher the hoard. up with thee there! on with thee here! indolent dolts, down with the treasure! need ye my urging? here with it all! [_he suddenly perceives wotan and loge._ hey! who are they that thus intrude? mime! come here! rascally rogue! gossiping art with the pilgriming pair? off, thou idler! back to thy bellows and beating! [_lashing mime, he chases him into the crowd of nibelungs._ hey! to your labour! get ye all hence now! swing ye down swift! from the virgin gorges get me the gold! this whip will follow, delve ye not fast! that labour ye shirk not mime be surety, or surely the lash of my whip will find him; that where no one would guess i watch and i wander, none knows it better than he. loitering still? lingering there? [illustration: plate 12, alberich drives in a band of nibelungs laden with gold and silver treasure.] [_he pulls the ring from his finger, kisses it and stretches it out in menace._ fear ye and tremble, o fallen host, and obey the ring's dread lord! [_howling and shrieking, the nibelungs, among them mime, scatter, and creep down into the clefts in all directions._ alberich what seek ye here? [_looks long and distrustfully at wotan and loge._ wotan from nibelheim's gloomy realm strange tidings have travelled up, tales of wonders worked here by alberich; and, greedy of marvels, hither came we as guests. alberich by envy urged, hither ye hie. such doughty guests i do not mistake. loge since i am known, ignorant elf, say then, with growling whom dost thou greet? in caverns cold where once thou didst crouch, who gave thee light and fire for thy comfort, had loge not smiled on thee? or what hadst thou fashioned had not i heated thy forge? i am thy kinsman and once was kind: lukewarm, methinks, are thy thanks! alberich on light-born elves laughs now loge, the crafty rogue: art thou, false one, their friend as my friend thou wert once, haha! i laugh! no harm from such need i fear. loge no cause then for thy distrust. alberich i can trust thy falsehood, not thy good faith! [_taking up a defiant attitude._ yet i dare you all unflinching. loge 'tis thy might that makes thee so bold; grimly great groweth thy power. alberich seest thou the hoard yonder heaped high by my host? loge a richer one never was seen. alberich a wretched pile is this to-day, though. boldly mounting, 'twill be bigger henceforward. wotan but what is gained by the hoard in joyless nibelheim, where wealth finds nothing to buy? alberich treasure to gather and treasure to garner- thereto nibelheim serves. but with the hoard in the caverns upheaped wonders all wonder surpassing will i perform and win the whole world and its fairness. wotan but, my friend, how compass that goal? alberich ye who live above and breathe the balmy, sweet airs, love and laugh: a hand of gold ere long, o ye gods, will have gripped you! as i forswore love, even so no one alive but shall forswear it; by golden songs wooed, for gold alone will his greed be. on hills of delight your home is, where gladness softly lulls; the dark elves ye despise, o deathless carousers! beware! beware! for first your men shall bow to my might; then your women fair who my wooing spurned the dwarf will force to his will, though frowned on by love. [_laughing savagely._ ha! ha! ha! ha! mark ye my word? beware! beware of the hosts of the night, when rise shall the nibelung hoard from silent depths to the day! wotan [_furiously._ avaunt, impious fool! alberich what says he? loge [_stepping between them._ cease from thy folly! [_to alberich._ who would gaze not in wonder, beholding alberich's work? if only thy skill can achieve everything hope has promised, almighty i needs must acclaim thee! for moon and stars and the sun in his glory, forced to do thee obeisance, even they must bow down. but what would seem of most moment is that they who serve thee, the nibelung hosts, bow and bear no hate. when thy hand held forth a ring thy folk were stricken with fear. but in thy sleep a thief might slip up and steal slyly the ring. say, how wouldst thou save thyself then? alberich most shrewd to himself seems loge; others always figure as fools. if i had to ask for advice or aid on bitter terms, how happy the thief would be! this helmet that hides i schemed for myself, and chose for its smith mime, finest of forgers. i am now able swift to assume any form that i fancy, through the helm. no one sees me, search as he will; though everywhere hidden, i always am there. so, fearing nothing, even from thee i am safe, most kind, careful of friends! loge i have met full many a marvel, but one so wondrous have never known. achievement so matchless scarce can i credit. were this possible, truly thy might indeed were eternal. alberich dost thou believe i lie, as would loge? loge till it is proved i must suspect thy word. alberich puffed up with wisdom, the fool will explode soon: of envy then die! decide to what i shall change; in that form i shall stand. loge nay, choose for thyself, but strike me dumb with amaze. alberich [_puts the tarnhelm on his head._ "dragon dread, wreathe thou and wriggle!" [_he immediately disappears. an enormous serpent writhes on the floor in his place. it rears and threatens wotan and loge with its open jaws._ loge [_pretends to be terrified._ ohé! alberich [_laughing._ ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! loge ohé! ohé! horrible dragon, o swallow me not! spare the life of poor loge! wotan good, alberich! well done, rascal! how swiftly grew the dwarf to the dragon immense! [_the dragon disappears and, in its stead, alberich is again seen in his own shape._ alberich he he! ye scoffers, are ye convinced? [illustration: plate 13 "ohé! ohé! horrible dragon, o swallow me not! spare the life of poor loge!"] loge [_in a trembling voice._ my trembling tells thee how truly. a giant snake thou wert in a trice. having beheld, i just credit the wonder. couldest thou turn to something quite tiny as well as bigger? methinks that way were best for slyly slipping from foes; that, though, i fear were too hard! alberich for thee, yes; thou art so dull! how small shall i be? loge the most cramped of crannies must hold thee that hides the timorous toad. alberich nothing simpler! look at me now! [_he puts the tarnhelm on his head again._ "crooked toad, creep and crawl there!" [_he vanishes. the gods see a toad on the rocks creeping towards them._ loge [_to wotan._ quick and catch it! capture the toad! [_wotan sets his foot on the toad. loge makes a dash at its head and holds the tarnhelm in his hand._ alberich [_is suddenly seen in his own shape writhing under wotan's foot._ ohé! i'm caught! my curse upon them! loge hold him fast till he is bound. [_loge binds his hands and feet with a rope._ now swiftly up! then he is ours. [_both seize hold of the prisoner, who struggles violently, and drag him towards the shaft by which they descended. they disappear mounting upwards._ fourth scene _the scene has changed as before, only in reverse order. open space on mountain heights. the prospect is veiled by pale mist as at the end of the second scene. wotan and loge climb up out of the cavern, bringing with them alberich bound._ loge here, kinsman, thou canst sit down! friend, look round thee; there lies the world that was thine for the winning, thou fool! what corner, say, wilt give to me for my stall? [_he dances round alberich, snapping his fingers._ alberich infamous robber! thou knave! thou rogue! loosen the rope, set me at large, or dear for this outrage shalt answer! wotan my captive art thou, caught and in fetters. as thou hadst fain subdued the world and all that the world containeth, thou liest bound at my feet, and, coward, canst not deny it. a ransom alone shall loose thee from bondage. alberich ah, the dolt, the dreamer i was, to trust blindly the treacherous thief! fearful revenge shall follow this wrong! loge vain talk this of vengeance before thy freedom is won. to a man in bonds no free man expiates outrage. if vengeance thou dreamest, dream of the ransom first without further delay! [_he shows him the kind of ransom by snapping his fingers._ alberich declare then your demands. wotan the hoard and thy gleaming gold. alberich pack of unscrupulous thieves! [_aside._ if i only can keep the ring, the hoard i can lightly let go, for anew i could win it and add to its worth by the powerful spell of the ring. if as warning it serves to make me more wise, the warning will not have been lost, even though lost may be the gold. wotan wilt yield up the hoard? alberich loosen my hand to summon it here. [_loge frees his right hand._ alberich [_touches the ring with his lips and secretly murmurs the command._ behold the nibelungs hither are called; i can hear them coming, bid by their lord, with the hoard from the depths to the day. now loosen these burdensome bonds. wotan nay, first in full thou must pay. [_the nibelungs come up out of the cleft laden with the objects of which the hoard is composed._ alberich o bitter disgrace that my shrinking bondsmen should see me captive and bound! [_to the nibelungs._ lay it down there, as ye are bid! in a heap pile up the hoard. must i aid, idlers? no spying at me! haste there! haste! then get ye gone quickly. hence to your work. home to your gorges! let the sluggards beware, for i follow hard at your heels! [_he kisses the ring and holds it out with an air of command. as struck with a blow, the nibelungs press terrified and cowering towards the cleft, down which they hastily disappear._ alberich the price is paid; let me depart! and that helm of mine which loge still holds, that also pray give me again! loge _throwing the tarnhelm on to the heap._ the plunder must pay for the pardon. alberich accursed thief! but patience! calm! he who moulded the one makes me another; still mine is the might that mime obeys. loath indeed am i to leave my cunning defence to the foe! nothing alberich owns at all now; unbind, ye tyrants, his bonds! loge [_to wotan._ ought i to free him? art thou content? wotan a golden ring girdles thy finger: hearest, elf? that also belongs to the hoard. alberich [_horrified._ the ring? wotan the ring must also go to the ransom. alberich [_trembling._ my life--but the ring: not that! wotan [_with greater violence._ the ring i covet; for thy life i care not at all. alberich but if my life i ransom the ring i must also rescue hand and head, eye and ear are not mine more truly than mine is the ruddy ring! wotan the ring thou claimest as thine? impudent elf, thou art raving. tell the truth; whence was gotten the gold to fashion the glittering gaud? how could that be thine which reft was, thou rogue, from watery deeps? to the rhine's fair daughters down and inquire if the gold was as gift to thee given that thou didst thieve for the ring! alberich vile double-dealing! shameless deceit! wouldst thou, robber, reproach in me the sin so sweet to thyself? how fain thou hadst bereft the rhine of its gold, if it had been as easy to forge as to steal! how well for thee, thou unctuous knave, that the nibelung, stung by shameful defeat, and by fury driven, was fired into winning the spell that now alluringly smiles! shall i, bliss debarred, anguish-burdened because of the curse-laden deed, my ring as a toy grant to princes for pleasure, my ban bringing blessing to thee? have a care, arrogant god! my sin was one concerning myself alone: but against all that was, is and shall be thou wouldst wantonly sin, eternal one, taking the ring. wotan yield the ring! thy foolish talk gives no title to that. [_he seizes alberich and draws the ring from his finger by force._ alberich [_with a frightful cry._ woe! defeated! undone! of wretches the wretchedest slave! wotan [_contemplating the ring._ i own what makes me supreme, the mightiest lord of all lords! [_he puts on the ring._ loge [_to wotan._ shall he go free? wotan loose his bonds. loge [_sets alberich quite free._ slip away home, for no fetter binds thee! fare forth, thou art free! alberich [_raising himself with furious laughter._ am i now free, free in truth? my freedom's first greeting take, for it is thine! as a curse gave me the ring, my curse go with the ring! as its gold gave measureless might, may now its magic deal death evermore! no man shall gain gladness therefrom; may ill-fortune befall him on whom it shines. fretted by care be he who shall hold it, and he who doth not, by envy be gnawed! all shall covet and crave its wealth, yet none shall it profit or pay when won. those who guard it nothing shall gain, yet shall murder go where they go. the coward, death-doomed, by fetters of fear shall be bound; his whole life long he shall languish to death- the ring's proud lord and its poorest slave- till again i have in my hand the gold i was robbed of. so blesses the nibelung the ring in bitter despair! hold fast to it! [laughing. keep it with care; [grimly. from my curse none shall escape! [_he vanishes quickly through the cleft. the thick mist in the foreground gradually clears away._ loge hadst thou ears for his fond farewell? wotan [_left in contemplation of the ring._ grudge him not vent to his spleen! [_it keeps growing lighter._ loge [_looking to the right._ fasolt and fafner come from afar bringing freia again. [_through the vanishing mist donner, froh, and fricka appear, and hasten towards the foreground._ froh the giants return. donner be greeted, brother! fricka [_anxiously to wotan._ dost bring joyful tidings? loge [_pointing to the hoard._ by fraud and by force we have prevailed: there freia's ransom lies. donner from the giant's grasp freed comes the fair one. froh how sweetly the air fans us again! balmy delights steal soft through each sense! sad, forlorn had our lot been, for ever severed from her who gives us youth everlasting, and bliss triumphant o'er pain. [_fasolt and fafner enter, leading freia between them. fricka hastens joyfully towards her sister. the foreground has become quite bright again, the light restoring to the aspect of the gods its original freshnesh. the background, however, is still veiled by the mist so that the distant castle remains invisible._ fricka sweetest of sisters! lovely delight! once more for mine have i won thee! fasolt [_keeping her off_ hold! touch her not yet! freia still is ours. on riesenheim's rampart of rock resting we stayed. the pledge we held in our hands we used loyally. with deep regret, i bring her back now in case ye brothers can ransom her. wotan prepared lies the ransom; mete out the gold, giving generous measure. fasolt in truth it grieves me greatly the woman to lose; and that my heart may forget her ye must heap the hoard, pile it so high that it shall hide the blossom-sweet maid from mine eyes! wotan be freia's form the gauge of the gold. [_freia is placed in the middle by the two giants, who then stick their staves into the ground in front of her so that her height and breadth is indicated._ fafner our staves give the measure of freia's form; thus high now heap ye the hoard. wotan on with the work: irksome i find it! loge help me, froh! froh i will end freia's dishonour. [_loge and froh heap up the treasure hastily between the staves._ fafner let the pile less loosely be built; firm and close pack ye the gauge! [_he presses down the treasure with rude strength; he bends down to look for gaps._ i still can see through; come, fill up the crannies! loge hands off, rude fellow! touch nothing here! fafner come here! this gap must be closed! wotan [_turning away angrily._ deep in my breast burns the disgrace! fricka see how in shame beautiful freia stands; for release she asks, dumb, with sorrowful eyes. heartless man! the lovely one owes this to thee! fafner still more! pile on still more. donner my patience fails; mad is the wrath roused by this insolent rogue! come hither, hound! measure must thou? thy strength then measure with mine! fafner softly, donner! roar where it serves; thy roar is impotent here. donner [_lunging out at him._ it will crush thee to thy cost, rogue. wotan calm thyself! methinks that freia is hid. loge the hoard is spent. fafner [_measures the hoard carefully with his eye, and looks to see if there are any crevices._ still shines to me holda's hair. yonder thing, too, throw on the hoard! loge even the helm? fafner make haste! here with it! wotan let it go also! loge [_throws the tarnhelm on the heap._ at last we have finished. have ye enough now? fasolt freia, the fair, is hidden for aye! the price has been paid. ah, have i lost her? [_he goes up to the hoard and peers through it._ sadly shine her eyes on me still, like stars they beam softly on me; still through this chink i look on their light. [_beside himself._ while her sweet eyes i behold thus, from the woman how can i part? fafner hey! come hither, and stop me this cranny! loge greedy grumblers! can ye not see the gold is all gone? fafner not the whole, friend! on wotan's finger shines a golden ring still; give that to close up the crevice! wotan what! give my ring? loge be ye counselled! the rhine-maidens must have the gold; wotan will give them what theirs is. [illustration: plate 14 fafner. "hey! come hither, and stop me this cranny!"] wotan what nonsense is this? the ring i won so hardly, undismayed i hold and will keep. loge broken then must be the promise i gave the maidens who grieved. wotan by thy promise i am not bound; as booty mine is the ring. fafner not so. the ring must go with the ransom. wotan boldly ask what ye will: it shall be granted; but not for all the world would i give you the ring. fasolt [_furious, pulls freia from behind the hoard._ all is off! the bargain stands: fair freia ours is for ever! freia help me! help me! fricka heartless god, grant it! give way! froh keep not the gold back! donner give them the ring too! wotan let me alone! i hold to the ring. [_fafner stops fasolt as he is hastening off. all stand dismayed; wotan turns from them in anger. the stage has grown dark again. from a cleft in the rock on one side issues a bluish flame in which erda suddenly becomes visible, rising so that her upper half is seen._ erda [_stretching out a warning hand towards wotan._ yield it, wotan! yield it! flee the ring's dread curse! awful and utter disaster it will doom thee to. wotan what woman woe thus foretells? erda all things that were i know, and things that are; all things that shall be i foresee. the endless world's ur-wala, erda, bids thee beware. ere the earth was, of my womb born were daughters three; and my knowledge nightly the norns tell to wotan. now summoned by danger most dire, i myself come. hearken! hearken! hearken! all things will end shortly; and for the gods dark days are dawning! be counselled; keep not the ring! [_erda sinks slowly as far as the breast, while the bluish light grows fainter._ wotan a mystic might rang in thy words. tarry, and tell me further. erda [_disappearing._ thou hast been warned; enough dost know; weigh my words with fear! [_she vanishes completely._ [illustration: plate 15, "erda bids thee beware"] wotan if thus doomed to foreboding- i must detain thee till all is answered! [_wotan is about to follow erda in order to detain her. froh and fricka throw themselves in his way and prevent him._ fricka what meanest thou, madman? froh go not, wotan! fear thou the warner, heed her words well! [_wotan gazes thoughtfully before him._ donner [_turning to the giants with a resolute air._ hark, ye giants! come back and wait still! the gold we give you also. fricka ah, dare i hope it? deem ye holda worthy of such a price? [_all look at wotan in suspense; he, rousing himself from deep thought, grasps his spear and swings it in token of having come to a bold decision._ wotan to me, freia, for thou art free! bought back for aye, youth everlasting, return! here, giants, take ye the ring! [he throws the ring on the hoard. the giants release freia; she hastens joyfully to the gods, who caress her in turns for a space, with every manifestation of delight. fasolt [_to fafner._ hold there, greedy one! grant me my portion! honest division best for both is. fafner more on the maid than the gold thou wert set, love-sick fool, and much against thy will the exchange was. sharing not, freia thou wouldst have wooed for thy bride; sharing the gold, it is but just that the most of it should be mine. fasolt infamous thief! taunts? and to me! [_to the gods._ come judge ye between us; halve ye the hoard as seems to you just! [_wotan turns away in contempt._ let him have the treasure; hold to what matters: the ring! fasolt [_falls upon fafner, who has meanwhile been steadily packing up the treasure._ back, brazen rascal! mine is the ring. i lost for it freia's smile. [_he snatches haply at the ring._ off with thy hands! the ring is mine. [_there is a struggle. fasolt tears the ring from fafner._ fasolt i hold it. it is mine now! fafner hold fast, lest it should fall! [_lunging out with his stave, he fells fasolt to the ground with one blow; from the dying man he then hastily tears the ring._ now feast upon freia's smile: no more shalt thou touch the ring! [_he puts the ring into the sack and tranquilly continues to pack up the rest of the hoard. all the gods stand horrified. a solemn silence._ [illustration: plate 16, fafner kills fasolt.] wotan dread indeed i find is the curse's might. loge unmatched, wotan, surely thy luck is! great thy gain was in getting the ring; but the gain of its loss is gain greater still: there thy foemen, see, slaughter thy foes for the gold thou hast let go. wotan dark forebodings oppress me! care and fear fetter my soul; erda must teach me, tell how to end them: to her i must descend. fricka [_caressing and coaxing him._ why linger, wotan? beckon they not, the stately walls, waiting to offer welcome kind to their lord? wotan [_gloomily._ with wage accurst paid was their cost. donner [_pointing to the background, which is still enveloped in mist._ heavily mists hang in the air; gloomy, wearisome is their weight! the wan-visaged clouds charged with their storms i will gather, and sweep the blue heavens clean. [_donner mounts a high rock on the edge of the precipice, and swings his hammer; during what follows the mists gather round him._ hey da! hey da! hey do! to me, o ye mists! ye vapours, to me! donner, your lord, summons his hosts! [_he swings his hammer._ to my hammer's swing hitherward sweep vapours and fogs! hovering mists! donner, your lord, summons his hosts! hey da! hey da! hey do! [_donner disappears completely in a thunder-cloud which has been growing darker and denser. the stroke of his hammer is heard falling heavily on the rock. a vivid flash of lightning comes from the cloud, followed by a loud clap of thunder. froh has also disappeared in the cloud._ donner [_invisible._ brother, to me! show them the way by the bridge! [_suddenly the clouds roll away. donner and froh become visible. a rainbow of dazzling radiance stretches from their feet across the valley to the castle, which is gleaming in the light of the setting sun._ froh [_who, with outstretched hand, indicates to the gods that the bridge is the way across the valley._ lo, light, yet securely, leads the bridge to your halls. undaunted tread; without danger the road! [_wotan and the other gods stand speechless, lost in contemplation of the glorious sight._ [illustration: plate 17 "to my hammer's swing hitherward sweep vapours and fogs! hovering mists! donner, your lord, summons his hosts!"] wotan smiling at eve the sun's eye sparkles; the castle ablaze gleams fair in its glow. in the light of morning glittering proudly, it stood masterless, stately, tempting its lord. from dawn until sundown no little toil and fear have gone to the winning! from envious night, that now draws nigh shelter it offers us. [_very firmly, as if struck by a great thought._ so greet i my home, safe from dismay and dread. [_he turns solemnly to fricka._ follow me, wife! in valhall sojourn with me. fricka what means the name valhall? i never seem to have heard it. wotan that which, conquering fear, my fortitude brought triumphant to birth- let that explain the word! [_he takes fricka's hand and walks slowly with her towards the bridge. froh, freia, and donner follow._ loge [_remaining in the foreground and looking after the gods._ they are hasting on to their end, they who dream they are strong and enduring. i almost blush to be of their number; a fancy allures me and wakes in me longing flaming fire to become: to waste and burn them who tamed me of old, rather than perish, blind with the blind- yes, even if godlike the gods were- more wise were it, perhaps! i must consider: the outcome who knows! [_with a show of carelessness he goes to the gods._ the three rhine-maidens [_from the valley. invisible._ rhinegold! rhinegold! rhinegold pure! how radiant and clear once thou didst shine on us! for thy lost glory we are grieving. give us the gold! give us the gold! o give us the rhinegold again! wotan what wailing sound do i hear? [_about to set his foot on the bridge, pauses and turns round._ loge [_looks down into the valley._ the rhine's fair children, bewailing their lost gold, weep. wotan accursèd nixies! bid them tease us no more! loge [_calling down towards the valley._ ye in the water, why wail ye to us? list to wotan's decree. ye have seen the last of the gold; in the gods' increase of splendour bask and sun yourselves now. [illustration: plate 18 "the rhine's fair children, bewailing their lost gold, weep"] [_the gods laugh and cross the bridge during what follows._ the three rhine-maidens rhinegold! rhinegold! rhinegold pure! oh, if in the waves there but shone still our treasure pure! down in the deeps can faith be found only: mean and false are all who revel above! [_as the gods cross the bridge to the castle the curtain falls._ * * * * * the valkyrie characters wotan hunding fricka siegmund sieglinde brünnhilde, valkyrie eight other valkyries: gerhilde, ortlinde, waltraute, schwertleite, helmwige, siegrune, grimgerde, rossweisse scenes of action act i. the interior of hunding's dwelling act ii. a wild rocky mountain act iii. on the top of a rocky mountain (brünnhilde's rock) the first act _the interior of a dwelling-place built of wood, with the stem of a mighty ash-tree as its centre; to the right, in the foreground, is the hearth, and behind this the store-room. at the back is the large entrance door; to the left, far back, steps lead up to an inner chamber; on the same side, nearer the front, stands a table with a broad bench behind it, fixed to the wall, and with stools in front. the stage remains empty for a space. outside a storm is just subsiding. siegmund opens the entrance door from without, and enters. with his hand on the latch he surveys the room. he seems overwhelmed with fatigue; his dress and appearance indicate that he is in flight. he shuts the door behind him when he sees nobody, walks to the hearth with the final effort of an utterly exhausted man, and throws himself down on a bearskin rug._ siegmund i rest on this hearth, heedless who owns it. [_he sinks back and remains stretched out motionless. sieglinde enters from the inner chamber; she thinks her husband has returned. her grave look changes to one of surprise when she sees the stranger stretched out on the hearth._ sieglinde [_still at the back._ a stranger here! he must be questioned. [_coming nearer._ what man came in and lies on the hearth? [_as siegmund does not move, she draws nearer still and looks at him._ way-worn, weary he seems and spent. faints he from weariness? can he be sick? [_she bends over him, and listens._ he breathes still, his eyelids are sealed but in slumber. worthy, valiant his mien, though so worn he rests. siegmund [_suddenly raising his head._ a drink! a drink! sieglinde i go to fetch it. [_she takes a drinking-horn and hurries out. she returns with it full, and offers it to siegmund._ lo, the water thy thirsting lips longed for: water brought at thy wish! [_siegmund drinks, and hands her back the horn. as he signifies his thanks with a movement of the head, he gazes at her with growing interest._ siegmund welcome the water! quenched is my thirst. my weary load lighter it makes; new courage it gives; mine eyes that slept re-open glad on the world. who soothes and comforts me so? sieglinde this house and this wife belong to hunding. stay thou here as his guest; tarry till he comes home. siegmund shelter he surely will grant a worn, wounded, weaponless stranger. sieglinde [_with anxious haste._ quick, show me! where are thy wounds? siegmund [_shakes himself and springs up briskly to a sitting posture._ my wounds are slight, scarce worthy remark; my limbs are well knit still, whole and unharmed. if my spear and shield had but been half so strong as my arm is, i had vanquished the foe; but in splinters were spear and shield. the horde of foemen harassed me sore; through storm and strife spent was my force; but, faster than i from foemen, all my faintness has fled; darkness fell deep on my lids, but now the sun again laughs. sieglinde [_goes to the storeroom, fills a horn with mead, and proffers it to siegmund with friendly eagerness._ this healing and honeyed draught of mead deign to accept from me. siegmund set it first to thy lips. [_sieglinde sips from the horn and hands it back to him. siegmund takes a long draught, regarding sieglinde with increasing warmth. still gazing, he takes the horn from his lips and lets it sink slowly, while his features express strong emotion. he sighs deeply, and lowers his gaze gloomily to the ground._ siegmund [_in a trembling voice._ thou hast tended an ill-fated one! may all evil be turned from thee! [_he starts up quickly, and goes towards the the back._ i have been solaced by sweet repose: onward now i must press. sieglinde who pursues thee so close at thy heels? [_turning round quickly._ siegmund [_stops._ bad luck pursues me, everywhere follows; and where i linger trouble still finds me: be thou preserved from its touch! i must not gaze but go. [_he strides hastily to the door and lifts the latch._ sieglinde [_forgetting herself calls impetuously after him._ then tarry here! misfortune thou canst not bring to those who abide with it! [illustration: plate 19 sieglinde "this healing and honeyed draught of mead deign to accept from me." siegfried "set it first to thy lips."] siegmund [_deeply moved, remains standing; he looks searchingly at sieglinde, who, ashamed and sad, lowers her eyes. returning, he leans against the hearth, his gaze fixed on sieglinde, who continues silently embarrassed._ wehwalt named i myself: hunding here will i wait for. _sieglinde starts, listens and hears hunding outside leading his horse to the stable. she hurries to the door and opens it. hunding, armed with shield and spear, enters, but, perceiving siegmund, pauses on the threshold. hunding turns with a look of stern inquiry to sieglinde._ sieglinde [_in answer to hunding's look._ on the hearth fainting i found one whom need drove here. hunding hast succoured him? sieglinde i gave him, as a guest, welcome and a drink. siegmund [_regarding hunding firmly and calmly._ drink she gave, shelter too: wouldst therefore chide the woman? hunding sacred is my hearth: sacred hold thou my house. [_to sieglinde, as he takes off his armour and hands it to her._ set the meal for us men! [_sieglinde hangs up the arms on the stem of the ash-tree, fetches food and drink from the store-room and sets supper on the table. involuntarily she turns her gaze on siegmund again._ hunding [_examining siegmund's features keenly and with amaze, compares them with sieglinde's. aside._ how like to the woman! in his eye as well gleams the guile of the serpent. [_he conceals his surprise, and turns with apparent unconcern to siegmund._ far, i trow, must thou have fared; the man who rests here rode no horse: what toilsome journey made thee so tired? siegmund through wood and meadow, thicket and moor, chased by the storm and peril sore, i ran by i know not what road. i know as little what goal it led to, and i would gladly be told. hunding [_at table, inviting siegmund to be seated._ 'tis hunding owns the roof and room which have harboured thee. if to the westward thou wert to wend, in homesteads rich thou wouldst find kinsmen who guard the honour of hunding. may i ask of my guest in return to tell me his name? [_siegmund, who has taken his seat at the table, looks thoughtfully before him. sieglinde, who has placed herself beside hunding and opposite siegmund, gazes at him with evident sympathy and suspense._ [illustration: plate 20, hunding discovers the likeness between siegmund and sieglinde.] hunding [_watching them both._ if thou wilt not trust it to me, to this woman tell thy secret: see, how eagerly she asks! sieglinde [_unembarrassed and interested._ gladly i'd know who thou art. siegmund [_looks up and, gazing into her eyes, begins gravely._ not for me the name friedmund; frohwalt fain were i called, but forced was i to be wehwalt. wölfe they called my father; and i am one of twins: with a sister twin i was born. soon lost were both mother and maid; i hardly knew her who gave me my life, nor her with whom i was born. warlike and strong was wölfe, and never wanting for foes. a-hunting oft went the son with the father. one day we returned outworn with the chase and found the wolf's nest robbed. the brave abode to ashes was burnt, consumed to dust the flourishing oak, and dead was the mother, dauntless but slain. no trace of the sister was ever found: the neidungs' heartless horde had dealt us this bitter blow. my father fled, an outlaw with me; and the youth lived wild in the forest with wölfe for many years. sore beset and harried were they, but boldly battled the pair of wolves. [_turning to hunding._ a wölfing tells thee the tale, and a well-known wölfing, i trow. hunding wondrous and wild the story told by thee, valiant guest: wehwalt--the wölfing! i think that dark rumours anent this doughty pair have reached me, though unknown wölfe and wölfing too. sieglinde but tell me further, stranger: where dwells thy father now? siegmund the neidungs, starting anew, hounded and hunted us down; but slain by the wolves fell many a hunter; they fled through the wood, chased by the game: like chaff we scattered the foe. but trace of my father i lost; still his trail grew fainter the longer i followed; in the wood a wolf-skin was all i found; there empty it lay: my father i had lost.- in the woods i could not stay; my heart longed for men and for women.- by all i met, no matter where, if friend i sought, or woman wooed, still i was branded an outlaw; ill-luck clung to me; whatever i did right, others counted it wrong; what seemed evil to me won from others applause. grim feuds arose wherever i went; wrath met me at every turn; longing for gladness, woe was my lot: i called myself wehwalt therefore, for woe was all that was mine. [_he looks at sieglinde and marks her sympathetic gaze._ hunding thou wert shown no grace by the norns that cast thy grievous lot; no one greets thee as guest with gladness in his home. sieglinde only cowards would fear a weaponless, lonely man!- tell us, o guest, how in the strife at last thy weapon was lost! siegmund a sorrowful child cried for my help; her kinsmen wanted to wed the maiden to one whom her heart did not choose. to her defence gladly i hied; the heartless horde met me in fight: before me foemen fell. fordone and dead lay the brothers. the slain were embraced by the maid, her wrongs forgotten in grief. she wept wild streams of woe, and bathed the dead with her tears; for the loss of her brothers slain lamented the ill-fated bride. then the dead men's kinsmen came like a storm, vowing vengeance, frantic to fall on me; foemen on all sides rose and assailed me. but from the spot moved not the maid; my shield and spear sheltered her long, till spear and shield were hewn from my hand. standing weaponless, wounded, i beheld the maid die: i fled from the furious host- she lay lifeless on the dead. [_to sieglinde with a look of fervent sorrow._ the reason now i have told why none may know me as friedmund. [_he rises and walks to the hearth. pale and deeply moved, sieglinde looks on the ground._ hunding [_rises._ i know a wild-blooded breed; what others revere it flouts unawed: all hate it, and i with the rest. when forth in haste i was summoned, vengeance to seek for my kinsmen's blood, i came too late, and now return home to find the impious wretch in haven under my roof.- my house holds thee, wölfing, to-day; for the night thou art my guest. but wield to-morrow thy trustiest weapon. i choose the day for the fight: thy life shall pay for the dead. [_to sieglinde, who steps between the two men with anxious gestures; harshly._ forth from the hall! linger not here! prepare my draught for the night, and wait until i come. [_sieglinde stands for a while undecided and thoughtful. slowly and with hesitating steps she goes towards the store-room, there she pauses again, lost in thought, her face half averted. with quiet resolution she opens the cupboard, fills a drinking-horn, and shakes spices into it out of a box. she then turns her eyes on siegmund, in order to meet his gaze, which he never removes from her. she perceives that hunding is watching, and proceeds immediately to the bed-chamber. on the steps she turns once more, looks yearningly at siegmund, and indicates with her eyes, persistently and with speaking plainness, a particular spot in the stem of the ash-tree. hunding starts, and drives her off with a violent gesture. with a last look at siegmund, she disappears into the bed-chamber, and shuts the door behind her._ hunding [_taking his weapons from the tree-stem._ with weapons man should be armed. we meet tomorrow then wölfing. my word thou hast heard; ward thyself well! [_he goes into bed-chamber. the shooting of the bolt is heard from within._ [_siegmund alone. it has grown quite dark. all the light in the hall comes from a dull fire on the hearth. siegmund sinks down on to a couch beside the fire and broods forsome time silently in great agitation._ siegmund my father said when most wanted a sword i should find and wield. swordless i entered my foeman's house, as a hostage here i remain. i saw a fair woman and sweet, and bliss and dread consume my heart. the woman for whom i long- she whose charm both wounds and delights- in thrall is held by the man who mocks a weaponless foe. wälse! wälse! where is thy sword?- the trusty sword to be swung in battle, when from my bosom should burst the fury that fills my heart? [_the fire collapses. from the flame which leaps up a bright light falls on the spot in the ash-tree's stem indicated by sieglinde's look, and on which the hilt of a sword is now plainly visible._ [illustration: plate 21, sieglinde prepares hunding's draught for the night] what can that be that shines so bright? what a ray streams from the ash-tree's stem! my eyes that saw not see the bright flash; gay as laughter it gleams. how the radiant light illumes my heart! is it the look that lingered behind, yonder clinging, when forth from the hall the lovely woman went? [_from this point the fire gradually goes out._ darkly the shadows covered my eyes, till her shining glance over me gleamed, bringing me warmth and day. gay and splendid the sun appeared, and blissfully circled with glory my head- till by the hills it was hid. [_the fire flickers up faintly again._ but once more, ere it set, bright it shone upon me, and the ancient ash-tree's stem was lit by its golden glow. the splendour passes, the light grows dim, shadowy darkness falls and enshrouds me; deep in my bosom's fastness glimmers still faintly the flame! [_the fire goes out altogether. total darkness. the door of the bed-chamber opens noiselessly. sieglinde comes out in a white garment and advances softly but quickly towards the hearth._ sieglinde art asleep? siegmund [_joyfully surprised._ who steals this way? sieglinde [_with stealthy haste._ 'tis i: listen to me! in sleep profound lies hunding; the draught that i mixed him i drugged. use to good purpose the night! siegmund [_ardently interrupting._ thou here, all is well! sieglinde i have come to show thee a weapon; o couldst thou make it thine! i then might call thee first among heroes, for only by him can it be won. o hearken: heed what i tell thee! here hunding's kinsmen sat in the hall, assembled to honour his wedding. he took as his wife, against her will, one who was bartered by thieves. sad i sat there through their carousing. a stranger entered the hall, an old and grey-coated man. so slouched was his hat that one of his eyes was hidden; but the other flashed so that all feared it: overwhelming its menace they found; i alone suffered, when looked on, sweet pain, sad delight, sorrow and solace in one. on me glancing, he scowled at the others, as he swung a sword in his hands. this sword he plunged in the ash-tree's stem, to the hilt driving it home. the weapon he gains in guerdon who draws it from its place. though sore they struggled, not one of the heroes could win the weapon for his; coming, going, the guests essayed it, the strongest tugged at the steel; not an inch it stirred in the stem; in silence yonder it cleaves. i knew then who he was that in sorrow greeted me. i know too now for whom the sword was stuck in the tree. o might i to-day find here the friend brought from afar by a woman's woe! then all i have suffered in sorrow untold, all scorn and all shame in anger endured- all would avenged be, sweetly atoned for- regained fully the good i had lost; for mine i should win all i had wept for, could i but find the dear friend, and clasp him close in my arms! siegfried [_embracing sieglinde with passionate ardour._ dear woman, that friend holds thee at last, both woman and sword are his. here in my breast burns hot the oath that welds us twain into one. for all that i sought i see now in thee, in thee all that once failed me i find. thou wert despised, my portion was pain; i was an outlaw, dishonoured wert thou; sweet revenge beckons, bids us be joyful; i laugh from sheer fulness of joy, holding thee, love, in my arms thus, feeling the beat of thy heart! [_the outer door swings open._ sieglinde [_with a start of alarm tears herself away._ ha, who went? who entered there? [_the door remains open. outside a glorious spring night. the full moon shines in, throwing its bright light on the pair, so that they can suddenly see one another quite plainly._ siegmund [_in soft ecstasy._ no one went- but one has come: laughing the spring enters the hall! [_he draws sieglinde with tender force on to the couch, so that she sits beside him. the moon shines more and more brightly._ winter storms have yielded to may's sweet moon, and mild and radiant sparkles the spring. on balmy breezes light and lovely, weaving wonders, soft she sways. through field and forest she is breathing; wide and open laughs her eye; when blithe the birds are singing sounds her voice; fragrant odours she exhales; from her warm blood blossom flowers welcome and joyous. shoot and bud, they wax by her aid. with tender weapons armed, she conquers the world. winter and storm yield to the strong attack. no wonder that, beaten boldly, at last the door should have opened, which, stubborn and stiff, was keeping her out. to find her sister hither she came; by love has spring been allured; within our bosoms buried she lay; now glad she laughs to the light. the bride who is sister is freed by the brother; in ruin lies what held them apart. loud rejoicing, they meet and greet; lo! love is mated with spring! sieglinde thou art the spring that i used to pine for, when pinched by the winter frost; my heart hailed thee friend with bliss and with fear, when thy first glance fell on me sweetly all i had seen appeared strange; friendless were my surroundings; i never seemed to have known any one who came nigh. thee, however, straightway i knew, and i saw thou wert mine when i beheld thee: what i hid in my heart, all i am, clear as the day dawned to my sight like tones to the ear echoing back, when, upon my frosty desert, my eyes first beheld a friend. [_she hangs enraptured on his neck, and looks him close in the face._ siegmund [_transported._ o rapture most blissful! woman most blest! sieglinde [_close to his eyes._ o let me, closer and closer clinging, discern more clearly the sacred light that from thine eyes and face shines forth, and so sweetly sways every sense! siegmund the may-moon's light falls on thy face framed by masses of waving hair. what snared my heart 'tis easy to guess: my gaze on loveliness feasts. sieglinde [_pushing the hair back from his brow, regards him with astonishment._ how broad and open is thy brow! blue-branching the veins in thy temples entwine. i hardly can endure my burden of bliss.- of something i am reminded:- the man i first saw to-day already i have seen! siegmund a dream of love i too recall; i saw thee there and yearned for thee sore! sieglinde the stream has shown me my imaged face- again i see it before me; as in the pool it arose it is reflected by thee. siegmund thine is the face i hid in my heart. sieglinde [_quickly averting her gaze._ o hush! that voice! o let me listen! these tones as a child surely i heard- but no! i heard the sound lately, when, calling in the wood, my voice re-echoing rang. siegmund to sweet and melodious music i listen! sieglinde [_gazing into his eyes again._ and ere now thy glowing eye have i seen: the old man whose glance solaced my grief, when he greeted me had that eye- i knew him because of his eye, and almost addressed him as father. [_after a pause._ art thou wehwalt in truth? siegmund if dear to thee, wehwalt no more; my sway is o'er bliss not sorrow! sieglinde and friedmund does not fit with thy fortunes. siegmund choose thou the name thou wouldst have me be known by: thy choice will also be mine! sieglinde the name of thy father was wölfe? siegmund a wolf to the fearful foxes! but he whose eye shone with the brightness which, fairest one, shines in thine own, was named--wälse of old. sieglinde [_beside herself._ was wälse thy father, and art thou a wälsung?- stuck was for thee his sword in the stem?- then let my love call thee what it has found thee; siegmund shall be thy name. siegmund [_springs up._ siegmund call me for siegmund am i! be witness this sword i grasp without shrinking! that i should find it in sorest need wälse foretold. i grasp it now! love the most pure in utmost need, passionate love, consuming desire burning bright in my breast, drive to deeds and death! nothung! nothung! that, sword, is thy name. nothung! nothung! conquering steel! show me thy sharp and sundering tooth: come forth from thy scabbard to me! [_he draws the sword with a violent effort from the stem of the tree and shows it to the amazed and enraptured sieglinde._ siegmund the wälsung thou dost see! as bride-gift he brings thee this sword; with this he frees the woman most blest; he bears thee from the house of his foe. far from here follow thou him: forth to the laughing house of the spring; thy shield be nothung, the sword, when siegmund is captive to love! [_he throws his arm round her so as to draw her forth with him._ sieglinde [_delirious with excitement, tears herself away and stands before him._ art thou siegmund standing before me, sieglinde am i who longed for thee; thy own twin-sister as well as the sword thou hast won! [_she throws herself on his breast._ siegmund bride and sister be to thy brother- so wälsungs shall flourish for aye! [_he draws her to him with fervent passion. the curtain falls quickly._ the second act _a wild, mountainous spot. in the background a gorge rises from below to a high ridge of rocks, from which the ground slopes down again towards the front. wotan, in full armour, carrying his spear. before him brünnhilde as a valkyrie, also fully armed._ wotan go bridle thy steed, valorous maid! bitter strife soon will break forth; brünnhilde, storm to the fray and cause the wälsung to win! hunding choose for himself where to bide: no place in walhall has he. so up and to horse! haste to the field! brünnhilde [_ascends the height on the right, shouting and springing from rock to rock._ hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! heiaha! hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! heiaha! hojotoho! hojotoho! hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! hojoho! [illustration: plate 22 "siegmund the walsung thou dost see! as bride-gift he brings thee this sword"] [_she pauses on a high peak, looks down into the gorge and calls back to wotan._ i warn thee, father, see to thyself; stern the strife that is in store: here comes fricka, thy wife, drawn hither in her car by her rams, swinging the golden scourge in her hand! the wretched beasts are groaning with fear; and how the wheels rattle! hot she hastes to the fray. such strife as this no strife is for me, though i love boldly waged strife 'twixt men. the battle alone thou must brave; i go; thou art left in the lurch! hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! heiaha! hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! heiaha! hojotoho! hojotoho! hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! ha! [_she disappears behind the mountain peak at the side. fricka, in a car drawn by a pair of rams, has driven up the gorge to the mountain ridge, where she suddenly stops, alights and strides angrily towards wotan in the foreground._ wotan [_aside, when he sees fricka approaching._ the usual storm! the usual strife! but i must act with firmness fricka [_moderating her pace as she approaches, and confronting wotan with dignity._ all alone among the hills i seek thee, where thou dost hide fearing the eyes of thy wife, that help in need thou may'st promise. wotan let fricka tell her trouble in full. fricka i have heard hunding's cry, for vengeance calling on me; as wedlock's guardian i gave ear: my word passed to punish the deed of this impious pair who boldly wrought him the wrong. wotan have this pair then done such harm, whom spring united in love? 'twas love's sweet magic that lured them on; none pays for love's might to me. fricka how dull and how deaf thou wouldst seem! as though thou wert not aware that it is wedlock's holy oath profaned so rudely i grieve for. wotan unholy hold i the bond that binds unloving hearts; nor must thou imagine that i will restrain by force what transcends thy power; for where bold natures are stirring i urge them frankly to strife. [illustration: plate 23, brünnhilde] fricka deeming thus laudable wedlock's breach, pray babble more nonsense and call it holy that shame should blossom forth from bond of a twin-born pair! i shudder at heart, my brain reels and whirls. sister embraced as bride by the brother- who has ever heard of brother and sister as lovers? wotan thou hearest it now! be taught by this that a thing may be which has never befallen before. that those two are lovers thou must admit; so take advice and be wise! thy blessing surely will bring to thee gladness, if thou wilt, laughing on love, bless siegmund and sieglinde's bond. fricka [_with a burst of deep indignation._ then nothing to thee are the gods everlasting since the wild wälsungs won thee for father? i speak plainly- is that thy thought? the holy and high immortals are worthless; and all that once was esteemed is thrown over; the bonds thou didst bind by thyself now are broken; heaven's hold is loosed with a laugh, that this twin-born pair, unimpeded, the fruit of thy lawless love, may in wantonness flourish and rule! but why wail over wedlock and vows, since by thee the first they are scorned! the faithful wife betrayed at each turn, lustfully longing wander thy glances; thine eyes scan each hollow and height as thy fickle fancy allures thee, while grief is gnawing my heart. heavy of soul i had to endure it, when to the fight with the graceless maidens born out of wedlock, forth thou hast fared; for, thy wife still holding in awe, thou didst give her as maids the valkyrie band to obedience bound, even brünnhilde, bride of thy wish. but now that new names afford thee new pleasure, and wälse, wolfish, in forests has wandered; now that to bottomless shame thou hast stooped, and a pair of mortals hast vilely begotten- now thy wife at the feet of whelps of a wolf thou dost fling! come finish thy work! fill the cup full! mock and trample now the betrayed one! [illustration: plate 24, fricka approaches in anger.] wotan [_quietly._ thou couldst not learn, though i might teach thee; to thee there is nothing plain till day has dawned on the deed, wonted things thou alone canst conceive, whereas my spirit broods on things not yet brought forth. listen, woman! some one we need, a hero gods have not shielded, and who is not bound by their law. so alone were he fit for the deed which no god can accomplish, yet which must be done for the gods. fricka with sayings dark thou fain wouldst deceive me! what deed by hero could be accomplished that was beyond the strength of the gods, by whose grace alone he is strong? wotan then his own heart's courage counts not at all? fricka who breathed their souls into men? who opened their eyes, that they see? behind thy shield strong they appear; with thee to goad them, upward they strive; those men that thou praisest, 'tis thou who spurrest them on. with falsehoods fresh thou wouldst fain delude me, with new devices thou wouldst evade me; thou shalt not shelter the wälsung from me; he lives only through thee, and is bold through thee alone. wotan [_with emotion._ he grew unaided in grievous distress; my shield sheltered him not. fricka then shield him not to-day; take back the sword that thou hast bestowed. wotan the sword? fricka yes, the sword, the magic sword sudden and strong that thou gavest to thy son. wotan nay, siegmund won it himself in his need. [_from here wotan's whole attitude expresses an ever-deepening uneasiness and gloom._ wotan [_continuing passionately._ both conquering sword and the need came from thee. wouldst thou deceive me who, day and night, at thy heels follow close? for him thou didst strike the sword in the stem; thou didst promise him the peerless blade. canst thou deny that thy cunning it was which led him where it lay hid? [_wotan makes a wrathful gesture. fricka goes on more and more confidently as she sees the impression produced on him._ the gods do not battle with bondsmen; the free but punish transgressors. against thee, my peer, have i waged war, but siegmund is mine as my slave. [_another violent gesture from wotan, who then seems to succumb to the feeling of his own powerlessness._ shall thy eternal consort obey one who calls thee master and bows as thy slave? what! shall i be despised by the basest, to the lawless a spur, a scoff to the free? my husband cannot desire me, a goddess, to suffer such shame! wotan [_gloomily._ what then wouldst thou? fricka shield not the wälsung. wotan [_in a muffled voice._ his way let him go. fricka thou wilt grant him no aid, when to arms the avenger calls? wotan i shield him no more. fricka seek not to trick me; look in my eyes! the valkyrie turn from him too. wotan the valkyrie free shall choose. fricka not so; she but acts to accomplish thy will; give order that siegmund die. wotan [_after a violent internal struggle._ nay, slay him i cannot, he found my sword! fricka remove thou the magic, and shatter the blade: swordless let him be found. brünnhilde [_is heard calling from the heights._ heiaha! heiaha! hojotoho! heiaha! heiaha! heiohotojo! hotojoha! fricka thy valorous maiden comes; shouting, hither she rides. wotan for siegmund i called her to horse. [_brünnhilde appears with her horse on the rocky path to the right. when she sees fricka she stops abruptly and, during the following, slowly and silently leads her horse down the path. she then puts it in a cave._ fricka by her shield to-day be guarded the honour of thy eternal spouse! derided by men, shorn of our power, perish and pass would the gods if thy valiant maid avenged not to-day my sacred and sovereign right. the wälsung falls for my honour. does wotan now pledge me his oath? wotan [_throwing himself on to a rocky seat in terrible dejection._ take the oath! [_fricka strides towards the back, where she meets brünnhilde and halts for a moment before her._ fricka warfather waits for thee; he will instruct thee how the lot is decreed! [_she drives off quickly._ brünnhilde [_comes forward anxious and wondering to wotan, who leaning back on his rocky seat, is brooding gloomily._ ill closed the fight, i fear; fricka laughs at the outcome! father, what news hast thou to tell me? sad thou seemest and troubled! wotan [_dropping his arm helplessly and sinking his head on his breast._ by self-forged fetters i am bound, i, least free of all living! brünnhilde i know thee not thus: what gnaws at thy heart? wotan [_his expression and gestures working up, from this point, to a fearful outburst._ o sacrilege vile! o grievous affront! gods' despair! gods' despair! infinite wrath! woe without end! most sorrowful i of all living! brünnhilde [_alarmed, throws her shield, spear and helmet from her and kneels with anxious affection at his feet._ father! father! tell me what ails thee? with dismay thou art filling thy child! confide in me for i am true; see, brünnhilde begs it! [_she lays her head and hands with tender anxiety on his knees and breast._ wotan [_looks long in her eyes, then strokes her hair with involuntary tenderness. as if coming out of a deep reverie, he at last begins, very softly._ what if, when uttered, weaker it made the controlling might of my will? brünnhilde [_very softly._ to wotan's will thou speakest when thou speakest to me? what am i if i am not thy will? [illustration: plate 25, brünnhilde slowly and silently leads her horse down the path to the cave.] wotan [_very softly._ what never to any was spoken shall be unspoken now and for ever. myself i speak to, speaking to thee. [_in a low, muffled voice._ when young love grew a waning delight, 'twas power my spirit craved; by rash and wild desires driven on, i won myself the world. unknown to me dishonest my acts were; bargains i made wherein hid mishap, craftily lured on by loge, who straightway disappeared. yet i could not leave love altogether; when grown mighty still i desired it. the child of night, the craven nibelung, alberich, broke from its bond. all love he forswore, and procured by the curse the gleaming gold of the rhine, and with it measureless might. the ring that he wrought i stole by my cunning, but i restored it not to the rhine; it paid the price of walhall's towers: the home the giants had built me, from which i commanded the world. she who knows all that ever was, erda, the holy, all-knowing wala, warned me touching the ring: prophesied doom everlasting. of this doom i was fain to hear further, but silent she vanished from sight. then my gladness of heart was gone, the god's one desire was to know. to the womb of the earth downward then i went: by love's sweet magic vanquished the wala, troubled her wisdom proud, and compelled her tongue to speak. tidings by her i was told; and with her i left a fair pledge: the world's wisest of women bore me, brünnhilde, thee. with eight sisters fostered wert thou, that ye valkyries might avert the doom which the wala's dread words foretold: the gods' ignominious ending. that foes might find us strong for the strife, heroes i got ye to gather. the beings who served us as slaves aforetime, the men whose courage aforetime we curbed: who through treacherous bonds and devious dealings were bound to the gods in blindfold obedience- to kindle these men to strife was your duty, to drive them on to savage war, that hosts of dauntless heroes might gather in walhall's hall. brünnhilde and well filled surely thy halls were; many a one i have brought. we never were idle, so why shouldst thou fear? [illustration: plate 26 "father! father! tell me what ails thee? with dismay thou art filling thy child!"] wotan [_his voice muffled again._ another ill- mark what i say- was by the wala foretold! through alberich's hosts doom may befall us; a furious grudge alberich bears me; but now that my heroes make victory certain i defy the hosts of the night. only if he won the ring again from me, walhall were forfeit for ever. used by him alone who love forswore could the runes of the ring bring doom to the mighty gods, and shame without end. my heroes' valour he would pervert, would stir to strife the bold ones themselves, and with their strength wage war upon me. so, alarmed, i resolved to wrest the ring from the foeman. [_in a low voice._ i once paid fafner, one of the giants, with gold accurst for work achieved. fafner guards now the hoard for which his own brother he slew. the ring i must needs recover with which his work i rewarded. but i cannot strike one by treaties protected; vanquished by him my valour would fail. these are the bonds that bind my power; i, who by treaties am lord, to my treaties also am slave. but what i dare not one man may dare- a hero never helped by my favour, to me unknown and granted no grace, unaware, bidden by none, constrained thereto by his own distress- he could achieve what i must not do: the deed i never urged, though it was all my desire. but, alas! how to find one to fight me, the god, for my good- most friendly of foes! how fashion the free one by me unshielded, in his proud defiance most precious to me? how get me the other who, not through me, but of himself will perform my will? o woe of the gods! horrible shame! soul-sick am i of seeing myself in all i ever created. the other whom i so long for, that other i never find. the free by themselves must be fashioned, all that i fashion are slaves! brünnhilde but the wälsung, siegmund, works for himself. wotan wild i roamed in the woodland with him, ever against the gods goading him to rebel. [_slowly and bitterly._ now, when the gods seek vengeance, shield he has none but the sword given to him by the grace of a god. why did i try to trick myself vainly? how easily fricka found out the fraud! she read my inmost heart to my shame. i must bend my will to her wishes. brünnhilde of victory wouldst siegmund deprive? wotan i have handled alberich's ring, loth to let the gold go. the curse that i fled is following me: i must always lose what i love most, slay what my heart holds dearest, basely betray all those who trust. [_his gestures, at first those of terrible grief end by expressing despair._ pale then and pass glory and pomp, godhead's resplendent, glittering shame! in ruins fall the fabric i built! ended is my work; i wait but one thing more: the downfall- the downfall! [_he pauses thoughtfully._ and for the downfall schemes alberich! now i see the sense hidden in the strange, wild words of the wala: "when the gloomy foe of love gets a son in his wrath, the high gods' doom shall be at hand!" not long ago a rumour i heard that the dwarf had won a woman, by gold gaining her grace. a woman bears hate's bitter fruit; the child of spite grows in her womb; this marvel befell the man who loved not; but i, the loving wooer, have never begotten the free. [_rising in bitter wrath._ accept thou my blessing, nibelung son! i leave to thee what i loathe with deep loathing: the hollow pomp of the gods. consume it with envious greed! brünnhilde [_alarmed._ o say! tell me what task is thy child's? wotan [_bitterly._ fight, faithful to fricka; wedlock and vows defend! what she desires is also my choice, for what does my own will profit, since it cannot fashion a free one? for fricka's slaves do battle henceforth! brünnhilde ah repent, and take back thy word! thou lovest, and fain, i know, wouldst have me shelter the wälsung. wotan siegmund thou shalt vanquish, and fight so that hunding prevails. ward thyself well and doughtily do, bring all thy boldness to bear on the field; a strong sword swings siegmund; undismayed he will fight! brünnhilde he whom thou still hast taught me to love, he whose courage high to thy heart was so precious- i will shield him in spite of thy wavering word! wotan ha, daring one! floutest thou me? who art thou--who but the choiceless, blind slave of my will? i have sunk so low by showing my mind, that the creature made by me holds me in scorn. dost thou, child, know my wrath? if ever its awful lightning struck thee then quail wouldst thou indeed! within my bosom burns enough rage to lay waste in dread ruin a world that once wore nothing but smiles. woe to him whom it strikes! dear the price he would pay! so be advised, call it not forth but carry out my commands. cut down siegmund! that is the valkyrie's task. [_he storms away and disappears among the rocks to the left._ [illustration: plate 27, brünnhilde stands for a long time dazed and alarmed] brünnhilde [_stands for a long time dazed and alarmed._ warfather oft have i seen enraged, but never once like this! [_she stoops down sadly, takes up her armour and puts it on again._ how heavy my armour feels! and it felt so light when gladly i fought! i fight afraid. evil is my cause! [_she gazes thoughtfully before her._ woe! my wälsung! with sorrow sore must the faithful one falsely forsake thee! [she turns slowly towards the back. * * * * * [_on reaching the rocky pass, brünnhilde, looking down into the gorge, perceives siegmund and sieglinde. she watches them for a moment, then turns into the cave where her horse is, so that she is completely hidden from the audience. siegmund and sieglinde appear on the pass, sieglinde hurrying in front. siegmund tries to stop her._ siegmund wait here and rest; tarry a while! sieglinde farther! farther! siegmund [_embraces her with tender force, straining her to him._ no farther now! o linger, woman most sweet! from bliss when most blissful breaking away, in headlong haste far thou hast fled, so fleet that i lagged behind: through wood and field, over cliff and scaur, voiceless, silent, speeding along, thy foot stopped for no call. [_sieglinde stares wildly before her._ tarry a while! say but a word, ending this speechless dread! see, thy brother holds thee, his bride: siegmund's comrade art thou! sieglinde [_gazes into his eyes with growing rapture, throws her arms passionately round his neck and remains so for some time. she then starts up in wild terror._ away! away! fly the profaned one! unholy the clasp of her arm; in shame, dishonoured, this body died. fling it from thee, flee from the corpse! the winds scatter her dust- the foul one who loved one so fair! when in his loving embrace she rested in rapture pure, and all the love of the man was hers who loved him alone- when on holiest height, when bliss was at sweetest, and sense and soul were steeped in delight, hatred and loathing of hideous dishonour shook the disgraced one, filled her with fear- the thought she once had obeyed. bridegroom unloving, unloved. leave the accurst one, far let her fly! an outcast she is, bereft of grace! ah, i must leave the purest of heroes; i cannot be thine, to sully thy glory: scorn to bring on the brother, shame to the rescuing friend! siegmund for the shame and dishonour, pay the transgressor's blood! no farther, then, flying, here let us wait him; here--here i shall slay him: when nothung's point shall pierce his heart, all thy wrongs will be avenged! sieglinde [_starts up and listens._ hark! the bugles! dost thou not hear? all around, angry and shrill, from wood and vale clamour their calls. hunding has wakened from slumber deep; kinsmen and hounds he summons together; how the dogs howl, urged on hotly, loud-baying to heaven of the vows and the wedlock profaned! [_gazes before her as if gone crazed._ where art thou, siegmund? art thou still here, fervently loved one, beautiful brother? let thine eyes like stars shine again on me softly; turn not away from the outcast woman's kiss! [_she throws herself sobbing on his breast, and presently starts up in terror again._ hark! o hark! that is hunding's horn! with his hounds full force, in haste he comes. no sword helps when the dogs attack:- throw it down, siegmund! siegmund, where art thou? ha, there! i see thee now! horrible sight! eager-fanged are the bloodhounds for flesh; ah, what to them is thy noble air! by the feet they seize thee with terrible teeth; alas! thou fallest with splintered sword:- the ash-tree sinks- the trunk is rent! brother! my brother! siegmund--ha! [_she falls fainting into his arms._ [illustration: plate 28, brünnhilde with her horse, at the mouth of the cave.] siegmund sister! belovèd! [_he listens to her breathing, and, when convinced that she still lives, lets her slide down so that, as he himself sinks into a sitting posture, her head rests upon his knees. in this position both remain till the end of the following scene. a long silence, during which siegmund bends over sieglinde with tender concern, and presses a long kiss on her brow._ [_brünnhilde, leading her horse, comes out of the cave and walks slowly and solemnly towards the front. she pauses and watches siegmund from a distance, then advances slowly again and stops when she gets nearer. in one hand she carries her shield and spear, the other rest on her horse's neck, and thus she gravely stands looking at siegmund._ brünnhilde siegmund! look on me whom thou must follow soon! siegmund [_looking up at her._ who art thou, say, that dost stand so fair and so stern? brünnhilde death-doomed are they who look upon me; who sees me bids farewell to the light of life. on the battle-field only heroes view me; he whom i greet is chosen and must go. siegmund [_looks into her eyes with a long steadfast and searching gaze, then bows his head in thought and finally turns resolutely to her again._ when thou dost lead, whither follows the hero? brünnhilde i lead thee to wotan; the lot he has cast: to walhall must thou come. siegmund in walhall's hall wotan alone shall i find? brünnhilde a glorious host of heroes slain will greet thee there with love holy and high. siegmund say if in walhall sojourns my father, wälse. brünnhilde his father there will the wälsung find. siegmund [_tenderly._ will any woman welcome me there? brünnhilde wishmaidens serve there serene: wotan's daughter wine will bring for thy cup. siegmund high art thou and holy of aspect, o wotan's child: but one thing tell me, divine one! the sister and bride, shall she follow the brother? will siegmund find sieglinde there? brünnhilde air of earth still she must breathe here; siegmund will find no sieglinde there! siegmund [_bends tenderly over sieglinde, kisses her softly on the brow, and turns again quietly to brünnhilde._ then greet for me walhall, greet for me wotan, greet for me wälse and all the heroes, wishmaidens lovely greet thou also, and tell them i will not come! brünnhilde nay, having looked on the valkyrie's face, thou must follow her forth! siegmund where sieglinde dwells in weal or woe, there will siegmund dwell also; my face grew not pale when i beheld thee: thou canst not force me to go! brünnhilde force thee can none while thou dost live; fool, what will force thee is death warning of death is what i bring. siegmund what hero to-day shall hew me down? brünnhilde hunding's hand in the fight. siegmund use threats more baleful than blows from hunding! lurkest thou here longing for strife, fix on him for thy prey. i think it is he who will fall! brünnhilde nay, wälsung, doubt not my word; thine is the death decreed. siegmund knowest this sword? who gave the sword gave triumph sure: with this sword i laugh at thy threats. brünnhilde [_in a loud voice._ he whose it was now dooms thee to death, for the magic spell he withdraws! siegmund [_vehemently._ hush! alarm not the slumberer here! [_in an outburst of grief he bends tenderly over sieglinde._ woe! woe! woman most sweet! most sad and ill-starred of all true ones! against thee rages the whole world in arms, and i who was all thy defence, for whom thou the world hast defied- to think i cannot shield thee, but, beaten in battle, thy trust must betray! o shame on him who bestowed the sword, and triumph now turns to scorn! if i must fall thus, i fare to no walhall- hella hold me for aye! [_he bends low over sieglinde._ brünnhilde [_moved._ so little prizest thou life everlasting? [_slowly and with hesitation._ all thy care is thy helpless wife who, sad and weary, heavily hangs in thy arms? precious only is she? siegmund [_looking up at her bitterly._ though young and fair thou shinest to me, in my heart i know thee cruel and cold! canst thou do nothing but mock me, begone, malicious, merciless maid! or if thou must gloat upon my distress, then gloat and feast thyself full! with my woe solace thy envious soul:- but of walhall's loveless raptures nothing more let me hear! brünnhilde i see the distress that is tearing thy heart; the doomed hero's holy sorrow i feel. siegmund, thy wife be my charge, protected safely by me. siegmund no other than i while my wife is living shall guard her. if death be my lot i will slay the slumberer first! brünnhilde [_with increasing emotion._ wälsung! madman! listen to me! entrust her to me for the pledge's sake that she carries of thee and thy love! siegmund [_drawing his sword._ this sword that a true man received from a false- this sword that fails me when facing the foe; worthless when turned on the foe, will serve me when turned on the friend. [_he points the sword at sieglinde._ two lives now laugh to thee here: take them, nothung, envious steel! take them with one fell stroke! brünnhilde [_with a passionate outburst of sympathy._ forbear, walsung! listen to me! sieglinde spare thou, and siegmund too shall be spared! 'tis thus decreed, recast the lot is! thou, siegmund, shalt be blest and prevail! [_horns are heard in the distance._ hark to the horn! prepare for the fray; trust to the sword and strike without fear: thy sword shall prove strong thee the valkyrie faithfully shields! farewell, siegmund, hero most blest! on the field again i shall find thee. [_she rushes away and disappears with her horse down a gorge on the right. siegmund gazes after her joyful and exultant. the stage has gradually grown dark. heavy storm-clouds have gathered in the background, and hide the cliffs, gorge, and rocky pass completely from view._ siegmund [_bending over sieglinde, listens to her breathing._ charmèd slumber softly soothes the dear one's pain and grief. when the valkyrie came, perchance she brought her this blissful repose; else would the grimly fought fight have terrified one in such woe. lifeless seems she, and yet she lives; the sad one by smiling dreams is caressed. in slumber lie soft till the fight is won and peace shall end thy pain! [_he lays her gently on the rocky seat and kisses her brow in farewell. then, hearing hunding's horn sound, he starts up with resolution._ thou who dost call, arm for the fray; thy dues in full thou shalt have: [_he draws his sword._ nothung pays him his debt. [_he hastens to the back and, on reaching the pass, immediately disappears in a dark thunder-cloud, from which, the next instant, a flash of lightning breaks._ sieglinde [_begins to move uneasily in her dreams._ would but my father come back! with the boy he still roams in the wood. mother! mother! i am afraid- the strangers seem so harsh and unfriendly! fumes that stifle- dense and black smoke- fierce are the flames, and closer they flare- on fire the house! o help us, brother! siegmund! siegmund! [_she starts up. violent thunder and lightning._ siegmund! ha! [_she stares about her in growing terror. almost the whole of the stage is veiled by black thunder-clouds. hunding's horn is heard close at hand._ hunding's voice [_from the mountain pass in the background._ wehwalt! wehwalt! stand there and fight, or with the hounds i will hold thee! siegmund's voice [_from farther back in the gorge._ where hidest thou, that i have missed thee thus? halt, that i may find thee! sieglinde [_listening in terrible fear._ hunding--siegmund- could i but see them! hunding come hither, impious wooer! here by fricka be slain! siegmund [_also from the pass now._ thou thinkest me weaponless, coward, still. threat not with women! thyself now fight me, lest fricka fail thee at need! for see, from the tree that grows by thy hearth i drew undaunted the sword; come and try the taste of its steel! sieglinde [_with all her strength._ hold your hands, ye men there! strike me dead first! [_she rushes towards the pass, but is suddenly dazzled by a light which flashes forth from above the combatants to the right, and staggers aside as if blinded._ brünnhilde's voice strike him, siegmund! trust to the sword! [_brünnhilde appears in the glare of light, floating above siegmund, and protecting him with her shield. just as siegmund is aiming a deadly blow at hunding a glowing red light breaks through the clouds from the left, in which wotan appears, standing over hunding and holding his spear across in front of siegmund._ wotan's voice back! back from the spear! in splinters the sword! [_brünnhilde with her shield recoils in terror before wotan; siegmund's sword breaks in splinters on the outstretched spear. hunding plunges his sword into the disarmed man's breast. siegmund falls down dead, and sieglinde, who has heard his death-sigh, sinks to the ground as if lifeless. with siegmund's fall the lights on both sides disappear. dense clouds shroud all but the foreground in darkness. through these brünnhilde is dimly seen turning in wild haste to sieglinde._ brünnhilde to horse, that i may save thee! [_she lifts sieglinde up quickly on to her horse, which is standing near the side ravine, and immediately disappears. thereupon the clouds divide in the middle, so that hunding, who has just drawn his sword out of siegmund's breast, is distinctly seen. wotan, surrounded by clouds, stands on a rock behind, leaning on his spear and gazing sorrowfully on siegmund's body._ wotan [_to hunding._ begone, slave! kneel before fricka; tell her that wotan's spear has slain what mocked her might. go! go! [_before the contemptuous wave of his hand hunding falls dead to the ground. suddenly breaking out in terrible anger._ but brünnhilde! woe to the guilty one! woe to her as soon as my horse shall overtake her in flight! [_he vanishes with thunder and lightning. the curtain falls quickly._ the third act on the top of a rocky mountain _on the right the stage is bounded by a pine-wood. on the left is the entrance to a cave, above which the rock rises to its highest point. at the back the view is quite open. rocks of varying heights form the edge of the precipice. clouds fly at intervals past the mountain peak as if driven by storm. gerhilde, ortlinde, waltraute, and schwertleite have taken up their position on the rocky peak above the cave. they are in full armour._ gerhilde [_on the highest point, calling towards the background, where a dense cloud is passing._ hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! heiaha! helmwige! here! guide hither thy horse! helmwige's voice [_at the back._ hojotoho! hojotoho! hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! [_a flash of lightning comes from the cloud, showing a valkyrie on horseback, on whose saddle hangs a slain warrior. the apparition, approaching the cliff, passes from left to right._ gerhilde, waltraute and schwertleite [_calling to her as she draws near._ heiaha! heiaha! [_the cloud with the apparition vanishes to the right behind the wood._ ortlinde [_calling into the wood._ thy stallion make fast by ortlinde's mare; gladly my grey will graze by thy chestnut! waltraute [_calling towards the wood._ who hangs at thy saddle? helmwige [_coming out of the wood._ sintolt the hegeling! schwertleite fasten thy chestnut far from the grey then; ortlinde's mare carries wittig, the irming! gerhilde [_descending a little towards the others._ and sintolt and wittig always were foemen! ortlinde [_springs up and runs to the wood._ heiaha! heiaha! the horse is kicking my mare! gerhilde [_laughing aloud with helmwige and schwertleite._ the heroes' feud makes foes of the horses! helmwige [_calling back into the wood._ quiet, brownie! pick not a quarrel. waltraute [_on the highest point, where listening towards the right she has taken gerhilde's place as watcher, calling towards the right-hand side of the background._ hoioho! hoioho! siegrune, come! what keeps thee so long? siegrune's voice [_from the back on the right._ work to do. are the others all there? the valkyries [_in answer, their gestures, as well as a bright light behind the wood, showing that siegrune has just arrived there._ hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! heiaha! grimgerde's and rossweisse's voices [_from the back on the left._ hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! waltraute [_towards the left._ grimgerd' and rossweisse! gerhilde together they ride. [_in a cloud which passes across the stage from the left, and from which lightning flashes, rossweisse and grimgerde appear, also on horseback, each carrying a slain warrior on her saddle._ helmwige, gerlinde and siegrune we greet you, valiant ones! rossweiss' and grimgerde! [_have come out of the wood and wave their hands from the edge of the precipice to rossweisse and grimgerde, who disappear behind the wood._ rossweiss' and grimgerde's voices hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! all the other valkyries hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! heiaha! gerhilde [_calling into the wood._ your horses lead into the wood to rest! ortlinde [_also calling into the wood._ lead the mares far off one from the other, until our heroes' anger is laid! helmwige [_the others laughing._ the grey has paid for the heroes' anger. rossweisse and grimgerde [_coming out of the wood._ hojotoho! hojotoho! the valkyries be welcomed! be welcomed! schwertleite went ye twain on one quest? grimgerde no, singly we rode, and met but to-day. rossweisse if we all are assembled why linger longer? to walhall let us away, bringing to wotan the slain. helmwige we are but eight; wanting is one. gerhilde by the brown-eyed wälsung brünnhilde tarries. waltraute until she joins us here we must wait; warfather's greeting grim were indeed if we returned without her! siegrune [_on the look-out, calling towards the back._ hojotoho! hojotoho! this way! this way! [_to the others._ in hottest haste riding, hither she comes. the valkyries hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! brünnhilde, hei! [_they watch her with growing astonishment._ waltraute see, she leads woodward her staggering horse. grimgerde from swift riding how grane pants! rossweisse no valkyrie's flight ever so fast was. ortlinde what lies on her saddle? helmwige that is no man! siegrune 'tis a woman, see! gerhilde where found she the maid? schwertleite has she no greeting for her sisters? waltraute [_calling down very loudly._ heiaha! brünnhilde! dost thou not hear? ortlinde from her horse let us help our sister. [_helmwige and gerhilde run to the wood, followed by siegrune and rossweisse._ hojotoho! hojotoho! heiaha! waltraute to earth has sunk grane the strong one! grimgerde from the saddle swift she snatches the maid. the other valkyries sister! sister! what has occurred? [_the valkyries all return to the stage; brünnhilde accompanies them, leading and supporting sieglinde._ turns and looks out anxiously, then comes back. brünnhilde [_breathless._ shield me and help in dire distress! the valkyries whence rodest thou hither, hasting so hard? thus ride they only who flee. brünnhilde i flee for the first time and am pursued: warfather follows close. the valkyries [_terribly alarmed._ hast thou gone crazy? speak to us! what? pursued by warfather? flying from him? brünnhilde o sisters, spy from the rocky peak! look north and tell me if warfather nears! [_ortlinde and waltraute spring up the peak to the look-out._ quick! is he in sight? ortlinde a storm from the north is nearing. waltraute darkly the clouds congregate there. the valkyries warfather, riding his sacred steed, comes! brünnhilde the wrathful hunter, he rides from the north; he nears, he nears, in fury! save this woman! sisters your help! [illustration: plate 29 brünnhilde "i flee for the first time and am pursued: warfather follows close. . . . . . . . . . he nears, he nears, in fury save this woman! sisters, your help!"] the valkyries what threatens the woman? brünnhilde hark to me quickly! sieglinde this is, siegmund's sister and bride. wotan his fury against the wälsungs has turned. he told me that to-day i must fail the brother in strife; but with my shield i guarded him safe, daring the god, who slew him himself with his spear. siegmund fell; but i fled, bearing his bride. to protect her and from the stroke of his wrath to hide, i hastened, o my sisters, to you! the valkyries [_full of fear._ o foolish sister, how mad thy deed! woe's me! woe's me! brünnhilde, lost one! mocked, disobeyed by brünnhilde warfather's holy command! waltraute [_on the look-out._ darkness comes from the north like the night. ortlinde [_on the look-out._ hither steering, rages the storm. rossweisse, grimgerde, and schwertleite wildly neighs warfather's horse! helmwige, gerhilde, and siegrune panting, snorting it comes! brünnhilde woe to the woman if here she is found, for wotan has vowed the wälsungs shall perish! the horse that is swiftest which of you lends, that forth the woman may fly? siegrune wouldst have us too madly rebel? brünnhilde rossweisse, sister, wilt lend me thy racer! rossweisse the fleet one from wotan never yet fled. brünnhilde helmwige, hear me! helmwige i flout not our father. brünnhilde waltraute! gerhilde! give me your horse! schwertleite! siegrune! see my distress! stand by me now because of our love: rescue this woman in woe! sieglinde [_who until now has been staring gloomily and coldly before her, starts up with a repellent gesture as brünnhilde encircles her with a warm, protective embrace._ concern thyself not about me; death is all that i crave. from off the field who bade thee thus bear me? for there perchance by the selfsame weapon that struck down siegmund i too had died, made one with him in the hour of death. far from siegmund- siegmund, from thee! o cover me, death, from the sorrow! wouldst thou not have me curse thee for flying? thou must hearken, maid, to my prayer: pierce thou my heart with thy sword! brünnhilde [_impressively._ live for the sake of thy love, o woman! rescue the pledge thou has gotten from him: the wälsung's child thou shalt bear! sieglinde [_gives a violent start; suddenly her face beams with sublime joy._ save me, ye bold ones! rescue my child! shelter me, maidens, and strong be your shield! [_an ever-darkening thunderstorm nears from the back._ waltraute [_on the look-out._ the storm has drawn nigh. ortlinde fly, all who fear it! the valkyries hence with the woman; here she is lost: the valkyries dare not shield her from doom! sieglinde [_on her knees before brünnhilde._ save me, o maid! rescue the mother! brünnhilde [_raising sieglinde with sudden resolve._ away then, and swiftly! alone thou shalt fly. i--stay in thy stead, victim of wotan's anger. i will hold here the god in his wrath, till i know thee past reach of his rage. sieglinde say, whither shall my flight be? brünnhilde which of you, sisters, eastward has journeyed? siegrune a forest stretches far in the east; the nibelung's hoard by fafner thither was borne. schwertleite there as a dread dragon he sojourns, and in a cave keeps watch over alberich's ring. grimgerde 'tis uncanny there for a woman's home. brünnhilde and yet from wotan's wrath shelter sure were the wood; for he both fears and keeps far from the place. [illustration: plate 30 "there as a dread dragon he sojourns, and in a cave keeps watch over alberich's ring."] waltraute [_on the look-out._ raging, wotan rides to the rock! the valkyries brünnhilde, hark! like a storm-wind he comes! brünnhilde flee then swiftly, thy face to the east! boldly enduring, defy every ill- hunger and thirst, briar and stone; laugh, whether gnawed by anguish or want! for one thing know and hold to always- the world's most glorious hero hideth, o woman, thy sheltering womb! [_she takes the pieces of siegmund's sword from under her breast-plate and gives them to sieglinde._ the splintered sword's pieces guard securely; from the field where slain was his father i brought them. and now i name him who one day the sword new-welded shall swing- "siegfried" rejoice and prevail! sieglinde [_greatly moved._ sublimest wonder! glorious maid! from thee high solace i have received! for him whom we loved i save the beloved one. may my thanks one day sweet reward bring! fare thou well! be blest by sieglind' in woe! [_she hastens away to the right in front. the rocky peak is surrounded by black thunder-clouds. a fearful storm rages from the back. a fiery glow increases in strength to the right._ wotan's voice stay, brünnhilde! ortlinde and waltraute [_coming down from the look-out._ the rock is reached by horse and rider! [_brünnhilde, after following sieglinde with her eyes for a while, goes towards the background, looks into the wood, and comes forward again fearfully._ the valkyries woe, woe! brünnhilde! vengeance he brings! ah, sisters, help! my courage fails! his wrath will crush me unless ye ward off its weight. the valkyries [_fly towards the rocky point in fear, drawing brünnhilde with them._ this way, then, lost one! hide from his sight! cling closely to us, and heed not his call! [_they hide brünnhilde in their midst and look anxiously towards the wood, which is now lit up by a bright fiery glow, while in the background it has grown quite dark._ woe! woe! raging, wotan swings from his horse! hither hastes his foot for revenge! wotan [_comes from the wood in a terrible state of wrath and excitement and goes towards the valkyries on the height, looking angrily for brünnhilde._ where is brünnhilde? where is the guilty one? would ye defy me and hide the rebel? the valkyries fearful and loud thy rage is! by what misdeed have thy daughters vexed and provoked thee to terrible wrath? wotan fools, would ye flout me? have a care, rash ones! i know: brünnhilde fain ye would hide. leave her, the lost one cast off for ever, even as she cast off her worth! the valkyries to us fled the pursued one, in her need praying for help, dismayed and fearful, dreading thy wrath. for our trembling sister humbly we beg that thy first wild rage be calmed. wotan weak-hearted and womanish brood! is this your valour, given by me? for this have i reared you bold for the fight, made you relentless and hard of heart that ye wild ones might weep and whine when my wrath on a faithless one falls? learn, wretched whimperers, what was the crime of her for whom ye are shedding those tears. no one but she knew what most deeply i brooded; no one but she pierced to the source of my being; through her deeds all, i wished to be, came to birth. this sacred bond so completely she broke that she defied me, opposing my will, her master's command openly mocked, and against me pointed the spear that she held from me alone. hearest, brünnhilde? thou who didst hold thy helm and spear, grace and delight, life and name as my gift! hearing my voice thus accusing, dost hide from me in terror, a coward who shirks her doom? brünnhilde [_steps out from the band of valkyries, and humbly but with a firm step descends from the rocky peak until within a short distance from wotan._ here i am, father, awaiting thy sentence! wotan i--sentence thee not; thou hast shaped thy doom for thyself. through my will only wert thou at all, yet against my will thou hast worked; thy part it was to fulfil my commands, yet against me thou hast commanded; wish-maid thou wert to me, yet thy wish has dared to cross mine; shield-maid thou wert to me, yet against me raised was thy shield; lot-chooser thou wert to me: against me the lot thou hast chosen; hero-rouser thou wert to me: thou hast roused up heroes against me. what once thou wert wotan has told thee: what thou art now, demand of thyself! wish-maid thou art no more; valkyrie thou art no longer:- what now thou art for aye thou shalt be! brünnhilde [_greatly terrified._ thou dost cast me off? ah, can it be so? wotan no more shall i send thee from walhall to seek upon fierce fields for the slain; with heroes no more shalt thou fill my hall: when the high gods sit at banquet, no more shalt thou pour the wine in my horn; no more shall i kiss the mouth of my child. among heaven's hosts numbered no longer, outcast art thou from the kinship of gods; our bond is broken in twain, and from my sight henceforth thou now art banned. the valkyries [_leave their places in the excitement, and come a little farther down the rocks._ woe's me! woe! sister! o sister! brünnhilde all that thou gavest thou dost recall? wotan conquering thee, one shall take all! for here on the rock bound thou shalt be, defenceless in sleep, charmed and enchained; the man who chances this way and awakes her, shall master the maid. the valkyries [_come down from the height in great excitement, and in terrified groups surround brünnhilde, who lies half kneeling before wotan._ o stay, father! the sentence recall. shall the maiden droop and be withered by man? o dread one, avert thou the crying disgrace: for as sisters share we her shame. wotan have ye not heard wotan's decree? from out your band shall your traitorous sister be banished, no more to ride through the clouds her swift steed to the battle; her maidenhood's flower will fade away; her grace and her favour her husband's will be; her husband will rule her and she will obey; beside the hearth she will spin, to all mockers a mark for scorn. [illustration: plate 31, the ride of the valkyries.] [_brünnhilde sinks with a cry to the ground. the valkyries, horror-stricken, recoil from her violently._ fear ye her fate? then fly from the lost one! swiftly forsake and flee from her far! let one but venture near her to linger, seek to befriend her, defying my will- the fool shall share the same doom: i warn you, ye bold ones, well! up and away! hence, and return not! get ye gone at a gallop, trouble is rife else for you here! the valkyries [_separate with a wild cry and rush into the wood._ woe! woe! [_black clouds settle thickly on the cliff; a rushing sound is heard in the wood. from the clouds breaks a vivid flash of lightning, by which the valkyries are seen packed closely together, and riding wildly away with loose bridles. the storm soon subsides; the thunder-clouds gradually disperse. in the following scene the weather becomes fine again and twilight falls, followed at the close by night._ [_wotan and brünnhilde, who lies stretched at his feet, remain behind alone. a long solemn silence._ brünnhilde [_begins to raise her head a little, and, commencing timidly, gains confidence as she proceeds._ was the offence so shameful and foul that to such shame the offender should be doomed? was what i did so base and so vile that i must suffer abasement so low? was the dishonour truly so deep that it must rob me of honour for aye? [_she raises herself gradually to a kneeling posture._ o speak, father! in my eye looking, calming thy rage, taming thy wrath, explain why so dark this deed of mine that in thy implacable anger it costs thee thy favourite child! wotan [_his attitude unchanged, gravely and gloomily._ ask of thy deed, and that will show thee thy guilt! brünnhilde i but fulfilled wotan's command. wotan by my command didst thou fight for the walsung? brünnhilde yea, lord of the lots, so ran thy decree. wotan but i took back the order, changed the decree! brünnhilde when fricka had weaned thy will from its purpose; in yielding what she desired thou wert a foe to thyself. wotan [_softly and bitterly._ i thought thou didst understand me, and punished thy conscious revolt; but coward and fool i seemed to thee! if i had not treason to punish thou wouldst be unworthy my wrath. brünnhilde i am not wise, but i knew well this one thing- that thy love was the wälsung's; i knew that, by discord drawn two ways, this one thing thou hadst forgotten. the other only couldst thou discern- what so bitterly wounded thy heart: that siegmund might not be shielded. wotan and yet thou didst dare to shield him, knowing 'twas so? brünnhilde [_beginning softly._ because i the one thing had kept in my eye, while by twofold desire divided wert thou, blindly thy back on him turning! she who wards thy back from the foe in the field, she saw alone what thou sawest not:- siegmund i beheld. bringing him doom i approached; i looked in his eyes, gave ear to his words. i perceived the hero's bitter distress; loud the lament of the brave one resounded; uttermost love's most terrible pang, saddest of hearts defying all odds-- with my ear i heard, my eye beheld that which stirred the heart in my breast with trouble holy and strange. shamed, astonished, shrinking i stood. then all my thought was how i could serve him; triumph and death to share with siegmund- that seemed, that only, the lot i could choose! faithful to him who taught my heart this love, and set me by the wälsung's side as friend- most faithful to him- thy word i disobeyed. wotan so thou hast done what i yearned so greatly to do- what a twofold fate withheld from my desire! so easy seemed to thee heart's delight in the winning, when burning woe in my heart flamed fierce, when terrible anguish wrung my soul, when, to save the world that i loved, love's spring in my tortured heart i imprisoned? against my own self when i turned, to my torment, from swooning pain arose in a frenzy, when a wild longing burning like fire the fearful design in me woke in the ruins of my own world my unending sorrow to bury, [_somewhat freely._ thy heart was lapped in blissful delight. trembling with rapture, drunken with joy, thy lips drank laughing the draught of love, while i drank of divine woe mixed with wormwood and gall. [_dryly and shortly._ by thy lightsome heart henceforth be guided: from me thou hast turned away! i must renounce thee; together no more shall we two whisper counsel; apart our paths lie, sundered for ever, and so long as life lasts i, the god, dare nevermore greet thee! brünnhilde [_simply._ unfit was the foolish maid for thee, who, dazed by thy counsel, grasped not thy mind when, to her, one counsel alone appeared plain- to love what was loved by thee. if i must forth where i shall not find thee, if the fast-woven bond must be loosed, and half thy being far from thee banished- a half once thine and thine only, o god, forget not that!- thy other self thou wilt not dishonour, dealing out shame that will shame thee too; thine own honour were lowered, were i a target for scorn! wotan the lure of love thou hast followed fain: follow the man who shall wield its might! brünnhilde if i must go from walhall, no more in thy work be a sharer, and if as my master a man i must serve, i braggart base abandon me not! not all unworthy be he who wins! wotan with wotan no part hast thou- he cannot fashion thy fate. brünnhilde by thee has been founded a race too glorious to bring forth a coward one day must a matchless hero from walsung lineage spring. wotan name not the wälsungs to me! renouncing thee, them too i renounced; through envy they came to naught. brünnhilde she who turned from thee rescued the race; [_with an air of secrecy._ sieglinde bears fruit holy and high; in pain and woe beyond woe known to woman she will bring forth what in fear she hides! wotan no shelter for her seek at my hand, nor for fruit that she may bear. brünnhilde the sword she has kept that thou gavest siegmund. wotan [_violently._ and that i splintered with my spear. strive not, o maid, my spirit to trouble! await thou the lot cast and decreed; i cannot choose it or change! but now i must forth, fare from thee far; too long i stay by thy side. i must turn from thee, as thou didst from me; i must not even know thy desire; thy doom alone i must see fulfilled! brünnhilde and what is the doom that i must suffer? wotan in slumber fast thou shalt be locked; wife thou shalt be to the man who finds and wakes thee from sleep! brünnhilde [_falls on her knees._ if fettering sleep fast must bind me, an easy prey to the basest coward, this one thing that in deep anguish i plead for thou must accord! o shield thou the sleeper with soul-daunting terrors, [_firmly._ that by a dauntless hero alone here on the rock i may be found! wotan too much thou askest- too big a boon! [illustration: plate 32 wotan. "appear, flickering fire, encircle the rock with thy flame! loge! loge! appear!"] brünnhilde [_clasping his knees._ this one thing grant me, o grant me! the child that is clasping thy knees crush dead; tread down thy dear one and shatter the maid; let her body perish, pierced by thy spear, but, cruel one, expose her not to this crying shame! [_with wild ecstasy._ o cause a fire to burn at thy bidding, with flame fiercely flaring girdle the rock, and may its tongue lick, and may its tooth eat the coward who, daring, rashly approaches the terrible spot! wotan [_overcome and deeply stirred, turns quickly towards brünnhilde, raises her from her knees and looks into her eyes with emotion._ farewell, thou valiant, glorious child! thou the most holy pride of my heart, farewell! farewell! farewell! [_passionately._ must we be parted? shall i never more give thee love's greeting? must thou no longer gallop beside me, nor bring me mead at banquet? if i must lose thee, whom i have loved so, the laughing delight of my eyes, for thee there shall burn a bridal fire brighter than ever yet burned for a bride! fiercely the flames shall flare round thy bed, flames dreadful, devouring, daunting all cowards; let cravens flee from brünnhilde's rock! one only shall set the bride free, one freer than i, the god! [_moved and enraptured, brünnhilde sinks on the breast of wotan, who holds her in a long embrace; then she throws back her head again, and, still embracing him, gazes into his eyes with emotion and awe._ those eyes so lovely and bright that oft with smiles i caressed, thy valour with a kiss rewarding when, sweetly lisped by thy childlike mouth, the praise of heroes i heard: those eyes so radiant and fair that oft in storm on me shone, when hopeless yearning my heart was wasting, and when the joy of the world i longed for, while fears thronged thick around me- once more to-day gladdening me, let them take this kiss of fond farewell! on happier mortal may they yet shine; on me, hapless immortal, must they close, and for ever! [_he takes her head in both hands._ 'tis thus that the god from thee turns: he kisses thy godhead away! [illustration: plate 33, as he moves slowly away, wotan turns and looks sorrowfully back at brünnhilde.] [_he kisses her long on the eyes, and with these closed she sinks back softly into his arms, unconscious. he carries her gently to a low mossy mound, and lays her there beneath the broad-spreading pine-tree which overshadows it. he gazes at her and closes her helmet; his eyes then rest on the form of the sleeper, which he completely covers with the great steel shield of the valkyries. having done so, he moves slowly away, turning to take one more sorrowful look. then he strides with solemn resolve to the middle of the stage, and points his sword towards a large rock._ loge, hear! hark to my word! i who found thee at first a fiery flame, and from whom thou didst vanish in wandering fire, i, who once bound, bid thee break forth! appear, flickering fire, encircle the rock with thy flame! [_he strikes the rock three times with his spea r during the following._ loge! loge! appear! [_a gleam of fire issues from the stone and gradually becomes a fiery glow; then flickering flames break forth. soon wild, shooting flames surround wotan, who, with his spear, directs the sea of fire to encircle the rock. it spreads towards the background, so that the mountain is surrounded by flame._ let none who fears the spear of wotan adventure across this fire! [_he stretches out his spear as a ban, looks sorrowfully back at brünnhilde, then moves slowly away, turning his head for a farewell gaze. finally he disappears through the fire. the curtain falls._ [illustration: plate 34, the sleep of brünnhilde.] (images generously made available by the google books project.) the valkyries by e. f. benson author of "limitations," "dodo," etc. t. fisher unwin london leipzig paris 1903 [illustration: the flight of the valkyries] [illustration: brunnhilde] [illustration: siegmund the wolsung] [illustration: waltraute] [illustration] contents chapter i introduction: the house of hunding chapter ii the coming of the stranger chapter iii the story of the stranger chapter iv the recognition chapter v the strife of wotan and fricka chapter vi siegmund's lot is cast chapter vii the fight of siegmund chapter viii the flight of brunnhilde chapter ix the sentence of brunnhilde chapter x the sleep of brunnhilde. [illustration] [illustration] illustrations the flight of the valkyries frontispiece often had she sat there "lady, i thank thee" "to-night we are host and guest" at that he wrenched at the sword-hilt "i give thee mine oath!" said he very slowly she armed herself "wotan's spear is stretched against thee, siegmund" brunnhilde brings sieglinde to the valkyries' meeting-place crouching among her sisters then tenderly he raised her from where she knelt preface in the following pages an attempt has been made to render as closely as possible into english narrative prose the libretto of wagner's "valkyrie". the story is one little known to english readers, and even those who are familiar with the gigantic music may find in the story something which, even when rendered into homely prose, will reveal to them some new greatness of the master-mind of its author. it is in this hope that i have attempted this version. whether i have attempted a task either absolutely impossible, or impossible to my capacity, i cannot tell, for so huge is the scale of the original, so big with passion, so set in the riot of storm-clouds and elemental forces, that perhaps it can only be conveyed to the mind as wagner conveyed it, through such sonorous musical interpretations as he alone was capable of giving to it. yet even because the theme is so great, rather than in spite of it, any interpretation, even that of halting prose, may be unable to miss certain of the force of the original. the drama itself comes second in the tetralogy of the ring, being preceded by the rheingold. but this latter is more properly to be considered as the overture to a trilogy than as the first drama of a tetralogy. in it the stage is set, and heaven above, rainbow-girt walhalla, and the dark stir of the forces beneath the earth, alberich and the niebelungs, enter the arena waiting for the puny and momentous sons of men to assert their rightful lordship over the earth, at the arising of whom the gods grow grey and the everlasting foundations of walhalla crumble. from the strange loves of siegmund and sieglinde, love not of mortal passion, but of primeval and elemental need, the drama starts; this is the first casting of the shuttle across the woof of destiny. from that point, through the present drama, through siegfried, through the dusk of the gods the eternal grinding of the mills continues. once set going the gods themselves are powerless to stop them, for the stream that turns them is stronger than the thunderings of wotan, for the stream is "that which shall be." in storm the drama begins, in storm of thunder and all the range of passion and of death it works its inevitable way, till for a moment there is calm, when on the mountain-top brunnhilde sleeps, waiting for the coming of him whose she is, for the awakening to the joy of human life. and there till siegfried leaps the barrier of flame we leave her. e. f. benson. the valkyries chapter i introduction the house of hunding never before in the memory of man had spring been so late in coming, and into mid-may had lasted the hurricanes and tempests of winter. not even yet was the armoury of its storms and squalls wholly spent, and men, as they huddled by the fire and heard night by night, and day by day the bugling of the wind, and the hiss of rain and the patter of the hailstones, wondered what this subversion and stay of the wholesome seasons should portend. for now for many years had strange omens and forebodings shadowed and oppressed the earth. some said that the earth itself and erda the spirit of earth were growing old; some even had seen the great mother, not as of old she had appeared from time to time, vigorous and young, clad in the fresh green of growing things, but old and heavy-eyed, and her mantle was frosted over with rime, for the chill of the unremitting years had fallen on her. others again said that in walhalla, which wotan the father of gods and men had builded by the might of giants, all was not well; that shadows crowded in places where no shadows should be, and that their companies grew ever greater, and that dim voices of wailing and of warning sounded in the ears and in the high places of the gods. others said that the gods themselves were growing old; that wotan feared the spirits of the earth, and of the places beneath the earth, for he was no longer certain of his strength, and that age and the grey shadow of death itself looked over his shoulder when he sat alone, and when he slept with fricka his wife visions of ill portent would trouble his dreams so that often he rose at dead of night from his couch, and would look from the walls of walhalla over the still sleeping earth, wondering from which quarter danger would come, and from where he would first see the red light of war. night by night he would commune with himself, wondering how it was that the strength and the merriment of old days had departed, wondering, yet in himself knowing. for he knew the book of fate and of that which should be, as a man still dreaming knows that he is in bed, and the night-hag rides him, and yet is powerless either to fully sleep or fully wake. certain also it was that day by day he sent his daughters, whom he begat by erda the spirit of the earth, to slay and bring into walhalla heroes of the sons of men, into whom he breathed the spirit of eternal life so that for ever they should guard those walls that once he thought impregnable; and day by day did the eight valkyries, led by brunnhilde, the fairest and the strongest of them all, go on their quests. she it was in whom above all wotan delighted, for so at one with him was the swift strength and fearless will of the maid; it was to her he told all his intentions and his purposes, and not to fricka his wife, so that often when he talked with brunnhilde he scarcely knew whether he spoke to her or whether his own soul but communed with itself. yet though he thus guarded walhalla, thinking to make it safe, he knew that there was one thing in the world which was stronger than he, and that was fate. what should be, would be, and what should be recked of wotan as lightly as it recked of the falling of a sparrow, or the passing of a spring shower. now these omens of gloom and fate which lay heavy on walhalla, troubled also the minds of men. if death came to the gods, should not death come also to the earth and the children of the earth? when the master fell should not the servant fall also? yet because the race of men were yet but young on the earth, and vigorous, flourishing in stony places like a creeping plant that shall soon cover the desert with its stems, there were men, and those wise ones, who held that after the fall of the gods the kingdoms of the world and all the sovereignty of the earth should soon be given to the sons of men. and they looked for the coming of one who should challenge the gods themselves, before whom the everlasting foundations of walhalla should crumble. he it was, they said, whom wotan feared, he who was free and owed nothing to the lords of walhalla, for wotan knew that before him his own god-like strength would crumble as a dead leaf, and as a dead leaf be borne away on the winds. and in this long continuance of winter, when already spring should have awakened the earth with its glad shout, they saw in figure the winter of the gods; and when winter should cease and spring come, even so would come in the fulness of time now nigh the upspringing of men, in which should be forgotten the winter of the gods. for the finger of fate pointed to the new time, when walhalla should be shaken and fall, and men should be slaves no longer to the early outworn gods, but possess the earth in peace and plenty. yet still in mid-may the storms of winter were not spent; still the sap of growing things stayed and stirred not in the barren branches of the forest trees. and winter still froze and hardened in the heart of sieglinde the wife of hunding. though she had been long his wife, yet she was still young, and her woman's heart hungered for love, and starved for a man she could love, but froze again ever into ice at the sight of her lord. unwittingly and by compulsion of her kindred and his she had married him; hate blossomed in her heart where the flower of love should have made fragrance, and in all but deed she was unfaithful to him. day by day she did the work of a wife; she made his food for him before he went out to the hunt, whether it was the deer he hunted to make venison, or man that he hunted for vengeance, for he was of the tribe of the niedings, who wooed by sword and violence, and from the slaughter of her kindred had often borne away a maid to her wedding feast then after she had given him his food, she would give him his spear and sword and shield, a service which but earned her a curse or a blow, and watch him stride off into the forest, with bitter loathing in her heart and truly if hate could kill, hunding would have died by his wife's hand a hundred deaths a day. but the hours when he was out were more tolerable, for after she had cleaned the house, and made all ready for his return, she would be free of the man she so hated till night came. then, maybe, if suns were fair, she would sit outside, the house, listening to the sounds of the forest at noonday, little knowing how in the years that were coming, one, her first-born and only son, of a stranger union than ever gods or men had dreamed of, would listen in like manner to the murmurs of the forest, till the song of the bird spoke to him not with unintelligible twitterings, but with a voice as clear as the tones of a friend. or she would let down her mane of golden hair, loving it because it was beautiful, and hating it because it was hunding's, his to twine passionate hands in, his to cut off and throw on to the hearth if so he wished. thus she both hated and loved her own beauty; loved it because she longed to give it to a man she loved, hated it because it belonged to a man she hated. at other times she would walk down through the pine-trees to where the mountain brook fell into the black lake, that lay deeper, it was said, than line could plumb. often she had sat there, wondering how it was that she of the wolsung breed, daughter of the god wotan, when in form of a man he wooed and won the forest maid who was her mother, yet lacked the courage to plunge in and be done with hunding and her woe for ever. yet had she known it, it was courage not cowardice that held her back from the leap, courage and that firm and strong belief that burned like a little flame, so clear, and yet so tiny within her, that there was something more written for her in the book of fate, to which even wotan bowed, than that she should end all in one moment of unwomanly despair. then, maybe, she would creep to the edge of the water, where the lake lay still and windless, and behold in that mirror the wonder and glory of her face, warm and red with the flow of her strong blood, with the great grey eyes all wildness and all fierce passion for the man she had never seen, whose coming her heart welcomed. [illustration: often had she sat there.] "surely i bring him a gift which not many would despise," she would say to herself; "and o, when he comes, the love which is in my heart will make me more beautiful than ever!" then, maybe, if the spring stirred in her blood, she would lie there imagining him. dark men she hated, because hunding was dark. dark was he and swarthy, of great stature, but so broad of build that he seemed not tall. dark eyes looked from out of the eaves of his overhanging brows, a cavern fringed with long growth of eyebrows, and dark and mirthless and cruel was his heart. not so should her lover be; he, the man for whom fate had predestined her, for whose sake fate held her back from the lake that was as black as hunding. no, he should be tall, but slight, strong with the strength of speed and lightness, not strong with the knotted strength of the oak-tree. hunding was black, so he should be fair, his hair of the colour of honey when it is drained fresh from the nest of the wild bee, and the sun strikes it. "yes, yes," she would say, "the colour, the colour;" and then a braid of her own hair would stray over her shoulder; "yes, that colour," she would say; and indeed it was beyond compare, for fresh honey was lustreless beside it. grey should his eyes be, for hunding was dark, grey with a reflected blueness lying deep therein, even as her own eyes were grey like thin skeins of cloud suffused with the inimitable blue of the heaven behind them. then she would picture him, and lo! when the picture was complete, the man whom she desired, for whom her heart waited, was of the same glorious mould as herself, such a man as wotan might have begotten by the forest maiden who bore sieglinde herself. then when evening approached and the shadows of the pines began to lengthen across the lake, and the twittering of birds began to be hushed in the bushes, she would turn homewards again, and get ready the supper for her lord, and wait, his return. sometimes even when she gazed into the lake, his image would cross her mind, and at that the reflection of her face froze and sickened. and every evening when she heard his step it froze and sickened, and her heart sickened also, and sieglinde was sieglinde no longer, but his wife, faithless in all but deed. sometimes if the day and work had not gone well, he would speak no word to her, and again a curse or a blow might be her only traffic with him till next day he went forth again into the forest. but if the day had prospered with him, if he had slain much game, be it man or beast, he would be well pleased with her, and laugh to see her hatred of him, for that but seemed to kindle his love for her beauty. but sieglinde was better pleased if he cursed her, for since he was hateful to her, his displeasure was almost sweet to her, but his pleasure made her sometimes hot with hatred against him, and she could have killed him, sometimes cold with hatred, when she could have killed herself. nevertheless, between her and death stood ever the image of one who should come with outpouring of love, at sight of whom her own love long frozen and pent within her, nor even yet come to birth, should also be outpoured as the sap in a tree is called forth by the spring and the sun, and must follow that sweet bidding. but as yet it was winter with her and the world, and for sun the chill rain hissed on the roof-tree, and among the trees of the forest the winter wind sighed in the bitter air. the house of hunding, sieglinde's house of hate, stood high in the forest, and all round it grew great trees of stately growth, where in this may-time the birds should have been already mated, the male with throatfuls of song to while his mate's hour of patient brooding, she busy with the cares of motherhood. but so long had winter lingered, that the branches and boughs were still scarcely green with the buds that, herald spring, and as yet their feathered citizens were silent. on the hill-side the pine forest came down to the borders of the stream which fed the lake into which sieglinde used so often to look, and from year's end to year's end this was never wholly silent because of the breezes that even in the depth of summer made music in the pines, so high and open to the clear winds of heaven was the place set, and by night and day low moaning as of a distant sea sounded ever through the chambers of the house of hunding. four-square was the house; the door opened straight from the wood of beech and oak in which it stood, into the dwelling-place, and on one side was the open hearth with seats right and left of it when sitting there sieglinde could see through the smoke-hole the sky outside, and on clear nights would notice how the stars looked down through the curling wood-smoke, even as that which she knew would come to her shone steadfastly, though often obscured through the troubled clouds of her life. in front stood the table at which hunding ate, and at which, when her lord had finished, she ate also. in the very centre of the hall grew a great tree, in the branches of which rested the beams of the roof. this was the work of hunding, which he had prepared before ever he went on his violent wooing; and cunningly was it contrived, so that the strength and stability of the tree passed into the house itself, and not all the winds of heaven could move the house unless the tree itself was uprooted. often did sieglinde gaze at the mighty trunk, but not for pleasure at the workmanship of the house, but because in her day-dreams she ever saw her deliverance from the hated yoke of hunding bound up with the tree. for on the day of her abhorred wedlock, when the kith and kin of hunding made merry at his marriage feast, while she, whom he had carried off, sat apart with downcast eyes, and heart in which hatred of her husband already had flowered, there strode into the hall one whom neither she nor hunding, nor any of those who sat at meat with him, knew. but as he came into the hall, a hush fell on the din of merry-making, and none durst ask him who he was, or what his business there might be. first one and then another started up to ask him what he did there, for he came unbidden by any, but at the flash of his eye, each in turn fell back abashed, but sieglinde met his gaze undismayed, and found there no tremor nor fear, but a sudden spring of hope. the stranger was clad in a long cloak of blue, and on his head was a hat of so wide a brim that one of his eyes only was seen. yet that was enough to put fear into the hearts of all except sieglinde; and she found there hope and the promise of delivery. still in silence he drew the sword he wore, and with one movement buried it up to the hilt in the stem of the ash. then said the stranger: "whoso can pull out the sword, his shall it be," and without more words strode out as he had come. then one after the other, beginning from hunding, all tried to draw out the sword, yet none with his utmost might could stir it an inch from the place where the stranger had so lightly thrust it. but ever, since the stranger's glance had fallen on her, sieglinde knew in her heart that the man who would draw it out would be her deliverer from the house of hate. and thus she often cast her eyes to where the hilt of the sword still gleamed against the dark trunk of the ash, and waited for one to come. for the rest, curtains of woven wool, the work of sieglinde's years of loveless marriage, hung on the walls, and on the floor were strewn bear-skins, the spoils of hunding's hunting. beside the hearth a stairway of few steps led to the store-house, and in the wall opposite was the door that led to the bed-chamber. little recked hunding when in the house of aught but his food and his sleep; and the table at which he ate, the stool on which he sat, and the bed in which he slept were furniture enough for him. and since to sieglinde the house was a house of hate, she cared not to make it fair as women do whose heart is at home. clean was the house and bare; the roof kept out the rain, and hunding's hunting made a fat table. chapter ii the coming of the stranger on a certain day then in this may month, when winter still held sway, hunding, as his custom was, had left the house armed with his spear and sword and shield, as soon as the eyelids of the wind-swept morning opened in the skies, and all day sieglinde had been alone. all day too a riotous storm had beset the place, so that she had stirred not from the house, but when her work was done sat and listened to the bugling blasts, half in fear, half in hope that this tempest and hurly-burly of the skies might prove too strong for the cunning handiwork of hunding, and that the very house should fall upon her as she sat there, making an end of her hopes and her hate. so strong was the tempest that she feared hunding might return before the day was over, but the hours passed on, and still he came not; and towards the sunset she went into the store-house, as her custom was, to make ready for his supper. shrill and loud blew the wind, so that the walls of the house trembled with its violence, and the sheets of rain were flung unceasingly against the building. for all that, it seemed to her that by now some change had come over the day; no longer were the blasts cold and piercing like those she had known now for months past, but there was something of warmth and softness in them. and for all the rain was so heavy, yet to her mind it was more like to the heavy and fruitful rain of spring than the volleyings of winter tempests. all this made within her a sort of eager restlessness; often during the day she had started on some errand in her work, and had left it with a sigh unfinished or had forgotten what she had intended; often too she had looked at the sword-hilt gleaming against the dark ash-stem, and thrills of unaccountable expectation had been hers suddenly and unconjecturably sweet. but as the day went on, the storm grew even fiercer, though it seemed to her that a warmth and languor was in the air, and tardily enough and with limbs unstrung she went about the time of sunset to the store-house. the bread she had made that morning was there, and the venison which hunding had killed two days before. then from the store she took honey to make mead for his drink, when suddenly she heard the house door bang, and hate surged bitterly into her throat, for she knew that it must be her husband come home. and whether it was the coming of spring that troubled her blood or not, she felt then for him such loathing as had never before been hers, and her hand so trembled that she stayed a little within, till he should call to her, or until she was more mistress of herself. but no sound came from the hall, and after a little while, leaving the meat and the bread and the honey there, she went to the door to see whether it was indeed hunding who had returned, for she wondered that he had not called to her. it was now dark, and only the gleam from the fire made a little brightness in the hall, and for a moment she thought that it must have been the wind only that had moved the door, for she saw none there, neither hunding nor another, but only the firelight crouching on the hearth and leaping on the walls of the empty room, and gleaming very brightly on the hilt of the sword which the stranger had buried in the ash-stem on the day of her marriage. then with a cry of surprise she saw that a man was stretched out on the bear-skin by the hearth, without movement, but lying like one dead. his face she could not see, for it was turned away from her towards the fire, but he was tall in stature, and his arm, bare to the shoulder, was strong and sinewy. his clothes were ragged and drenched with the rain, but the firelight shone on the hair that fell thickly to his shoulder, and it gleamed yellow in the firelight like the honey she had just now drawn for her husband's mead. and when she saw that she felt that for a moment a long-drawn breath hung suspended in her bosom. then, for here was a man sick perhaps to death, and in need of help, the thought that had not yet been consciously hers died again, and she went nearer to him. but still the man did not move; only she saw that his tunic rose and fell with the rising and falling of his breath, and she knew that whoever he was he was not dead, but only fallen in sore faintness of exhaustion, and that his eyelids, which had fallen over his eyes, so that the lashes swept his cheek, were not closed in the sleep of death. and as she thus looked at his face which was turned towards the firelight, again a breath hung suspended in her bosom, for he was fair, not dark like hunding, and the short beard of early manhood which fringed his tip and covered his chin was yellow, even as the honey which she had drawn for her husband's mead. even as she looked, the man stirred, and though his eye did not open, his tongue moved in his mouth, and-"water, water!" he whispered, and his voice was low and deep and soft. at that sieglinde stayed not in idle surmise, but pity for a man distressed woke in her heart, pity and the woman's need to help, and she took up hunding's drinking-horn which she had laid on the table for his supper, and hurried out of the house to where the well of water sprang bubbling out of the mossy bed beneath the hawthorn trees. the storm had altogether ceased, and in the heaven washed clean by the rain the stars burned large. the chill of the long winter had gone, and the balmy warmth of spring filled the air, and, even as she bent to fill the horn at the runnel of water, close above her head a nightingale burst into bubbling song. and she wondered, yet paused not to wonder, but hurried back into the house with the horn brimful of the fresh spring water. so with the horn in her hand she returned, and found the stranger still lying as she had left him, and into his nerveless hand she put the horn. "water," she said, "thou didst ask for water;" and he drank till the horn was empty, yet still raised not his eyes. "water, water," he said; "thou hast given me water, and i give thee thanks. already----" and he paused, and the bear-skin stood away from the braced arm. "already i am my own master again. that was all i needed." yet that was not all, for he sank back again to his elbow in the bear-skins, and he gazed at her. "lady, i thank thee," said he. "thou hast wakened me, thou hast welcomed me. the sleep and darkness of my faintness stands away from me. so tell me: whom is it that i thank?" just then the firelight died down, and from flame there was but a mere glow on the walls. only in the darkness the glow lit on the hilt of the sword that a stranger on the day of her marriage feast had thrust in the ash-stem, and on the head of a stranger who lay at the hearth. yet wondrously spring bubbled in her heart, though as yet she knew nought but that only a wayfarer had happened here, and that she had relieved his sore need. [illustration: "lady, i thank thee."] "the house is hunding's," said she. "she who gave thee drink is the wife of hunding," and at that the hatred of her man rose bitter and deadly in her throat "his guest--the guest of hunding art thou. abide then here, he will soon be home." thereat a sudden log caught fire in the hearth, and in the blaze she saw the colour fly to his face, and the light from the firelight sparkle in his eyes. and they were grey, but blue was behind them, as if a summer cloud flecked the open heaven. "there is no harm," said he, still weak from his adventure, and loth to meet her gaze; "i am without weapon. he would not grudge a weaponless guest such harbourage, though his wife is alone with him and tends to him. also i am wounded." "wounded!" she cried; and again there was nought but pity in a woman's heart for a man in distress, pity and the need to give help. "where art thou wounded? let me see to thy hurt." again he raised his eyes to her, and at the sight his blood beat quicker, and resumed its more wonted way, and, refreshed of his faintness by the water she had brought him, he shook the hair back from his white forehead, and though not yet enough himself to stand up, sat erect on the bear-skin, rejoicing to feel the life return in warmth and tingling to his limbs. and he thought no more of his wounds, for it was of the gracious woman who faced him that he thought. "ah, they are nothing," he said. "they are not worth the words we have already spent on them. see! my arms will serve me yet," and he thrust out first one and then the other with vigour, so that the muscles stood out on them like cords, and in turn he clenched his hands. "would that my shield and spear had served me as well," said he; "then should i not have run from my foes, but my shield was shivered, and my sword broken. yes, i am a man who ran from his foes. what else could i do? often through the forest they were close behind me, and often the branches through which i plunged had not yet closed behind me, when one or another of my foes was lashed by the back-stroke of the twigs. but now, faster than my flight my faintness leaves me. faster than the storm, which all day has buffeted me, riding on the wings of the wind, my strength returns; my fear and the night and darkness which closed over my senses roll away, and the sun comes out again." low burned the firelight on the hearth; and in the darkness she could scarce see the stranger's face, but the music of his voice beat on her ear, and within her, her heart beat in tune to it and a sudden tumult shook her, and she sprang up, feeling the need to do something, not to watch only for the upspringing of the fire so that she should see him, nor to question him so that his voice should sound on her ear. so again she took the drinking-horn of hunding, and fetched honey from the store-chamber, and made within it the yellow mead, and handed it him. "drink," she said. "the water has given thee life; take thy strength again also." "drink thou first," said he. so sieglinde took the horn and sipped it, and gave it back to the stranger. and he, putting his lips where hers had touched the horn, drank deeply of it, and bowing his head in thanks gave it back to her. as he did so, again the fire shot up and prospered on the hearth; each saw the other more clearly than before, and the woman was fair and the man also, and in each grey eyes were shot with blue, and the yellow hair of each was of the same brightness. long they looked at each other undismayed, he, because he must soon depart, and this one long look could hurt neither, unless a little heart-ache were a hurt; she, because her dreams had become suddenly coloured with life, and because she hated hunding. but there comes an end to all moments be they sweet or bitter, and soon he got up. tall was he as hunding, but his form was slight as of a youth but lately come to man's estate, but in the clean lines of arm and leg there was strength and swiftness. "thou hast refreshed my faintness," said he. "thou hast given me life again. and for thanks what can i say? this only: may sorrow ever be a stranger to thee. may happiness be ever about thy home. i am rested and refreshed; i will go on my way." then her heart awoke, and told her that she could not let him go. already the fire of love was beginning to burn within her, and her dreams every moment were flushed more deeply with life. and though her voice was half strangled in her throat, she answered him lightly: "why such haste?" she said; "wait a little longer." he paused on his foot and looked at her. "that would be but poor thanks for thy kindness," said he; "for wherever i go i bring sorrow with me, sorrow and ill-luck. if thou wert my enemy i would stay; it is because thou hast been good to me and gracious that i go, taking my ill-luck with me, that it should not abide untowardly in thy house. so i delay not, but go," and he turned quickly and went to the door. then when his hand was on the latch, and in the next moment he would have gone forth into the night, and out of her sight for ever, her heart again would not suffer her to remain dumb. little of sorrow or ill-luck could he bring to her while she abode still in the house of hunding, for all the sorrow in the world, or so it seemed to her, was hers already, nor was there any ill-luck which he could bring which should be comparable to that which was ever about her house and about her bed, and sat at meat with her. "there is no sorrow thou couldest bring me," said she, "for it is mine already. look on these walls; they are builded firm, and it is of hate they are builded. sorrow and hate and ill-luck were the masons, and they have built well. look! thou wilt find no cranny nor chink. o, i have a well-established house!" and she laughed with sudden bitterness. "so stay," she said, and her voice quivered like an aspen leaf. by now the logs that sieglinde had cast on the hearth against hunding's return were fully caught, and loud laughed the firelight on the walls. in that brightness they saw each other more clearly yet, and the long look that had passed between them was again renewed. other fires, too, were burning, for each now felt much pity for the other--sieglinde for the stranger in that he was lonely and the quarry of ill-luck; the stranger for her in that when love should have been blossoming in her home, the strong poisonous flowers of hate were there instead. but as she spoke, the latch fell from his fingers, and he slowly returned and sat down by the hearth. "yet i have warned thee," said he. "woe is my name, and if thou fearest not woe, thou fearest not me. i will wait for hunding to thank him for the rest and refreshment i have found in his house." then though sieglinde's heart rejoiced that she had stayed his going, yet she was troubled. for though nothing could have been more right than that he should wait for hunding, her lawful lord, yet she knew why she had bade him stay, for the woman in her called for man. and in silence she lit the lamp and placed it on the table; and in troubled silence she made all ready for hunding's coming. not long did she wait, for in a short space she heard the stroke of his horse's hoofs on the stones without; she heard him lead the beast to the stable and shut the door; she heard his step again outside and the jar of the lifted latch. then she looked once more at the stranger and he at her, and with that the door opened, and hunding, black as the night outside, stood there. then seeing a stranger by the hearth he paused, with the door still swung open, and looked with an unspoken question at his wife. from without came in the warm breath of the spring night, and the dwelling-place was filled with it, as the vats are filled with the odours of the wine when the vintage time has come, and in the heart of sieglinde the flowers of hate burst into passionate blossom, and with that growth was mingled another. chapter iii the story of the stranger for a moment there was silence. then said sieglinde: "i found him here by the hearth, hunding; he was faint, his foes pursued him." hunding looked darkly at her, and more darkly yet at the stranger. he on hunding's entrance had turned himself, and risen from his seat, as if to greet his host; but even as his greeting was on his lips he had paused, for there was something in that black look which made him feel some echo of sieglinde's hate. "it is ever well to help the helpless," said hunding evilly. "thou gavest him refreshment?" "even so," said she. "he was my guest--your guest; faint by the hearth i found him. he waited for your coming." not a smile of welcome did hunding give, for it was not his way to smile; and already in his black heart hatred blackened towards his guest, and suspicion, ere yet it came, cast its shadow. and as his host did not greet him, neither did the stranger greet his host. yet he could not bear that the woman should be blamed for what he had done. his was the blame. "i was shelterless," said he, looking at hunding. "she sheltered me. i was faint: she revived me. is there blame in that?" "blame? who talks of blame?" said hunding more blackly yet. "my hearth is holy: not otherwise has any guest of mine found it, and guest of mine art thou. inviolable are these laws." and without more words he turned to sieglinde, who, as her custom was, took his weapons of hunting and hung them up on the ash-tree beneath the gleaming sword-hilt hunding hated the sword-hilt, for he had not been able to move it, and he knew that in this world there was but one who could. on that day also he knew trouble would come to his house. but he told sieglinde to bring supper for him and his guest, and as she moved about her work, he stood beneath the ash-stem and looked from her to the stranger and back again. each was cast in noble mould, and they were strangely like the one to the other, for the head of each was bright with sunny hair, and in the grey eye of each was seated some secret sorrow. tall was his wife, and tall the stranger, and the skin of each was fair as the skin of a child, and as smooth. for himself he felt like a base-born man in the presence of the gently bred; and as he looked he hated each, and the shadow of his suspicion grew darker. then he turned to the stranger, and speaking like a man who conceals nought-"thy way has been long," he said, "and thou hast no horse. where hast thou come, and whither goest thou? what journey has thus travel-stained thee?" then said the stranger: "the storm and the foe have driven me far, and by what way i know not. and where i have come i know not, for my way was long, and the heavens and earth were blinded with tempest. tell me then where i have come." and as hunding looked on him again, the likeness of the stranger to his wife smote on him like a blow; and again he looked from one to the other, as sieglinde brought in venison and the fresh-baked bread, and put them ready on the table. but he answered him with seeming frankness. "it is to hunding's house thou hast come," he said, "and under the roof of hunding thou hast rested. not here is the home of my kindred, but far away to northward; and they of my blood are mighty and many. be seated then, guest of mine, and in return tell me thy name." so the stranger seated himself, and when he was seated hunding sat down also, and sieglinde, who had finished the serving, sat by her husband opposite to their guest, and her eyes dwelt ever on him very steadfastly, and his on her, and neither took heed of hunding, who watched them both. eagerly she waited for him to tell them his name, expecting she knew not what; but as her eyes looked on him, she forgot even that hunding had asked it, for she forgot all else except that in front of her and at her husband's table was seated the fair-haired stranger. as for him, his eyes were fixed in thought, as if he meditated on his answer. yet since it was a strange thing that a guest should not tell his name to his host, again hunding questioned him. "surely i would not press aught unwelcome on my guest," said he, "if he wills not to tell me. but see how my wife also waits for your answer. she too would fain know the name of her guest and mine;" and again he looked at sieglinde. but she took not her eyes off the stranger, for the sight of him fed her heart, making her content. and though she cared not to know his name, she could not but do her husband's bidding, and she too asked him his name, if so be he would be willing to tell it. then again for a long moment was the stranger still silent, but at the last he raised his eyes and looked at her, and some secret sympathy passed like a wave between them; and he spoke to her only. "my name is wehwalt, the man of woe," said he, "for mine is the portion of sorrow, and my father was called 'the wolf.' he begat twins, a sister and myself; but while i was yet so young that i scarce knew her name or the name of my mother, the wolf, my father, took me into the forest, there to rear me up to be strong and warlike, even as himself. strong too and warlike were his foes, and there were many of them. then, after years, one day he took me home, but no home found we there, but only the burnt ashes of what had been. there lay my mother, fallen and dead in defence of the hearth, but of my sister no trace was left. such was my home-coming." he paused, but took not his eyes from sieglinde's face, and his voice rose in sudden fire as he went on with his tale. "the treacherous niedings had done this," he cried, "and deadly was their work. bitter and relentless they pursued us, and for years my father and i lived a hunted life in the forest, beset with our foes. yet ever his courage and his cunning avoided the snares they set for us, and, by the side of the wolf, the whelp grew up through boyhood to early manhood." thereat he paused again, and turned to hunding. "that wolfs whelp tells you the tale," said he. now at the words of the stranger the suspicion that had hung over hunding's heart like a poised hawk grew suddenly nearer, as if it stooped to its prey, for even in the manner in which the stranger told them his sister had been lost to him, in that manner was his own wife won. well he remembered how the mother fought for the daughter, but at the end she was slain, and the house burnt, and the girl carried off by force; and again the strange likeness of the two struck on his heart. as for his wife sieglinde, her face was a mask, and she only gazed at the stranger with wide, grey eyes, and what she thought no man knew, and least of all her husband. also he had heard stories of the wolf and the whelp, as the forest folk called them, and now the whelp told the tale himself. but since he must needs know more yet, he curbed himself. "wehwalt," said he; "wehwalt, the wolfs whelp, it is a strange story that thou tellest us. of thy name in stories of strife and war i have heard men tell. yet saw i never the wolf thy father nor his son till to-day." he would have said more, but sieglinde, her eyes all aflame, interrupted him. "tell us the rest," she cried, and her voice strangled in her throat, for if hunding remembered how his wife was carried off from the burnt home, should not she remember? "tell us where thy father is to-day? where is his home? is it near--is it near?" she cried. then the stranger shook his head. "thou shalt hear," he said, "and i will tell thee all. for after the burning of the house, and the murder of my mother, and the seizing of my sister, ever more fiercely did the accursed niedings press on us, for the blood, maybe, had whetted them. but the wolf was ever stronger and more cunning than the men, and day after day he drove them through the forest, and in his paths the dead lay thick. even as a ship scatters the spray in clouds before its bows, even so they fell off spent from his advance, and he passed on over them, i with him, heeding them as little, as they writhed in their death agonies, as the ship heeds the billows it ploughs through. thus fared we till the day came when my father was not. a wolf-skin i found in the forest, but of him no trace. and whether he is dead i know not, or whether," and his eye brightened "whether he was not of mortal birth, and his work there was finished, and he went whither he would." for a moment he paused, and on one side the eager grey eyes of the woman met his, and by her sat her husband, whose black eyes smouldered with hate that was scarce concealed. but in the light of the grey eyes he forgot the black. "wanting him," he said, "i left the forest and lived among men and women of civilized race. yet wherever i went, whether i sought for friend only, or sought for wife, i prospered not, and he who should have been friend turned from me, and she whom i sought for wife thought scorn of me, for ill-luck was ever about my path. did i think a thing right? that was enough: to all others the deed seemed foul. did i think a deed false? to all others it appeared fair. and thus i was at war with the whole world. about my path watched hate, and anger against me grew like weeds in the bush. did i seek for joy? bitterness was mine, and woe and sorrow. thus came i to call myself wehwalt, for woe was my fate. so i named myself to fit my fate." then hunding wiped his mouth, for he had made an end of eating, and laughed bitterly. "truly then thou hast named thyself," said he, "if none to whom thou goest as a guest is glad at thy coming, and slow to love thee, and grieves not when thou goest and indeed such seems to be thy case." at that sieglinde turned and faced her husband, as she had never faced him before. "ah!" she cried, "there speaks the coward, hunding. for who but a coward would insult a man who is alone, and who is weaponless?" then she turned to the stranger again. "guest of mine and of hunding's," she said, "thy tale is but half told. how came it that thou art without thine arms? where is thy shield and thy sword and thy spear, that thou goest at the mercy of every coward?" at that hunding laughed, for he was minded to be amused. but she heeded not, and but listened for the stranger's words. "it was thus that i lost my shield and spear and sword," said he; "for i went to help and to rescue, if so be i could, a maid whom her kin wished to marry to a man she loved not. to me she came for help, and help i gave her, for i bethought me of how the wolf would descend like a hill-top storm on to his foes, and i, his whelp, could do no other way. so hewed i and hacked among the cruel kin, for rage was in my heart, since it was by such unhallowed wooing that i had lost my sister, and i cleared the homestead of her evil clan. two brothers had she, who would make the marriage, and for them i made a funeral instead of a marriage for their sister. but at that--ill-luck still following me--the tenderness of the maid awoke, and she wailed their loss, and her grief conquered her erstwhile cry for help. thus for me who had delivered her she had only curses. then, as i waited there, from every side swarmed out the kith and the kin of those whom i had done to death, so that the forest was thick with them. yet the maid still bewailed her brothers, and cursed me for their death, and cursed herself for that she had bidden me to aid her, and so compass it. with my sword i still defended her, for her kin were thirsty for her blood, and with my spear i sent more to their account, till at the end my sword was shattered, and my spear sundered. then with these eyes i saw them murder the maiden as she still bewailed her brethren; and since i could do no more, i fled from before their faces, while she, dead, crowned the heaps of dead. so fled i, and came hither." then again he paused, and looked at sieglinde with a pitiful entreaty. "thus is it with me," he said, "and thus it has always been with me. am i not right then to name myself by a name of woe? has peace or joy any lot with me?" and the stranger got up, for he suddenly could bear her gaze no longer, and walked to the hearth. and she, when the magic of his gaze was withdrawn, turned pale suddenly, moved more deeply than she knew had been possible. only hunding still eyed him with growing hate and certainty. already he knew enough, and his vengeance, so he swore to himself, should soon be complete. and he rose also and faced the stranger. "truly ill-luck has guided thee here," he said; "and ill-luck planted thy feet when they came to the house of hunding. for have i not often heard of the race to which thou belongest? and thou spakest truly when thou saidst that thy coming gave no joy to any host, for thou art of a wild, unhallowed breed, whose right is wrong in the eyes of all the world of men, whose true is false, whose false is true. all day have i been nearer to thee than thou knewest of, and the adventure thou hast told us is not yet complete." with that he drew nearer to the stranger. "it is now my turn to tell my guest of myself," he said, "and let him know where my feet have borne me. it was kin of mine whom thou hast slaughtered in impotent defence of a maid of my race; my kin are the brothers you killed, and all day i have been on the track of him who killed them. but all day have i been too late, though fast on the trail. yet when i return home, whom find i at my hearth? him, the murderer of my kin. thus there is blood already between us, and ever shall be." at his words his wife sieglinde rose with terror and pity in her face, and drew near to the two men. but hunding heeded her not. "to-night," he said, "thou art guest at mine; that must needs be so. but at dawn to-morrow, wolfs whelp, i am thy host no more, and thou shalt answer for the blood of my kindred which thou hast shed. hast thou no arms? so much the worse, for thou wouldest be safer for a sword, and at sunrise we meet. to-night we are host and guest, but a dawn to-morrow be ready to meet me as the avenger of my kindred." [illustration: "to-night we are host and guest."] at these words sieglinde could contain herself no more, but came quickly up, and placed herself between the two men. "no, no!" she cried. "it cannot be, hunding." then his wrath flamed up. "hence, go hence," he cried; "get to thy work, and make ready my night-drink; go from the hall." at his words she fell back, still pondering with her quick woman's wit as to how she could avert this. from the table she took the drinking-horn, and from the cupboard the spices with which she made the hot, fragrant draught which hunding loved. and even as she turned to leave the hall, sudden and high like a summer fire in the forest her love for the stranger flamed in her heart, and with love a sudden wild up-springing of hope. he still stood by the hearth, scarcely heeding hunding's words, for his eyes ever followed her, and as she was even now on the threshold, she cast one long glance at him, and then, as if leading his eye thither, looked to where the hilt of the sword in the ash-trunk glimmered in the firelight. then she looked back to him, and knew that he understood not, for how should he understand? but hunding saw that she still lingered, and with furious finger pointed her forth, and she left them. then he took his arms from the tree. "words for women, and weapons for men," said he. "wolfs whelp, we meet to-morrow." and he strode from the hall into his bed-chamber, leaving the stranger alone. chapter iv the recognition so hunding went forth and left the stranger alone with the leaping flames and shadows from the hearth. long pondered he on what the day had brought forth, and what should be the burden of the morrow; but through all his thoughts there rose like a flame of dancing fire the thought of the woman sieglinde, and of his love for her, and how he could help her to leave this house of hate. weaponless was he, and her husband had mocked at him for it. then his thoughts went backwards to the old wild days in the forest when he and his father, whom he had called by the name he was known to men, were the swift terror of their foes. and at that a sudden hope sprang up within him, for he remembered how his father had told him that when his need was sorest, a sword should be near him. surely now his need was sore enough, yet where was the sword? at that he cried aloud on his father's name, the secret name known but to him, and "walse, father walse!" he cried, "show me the sword, for my need is sore." no voice answered him, but the stillness was broken by the sound of the logs on the hearth suddenly falling together, and from the embers went up a sudden flame illuminating the walls, and gleaming on the sword-hilt then remembered he that sieglinde's last look had directed his eyes there, but from where he sat he could see the gleam only, and knew not yet that it was a sword. only he thought to himself that her last look had fallen there, and something of the gleam of her eyes still lingered there, making the dark stem bright but the gleam was very steady, and he wondered at it. then the flames from the hearth grew low again, and the shadows thickened in the hall. but something of the brightness still lingered within him, and he thought of how the eyes of the woman had shone on him all the evening when they sat at meat, and it seemed to him as if his soul, on which long night had settled, had been bathed in the beams of morning. light and hope she had brought to his darkened heart; for one day he had basked in sun-shine, and ere yet his sun had sunk behind the hills again, one last evening ray had so illumined the ash-stem, that something of the light had still lingered there. still lingered it also in his heart, though she had gone, and though the shadows of his woes crowded fast upon him, even as upon the walls of the dwelling-place they gathered in growing battalions, as the flames on the hearth sank ever lower. yet still he sat there with open unseeing eyes. no thought of sleep was his. how could he sleep when sieglinde abode within the house of hate? round him the shadows grew and thickened, and at length the last sparks on the hearth were quenched, and through the open chimney only there filtered in a little greyness, so that though all was dark, yet the density of that blackness was greater here and less there. how long he sat there, alert though lost in reverie, he knew not, but at the end a little noise fell on his ear and the door of the bed-chamber was opened, and framed in darkness he saw there a white figure. and his heart so hammered within him, that it seemed to him that the noise of it must awaken hunding. yet he moved not, neither spoke, and the figure came nearer. then a voice that he knew fell like pearly rain on the stillness. "sleepest thou?" she whispered. then he could stay still no longer, but sprang up noiselessly. "i?" he stammered, "i sleep, when thou seekest me?" "listen," said she. "in hunding's night-draught i have mixed a sleeping potion, and thus the whole night is before us to devise a plan for thy safety." "safety?" whispered he. "with thee is my safety, and my----" and then, because he was hunding's guest, he paused. yet he was hunding's foe at daybreak. "but a sword, a sword!" she cried. "ah! there is no need to speak low; we shall not waken hunding, for i brewed his drink strong. ah! could i but bring thee the sword, for a sword waits here for him who is fit to seize it. it is near to thee now, and truly thine is an hour of sore need." "what sayest thou? what is it thou hast said?" cried the stranger. so she told him the story of her marriage feast, of how another stranger had strode to the board, and flung the sword in the ash-stem. "there, there," she said, pointing at it, looking where she had looked before; "and one, only one shall be able to move it. ah! when he comes--he who is ordained--then shall my vengeance for the years of sorrow i have passed in the house of hunding be sweet to my mouth. for every tear i have shed here, my mouth shall be full of laughter and joy; for all the tears that i could not shed out of very bitterness and drought of soul, joy shall be mine too deep for smile or laughter. my friend, the friend of my soul, him i wait for, and with him there will be peace and victory for us both." then the stranger, knowing that there could be but one, and that his father whom he had called "the wolf," who could cast a sword as the woman had said, and remembering that he had told him that in the hour of his sorest need a sword should be near him, knew that this was the sword of which he spoke, and that it was he who should draw it forth. and knowing that, he gave no more thought to it, for the woman had said that he who should draw it forth was the friend of her heart, and that knowledge for the moment drowned all else, and covered his soul with a huge, soft billow of joy, so he gave no heed to the sword, but only to her who stood by him. and in the exultation of his love he laughed aloud, and passionately drew her to him. "and that is i, that is i!" he cried, "o crown and flower of womanhood! all my hopes in thee are fulfilled, and all my failures in thee are mended. hard and long has been the way that led us each to the other. lo! i heal the wounds which wrong has made, and thy hand soothes and banishes all my woe. shame has been thy portion in the house of hate. hunding thy husband! no mumbling vow hallows that unnatural union. thou hast called for vengeance, and vengeance is at thy side, and the arm of vengeance thus wound round thee makes thee strong. but dearer and nearer i approach to thee than that. my hand bears vengeance for thee, but my heart bears love. sieglinde! sieglinde!" even as they stood thus, in the first transport of the knowledge that they loved, the great door of the hall swung open noiselessly, for maybe hunding had not closed it when he returned home, and sieglinde started in sudden alarm. "what is that?" she cried. "who went? who has come?" slowly the door swung wide, and a great flood of moonlight poured in upon the pair, bathing them in its beams. high rose the moon in a cloudless heaven, and the warm breeze of spring whispered through the bushes and filled the hall. at length and at last the winter had ceased, and spring, that moment of all the year when the sap stirs in the trees, and the birds are mated, and lion seeks lioness in the libyan hills, and man turns to woman and woman to man, spring was upon them in its overpowering fulness and sweetness. none may resist its compulsion, nor did they resist. gently he drew her to him, and whether he spoke or sang she knew not, or whether it was only the echo of her thoughts she heard. but it seemed to her that his voice spoke. "none went, but one has come," said he. "look you, this house is the house of hate no longer, but the place of spring. for may has awoke, and the storms are hushed, and winter is over, and the glory of spring spreads round us. he wakes the warm winds, and as he wakes them they waft him on, and at his coming the wayside blossoms with its yearly miracle. hedge and heath, field and forest are redolent with flowers, and as he moves across the world, laughter hails him on all sides. o! the time of the singing birds is come, and the breath of the earth is warm and sweet. spring lies among the bushes, and where his warm body is pressed the flowers spring, and the young shoots of the trees, when they see his bosom rise and fall to the beat of his heart, put out their amorous branches to touch his fair form. along the world strike his smiles, and with them, his sole weapons, he makes the whole world mad. the flash of his eye slays the winter, and at his glance the storms are hushed. all doors fly open to meet his coming, even as the door of the house of hate opened just now of its own accord, and spring is here. "and who walks with him? love his sister. in our hearts she slept, and when he came the doors of our hearts were opened also, and she laughs when she sees the light. the walls that held us are crumbled, and she is free. spring the brother meets love the sister, and they meet here on the threshold of our hearts. they have found each other, and we have found each other." and whether she replied to him he knew not, or whether it was only the echo of his thoughts he heard, but it seemed to him that her voice spake. "spring," she said. "o spring, my brother, how have i sorrowed for thee and sought thee. long has winter held us both, but when first i saw thee, how with love and i knew not what dread my heart was drawn to thee. friendless was i, and he who was nearest to me was nearest also in hate. at length, at length thou earnest, and at the first glance, i knew that thou wast mine, and all the secret treasure of my heart, all that i am, was poured out for thee. friendless was i, and frost-bound of heart and utterly lonely. then, o my friend, thou earnest!" and wonder and awe at the greatness and might of the gift that the spring had brought to both fell on them, and for a long while they stood thus content, if so be that lovers are ever content, in gazing at each other. then the full love surged strong within them, so that speech could not be withheld, and sieglinde wound her arms round his neck yet more closely. "let me gaze on thee," she whispered, "for my senses reel with longing for thee, and reel in that they are satisfied when they behold thee. i am on fire." "yea, the moon makes thee on fire," said he, "and like living fire thy hair burns round thee. i gaze and i gaze, and still i am unfilled." then sieglinde with her hand swept back the hair from his forehead, and with her finger, smiling like a child, she traced the path of the blood in his temple. "see how thy life spreads like the boughs of a tree, and puts forth shoots in thy temples," said she. "i am faint and sick with content, yet even now sounds warning in my ears. though never before have i seen thy face, yet long before have i known it." "i, too," said he, "when dreams of love visited my sleep, have dreamed of thee and of no other. with what sadness did i behold thee then. and now, and now----" "and often," said she, "as i gazed in the black lake, where it is still and waveless, have i seen thy face as in some magic mirror that showed me what should be. and now, and now----" and like a child she laughed for pleasure, and as the wonder of their love grew and deepened, so the silence of love, more musical than hearing itself, descended on them. that long draught of silence was wine to each thirsty soul, and when they had drunk deep of it, again sieglinde spake. "speak to me, and let me be silent listening," she said, "for thy voice comes to me out of the early years when i was but a child. thy laugh rings to me out of those golden mists before--before----" and she shuddered at the thought of hunding. "speak thou," said he, "and let me listen." again the tide of love filled her full, even as the bitter creeks and marshes are flushed with the return of the water. then struck her a sudden wild thought, and again she gazed earnestly into his eyes. "without words when thou came faint with weariness, thy glance looked so to me, till my despair was mild, and died in the light of the day that streamed on me. wehwalt! ah no, such cannot be thy name. what is there of woe left? not the shadow of the dream even!" "no, i am wehwalt no longer!" cried he, "for thy love has banished woe from me. that name which i gave myself is gone, for gone is woe. ah, woman, woman, give me my name; tell me by what name i shall be called, and that, thy gift, and none other shall be my name." then looked she at him as one half lost in thought. "and wolf, was wolf thy father's true name?" she asked. "wolf he was called," said the stranger, "and as wolf he was feared, for he was as a wolf among timorous foxes. yet it was not as wolf i knew him. his glance was bright as thine, and as far-reaching, and that glance was the glance of walse." then was that mystery of fate by which she was led to him, even as spring the brother met love the sister on the threshold of their hearts, made manifest to her, and the knowledge drove her beside herself. "so," she said, "walse was thy father, and thou art a wolsung. for thy sake did walse fling the sword into the ash-stem, for well know i that it was walse who flung it there and no other. and on my tongue thy true name trembles, the name by which i love thee--siegmund, siegmund." then sprang siegmund, stranger no longer, to the ash-stem, and in his right hand seized he the gleaming hilt. "thou sayest it!" he cried, "and the sword shall prove i am siegmund. for walse told me that when my need was sorest then should the sword of deliverance and victory be near me. has it not come? has not my need been sore? for love is the sorest need a man can know, and that is mine; and deep is the dear wound it has made in my breast. burn deeper yet, o wound, stirring me to strife and strenuous deed. lo! i name it, the sword of need--nothung, nothung. come forth then, nothung, leave thy dark sheath, and bare thy shining blade. i, siegmund, bid thee." [illustration: at that he wrenched at the sword-hilt.] and at that he wrenched at the sword-hilt, and that which no power of the guests of hunding's marriage feast could stir, moved at his bidding, and leaped forth to his hand. bright and lordly shone it in tile moon of spring, and sieglinde beheld, and her eyes were dazzled with its shining, even as her heart was dazzled with love. then cried siegmund again: "behold me, siegmund the wolsung, the son of walse. this is my bridal gift to thee, the sword of victory and of thy deliverance. wife to me art thou by right, even as the sword is mine by right round thee crumbles the house of hate. come forth, come forth into the light of love. lo, the house of hate and of spring opens its doors wide, so follow, follow! nothung, thy deliverance, and siegmund, whose life is thy love, go with thee." he seized her with the violent tenderness of love, and drew her to him. straight in front of them opened the door into the house of spring, and it was fair. yet, since he knew not yet who it was he led out with him, she spoke, even as he led her forth. "siegmund, siegmund," she said, "o take me, take me. thy longing has led thee to me. is the flash of my eyes like the flash in the eye of walse thy father? so be it: for who else should be like him but i? the burned homestead, the vanished sister, dost thou forget them? by the sword, even as walse said, thou winnest her." and for one moment siegmund gazed at her in wild amaze. then, for the spring was hot in his blood, and it was so written in the book of fate, to which even wotan bows, whether he lords it in heaven, or as walse he strides in the forest, there was no stop or stay for his passion. "my bride, my sister!" he said, "brother and bridegroom long for you. for the blood of the wolsungs will blossom yet." chapter v the strife of wotan and fricka not far from the house of hunding, but above the great wood of pines that with their dark plumes fringed the hillside opposite, there was a region of wild and bleak rocks, where, if any breeze stirred below, here it was as a strong wind. and if storm was coming over the earth, here above all would the clouds gather, and gloom and mix together till the power of the heavens willed that they should go on their appointed journeys of wrath or mercy to the thirsty earth. thus the valkyries, the wild maidens of the storm, were often wont to come here, riding on the wings of the wind, for their joy was in tempest and strife, and they cared little for peace and content, and their home was with the thunder, and the lightning was the lantern they loved best. at other times, when the heavens were clear, and the benediction of the sun brooded over the earth, here, above the woods and the damp and sorry lowlands, was its light the most serene and bright. pure blew the airs as they blew to the mariner in the shrouds of his ship, and on all sides carved out to infinite distance lay vales and mountain peaks and ridges of hills, folded and knit the one into the other as the muscles of a strong man's arm rise and fall into ridge and furrow where his strength abides. thus it way that wotan the king of the gods often came here, for here it was that he would be like to find his daughter brunnhilde, the eldest of the valkyries, and of all living things the dearest to him; and from here, as from a fortress home, she and her sisters, having communed with their father, would start on their war-raids, riding on the storm, and dazzling the souls of men with their beauty and their terror. and on the selfsame night, that first of spring, when spring and love awoke together in the hearts of sieglinde and siegmund, and maddened them with their sweetness, wotan with his daughter brunnhilde had sat night-long on that serene mountain-top, and he, communing with her as he communed with his own soul, had spoken to her of that wild deed which the brother and sister, his children by the forest maiden, had committed. and in the deeps of his heart he guessed, though darkly as in a glass, that from siegmund the wolsung should come that man for whom he waited, one free and owing nothing to the favour of the gods, who alone should be able to bring back to him the ring of the rhine-gold, in whose circlet lay the wealth of the world and unmeasured might, even as erda had foretold to him. nor did the mating of this strange pair amaze or disquiet him, for they loved with that love which is the fire of the earth, and without which the earth would grow cold, and to his eyes that fire, from whatever fuel it was kindled, was a thing sacred beyond compare; while of the vows of a loveless marriage, such as sieglinde's had been, he recked nought, nor scrupled to scatter it to the winds, even as a man on an autumn day scatters the thistledown on the breezy uplands, and cares nought where the winds may take it. for as light as thistledown to him were loveless vows, but love, even though no vow may hallow it, he held more sacred than his own oath. so when the day dawned, he rose from the rock where he had been sitting, and brunnhilde rose from her place by his knee. "up then to horse, my maid," he cried, "and be strong and swift to aid. ere long the clash of arms shall be heard, and bunding follow hard on siegmund's trail. up then, brunnhilde, and put might into the heart of siegmund the wolsung, and strength into his arm. i reck nothing of bunding, for he is no son of light, but of darkness. so to horse and away; get thee to siegmund's side." then loud and long brunnhilde shouted her cry of war, so that the rocks re-echoed, and far away from the muffled hillside of pines came the response. then ere she went, she climbed quickly to the topmost pinnacle of the ridge of rocks, and looking down into the ravine behind, she saw one whom she knew coming quickly up, and with a sweet sort of malice in her heart she called to her father wotan. "fly, father, fly!" she cried, half laughter, half pity for him. "let the king of gods be seen to fly for his safety, for a storm for thyself sweeps hither swiftly. fricka thy wife is near on thy trail, driving her chariot with its harnessed rams. up the path she comes; canst thou not hear the strokes of her golden whip, which like a flail she is plying? listen to the bleatings of her belaboured steeds, listen to the rattling of her whirling wheels, while to guide her path to thee, anger flares like a beacon in her face. father, dear father, such fights as these are little to my liking, for brunnhilde would sooner meet the armed strength of men than the spirted venom of a woman's tongue and her war of words. meet thou this fight as thou best may, for in such case i love to desert thee, and laughing i desert thee now. yet i will wait hard by till fricka has gone, and once more talk with thee ere i go to aid siegmund." then once again, turning a look of love and laughter on her father, brunnhilde shouted her joyous war-cry so that the distant hills replied, and sped quickly away until fricka should have done with wotan. with love shining in his eyes for her, he saw her go, and with anger and misgiving in his heart he saw his wife approach, knowing that a war of words was before him. for well he knew that she had come on this selfsame matter of siegmund and sieglinde, for so lawless a deed was an outrage to her. yet was wotan's purpose undismayed, and he swore to himself that she should find him steadfast in his resolve to aid siegmund. now fricka, though she was wotan's wife, was not the companion of his heart; for she was cold and hard of nature, and nought that was human beat in her bosom. and by the great human heart of wotan, in whose nostrils love was the breath of life, this wife of his was honoured indeed and much feared, but it was not to her he whispered at dark, nor told the secret troubles and joys of his soul. and when he saw her driving down the path, though he marvelled at her beauty, he had no word of tender welcome for her, and indeed her face was one flame of anger. "here in these heights where thou hidest from me, thy wife," she said, "i seek and find thee. give me thy oath that thou wilt help me." then said wotan, "what ails thee, wife?" "hunding's cry for vengeance has come to my ears," said she. "and well it might, for, as thou knowest, i am the goddess of marriage and marriage vows. thus i listened in horror and holy indignation to the tale i heard, and i have sworn that siegmund and sieglinde, who have thus put him to shame so foully and madly, should pay for their sin. so help me, swear that thou wilt help me, that the two may reap their right reward. for shameful and impious is the deed that has been done." even as she spoke a little red flower blossomed at wotan's feet, opening suddenly at the dawn of this sweet spring morning, and above his head two birds mated in mid-air, and his heart was warm within him with the instinct of the spring-time. "it is the spell of the spring," he thought to himself. "love and spring drove mad both man and woman, and if there is blame, the blame is there." aloud he said-"o fricka, it is spring-time!" and almost a tear of tenderness for the frail race of men he so loved started to his eye. but fricka answered him in anger. "the marriage vow has been broken," she cried, "and though that is not all, yet that is enough. hunding's house is dishonoured, honoured, and i hate those who have dishonoured it." "and did love hallow that marriage vow?" cried wotan. "was not sieglinde carried by force to her marriage feast? love's hand signed not the bond, and where love is not, there the most solemn vow turns impious. but a stranger came, and love stirred at last for him and her. and where love stirs, there is true marriage, and those stirrings of love i abet, i approve." "be it so," said fricka; "let us say that the loveless wedlock is unholy, that it is best honoured when broken. but that is not all, and thou knowest it. for is it holy that two twins should seek each other thus? ah! wotan, my head reels and my senses are bewildered when i think of that. brother and sister? when has it happened that a man should marry his neighbour in his mother's womb? when has that happened?" but wotan looked at her gently. "it has happened now," he said. "wife, is there nought left for us to learn? thou knowest, thou knowest well that between the two there burns the authentic fire of love. it has happened. siegmund and sieglinde have so loved. therefore, as i do, bless their union and blame it not. it is spring-time too." then was fricka's wrath so kindled that it seemed as if she had been calm before and was now angry for the first time, and with storm she descended on him. "then is our godhead perished!" she cried, "since thou didst beget thy godless wolsungs. do you think that i shall follow thee on such a road? for the stones of it are shame, and shameful is the foot that treads thereon. hunding's cry goes up unanswered, and all that was holy thou tramplest on. all this because the twins that thou begottest, in unfaithfulness to me thy wife, have dared to do this impious deed. vows! what are vows to thee? thou boldest none sacred. i have ever been true to thee, and ever thou hast betrayed my truth. there is no mountain top that has not seen, no vale that has not concealed some pleasure of thine, pleasure that scorned and dishonoured my faithfulness. when thou wentest to erda, and begottest the brood of valkyries, brunnhilde the first, i bore it, for erda was ever noble, and such adventure was not altogether base. but now like a common man thou goest on thy foul adventures, haunting the forest till men call thee the wolf, or passing under the name of walse. there is no plumb-line to measure the depths of thy shame, so deep is that abyss. these hast thou begotten of a mere woman, a she-wolf, these twins. and now thou flingest me at the feet of thy she-wolfs litter. ah, mete out the full measure of my shame. thou hast betrayed me, and now thou stampest me beneath thy feet and the feet of thy children of shame." wotan answered her not at once, for indeed there is no use in answering an angry woman, and he knew well that there were certain things that fricka would never know. for her mind moved not from that little circle in which it was wont to go round, and all that had not happened, but which was still among the unfound things of the world, was outside her understanding. but wotan knew that all heaven and earth was waiting for a hero who should come, who should make the old things new, and repair that which was outworn. he should be one who was utterly free, not sheltered or befriended by the gods, and not serving their laws. nor might the gods help in this work, for their work was of an earlier day, and he who should come must pass beyond them both in thought and deed. yet as fricka still said nothing, but stood with heaving bosom, he spoke of him who should come whom he knew, though darkly, should be of the wild wolsungs. yet he knew also she would understand not. nor did she understand, but answered him according to her own sightlessness, saying that since all that was done on earth was the work of men, whose life lay in the hands of the gods, what was there a man could do which was forbidden to the gods? "for who," cried she, "put might into men except thou, or who but thou put courage into their hearts, and strength into their arms? thou only. yet now thou sayest that one will come of thy wolsung breed who is outside and beyond. dost then think to trick me thus? surely i know that he, like all other men, must be subservient to thy will. it is to shield thy shameful twins that thou sayest this. it is by thy will alone he walks." "not so," said wotan; "for when siegmund seized the sword, he did it of his own might. in nought did i help him there. by the might of that sword he walks alone, not upheld by my power." then fricka, for in her woman's way she was cunning, saw her path. "then shield him no further," she said quietly, "and take back thy sword, the sword that thou hast given him." "how can i?" said he. "for siegmund won it for himself in his need, and siegmund's it is." "but from thee," said she, "came not only the sword, but the need. in those days, when thou didst fling the sword at the ash-stem, i followed hard on thee, and saw thy deed, who flung it there? thou, wotan. who led siegmund's hand to the hilt? who but thou? thou knewest where the sword was; in the presence of sieglinde thou didst place it there. from thee, through her, the knowledge of it came to him. how canst thou say then that this siegmund of thine is the hero that should come, since it is through thee he works?" then was wotan both wroth and sorry, for he knew that fricka spoke truth, yet he would have shielded siegmund from her wrath. and she, seeing that she shook his will, spoke freely and calmly. "lo, the master does not war with slaves," she said, "nor fight for them. but thou and i, wotan, are gods and equal. and i, whose soul and body are yet at thy bidding, wilt thou shame me and the vows i uphold before a mere man? shall i be a laughter to the scornful, and shall men make merry over my down-fall in their homes? thou wilt not have it so; i know thou wilt not. my godhead is more to thee than that." "what wilt thou then?" said he. "that thou stand aside from the wolsung." then wotan was sore distressed and very heavy at heart "let him go," said he, and his voice was low and troubled; "i will not stay him, nor shalt thou." "then shield him not nor shelter him," said she, "when vengeance follows on him." then did wotan remember that he had bidden brunnhilde to aid him, and it was ill to fight against brunnhilde. thus perhaps might siegmund be safe. so he swore to fricka that he would not shield nor shelter him. yet fricka was not yet satisfied. "look in my face, wotan," she said. "thou sayest thou wilt not shield him, neither shall thine shield him. no aid must he obtain from thy valkyrie maidens." "the valkyries go where they will," said he, "and i have no power over them." "so that was thy thought!" said fricka. "it shall not be so. thy will directs them; let it direct them that they turn not to siegmund." then wotan clenched his hands together, for this way and that was he torn. on the one side stood siegmund his son, whom he must needs aid for the sake of the promise he had given with the sword; on the other, fricka his wife. and in his agony he cried aloud-"how can i slay him? it was he who found my sword." "let it be to him only a sword then," said fricka, "and not the sword of wotan, or break it in his hand, so that hunding has him defenceless. o, wotan," and as she spoke he knew in his heart her nobility and uprightness, for all that she was cold and hard, "o, wotan, thou lovest me not, and i know it, yet shield my honour for never have i brought dishonour on thine. i ever upheld the marriage vow, and how would the sons of men laugh, and how would the glory of the gods be diminished, should thy daughter brunnhilde not uphold it this day. how would lawlessness and unhallowed lust be master among men. by siegmund's death alone is my honour upheld, for he has sinned against me. so swear to it, wotan." even as she spoke wotan heard again the joyful war-cry of brunnhilde, who, supposing that his strife with fricka was over, was coming nigh to where they stood, and he remembered in his heart how so short time ago he had bade her warn and shelter siegmund. yet he could in nought gainsay his wife, and in sorrow find heaviness he cast himself down on the rocky seat where he had sat with his maiden. and his voice came hollow and broken, like an echo buffeted against rocks. [illustration: "i give thee mine oath!" said he.] "i give thee mine oath!" said he. then having the oath of wotan which he might not break, fricka turned at once from him, for she had accomplished her purpose, and went where she had left her chariot drawn by rams. near by was brunnhilde standing with her horse, and as she passed her-"thy father waits for thee," she said. "go thee and learn from him that which he has chosen." then mounting her chariot, she lashed the rams with her golden whip, and they sped down the mountain-side. chapter vi siegmund's lot is cast but brunnhilde had heard fricka laugh as she mounted her chariot, the which boded no good thing to her father wotan; and as she approached him she saw that he leaned his head on his hand in great heaviness, and was as one utterly cast down. "father, father, what is it?" she said. "what sorrow holds thee? never have i seen thee so." then wotan's arm dropped, and his head sank on his bosom. "i am bound by the fetters i have forged," said he. "all are free but i, the lord of all. o shame, o bitter ill-hap, and worm that dies not. there is no sorrow so heavy as mine!" then did brunnhilde drop her spear and helmet in sudden alarm and forgetfulness, and in the hope to soothe and comfort him, for never had she seen him so. she laid loving hands upon his knees, and sat herself at his feet, and asked him tenderly to tell her what had befallen, for his look frightened and amazed her. so she besought him to tell her all, for she was ever true to him, and ever had he trusted her. then by slow degrees wotan aroused himself, and laid a hand on her bright hair, which he caressed lovingly. but when he spoke his voice seemed to come from afar, for his mind had been brooding on that which had been long ago, and on that which time to come should bring out of what had been, for out of the womb of the past is born what shall be. and dim and dark was his voice, even as that on which he thought had been dim and dark, and he spoke slowly and with many pauses, of days long dead, and of days yet far off, the heirs of ages not yet born. but through-out he looked earnestly into brunnhilde's eyes, for she was his most own, and when he looked there, he saw himself and his own will and purpose. "in days of old," said he, "when the first heat of youth was passed, i set myself to win the world, and all craft in bargains was mine, and, so that i worked my will, i stooped to any falsehood. yet never for long could i withhold myself from love, and its sweetness ever allured my senses and my might. but alberich, that son of night, who inhabits the dark places of the earth, had forsworn all love, and since he never yielded to it, but cursed it, he won for himself the secret treasure of the gold which abode in mid-rhine, and by its might, for it is the world's wealth, reached his hands about the world. yet by guile i got it from him, and with it i paid the giants who built me the walls of walhalla that are a rein and a bridle to the world. then once again was i safe. yet erda gave me words of warning about the ring, and told me that walhalla itself would fall, yet could tell me nought fully, till with the spell of love upon her she spake. yet that selfsame spell of love between her and me gave me thyself, brunnhilde, and thy eight sisters of the storm. with you i thought to make walhalla safe, and i bade you slay and bring to be its guardians and the protection of its walls heroes and men of might, who should guard it well. eternal life i breathed into them, and a mighty host uprose." then brunnhilde smiled at him. "and have we not done thy bidding?" she asked. "what cause for sadness is here? for the defenders of walhalla are many in multitude: all these we have brought thee, as thou didst bid us." then spake wotan again, his eyes dwelling ever on brunnhilde. "moved by that spell of love, erda told me where fear was. it is from alberich the end will come to the gods, their evening, their dusk, if once again he gets the ring. while he has it not, i fear not him nor the hosts of night that he brings with him, for well walhalla is guarded by heroes. but in pay for the building of walhalla i gave it to the giant fafner, who guards it ever and since i gave it him, i may not take it from him, for the bargain i made with him forbids me. nor must he who shall take it from him owe ought to me; he must be a free man, who for his own need, and without help from me, shall wrest it from fafner. ah, where to find him? how direct his course, yet without aiding or protecting him? his might unaided must accomplish my wish. wherever i work, there see i the fruits of my work, that which my hands have made. but he who shall take the treasure from fafner must be free, unfettered, no slave or creation of mine." then brunnhilde started up, for she saw what was in wotan's mind. "it is he then, siegmund the wolsung, who shall do this thing!" she cried. "ever has he been unblessed and unhallowed of the gods." but wotan shook his head. "so thought i," said he, "and with that thought in my heart, i reared him ever to work against the gods, so that he owed nought to us. nothing has he but the sword he himself found. yet, that was mine. it was i who gave him both sword and the need by which he found it. scornfully fricka unfolded that to me, piercing my soul to its uttermost. and thus i must serve her will." then wild amaze seized hold on brunnhilde. "then dost thou forsake siegmund?" she cried. at that a wild tumult of rage and despair seized on the god, for the words of erda, which she had told him, grew clear to him. "the curse is fallen on me," he cried; "and though i flee from it, it still follows me. for when i stole the ring of the rhine-gold from alberich, he said that what i loved i must needs forsake, and that him whom i trusted i must do to death. even so it is. behold the dusk deepens round me, and i hope for one thing only, the end. and on the end thinks alberich, for the wild words of erda, which never till now did i fathom, grow clear to me. for she said that when the dark enemy of love begets a son, then too is begotten the fall of the gods. and this too has happened, for alberich has lovelessly bought a woman's undoing, and already the weeks of her deliverance are numbered, and the child waxes in her womb. yet i for all my wooing could never beget that which i need, that free man of whom i spake. oh! my bitterest blessing on thy work, alberich; already i grow wan with the approaching end; already my godhead is but a tawdry mask. bare thy fangs then: let thy hate and thy hunger make meat of me!" the words died on his lips, and despair like a wave overwhelmed him. then brunnhilde nestled yet nearer to him, and the child-instinct within her spake, if so be she might comfort him. "father, father," she said, "what can thy child do?" then wotan laughed bitterly. "fight fricka's battles," said he, "and range thyself with her marriage vows and plighted troths. siegmund is not the free man my soul longs for. so range thyself with fricka's champion, the noble hunding. even so: death is decreed for siegmund; be swift and brave to compass that. thou wilt need all thy boldness, my child, for he is no coward whom walse taught in the woods, and swift is his sword. nor wilt thou find a foeman who fears thee; his eye will flinch not, though he beholds thee in all thy strength and terror." scarcely then could brunnhilde believe what she seemed to hear, for she knew that her father loved siegmund, and that the wolsung was dear to his soul. ever had he taught her to love him, for siegmund was dauntless of heart, and knew not what fear was. "it cannot be," she cried, "never can i lift my arm against him!" then wotan rose in wrath, for it was as if his will disobeyed him when brunnhilde was rebel, for indeed the maid was none other than his will. "thou darest? thou darest?" he cried. "and does fear not look in thine eyes at the thought of disobedience? am i a mock to thee? indeed there will be for thee an end of mocking if thou rousest my wrath. for there is woe to any with whom wotan is wrath, for i walk with the thunder at my call, and my hand holds and steers the lightning. think thou of that, and gave good heed. thou knowest my will; see that thou performest it. siegmund is numbered with the dead, and by brunnhilde's hand shall that numbering be accomplished." and he stormed forth in fury, the lightning flickering about his path, and left brunnhilde there. [illustration: very slowly she armed herself.] never before had he gone from her in anger, and she sat long where he had left her, wondering what this should mean, and what the day should bring forth. oftentimes in hour of war had she seen him girt about with fury, but now it was she whom his rage threatened. then she stooped down, and picked up again her spear and helmet and shield which she had laid on the ground when she spake with wotan, and very slowly, with the joy of war altogether gone from her heart, she armed herself. for indeed her heart was not in this fight, and she went out to it with no joyful war-cry as was her wont. for the battle was against her friend, whom wotan had ever taught her to love, and the wild wolsung siegmund had all her life been dear to her. yet must wotan's best be obeyed. so she turned and would have gone on her joyless errand, when suddenly she was aware that two were approaching up the rocky height; and as they came more nigh she saw they were none other than siegmund and sieglinde. then pity so seized on her that she was but as wax, and, lest her will should fail utterly, she turned again quickly and went to the cavern hard by where she had tethered her horse on the coming of fricka. heavily she went to him, for the work before her was bitter and grievous to her. chapter vii the fight of siegmund swiftly came sieglinde up the rocky path, and siegmund followed hard after her, bidding her rest and not fare so wildly on; for after that the spell of spring and of love had so wrought within her that she recked nothing of leaving the house and hearth of hunding, and the transport and sweet madness of her love had been fulfilled, horror and dread had seized the woman's heart, and she was distraught with unspeakable dismay at her wild adventure. then had she risen up from his side in the middle of the spring night, even while he, filled full of love, was sleeping, to escape from what she had done. but at her stirring he had awoke, and through the hours betwixt that and day had he followed after her, she still flying from him through field and forest. for at first on that evening of yesterday, which in the morning's light seemed to her so long ago, the torrent of her love had carried her unthinking, but now it seemed to her that her deed was altogether unholy. utterly had she loved the man, and utterly was his love hers, and so great was the might of that and the transport of its power, that in its first outpouring it seemed to her that all else was of no import beside it. but afterwards she had thought on what she had done, and shame and horror burned within her with as fierce a flame. loveless had her marriage with hunding been, yet marriage it was, and hallowed by the ordinance of the gods. but this was lawlessness incarnate, and unnatural wedlock. yet in her woman's heart she blamed siegmund not at all; the blame in her mind was wholly hers. she had brought shame on herself, but that was a small thing compared to the shame in which she had made him a partaker. but now for very weariness her limbs could bear her no further, and at the top of the rocky path nigh to where wotan and brunnhilde had sat that night, she faltered, and it was his arm that saved her from falling. "wait, wait," he whispered. "speak to me, and let us have done with this dumbness of fear. thou art safe; my arm encompasseth thee; there is no fear while thou leanest on my breast." at his touch, again the eternal woman of her nature awoke, and as he led her very gently to the very seat where wotan had sat with brunnhilde by his knee, she clung passionately to him, and gazing long into his face, embraced him. yet even while her lips met his, the horrors of the night rose insurgent within her, and again she flung herself off from him, shame branding her, as a felon is branded. "siegmund, siegmund!" she cried. "what have we done? shame on me, shame on me!" "shame there has been, sieglinde," said he, "and that when thou didst abide in the house of hunding. but that shame shall i soon wash away with his blood, and in that crimson stream shall it be cleansed. ah, fare not on so wildly; wait here, for i am well assured that he will come here in pursuit, and here also shall he meet the fate which has been appointed by him who in my sorest need granted me to find the sword. o sword of my need," cried he, and his fingers tightened on its hilt, "not in vain have i called on the name of vengeance. surely i will repay." then was she a little quieted at his loving touch, and at the fierceness of surety of his hate towards hunding, but soon she started up and listened. "horns, i hear horns!" she cried, "and the shouts of the pursuers. the shouts of the pursuers sound ever nearer, and strike the sky and echo from the hills. hunding has woke from his night-draught, and is hot of foot on the trail. he calls on his kindred to help him, and loosens the hounds of hunting. they nose thy trail, and thirstily they give voice, and their thirst waits to be assuaged by blood." loudly and in panic terror she cried, but at the end her voice failed, and her arm outflung dropped nerveless, and over her weary eyes drooped the shelter of her eyelids. "siegmund, where art thou?" she murmured. "where art thou? i search for thy look; oh, let it light on me again; leave me not, siegmund, oh, leave me not. hark, hark! again i hear that deep baying of the hounds of death; they thirst for thy blood, and their fangs white and sharp grow red with the meat of their hunting. they reck not of thy sword, so fling it away. hide, let us hide where none shall find us. thy sword is shattered; what toy-thing is this?--thou fallest reeling ... siegmund ... siegmund...." at that her head drooped and she sank like a thing broken in his arms. it was in vain that he tried to rouse her, and only by the rise and fall of her bosom did he know she lived. so very gently--for, after the labour and travel of the night, it might be that she would sleep--he laid her back on the ground, and made for her a pillow of his knee, to rest her head. but she moved not, nor opened her eyes, yet, for her bosom still rose gently and fell, he comforted himself, and bending over her kissed her on the forehead. thus they sat, and he grieved over her. but by now had brunnhilde put bridle again on to her horse grane, and led him lightly out of the cavern, and came upon siegmund and his bride sitting thus. and he was aware of her coming, and looked up, and saw her glorious face; but there was no smile there, for the work before her gave no joy to her. gravely she looked at him, and her heart was stirred with sorrow for the deed that her father had laid on her to do, and her eyes burned large with doom. "siegmund, i am here," she said, "and from here soon i lead thee. thou seest that i am near thee?" and siegmund answered: "yes, but i know thee not," and a strange cold heaviness was lead in his limbs and in his eye. "i come near to those whom death comes near to," said she, "and none others see me. he into whose eyes i look stays not in the light. with me thou goest, and thou goest with me far." then something of the great calm with which death is ever girt about, struck on siegmund's heart, but he was not afraid. "and where goest thou?" he asked. "i go to walhalla," said she, "where the great father waits thee. there lovingly will the hands of dead heroes greet thee; with hands outstretched and with smile of welcome will they greet thee." "and shall i find there walse, the wolsung's father?" said he in wonder. "his face too shall greet thee." "and will there be a woman there too, to greet me?" asked he. "yea, surely," said she. "the maidens of his will are there, and she who will hand thee the gladsome wine is wotan's daughter. red is that wine, and with it are the hearts of heroes made glad." but it was not after wotan's daughter that siegmund asked, and again he said: "o most holy and austere of maidens, wotan's child, truth is written in thine eyes, and truth thou wilt tell me. it is not of such i ask, but of my bride sieglinde. will she be there?" but brunnhilde shook her head. "death comes not for her yet," she said, "and she shall not be there." then siegmund laughed. "then get thee back to walhalla," cried he, "and give my greeting to the high walls of wotan, and to him who sits therein and is lord thereof. and greet for me walse"--for he knew not that walse his father was none other than wotan--"and greet the many heroes and the maidens of the will of the highest. but i come not after thee." then brunnhilde was very sorry, yet what was to be, was to be. "siegmund," she said, "thou hast looked on me, and with me thou must go. lightly thou reckest of mortal foes, for thy limbs are strong, but the wise man wars not against death. i am here to claim thee for him." but though a chill seemed to fall round siegmund, as if the sun had passed behind a cloud, yet was he not afraid; and, lo! his dear burden still leaned at his knee. "i come not," he said, "for where sieglinde is, in weal or woe, there i abide, and go not thence. thy face daunts me not, i shrink not before thy glance, though bright it is with the brightness of danger. besides, who is it that deals death to me?" "the hand of hunding," she said. "for thus--at last--the lot was cast." but siegmund only smiled, and his fingers dwelt lovingly on the sword-hilt. "i fear not that," he said, "for it is by my hand that he will fall, and if thou seekest a dead man, i will give thee a corpse, but not mine. look at my sword, for he who let me gain it, promised my safety. thus thy threats and thy warning are idle words, the buzzing of a fly." then brunnhilde's face grew stern and set. "he who let thee gain the sword," she cried in a loud voice, "now is determined otherwise, and has decreed thy death. thus the magic of the sword is a thing of nought, a shadow that has passed away." but at her raised voice, siegmund forgot death and the sword and all else, and feared only that she would wake sieglinde, who now slept gently. "be still, be still," he whispered, "and wake her not." and he bent over her, and sorrowed for her, for it seemed to him that all the world was gathered against her whom he loved so well, and that he alone, for whom she had braved the wrath of men and gods, was on her side. should then he forsake her? and if, as the maid had told him, the giver of the sword was now unfaithful, and decreed him death, then he would have none of his walhalla; hella were sweeter to his troubled soul. high burned his anger at this unfaithfulness, and he turned to the maid who stood watching him. "if then death is decreed for me," he said, "think you i will be at ease in walhalla? nay, hella rather than such peace." then brunnhilde's stem glance softened, and she marvelled that he so loved the woman. "then is eternal joy so worthless to thee?" she asked him softly. "dost thou desire nothing but the woman who is sleeping there? is nought else sweet to thy soul, and nought else desirable?" and he looked at her with bitterness, and marked the softened glance of her eye. yet though she appeared so young and so maidenly, her heart must needs be utterly cold, since she did not comprehend how a woman filled the heart of the man who loved her. "dost thou mock me?" he said. "for what else could i care than that which lies here? i think thou art a foe to me, and would gladly see harm and woe come to me. be it so; and may my grief satisfy the greed and hunger of thy heart. but as for walhalla--it is idle for thee to name it to me. dost thou not see? here is my heaven and my rest." then she began to understand the need of his heart, and with that she felt a tenderness for both him and the woman which was new to her. "yes, yes," she said, "i feel what thou feelest. but, siegmund, what must be, must be. leave her then to me. safely and surely will i ward her and keep all harm from her." and she would have lifted sieglinde up and taken her to some hiding-place of safety, but he stopped her. "stay," said he, "she is mine, mine, and no other shall touch her. if so be that i must die, as thou sayest, it is better, it is better--for all the whole world is against her--that she should die, here, now. i will slay her myself as she sleeps, and death will come softly to her as a dream. thus she will be at peace." then did the tumult and trouble in brunnhilde's heart seethe and stir. "no, no!" she cried. "listen to me, for thou speakest wild words. the sacred pledge of love which thou hast given, for that i plead. siegmund, siegmund, thou canst not slay thy son!" yet he drew the sword, and brandished it. "his is the blame," he cried, "who promised me victory with this sword, who now turns his back on me, faithless and untrue. yet shall it aid me, for that with it i can give peace to her. strike then, sword of need, sever both lives at once." but at the sight of his sword uplifted to strike, all the woman in brunnhilde rose invincible, and the solemn command of wotan that she should fight for hunding weighed lighter than chaff. in a moment her mind was made, and counting not the cost, she knew that she must needs befriend siegmund and fight for him, and the thunders and terrors of wotan had no weight with her. and with a cry she stayed his arm. "ah, i break," she cried. "i cannot do the deed that was laid on me. she shall live, she shall live, and instead of death i will bring thee the joy of victory. no longer fight i for hunding; it is thee, siegmund, whom my shield will shelter. so up, up; already the horns of battle sound nearer. what shall be, i cannot tell, but the sword thou wieldest is good steel, and the shield of me, brunnhilde, will guard thee in the coming fight. hail to thee, siegmund, hail! at the fight i await thee." all her face was afire with human love and pity, and so great a change was there from the look of that stern cold maiden and her pitiless beauty, that siegmund could scarce believe that this was the same brunnhilde. but at her words, joy and gladness uplifted him, and his heart, erstwhile full of despair and bitterness, was once more strong and hopeful. but brunnhilde tarried not, for indeed, as she said, the horns of battle sounded near, but swung herself on to her horse, and rode swiftly off among the rocks towards the horns and approaching battle, and the noise of her horse's hoofs sounded fainter, and then was silent. now as they thus spoke together, behold the heavens had grown very black, and over the bright aspect of the sky had ridden swiftly up the storm-rack, low and sullen-looking, and torn into streamers and ribands of wrath. already the hills and vales beyond had been entirely blotted out, and by now the clouds had reached even to that rocky ridge not far from where siegmund sat, while mingled with the trouble and menace of the heavens came the blast of the horns of battle sounding ever nearer, and siegmund knew that it was time for him to be gone to meet the black foe who awaited him. then very gently he got up, and without waking sieglinde, laid her back against the rocky seat, and once more bent over her, to see how she fared. the blessed balm of sleep had been spread over her eyes, and she was at rest, and her heart was unconscious of the wild alarms of war. and siegmund wondered whether it was the maiden, who seemed so fierce and cold, but whose soul at the end had been touched with so gentle and womanly a pity, who had shed this gift on the woman, thinking that the clash of swords and the din of battle would daunt her. then even as he bent over her she smiled in her sleep, as if some happy dream had come to her. so he kissed her very gently on the forehead, marvelling that the trumpet-calls, which grew swiftly nearer, disturbed her not, and whispered to her-"sleep sound, beloved, till the battle be overpast, and peace, the peace of victory, welcome thy waking." then for the last time he turned from her, for peace was not yet, until nothung his sword had spoken sharp words with its flaming tongue. swiftly he strode up the rocky ridge, where the embattled thunder-clouds swallowed him up, nor was there any fear in his heart: only he longed to see hunding face to face, and drive vengeance home. but sieglinde lay there smiling in her sleep, for it was even as siegmund had supposed, and she was a child again living with her mother in the forest. yet even as siegmund left her, the tranquillity of her sleep was shaken, and it seemed to her that her father and the boy siegmund were in the forest together, and though the hour was late, they had not yet returned. and she cried to her mother that her heart misgave her, for she was troubled with the looks and the words of certain strangers. then in her dream the sweet air of the forest grew foul and black, and smoke swirled silently out of the woods, and tongues and fingers of flame came nearer, and the house where they dwelt caught fire. then aloud she cried on siegmund to save her, and with her own cry awoke. yet was it not perhaps her own cry that woke her, but the sudden and sharp din of thunder near by, and starting up she saw she was alone, and all round her were storm-clouds of awful blackness, and from one to another shot the fires of lightning, and the thunder bellowed when it saw them. and mixed with the lightnings and thunders were the red cries of the horns of battle. then, and her heart stood still when she heard, from not far off came the voice of hunding, which she knew well and hated. "wehwalt, wehwalt!" it cried, calling her beloved by the name he had shed as trees shed their leaves in autumn. "where are thou? wait for me; i am coming swiftly; else shall my hounds make thee stay." then in answer came the voice she knew and loved; "think not to hide from me, hunding," it cried, "for all that the storm is so black and blinding. the father of the gods himself shall not hide thee from me. stay where thou art and i will surely find thee." and his voice grew louder as he spake, so she knew that he was coming nearer. then from the ridge close behind came hunding's voice again, not a stone's-throw off, yet in the thick darkness she could see nought. "o shameful wooer!" it cried. "in fricka's hand is thy lot set." and immediately siegmund answered, being also come to the selfsame ridge-"still dost thou think i am weaponless, coward and fool that thou art? thinkest thou to terrify me by thy woman-champion? fight me, fight me. remember thou the sword in thy house which none could move. lightly i unsheathed it, and its tongue shall lick up thy life-blood; for thy life-blood it thirsts, and soon will i give it to drink." then came a flash of lightning from the cloud, and sieglinde saw them as phantoms on the edge of the ridge already at fight and she rushed towards it, not being able to bear that sight, calling loudly on them to stay, or first to kill her, and then settle their quarrel. but ere she was come to the ridge, a blinding light broke out of the cloud above the head of siegmund, so strong and glorious that she was dazzled and fell back from before it. but in the middle of that light there appeared brunnhilde floating there, and lo! her shield was held out so that it protected siegmund and sheltered him. and she cried loudly to her hero, in a fierce merriment-"have at him, siegmund; thy sword is safe under my shield." then was siegmund's heart uplifted, and he drew back his arm for a deadly stroke at hunding, when even as it was about to fall, right over hunding's head broke out a red and lurid light, full of wrath and anger, and in the midst stood wotan, standing over the other, with his spear outstretched over against siegmund. and in the voice at which all earth and heaven trembles-"thy sword is shivered, siegmund," said he. "wotan's spear is stretched against thee. sink thou back from it." then did brunnhilde quail in panic terror before her father, and her shield no longer covered siegmund. and the mighty blow of his sword struck on that outstretched spear and was shivered, and into his breast did hunding thrust his sword, so that he fell and moved no more. and sieglinde, beholding, gave one bitter cry, and sank swooning to the ground. but as siegmund fell, the great light which had shone round brunnhilde was swallowed up in darkness, and the red light round wotan was extinguished also. and under cover of the darkness brunnhilde, though stricken sore with the fear of the wrath of wotan, yet was mindful of the woman sieglinde, whom she had sworn to befriend, and she stole down from the ridge crouching, yet firm of purpose, to her side. [illustration: "wotan's spear is stretched against thee."] "to horse! to horse!" she cried; and seeing that sieglinde's senses were gone from her, she gathered her up in the strength of her noble womanhood, and with that burden in her arms mounted her horse grane and galloped off away from the open places that she might hide her from the wrath to come. nor was she too soon, for presently after the clouds were parted and rolled away, and lo! on the ridge stood wotan, and at his feet lay siegmund. and as wotan looked at him his godlike mind was torn with agony and woe unspeakable. as yet hunding saw not the god, for his eyes were not opened, and cruelly with his foot on the man he wrenched out his sword from his breast. and at that, seeing that he who had fallen was noble, and the other but a black cur from the forest, wotan turned to him and opened his eyes. "get thee hence, slave," said he, "and tell fricka that by the spear of wotan is her vengeance wrought. begone!" and in contempt he waved his hand, and before that withering scorn hunding sank down dead. then suddenly fierce anger seized wotan, for he thought of what brunnhilde had done, and how she disobeyed his command, and made scorn of his words. "woe to her, woe to her!" he cried. "dire and dread shall be her portion for this day's work. with the reined lightning and the bridled thunder follow i after her, swift on the wings of the storm." and at his word the winds of heaven and all the hurricanes of the air rushed to his bidding, and seated in his chariot of storms he drove on brunnhilde's trail. chapter viii the flight of brunnhilde now on that day on which brunnhilde disobeyed the behest of wotan, and instead of slaying siegmund, and bringing his soul to walhalla where he would abide with the other heroes, shielded him, yet to little purpose, the glorious company of the valkyries, who were eight in number, and all her sisters, being likewise the daughters of wotan and born of erda, were out to battle and fight with the heroes of the sons of men, whom they bore to walhalla, there to defend its lofty walls and sit at wine with their fellows. all that day had they ridden on their quests, and when it was towards evening they began to gather, as they had appointed, on the top of a certain rocky height, there to number their spoils, and go all together, a wild and joyous company, to the halls of walhalla, there to gladden the heart of their father wotan with what they had done. high and open to the winds of heaven was their trysting-place, a region of bleak mountain land, a very crown of the world. steeply rose its barren cliffs on all sides but one, and here a pine wood clung to the hillside, in the shade and shelter of which they might tether their horses, as they waited for the gathering of their sisters. great storms had raged all day, and as evening came on their violence was in no whit abated, but seemed to grow ever fiercer. but little did the valkyries heed such menaces, for their joy was in storm, and they drank deep from whirlwinds as a thirsty man will drink of a bowl of wine, and feel his strength come back to him; and the swifter the blasts screamed over the terror-stricken earth, the swifter did the valkyries ride on their errands, and the louder and more joyous sounded their fierce, glad battle-cries of death. high and untamed of heart were they, and maidens all of them, for of men they had no thought, save only that men were the game and quarry of their hunting, and they loved a strong man's strength only because thus the fighting was the fiercer, and the nobler and braver was the foeman whose soul they should carry to walhalla, there to have life eternal breathed into it by wotan. but of the fierceness of love they knew nought, nor cared to know: danger and death had brighter eyes for them than a lover. all day had their trysting-place stood empty and buffeted by the winds and rains, for far distant were the quests on which the sisters had gone, and wild and shrill was the music of the storm. now with a scream the wind would awake and yell among the rocks, and the beating of the rain was like the sound of the drums that call to war. then the shrillness of the storm would abate, and for a while it would moan with low and flute-like notes among the stems of the pine-trees, and whisper among their nodding tops, as if with a false promise of peace. then in fresh anger, as of hounds a-yelp, it would break out again, and with shrill trumpetings scream among the sharp edges of the rocks, or vibrate like to a twanged string round the stumps of trees and weep like some lost soul among the thick-stemmed bushes. but towards evening, though the rain abated not, nor the mad riot of the winds, a man might hear very far away the rhythmical tramping of some deathless steed, as one of the wild valkyries approached, or far away a light would break out among the clouds showing where another rode lightly on the very winds and airs of heaven. thus flying and galloping from every quarter of the world, that glorious company began to assemble, and the storm screamed welcome to them with many voices. legion were the questions each had to ask of the other, as to how she had sped that day, and what hero she brought back slung across her saddle-bows, and joyful were the greetings with which each hailed the other. some, too, had brought with them the horses of the slain, and loud were the neighings and whinnyings in the wood as horse smelt filly, and cocked his ear and swished his tail for very joy of the life that was in him. but the noblest of all were the steeds of the valkyries, and these they tied up to the trees while they waited for their full company to gather; and they cared for them tenderly, for it was by the deathless strength of their noble steeds that they rode so swiftly on their wide errands of death. again and yet again flared the wild light of their approach, and on the saddle of each was swung a hero, for all had prospered that day, and joyfully they spoke together of the gathering there would be in walhalla that night when they returned triumphant, and how wotan would be well pleased at their prowess; while high rose the mirth at the table where sat the heroes, as their new brethren made whole again, and filled with eternal life by the power of wotan, sat them down in wonder and amaze at the glory and joy that awaited them, when their eyes were opened after the sleep of death, to behold the dawning of the everlasting day. and by now all the maidens were gathered but one only, for brunnhilde, the eldest and the most noble of them all, had not yet returned from her quest, and the sisters wondered that she should delay so long. but one, thinking that they were all gathered, asked another why yet they delayed, for the sun was near its setting, and it was time they set forth to go to walhalla with their spoils. but she to whom her sister spake, replied-"not yet are we all gathered, for brunnhilde comes not yet. her deed to-day, as i know, my sisters, was with the wolsung siegmund, and she tarries long, for he fights for a woman, and men in such case are ever fiercest yet may we not go to walhalla till she is come, for what welcome, think you, we should get from wotan, came we before him lacking his heart's darling? dear are we all to him, but she is the dearest, and to us the dearest of all is she." meantime another of the eight, siegrune, had climbed to the topmost ridge of rock, and looked out as best she might through the blinding storm, to see if brunnhilde approached. then suddenly the others below heard her shout of joyful war-cry, with which the sisters were wont to hail each other. "she comes, she comes!" she cried, "and the speed of her coming is like the passage of the lightning, and as thunder the rides on the wings of the wind." then they all called aloud on her, and another sister, waltraute, swiftly ran up to where siegrune sat. "see, she rides to the wood, and her good grane labours sore. how spent he seems with her headlong speed." and yet a third climbed up beside the two others. "the wildest, fiercest ride that ever brunnhilde sped," she cried. "but see! what lies on her saddle? no hero is it." then as the maid came nearer, riding on the wings of the storm, they saw that it was no hero indeed she carried, but a woman; and swiftly they hurried down to the wood to meet her, for that a valkyrie should bring back a woman as spoil was in truth a new thing. and as they ran down they questioned one with another what this could be. they saw, too, that her good horse grane was utterly spent with the gallop, and this, too, was a new thing, for grane had the stoutest heart and the most untiring limbs of any horse in earth or heaven. then came brunnhilde towards them through the trees, giving her support and strength to the woman sieglinde, whom she led. round her neck was sieglinde's arm laid, yet scarcely even so could she put foot before foot, for like grane the strength of her body was spent utterly, and her soul was sore with all that had come upon her. then with hands outstretched in entreaty came brunnhilde to them; and that, too, was a strange thing and a new, for of them all she was the blithest. [illustration: brunnhilde brings sieglinde to the valkyries' meeting place.] "save me, sisters," cried she, "for harm follows hard after me, and i who never yet fled from any man fly now, and behind me in thunder and relentless pursuit follows the war-father." and down she sank on a seat of rock, still supporting her whom she led. but wonder and amazement seized on the sisters, and it seemed that she must be distraught and her wits, astray that she spoke so, for how should wotan, whose darling she was, and whose very will she mirrored, be up in wrath against her? then brunnhilde cried out again-"run to the topmost ridge, my sisters, and tell me if ye see aught. look to the northward and say if the father comes, and if he is yet in sight, for i have fled before him. all day i have fled before him, and my heart is gone from me, for he rides furiously." then did the sisters do her bidding, and lo! to the northward there rose in the sky a great cloud, separate from the storm down which brunnhilde had steered, and it rose high and black and moved very swiftly, and out of the midst of it came thunderings and lightnings, nor could they doubt but that this was wotan riding on the clouds, his chariot. then returned they and told brunnhilde what they had seen, and she was very sore afraid, for she too knew that fast in pursuit came wotan from the north, and that he came in wrath and terrible anger. and again she cried-"save me, my sisters, and shield the woman. ye know not who she is, but i will tell you all and quickly, for there is no time to lose. sieglinde is it i bring, the sister of siegmund the wolsung and his bride. wotan this day, for fricka's sake, doomed to death the wolsung, and bid me forsake him whom ever i had loved. and obey i could not, for my heart allowed me not, and instead of forsaking him, and fighting against him, i sheltered him with my invincible shield. but on the other side fought wotan, and against his spear was siegmund's sword shattered. then fear seized me, and i fell back, so that my shield no longer sheltered him, and by hunding's sword did siegmund fall. and with this woman fled i before the wrath that is coming, and hither i came, for with your help maybe the fulness of his displeasure shall be turned from my head." then were all the sisters filled with sorrow and amazement that she had disobeyed the word of wotan, and scarce could they believe that she had dared to do this thing, for that wotan's word should not be obeyed was a thing unthinkable, and they were sorely grieved. and ever from the north, like night, came the storm-chariot of wotan nearer, and they knew the growing roar of the thunder to be the whinnying of the wild horses that he drove. but brunnhilde looked on sieglinde, and as she looked all fear for herself was merged in pity for her, and again she spake to her sisters. "sisters, sisters, woe and destruction waits this woman if she abides the coming of wotan, for with fire and wrath and the utmost terror of his face he wars against the wolsungs. so, for my horse grane is spent, lend me, i pray you, one of yours, that with her i may flee again and make her safe." then, though they all loved brunnhilde, and she entreated each in turn, yet none would do this, for wotan was their father, and not even at brunnhilde's prayer could they turn from him. thus she knew not which way to turn for help, and she bent over sieglinde, and for pity of her and for sorrow she kissed her and embraced her lovingly. and at that caress sieglinde, who till now had taken no part or lot in this wild war of words, but had sat as one who saw not nor felt, looked up into brunnhilde's eyes, and saw all the sorrowful loving-kindness which sat there, and made such softness in her eyes. "it is enough," she said, "for death, now siegmund is dead, terrifies me not at all, and i would not that harm came to thee for my sake. would that some blow in that strife had fallen on me, so that i might have died with him. indeed i will not be parted from him. so, o thou holy and dear maiden, who hast been so tender to me, let me not live and curse thy tenderness, but hearken to my prayer, and strike me to the heart with thy sword. strike strongly of thy strength." and brunnhilde spoke low to her and earnestly. "ah, not so, not so," she said. "cast not his love away, the pledge of which he has given thee. for hidden deep in thee lies another life; from thy womb shall spring a wolsung." then did the mother awake in the woman, and all her face was flushed as with sunrise by a holy joy. though she had no fears for herself, yet it could not be that the begotten of siegmund should perish, and she thought of her unborn babe. "ah, save me and shelter me," she cried, "and shelter my helpless babe. o, ye maidens, i call you to save me and hide me from the wrath of wotan." then suddenly came the voice of waltraute from the topmost rock. "the storm is at hand," she cried. "get thee hence, ere it fall on thee." at that the others cried to brunnhilde to get hence with the woman, for they dare not ward her from wotan, and sieglinde fell on her knees, and as mother of a child that should yet be born, besought brunnhilde to save her for the sake of her motherhood that should be. then did brunnhilde commune swiftly with herself, for lacking a horse she could not hope to flee with the woman before the face of wotan. yet when she spake her voice trembled, for she was afraid. but by no other way could she save sieglinde and that holy seed. "get thee away alone," said she, "and flee softly and swiftly from the wrath. but i abide here so that in wrath against me he may delay his further pursuit. here and on me will that full flood break, and here will it pour itself forth, and in the meantime shalt thou make thyself safe against his pursuit." and for the sake of her child, sieglinde pressed her hands in thanks. "and whither shall i flee from the wrath?" she asked. then brunnhilde turned again to her sisters. "o help me here," she said, "for in this in no way do ye cross the will of wotan. say, which of you have journeyed eastward this day?" and siegrune answered: "i, and eastward lies there a great wood where the giant fafner guards the ring which was made from the rhine-gold. that none should know it is he, he has taken the likeness of a mighty dragon, and in his lair he guards the ring. yet it is no place for a helpless woman." "nor meet for a helpless woman is it to abide the wrath of wotan," answered brunnhilde. "and that wood, well know i, wotan loves not, nor ever does he venture in its shade, for he thinks that there lurkes evil for him, and dark is the womb of fate." even as she spoke again, waltraute shouted from the rock. "wotan is very near," she cried; "hear ye not the roar of his coming?" then brunnhilde trembled, but delayed not, and taking hold of sieglinde she showed her the way she must follow. "so begone!" she cried, "and set thy face ever eastwards. great indeed is the burden that thou bearest within thee, so let thy heart be great also. hunger and thirst will be thine, and the stony rock shall be thy bed, and with thorns shalt thou cover thyself, and of briars shalt thou make thy pillow. so be lifted up in thy courage and take these things blithely, and laugh only when thy need is the sorest. and, o woman! forget not ever, nor think lightly of what i tell thee, for within thee in the darkness of thy womb lies he who shall be the highest hero of earth." then took she from her mantle the fragments of the sword of siegmund which she had gathered up when it was shattered against the spear of wotan, and darkness fell on the rocky ridge where he fought with hunding. "treasure these safe," said she, "for these are the shattered pieces of thy man's sword. them gathered i for thy child, and he once more shall wield it in days to be. and i name him now. siegfried shall he be, and by him shall be won the peace of victory, and the sword shall make him glad. so begone!" but sieglinde clung to her a moment yet. "o, sweetest and most mighty of maidens," she said, "thy truth to me has made me believe that what thou now sayest is to be. that which thou hast given me, which was his whom we both loved, i will guard very jealously, and by him who will spring from siegmund's loins perchance shall one day thy sorrow and mine be turned into joy and laughter. so farewell. the woman of many woes and sorrows blesses thee every day and for ever." then she went swiftly away eastwards through the pines. chapter ix the sentence of brunnhilde for a moment brunnhilde stood there watching with a strange exaltation the figure of sieglinde as it grew ever dimmer in the dimness of the plumed pines, and when it was now quite vanished she turned again, and stood yet awhile with clenched hands and knitted brow, so that she might be mistress of herself when the heavy wrath of wotan fell on her, and disgrace not her own nature nor the bright company of her fearless sisters. little she seemed to care what doom he might mete out to her, for at the worst he could but deal her swift death, and if the sons of men could die bravely and blithely, meeting the face of death as they would meet a friend's face, could she do less, she the first of the children of erda? for all that, she was afraid, and with her fear there cut her like a two-edged sword the pang of remorse that she had disobeyed him whom her soul loved. yet in this matter she knew well that were that choice again before her, she would do again as she had done, and not otherwise, for pity had enlightened her, and that sweet mandate was binding on her. then lifted she her eyes and saw that the height where her sisters had watched was already quite hidden by the thunder clouds that had driven so swiftly from the north, and it was as if black night encompassed the place. and from the middle of the cloud came the unceasing roar of thunder and the wild lanterns of the lightning flashed all ways at once. then for a moment they ceased, and out of the middle of the cloud came the voice she loved, and it was more terrible than all the thunderings. not very loud was it, but therein lay wrath as deep as the sea, and unappeasable as the desert's thirst; and it called her by name. and when brunnhilde heard that she stood very still. but the other valkyries wailed among themselves when they saw that their father wotan had even now reached the place, and loudly they bewailed for their sister brunnhilde, for by his voice they knew that wotan was exceedingly wroth. then suddenly at the sound of their wailing, the fountains of fear were altogether loosed within brunnhilde, and she felt sick with very terror, and her knees shook together. and she who had never besought aught for herself, besought them now. "sisters, sisters of mine, help me!" she cried, "for the sickness of fear has come upon me, and my heart is pierced. surely his rage will crush me utterly, if you protect me not. stand round me, let me hide among you, that he come not on me alone." then were her sisters full of pity for her, for none could "gainsay or resist her appeal; and in a company they ranged themselves upon a little rocky height that was there, all eight of them, and brunnhilde they set in their midst, and she cowered down among them. thus it might be that wotan would suppose that she had not joined her sisters in fear of his displeasure, and that thus he might seek her elsewhere. and they whispered to her to be, of good cheer, and crouch low in the midst of them, and not answer to his call. this she did; and they grouped themselves round her on the rocky point, and thus awaited the coming of wotan. yet the bravest of them were afraid at the thought of the wrath that was coming, for they had seen him alight from his chariot on the mountain-top close above them, and in the calm of his anger there was that which was more terrible than the bellowing thunder or the lightning stroke. then without haste came he down and stood before them. in his right hand he held the ashen spear, and his left hung by his side with fingers clenched, and his glorious face, before which the earth trembled, was very still and set; only the point of his spear trembled like an aspen leaf as he held it, and the valkyries knew the wrath that shook him. then he opened his mouth and spake very gently. "where is brunnhilde?" said he, "for after her and her wickedness am i come. do you think to hide her from me, or that ye will veil her and her evil deed from the reward i mete out to it?" then one and another replied to him, hoping to turn away his wrath; and one said that nought that she could do was so terrible as the anger with which he sought her; and another asked what it was that had so moved his rage; and yet another spake of the heroes they had slain that day, thus vainly seeking to cool his anger. but to their replies he answered not; only the trembling of the head of the ashen spear grew more violent, and at the last he broke out, no longer being still and calm in his wrath, but with an outburst of such rage as they had not dreamed was there. for all that, it was not so terrible as the stillness of the anger in which he had come to them. "is it your purpose to mock me?" he cried. "indeed i am not good to mock. o, ye valkyries, ye wax over-bold, nor does this delay serve to calm my displeasure, but it spreads further like the rising tide, and reaches you too. of what avail then are your idle words? for well i know that there in your midst ye foolishly seek to guard brunnhilde. i bid you all then to stand off from her, for from me and from you and your company she is for ever an outcast. she has proved herself worthless. worthless is she, and the doom of the worthless shall come upon her at my hands." then again once more they besought him, for they trembled for brunnhilde who in their midst lay trembling, and they told him how in panic of fear she had fled before him, beseeching her sisters to shield and shelter her, for they knew that they could not deceive him, nor was it of any use to say that she was not with them. so ere they handed her to him they tried to soften his anger, telling him that already fear, like some ploughshare, had furrowed her heart, that heart which had never yet trembled nor turned faint. then with one voice they besought him to have pity, remembering her mighty deeds. but their pleading but more inflamed him, for it was the very darling of his soul who had disobeyed him, and thus her sin was the more grievous, and to try to turn his wrath and beseech in this sort seemed to him a womanish deed. so again he broke out in ever fiercer anger. "are ye indeed valkyries?" he said, "and can it be that i have begotten a brood so timorous of soul, and so little courageous? women of faint heart are ye all! were these the hearts that i moulded, which should meet war and the clash of fighting like men, sharp as steel and hard as tempered steel, that like a pack of women you whimper in this sort when i, the righteous judge, come to visit one who has failed in truth? ah! and ye know not half." for a moment his anger all died out and left him only very sorry, for he loved brunnhilde with a love far deeper than any of her sisters could ever know, and his voice softened. "ye shall hear what she has done," he said, "and judge if it was not meeter that my tears should flow and that i rather than you should weep and wail. for to her, to brunnhilde, my innermost being and the secrets of my heart were known as to myself, and into her soul, as into a well of water, i looked and beheld myself, and my will that had been dark to me grew clear. in her, as in the womb of a woman with child, my will matured, and from her it came to birth. never was there love like this between any man and maid. was that a bond to lightly loose? yet to-day she loosed it, and she who was my will fought against me. a clear command i laid on her, and in the sight of heaven and earth she disobeyed it, and the sword of siegmund, made by me, was directed against myself by her command. she has done this." [illustration: crouching among her sisters.] then he paused a little space, and again he spoke: "no longer i speak to you valkyries, i speak to her. dost thou hear me, brunnhilde? thou whom in every part i fashioned, to whom i gave thy deathless armour, to whom i gave all the sweetness and joy of life, dost thou hear me? and hearing me, art thou, thou, brunnhilde, afraid, that thou hidest thyself like a coward, thou, brunnhilde, and would shrink away from the doom and punishment that i have appointed for thee? so come out, come out, and of thy own free-will!" and when brunnhilde, crouching among her sisters, heard the voice of her father speaking in such sort to her, him whom she knew best and loved best of all the world, all fear suddenly died in her heart, for the love that each had towards the other cast fear out, and she knew only that he called her, and she must go. and she stood up straight, and with her hands to right and left she parted the sisters who would have screened her still, and with firm step and head borne proudly, as was ever her wont, she came near to where wotan stood and looked him in the face and spoke to him. "father, i am here," she said. "make known to me what thou wiliest." then answered wotan: "not from me, brunnhilde," he said, "comes thy fate; it is thou thyself who hast sent it. was it not by the might of my will that thy soul first awoke in thee? yet thou hast warred against thy own soul. it was the might of my word that made thee mighty in noble deeds, yet to my word thou hast given the lie. thou wast ever the maiden of my will to me, and against my will hast thou gone. thou wast the maiden who bore my shield, but against me hast thou stretched the shield forth. it was thou whom i appointed to choose the lots of life and death. where i ordained life thou didst think to give death, where i appointed death thou didst let live. it was thou whom i appointed to lift up the hearts of heroes, yea, and thou didst lift them up against me. i tell thee all that thou wert; but by what name thou shouldest now be called, thou knowest thyself. no more art thou the maiden of my will, but maiden only, and as valkyrie thou hast gone on thy last errand. from henceforth thou art that which thou hast made thyself; thou metest out thy own punishment, and it is just." then did it seem to brunnhilde that she could have borne all else but only this, that she should be thus parted from her father, and her heart was stricken. "dost thou so cast me from thee?" she said. "canst thou think to do such a thing?" "thou sayest it," said he, "and thou art outcast from me utterly. never again from walhalla shalt thou storm forth at my bidding on thy joyous errands, nor ever again shall i show to thee the heroes thou shalt fight and slay, guiding their souls at eventide to my halls, there to make merry at the joyful feastings of the gods. nor ever again when the mirth grows louder, deep into the night, shalt thou hand me the wine-cup, nor again shall our souls mingle in the sweet caresses of father and daughter as was our wont. for out of the company of gods thou art taken, and thy place shall know thee no more, and thou, that fair flower-bud that grew so strong and sweet on the abiding stem of my godhead, art nipped off and cast away. for the bond between us is broken, and for ever art thou banished from before my face, and out of the light of mine eyes." then began the sisters all to weep and to wail, for like wotan they loved her, and with words of pity they called on her by name, and bitterly they lamented themselves. but among them all brunnhilde stood dry-eyed and firm. nought said she to vainly try to turn his mind, she wished but to learn her uttermost doom. "then is all, all that thou hast given me, utterly lost to me?" she said. "of all thy gifts dost thou strip me? is all lost to me?" "yea, and it is lost to me," said wotan, "for from the life and light of the gods thou passest. here shalt thou abide, even here, and deep sleep shall wrap thee round, and thou shalt be alone and without protector, until the day come that some man, a wayfarer, passing here shall see a maid lying alone, and shall come to her and wake her, and she shall be his. maiden only thou art, not maiden of my will, and to maid, as is fit, comes man." but even now when the horror of her full doom was told to brunnhilde, still she swooned not nor bewailed herself. but among the sisters again rose wild tumult and bewilderment of pity, for of all dooms to fall into the hands of a man was to them the most shameful, and the stain and disgrace that was decreed to her touched their sisterhood. and with one consent they entreated their father to have pity, and not put that uttermost degradation on her, but refrain from cursing her with so great an infamy. yet he paid no heed to their wailings, for it was even as he said, and brunnhilde was the maiden of his will no more, but a maiden only, and a man will find the maiden at the last. then because they still importuned him till he was vexed with them, he turned fiercely on them. "her fate is fixed," he cried, "and ye have heard it. from you as from me is she for ever separate because she was faithless; and as i have said, so shall it be. no more shall her steed whinny to its fellows as ye fly together on the wings of the winds. and here shall she abide till the man who fares by shall pluck the full bloom of her sleeping maidenhood, and from maid shall make of her mother. to man her master shall her heart be bent, and meekly shall she do all his will. the cares of the house shall be hers, and by the hearth-side shall she sit and ply the distaff, as befits a wife, and the mockers among men, it may be, shall make merry at her. woman shall she be among the sons of men, and her fate none other than theirs." then was the spirit of brunnhilde broken within her, for the punishment was harder than she could bear; yet still she said no word. but her sisters again broke out into lamentations, whereat wotan was angry, for what must be, must be, and their bewailings were but a waste of breath and cowardly withal. nor was it his will to palaver longer with them. "begone, begone!" he cried, "for but a little more and ye share her doom. so begone, lest her fate be yours also. for the last time ye look on her face. and should one of you remain here lingering, in vain hope of resisting my will or changing my unchangeable mind, brunnhilde's doom is hers too. so be wise while there is time. get ye gone from this rock, her sleeping-place, and let none again be found here. to horse with you all, for swiftly shall woe light on the loiterer." then the sisters, seeing that the doom was spoken, and though walhalla should fall, yet should wotan's word abide, went very sorrowfully to their horses, and loosed them from their tetherings, and each mounted and rode off. shrill through the woods and the echoing mountain-side sounded the storm of their going, for the winds awoke to speed them, and over dale and down glen they sped swiftly, till the noise of their travel grew faint, and on the mountain-side there abode only wotan and brunnhilde, who still lay crouched at his feet. chapter x the sleep of brunnhilde thus the wild storm of the ride of the valkyries passed away. like smoke they were borne away on the wings of the tempest, and a windless calm fell round about the place where wotan and brunnhilde abode on the mountain-top. the sun was already set, though still to westwards there lingered the reflected fires of its setting, and star by star came out in the deepening vault of blue overhead, until all heaven was spangled with their burning and grew bright at eventide. eastward rose the moon at its fullest, to climb its silent and appointed journey over the firmament, and shone with a light exceeding bright and clear as running water. in the brake the chorus of birds was hushed, and over hill and valley spread and deepened the spring night. such a night indeed it was as that on which, but one sunset ago, had siegmund come to the house of hunding-through the storms which day-long had lashed the hillsides; and now, even as then, the storm was hushed, and deep peace lay over the earth. yet swiftly the finger of fate had written, and swift had been the accomplishment of that decree, for lover lay dead and husband also, while through the gloomy forest hurried sieglinde eastwards, to shield that which lay within her from the wrath of wotan. and she, brunnhilde, that had befriended the lover and his beloved, lay very still at the feet of her father making a darkness for her eyes, for on her head had the wrath come, and stern and terrible was her punishment. for lightly had she recked of his godhead and his holy behest, and by the maiden of his will had his will been betrayed; thus she was will-maiden to him no longer, and should wayfarer hap on her, not maid but woman, for so had the word gone forth from wotan's mouth. long time then sat the god there motionless with the crouched figure of her he loved at his feet, but at the last she raised her head, and essayed to meet the eyes that met not hers, and slowly she spoke. "is in truth my fault so vile and shameful," said she, "that with so shameful a visitation thou must needs reward it? time was when high on the sunlit cliff of godhead i stood with thee, and have i now by my sin cast myself down so utterly to the slime and horror of the nethermost pit, that viler phantoms than hella ever knew must flap their wings of darkness round me? surely it is not possible that in one moment i so put off all the worth that ever was mine, all which i had from thee, that a fate so unworthy fits me." yet still the god looked not at her, and brunnhilde nigh despaired. yet alone with him, for the twain were indeed not two but one, she could beseech and entreat him, though before her sisters she thought shame to do so, and slowly the words were wrung from her, like dropping blood from some deep-welling wound. "father, father!" she cried, "look once again in mine eyes, and let the light of thine dwell once more on my face, and search it well and remember what has been, and let not the loving-kindness of old days be forgotten. so, maybe, shall thy wrath not burn so fiercely against me, and thy anger be assuaged. cast the strong and clear light of thy knowledge on the sin i have committed, and look well at it to see if indeed it merits this doom, so that thy child must be for ever forsaken by thee, and her love no more brought to remembrance." then looked he at her, but no ray shot across the sombre gloom of his face. "look at thy sin thyself," said he, "and let thy mind be to thee a lantern that illumines it. mark it carefully, and know fully indeed what thou hast done. what need for me to tell thee. thou knowest." then did brunnhilde ponder on all they had said together the night before concerning the wolsungs, and how wotan's mind ere yet he had talked with fricka had been to save siegmund and destroy hunding, for he was husband to sieglinde only by name and vow, while siegmund was the man she loved, and how he had commanded herself to fight well for siegmund. "time was," she said, "when thou wert on siegmund's side, and by thy side was i, as ever. it was the word that thou saidst to me then which was in my heart when i fought for him." but the cloud moved not from wotan's face, but sat throned there heavily. "hotfoot from speech with me thou wentest to the battle," said he. "was the word of mine that then rang in thy ears to do as thou didst do?" "yet when first the lot was cast," said the maid, "the lot of death declared for bunding." "it was so," said he. "but the bidding i gave thee then i revoked, and thou knowest it. yea, and thou didst know it even when the sin of disobedience was red upon thee." "but who changed the mind that erst was in thee?" said she. "of thyself thou didst not change it, but fricka inclined thee to her will, breaking asunder the resolve that thou hadst made. her whim it was that swayed thy mind; nor was i the first foe to thy will, but thou thyself, when the unalterable word that thou hadst spoken was changed and twisted and made of nought because so the whim of fricka would have it." then was wotan even more sore at heart, for he had thought that brunnhilde had known his will to the full, but with open eyes had disobeyed it. yet this was worse, in that she thought him infirm of purpose and easily swayed, and here lay treason to him. but she, though no word came from him, yet fathomed his thought, and to that unspoken thought made reply. "father, i am not wise as thou art," she said, "but this i knew, that thou didst love the wolsung who sprang from thy loins, and i thought that thy strife of words with fricka had blinded thy mind and bewildered thy sense, so that in that moment thou wast unmindful of him. and it was a bitter thing to my heart to see siegmund stand unprotected and outside the range of thy protecting arm, for thou didst ever love him, and in nought had he disobeyed thy word; though to fricka's mind he had done amiss." but wotan's face still gloomed above her. "ah, thou didst know, thou didst know what way my choice had gone, and that which determined me concerned thee not," he said; "and knowing that, thou wert at siegmund's side with the guard and shelter of thy shield, thou didst range thyself against me and against the word that had gone forth from my lips." then brunnhilde knew there was only one thing left as yet unspoken by her by which might the doom that he had decreed upon her be averted. so that last arrow left in her sheaf she drew. for ever wotan had been a friend to love, whether among the gods or among the race of men whom his might sustained and his pity upheld. so now, since for the first time the comprehension of love had reached her, when that morning she saw siegmund recked nought of what might be done to him, but considered--only that he might not be bereft of his wife sieglinde, and thus thought scorn of walhalla's blisses, if so be she was not there to share them with him, so brunnhilde thought that even now at the last wotan might perchance pity her for that which he knew so well, for the sake of the love to which he was ever friend. "it is true, it is true," she said, "but there is yet one thing thou dost not know. for when at thy bidding i first drew near to siegmund bearing swift death for him, and having no thought in my mind of pity for him or of disobedience to thy word, my soul was melted when i saw how it was with him, and heard him speak. then knew i that he was a hero, for no fear at all was his, neither of swift bright-eyed death, nor even of hella itself, and knew i also that one overmastering need beset his soul, and that was his love for sieglinde. and my heart made obeisance to his love, and reverenced it, and hence was pity born. behold, his tongue was a trumpet, and the grief that was his he blared forth, and none heard him but i. the splendid sorrow of love that reached as high as the heavens had in his heart its everlasting seat, and that love throned; there thought scorn of all else, and to the terrors with which i threatened him his ear was utterly deaf. these things, father, i heard and saw, and as i hearkened and beheld, the might of that defenceless man shook the fortress walls that until then had ever girded my heart, and they tottered and fell, and lo! i was open to the invader. thy godhead and thy nature that is mine, died, and as a maiden of mortal birth and human sufferings i stood before him, lost in one thought, how could i help him." again she made pause and drew closer to wotan's knee. "father, who had given me the love that then burned in my breast?" she whispered. "was it not thy will, thy will which had bade me guard the wolsung? indeed, so it seemed to me, it was thy will, and, even though it agreed not with the word that thou didst give me, was it not thy will that even then directed me against thy word?" but though all the anger had burned out of the face of wotan, yet was it still stern and set like a mask of marble. and when brunnhilde had done: "hast thou aught more to say, my daughter?" he asked, and her silence answered him. then said he-"listen once again then, before we make an end. love seems to thee then a light thing that thou canst turn to it so, for thou dost not know aught of its flames and its sorrows as i know them. nor dost thou know, thou whom i thought ever to be the maiden of my will, how i myself sided against myself, and of the secret pangs and agonies that were mine. ah, brunnhilde, i have suffered, i have suffered; faint i have often been and wounded, and wants that i cannot quench, and wishes that i cannot bridle have brought me to this, that my will wavers. here is the wreck of my world, here is to me a grief that will not sleep. and thou for a worldly love--and herein is thy crime--hast choked the well of my love for thee. for in that love i rested and was content, for delight and laughter have been thy food, and deep thou hast ever drunk of our love which was untainted with the human passion and hunger which now thou callest love. in that and in thee found i my solace and rest, when the strife of the gods made me bitter and of uneasy heart. for dark settles around us, and black wings of fate but dimly seen hover near. and thou, in this hour, by thine own choice, thou hast deserted and forsaken me. thou hast chosen thine own way when my will was otherwise. thus it is of thy own choice that our parting draws nigh, and no more may thy nature mix with mine, nor ever again shall we hold sweet converse together touching things high and great, dealing wisely with them in loving whispers. thou thyself hast chosen; therefore must i henceforth work without thy help and communion, and while life and light endure, no more shall our hearts leap towards one another in joyous greeting." meantime while they talked together had the full moon of spring risen high into the night, and brunnhilde with heart that wandered for a moment from its woes bethought herself, as she looked on the earth she so loved, that never again would she see it with eyes of sight divine. and like an echo from far off it came upon her that even now high in walhalla were the tables for feasting set, yet all were waiting till wotan should come. soon he would come, but sorrowful and alone, and all would see that her place was empty for aye, and that another filled the wine-cup and handed to the heroes the joy of the grape. all this she was to leave, and her untamed heart once more bid her make a last effort, to see if not even now could she not turn wotan from his purpose. for at the first the doom had so stunned her that she could not believe it was for her, but now under the calm and sweet night that unreality of horror began to take shape, and it was then no phantom. so once more she turned to him. "worthless hast thou found me and foolish," she said, "and altogether unprofitable. for the word which thou didst give me i scarce could believe was thine. yet what of the years that went before, when all thy teaching to me was to love what thou lovest?" but wotan answered not, nor was his face moved, and again, in agony of the loneliness that was coming on her, she embraced his knees and cried to him-"is it so, then? are we parted utterly, and shall our joyous meetings be seen no more? for lo! thou dividest that which is one and undivisible, and tearest away with a stroke a part of thine own self, yea, thine own heart thou easiest aside. ah, father, great father, forget not that this, this maid of thine, was part of thyself, her life thine, her all, thine. but now thou cuttest it off, thou thrustest me from thee, and if that must be, is it not enough? but wilt thou desecrate this part of thee further, and shame it as thou hast said? that shame thou thyself wilt share. the fault was mine, but if thou doest as thou hast said, making me the toy of men and food for their sport and laughter, what a fall is there. and my fall is thine also." then answered he: "thou hast chosen love to be thy master, and love thou hast lightly followed like some feathered line. it is fit then that thou follow the man who brings love to thee." then at the thought that she might fall a victim to some coward and craven fellow, some bloodless braggart, again she besought him that at the least he would promise her that the man who should win her might be worthy of her, a man of deeds and of bravery, even as her own bravery he knew was matchless, and her own deeds many. for great was her fall even so, since for the blisses of walhalla, and the endless joys of sharing in her father's work and wisdom, she walked the earth, the wife of a man. but if such man was a coward and the scorn of men, the doom was not to be borne. but wotan's face was marble still, and he said only that she had turned from him, nor could he make choice for her any more. then since he might not choose for her, brunnhilde made choice, if so be that her choice found favour in his eyes, and she said-"there lives on earth, father, the race which thou thyself didst beget, and of that blood, since it is thine, can never a coward be born. and not far off is the day, when from that race shall be born the noblest hero that the world shall ever know. him name i, of the wolsung blood." then again there was anger in wotan's eyes as he answered-"speak to me not of wolsungs," said he, "for from them as from thee, and in the self-same hour, i have parted and withdrawn myself, and my love no longer goes before them, but hard after them follows and shall follow my hate. already by it have they been hunted even to the death." then did brunnhilde, that nothing should be concealed between them, tell him that by her hand was sieglinde safe, the mighty mother of a man that should be, in whose veins ran the pure wolsung blood, for wolsung would be alike his father and his mother. and though sieglinde fled in fear, yet in the appointed months would she bring forth him whom to save she fled. moreover sieglinde bore with her, for she herself had given it, the sword which heir father wotan had granted siegmund to find. but when that sword was named, wotan frowned and was afresh displeased, for in this had he sided against himself, and bitterness lurked in the thought. "broken is the blade thereof," he cried, "for against my spear which none may withstand was it shattered, and who shall make good such a shivering? so speak not to me of swords. but now thy time has come, and though i have heard thee very patiently, for the love i bore thee, yet thou seest that it is but vain to seek to sway my mind from its course. so abide the lot which has fallen to thee, nor indeed have i the power to change it, for thou thyself didst prefer the love of man to the love of wotan, and what thou hast done abides. thy time has come, and i must linger here with thee no longer, for already i have lingered too long. here for the first time and the last must i turn from thee, even as from me thou hast turned. nor may i learn what thou wishest, or knowing, may not perform. thy woe must i see fulfilled and accomplished." "then name it once again," said she, "that i may hear my sentence." and wotan answered very solemnly-"here seal i thine eyes and thy limbs in deep sleep," said he, "and sleep thou shalt, till some one of the sons of men passes by and wakes thee. his wife shalt thou be, by right of finding." then brunnhilde the valkyrie spake for the last time, and she fell on her knees before the god. "i rebel not, nor murmur," said she, "and let the word thou hast spoken be done unto me. i seek not to alter aught, but in thy love grant me yet this. grant me this, ere the bands of sleep press down my eyelids and swathe my limbs, that thou wilt establish round my resting-place some terror and hindrance that will affright the coward and the falterer, so that none such comes near me. let him who wins me be at least some hero of might, man, yet not coward, for how could brunnhilde mate with such? let it be such a coming i wait, and here unmurmuring will i fall asleep on this height until he who comes awakes me. ah, father, father, grant me this boon, and forbid it not, else with thy deathless spear strike at me now, even as i cling to thy knee. blot me out and trample on me, and let the winds scatter me over the mountain-side, or the beasts devour me. better were that than to wither in the arms of a coward so leave me not unfenced against the approach of the worm and the spider among men. so shall thy word be fulfilled, and so shall i be saved from the nameless horror. o bid fire to be kindled and ring me round, and let the red tower of flame make battlement and ward for me on this rock. set here fierce tongues to affright the boaster, and let the hot breath of the flame drive off the empty braggart, who fears to face the roaring of its rage. grant me this. it is finished." then for a long space did wotan gaze into her beseeching eyes, and thought within himself of all the beautiful days they had spent together, which now were over and numbered with the unreturning dead, and long he thought of the love they had ever had the one to the other until the day of her disobedience, and a mildness came over his almighty eyes, and he was fain to grant this boon to her, for in no way thus would his word be broken. then tenderly he raised her from where she knelt, and once more his arm was round her neck, and her breath soft and sweet swelled and made full the bosom that beat close to his. so gazed she for the last time into his eyes, and when for the last time she heard his voice, it was tender and full of love, and all anger had gone from it as utterly as the spent storms had gone from the sky, and she knew that her boon was granted to her. [illustration: then tenderly he rised her from where she knelt.] "farewell," he said, "o noblest maiden, steadfast of heart thou holy solace in which my soul ever delighted, farewell, farewell! must i be ever far from thee and parted from, thee, and shall i never more welcome thy coming which has aye been honey to me? never any more must our horses range together as we ride, nor will it be thy hand but anothers that gives the wine-cup to me. many days of love have we spent together, and now leave thee, thou delight and laughter of my eyes. yet never has bride had for her bridal so glorious a beacon as shall burn for thine, for presently at my word will the flame ring here thy rock, and spread its flambent and deadly embrace to affright the coward, and thus none but the courageous of heart shall dare to vault the fence that shall guard thee. to one only shall it be granted to do this thing, and he is the man who is free with a freedom that i, wotan, know not." but when brunnhilde heard his word she lifted her face to him, and wotan kissed her, and her eyes sought his in the last look of all. and brokenly came wotan's speech, for he loved her; and he kissed her on her sweet mouth and on her eyes. "often thus have we done, brunnhilde," said he, "and often have thine eyes been closed under my kisses, and bright they have been when i kissed them, for the light of coming battle that shone there. often too has the song of thy mouth, ere yet thou wert of age to go forth to fight, been wine to the souls of my hero-warriors. o eyes of thine, stars to me from a starry heaven, beacons to which my heart was often lifted strong with hope, when i worked upwards from gross bewilderment of darkness to this joyful and beauteous world! sweet physicians of my soul, for the last time heal me as my lips linger on you still. happier than i is he who next meets them, for on me no more is shed their guiding light. thus, even thus, i pass from thy side, and in my last kiss thy godhead steals back from thee to him who gave it birth." and even as he spoke, and as on her eyes and mouth the god's lips were pressed, her eyes closed softly, and her mouth was shut, and softly she sank, untroubled, and like a child tired with play, into his encircling arm. and softly did wotan take her up in his strong grasp, and softly and very tenderly he laid her on a low mossy bank that had spread its velvet beneath the shade of a whispering pine. then looked he the last time on her peaceful and sleeping face, and raising her head he put there her helmet, and shut down the vizor, so that none could see her face. then he looked once more, now that her face was gone from him, at the gentle swell of the bosom of maidenhood, and at all the beauty and strength of her tireless limbs; and then took her steel shield and laid it on her body, and her spear he laid lightly on her outstretched arm. thus all his work with her was accomplished, and there remained only that he should fulfil the boon which he had granted her; and with firm step he went a little space away and called with loud voice on loge, the flickering god of fire. "loge, hear!" he cried, "and arise and come hither obedient to my hand. come thou in waves of fire, and encompass the rock where i stand with thy burning. loge, loge, up!" at that three times he smote the rock, and where he smote up started the spouting flames; and with his spear he pointed to the ring where he would have the fire spring, and where he pointed there was poured out the blaze. and when all was finished, and on all sides round brunnhilde, where she slept, ran the ring of fire, once more he raised the deathless spear aloft. "to him alone!" he cried, "who, fears not to face my spear, is it given to break through the blaze and enter." then passed he unscathed through the fire, and left brunnhilde sleeping on the rock, till he should come whom the fire affrighted not. but ever higher burned that unbridled blaze, and men awaking at dead hours that night thought that this was dawn, and dawn it was, but a dawn they dreamed not of yet. for as yet the life that lay within sieglinde, as she hurried eastward from the wrath of wotan, was not come to birth, and to none else but to the child that should be born was it given to face the spear of wotan, and thus by wotan's word there was none among all the sons of men who could face the fire that blazed where brunnhilde lay. and on the ridge facing the dawn lay hunding and siegmund through the spring night stiff and cold to the stars, while the maid who had saved the wolsung's wife and the pledge of love he had given lay beneath the stars also, but sleeping. thus were the loves of siegmund and sieglinde ended, and that which should be their fruit was not yet come to birth. the end http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) siegfried & the twilight of the gods by richard wagner with illustrations by arthur rackham translated by margaret armour london william-heinemann new york doubleday pace & co 1911 [illustration: "nothung! nothung! conquering sword!"] list of illustrations "nothung! nothung! conquering sword!" mime at the anvil mime and the infant siegfried "and there i learned what love was like" siegfried sees himself in the stream mime finds the mother of siegfried in the forest "in dragon's form fafner now watches the hoard" mime and the wanderer the forging of nothung siegfried kills fafner "the hot blood burns like fire!" the dwarfs quarrelling over the body of fafner "magical rapture pierces my heart; fixed is my gaze, burning with terror; i reel, my heart faints and fails! "sun, i hail thee! hail, o light! hail, o glorious day!" brünnhilde throws herself into siegfried's arms the three norns the norns vanish siegfried leaves brünnhilde in search of adventure siegfried hands the drinking-horn back to gutrune, and gazes at her with sudden passion brünnhilde kisses the ring that siegfried has left with her the ravens of wotan "the ring upon thy hand-... ah, be implored! for wotan fling it away!" the wooing of grimhilde, the mother of hagen "swear to me, hagen, my son!" "o wife betrayed, i will avenge thy trust deceived" "though gaily ye may laugh, in grief ye shall be left, for, mocking maids; this ring ye ask shall never, be yours" "siegfried! siegfried! our warning is true: flee, oh, flee from the curse!" siegfried's death brünnhilde on grane leaps on to the funeral pyre of siegfried the rhine-maidens obtain possession of the ring and bear it off in triumph [illustration] siegfried characters siegfried mime the wanderer alberich fafner erda brünnhilde scenes of action act i. a cave in a wood act ii. depths of the wood act iii. wild region at the foot of a rocky mountain; afterwards: summit of "brünnhilde's rock" [illustration] the first act _a rocky cavern in a wood, in which stands a naturally formed smith's forge, with big bellows. mime sits in front of the anvil, busily hammering at a sword._ mime [_who has been hammering with a small hammer, stops working._ slavery! worry! labour all lost! the strongest sword that ever i forged, that the hands of giants fitly might wield, this insolent urchin for whom it is fashioned can snap in two at one stroke, as if the thing were a toy! [_mime throws the sword on the anvil ill-humouredly, and with his arms akimbo gazes thoughtfully on the ground._ there is one sword that he could not shatter: nothung's splinters would baffle his strength, could i but forge those doughty fragments that all my skill cannot weld anew. could i but forge the weapon, shame and toil would win their reward! [_he sinks further back his head bowed in thought._ fafner, the dragon grim, dwells in the gloomy wood; with his gruesome and grisly bulk the nibelung hoard yonder he guards. siegfried, lusty and young, would slay him without ado; the nibelung's ring would then become mine. the only sword for the deed were nothung, if it were swung by siegfried's conquering arm; and i cannot fashion nothung, the sword! [_he lays the sword in position again, and goes on hammering in deep dejection._ slavery! worry! labour all lost! the strongest sword that ever i forged will never serve for that difficult deed. i beat and i hammer only to humour the boy; he snaps in two what i make, and scolds if i cease from work. [_he drops his hammer._ siegfried [_in rough forester's dress, with a silver horn hung by a chain, bursts in boisterously from the wood. he is leading a big bear by a rope of bast, and urges him towards mime in wanton fun._ hoiho! hoiho! [_entering._ come on! come on! tear him! tear him! the silly smith! [_mime drops the sword in terror, and takes refuge behind the forge; while siegfried, shouting with laughter, keeps driving the bear after him._ [illustration: mime at the anvil. see p. 2] mime hence with the beast! i want not the bear! siegfried i come thus paired the better to pinch thee; bruin, ask for the sword! mime hey! let him go! there lies the weapon; it was finished to-day. siegfried then thou art safe for to-day! [_he lets the bear loose and strikes him on the back with the rope._ off, bruin! i need thee no more. [_the bear runs back into the wood._ mime [_comes trembling from behind the forge._ slay all the bears thou canst, and welcome; but why thus bring the beasts home alive? siegfried [_sits down to recover from his laughter._ for better companions seeking than the one who sits at home, i blew my horn in the wood, till the forest glades resounded. what i asked with the note was if some good friend my glad companion would be. from the covert came a bear who listened to me with growls, and i liked him better than thee, though better friends i shall find. with a trusty rope i bridled the beast, to ask thee, rogue, for the weapon. [_he jumps up and goes towards the anvil._ mime [_takes up the sword to hand it to siegfried._ i made the sword keen-edged; in its sharpness thou wilt rejoice. [_he holds the sword anxiously in his hand; siegfried snatches it from him._ what matters an edge keen sharpened, unless hard and true the steel? [_testing the sword._ hei! what an idle, foolish toy! wouldst have this pin pass for a sword? [_he strikes it on the anvil, so that the splinters fly about. mime shrinks back in terror._ there, take back the pieces, pitiful bungler! 'tis on thy skull it should have been broken! shall such a braggart still go on boasting, telling of giants and prowess in battle, of deeds of valour, and dauntless defence?- a sword true and trusty try to forge me, praising the skill he does not possess? when i take hold of what he has hammered, the rubbish crumbles at a mere touch! were not the wretch too mean for my wrath, i would break him in bits as well as his work-the doting fool of a gnome!-and end the annoyance at once! [_siegfried throws himself on to a stone seat in a rage. mime all the time has been cautiously keeping out of his way._ mime again thou ravest like mad, ungrateful and perverse. if what for him i forge is not perfect on the spot, too soon the boy forgets the good things i have made! wilt never learn the lesson of gratitude, i wonder? thou shouldst be glad to obey him who always treated thee well. [_siegfried turns his back on mime in a bad temper, and sits with his face to the wall._ thou dost not like to be told that! [_he stands perplexed, then goes to the hearth in the kitchen._ but thou wouldst fain be fed. wilt eat the meat i have roasted, or wouldst thou prefer the broth? 'twas boiled solely for thee. [_he brings food to siegfried, who, without turning round, knocks both bowl and meat out of his hand._ siegfried meat i roast for myself; sup thy filthy broth alone! mime [_in a wailing voice, as if hurt._ this is the reward of all my love! all my care is paid for with scorn. when thou wert a babe i was thy nurse, made the mite clothing to keep him warm, brought thee thy food, gave thee to drink, kept thee as safe as i keep my skin; and when thou wert grown i waited on thee, and made a bed for thy slumber soft. i fashioned thee toys and a sounding horn, grudging no pains, wert thou but pleased. with counsel wise i guided thee well, with mellow wisdom training thy mind. sitting at home, i toil and moil; to heart's desire wander thy feet. through thee alone worried, and working for thee, i wear myself out, a poor old dwarf! [_sobbing._ and for my trouble the sole reward is by a hot-tempered boy [_sobbing._ to be hated and plagued! [illustration: mime and the infant siegfried see p. 8] siegfried [_has turned round again and has quietly watched mime's face, while the latter, meeting the look, tries timidly to hide his own._ thou hast taught me much, mime, and many things i have learned; but what thou most gladly hadst taught me a lesson too hard has proved-how to endure thy sight. when with my food or drink thou dost come, i sup off loathing alone; when thou dost softly make me a bed, my sleep is broken and bad; when thou wouldst teach me how to be wise, fain were i deaf and dumb. if my eyes happen to fall on thee, i find all thou doest amiss and ill-done; when thou dost stand, waddle and walk, shamble and shuffle, with thine eyelids blinking, by the neck i want to take the nodder, and choke the life from the hateful twitcher. so much, o mime, i love thee! hast thou such wisdom, explain, i pray thee, a thing i have wondered at: though i go roaming just to avoid thee, why do i always return? though i love the beasts all better than thee- tree and bird and the fish in the brook, one and all they are dearer than thou-how is it i always return? of thy wisdom tell me that. mime [_tries to approach him affectionately._ my child, that ought to show thee that mime is dear to thy heart. siegfried i said i could not bear thee; forget not that so soon. mime [_recoils, and sits down again apart, opposite siegfried._] the wildness that thou shouldst tame is the cause, bad boy, of that. young ones are always longing after their parents' nest; what we love we all long for, and so thou dost yearn for me; 'tis plain thou lovest thy mime, and always must love him. what the old bird is to the young one, feeding it in its nest ere the fledgling can flutter, that is what careful, clever mime to thy young life is, and always must be. siegfried well, mime, being so clever, this one thing more also tell me: [_simply._ the birds sang together so gaily in spring, [illustration: "and there i learned what love was like" see p. 11] [_tenderly._ the one alluring the other; and thou didst say, when i asked thee why, that they were wives with their husbands. they chattered so sweetly, were never apart; they builded a nest in which they might brood; the fluttering young ones came flying out, and both took care of the young. the roes in the woods, too, rested in pairs, the wild wolves even, and foxes. food was found them and brought by the father, the mother suckled the young ones. and there i learned what love was like; a whelp from its mother i never took. but where hast thou, mime, a wife dear and loving, that i may call her mother? mime [_angrily._ what dost thou mean? fool, thou art mad! art thou then a bird or a fox? siegfried when i was a babe thou wert my nurse, made the mite clothing to keep him warm; but tell me, whence did the tiny mite come? could babe without mother be born to thee? mime [_greatly embarrassed._ thou must always trust what i tell thee. i am thy father and mother in one. siegfried thou liest, filthy old fright! the resemblance 'twixt child and parent i often have seen for myself. i came to the limpid brook, and the beasts and the trees i saw reflected; sun and clouds too, just as they are, were mirrored quite plain in the stream. i also could spy this face of mine, and quite unlike thine seemed it to me; as little alike as a fish to a toad: and when had fish toad for its father? mime [_very angrily._ how canst thou talk such terrible stuff? siegfried [_with increasing animation._ listen! at last i understand what in vain i pondered so long: why i roam the woods and run to escape thee, yet return home in the end. [_he springs up._ i cannot go till thou tell me what father and mother were mine. mime what father? what mother? meaningless questions! siegfried [_springs upon mime, and seizes him by the throat._ to answer a question thou must be caught first; willingly thou never wilt speak; thou givest nothing unless forced to. how to talk i hardly had learned had it not by force been wrung from the wretch. come, out with it, mangy old scamp! who are my father and mother? [illustration: siegfried sees himself in the stream. see p. 12.] mime [_after makings signs with his head and hands, is released by siegfried._ dost want to kill me outright! hands off, and the facts thou shalt hear, as far as known to myself. o ungrateful and graceless child, now learn the cause of thy hatred! neither thy father nor kinsman i, and yet thou dost owe me thy life! to me, thy one friend, a stranger wert thou; it was pity alone sheltered thee here; and this is all my reward. and i hoped for thanks like a fool! a woman once i found who wept in the forest wild; i helped her here to the cave, that by the fire i might warm her. the woman bore a child here; sadly she gave it birth. she writhed about in pain; i helped her as i could. bitter her plight; she died. but siegfried lived and throve. siegfried [_slowly._ my poor mother died, then, through me? mime to my care she commended thee; 'twas willingly bestowed. the trouble mime would take! the worry kind mime endured! "when thou wert a babe i was thy nurse...." siegfried that story i often have heard. now say, whence came the name siegfried? mime 'twas thus that thy mother told me to name thee, that thou mightst grow to be strong and fair. "i made the mite clothing to keep it warm...." siegfried now tell me, what name was my mother's? mime in truth i hardly know. "brought thee thy food, gave thee to drink...." siegfried my mother's name thou must tell me. mime her name i forget. yet wait! sieglinde, that was the name borne by her who gave thee to me. "i kept thee as safe as i keep my skin...." siegfried [_with increasing urgency._ next tell me, who was my father? mime [_roughly._ him i have never seen. [illustration: mime finds the mother of siegfried in the forest. see p. 13] siegfried but my mother told it thee, surely. mime he fell in combat was all that she said. she left the fatherless babe to my care. "and when thou wert grown i waited on thee, and made a bed for thy slumber soft"... siegfried still, with thy tiresome starling song! that i may trust thy story, convinced thou art not lying, thou must produce some proof. mime but what proof will convince thee? siegfried i trust thee not with my ears, i trust thee but with mine eyes: what witness speaks for thee? mime [_after some thought takes from the place where they are concealed the two pieces of a broken sword._ i got this from thy mother: for trouble, food, and service this was my sole reward. behold, 'tis a splintered sword! she said 'twas borne by thy father in the fatal fight when he fell. siegfried [_enthusiastically._ and thou shalt forge these fragments together, and furnish my rightful sword! up! tarry not, mime; quick to thy task! if thou hast skill, thy cunning display. cheat me no more with worthless trash; these fragments alone henceforth i trust. lounge o'er thy work, weld it not true, trickily patching the goodly steel, and thou shalt learn on thy limbs how metal best should be beat! i swear that this day the sword shall be mine; my weapon to-day i shall win! mime [_alarmed._ what wouldst thou to-day with the sword? siegfried leave the forest for the wide world, never more to return. ah, how fair a thing is freedom! nothing holds me or binds! no father have i here, and afar shall be my home; thy hearth is not my house, nor my covering thy roof. like the fish glad in the water, like the finch free in the heavens, off i will float, forth i will fly, like the wind o'er the wood wafted away, thee, mime, beholding no more! [_he runs into the forest._ mime [_greatly alarmed._ stop, boy! stop, boy! whither away? hey! siegfried! siegfried! hey! [_he looks after the retreating figure for some time in astonishment; then he goes back to the smithy and sits down behind the anvil._ he storms away! and i sit here: to crown my cares comes still this new one; my plight is piteous indeed! how help myself now? how hold the boy here? how lead the young madcap to fafner's lair? and how weld the splinters of obstinate steel? in no furnace fire can they be melted, nor can mime's hammer cope with their hardness. [_shrilly._ the nibelung's hate, need and sweat cannot make nothung whole, never will weld it anew. [_sobbing, he sinks in despair on to a stool behind the anvil._ wanderer (wotan) [_enters from the wood by the door at the back of the cave. he wears a long dark blue cloak, and, for staff, carries a spear. on his head is a round, broad-brimmed slouched hat._ all hail, cunning smith! a seat by thy hearth kindly grant the wayworn guest. mime [_starting up in alarm._ who seeks for me here in desolate woods, finds my home in the forest wild? wanderer [_approaching very slowly step by step._ wanderer names me the world, smith. from far i have come; on the earth's back ranging, much i have roamed. mime if wanderer named, pray wander from here without halting for rest. wanderer good men grudge me not welcome; many gifts i have received. by bad hearts only is evil feared. mime ill fate always dwelt by my side; thou wouldst not add to it, surely! wanderer [_slowly coming nearer and nearer._ always searching, much have i seen; things of weight have told to many; oft have rid men of their troubles, gnawing and carking cares. mime though thou hast searched, and though much thou hast found, i need neither seeker nor finder. lonely am i, and lone would be; idlers i harbour not here. wanderer [_again coming a little nearer._ there were many thought they were wise, yet what they needed knew not at all; useful lore was theirs for the asking, wisdom was their reward. mime [_more and more anxious as he sees the wanderer approach._ idle knowledge some may covet; i know enough for my needs. [_the wanderer reaches the hearth._ my own wits suffice, i want no more, so, wise one, keep on thy way. wanderer [_sitting down at the hearth._ nay, here at thy hearth i vow by my head to answer all thou shalt ask. my head is thine, 'tis forfeit to thee, unless i can give answers good, deftly redeeming the pledge. mime [_who has been staring at the wanderer open-mouthed, now shrinks back; aside, dejectedly._ now how to get rid of the spy? the questions asked must be artful. [_he summons up courage for an assumption of sternness; aloud._ thy head for thy lodging pays: 'tis pawned; now seek to redeem it. three the questions thou shalt be asked. wanderer thrice then i must answer. mime [_pulls himself together and reflects._ since, far on the back of the wide earth roving, thy feet have ranged o'er the world, come, answer me this: tell me what race dwells in the earth's deep gorges. wanderer in the depths of earth the nibelungs have their home; nibelheim is their land. black elves they all are; black alberich once was their ruler and lord. he subdued the busy folk by a ring gifted with magical might; and they piled up shimmering gold, precious, fine-wrought, to win him the world and its glory. proceed with thy questions, dwarf. mime [_sinks into deeper and deeper meditation._ thou knowest much, wanderer, of the hidden depths of earth. now, answer me this: tell me what race breathes on earth's back and moves there. wanderer on the earth's broad back the race of the giants arose; riesenheim is their land. fasolt and fafner, the rude folk's rulers, envied the nibelung's might. so his wonderful hoard they won for themselves, and with it gained the ring too. the brothers quarrelled about the ring, and slain was fasolt. in dragon's form fafner now watches the hoard. one question threatens me still. mime [_quite lost in thought._ much, wanderer, thou dost know of the earth's back rude and rugged. now answer aright: tell me what race dwells above in the clouds. wanderer above in the clouds dwell the immortals; walhall is their home. they are light-spirits; light-alberich, wotan, rules as their lord. from the world-ash-tree's holiest bough once wotan made him a shaft. though the stem rot, the spear shall endure, and with that spear-point wotan rules the world. trustworthy runes of holy treaties deep in the shaft he cut. who wields the spear carried by wotan the haft of the world holds in his hand. before him kneels the nibelung host; the giants, tamed, bow to his will. all must obey, and for ever, the spear's eternal lord. [_he strikes the ground with the spear as if by accident, and a low growl of thunder is heard, by which mime is violently alarmed._ confess now, cunning dwarf, are not my answers right, and is not my head redeemed? mime [_after attentively watching the wanderer with the spear, becomes very frightened, seeks in a confused manner for his tools, and looks timidly aside._ both thou hast won, wager and head; thy way now, wanderer, go. wanderer knowledge useful to thee thou wert to ask for; forfeit my head if i failed. forfeit be thine, knowest thou not the thing it would serve thee to know. greeting thou gavest me not; my head into thy hand i gave that i might rest by thy hearth. by wager fair forfeit thy head, canst thou not answer three things when asked; so sharpen well, mime, thy wits! [illustration: "in dragon's form fafner now watches the hoard" --see p. 21] mime [_very much frightened, and after much hesitation, at last composes himself with timid submission._ long it is since i left my land; long it seems to me since i was born. i saw here the eye of wotan shine, peering into my cave; his glance dazes my mother-wit. but well were it now to be wise. come then, wanderer, ask. perhaps fortune will favour the dwarf, and redeem his head. wanderer [_comfortably sitting down again._ then first, honest dwarf, answer this question: tell the name of the race that wotan treats most harshly, [_very softly, but audibly._ and yet loves beyond all the rest. mime [_with more cheerfulness._ though unlearnèd in heroes' kinship, this question i answer with ease. the wälsungs are wotan's chosen stock, by him begotten and loved with passion, though they are shown no grace. siegmund and sieglinde born were to wälse, a wild and desperate twin-born pair; siegfried had they as son, the strongest shoot from the tree. my head, say, is it still, wanderer, mine? wanderer [_pleasantly._ how well thou knowest and namest the race! rogue, i see thou art clever. the foremost question thou hast solved; the second answer me, dwarf. a crafty niblung shelters siegfried, hoping he will slay fafner, that the dwarf may be lord of the hoard, the ring being his. say, what sword, if fafner to fall is, must be by siegfried swung? mime [_forgetting his present situation more and more, rubs his hands joyfully._ nothung is the name of the sword; into an ash-tree's stem wotan struck it; one only might bear it: he who could draw it forth. the strongest heroes tried it and failed; only by siegmund was it done; well he fought with the sword till on wotan's spear it was split. by a crafty smith are the fragments kept, for he knows that alone with the wotan sword a brave and foolish boy, siegfried, can slay the foe. [_much pleased._ a second time my head have i saved? [illustration: mime and the wanderer. see p. 17] wanderer [_laughing_. the wisest of wise ones thou must be, surely; who else could so clever be! but wouldst thou by craft employ the boy-hero as instrument of thy purpose, with one question more i threaten thee. tell me, thou artful armourer, whose skill from the doughty splinters nothung the sword shall fashion. mime [_starts up in great terror._ the splinters! the sword! alas! my head reels! what shall i do? what can i say? accursèd sword! i was mad to steal it! a perilous pass it has brought me to. always too hard to yield to my hammer! rivet, solder- useless are both. [_he throws his tools about as if he had gone crazy, and breaks out in utter despair._ the cleverest smith living has failed; and, that being so, who shall succeed? how rede aright such a riddle? wanderer [_has risen quietly from the hearth._ three things thou wert to ask me; thrice was i to reply. thy questions were of far-off things, but what stood here at thy hand-needed much--that was forgot, now that i guess it, thou goest crazed, and won by me is the cunning one's head. now, fafner's dauntless subduer, hear, thou death-doomed dwarf. by him who knows not how to fear nothung shall be forged. [_mime stares at him; he turns to go._ so ward thy head well from to-day. i leave it forfeit to him who has never learned to fear. [_he turns away smiling, and disappears quickly in the wood. mime has sunk on to the bench overwhelmed._ mime [_stares before him into the sunlit wood, and begins to tremble more and more violently._ accursèd light! the air is on fire! what flickers and flashes? what buzzes and whirs? what sways there and swings and circles about? what glitters and gleams in the sun's hot glow? what rustles and hums and rings so loud? with roll and roar it crashes this way! it bursts through the wood, making for me! [_he rises up in terror._ its jaws are wide open, eager for prey; the dragon will catch me! fafner! fafner! [_he sinks shrieking behind the anvil._ siegfried [_behind the scenes, is heard breaking from the thicket._ ho there! thou idler! is the work finished? [_he enters the cave._ quick, come show me the sword. [_he pauses in surprise._ where hides the smith? has he made off? hey, there! mime, thou coward! where art thou? where hidest thou? mime [_in a small voice, from behind the anvil._ 'tis thou then, child? art thou alone? siegfried [_laughing._ under the anvil? why, what doest thou there? wert thou grinding the sword? mime [_comes forward, greatly upset and confused._ the sword? the sword? how could i weld it? [_half aside._ by him who knows not how to fear nothung shall be forged. too wise am i to attempt such work. siegfried [_violently._ wilt thou speak plainly or must i help thee? mime [_as before._ where shall i turn in my need? my wily head wagered and lost is, [_staring before him._ and forfeit to him it will fall who has never learned to fear. siegfried [_vehemently._ dost thou by shuffling seek to escape? mime [_gradually recovering himself._ small need to fly him who knows fear! but that lesson was one never taught thee. a fool, i forgot the one great thing; what thou wert taught was to love me, and alas! the task proved hard. now how shall i teach thee to fear? siegfried [_seizes him._ hey! must i help thee? what work hast thou done? mime concerned for thy good, in thought i was sitting: something of weight i would teach thee. siegfried [_laughing._ 'twas under the seat that thou wert sitting; what weighty thing foundest thou there? mime [_recovering himself more and more._ down there i learned how to fear, that i might teach thee, dullard. siegfried [_with quiet wonder._ this fear then, what is it? mime thou knowest not that, yet wouldst from the forest forth to the world? what help in the trustiest sword, hadst thou not learned to fear? siegfried [_impatiently._ what absurd invention is this? mime [_approaching siegfried with more and more confidence._ 'tis thy mother's wish speaking through me. i must fulfil the promise i gave her: that the world and its wiles thou shouldst not encounter until thou hadst learned how to fear. siegfried [_vehemently_ is it an art? why was i not taught? explain: this fearing, what is it? mime in the dark wood hast thou not felt, when shades of dusk fall dim and drear, when mournful whispers sigh afar, and fierce growling sounds at hand, when strange flashes dart and flicker, and the buzzing and clamour grow- [_trembling._ hast thou not felt grim horror hold every sense in its clutches?- [_quaking._ when the limbs shiver, shaken with terror, [_with a quivering voice._ and the heart, filled with dismay, hammers, bursting the breast-hast thou not yet felt that, a stranger art thou to fear. siegfried [_musing._ wonderful truly that must be. steadfast, strong beats my heart in my breast. the shiver and shudder, the fever and horror, burning and fainting, beating and trembling-ah, how glad i would feel them, [_tenderly._ could i but learn this delight! but how, mime, can it be mine? how, coward, could it be taught me? mime following me, the way thou shalt find; i have thought it all out. i know of a dragon grim that slays and swallows men: fear thou wilt learn from fafner, when i lead to where he lies. siegfried where has he his lair? mime neidhöhl' named, it lies east towards the end of the wood. siegfried it lies not far from the world? mime the world is quite close to the cave. siegfried that i may learn what this fear is, lead me there straightway; then forth to the world! make haste! forge me the sword. in the world fain i would swing it. mime the sword? woe's me! siegfried quick to the smithy! show me thy work! mime accursèd steel! unequal my skill to the task; the potent magic surpasses the poor dwarf's strength. 'twere more easily done by one who never felt fear. siegfried artful tricks the idler would play me; he is a bungler; he should confess, and not seek to lie his way out. here with the splinters! off with the bungler! [_coming to the hearth._ his father's sword siegfried will weld: by him shall it be forged. [_flinging mime's tools about, he sets himself impetuously to work._ mime if thou hadst practised thy craft with care, thou wouldst have profited now; but thou wert far too lazy to learn, and now at need canst do nothing. siegfried where the master has failed what hope for the scholar, had he obeyed him in all? [_he makes a contemptuous grimace at him._ be off with thee! meddle no more, in case with the steel i melt thee. [_he has heaped a large quantity of charcoal on the hearth, and keeps blowing the fire, while he screws up the pieces of the sword in a vice and files them to shavings._ mime [_who has sat down a little way off, watches siegfried at work._ why file it to bits? there is the solder all fused, ready to hand. siegfried off with the pap, i need it not; with paste i fashion no sword! mime now the file is ruined, the rasp is useless; why grind thus the steel to splinters? siegfried it must be shivered and ground into shreds; only so can splinters be patched. [_he goes on filing with great energy._ mime [_aside._ i see a craftsman is useless here; by his own folly the fool is best served. look how he toils with lusty strokes; the steel disappears, and still he keeps cool. [_siegfried has blown the fire to a bright flame._ though i am as old as cave and wood, the like i never yet saw! [_while siegfried continues to file the piece of the sword impetuously, mime seats himself a little further off._ he will forge the sword- i see it plain-boldly weld it anew. the wanderer was right. where shall i hide my luckless head? if nothing teaches him fear, forfeit it falls to the boy. [_springing up and bending down in growing agitation._ but woe to mime! if siegfried learn fear, the dragon will never be slain; and, if so, how gain the ring? accurst dilemma! would i escape, i must find out some way of subduing the boy for myself. siegfried [_has now filed down the pieces, and puts the filings in a crucible, which he places on the fire._ hey, mime! the name!- quick, name the sword that i have pounded to pieces. mime [_starts and turns towards siegfried._ nothung, that is the name of the sword; 'twas mother told me the tale. siegfried [_during the following song keeps blowing the fire with the bellows._ nothung! nothung! conquering sword! what blow, i wonder, broke thee. thy keen-edged glory i chopped to chaff; the splinters now i am melting. hoho! hoho! hohei! hohei! hoho! bellows blow! brighten the flame! in the woods a tree grew wild; it fell, by my hand hewn down. the brown-stemmed ash to charcoal i burned; now it lies heaped high on the hearth. hoho! hoho! hohei! hohei! hoho! bellows blow! brighten the flame! how bravely, brightly the charcoal burns! how clear and fair its fire! with showering sparks it leaps and glows,- hohei! hoho! hohei!-dissolving the splintered steel! hoho! hoho! hohei! hohei! hoho! bellows, blow! brighten the flame! hoho! hoho! hoho, hohei! hohei! nothung! nothung! conquering sword! thy steel chopped to chaff is fused; in thine own sweat thou swimmest now, [illustration: the forging of nothung--see p. 34] [_he pours the glowing contents of the crucible into a mould, which he holds up._ but soon my sword thou shalt be! mime [_during the pauses in siegfried's song, still aside, sitting at a distance._ the sword he will forge and vanquish fafner, so much i can clearly foresee; hoard and ring the victor will have; how to win them both for myself! by wit and wiles they shall be captured, and safe shall be my head. [_in the foreground, still aside._ after the fight, when athirst, for a cooling draught he will crave; of fragrant juices gathered from herbs the draught i will brew for him. let him drink but a drop, and in slumber softly lapped he shall lie: with the very sword that he fashioned to serve him he shall be cleared from my way, and treasure and ring made mine. [_he rubs his hands with satisfaction._ ha! dull didst hold me, wanderer wise! does my subtle scheming please thee now? have i found a path to peace? [_he springs up joyfully, fetches several vessels, shakes spices and herbs from them into a pot, and tries to put it on the hearth._ siegfried [_has plunged the mould into a pail of water. steam and loud hissing ensue as it cools._ in the water flowed a flood of fire; furious with hate, grimly it hissed; though scorching it ran, in the cooling flood no more it flows; stiff, stark it became, hard is the stubborn steel; yet warm blood shall flow thereby! now sweat once again, that swift i may weld thee, nothung, conquering sword! [_he thrusts the steel into the fire, and blows the bellows violently. while doing so he watches mime, who, from the other side of the hearth, carefully puts his pot on the fire._ what does the booby make in his pot? while i melt steel, what art thou brewing? mime a smith is put to shame, and learns from the lad he taught; all the master's lore is useless now; he serves the boy as cook. steel thou dost brew into broth; old mime boils thee eggs for thy meal. [_he goes on with his cooking._ siegfried mime, the craftsman, learns to cook now, and cares no longer to forge; i have broken all the swords that he made me; what he cooks my lips shall not touch. [_during the following he takes the mould from the fire, breaks it, and lays the glowing steel on the anvil._ to find out what fear is forth he will guide me; a far-off teacher shall teach me; even what he does best he cannot do well; in everything mime must bungle! [_during the forging._ hoho! hoho! hohei! forge me, my hammer, a trusty sword. hoho! hahei! hoho! hahei! blood-stained was once thy steely blue, the crimson trickle reddened thy blade. how cold was thy laugh! the warm blood cooled at thy touch! heiaho! haha! haheiaha! now red thou comest from the fire, and thy softened steel to the hammer yields. angry sparks thou dost shower on me who humbled thy pride. heiaho! heiaho! heiahohohohoho! hahei! hahei! hahei! hoho! hoho! hohei! forge me, my hammer, a trusty sword! hoho! hahei! hoho! hahei! how i rejoice in the merry sparks! the bold look best when by anger stirred! gay thou laughest to me, grimly though thou dost pretend! heiaho, haha, haheiaha! both heat and hammer served me well; with sturdy strokes i stretched thee straight; now banish thy modest blush, be as cold and hard as thou canst. heiho! heiaho! heiahohohohoho! heiah! [_he swings the blade, plunges it into the pail of water, and laughs aloud at the hissing._ mime [_while siegfried is fixing the blade in the hilt, moves about in the foreground with the bottle into which he has poured the contents of the pot. aside._ he forges a sharp-edged sword: fafner, the foe of the dwarf, is doomed; i brewed a deadly draught: siegfried must perish when fafner falls. by guile the goal must be reached; soon shall smile my reward! for the shining ring my brother once made, and which with a potent spell he endowed, the gleaming gold that gives boundless might- that ring i have won now, i am its lord. [_he trots briskly about with increasing satisfaction._ alberich even, whom i served, shall be the slave of mime the dwarf. as nibelheim's prince i shall descend there, and all the host shall do my will; none so honoured as he, the dwarf once despised! to the hoard will come thronging gods and men; [_with increasing liveliness._ the world shall cower, cowed by my nod, and at my frown shall tremble and fall! no more shall mime labour and toil, when others win him unending wealth. mime, the valiant, mime is monarch, prince and ruler, lord of the world! hei, mime! great luck has been thine! had any one dreamed of this! siegfried [_during the pauses in mime's song has been filing and sharpening the sword and hammering it with the small hammer. he flattens the rivets of the hilt with the last strokes, and now grasps the sword._ nothung! nothung! conquering sword! once more art thou firm in thy hilt. severed wert thou; i shaped thee anew, no second blow thy blade shall shatter. the strong steel was splintered, my father fell; the son who now lives shaped it anew. bright-gleaming to him it laughs, and for him its edge shall be keen. [_swinging the sword before him._ nothung! nothung! conquering sword! once more to life i have waked thee. dead wert thou, in fragments hewn, now shining defiant and fair. woe to all robbers! show them thy sheen! strike at the traitor, cut down the rogue! see, mime, thou smith; thus sunders siegfried's sword! [_he strikes the anvil and splits it in two from top to bottom, so that it falls asunder with a great noise. mime, who has mounted a stool in great delight, falls in terror to a fitting position on the ground. siegfried holds the sword exultantly on high. the curtain falls._ [illustration] [illustration the second act _a deep forest_ _quite in the background the entrance to a cave. the ground rises towards a flat knoll in the middle of the stage, and slopes down again towards the back, so that only the upper part of the entrance to the cave is visible to the audience. to the left a fissured cliff is seen through the trees. it is night, the darkness being deepest at the back, where at first the eye can distinguish nothing at all._ alberich [_lying by the cliff, gloomily brooding._ in night-drear woods by neidhöhl' i keep watch, with ear alert, keen and anxious eye. timid day, tremblest thou forth? pale art thou dawning athwart the dark? [_a storm arises in the wood on the right, and from the same quarter there shines down a bluish light._ what comes yonder, gleaming bright? nearer shimmers a radiant form; it runs like a horse and it shines; breaks through the wood, rushing this way. is it the dragon's slayer? can it mean fafner's death? [_the wind subsides; the light vanishes._ the glow has gone, it has faded and died; all is darkness. who comes there, shining in shadow? wanderer [_enters from the wood, and stops opposite alberich._ to neidhöhl' by night i have come; in the dark who is hiding there? [_as from a sudden rent in the clouds moonlight streams forth and lights up the wanderer's figure._ alberich [_recognises the wanderer and shrinks back at first in alarm, but immediately after breaks out in violent fury._ 'tis thou who comest thus? what wilt thou here? go, get thee hence! begone, thou insolent thief! wanderer [_quietly._ schwarz-alberich wanders here? guardest thou fafner's house? alberich art thou intent on mischief again? linger not here! off with thee straightway! has grief enough not deluged the earth through thy guile? spare it further sorrow, thou wretch! wanderer i come as watcher, not as worker. the wanderer's way who bars? alberich thou arch, pestilent plotter! were i still the blind, silly fool that i was, when i was bound thy captive, how easy were it to steal the ring again from me! beware! for thy cunning i know well, [_mockingly._ and of thy weakness i am fully aware too. thy debts were cancelled, paid with my treasure; my ring guerdoned the giants' toil, who raised thy citadel high. still on the mighty haft of thy spear there the runes are written plain of the compact made with the churls; and of that which by labour they won thou dost not dare to despoil them: thy spear's strong shaft thou thyself wouldst split; the staff that makes thee master of all would crumble to dust in thy hand. wanderer by the steadfast runes of treaties thou hast not, base one, been bound; on thee my spear may spend its strength, so keen i keep it for war. alberich how dire thy threats! how bold thy defiance! and yet full of fear is thy heart! foredoomed to death through my curse is he who now guards the treasure. what heir will succeed him? will the hoard all desire belong as before to the niblung?-that gnaws thee with ceaseless torment. for once i have got it safe in my grasp, better than foolish giants will i employ its spell. the god who guards heroes truly may tremble! i will storm proud walhall with hella's hosts, and rule, lord of the world! wanderer [_quietly._ thy design i know well, but little i care: who wins the ring will rule by its might. alberich thou speakest darkly, but to me all is plain. thy heart is bold because of a boy, [_mockingly._ a hero begot of thy blood. hast thou not fostered a stripling to pluck the fruit thou durst not [_with growing violence._ pluck frankly for thyself? wanderer [_lightly._ with me 'tis useless to wrangle; but mime thou shouldst beware; for thy brother brings here a boy to compass the giant's doom. he knows not of me; he works for mime alone. and so i say to thee, do as seems to thee best. [_alberich makes a movement expressive of violent curiosity._ take my advice, be on thy guard: the boy will hear of the ring when mime tells him the tale. alberich [_violently._ wilt thou hold thy hand from the hoard? wanderer whom i love must fight for himself unaided; the lord of his fate, he stands or falls: all my hope hangs upon heroes. alderich does none but mime dispute me the ring? wanderer only thou and mime covet the gold. alderich and yet it is not to be mine? wanderer [_quietly coming nearer._ a hero comes to set the hoard free; two nibelungs yearn for the gold. fafner falls, he who guards the ring; then a hand, seizing, shall hold it. more wouldst thou learn, there fafner lies, who, if warned of his death, gladly would give up the toy. come, i will wake him for thee. [_he goes towards the cave, and, standing on the rising ground in front of it, calls towards it._ fafner! fafner! wake, dragon! wake! alberich [_with anxious amazement, aside._ does the madman mean it? am i to have it? fafner's voice who troubles my sleep? wanderer [_facing the cave._ a well-wisher comes to warn thee of danger; thy doom can be averted, if thou wilt pay the price with the treasure that thou guardest. [_he leans his ear towards the cave, listening._ fafner's voice what would he? alberich [_has come to the wanderer and calls into the cave._ waken, fafner! dragon, awake! a doughty hero comes to try his strength against thine. fafner's voice i want a meal. wanderer bold is the boy and strong; sharp-edged is his sword. alberich the ring he seeks, nothing besides. give me the ring, and so the strife shall be stayed. still guarding the hoard, in peace shalt thou live long! fafner [_yawning._ i have and i hold:- let me slumber! wanderer [_laughs aloud and then turns again to alberich._ well, alberich! that ruse failed, but call me rogue no more. this one thing thou shouldst never forget: each according to his kind must act; nothing can change him. i leave thee the field now; show a bold front, and try thy luck with thy brother; thou knowest his kind perhaps better. and things unknown thou also shalt learn! [_he turns away, and disappears quickly in the wood. a storm arises and a bright light breaks forth; then both quickly cease._ alberich [_looks after the wanderer as he gallops off._ away on his shining horse he rides, and leaves me to care and scorn! laugh on! laugh on, ye light-minded and high-spirited race of immortals! one day ye shall perish and pass! until the gold has ceased to gleam, will wise alberich watch, and his hate shall prevail. [_he slips into the chasm at the side. the stage remains empty. dawn._ _as the day dawns siegfried and mime enter. siegfried carries his sword in a sword-belt of rope. mime examines the place carefully. at last he looks towards the background, which remains in deep shadow, whilst the rising ground in the middle becomes, after a time, more and more brightly illuminated by the sun._ mime our journey ends here; here we halt. siegfried [_sits down under the lime-tree and looks about him._ so here i shall learn what fear is? a far way thou hast led me; we have wandered lone together a whole night long in the woods. this is the last of thee, mime! can i not master my lesson here, alone i will push forward and never see thee again. mime lad, believe me, if thou canst not learn it here and now, no other place, no other time ever will teach thee fear. dost thou see that cavern yawning dark? yonder dwells a dragon dread and grim, horribly fierce, enormous in size, with terrible jaws that threaten and gape; with skin and hair, all at a gulp, the brute could swallow thee whole. siegfried [_still sitting under the lime-tree._ 'twere well to close up his gullet; his fangs i will therefore avoid. mime poison pours from his venomous mouth; were he to spue out spittle on thee, thy body and bones would decay. siegfried that the poison may not consume me, i will keep out of its reach. mime a serpent's tail sweeping he swings; were that about thee wound and folded close, thy limbs would be broken like glass. siegfried that his swinging tail may not touch me, warily then i must watch. but answer me this: has the brute a heart? mime a pitiless, cruel heart. siegfried it lies, however, where all hearts lie, brute and human alike? mime of course! there, boy, the dragon's lies too. at last thou beginnest to fear? siegfried [_who till now has been lying indolently stretched out, sits up suddenly._ nothung into his heart i will thrust! is that what is meant by fearing? hey, old dotard! canst thou teach me nothing but this with all thy craft, linger no longer by me: no fear is here to be learnt. mime wait awhile yet! what i have told thee seems to thee empty sound; when thou hast heard and seen him thyself, thy senses will swoon, overwhelmed! when thine eyes grow dim, and when the ground rocks, when in thy breast thy heart beats loud, [_very friendly._ thou wilt remember who brought thee, and think of me and my love. siegfried thy love is not wanted! hast thou not heard? out of my sight with thee; let me alone! begin again talking of love, and on the instant i go! the horrible winking, the nods and blinking- when shall i see the last of them, and rid be at length of the fool? mime well, i will off, and rest there by the spring. thou must stay here, and as the sun scales the sky watch for the foe: from his cave he lumbers this way, winds and twists past this spot, to water at the fountain. siegfried [_laughs._ liest thou by the spring, unchecked thither the brute shall go; he shall swallow thee down with the water, ere with my sword to the heart i stab him! so heed well what i say: rest not beside the spring. seek somewhere else a far-off spot, and nevermore return. mime thou wilt not refuse cooling refreshment when the fierce fight is over? [_siegfried motions him angrily away._ call on me too shouldst thou need counsel, [_siegfried repeats the gesture with more violence._ or if felled on a sudden by fear. [_siegfried rises and drives him away with furious gestures._ mime [_aside, as he goes away._ fafner and siegfried- siegfried and fafner-might each the other but slay! [_he disappears in the wood on the right._ siegfried [_stretches himself at his ease under the lime-tree, and looks after mime as he departs._ he is no father of mine! how merry of heart i feel! never before seemed the forest fair; never day wore as lovely a smile, for the loathed one has gone at last, to be looked on by me no more. [_he meditates in silence._ my father--what was he like?-ha! like me, without doubt. had mime by chance had a son, he would have been mime's image: quite as disgusting, filthy and grey, small and bent, hunchbacked and halting, with ears long and hanging, rheumy eyes running- off with the fright! to see him makes me sick! [_he leans further back and looks up through the branches of the tree. deep silence. woodland murmurs._ what could my mother, i wonder, be like; that is not so easy to picture. [_very tenderly._ her clear shining eyes must have been soft, and gentle like the roe-deer's, only far fairer. [_very softly._ in fear and woe she bore me, but why did she die through me? must then all human mothers thus die on giving birth to a son? that would truly be sad! ah, if i only could see my mother!- see my mother, a woman once! [_he sighs softly, and leans still further back. deep silence. louder murmuring of the wood. his attention is at last caught by the song of the birds. he listens with growing interest to one singing in the branches above him._ o lovely warbler, i know not thy note; hast thou thy home in this wood? if i could but understand him, his sweet song might say much-perhaps of my mother tell me. a surly old dwarf said to me once that men might learn to follow the sense of birds when they were singing; could it indeed be done? ha! i will sing after him, on the reed follow him sweetly. though wanting the words, repeating his measure-singing what is his language-perhaps i shall know what he says. [_he runs to the neighbouring spring, cuts a reed off with his sword, and quickly makes himself a pipe out of it. he listens again._ he stops to hear, so now for my song! [_he blows into the pipe, breaks off, and cuts it again to improve it. he resumes his blowing, shakes his head, and cuts the pipe once more. after another attempt he gets angry, presses the pipe with his hand, and tries again. he ceases playing and smiles._ that rings not right; for the lovely tune the reed is not suited at all. i fear, sweet bird, i am too dull; thy song cannot i learn. [_he hears the bird again and looks up to him._ he listens so roguishly there that he shames me; [_very tenderly._ he waits, and nothing rewards him. heida! come hearken now to my horn; [_he flings the pipe away._ all i do sounds wrong on the stupid reed; to a song of the woods that i know, a merry song, listen now rather. i hoped it would bring some comrade to me, but wolves and bears were the best that came. now i will see who answers its note: what comrade will come to its call. [_he takes the silver hunting-horn and blows on it. during the long-sustained notes he keeps his eyes expectantly on the bird. a movement in the background. fafner, in the form of a monstrous lizard-like dragon, has risen from his lair in the cave. he breaks through the underwood and drags himself up to the higher ground, so that the front part of his body rests on it, while he utters a loud sound, as if yawning._ siegfried [_looks round and gazes at fafner in astonishment. he laughs._ my horn with its note has allured something lovely; a jolly companion wert thou. fafner [_at the sight of siegfried has paused on the high ground, and remains there._ what is that? siegfried if thou art a beast who can use its tongue, perchance thou couldst teach me something. here stands one who would learn to fear; say, wilt thou be his teacher? fafner is this insolence? siegfried courage or insolence, what matter? with my sword i will slay thee, wilt thou not teach me to fear. fafner [_makes a laughing sound._ drink i came for; now food i find too! [_he opens his jaws and shows his teeth._ siegfried what a fine set of teeth thou showest me there! sweetly they smile in thy dainty mouth! 'twere well if i closed up thy gullet; thy jaws are gaping too wide! fafner they were not made for idle talk, but they will serve to swallow thee. siegfried hoho! ferocious, merciless churl! i have no fancy to be eaten. better it seems to me that without delay thou shouldst die! fafner [_roaring._ pruh! come, boy, with thy boasts! siegfried [_draws his sword._ beware, growler! the boaster comes! [_he springs towards fafner and remains defiantly confronting him. fafner drags himself further up the knoll and spits at siegfried from his nostrils. siegfried avoids the poison, springs nearer, and stands on one side. fafner tries to reach him with his tail. siegfried, who is nearly caught, springs over fafner with one bound, and wounds him in the tail. fafner roars, pulls his tail angrily away, and raises the front part of his body so that he may throw its full weight on siegfried, thus offering his breast to the stroke. siegfried quickly looks to see where his heart is, and thrusts his sword into it up to the hilt. fafner raises himself still higher in his pain, and, when siegfried has let go his sword and sprung aside, he sinks on the wound._ [illustration: siegfried kills fafner--see p. 56] siegfried lie there, envious brute! nothung's point home has speeded! fafner [_in a weaker voice._ who art thou, boy bold-hearted, that hast pierced my breast? who stirred up thy childish soul to the murderous deed? thy brain schemed not the harm wrought by thy hand. siegfried not much have i learned, not even who i am; thou thyself with thy taunting stirred me to fight and to slay. fafner o boy bright-eyed, who knowest not yet who thou art, whom thou hast murdered hear from me. two mighty giants there were, fasolt and fafner; the brothers now are both fallen. for the cursèd gold we got from the gods i did fasolt to death. he who now guards the hoard as dragon, fafner, the last remaining, falls, by a rosy boy slain. boy in thy bloom, watch and be wary: he who stirred thee blind to this deed takes thought how to compass thy death. [_dying._ mark the ending! think on me! siegfried who was my father? tell, if thou canst. dying, thou showest, wild one, much wisdom. siegfried my name is; haply that may help thee to guess. fafner siegfried!... [_he raises himself and dies._ siegfried the dead can tell no tidings. my living sword, lead! lead onward, my sword! [_fafner has rolled to the side in dying. siegfried now draws the sword from his breast. in doing so his hand gets sprinkled with the blood; he draws it back quickly._ the hot blood burns like fire! [_involuntarily he raises his fingers to his mouth to suck the blood from them. as he looks musingly before him his attention becomes more and more attracted by the singing of the birds._ i almost seem to hear the birds speaking to me. is there a spell, perhaps, in the blood? the curious bird up there-hark! he sings to me. voice of the wood-bird [_from the branches of the lime-tree above siegfried._ hei! siegfried now owns all the nibelung hoard! oh! could he the hoard in the cave but find! tarnhelm, if he could but win it, would help him to deeds of renown; and could he discover the ring, it would make him the lord of the world! [illustration: "the hot blood burns like fire!"--see p 58] siegfried [_has listened holding his breath and beaming with delight._ thanks, bonnie bird, for the counsel good: i follow the call! [_he turns towards the back and descends to the cave, where he at once disappears._ _mime steals up, looking about him timidly to assure himself of fafner's death. at the same time alberich comes out of the cleft on the opposite side. he observes mime, rushes on him and bars his way, as the latter turns towards the cave._ alberich on what errand furtive and sly, knave, dost thou slink? mime accursèd brother, that thou shouldst come! what brings thee here? alberich rogue, has my gold provoked thy greed? dost covet my goods? mime get thee gone quickly! this corner is mine; what huntest thou here? alberich have i disturbed thee, thief, at thy work, secret and sly? mime what i have slaved and toiled to win shall not escape me. alberich who was it robbed the rhine of gold for the ring? and whose cunning wrought the spell of magical might? mime who made the tarnhelm, changing its wearer's form? though thou didst want it, was it designed by thee? alberich and what of thyself couldst aright have fashioned, thou bungler? the magic ring forced thee to master thy craft. mime and where is the ring? 'twas reft from thy clutch by the giants. what thou hast lost i will gain and keep by my guile. alberich what the boy has won would the niggard deny him? 'tis not thine; the hero who won it is now its lord. mime i brought him up; for my pains now he shall pay; for its reward my trouble has waited too long. alberich just for rearing him, the old niggardly, beggarly knave, bold as brass, a king now would become? the ring would befit better a dog than bumpkin like thee. never to thee the magical ring shall fall! mime [_scratches his head._ well, keep it, then, and guard with care the gleaming gold; be thou lord, but treat me as a brother; give me against it tarnhelm for toy, fairly exchanged; divided thus, there will be booty for both. [_he rubs his hands confidingly._ alberich [_with a mocking laugh._ share it with thee? and the tarnhelm too! how sly thou art! i could never sleep for a moment safely. mime [_beside himself._ what! not even strike a bargain! i must go bare, beggared of gain! thou wouldst leave me with nothing! [_shrieking._ alberich nothing, not so much as a nail, shall fall to thy portion. mime [_in a fury._ neither ring nor tarnhelm shall thy hand touch, then; 'tis i will not share! i will call on siegfried, summon the aid of his keen-edged sword; the lad will make short work, dear brother, of thee! alberich [_siegfried having appeared in the background._ turn and look there! from the cavern hither he comes. mime he will have chosen trivial toys. alberich he bears the tarnhelm! mime also the ring! alberich curst luck! the ring! mime [_laughing maliciously._ get him to give thee the ring now! 'tis i, not thou, who shall win it. alberich and yet to its lord must it at last be surrendered! [_he disappears in the cleft._ [_during the foregoing siegfried, with tarnhelm and ring, has come slowly and meditatively from the cave; he regards his booty thoughtfully, and stops on the knoll in the middle of the stage._ siegfried i do not know of what use ye are; i chose you from out the heaped-up hoard because of friendly advice. meanwhile, of this day be ye worn as witness, recalling to mind how with fallen fafner i fought, and yet could not learn how to fear. [_he hangs the tarnhelm on his girdle and puts the ring on his finger. silence. his notice is involuntarily drawn to the bird again, and he listens to him with breathless attention._ [illustration: the dwarfs quarrelling over the body of fafner. see p. 59] the wood-bird's voice hei! siegfried now owns both the helm and the ring! oh! let him not listen to mime, the false! he were wise to be wary of mime's treacherous tongue. he will understand mime's secret intent, because he has tasted the blood. [_siegfried's mien and gestures show that he has understood the bird's song. he sees mime approaching, and remains without moving, leaning on his sword, observant and self-contained, in his place on the knoll till the close of the following scene._ mime [_steals forward, and observes siegfried from the foreground._ he weighs in his mind the booty's worth; can there by chance have come this way a wanderer wise who talked to the child, and taught him crafty runes? doubly sly be then the dwarf; my snares must be cunning, cleverly set, that with cajoling and wily falsehoods the insolent boy i may fool. [_he goes nearer to siegfried and welcomes him with flattering gestures._ ha! welcome, siegfried! say, bold fighter, hast thou been taught how to fear? siegfried a teacher still is to find. mime but the dragon grim has fallen before thee? a fell and fierce monster was he. siegfried though grim and spiteful the brute, i grieve over his death, while there live still, unpunished, blacker scoundrels than he was! the one who bade me slay i hate far more than the slain. mime [_very friendly._ have patience! thou wilt not look on me long. [_sweetly._ in endless sleep soon thine eyelids will be sealed. thy uses are over, [_as if praising him._ done is the deed; the only task left for me is to win the booty. methinks that task will not tax me; thou wert always easy to fool. siegfried to me thou art plotting harm, then? mime [_astonished._ what makes thee think that? [_continuing tenderly._ siegfried, listen, my own one! i have always loathed thee and all that are like thee. it was not from love that i reared thee with care: the gold hid in fafner's cave i worked for as my reward. [_as if he were promising him something nice._ if thou wilt not yield it up to me, [_as if he were ready to lay down his life for him._ siegfried, my son, thou plainly must see [_as if in friendly jest._ i have no choice but to slay thee! siegfried that i am hated pleases me; but must i lose my life for thy pleasure? mime [_angrily._ i never said that; thou hast made a mistake. see, thou art weary from stress of strife, burning with fever and thirst; mime, the kind one, to cool thy thirst brought a quickening draught. while thy blade thou didst melt i brewed thee the drink; touch it, and straight thy sword shall be mine, and mine the hoard and tarnhelm too. [_tittering._ siegfried so thou of my sword and all it has won me-ring and booty--wouldst rob me? mime [_violently._ why wilt mistake so my words! do i drivel or dote? i use the utmost pains with my speech, that what in my heart i mean may be hidden; and the stupid boy misunderstands what i say! open thy ears, boy, and attend to me! hear, now, what mime means. take this: the drink will refresh thee as my drinks oft have done. many a time when fretful and bad, though loth enough, the draughts i brought thou hast swallowed. siegfried of a cooling drink i were glad; say, how has this one been brewed? mime [_jesting merrily, as if describing to him a pleasant state of intoxication which the liquor is to bring about._ hei! just drink it! trust to my skill. in mist and darkness soon shall thy senses be sunk; none to watch or ward them, stark-stretched shall thy limbs be. thou lying thus, 'twere not hard to take the booty and hide it; but wert thou to awake, nevermore would mime be safe, even owning the ring. so with the sword he has made so sharp [_with a gesture of extravagant joy._ first i will hack the child's head off! then i shall have both rest and the ring! [_tittering._ siegfried thou wouldst, then, slay me when sleeping? mime [_furiously._ do what, child? did i say that? [_he takes pains to assume the utmost tenderness. carefully and distinctly._ i only mean to chop off thy head! [_with the appearance of heartfelt solicitude for siegfried's health._ for even if i had loathed thee less, and had not thy scoffs and my drudgery shameful so loudly urged to vengeance, [_gently._ i should never dare to pause till from my path i thrust thee: [_jestingly again._ how else could i come by the booty, which alberich covets as well? [_he pours the liquid into the drinking-horn, and offers it to siegfried with pressing gestures._ now, my wälsung, wolf-begot, drink the draught and be choked, and never drink again! [_tittering._ siegfried [_threatens him with his sword._ taste thou my sword, loathsome babbler! [_as if seized by violent loathing, he gives mime a sharp stroke with his sword. instantly mime falls dead to the ground. alberich's voice in mocking laughter from the cleft._ siegfried [_looking at mime on the ground, quietly hangs his sword again on his belt._ envy's wage pays nothung; 'twas for this that i forged him. [_he picks up mime's body, carries it to the knoll, and throws it into the cave._ in the cavern, there, lie on the hoard; with steadfast guile the gold thou hast gained: now let it belong to its master! and a watchman good i give thee, that thieves never may enter and steal. [_with a great effort he pushes the body of the dragon in front of the entrance to the cave, which it completely stops up._ there lie thou too, dragon grim; along with thy foe greedy of gain thou shalt guard the glittering gold: so both at last shall rest in peace. [_he looks down thoughtfully into the cave for a time, and then turns slowly to the front of the stage as if tired. he passes his hand over his brow._ hot i feel from the heavy toil; fast and furious flows my blood, my hand burns on my head. high stands the sun in heaven; from azure heights falls his gaze through a cloudless sky on my crown. pleasant shadows will cool me under the linden. [_he stretches himself out under the lime-tree, and again looks up through the boughs._ if only, pretty warbler, so long and so rudely disturbed, i could once more hear thee singing! on a branch i see thee merrily swaying; chirping and chattering, brothers and sisters are happily hovering round. but i--i am alone, without brother or sister; my mother died, my father fell, unseen by their son! the one soul i knew was a loathsome old dwarf; [_warmly._ love he festered not by kindness; many a cunning snare did he set me; at last i was forced to slay him. [_he looks sorrowfully up at the branches._ bird sweet and friendly, i ask thee a boon: wilt thou find for me a comrade true?-wilt thou choose for me the right one? so oft i have called, and yet no one has come! thou, my friend, wilt manage it better, so wise thy counsel has been. [_softly._ now sing! i hearken to thy song. the wood-bird's voice hei! siegfried has slain the deceitful dwarf! i know for him now a glorious bride. she sleeps where rugged rocks soar; ringed is her chamber by fire. who battles the flames, wakens the bride, brünnhilde wins as reward. siegfried [_starts up impetuously from his seat._ o lovely song, flower-sweet breath! thy yearning music burns in my breast! like leaping flame it kindles my heart. what races so swift through soul and senses? sweetest of friends, o say! [_he listens._ the wood-bird's voice grieving yet glad, love i am singing; blissful, from woe weaving my song: they only who yearn understand. siegfried forth, forth then, swift and rejoicing! forth from the wood to the fell! just one thing more i would learn, sweet singer: say, shall i break through the fire? can i awaken the bride? [_he listens again._ the wood-bird's voice no coward wins brünnhild' for bride, or wakes the maid: only a heart without fear. siegfried [_shouting with joy._ the foolish boy who has never learned fear, dear bird, that dullard am i! to-day i took endless trouble in vain, to find out what fear was from fafner. with longing i burn now from brünnhild' to learn it. what path soonest leads to the fell? [_the bird flutters up, circles over siegfried, and flies hesitatingly before him._ siegfried the bird to my goal will guide me. fly where thou wilt, i follow thy flight! [_he runs after the bird, who for a time flies uncertainly hither and thither to tease him; at last he follows him, when, taking a definite direction towards the back, the bird flies away._ [illustration] [illustration] the third act _a wild spot at the foot of a rocky mountain which rises precipitously at the back on the left. night, storm, lightning and violent thunder. the latter ceases shortly, but the lightning continues to flash from the clouds for some time. the wanderer enters and walks resolutely towards a cavernous opening in a rock in the foreground, and takes up his position there, leaning on his spear, while he calls the following towards the entrance to the cave._ wanderer waken, wala! wala! awake! from thy long sleep, slumberer, wake at my call! i summon thee forth: arise! arise! from cloud-covered caves in earth's dim abysses, arise! erda! erda, old as the world! from depths dark and hidden rise to the day! with song i call thee, i sing to wake thee, from deep dreams of wisdom bid thee arise. all-knowing one! fount of knowledge! erda! erda, old as the world! waken! awaken, thou vala! awaken! [_a dim bluish light begins to dawn in the cavern. in this light erda, during the following, rises very gradually from below. she appears to be covered with hoar-frost, which glitters on her hair and garments._ erba loud is the call; strong the spell that summons; i have been roused from dark and wise dreams: who wakes me from my sleep? wanderer 'tis i who awake thee with song of magic, that what in slumber was folded fast may rise. the wide earth ranging, far i have roamed, seeking for knowledge, wisdom at fountains primeval. no one that lives is wiser than thou; thou knowest all in the hidden depths, what moves on hill, dale, in water and air. where life is found, there thou art breathing; and where brains ponder, there is thy thought. men say that all knowledge is thine. that i might ask of thee counsel, i have called thee from sleep. erba my sleep is dreaming, my dreaming brooding, my brooding wisdom's calm working. but while i sleep the norns are wakeful: they twine the rope, and deftly weave what i know. the norns thou shouldst have questioned. wanderer in thrall to the world sit the norns weaving; they cannot alter what ordained is. but i would fain be taught of thy wisdom how a wheel on the roll can be stayed. erba dark and troubled my mind grows through men's deeds. a god once subdued the wala's self to his will. a wish-maiden i bore to wotan; from fields of battle she brought him slain heroes; bold is she and wise to boot: why waken me? why seek not counsel from erda's and wotan's child? wanderer the valkyrie, brünnhild'? meanest thou her? she flouted the storm-controller, when, sorely urged, himself he controlled. what the swayer and lord of battles longed for, what he refrained from against his desire, brünnhilde, bold, rash, over-confident, when the fight was at fiercest, strove for herself to perform. war-father punished the maid: he pressed slumber into her eyes, on the flame-girt rock she sleeps. the hallowed maid will waken alone, that she may love and wed with a man. small hope of answer from her. erba dazed have i felt since i woke; wild, confused seems the world! the valkyrie, the wala's child, bound lay, fettered by sleep, while her all-knowing mother slept! does revolt's teacher chide revolt? does the deed he urged to anger him, done? he who guards the right, to whom vows are sacred, hinders the right?- reigns through falsehood? let me down to the dark, that my wisdom may slumber! wanderer i will not let thee descend, for a potent magic i wield. all-wise one, planted by thee the sting of care was in wotan's dauntless heart; for, through thy wisdom, downfall and shameful doom were foretold him; my mind was fettered by fear. now let the world's wisest of women answer and say how a god may conquer his care. erba thou art not what thou hast said. why art thou come, wild and wayward, to trouble the wala's sleep? wanderer thou art not what thou hast dreamed. thy end draws near, mother of wisdom; thy wisdom at war with me shall perish. knowest thou wotan's will? [_a long silence._ i tell thee that thou mayest sleep for evermore unvexed by care. that the gods are doomed, no longer dismays me, since i will it so. what, with myself at war, in anguish, despairing, once i resolved, gaily, gladly, with delight i now do. mad with disgust i decreed once the world to the nibelung's hate, but now to the valiant wälsung i leave it with joy. one who never knew me, though chosen by me, a boy bold and fearless, helped not by wotan, has won the nibelung's ring. blest in love, void of all envy, on him shall fall harmless alberich's curse, for no fear does he know. soon thy child and mine, brünnhild', shall be waked by him; and when waked our child shall achieve a deed to redeem the world. so slumber again, closing thine eyelids; dreaming behold my downfall! whatever comes after, the god rejoicing yields to youth ever young. descend, then, erda, mother of fear! world-sorrow! descend! descend! and sleep for aye! [_erda, whose eyes are already closed, and who has gradually been sinking deeper, disappears entirely. the cavern has become quite dark again._ _dawn lights up the stage; the storm has ceased. the wanderer has gone close to the cave, and leans with his back against it, facing the wings._ wanderer lo! yonder siegfried comes. [_he remains where he is without changing his position. siegfried's wood-bird flutters towards the foreground. suddenly the bird stops in his direct flight, flutters to and fro in alarm, and disappears quickly towards the back._ siegfried [_enters and stops._ my bird has vanished from sight! with fluttering wings and lovely song blithely he showed me the way, and then forsook me and fled! i must discover the rock for myself: the path i followed so far 'twere best still to pursue. [_he goes towards the back._ wanderer [_still in the same position._ boy, pray tell me, whither away? siegfried [_halts and turns round._ did some one speak? perhaps he knows the road. [_he goes nearer to the wanderer._ i would find a rock that by flaming fire is surrounded: there sleeps a maid whom i would awake. wanderer who bade thee seek this rock flame-circled?-taught thee to yearn for the woman? siegfried it was a singing woodland bird; he gave me welcome tidings. wanderer a wood-bird chatters idly what no man understands; how then couldst thou tell the song's true meaning? siegfried because of the blood of a dragon grim that fell before me at neidhöhl'- the burning blood had scarce touched my tongue when the sense of the singer grew plain. wanderer who was it urged thee on to try thy strength, and slay this dragon so dread? siegfried my guide was mime, a faithless dwarf: what fear is fain he had taught me. but 'twas the dragon roused me himself, wrathful, to strike the blow; for he threatened me with his jaws. wanderer who forged the sword so hard and keen that it slew the daunting foe? siegfried i forged it myself when the smith was beaten; swordless else i should have been still. wanderer but who made the mighty splinters from which the sword was welded strong? siegfried what know i of that? i only know that the splintered steel was useless were not the sword forged anew. wanderer [_bursts out laughing with gleeful good-humour._ i fully agree. siegfried [_surprised._ at what dost thou laugh? prying greybeard! prithee have done; keep me no longer here talking. speak if thou knowest whither my way lies; and hold thy tongue unless thou canst tell. wanderer good boy, have patience! if i seem old, more need to show me due honour. siegfried what an odd notion! my whole life long a hateful old man has blocked my pathway; him i at last swept aside. standest thou longer trying here to stay me, i warn thee frankly [_with a significant gesture._ that thou like mime shalt fare. [_he goes still nearer to the wanderer._ but what art thou like? why wearest thou such a monstrous hat, and why hangs it so over thy face? wanderer [_still without altering his position._ that is the way i wear it when against the wind i go. siegfried [_inspecting him still more closely._ but an eye beneath it is wanting. perchance by some one whose way thou didst too boldly bar it has been struck out. take thyself off, or else very soon the other thou shalt lose also! wanderer i see, my son, where thou art blind, and hence thy jaunty assurance. with the eye that is amissing in me thou lookest now on the other that still is left me for sight. siegfried [_who has been listening thoughtfully, now bursts involuntarily into hearty laughter._ thy foolish talk sets me laughing! but come, this nonsense must finish. at once show me my way; then proceed thou too on thine own; for me further use thou hast none: so speak, or off thou shalt pack! wanderer [_gently._ child, didst thou know who i am, thy scoffs i had been spared! from one so dear, insult hard to endure is. long have i loved thy radiant race, though from my fury in terror it shrank. thou whom i love so, all too fair one, rouse my wrath not to-day; it would ruin both thee and me. siegfried still art thou dumb, stubborn old man? stand to one side, then; that pathway, i know, leads to the slumbering maid; for thither the wood-bird was guiding when he flew off. [_it suddenly becomes dark again._ wanderer [_breaking out in anger and assuming a commanding attitude._ in fear of its life it fled. it knew that here was the ravens' lord; dire his plight were he caught! the way that it guided thou shalt not go! siegfried [_amazed, falls hack and assumes a defiant attitude._ hoho! interferer! who then art thou that wilt not let me pass? wanderer fear thou the rock's defender! my might it is holds the maiden fettered by sleep. he who would wake her, he who would win her, impotent makes me for ever. a burning sea encircles the maid, fires fiercely glowing surround the rock; he who craves the bride the flames must boldly defy. [_he points with his spear towards the rocky heights._ look up above! that light dost thou see? the surging heat, the splendour, grows; clouds of fire rolling, tongues of flame writhing, roaring and raging, come ravening down. thy head now is flooded with light; [_a flickering glow, increasing in brightness, appears on the summit of the rock._ the fire will seize thee, seize and devour thee.-back, back, there, foolhardy boy! siegfried stand back, old babbler, thyself! for where the fire is burning, to brünnhilde yonder i go! [_he advances; the wanderer bars his way._ wanderer hast thou no fear of the fire, then barred by my spear be thy path! i still hold the haft that conquers all; the sword thou dost wield it shivered long ago: upon my spear eternal break it once more. [_he stretches out his spear._ siegfried [_drawing his sword._ 'tis my father's foe, found here at last! now, then, for vengeance! in luck am i! brandish thy spear: my sword will hew it in twain! [_with one stroke he hews the wanderer's spear in two pieces. lightning flashes from the spear up towards the rocks, where the light, until now dim, begins to flame brighter and brighter. a violent thunder-clap, which quickly dies away, accompanies the stroke._ wanderer [_quietly picking up the pieces of the spear which have fallen at his feet._ fare on! i cannot prevent thee! [_he suddenly disappears in utter darkness._ siegfried with his spear in splinters vanished the coward! [_the growing brightness of the clouds of fire, which keep sinking down lower and lower, attracts siegfried's eye._ ha! rapturous fire! glorious light! shining my pathway opens before me. in fiery flames plunging, through fire i will win to the bride! hoho! hahei! to summon a comrade i call! [_he sets his horn to his lips and plunges into the fiery billows, which, flowing down from the heights, now spread over the foreground. siegfried, who is soon lost to view, seems, from the sound of his horn, to be ascending the mountain. the flames begin to fade, and change gradually into a dissolving cloud lit by the glow of dawn._ _the thin cloud has resolved itself into a fine rose-coloured veil of mist, which so divides that the upper part rises and disappears, disclosing the bright blue sky of day; whilst on the edge of the rocky height, now becoming visible (exactly the same scene as in the third act of "the valkyrie"), a veil of mist reddened by the dawn remains hanging, which suggests the magic fire still flaming below. the arrangement of the scene is exactly the same as at the end of "the valkyrie." in the foreground, under a wide-spreading fir-tree, lies brünnhilde in full shining armour, her helmet on her head, and her long shield covering her, in deep sleep._ siegfried [_coming from the back, reaches the rocky edge of the summit, and at first shows only the upper part of his body. he looks round him for a longtime in amaze. softly._ solitude blissful on sun-caressed height! [_he climbs to the summit, and, standing on a rock at the edge of the precipice at the back, gazes at the scene in astonishment. he looks into the wood at the side and comes forward a little._ what lies in shadow, asleep in the wood? a charger resting in slumber deep. [_approaching slowly he stops in surprise when, still at some little distance from her, he sees brünnhilde._ what radiant thing lies yonder? the steel, how it gleams and glints! is it the glare that dazzles me still? shining armour? shall it be mine? [_he lifts up the shield and sees brünnhilde's form; her face, however, is for the most part hidden by her helmet._ ha! it covers a man! the sight stirs thoughts sweet and strange! the helm must lie hard on his head; lighter lay he were it unloosed. [_he loosens the helmet carefully and removes it from the head of the sleeper. long curling hair breaks forth. tenderly._ ah! how fair! [_he stands lost in contemplation._ clouds gleaming softly fringe with their fleeces this lake of heaven bright; laughing, the glorious face of the sun shines through the billowy clouds! [_he bends lower over the sleeper._ his bosom is heaving, stirred by his breath; ought i to loosen the breastplate? [_he tries to loosen the breastplate._ come, my sword, cleave thou the iron! [_he draws his sword and gently and carefully cuts through the rings on both sides of the breastplate; he then lifts this off along with the greaves, so that brünnhilde now lies before him in a soft woman's robe. he draws back startled and amazed._ that is no man! [_he stares at the sleeper, greatly excited._ magical rapture pierces my heart; fixed is my gaze, burning with terror; i reel, my heart faints and fails! [_he is seized with sudden terror._ #/ [illustration: "magical rapture pierces my heart; fixed is my gaze, burning with terror; i reel, my heart faints and fails!" see p. 86] on whom shall i call, for aid imploring? mother! mother! remember me! [_he sinks as if fainting on to brünnhilde's bosom; then he starts up sighing._ how waken the maid, causing her eyelids to open? [_tenderly._ her eyelids to open? what if her gaze strike me blind! how shall i dare to look on their light? all rocks and sways and swirls and revolves; uttermost longing burns and consumes me; my hand on my heart, it trembles and shakes! what ails thee, coward? is this what fear means? o mother! mother! thy dauntless child! [_very tenderly._ a woman lying asleep has taught him what fear is at last! how conquer my fear? how brace my heart? that, myself, i waken, i must waken the sleeper! [_as he approaches the sleeping figure again he is overcome by tenderer emotions at the light. he bends down lower; sweetly._ softly quivers her flower-sweet mouth! its lovely trembling has charmed my despair! ah! and the fragrant, blissful warmth of her breath! [_as if in despair._ awaken! awaken, maiden divine! [_he gazes at her._ she hears me not. new life from the sweetest of lips i will suck, then, even though kissing i die! [_he sinks, as if dying, on to the sleeping figure, and, closing his eyes, fastens his lips on brünnhilde's. brünnhilde opens her eyes. siegfried starts up, and remains standing before her._ brünnhilde [_rises slowly to a sitting posture. raising her arms, she greets the earth and sky with solemn gestures on her return to consciousness._ sun, i hail thee! hail, o light! hail, o glorious day. long i have slept; i am awake. what hero broke brünnhilde's sleep? siegfried [_awed and entranced by her look and her voice, stands as if spellbound._ through the fierce fires flaming round this rock i burst; i unloosened thy helmet strong: i awoke thee. siegfried am i. brünnhilde [_sitting upright._ gods, i hail you! hail, o world! hail, o earth, in thy glory! my sleep is over now, my eyes open. it is siegfried who bids me wake! [illustration: "sun, i hail thee! hail, o light! hail, o glorious day!" see p. 88] siegfried [_breaking forth in rapturous exaltation._ i hail thee, mother who gave me birth! hail, o earth, that nourished my life so that i see those eyes beam on me, blest among men! brünnhilde i hail the mother who gave thee birth! hail, o earth, that nourished thy life! no eye dared see me but thine; to thee alone might i wake! [_both remain full of beaming ecstasy, lost in mutual contemplation._ brünnhilde o siegfried! siegfried! hero most blest! of life the awaker, conquering light! o joy of the world, couldst know how thou wert always loved! thou wert my gladness, my care wert thou! thy life i sheltered before it was thine; my shield was thy shelter ere thou wert born: so long loved wert thou, siegfried! siegfried [_softly and timidly._ my mother did not die, then? did the dear one but sleep? brünnhilde [_smiles and stretches her hand out kindly towards him._ adorable child! nevermore thy mother will greet thee! thyself am i, if i be blest with thy love. all things i know known not to thee; yet only of my love born is my wisdom. o siegfried! siegfried! conquering light! i loved thee always, for i alone divined the thought hid by wotan: hidden thought i dared not so much as utter; thought that i thought not, feeling it only; for which i worked, battled and strove, defying even him who conceived it; for which in penance prisoned i lay, because thought it was not, but felt alone! for what the thought was- say, canst thou guess it?-was love of thee, nothing but that! siegfried how wondrous sounds thy rapturous song! but dark the meaning to me. [_tenderly._ of thine eyes the splendour i see plain, i can feel thee breathing soft and warm, sweet can hear the singing of thy voice, but what thou sayest i strive vainly to understand. i cannot grasp clearly things so far distant; needed is every sense to feel and behold thee! by laming fear fettered am i, for how to fear thou hast taught me at last; thou who hast bound me in bonds of such power, give me my courage again! [_he remains in great excitement with his yearning gaze fixed on her._ brünnhilde [_turns her head gently aside and looks towards the wood._ i see there grane, my sacred horse; in gladness he grazes who slept with me! he too has by siegfried been waked. siegfried [_without changing his position._ my gaze on a mouth most lovely is feasting; my lips are afire with passionate yearning for the pasture sweet that i look on! brünnhilde [_points to her armour, which she now perceives._ i see there the shield that sheltered heroes; and there is the helmet that hid my head: it shields, it hides me no more! siegfried [_with fire._ by a glorious maid my heart has been hurt wounds in my head a woman has struck: i came without shield or helm! brünnhilde [_with increased sadness._ i see there the breastplate's glittering steel; a keen-edged sword sundered the rings, from the form of the maiden loosened the mail: nor shelter nor shield is left to the weak and sorrowful maid! siegfried [_with heat._ through billows of fire i battled to thee, no buckler or breastplate sheltered or screened; the flames have won their way to my heart; my blood hot-surging rushes and leaps; a ravening fire is kindled within me: the flames that shone round brünnhilde's rock are burning now in my breast! o maid, extinguish the fire! calm the commotion and rage! [_he has embraced her passionately._ brünnhilde [_springs up, resists him with the utmost strength of terror, and flies to the other side of the stage._ no god's touch have i known! with awe the heroes greeted the maiden: holy came she from walhall. woe's me! woe's me! woe the affront, the bitter disgrace! he wounds me sore who waked me from sleep! he has broken breastplate and helm; now i am brünnhild' no more. siegfried thou art to me the dreaming maid still; brünnhilde lies lapped still in sleep. awake, be a woman to me! brünnhilde [_bewildered._ confused are my senses, my mind is blank: wisdom, dost thou forsake me? siegfried said not thy song thy wisdom drew its light from thy love of me? brünnhilde [_staring before her._ shadows drear-falling darken my gaze; mine eyes see dimly, the light dies out, deep is the dark. from dread-haunted mists fear in a frenzy comes writhing forth; terror stalks me and grows with each stride! [_she hides her eyes with her hands in violent terror._ siegfried [_gently removing her hands from her eyes._ dread lies dark on eyelids bound; with the fetters vanish the fear and gloom; rise from the dark and behold: bright as the sun is the day. brünnhilde [_much agitated._ flaunting my shame, bright as the sun shines the day! o siegfried! siegfried! pity my woe! i have always lived and shall live- always in sweet, rapturous yearning, and always to make thee blest! o siegfried! glorious wealth of the world! laughing hero! life of the earth! ah, forbear! leave me in peace! touch me not, mad with delirious frenzy! break me not, bring me not under thy yoke, undo not the loved one so dear! hast thou rejoiced thyself to see reflected clear in the stream? if into wavelets the water were stirred, and ruffled the limpid calm of the brook, thy face would not be there, only water's rippling unrest. so untouched let me stay, trouble me not, and thy face mirrored bright in me will smile to thee always, gay and merry and glad! o siegfried, radiant child, love thyself and leave me in peace; o bring not thine own to naught! siegfried i love thee; didst thou but love me! myself i have lost; ah, would thou wert won! a fair-flowing flood before me rolls; with all my senses nothing i see but buoyant, beautiful billows. if it refuse to mirror my face, just as i am, to assuage my fever, myself i will plunge straight in the stream:- if only the billows would blissfully drown me, my yearning lost in the flood! awaken, brünnhilde! waken, o maid! laughing and living, sweetest delight, be mine! be mine! be mine! brünnhilde [_with deep feeling._ thine, siegfried! i was from of old! siegfried [_with fire._ what thou hast been that be thou still! brünnhilde thine i will always be! siegfried what thou wilt be be thou to-day! clasped in my arms and closely embraced, heart upon heart beating in rapture, glances aglow, and breath mingled hungrily, eye in eye and mouth on mouth! all that thou wert and wilt be, be thou it now! the fear and the fever would vanish were brünnhild' now mine! brünnhilde were i now thine? heavenly calm is tossing and raging; light that was pure flames into passion; wisdom divine forsakes me and flies; jubilant love has scared it away! if i be thine? siegfried! siegfried! canst thou not see? by the blaze of my eyes thou art not struck blind? in my arms' embrace thou surely must burn! as my blood like a torrent surges and leaps, the fire fierce-flaming dost thou not feel? fearest thou, siegfried? fearest thou not the wild, love-frenzied maid? siegfried [_with a shock of joy._ ha! as the blood swift-surging is kindled, as our eyes devour one another, as our arms cling close in their rapture, dauntless again my courage swells, and the fear i failed for so long to learn, the fear that i scarcely learned from thee- the stupid boy fears that fear is completely forgot! [_with the last words he has involuntarily let brünnhilde go._ brünnhilde [_laughing wildly with joy._ oh, valorous boy! oh, glorious hero! unwitting source of wonderful deeds! laughing, laughing i love thee; laughing welcome my blindness; laughing let us go doomwards, laughing go down to death! farewell walhall's radiant world, its stately halls in the dust laid low! farewell, glittering pomp divine! end in bliss, o immortal race! norns, rend in sunder your rope of runes! dusk steal darkly over the gods! night of their downfall dimly descend! now siegfried's star is rising for me; he is for ever and for aye, my wealth, my world, my all in all: love ever radiant, laughing death! siegfried [_while brünnhilde repeats the foregoing, beginning at "farewell walhall's radiant world."_ laughing thou wakest, thou my delight! brünnhilde lives, brünnhilde laughs! hail, o day in glory arisen! hail, o sun that shines from on high! hail, o light from the darkness sprung! hail, o world where brünnhilde dwells! she wakes! she lives! she greets me with laughter! splendour streams from brünnhilde's star! [illustration: brünnhilde throws herself into siegfried's arms. see p. 99] siegfried she is for ever and for aye my wealth, my world, my all in all, love ever radiant, laughing death! [_brünnhilde throws herself into siegfried's arms. the curtain falls._ [illustration] the twilight of the gods characters siegfried gunther hagen alberich brünnhilde gutrune waltraute the three norns the rhine-maidens vassals women scenes of action prelude: on the valkyries' rock act i. the hall of gunther's dwelling on the rhine. the valkyries' rock act ii. in front of gunther's hall act iii. a wooded region on the rhine. gunther's hall [illustration] [illustration] prelude _the curtain rises slowly. the scene is the same as at the close of the second day, on the valkyries' rock; night. in the background, from below, firelight shines. the three norns, tall women in long, dark, veil-like drapery. the first (eldest) lies in the foreground, to the right, under the spreading pine-tree; the second (younger) is stretched on a shelving rock in front of the cave; the third (youngest) sits in the centre at the back on a rock near the peak. motionless, gloomy silence._ the first norn what light glimmers there? the second norn is it already dawn? the third norn loge's host glows in flame around the rock. it is night. why spin we not, singing the while? the second norn [_to the first._ where for our spinning and singing wilt thou fasten the rope? the first norn [_while she loosens a golden rope from herself and ties one end of it to a branch of the pine-tree._ i sing and wind the rope badly or well, as may be. at the world-ash-tree once i wove, when from the stem there bourgeoned strong the boughs of a sacred wood. in the shadows cool a fountain flowed; wisdom whispered low from its wave; of holy things i sang. a dauntless god came to drink at the well; for the draught he drank he paid with the loss of an eye. from the world-ash-tree wotan broke a holy bough; from the bough he cut and shaped the shaft of a spear. as time rolled on the wood wasted and died of the wound; sere, leafless and barren, wan withered the tree; sadly the flow of the fountain failed; troubled grew my sorrowful song. and now no more at the world-ash-tree i weave; i needs must fasten here on the pine-tree my rope. sing, o sister- catch as i throw-canst thou tell us why? the second norn [_winds the rope thrown to her round a projecting rock at the entrance of the cave._ runes of treaties well weighed and pondered cut were by wotan in the shaft, which wielding, he swayed the world. a hero bold in fight then splintered the spear, the hallowed haft with its treaties cleaving in twain. then bade wotan walhall's heroes hew down the world-ash-tree forthwith, both the stem and boughs sere and barren. the ash-tree sank; sealed was the fountain that flowed. round the sharp edge of the rock i wind the rope: sing, o sister, catch as i throw; further canst thou tell? the third norn [_catching the rope and throwing the end behind her._ the castle stands by giants up reared. with the gods and the holy host of the heroes wotan sits in his hall; and round the walls hewn logs are heaped, high up-piled, ready for burning: the world-ash-tree these were once. when the wood flares up brightly and burns, in its fire shall the fair hall be consumed. and then shall the high gods' downfall dawn in darkness for aye. know ye yet more, begin anew winding the rope; again i throw it back from the north. spin and sing, o my sister. [_she throws the rope to the second norn and the second throws it to the first, who loosens the rope from the bough and ties it on to another._ the first norn [_looking towards the back._ is it the dawn, or the firelight that flickers? grief-darkened is my gaze. the holy past i can scarce remember, when loge burst of old into burning fire. dost thou know how he fared? the second norn [_winding the rope which has been thrown to her round the rock again._ overcome by wotan's spear and its magic, loge worked for the god; then, to win his freedom, gnawed with his tooth the solemn runes on the shaft. so with the potent spell of the spear-point wotan confined him flaming where brünnhilde slumbered. canst thou tell us the end? the third norn with the broken spear's sharp-piercing splinters wotan wounded the blazing one deep in the breast; ravening fire springs from the wound, and this is thrown 'mid the world-ash-tree's hewn logs heaped ready for burning. would ye know when that will be, wind, o sisters, the rope! [_she throws the rope back; the second norn winds it up and throws it again to the first._ the first norn [_fastening the rope again._ the night wanes, dark grows my vision; i cannot find the threads of the rope; the strands are twisted and loose. a horrible sight wildly vexes mine eyes: rhinegold that black alberich stole. knowest thou more thereof? the second norn [_with laborious haste winds the rope round the jagged rock at the mouth of the cave._ the rock's sharp edge is cutting the rope; the threads loosen their hold and grow slack; they droop tangled and frayed. from woe and wrath rises the nibelung's ring; a curse of revenge ruthlessly gnaws at the strands:-canst thou the end foretell? the third norn [_hastily catching the rope which is thrown to her._ the rope is too short, too loose it hangs; it must be stretched, pulled straighter, before its end can reach to the north! [_she pulls hard at the rope, which breaks._ it breaks! the second norn it breaks! the first norn it breaks! [_they take the pieces of broken rope and bind their bodies together with them._ the three norns so ends wisdom eternal! the wise ones will utter no more. descend to erda! descend! [_they vanish. the dawn grows brighter; the firelight from the valley gradually fades. sunrise; then broad daylight._ _siegfried and brünnhilde enter from the cave. he is fully armed; she leads her horse by the bridle._ brünnhilde belovèd hero, poor my love were wert thou thereby kept from new deeds. one single doubt yet makes me linger: the fear my service has been too small. the things the gods taught me i could give: all the rich hoard of holy runes; but by the hero who holds my heart i have been robbed of my maiden valour. in wisdom weak, although strong in will; in love so rich, in power so poor- must thou not scorn her lack of riches who, though so eager, can give nothing more? [illustration: the norns vanish--see p. 108] siegfried wonderful woman, more thy gifts than i can guard! o chide not if thy teaching has left me still untaught. [_with fire._ that brünnhilde lives for me-to that lore i hold fast; and one lesson i have learned-brünnhilde to remember! brünnhilde if thou wouldst truly love me, think of thyself alone, and of thy deeds of daring! the raging fire remember that fearless thou didst fare through when around the rock it burned-siegfried that i might conquer brünnhild'! brünnhilde think too of the shield-hidden maid thou didst find there lapped in slumber. and whose helmet hard thou didst break-siegfried brünnhilde to awaken! brünnhilde those oaths remember that unite us; the faith and truth that are between us, and evermore the love we live for; brünnhilde in thy breast will deeply burn then for aye! [_she embraces siegfried._ siegfried must i leave thee, o love, in thy holy fortress of fire, [_he has taken alberich's ring from his finger, and holds it out to brünnhilde._ this ring of mine i give thee; let it pay for thy runes. of whatever deeds i did the virtue lies therein. by my hand was the dragon grim, who long had guarded it, slain; keep thou the gold and its might as token true of my love! brünnhilde [_putting on the ring in rapturous delight._ i covet it more than all else! for the ring take grane, my horse. through the air with me he galloped once boldly, but lost with mine was his magic art; upon clouds and storm, through thunder and lightning no more gallantly now will he sweep! but if thou lead the way, even through fire fearlessly grane will follow. for henceforth, hero, thou art his master! entreat him well; he knows thy voice; o, greet him often in brünnhilde's name! siegfried then every deed that i dare will be achieved through thy virtue all my battles thou wilt choose, and my victories will be thine. upon thy good horse riding, and sheltered by thy shield, no longer siegfried am i, but only brünnhilde's arm! [illustration: siegfried leaves brünnhilde in search of adventure see p. 111] brünnhilde o were but brünnhilde thy soul too! siegfried through her my courage burns high. brünnhilde then wert thou siegfried and brünnhild'. siegfried where i am, there thy abode is. brünnhilde [_with animation._ then a waste is my hall of rock? siegfried made one, both there abide. brünnhilde [_greatly moved._ ye gods, o ye holy race of immortals, feast ye your eyes on this love-hallowed pair! apart--who shall divide us? divided--still we are one! siegfried hail, o brünnhilde, beautiful star! hail, love and its glory! brünnhilde hail, o siegfried, conquering light! hail, life and its glory! hail, conquering light! both hail! hail! hail! hail! [_siegfried leads the horse quickly to the edge of the sloping rock, brünnhilde following him. siegfried disappears with the horse down behind the projecting rock, so that he is no longer visible to the audience. brünnhilde is thus suddenly left standing alone on the edge of the slope, and gazes down into the valley after siegfried. her gestures show that siegfried has vanished from her sight. siegfried's horn is heard from below. brünnhilde listens, and steps further out on the slope. she catches sight of siegfried in the valley again, and waves to him joyfully. her happy smiles seem to reflect the air of the merrily departing hero._ the first act _the hall of the gibichungs on the rhine. this is quite open at the back. an open shore stretching to the river occupies the background. rocky heights enclose the shore. gunther and gutrune on a throne at one side, before which stands a table with drinking-vessels on it. in front of this hagen is seated._ gunther give ear, hagen; tell me the truth: is my fame on the rhine worthy of gibich's son? hagen i envy thee thy fame and thy glory; thy great renown was foretold to me by grimhild' our mother. gunther i envy thee, so envy not me. i, as first-born, rule, but the wisdom is thine. half-brother's feud could scarce be laid better; asking thus of my renown, 'tis thy wisdom that i praise. hagen my words i withdraw, thy fame might be more: i know of precious treasures that the gibichung has not yet won. gunther hide these, and i withdraw my praise. hagen in summer's full-ripened glory blooms the gibich stock, thou, gunther, still unwived, thou, gutrun', still unwed. gunther whom wouldst thou have me woo, to win more wide renown? hagen one i know of, none nobler in the world. she dwells on soaring rocks, her chamber is circled by fire; and he who would brünnhild' woo must break through the daunting flame. gunther suffices my strength for the task? hagen for one stronger still it is decreed. gunther who is that hero unmatched? hagen siegfried, the wälsung's son; he is the hero bold. a twin-born pair, whom fate turned to lovers, siegmund and sieglinde, had as their offspring this child. in the woods he grew and waxed strong. 'tis he that gutrun' must wed. gutrune [_shyly._ tell me what deed of high valour made this hero the first in renown. hagen at neidhöhle a huge dragon lay, who guarded the nibelung's gold. he was slain, and his horrid jaws closed by siegfried's invincible sword. from this colossal deed the fame of the hero dawned. gunther [_thoughtfully._ they say that a priceless treasure the niblungs had in their hoard. hagen the man who could use its spell were lord of the world evermore. gunther and siegfried won it in fight? hagen he has the niblungs in thrall. gunther and brünnhild' no other can win? hagen to no other will the flames yield. gunther [_rises angrily from his seat._ why wake dissension and doubt? why stir up my desire and yearning for joys that cannot be won? [_he walks to and fro much agitated._ hagen [_without leaving his seat causes gunther to pull up as he approaches him, by a gesture of mysterious import._ would not brünnhilde be thy bride, were she by siegfried brought home? gunther [_turns away doubtful and angry._ but how could i force this man to woo the bride for me? hagen [_as before._ thy simple prayer would force him, gutrun' winning him first. gutrune thou mockest, cruel hagen! what arts have i to bind him? the greatest hero in all the world has long ere this by the fairest women on earth been loved. hagen [_bending confidentially towards gutrune._ what of the drink in the chest? [_more secretly._ in me who won it have more faith. to thee in love it will bind him whom thy heart most desires. [_gunther has come to the table again, and, leaning against it, pays close attention._ hither did siegfried come, and taste of this potion of herbs, he would straight forget he had looked on any woman before, or been by woman approached. now answer: think ye my counsel good? gunther [_starting up suddenly._ now grimhild' be praised, who for brother gave us thee. gutrune siegfried fain i would behold! gunther but how can he be found? [_a horn on the stage, from the background on the left, very loud but distant._ hagen [_listens and turns to gunther._ merrily hunting after renown across the world as through a wood, belike in his chase he will come, to the gibich's realm on the rhine. gunther heartily welcome were he. [_a horn on the stage, nearer, but still distant. both listen._ a horn from the rhine i hear. hagen [_looks down the river and calls towards the back._ a man and horse on board a boat! his horn how gaily he winds! [_a horn on the stage sounds nearer. gunther stops half-way listening._ see the leisurely stroke, and the indolent arm against the stream urging the boat! so skilful a hand on the swinging oar can be but his who the dragon slew:-it is siegfried--surely no other! gunther will he go by? hagen [_making a trumpet of his hands, calls towards the river._ hoiho! blithe hero, whither bound? siegfried [_from the distance._ i seek the son of gibich. hagen i bid thee welcome to gunther's hall. [_siegfried in a boat appears at the shore._ this way! stop here and land! _siegfried brings his boat to the shore. hagen makes it fast with the chain. siegfried springs ashore with his horse. gunther has come down and joined hagen._ hagen hail, siegfried, hero bold! [_gutrune gazes at siegfried from the throne in astonishment. gunther prepares to offer him friendly greetings. all stand fixed in silent mutual contemplation._ siegfried [_leaning on his horse, remains quietly standing by the boat._ who is gibich's son? gunther i am he thou dost seek. siegfried thy fame has reached me from the rhine; now fight with me, or be my friend. gunther be thou mine; thou art welcome! siegfried where stable my horse? hagen leave him to me. siegfried [_turning to hagen._ my name thou knowest; where have we met? hagen i guessed from thy strength who thou must be. siegfried [_as he hands over the horse to hagen._ be careful of grane, for thou hast never led by the rein so noble a steed. [_hagen leads the horse away. while siegfried looks thoughtfully after him, gutrune, obeying a sign of hagen's which siegfried does not notice, goes to her room through a door on the left. gunther comes into the hall with siegfried, whom he has invited to accompany him._ gunther my father's ancient hall, o hero, greet in gladness! all thou beholdest, where'er thou art, treat as thine own henceforward: thine is my kingdom- land and folk; by my body i swear it! yea, myself i am thine. siegfried nor land nor folk have i to give, nor father's house nor hall; in my body is all my wealth; as i live it grows less. but a sword have i which i welded; let my sword be my witness!-that and myself i bestow. hagen [_who has come back and now stands behind siegfried._ of the nibelungs' treasure rumour names thee the lord. siegfried [_turning round to hagen._ i almost forgot the hoard, so lightly i prize its worth. i left it lying in a cavern, where a dragon once held watch. hagen and nothing took at all? siegfried only this, not knowing its use. hagen it is the tarnhelm, the gem of the nibelung's art; its use, when worn on thy head, is to change thy shape as thou wilt; if fain to be borne afar, in a flash lo! thou art there! didst thou take nothing besides? siegfried yes, a ring. hagen which safe thou dost hold? siegfried [_tenderly._ 'tis held by a woman fair. hagen [_aside._ brünnhild'! gunther nay, siegfried, let us not barter; all i have a bauble poor, matched with thy treasure, would be. i will serve thee without reward. [_hagen has gone to gutrune's door, and now opens it._ gutrune [_enters carrying a full drinking-horn, with which she approaches siegfried._ welcome, o guest, to gibich's house! 'tis his daughter gives thee to drink. siegfried [_bows in a friendly manner and takes the horn, which he holds thoughtfully before him._ were all forgot thou gavest to me, one lesson i will never forget; so this first draught with love undying, brünnhild', i drink to thee! [_he puts the drinking-horn to his lips and takes a long draught; then he hands it back to gutrune, who, ashamed and confused, casts down her eyes. siegfried gazes at her with sudden passion._ siegfried o thou who dost scorch and blind with thine eyes, why sink them abashed by my gaze? [_gutrune, blushing, looks up at him._ o lovely maid, lower thine eyes; my heart is aflame, burnt by their light; they kindle my blood; it flows in devouring torrents of fire. [_with a trembling voice._ gunther, what name is thy sister's? gunther gutrune. siegfried [_softly._ can those be good runes that in her eyes i am reading? [_he ardently seizes gutrune's hand._ with thy brother i was fain to serve; his pride my prayer scorned. were i to pray the same of thee, wouldst thou like him be proud? [_gutrune involuntarily meets hagen's eye. she bows her head humbly, and, expressing her feeling of unworthiness with a gesture, leaves the hall with faltering steps._ siegfried [_attentively watched by hagen and gunther, gazes after gutrune as if entranced._ gunther, hast thou a wife? gunther i am not wed, nor, it would seem, likely to find a wife! my heart on one i have set whom there is no way to win. siegfried [_turns with animation to gunther._ in what canst thou fail with me for friend? gunther on rocky heights her home; surrounded by fire her hall; siegfried [_interrupting in wondering haste._ "on rocky heights her home; surrounded by fire her hall"...? gunther he only who braves the fire... siegfried [_as if making an intense effort to remember something._ "he only who braves the fire"...? [illustration: siegfried hands the drinking-horn back to gutrune, and gazes at her with sudden passion--see p. 119] gunther may brünnhilde's wooer be. [_siegfried shows by a gesture that at the mention of brünnhilde's name all remembrance of her has faded._ i dare not essay the dread mountain; the flames would not fall for me. siegfried [_awakes from his dreamy state, and turns to gunther high-spirited and gay._ for thee i will win her, of fire i have no fear; for thy man am i, and my strength is thine, if gutrun' i win as my wife. gunther gutrune gladly i grant thee siegfried thou shalt have brünnhilde then. gunther but how wilt deceive her? siegfried i will wear the tarnhelm and appear in thy form. gunther then let the oath now be sworn! siegfried blood-brotherhood sworn be by oath! [_hagen fills a drinking-horn with fresh wine; he holds it out to siegfried and gunther, who cut their arms with their swords and hold them for a short pace over the horn; then they each lay two fingers on the horn, which hagen continues to hold between them._ siegfried and gunther quickening blood of blossoming life lo! i drop in the horn! bravely mixed in brotherly love, bloom our blood in the draught! troth i drink to the friend glad and free to-day from the bond blood-brotherhood spring! but if broken the bond, or if faithless the friend, what in drops to-day we drink kindly in torrents wildly shall flow, paying treachery's wage. so--sealed be the bond! so--pledged be my faith! [_gunther drinks and hands the horn to siegfried, who finishes the draught, and holds out the empty horn to hagen. hagen breaks the horn in two with his sword. gunther and siegfried join hands._ siegfried [_observes hagen, who, while the oat was being sworn, has stood behind him._ why hast not thou plighted thy troth? hagen my blood had soured the good draught. it flows not pure and noble like yours; stubborn and cold, slow it runs, my cheek refusing to redden. i hold aloof from hot-blooded bonds. gunther [_to siegfried._ heed not him and his spleen. siegfried [_puts on his shield again._ up, then, and off! back to the boat! sail swift to the mountain! [_he steps nearer to gunther and points at him._ by the bank one night on board thou shalt tarry, and then bring home the bride. [_he turns to go, and beckons gunther to follow him._ gunther wilt thou not rest awhile? siegfried i am eager to be back. [_he goes to the shore to unmoor the boat._ gunther thou, hagen, keep guard o'er the homestead. [_he follows siegfried to the shore. whilst siegfried and gunther, after laying their arms in the boat, are hoisting the sail and making ready for departure, hagen takes up his spear and shield. gutrune appears at the door of her chamber just as siegfried is pushing off the boat, which immediately glides into the middle of the stream._ gutrune so swiftly whither haste they? hagen [_while he seats himself comfortably with shield and spear in front of the hall._ to woo brünnhild' for bride. gutrune siegfried? hagen see how he hastes, for wife seeking to win thee! gutrune siegfried--mine? [_she returns to her room greatly excited. siegfried has seized an oar and rows the boat down-stream, so that it is soon lost to view._ hagen [_sits motionless, his back against the door-post of the hall._ on guard here i sit watching the house, warding the hall from the foe: gibich's son is sped by the wind, and sails away for a wife; a hero bold of the helm has charge, and danger braves for his sake; his bride once loved he brings to the rhine; with her he brings me--the ring. o merry comrades, freeborn and honoured, gaily speed on in your pride! base though ye deem him, the niblung's son shall yet be your lord. [_a curtain which frames the front of the hall is drawn, and cuts the stage off from the audience._ [illustration] _the curtain is raised again. the rocky height as in the prelude. brünnhilde sits at the entrance to the cave in silent contemplation of siegfried's ring. moved by blissful memories, she covers the ring with kisses. distant thunder is heard; she looks up and listens. she turns to the ring again. a flash of lightning. again she listens, and looks into the distance, whence a dark thunder-cloud is approaching the rock._ brünnhilde on my ear from afar falls an old sound familiar. a horse comes flying swift through the air; on the clouds it sweeps in storm to the rock. who seeks the lonely one here? waltraute's voice [_from the distance._ brünnhilde, sister, wake if thou sleepest! [illustration: brünnhilde kisses the ring that siegfried has left with her see p. 124] brünnhilde [_starts from her seat._ waltraute's call! how welcome the sound! [_calling to the wing, and then hastening to the edge of the rock._ dost thou, sister, boldly swinging come this way? in the wood- still dear to thee- halt and dismount, and leave thy courser to rest. [_she runs into the wood, from which a loud sound like a thunder-clap is heard. she returns in great agitation with waltraute, and remains joyfully excited without noticing the latter's anxious fear._ art thou so bold that thou art come brünnhild' to greet, thy love unconquered by dread? waltraute thou alone art cause of my haste! waltraute for brünnhild's sake war-father's ban hast thou thus bravely broken? or perchance--o say!- [_with some hesitation._ has he at last softened to his child? when against the god i sought to shield siegmund, vainly--i know it-my deed fulfilled his desire. and i know that his anger was assuaged, for albeit in slumber deep here to the rock i was bound, doomed to be thrall to the man who should wake the maid as he passed, to my anguished prayer he granted grace; with ravening fire he surrounded the rock, to bar to all cowards the road. bane and chastisement turned so to blessing; a hero unmatched has won me as wife; blest by his love, in light and laughter i live. [_she embraces waltraute with wild manifestations of joy, which the latter tries with anxious impatience to repress._ hast thou been lured by my lot, and wouldst thou, sister, feast on my gladness, sharing in my delight? waltraute [_vehemently._ sharing the frenzy that has maddened thee, fool! far other the cause why i come, defying wotan in fear. brünnhilde [_here, for the first time, notices with surprise waltraute's wildly excited state._ art afraid? anguished with terror? so the stern one does not forgive? thou fearest his punishing wrath? waltraute [_gloomily._ might i but fear it, at an end were my distress. brünnhilde i am perplexed and amazed. waltraute calm thou thy frenzy; mark with care what i say! the fear that drove me hither to thee drives me back to walhall again. brünnhilde [_alarmed._ what ails, then, the gods everlasting? waltraute give earnest heed to what i tell thee! since from thee wotan parted, no more has he sent us to battle; anxious and bewildered we rode to the field. shunned are walhall's bold heroes by warfather; riding alone, without pause or rest he wandered and roamed through the world. at last he returned with his spear splintered; in his hand the pieces; a hero had cleft it asunder. with silent sign walhall's heroes then he sent forth to hew down the world-ash-tree. he bade them pile the logs as they hewed them, until they were heaped high round the hall of the blest. the gods he next called to a council; the high seat he solemnly took, bidding them who gathered in fear sit beside him. the heroes filled the hall, ranged round in their order. so sits he, speaks no word, upon his high seat grave and mute, the splintered spear held fast in his hand, holda's apples touching no more. fear and amazement hold the gods fast fettered. he has sent his ravens forth to seek tidings; if they return and bring him comforting news, then the god will with soul serene smile evermore and be glad. round his knees in sorrow twined lie the valkyries; he heeds not our glances beseeching; by terror and wild anguish we all are consumed. against his breast weeping i nestled, then soft grew his gaze: he remembered, brünnhilde, thee. he closed his eyes as if dreaming, heavily sighed and whispered these words: "if to the deep rhine's daughters she would restore the ring that was theirs. from the grievous curse both god and world were freed!" then i took thought, and from his side through the silent ranks stole noiselessly forth. in haste, unseen, i mounted my horse, and stormed in tumult to thee. grant, o sister, the boon i beg; what thou canst do, undaunted perform! end thou the grief of the gods! [illustration: the ravens of wotan--see p. 128] [_she has thrown herself down before brünnhilde._ brünnhilde [_quietly._ what dreadful dream-born fancies, sad one, are those thou dost tell? the high gods' holy and cloud-paved heaven is no longer my home. i grasp not what thou art saying; dark its sense, wild and confused. within thine eyes, so over-weary, gleams wavering fire; with thy wan visage, o pale-faced sister, what wouldst thou, wild one, of me? waltraute [_vehemently._ the ring upon thy hand-'tis that: ah, be implored! for wotan fling it away! brünnhilde the ring--away? waltraute to the rhine-daughters give it again. brünnhilde the rhine-daughters--i--the ring? siegfried's love-pledge? hast thou gone crazy? waltraute hear me! hear my despair! on this hangs the world's undoing and woe. throw it from thee into the water; end the anguish of walhall; the accurst thing cast in the waves! brünnhilde ha! dost thou know what 'twould mean how shouldst thou, maid unloving and cold! much is walhall's rapture, much is the fame of the gods; more is my ring. one glance at its shining gold, one flash of its sacred fire is more precious than bliss of all the gods enduring for aye! for siegfried's dear love shines from it bright and blessèd. love of siegfried! ah, could i but utter the rapture bound up in the ring! go back to the holy council of gods; repeat what i have told thee of my ring: that love i will not forswear, of love they never shall rob me; sooner shall walhall's glory perish and pass! [illustration: "the ring upon thy hand- ... ah, be implored! for wotan fling it away!" see p. 129] waltraute this is thy faith, then? to her sorrow thus coldly thou leavest thy sister? brünnhilde up and away! swiftly to horse! i will not part with the ring. waltraute woe's me! woe's me! woe to thee, sister! woe to walhall's gods! [_she rushes away. a storm-cloud immediately rises from the wood, accompanied by thunder._ brünnhilde [_as she looks after the brightly lit, retreating thunder-cloud, which soon vanishes in the distance._ borne by the wind in storm and lightning, haste away, cloud, and may i see thee no more! [_twilight has fallen. the light of the fire gradually shines more brightly from below. she gazes quietly out on the landscape._ eventide shadows dim the heavens, and more brightly the flames that encircle me glow. [_the firelight approaches from below. ever-brightening tongues of flame shoot up over the edge of the rock._ why leap so wildly the billows that blaze round the rock? up here to the peak surges the fiery flood! [_siegfried's horn is heard from the valley. brünnhilde starts up in delight._ siegfried? siegfried returned? with his horn greeting he sends! up! out to the welcome! swift to my god's embrace! [_she hastens joyfully to the edge of the crag. flames leap up, out of which siegfried springs forward on to a high rock, whereupon the flames immediately withdraw and again only shine up from below. brünnhilde recoils in terror, flies to the foreground, and from there, in speechless astonishment, stares at siegfried, who, wearing the tarnhelm, which covers the upper half of his face, leaving only his eyes free, appears in gunther's form._ brünnhilde betrayed! who seeks me here? siegfried [_remaining on the rock at the back, motionless and leaning on his shield, regards brünnhilde. in a feigned (harsher) voice._ brünnhild'! a wooer comes whom thy fire did not dismay. i want thee for my wife; consent to follow me! brünnhilde [_trembling violently._ what man has done this deed undaunted that the boldest only dares? siegfried [_as before._ a hero who will tame thy pride by force at need. brünnhilde a monster stands upon yonder stone; an eagle has come to rend me in pieces! who art thou, frightful one? art thou a mortal, or dost thou hie from hella's dark host? siegfried [_as before, beginning with a slightly tremulous voice, but continuing with more confidence._ #/ a gibichung am i, and gunther is his name whom thou must follow hence. brünnhilde [_breaking out in despair._ wotan! thou cruel, merciless god! woe! now i see how thine anger works! to scorn and sorrow i am condemned. siegfried [_springs down from the stone and approaches._ night falls apace; within thy cave thou must receive thy husband. brünnhilde [_stretching out with a threatening gesture the finger on which she wears siegfried's ring._ stand back! fear thou this token! while i am shielded by this, thou canst not force me to shame. siegfried wife it shall make thee to gunther; with this ring thou shalt be wed. brünnhilde stand back, base robber! impious thief! nor dare, overbold, to draw near! stronger than steel made by the ring, i never will yield! siegfried that it must be mine i learn from thy lips. [_he presses towards her. there is a struggle. brünnhilde wrenches herself free, flies and turns round as if to defend herself. siegfried seizes her again. she flies; he reaches her. they wrestle violently together. siegfried catches her hand and draws the ring from her finger. she gives a loud scream. as she sinks helpless into his arms her unconscious look meets siegfried's eyes. siegfried lays her fainting on the stone bench at the entrance to the cave._ siegfried now thou art mine! brünnhilde, gunther's bride, lead me the way to thy cave! brünnhilde [_stares, as if fainting, before her; exhausted._ o woman undone, where now thy defence? siegfried [_drives her on with a gesture of command. trembling and with tottering steps she goes into the cave._ now, nothung, witness thou that chastely i have wooed, and loyal been to my brother; lie betwixt me and his bride! [_he follows brünnhilde. the curtain falls. in his natural voice._ [illustration] [illustration] the second act _an open space on the shore in front of the gibichungs' hall; to the right the open entrance to the hall, to the left the bank of the rhine. from the latter, crossing the stage and mounting towards the back, rises a rocky height, cut by several mountain-paths. there an altar-stone to fricka is visible, as well as one, higher up, to wotan, and one at the side to donner. it is night. hagen, his arm round his spear and his shield by his side, fits against one of the pillars of the hall asleep. the moon shines out suddenly and throws a vivid light on hagen and his immediate surroundings. alberich is seen crouching in front of him, leaning his arms on hagen's knees._ alberich [_softly._ hagen, son, art asleep? betrayed by drowsiness and rest thou dost not hear? hagen [_softly, without moving, so that he seems to sleep on although his eyes are open._ i hear thee, o baleful niblung; what wouldst thou tell me while i slumber? alberich remember the might thou art endowed with, if thou art valiant as thy mother bore thee to me. hagen [_still as before:_ though courage she bestowed, i have no cause to thank her for falling under thy spell; soon old, wan and pale, hating the happy, where is my joy? alberich [_as before._ hagen, my son, hate thou the happy; this joyless and sorrow-laden one, him alone thou shalt love. be thou strong and bold and wise! those whom with weapons of darkness we fight already our hate has dismayed. and he who captured my ring, wotan, the ravening robber, by one of his sons in fight has been vanquished; he has lost through the wälsung power and might. with the whole immortal race he awaits in anguish his downfall. him i fear no more: he and all his must perish! hagen, son, art asleep? hagen [_remains motionless as before._ the might of the gods who then shall wield? alberich i--and thou! the world we shall own, if in thy truth i rightly trust, sharest thou my hate and wrath. wotan's spear was splintered by siegfried, the hero who won as booty the ring when fafner, the dragon, he slew. power supreme he has attained to; [illustration: the wooing of grimhilde, the mother of hagen. see p. 135] [_still mysteriously._ walhall and nibelheim bow to his will. on this hero undaunted my curse falls in vain, for he knows not the ring's true worth, nor makes use of its wonderful spell; laughing he burns life away, caring only for love. nothing can serve us but his undoing! sleepest, hagen, my son? hagen [_as before._ already he speeds through me to his doom. alberich the golden ring-'tis that that we must capture! the wälsung by a wise woman is loved. if, urged by her, to the rhine's fair daughters --who bewitched me once below in the waves-the stolen ring he restored, forever lost were the gold, and no guile could win it again. wherefore with ardour aim for the ring. i gat thee a stranger to fear, that against heroes thou mightst uphold me. i had not the strength, indeed, to despatch, like the wälsung, fafner in fight; but i reared hagen to deadly hatred, and he shall avenge me- shall win the ring, putting wälsung and wotan to scorn! swear to me, hagen, my son! [_from this point alberich is covered by an ever-deepening shadow. at the same time day begins to dawn._ hagen [_still as before._ the ring shall be mine yet; quietly wait! alberich swear to me, hagen, my son! hagen to myself swear i; make thy mind easy! alberich [_still gradually disappearing, and his voice, as he does so, becoming more and more inaudible._ be true, hagen, my son! trusty hero, be true! be true!--true! [_alberich has quite disappeared. hagen, who has never changed position, looks with fixed eyes and without moving towards the rhine, over which the light of dawn is spreading._ [illustration: "swear to me, hagen, my son!"--see p. 138] _the gradually brightening red of dawn is reflected in the rhine. siegfried steps out suddenly from behind a bush close to the shore. he appears in his own shape, but has the tarnhelm on his head still; he takes this off and, as he comes forward, hangs it on his girdle._ siegfried hoioh! hagen! weary man! where is thy welcome? hagen [_rising in a leisurely fashion._ hei! siegfried? swift-footed hero, whence stormest thou now? siegfried from brünnhilde's rock. 'twas there that i drew the breath i called to thee with; a quick passage i made! slower behind me a pair on board a vessel come. hagen hast thou won brünnhild'? siegfried wakes gutrune? hagen [_calling towards the hall._ hoiho! gutrune! haste and come! siegfried is here. why dost delay? siegfried _turning to the hall._ how brünnhild' yielded ye shall both be told. [_gutrune comes from the hall to meet him._ siegfried give me fair greeting, gibich's child! i come to thee with joyful news. gutrune freia greet thee to the honour of all women! siegfried to thy lover glad be gracious; for wife i have won thee to-day. gutrune comes then brünnhild' with my brother? siegfried none ever wooed with more ease. gutrune was he not scorched by the fire? siegfried it had not burnt him, i trow; but i broke through it instead, that i for wife might win thee. gutrune and no harm didst thou take? siegfried i laughed 'mid the surge of the flames. gutrune did brünnhild' think thee gunther? siegfried like were we to a hair; the tarnhelm saw to that, as hagen truly foretold. hagen i gave thee counsel good. gutrune and so the bold maid was tamed? siegfried her pride--gunther broke. gutrune did she give herself to thee? siegfried through the night the vanquished brünnhild' to her rightful husband belonged. gutrune for her husband thou didst pass? siegfried by gutrune sojourned siegfried. gutrune but 'twas brünnhild' lay beside thee. siegfried [_pointing to his sword._ far as north from east and west, so far was brünnhild' removed. gutrune but how got gunther his wife from thee? siegfried through the flames of the fire as they faded, when day dawned, through the mist she followed me down the hill; when near the shore, none observing, i gave gunther my place, and by the tarnhelm's magic wished myself straight to thee. a strong wind drives the lovers merrily down the rhine; prepare to greet them with joy. gutrune siegfried! such is thy might, i am afraid of thee! hagen [_calling from the shore._ i can see a sail in the distance. siegfried now be the envoy thanked! gutrune let us give her gracious greeting, that glad and gay she here may tarry! thou, hagen, prithee summon the men to the hall here for the wedding, while blithe maids to the feast i bid; our joy they will merrily share. [_as she goes towards the hall she turns round again._ wilt thou rest, wicked man? siegfried helping thee is rest enough. [_he gives her his hand and accompanies her into the hall._ hagen [_has mounted a rock at the back, and starts blowing his cow-horn._ hoiho! hoiho! hoho! ye gibich vassals, up and prepare! woeful tidings! weapons! weapons! arm through the land! goodly weapons, mighty weapons sharp for strife! dire the strait! woe! danger! danger! hoiho! hoiho! hoho! [_hagen remains where he is on the rock. armed men arrive in haste by different paths; first singly, and then in larger and larger groups._ the vassals why sounds the horn? who calls us to arms? we come with our arms? we come with our weapons. hagen! hagen! hoiho! hoiho! who hath suffered scathe? say, what foe is nigh? who forces war? is gunther sore pressed? we come with our weapons, with weapons keen! hoiho! ho! hagen! hagen [_still from the rock._ come fully armed without delay! welcome gunther, your lord: a wife gunther has wooed. the vassals is he in straits, pressed by the foe? hagen a woman hard won with him he brings. the vassals her kinsmen and vassals follow for vengeance? hagen no one follows but his bride. the vassals then the peril is past, and the foe put to flight? hagen the dragon-slayer helped him at need; siegfried, the hero, kept him from harm. the vassals how then can his vassals avail him? and why hast callèd us here? hagen sturdy oxen ye shall slaughter; on wotan's altar their blood be shed! the vassals and after that, hagen? say, what next? hagen after that for froh a boar ye shall fell, and a full-grown and strong he-goat for donner; but for fricka sheep ye shall slaughter, that she may smile on the marriage! the vassals [_with increasing cheerfulness._ what shall we do when the beasts we have slain? hagen the drink-horn take that women sweet with wine and mead blithely have filled. the vassals the drink-horn in hand, what task awaits us still? hagen gaily carouse until tamed by wine: drink, that the gods, duly honoured, grace may accord to this marriage. the vassals [_burst into ringing laughter._ good luck and joy laugh on the rhine, if hagen, the grim one, so merrily jests! to wedding-feasts hagen invites; his prick the hedge-thorn, hagen, has lost! hagen [_who has remained very grave, has come down to the men, and now stands among them._ now cease from laughing, doughty vassals! receive gunther's bride; yonder come brünnhild' and he. [_he points towards the rhine. some of the men hurry to the height; others range themselves on the shore to watch the arrival. hagen goes up to some of the men._ be to your lady loyal and true; suffers she wrong, swiftly avenge her! [_he turns slowly aside and moves towards the back. the boat arrives with gunther and brünnhilde. those who have been looking out from the height come down to the shore. some vassals spring into the water and pull the boat to land. all press closer to the bank._ the vassals hail! hail! hail! be greeted! be greeted! welcome, o gunther! hail! hail! hail! _gunther steps out of the boat with brünnhilde._ the vassals [_range themselves respectfully to receive them._ welcome, gunther! health to thee and to thy bride! [_they strike their weapons loudly together._ gunther [_presenting brünnhilde, who follows him with pale face and lowered eyes, to the men._ brünnhild', a peerless bride, here to the rhine i bring. no man ever won a nobler woman! the gods have shown from of old grace to the gibichung stock. to fame unmatched now may it mount! the vassals [_solemnly clash their weapons._ hail! o hail, happy gibichung! gunther [_leads brünnhilde, who never raises her eyes, to the hall, from which siegfried and gutrune, attended by women, now come forth. gunther stops before the hall._ dear hero, greetings glad! i greet thee, fair sister! by him who won thee for wife i joyfully see thee stand. two happy pairs here radiant are shining: [_he draws brünnhilde forward._ brünnhild'--and gunther, gutrun'--and siegfried. [_brünnhilde, startled, looks up and sees siegfried. her eyes remain fixed on him in amazement. gunther, who has released her violently trembling hand, shows, as do all present, blank astonishment at her behaviour._ the vassals and women what ails her? has she gone mad? siegfried [_goes a few steps towards brünnhilde, who has begun to tremble._ why looks brünnhild' amazed? brünnhilde [_scarcely able to control herself._ siegfried ... here? gutrune.... siegfried gunther's gentle sister, wed to me as thou to him. brünnhilde [_with fearful vehemence._ i? gunther? 'tis false. [_she sways and seems about to fall. siegfried supports her._ light fades from mine eyes. .. [_in siegfried's arms, looking faintly up at him._ siegfried ... knows me not? siegfried gunther, see, thy wife is swooning! [_gunther comes to them._ wake, brünnhild', wake! here stands thy husband. brünnhilde [_perceives the ring on siegfried's outstretched finger, and starts up with terrible vehemence._ ha! the ring upon his hand! he ... siegfried? the vassals what's wrong? hagen [_coming among the vassals from behind._ now pay good heed to the woman's tale. brünnhilde [_mastering her terrible excitement, tries to control herself._ on thy hand there i beheld a ring. 'twas wrested from me by this man here; [_pointing to gunther._ 'tis not thine. how earnest thou by the ring thou hast on? siegfried [_attentively regarding the ring on his finger._ 'twas not from him i got the ring. brünnhilde [_to gunther._ thou who didst seize the ring with which i wedded thee, declare to him thy right, make him yield up the pledge! gunther [_in great perplexity._ the ring? no ring i gave him, though thou dost know it well. brünnhilde where hast thou hid the ring that thou didst capture from me? [_gunther, greatly confused, does not answer._ brünnhilde [_breaking out furiously._ ha! he it was who despoiled me of the ring-siegfried, the treacherous thief! [_all look expectantly at siegfried, who seems to be lost in far-off thoughts as he contemplates the ring._ siegfried no woman gave the ring to me, nor did i wrest it from a woman's grasp. this ring, i know, was the booty won when at neidhöhl' boldly i fought, and the mighty dragon was slain. hagen [_stepping between them._ brünnhild', dauntless queen, knowest thou this ring well? if it was by gunther won, then it is his, and siegfried has got it by guile. for his guilt must the traitor pay. brünnhilde [_shrieking in terrible anguish._ betrayed! betrayed! shamefully betrayed! deceived! deceived! wrong too deep for revenge! gutrune a wrong? to whom? vassals and women deceit? to whom? brünnhilde holy gods! ye heavenly rulers! whispered ye this in councils dark? if i must bear more than ever was borne, bowed by a shame none ever endured, teach me such vengeance as never was raved! kindle such wrath as can never be calmed! order brünnhild's poor heart to be broken, bring ye but doom on him who betrayed! gunther brünnhild', dear wife, control thyself! brünnhilde away, betrayer! self-betrayed one! all of you, hearken! not he, but that man there, won me to wife. vassals and women siegfried? gutrune's lord? brünnhilde he forced delight and love from me. siegfried dost thou so lightly hold thine honour, the tongue that thus defames it i must convict of its falsehood. hear whether faith i broke! blood-brotherhood i have sworn unto gunther; nothung, my trusty sword, guarded the sacred vow; 'twixt me and this sad woman distraught its blade lay sharp. brünnhilde behold how thou liest, crafty man, vainly as witness citing thy sword! full well i know its keenness, and also the scabbard wherein so snugly hung on the wall nothung, the faithful friend, when its lord won the woman he loved. vassals and women [_crowd together in violent indignation._ what! siegfried a traitor? has he stained gunther's honour? gunther [_to siegfried._ disgraced were i and sullied my name, were not the slander cast in her teeth! grutune siegfried faithless? false to his vow? ah, prove thou that worthless is her word! the vassals clear thyself straight; if thou art wronged silence the slander; sworn be the oath! siegfried if i must swear, the slander to still, which of you offers his sword for the oath? hagen swear the oath upon the point of my spear; bad faith 'twill surely avenge. [_the vassals form a ring round siegfried and hagen. hagen holds out the spear; siegfried lays two fingers of his right hand upon the point._ siegfried shining steel! weapon most holy, witness my oath sworn for ever! on this spear's sharp point i solemnly swear; spear-point, mark thou my words! if weapon must pierce me, thine be the point! when by death i am stricken strike thou the blow, if what she tells is true, and i broke faith with my friend! brünnhilde [_strides furiously into the ring, tears siegfried's hand from the spear, and grasps the point with her own._ shining steel! weapon most holy, witness my oath sworn for ever! on this spear's sharp point i solemnly swear! spear-point, mark thou my words! devoted be thy might to his undoing! be thy sharpness blessed by me, that it may slay him! for broken his oaths have been all, and false is what he has sworn. the vassals help, donner! roar with thy thunder to silence this terrible shame! siegfried gunther, look to this woman who falsely slanders thy name. let her rest awhile, the untamed mountain maid, that the unbridled rage some demon in malice has against us roused may have the chance to subside. ye vassals, go ye your ways; let the womenfolk scold. like cravens gladly we yield, comes it to fighting with tongues. [_he goes up to gunther._ thou art not so vexed as i that i beguiled her ill; the tarnhelm must, i fear, but half have hid my face. still, women's wrath soon is appeased: that i won her for thee thankful thy wife will be yet. [_he turns again to the vassals._ follow me, men, with mirth to the feast! [_to the women._ gaily, women, help at the wedding! joyfully laugh love and delight! in hall and grove there shall be none this day more merry than i! ye whom love has blessed, like myself light-hearted, follow and share in my mirth! [_he throws his arm in the highest spirits round gutrune and draws her into the hall. the vassals and women follow, carried away by his example. all go off, except brünnhilde, gunther, and hagen. gunther, in deep shame and dejection, with his face covered, has seated himself on one side. brünnhilde, standing in the foreground, gazes for some time sorrowfully after siegfried and gutrune, then droops her head._ [illustration] brünnhilde [_lost in thought._ what dread demon's might moves here in darkness? by what wizard's spell worked was the woe? how weak is my wisdom faced by this puzzle! and where shall i find the runes for this riddle? oh, sorrow! sorrow! woe's me! woe's me! i gave all my wisdom to him; [_with increasing emotion._ the maid in his power he holds. fast in his fetters bound is the booty that, weeping her grievous shame, gaily to others he gives! will none of you lend a sword with which i may sever my bonds? hagen [_going close to brünnhilde._ leave that to me, o wife betrayed; i will avenge thy trust deceived. brünnhilde [_looking round dully._ on whom? hagen on siegfried, traitor to thee. brünnhilde on siegfried? thou? [_smiling bitterly._ one single flash of his eye and its lightning-which streamed in its glory on me even through his disguise- and thy heart would fail, shorn of its courage. hagen but to my spear his perjury gives him. brünnhilde truth and falsehood- what matter words! to arm thy spear seek for something stronger, strength such as his to withstand! hagen well know i siegfried's conquering strength: how hard in battle to slay him; but whisper to me some sure device for speeding him to his doom. brünnhilde ungrateful, shameful return! i taught him all the arts i know, to preserve his body from harm. [illustration: "o wife betrayed, i will avenge thy trust deceived" see p. 154 ] he bears unwitting a charmèd life and safely walks by spells enwound. hagen then no weapon forged could wound him? brünnhilde in battle none;--yet-did the blow strike his back! never--i knew that- would he give way, or turn and fly, the foe pursuing, so there i gave him no blessing. hagen and there shall my spear strike! [_he turns quickly from brünnhilde to gunther._ up, gunther, noble gibichung! here stands thy valiant wife. why hang thy head in grief? gunther [_starting up passionately._ o shame! dishonour! woe is me! no man has known such sorrow! hagen in shame thou liest- that is true. brünnhilde [_to gunther._ o craven man! falsest of friends! hidden behind the hero wert thou while won were for thee the prize and the glory. low indeed the race must have sunk that breeds such cowards as thou! gunther [_beside himself._ deceived am i--and deceiver! betrayed am i--and betrayer! my strength be consumed, and broken my heart! help, hagen! help for my honour! help, for my mother was thine-thee too she bore! hagen no help from head or hand will suffice: 'tis siegfried's death we need. gunther [_seized with horror._ siegfried's death? hagen unpurged else were thy shame. gunther [_staring before him._ blood-brotherhood he and i swore. hagen who broke the bond pays with his blood. gunther broke he the bond? hagen in betraying thee. gunther was i betrayed? brünnhilde he betrayed thee, and me ye all are betraying! if i were just, all the blood of the world would not atone for your guilt! but the death of one is all i ask for. dying, siegfried atones for himself and you! hagen [_turning to gunther and speaking to him secretly._ his death would profit thee; boundless were indeed thy might if thou couldst capture the ring, which, alive, he never will yield. gunther [_softly._ brünnhilde's ring? hagen the ring the niblung wrought. gunther [_sighing deeply._ 'twould be the end of siegfried. hagen his death would serve us all. gunther but gutrun', to whom he has been given! how could we look in her face if her husband we had slain? brünnhilde [_starting up furiously._ what wisdom forewarned of, and runes hinted darkly, in helpless despair is plain to me now. [_passionately._ gutrune is the spell that stole my husband's heart away! woe be her lot! hagen [_to gunther._ if this grief we must give her, conceal how siegfried died. we go to-morrow merrily hunting; the hero gallops ahead; we find him slain by a boar. brünnhilde and hagen so shall it be! perish siegfried! purged be the shame he brought on me! faith sworn by oath he has broken; now with his blood let him atone! avenging, all-hearing god! oath-witness, and lord of vows! wotan, come at my call! send thou thine awful heavenly host hither to hear while i vow revenge! hagen doomed let him die, the hero renowned! mine is the hoard, and mine i shall hold it! from him the ring shall be wrested! niblung father! o fallen prince! night warder! nibelung lord! alberich! hear thou thy son! ruling again o'er the nibelung host, bid them obey thee, the ring's dread lord! [_as gunther turns impetuously towards the hall with brünnhilde they are met by the bridal procession coming out. boys and girls, waving flower-wreathed staves, leap merrily in front. the vassals are carrying siegfried on a shield and gutrune on a seat. on the rising ground at the back men-servants and maids are taking implements and beasts for sacrifice, by the various mountain-paths, to the altars, which they deck with flowers. siegfried and the vassals blow wedding-calls on their horns. the women invite brünnhilde to accompany them to gutrune's side. brünnhilde stares blankly at gutrune, who beckons her with a friendly smile. as brünnhilde is about to step back angrily hagen comes quickly between them and presses her towards gunther, who takes her hand again, whereupon he allows himself to be raised on a shield by the men. as the procession, scarcely interrupted, moves on quickly again towards the height, the curtain falls._ [illustration] [illustration] the third act _a wild wooded and rocky valley on the rhine, which flows past a steep cliff in the background. the three rhine-maidens, woglinde, wellgunde, and flosshilde, rise to the surface and swim and circle as if dancing._ the three rhine-maidens [_swimming slower._ the sun sends hither rays of glory; in the depths is darkness. once there was light, when clear and fair our father's gold shone on the billows. rhinegold! gleaming gold! how bright was once thy radiance, lovely star of the waters! [_they sing and again start swimming and circling about. they pause and listen, then merrily splash the waters._ o sun, the hero quickly send us who again our gold shall give us! if it were ours, we should no longer envy thine eye for its splendour. rhinegold! gleaming gold! how glad was thy radiance, glorious star of the waters! [_a horn is heard._ woglinde hark! that is his horn! wellgunde the hero comes. flosshilde let us take counsel. [_they all dive down quickly._ siegfried [_appears on the cliff fully armed._ some elf has led me astray and lured my feet from the path. hey, rogue! behind what hill hast suddenly hidden my game? the three rhine-maidens [_rise to the surface again and swim and circle as in a dance._ siegfried! flosshilde what art thou scolding about? wellgunde with what elf art thou so wroth? woglinde hast thou been tricked by some sprite? all three tell us, siegfried; let us hear! siegfried [_regarding them with a smile._ have ye, then, hither charmed the shaggy-hided fellow whom i have lost? frolicsome maids, ye are welcome to him, if he is your love. [_the maidens laugh._ woglinde what would our guerdon be, siegfried, if we restored him? siegfried i have caught nothing yet, so ask of me what you will. wellgunde a golden ring gleams on thy finger. the three rhine-maidens wilt grant it? siegfried from a dragon grim i won the ring in fight; and think ye for a worthless bear-skin i would exchange the gold? woglinde art thou so mean? wellgunde in bargains so hard? flosshilde free-handed thou with women shouldst be. siegfried on you did i waste my goods, my wife would have cause to scold. flosshilde is she a shrew? wellgunde and beats thee sore? woglinde has the hero felt her hand? [_they laugh immoderately._ siegfried though gaily ye may laugh, in grief ye shall be left, for, mocking maids, this ring ye ask shall never be yours. [_the rhine-maidens have again joined hands for dancing._ flosshilde so fair! wellgunde so strong! woglinde so worthy love! the three how sad he should a miser be! [_they laugh and dive down._ siegfried [_comes down nearer to the river._ why should i stand their taunts and blame? why endure their scorn? did they return [illustration: "though gaily ye may laugh, in grief ye shall be left, for, mocking maids, this ring ye ask shall never be yours" --see p. 162] to the bank again, the ring gladly i'd give them. [_calling loudly._ hey, hey! ye merry water-maidens, come back; the ring shall be yours. [_he holds up the ring, which he has taken from his finger._ the three rhine-maidens [_rise to the surface again. they appear grave and solemn._ nay, hero, keep and ward it well, until the harm thou hast felt that in the ring lies hid. then wouldst thou fain be freed by us from its curse. siegfried [_calmly puts the ring on his finger again._ sing something that ye know! the three rhine-maidens siegfried! siegfried! siegfried! dark our knowledge for thee! the ring thou keepest to thy own scathe! from the gleaming gold of the rhine 'twas wrought; he who cunningly forged it, and lost it in shame, laid a curse on it which, for all time, the owner thereof dooms to his death. as the dragon fell so shalt thou too fall, and that to-day; thy fate is foretold, wilt thou not give to the rhine the ring to hide in its waters. its waves alone can loose the curse. siegfried enough, o ye women full of wiles! was i firm when ye flattered, i am firmer now when ye threaten! the three rhine-maidens siegfried! siegfried! our warning is true: flee, oh, flee from the curse! the norns who weave by night have entwined it in the rope of fate's decrees! siegfried my sword once shattered a spear; and if the norns have woven a curse into the strands of destiny's rope, nothung will cleave it asunder. a dragon once warned me of this dread curse, but he could not teach me to fear. [_he contemplates the ring._ the world's wealth has bestowed on me a ring. for the grace of love had it been yours, and still for love might it be got, but by threats to my life and my limbs- had it not even a finger's worth-the ring ye never shall gain. my limbs and my life-[illustration: "siegfried! siegfried! our warning is true: flee, oh, flee from the curse!" --see p. 164] look!--thus freely i fling away! [_he lifts a clod of earth from the ground, holds it over his head, and with the last words throws it behind him._ the three rhine-maidens come, sisters! fly from the madman! though dauntless and wise he seems to himself, he is blind and in fetters bound fast. [_wildly excited, they swim in wide circles close to the shore._ oaths he swore, and was false to his word; [_moving quickly again._ runes he knows that he cannot rede. a glorious gift fell to his lot; he flung it from him unawares; and the ring that deals doom and death alone he will not surrender! farewell, siegfried! a woman proud ere night falls thy wealth shall inherit. our cry by her will be heard. to her! to her! to her! [_they turn quickly to their dance, and gradually swim away to the back singing._ siegfried [_looks after them smiling, one foot on a piece of rock and his chin resting on his hand._ alike on land and water i have studied women's ways: still those who mistrust their smiles they seek with threats to frighten, and, are their threats despised, at once they begin to scold. and yet-held i not gutrun' dear, of these alluring maidens one had surely been mine. [_he looks calmly after the rhine-maidens, who have disappeared, and whose voices gradually die away. horn-calls are then heard. siegfried starts from a reverie and sounds his horn in answer._ hagen's voice [_far off._ hoiho! vassals' voices hoiho! hoiho! hoiho! siegfried [_having first answered the call with his horn._ hoiho! hoihe! hagen [_appears on the height, followed by gunther. he sees siegfried._ so we have found thee where thou wert hidden! siegfried come down all! here 'tis fresh and cool. [_the vassals now appear on the height, and come down with hagen and gunther._ hagen here let us rest and see to the meal. [_they lay the game in a heap._ lay down the booty and hand round the wine-skins. [_wine-skins and drinking-horns are produced. all lie down._ hagen now be the wonders told us of siegfried and his hunting that chased the game from us. siegfried no meal at all is mine; i beg of you to share with me your spoil. hagen no luck at all? siegfried i sought for forest-game, but water-fowl only i found; furnished with the right equipment, a brood of three wild water-birds i had caught and brought you. down there on the rhine they told me that slain to-day i should fall. [_gunther starts and looks darkly at hagen. siegfried lies down between gunther and hagen._ hagen a sorry chase were that if the luckless hunter fell a victim to the quarry! siegfried thirst plagues me! hagen [_whilst he orders a drinking-horn to be filled for siegfried, and hands it to him._ it has been rumoured, siegfried, that thou canst tell the meaning of what the birds sing: does rumour speak true? siegfried i have not listened for long to their song. [_he takes the drinking-horn and turns with it to gunther, to whom he offers it after he has drunk from it._ drink, gunther, drink! thy brother hands the draught! gunther [_ looks into the horn with horror. moodily._ a pale draught thou hast poured! [_more gloomily._ thy blood alone is there. siegfried [_laughing._ with thine, then, be it mingled! [_he pours from gunther's horn into his own so that it runs over._ thus mixed the wine flows over to mother earth may it prove a cordial kind! gunther [_with a deep sigh._ thou over-joyous man! siegfried [_low, to hagen._ his cheer brünnhild' has marred. hagen [_low, to siegfried._ she speaks less plain to him than speak the birds to thee! siegfried since i have heard women singing. the birds i have clean forgot. hagen but thou didst hear them once? siegfried [_turning with animation to gunther._ hei! gunther! moody-faced man! come, i will tell thee tales of my boyhood, if thou wouldst care to hear them. gunther 'twould please me much. [_all lie down close to siegfried, who alone fits upright._ hagen sing, hero, sing! siegfried mime was a surly old dwarf who because of greed reared me with care, that when the childµ grew sturdy and bold he might slay a dragon grim that guarded treasure in the wood. he taught me to forge and the art of fusing, but what the craftsman could not achieve the scholar did by skill and by daring-out of the splinters of a weapon fashioned featly a sword. my father's blade forged was afresh; strong and true nothung was tempered, deemed by the dwarf fit for the fight. the wood then we sought, and there the dragon fafner i slew. listen and heed well to my tale; i have marvels to tell you. from the dragon's blood my fingers were burning, and these i raised to my lips; and barely touched was the blood by my tongue, when what a bird was saying above me i could hear. on a bough it sat there and sang: "hei! siegfried now owns all the nibelung hoard! oh! could he the hoard in the cave but find! tarnhelm, if he could but win it, would help him to deeds of renown; and could he discover the ring, it would make him the lord of the world!" hagen didst thou take the tarnhelm and ring? a vassal was that the end of the singing? siegfried having taken tarnhelm and ring, once more i listened and heard the sweet warbler; he sat above me and sang:- "hei! siegfried now owns both the helm and the ring! oh! let him not listen to mime, the false, for mime, too, covets the treasure, and cunningly watches and spies! he is bent on murdering siegfried; be siegfried wary of mime!" hagen 'twas well that he warned? the vassals got mime due payment? siegfried a deadly-brewed draught he brought me to drink; but, fear-stricken, his tongue stammered truly: nothung stretched him out dead! hagen [_with a strident laugh._ the steel that he forged not mime soon tasted! [_he has another drinking-horn filled, and drops the juice of a herb into it._ the vassals what further did the bird tell thee? hagen from my horn drink, hero, first: a magical draught is this; it will mind thee of things long forgotten, and bring old days to remembrance. [_he offers the horn to siegfried, who looks into it thoughtfully and then drinks slowly._ siegfried in sorrow i listened, grieving looked up; he sat there still and sang. "hei! siegfried has slain the deceitful dwarf! i know for him now a glorious bride. she sleeps where rugged rocks soar; ringed is her chamber by fire. who battles the flames wakens the bride, brünnhilde wins as reward!" hagen the wood-bird's counsel didst thou follow? siegfried straight without pause i rose and i ran [_gunther listens with increasing astonishment._ till i came to the fire-ringed rock. i passed through the flames, and for prize i found, [_more and more ecstatic._ sleeping, and clad in bright mail, a woman lovely and dear. the hard helmet i loosened with care, and waked the maid with my kiss. ah, then the burning, sweet embrace of brünnhild's rapturous arms! gunther [_springing up in the greatest consternation._ what says he? [_two ravens fly up out of a bush, circle above siegfried, and then fly away towards the rhine._ hagen didst understand what the ravens there said? [_siegfried starts up suddenly, and, turning his back to hagen, looks after the ravens. hagen thrusts his spear into siegfried's back._ hagen vengeance--that was the word! [_gunther and the vassals rush towards hagen. siegfried swings his shield on high with both hands in order to throw it on hagen; his strength fails him; the shield drops from his grasp backwards, and he falls down upon it._ gunther and vassals [_who have tried to hold hagen back in vain._ hagen, what dost thou? hagen death to traitors! [_he turns calmly away, and is seen in the gathering twilight disappearing slowly over the height. gunther bends over siegfried in great grief. the vassals stand round the dying man full of sympathy._ siegfried [_supported by two vassals in a fitting posture, opens radiant eyes._ brünnhilde, heaven-born bride, awake! open thine eyelids! who again has locked thee in sleep and bound thee in slumber so fast? lo! he that came and kissed thee awake [illustration: siegfried's death--see p. 172] again breaks the bonds holding thee fettered and looks on brünnhild's delight. ah! those dear eyes now open for ever! ah! the soft fragrance borne on her breathing! death, thou art welcome- sweet are thy terrors-brünnhild' greets me, my bride! [_he sinks back and dies. the rest stand round him motionless and sorrowing. night has fallen. at a silent command from gunther the vassals raise siegfried's body and bear it away slowly in a solemn procession over the height. the moon breaks through the clouds, and lights up the funeral procession with increasing clearness as it reaches the top of the hill. a mist has risen from the rhine which gradually fills the whole stage, on which the funeral procession has become invisible. after a musical interlude the mist divides again, until at length the hall of the gibichungs, as in act i. appears with increasing distinctness._ _it is night. the moonlight is mirrored in the rhine. gutrune comes out of her chamber into the hall._ was that his horn? [_she listens._ no!--he has not returned. troubled was my sleep by evil dreams! then wildly neighed his horse; brünnhild' laughed, and i woke up afraid. what woman was it i saw go down to the shore? i fear this brünnhild'! is she within? [_she listens at the door at the right and calls._ brünnhild'! brünnhild'! art awake? [_she opens the door timidly and looks into the inner room._ no one is there! so it was she i saw go downwards to the rhine. [_a distant horn sounds._ was that his horn? no! all silent! [_she looks out anxiously._ would but siegfried return! [_hagen's voice is heard outside coming nearer. when gutrune hears it she stands for a time transfixed with terror._ hagen hoiho! hoiho! awake! awake! lights! ho! lights here! burning torches! home bring we spoils of the chase. hoiho! hoiho! [_increasing light from the torches is seen without. hagen enters the hall._ up! gutrun'! give siegfried greeting, for home to thee thy hero comes. gutrune [_in great fear._ what is wrong, hagen? i heard not his horn. [_men and women with lights and firebrands accompany, in great confusion, the procession returning with siegfried's body._ hagen the hero pale will blow it no more; no more will he ride to battle or chase or gaily go wooing fair women. gutrune [_with growing terror._ what bring they here? [_the procession reaches the middle of the hall, and the vassals set down the body on a hastily improvised platform._ hagen 'tis a wild boar's spoil they bring thee: siegfried, thy husband slain. [_gutrune shrieks and falls upon the corpse. general emotion and mourning._ gunther [_bends over the fainting gutrune._ gutrun', gentle sister! open thine eyelids! look up and speak! gutrune [_recovering consciousness._ siegfried--they have slain siegfried! [_she pushes gunther back violently._ hence! false-hearted brother, thou slayer of my husband! oh, who will help me! woe's me! woe's me! these men have murdered my siegfried! gunther cast not the blame on me; 'tis hagen who must bear it: he is the accursèd wild boar that did the hero to death. hagen with me art wroth for that? gunther woe and grief for aye be thy portion! hagen [_stepping forward with terrible defiance._ yes, then, 'tis true that i slew him. i--hagen- did him to death! by my spear he falsely swore, so by my spear he fell. i have the sacred right now to demand my booty, and what i claim is this ring. gunther away! thou shalt not have what forfeit falls to me. hagen ye vassals, judge of my right! gunther thou wouldst seize gutrune's dower, insolent niblung son? hagen [_draws his sword._ 'tis thus the niblung son demands his own. [_he rushes on gunther, who defends himself: they fight. the vassals throw themselves between. gunther falls slain by a stroke from hagen._ hagen mine the ring! [_he makes a grasp at siegfried's hand, which raises itself in menace. all stand transfixed with horror._ brünnhilde [_advances firmly and solemnly from the background to the front. still at the back._ silence! your sorrow clamour less loud! now for vengeance his wife comes, the woman all have betrayed. [_as she comes quietly forward._ i have heard you whining as whine children when milk is spilt by their mother; but lamentation meet for a hero unmatched i have not heard. gutrune [_raising herself suddenly from the floor._ brünnhilde, spite-envenomed! thou art the cause of our woe! for, urged by thee, the men have slain him; cursèd hour that brought thee here! brünnhilde peace, hapless wretch! thou never wert wife of his; his leman wert thou, only that. but i am his lawful bride; to me was the binding oath sworn, before thy face he beheld. gutrune [_breaking out in sudden despair._ accursèd hagen, why didst thou give the poison that stole her husband away? o sorrow! mine eyes are opened: brünnhild' was the true love whom through the draught he forgot. [_she turns from siegfried in shame and fear, and, dying, bends over gunther's body; remaining motionless in this position until the end. hagen stands defiantly leaning on his spear and shield, sunk in gloomy thought, on the opposite side. brünnhilde stands alone in the middle. after long and absorbed contemplation of siegfried she turns with solemn exaltation to the men and women._ brünnhilde let great logs be borne to the shore and high by the rhine be heaped; fierce and far let the flames mount that consume to ashes him who was first among men! his horse lead to me here, that with me his lord he may follow. for my body longs to have part in his glory and share his honour in death. obey brünnhild's behest. [_the young men, during the following, raise a great pyre of logs before the hall, near the bank of the rhine; women decorate this with rugs, on which they strew plants and flowers._ brünnhilde [_absorbed anew in contemplation of siegfried's dead face. her expression brightens and softens as she proceeds._ sheer golden sunshine streams from his face; none was so pure as he who betrayed. to wife forsworn, to friend too faithful, from his own true love- his only belovèd-barred he lay by his sword. never did man swear oaths more honest, no one was ever truer to treaties; never was love purer than siegfried's; yet oaths the most sacred, bonds the most binding, and true love were never so grossly betrayed! know ye why that was? [_looking upward._ ye gods who guard all vows that are uttered, look down on me in my terrible grief, your guilt never-ending behold! hear my voice accusing, mighty god! through his most valiant deed-deed by thee so desired- thou didst condemn him to the doom that else upon thee had fallen. he, truest of all, must betray me, that wise a woman might grow! know i all thou wouldst learn? all things! all things! all i know now: all stands plainly revealed. round me i hear thy ravens flapping. by them i send thee back the tidings awaited in fear. rest in peace now, o god! [_she signs to the vassals to bear siegfried's body on to the pyre; at the same time she draws the ring off siegfried's singer, and regards it musingly._ i claim as mine what he has left me. o gold accurst! terrible ring! i now grasp thee and give thee away. o sisters wise, ye have my thanks for your counsel good, ye who dwell in the waters deep of the rhine. what ye desire i gladly give; from out my ashes take ye your treasure; the fire by which i am burnt cleanses the ring of its curse. down in the waves wash it away, and guard ever pure the shining gold that stolen was to your grief! [_she has put the ring on her finger, and now turns to the pile of logs on which siegfried's body lies stretched. taking a great firebrand from one of the men, she waves it and points to the background._ fly home, ye ravens, tell your lord the tidings that ye have heard by the rhine. but fly, as ye go, by brünnhild's rock: still loge flames there; bid him follow to walhall; for the gods are drawing near to their doom. [illustration: brünnhilde on grane leaps on to the funeral pyre of siegfried--see p. 182] thus--thrown be the brand on walhall's glittering halls! [_she hurls the brand on to the pile of wood, which quickly breaks into flame. two ravens fly up from the rock by the shore and vanish in the background. brünnhilde perceives her horse, which has just been led in by two men._ grane, my horse, be greeted fair! [_she springs towards him, and, catching hold of him, removes his bridle and bends towards him affectionately._ knowest thou, my friend, to whom we are going? thy lord lies radiant there in the fire, siegfried, my hero blest! thou neighest with joy to think thou shalt join him? laughing, the flames allure thee to follow? feel thou my bosom, feel how it burns; flames of fire have laid hold on my heart. ah, to embrace him, by him be embraced, united for ever in love without end! heiajoho! grane! give thy lord greeting! [_she has swung herself on to the horse, and urges it forward._ siegfried! siegfried! see! brünnhild' greets thee, thy bride! [_she urges her horse with one leap into the burning pile of logs. the flames immediately blaze up, so that they fill the whole space in front of the hall and seem to catch hold of the building itself. the terrified men and women press as far to the front as possible. when the whole stage appears to be filled with fire the glow gradually fades, so that there is soon nothing left but a cloud of smoke, which drifts towards the back and hangs there as a dark bank of cloud. at the same time the rhine overflows and the flood rolls up over the fire. the three rhine-maidens swim forward on the waves, and now appear over the spot where the fire was. hagen, who since the incident of the ring has been watching brünnhilde's behaviour with growing anxiety, is much alarmed by the fight of the rhine-maidens. he throws away his spear, shield, and helmet, and dashes into the flood as if mad, crying out, "back from the ring!" woglinde and wellgunde fling their arms round his neck and, swimming away, draw him down with them into the depths. flosshilde, swimming ahead of the others towards the back, joyously holds up the recovered ring. through the bank of cloud on the horizon a red glow of increasing brightness breaks forth, and, illumined by this light, the rhine-maidens are seen merrily circling about and playing with the ring on the calmer waters of the rhine, which has gradually retired to its natural bed. from the ruins of the fallen hall the men and women watch in great agitation the growing gleam of fire in the heavens. when this is at its brightest the hall of walhall is seen, in which the gods and heroes fit assembled, as described by waltraute in the first act. bright flames seem to seize on the hall of the gods. when the gods are completely hidden by the flames the curtain falls._ [illustration: the rhine-maidens obtain possession of the ring and bear it off in triumph.] [illustration: richard wagner.] stories of the wagner opera. by h.a. guerber, author of "myths of greece and rome," "myths of northern lands," "contes et légends," etc. new york: dodd, mead, and company. 1905. _copyright 1895_, by dodd, mead and company. university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. dedicated to my friend, m.a. mcc. preface. these short sketches, which can be read in a few moments' time, are intended to give the reader as clear as possible an outline of the great dramatist-composer's work. the author is deeply indebted to professor g.t. dippold, to messrs. forman, jackman, and corder, and to the oliver ditson company, for the poetical quotations scattered throughout the text. contents. page rienzi, the last of the tribunes 7 the flying dutchman 23 tannhäuser 38 lohengrin 56 tristan and ysolde 72 the master-singers of nuremberg 88 the nibelung's ring.--rheingold 105 the walkyrie 120 siegfried 138 dusk of the gods 154 parsifal 172 illustrations. page richard wagner frontispiece banishment of rienzi 7 senta 23 tannhäuser and venus 38 ortrud kneeling before elsa 56 tristan's death 72 walther crowned by eva 88 the rhine maidens 105 brunhilde discovering siegmund and sieglinde 120 siegfried and mime 138 siegfried and the rhine maidens 154 parsifal in the enchanted garden 172 [illustration: banishment of rienzi.] rienzi, the last of the tribunes. wagner was greatly troubled in the beginning of his career about the choice of subjects for his operas. his first famous work, 'rienzi,' is founded upon the same historical basis as bulwer's novel bearing the same name, and is a tragic opera in five acts. the composer wrote the poem and the first two acts of the score in 1838, during his residence at riga, and from there carried it with him to boulogne. there he had an interview with meyerbeer, after his memorable sea journey. wagner submitted his libretto and the score for the first acts to that famous composer, who is reported to have said, 'rienzi is the best opera-book extant,' and who gave him introductions to musical directors and publishers in paris. in spite of this encouraging verdict on meyerbeer's part, wagner soon discovered that there was no chance of success for 'rienzi' in france, and, after completing the score while dwelling at meudon, he forwarded it in 1841 to dresden. here the opera found friends in the tenor tichatscheck and the chorus-master fisher, and when it was produced in 1842 it was received with great enthusiasm. the opera, which gave ample opportunity for great scenic display, was so long, however, that the first representation lasted from six o'clock to midnight. but when wagner would fain have made excisions, the artists themselves strenuously opposed him, and preferred to give the opera in two successive evenings. at the third representation wagner himself conducted with such success that 'he was the hero of the day.' this great triumph was reviewed with envy by the admirers of the italian school of music, and some critics went so far in their partisanship as to denounce the score as 'blatant, and at times almost vulgar.' notwithstanding these adverse criticisms, the opera continued to be played with much success at dresden, and was produced at berlin some years later, and at vienna in 1871. as wagner's subsequent efforts have greatly surpassed this first work, 'rienzi' is not often played, and has seldom been produced in america, i believe owing principally to its great length. the scene of 'rienzi' is laid entirely in the streets and capitol of rome, in the middle of the fourteenth century, when the city was rendered unsafe by the constant dissensions and brawls among the noble families. foremost among these conflicting elements were the rival houses of colonna and orsini, and, as in those days each nobleman kept an armed retinue within a fortified enclosure in town, he soon became a despot. fearing no one, consulting only his own pleasure and convenience, he daily sallied forth to plunder, kidnap, and murder at his will. such being the state of affairs, the streets daily flowed with blood; the merchants no longer dared open their shops and expose their wares lest they should be summarily carried away, and young and pretty women scarcely dared venture out of their houses even at noonday, lest they should be seen and carried away by noblemen. terrified by the lawlessness of the barons, whom he could no longer control, the pope left rome and took refuge at avignon, leaving the ancient city a helpless prey to the various political factions which were engaged in continual strife. this state of affairs was so heart-rending that rienzi, an unusually clever man of the people and an enthusiast, resolved to try and rouse the old patriotic spirit in the breast of the degenerate romans, and to induce them to rise up against their oppressors and shake off their hated yoke. naturally a scholar and a dreamer, rienzi would probably never have seen the necessity of such a thing, or ventured to attempt it, had he not seen his own little brother wantonly slain during one of the usual frays between the orsini and colonna factions. the murderer, a scion of the colonna family, considered the matter as so trivial that he never even condescended to excuse himself, or to offer any redress to the injured parties, thus filling rienzi's heart with a bitter hatred against all the patrician race. secretly and in silence the young enthusiast matured his revolutionary plans, winning many adherents by his irresistible eloquence, and patiently bided his time until a suitable opportunity occurred to rally his partisans, openly defy the all-powerful barons, and restore the old freedom and prosperity to rome. the opera opens at nightfall, with one of the scenes so common in those days, an attempt on the part of the orsini to carry off by force a beautiful girl from the presumably safe shelter of her own home. the street is silent and deserted, the armed band steal noiselessly along, place their scaling ladder under the fair one's casement, and the head of the orsini, climbing up, seizes her and tries to carry her off in spite of her frantic cries and entreaties. the noise attracts the attention of adrian, heir of the colonna family, and when he perceives that the would-be kidnappers wear the arms and livery of the orsini, his hereditary foes, he seizes with joyful alacrity the opportunity to fight, and pounces upon them with all his escort. a confused street skirmish ensues, in the course of which adrian rescues the beautiful maiden, whom he recognises as irene, rienzi's only sister. attracted by the brawl, the people crowd around the combatants, cheering and deriding them with discordant cries, and becoming so excited that they refuse to disperse when the pope's legate appears and timidly implores them to keep the peace. the tumult has reached a climax when rienzi suddenly comes upon the scene, and authoritatively reminds his adherents that they have sworn to respect the law and the church, and bids them withdraw. his words, received with enthusiastic cries of approbation by the people, are, however, scorned by the barons, who would fain continue the strife, but are forced to desist. anxious to renew hostilities as soon as possible, and to decide the question of supremacy by the force of arms, the irate noblemen then and there appoint a time and place for a general encounter outside the city gates on the morrow, when they reluctantly disperse. the appointment has been overheard by rienzi, who, urged by the legate of the pope and by the clamours of the people to strike a decisive blow, decides to close the gates upon the nobles on the morrow, and to allow none to re-enter the city until they have taken a solemn oath to keep the peace and respect the law. in an impassioned discourse rienzi then urges the people to uphold him now that the decisive moment has come, and to rally promptly around him at the sound of his trumpet, which will peal forth on the morrow to proclaim the freedom of rome. when they have all gone in obedience to his command, the tribune, for such is the dignity which the people have conferred upon their champion rienzi, turns toward the girl, the innocent cause of all the uproar, and perceives for the first time that it is his own sister irene. adrian is bending anxiously over her fainting form; but as soon as she recovers her senses she hastens to inform her brother that he saved her from orsini's shameful attempt, and bespeaks his fervent thanks for her young protector. it is then only that the tribune realises that a colonna, one of his bitterest foes, and one of the most influential among the hated barons, has overheard his instructions to his adherents, and can defeat his most secret and long cherished plans. suddenly, however, he remembers that in youth he and adrian often played together, and, counting upon the young nobleman's deep sense of honour, which he had frequently tested in the past, he passionately adjures him to show himself a true roman and help him to save his unhappy country. irene fervently joins in this appeal, and such is the influence of her beauty and distress that adrian, who is very patriotic and who has long wished to see the city resume its former splendour, gladly consents to lend his aid. this oath of allegiance received, rienzi, whom matters of state call elsewhere, asks adrian to remain in his house during his absence, to protect his sister against a renewal of the evening's outrage. adrian joyfully accepts this charge, and the lovers, for they have been such from the very first glance exchanged, remain alone together and unite in a touching duet of faith and love, whose beautiful, peaceful strains contrast oddly with the preceding discordant strife. in spite of his transport at finding his affections returned, and in the very midst of his rapturous joy at embracing his beloved, adrian, tortured by premonitory fears, warns irene that her brother is far too sanguine of success, and that his hopes will surely be deceived. he also declares that he fears lest the proverbially fickle people may waver in their promised allegiance, and lest rienzi may be the victim of the cruel barons whom he has now openly defied. the lovers' conversation is interrupted at sunrise by the ringing of the capitol bell, proclaiming that the revolution has begun, and the triumphant chorus of priests and people is heard without, bidding all the romans rejoice as their freedom is now assured. riding ahead of the procession, rienzi slowly passes by in the glittering armour and array of a tribune, and from time to time pauses to address the crowd, telling them that the ancient city is once more free, and that he, as chief magistrate, will severely punish any and every infringement of the law. at the news of this welcome proclamation the enthusiasm of the people reaches such an exalted pitch that they all loudly swear to obey their tribune implicitly, and loyally help him to uphold the might and dignity of the holy city:- 'we swear to thee that great and free our rome shall be as once of yore; to protect it from tyranny we'll shed the last drop of our gore. shame and destruction now we vow to all the enemies of rome; a new free people are we now, and we'll defend our hearth and home.' the scene of the second act is laid in the capitol, where the barons, who had been forced to take the oath of allegiance ere they were allowed to re-enter the city, are present, as well as the numerous emissaries from foreign courts. heralds and messengers from all parts of the land crowd eagerly around the tribune, anxious to do him homage, and to assure him that, thanks to his decrees, order and peace are now restored. amid the general silence the heralds make their reports, declaring that the roads are safe, all brigandage suppressed, commerce and agriculture more flourishing than ever before, a statement which rienzi and the people receive with every demonstration of great joy. to the barons, however, these are very unwelcome tidings, and, knowing that the people could soon be cowed were they only deprived of their powerful leader, they gather together in one corner of the hall and plot how to put rienzi to death. adrian accidentally discovers this conspiracy, and indignantly remonstrates with the barons, threatening even to denounce them, since they are about to break their word and resort to such dishonourable means. but his own father, colonna, is one of the instigators of the conspiracy, and he dares him to carry out his threat, which would only result in branding him as a parricide. then, without waiting to hear his son's decision, the old baron, accompanied by the other conspirators, joins rienzi on the balcony, whence he has just addressed the assembled people. they have been listening to his last proposal, that the romans should shake off the galling yoke of the german empire and make their city a republic once more, and now loud and enthusiastic acclamations rend the air. the speech ended, adrian, stealing softly behind the tribune, bids him be on the watch as treachery is lurking near. he has scarcely ended his warning and slipped away ere the conspirators suddenly surround the tribune, and there, in the presence of the assembled people, they simultaneously draw their daggers, and strike him repeatedly. this dastardly attempt at murder utterly fails, however, as the tribune wears a corselet of mail beneath the robes of state, and his guards quickly disarm and secure the conspirators while the people loudly clamour for their execution by the axe, a burly blacksmith, cecco, acting as their principal spokesman. rienzi, who is principally incensed by their attack upon roman liberties, and by their utter lack of faith, is about to yield to their demand, when irene and adrian suddenly fall at his feet, imploring the pardon of the condemned, and entreating him to show mercy rather than justice. once more rienzi addresses the people, but it requires all his persuasive eloquence to induce them, at last, to forgive the barons' attempt. then the culprits are summoned into the tribune's august presence, where, instead of being executed as they fully expect, they are pardoned and set free, after they have once more solemnly pledged themselves to respect the new government and its chosen representatives. this promise is wrung from them by the force of circumstances; they have no intention of keeping it, and they are no sooner released than they utter dark threats of revenge, which fill the people's hearts with ominous fear, and make them regret the clemency they have just shown. the next act is played on one of the public squares of rome, where the people are tumultuously assembled to discuss the secret flight of the barons. they have fled from the city during the night, and, in spite of their recently renewed oaths, are even now preparing to re-enter the city with fire and sword, and to resume their former supremacy. in frantic terror, the people call upon rienzi to deliver them, declaring that, had he only been firm and executed the nobles, rome would now have no need to fear their wrath. adrian, coming upon the spot as they march off toward the capitol, anxiously deliberates what course he shall pursue, and bitterly reviles fate, which forces him either to bear arms against his own father and kin, or to turn traitor and slay the tribune, the brother of his fair beloved. while he thus soliloquises in his despair, rienzi appears on horseback, escorted by the roman troops, all loudly chanting a battle song, of which the constant refrain is the tribune's rallying cry, 'santo spirito cavaliere!' they are on their way to the city gates, where the assembled forces of the barons await them, and adrian, in a last frantic attempt to prevent bloodshed, throws himself in front of rienzi's horse, imploring the tribune to allow him to try once more to conciliate the rebel nobles. but rienzi utterly refuses to yield again to his entreaties, and marches calmly on, accompanied by the people chanting the last verse of their solemn war-song. the fourth act is played in front of the lateran church. the battle has taken place. the barons have been repulsed at the cost of great slaughter. but notwithstanding their losses and the death of their leader, the elder colonna, the nobles have not relinquished all hope of success. what they failed to secure by the force of arms, they now hope to win by intrigue, for they have artfully won not only the pope, but the emperor also, to uphold their cause and side with them. the people, who have just learned that the pope and emperor have recalled their legates and ambassadors, are awed and frightened. baroncelli and cecco, two demagogues, seize this occasion to poison their fickle minds, and blame rienzi openly for all that has occurred. their specious reasoning that the tribune must be very wicked indeed, since the spiritual and temporal authorities alike disapprove of him, is strengthened by the sudden appearance of adrian, who, wild with grief at his father's death, publicly declares he has vowed to slay the tribune. the people--who, lacking the strength to uphold their convictions, now hate their leader as vehemently as they once loved and admired him--are about to join adrian in his passionate cry of 'down with rienzi!' when the cardinal and his train suddenly appear, and march into the church, where a grand 'te deum' is to be sung to celebrate the victory over the barons. while the romans are wavering, and wondering whether they have not made a mistake, and whether the pope really disapproves of their chief magistrate, rienzi marches toward the church, accompanied by irene and his body guard. adrian, at the sight of his pale beloved, has no longer the courage to execute his purpose and slay her only brother. just as they are about to enter the church, where they expect to hear the joyful strains of thanksgiving, the cardinal appears at the church door, barring their entrance, and solemnly pronounces the church's anathema upon the horror-struck rienzi. the people all start back and withdraw from him as from one accursed, while adrian, seizing irene's hand, seeks to lead her away from her brother. but the brave girl resists her lover's offers and entreaties, and, clinging closely to the unhappy tribune, she declares she will never forsake him, while he vows he will never relinquish his hope that rome may eventually recover her wonted freedom, and again shake off the tyrant's yoke. the fifth and last act is begun in the capitol, where rienzi, the enthusiast, is wrapped in prayer, and forgetting himself entirely, fervently implores divine protection for his misguided people and unhappy city. he has scarcely ended this beautiful prayer when irene joins him, and, when he once more beseeches her to leave him, she declares she will never forsake him, even though by clinging to him she must renounce her love,--a passion which he has never known. at this declaration, rienzi in a passionate outburst tells how deeply he has loved and still loves his mistress, rome, fallen and degraded though she may be. he loves her, although she has broken faith with him, has turned to listen to the blandishments of another, and basely deserted him at the time of his utmost need. irene, touched by his grief, bids him not give way to despair, but adjures him to make a last attempt to regain his old ascendency over the minds of the fickle people. as he leaves her to follow her advice, adrian enters the hall, wildly imploring her to escape while there is yet time, for the infuriated romans are coming, not only to slay rienzi, but to burn down the capitol which has sheltered him. as she utterly refuses to listen to his entreaties, he vainly seeks to drag her away. it is only when the lurid light of the devouring flames illumines the hall, and when she sinks unconscious to the floor, that he can bear her away from a place fraught with so much danger for them all. rienzi, in the mean while, has stepped out on the balcony, whence he has made repeated but futile attempts to address the mob. baroncelli and cecco, fearing lest he should yet succeed in turning the tide by his marvellous eloquence, drown his voice by discordant cries, fling stones which fall all around his motionless figure like hail, and clamour for more fuel to burn down the capitol, which they have sworn shall be his funeral pyre. calmly now rienzi contemplates their fury and his unavoidable death, and solemnly predicts that they will regret their precipitancy, as the capitol falls into ruins over the noble head of the last of the tribunes. [illustration: senta.] the flying dutchman. after leaving riga, where he had accepted the position of music director, which he filled acceptably for some time, wagner went to pillau, where he embarked on a sailing vessel bound for london. he was accompanied by his wife and by a huge newfoundland dog, and during this journey learned to know the sea, and became familiar with the sound of the sailors' songs, the creaking of the rigging, the whistling of the wind, and the roar and crash of the waves. this journey made a deep impression upon his imagination. he had read heine's version of the legend of the flying dutchman, and questioned the sailors, who told him many similar yarns. he himself subsequently said: 'i shall never forget that voyage; it lasted three weeks and a half, and was rich in disasters. three times we suffered from the effects of heavy storms. the passage through the narrows made a wondrous impression on my fancy. the legend of the flying dutchman was confirmed by the sailors, and the circumstances gave it a distinct and characteristic colour in my mind.' one year later, when in paris, wagner submitted detailed sketches for this work to the director of the opera, to whom meyerbeer had introduced him. the sketches were accepted, and shortly after the director expressed a wish to purchase them. wagner utterly refused at first to give up his claim to the plot, which he had secured from heine; but, finding that he could not obtain possession of the sketches, which had already been given to foucher for versification, he accepted the miserable sum of £20, which was all that was offered in compensation. the stolen opera was produced in paris under the title of 'le vaisseau fantôme,' in 1842, but it was never very successful, and has been entirely eclipsed by wagner's version. wagner had not, however, relinquished the idea of writing an opera upon this theme, and he finished the poem, which spohr has designated as 'a little masterpiece,' as quickly as possible. the score was written at meudon, near paris, and completed, with the exception of the overture, in the short space of seven weeks. when offered in munich and leipsic the critics pronounced it 'unfit for germany,' but, upon meyerbeer's recommendation, it was accepted at berlin, although no preparations were made for its immediate representation. 'the flying dutchman' was first brought out at dresden in 1843, four years after the idea of this work had first suggested itself to the illustrious composer, who conducted the orchestra in person, while madame schröder-devrient sang the part of senta. the audience did not receive it very enthusiastically, and, while some of the hearers were deeply moved, the majority were simply astonished. no one at first seemed to appreciate the opera at its full value except spohr, who in connection with it wrote: 'der fliegende holländer interests me in the highest degree. the opera is imaginative, of noble invention, well written for the voices, immensely difficult, rather overdone as regards instrumentation, but full of novel effects; at the theatre it is sure to prove clear and intelligible.... i have come to the conclusion that among composers for the stage, _pro tem._, wagner is the most gifted.' the legend upon which the whole opera is based is that a dutch captain once tried to double the cape of good hope in the teeth of a gale, swearing he would accomplish his purpose even if he had to plough the main forever. this rash oath was overheard by satan, who condemned him to sail until the judgment day, unless he could find a woman who would love him faithfully until death. once in every seven years only did the devil allow the dutchman to land, in search of the maiden who might effect his release. in the first act of the opera, the seven years have just ended, and daland, a norwegian captain, has been forced by a tempest to anchor his vessel in a sheltered bay within a few miles of his peaceful home, where senta, his only daughter, awaits him. all on board are sleeping, and the steersman alone keeps watch over the anchored vessel, singing of the maiden he loves and of the gifts he is bringing her from foreign lands. in the midst of his song, the flying dutchman's black-masted vessel with its red sails enters the cove, and casts anchor beside the norwegian ship, although no one seems aware of its approach. the dutchman, who has not noticed the vessel at anchor so near him, springs eagerly ashore, breathing a sigh of relief at being allowed to land once more, although he has but little hope of finding the faithful woman who alone can release him from his frightful doom:- 'the term is past, and once again are ended the seven long years! the weary sea casts me upon the land. ha! haughty ocean, a little while, and thou again wilt bear me. though thou art changeful, unchanging is my doom; release, which on the land i seek for, never shall i meet with.' the unhappy wanderer then tells how he has braved the dangers of every sea, sought death on every rock, challenged every pirate, and how vain all his efforts have been to find the death which always eludes him. daland, waking from his sound slumbers, suddenly perceives the anchored vessel, and chides the drowsy steersman, who has not warned him of its approach. he is about to signal to the ship to ascertain its name, when he suddenly perceives the dutchman, whom he questions concerning his home and destination. the dutchman answers his questions very briefly, and, upon hearing that daland's home is very near, eagerly offers untold wealth for permission to linger a few hours by his fireside, and to taste the joys of home. amazed at the sight of the treasures spread out before him, daland not only consents to show hospitality to this strange homeless guest, but even promises, after a little persuasion, to allow him to woo and to win, if he can, the affections of his only daughter, senta:- 'i give thee here my word. i mourn thy lot. as thou art bountiful, thou showest me thy good and noble heart. my son i wish thou wert; and were thy wealth not half as great, i would not choose another.' transported with joy at the mere prospect of winning the love which may compass his salvation, the flying dutchman proclaims in song his mingled rapture and relief, and while he sings the storm clouds break, and the sun again shines forth over the mysteriously calmed sea. the opportunity is immediately seized by the norwegian captain, who, bidding the dutchman follow him closely, bids the sailors raise the anchor, and sails out of the little harbour to the merry accompaniment of a nautical chorus:- 'through thunder and storm from distant seas, my maiden, come i near; over towering waves, with southern breeze, my maiden, am i here. my maiden, were there no south wind, i never could come to thee: o fair south wind, to me be kind! my maiden, she longs for me. hoho! halloho!' the next scene represents a room in daland's house. the rough walls are covered with maps and charts, and on the farther partition there is a striking portrait of a pale, melancholy looking man, who wears a dark beard and a foreign dress. the air is resonant with the continual hum of the whirling spinning-wheels, for the maidens are all working diligently under the direction of maria, the housekeeper, and soon begin their usual spinning chorus. their hands and feet work busily while two verses of the song are sung, and all are remarkably diligent except senta, who sits with her hands in her lap, gazing in rapt attention at the portrait of the flying dutchman, whose mournful fate has touched her tender heart, and whose haunting eyes have made her indulge in many a long day-dream. roused from her abstraction by the chiding voice of mary, and by her companions, who twit her with having fallen in love with a shadow instead of thinking only of her lover erik, the hunter, senta resumes her work, and to still their chatter sings them the ballad of the flying dutchman. when she has described his aimless wanderings and his mournful doom, which naught can change until he finds a maiden who will pledge him her entire faith, the girls mockingly interrupt her to inquire whether she would have the courage to love an outcast and to follow a spectral wooer. but when senta passionately declares she would do it gladly, and ends by fervently praying that he may soon appear to put her love and faith to the test, they are almost as much alarmed as erik, who enters the room in time to hear this enthusiastic outburst. turning to mary, the housekeeper, he informs her that daland's ship has just sailed into the harbour in company with another vessel, whose captain and crew he doubtless means to entertain. at these tidings the wheels are all set aside, and the maidens hasten to help prepare the food for the customary feast. senta alone remains seated by her wheel, and erik, placing himself beside her, implores her not to leave him for another, but to put an end to his sorrows by promising to become his wife. his eloquent pleading has no effect upon her, however, and when he tries to deride her fancy for the pictured face, and to awaken her pity for him by describing his own sufferings, she scornfully compares them to the dutchman's unhappy fate:- 'oh, vaunt it not! what can thy sorrow be? know'st thou the fate of that unhappy man? look, canst thou feel the pain, the grief, with which his gaze on me he bends? ah! when i think he has ne'er found relief, how sharp a pang my bosom rends!' erik, beside himself with jealousy, finally tells her that he has had an ominous dream, in which he saw her greet the dark stranger, embrace him tenderly, and even follow him out to sea, where she was lost. but all this pleading only makes senta more obstinate in her refusal of his attentions, and more eager to behold the object of her romantic attachment, who at that very moment enters the house, following her father, who greets her tenderly. the sudden apparition of the stranger, whose resemblance to the portrait is very striking, robs senta of all composure, and it is only when her father has gently reproved her for her cold behaviour that she bids him welcome. daland then explains to his daughter that his guest is a wanderer and an exile, although well provided with this world's goods, and asks her whether she would be willing to listen to his wooing, and would consent to ratify his conditional promise by giving the stranger her hand:- 'wilt thou, my child, accord our guest a friendly welcome, and wilt thou also let him share thy kindly heart? give him thy hand, for bridegroom it is thine to call him, if thou but give consent, to-morrow his thou art.' wholly uninfluenced by the description of the stranger's wealth which her father gives her, but entirely won by the flying dutchman's timidly expressed hope that she will not refuse him the blessing he has so long and so vainly sought, senta hesitates no longer, but generously promises to become his wife, whatever fate may await her:- 'whoe'er thou art, where'er thy curse may lead thee, and me, when i thy lot mine own have made,- whate'er the fate which i with thee may share in, my father's will by me shall be obeyed.' this promise at first fills the heart of the flying dutchman with the utmost rapture, for he is thinking only of himself, and of his release from the curse, but soon he begins to love the innocent maiden through whom alone he can find rest. then he also remembers that, if she fail, she too will be accursed, and, instead of urging her as before, he now tries to dissuade her from becoming his wife by depicting life at his side in the most unenticing colours, and by warning her that she must die if her faith should waver. senta, undeterred by all these statements, and eager if necessary to sacrifice herself for her beloved, again offers to follow him, and once more a rapturous thrill passes through his heart:- 'senta. here is my hand! i will not rue, but e'en to death will i be true. the dutchman. she gives her hand! i conquer you, dread powers of hell, while she is true.' daland returns into the room in time to see that they have agreed to marry, and proposes that their wedding should take place immediately, and be celebrated at the same time as the feast which he generally gives all his sailors at the end of a happy journey. the third act of this opera represents both ships riding at anchor in a rocky bay, near which rises daland's picturesque norwegian cottage. all is life and animation on board the norwegian vessel, where the sailors are dancing and singing in chorus, but the black-masted ship appears deserted, and is as quiet as the tomb. when the sailors have ended their chorus, the pretty peasant girls come trooping down to the shore, bringing food and drink for both crews, which they hail from the shore. the norwegian sailors promptly respond to their call, and, hastening ashore, they receive their share of the feast; but the phantom vessel remains as lifeless as before. in vain the girls offer the provisions they have brought, in vain the other crew taunt the sleepers, there is no answer given. the provisions are then all bestowed upon the norwegians, who eat and drink most heartily ere they resume their merry chorus. suddenly, however, the dutch sailors rouse themselves, appear on deck, and prepare to depart, while singing about their captain, who has once more gone ashore in search of the faithful wife who alone can save him. blue flames hover over the phantom ship, and the sound of a coming storm is borne upon the breeze. the norwegian sailors sing louder than ever to drown this ominous sound, but they are soon too alarmed to sing, and hasten into their cabins making the sign of the cross, which evokes a burst of demoniac laughter from the phantom crew. the storm and lights subside as quickly and mysteriously as they appeared, and all is quiet once more as senta comes down to the shore. erik, meeting her, implores her to listen to his wooing, which once found favour, and to forget the stranger whom her father has induced her to accept on such short notice. senta listens patiently to his plea, which does not in the least shake her faith in her new lover, or change her resolution to live and die for him alone. but the dutchman, appearing suddenly, mistakes her patience for regret, and, almost frantic with love and despair, he bids her a passionate farewell and rushes off toward his ship. 'to sea! to sea till time is ended! thy sacred promise be forgot, thy sacred promise and my fate! farewell! i wish not to destroy thee!' but senta has not ceased to love him. she runs after him, imploring him to remain with her, protesting her fidelity and renewing her vows in spite of erik's passionate efforts to prevent her from doing so. the flying dutchman at first refuses to listen to her words, and rapidly gives his orders for departure. she is about to embark, when he suddenly turns toward her and declares that he is accursed, and that she has saved herself, by timely withdrawal, from the doom which awaits all those who fail to keep their troth:- 'now hear, and learn the fate from which thou wilt be saved: condemned am i to bear a frightful fortune,- ten times would death appear a brighter lot. a woman's hand alone the curse can lighten, if she will love me, and till death be true. still to be faithful thou hast vowed, yet has not god thy promise? this rescues thee; for know, unhappy, what a fate is theirs who break the troth which they to me have plighted: endless damnation is their doom! victims untold have fallen 'neath this curse through me. yet, senta, thou shalt escape. farewell! all hope is fled forevermore.' but senta has known from the very beginning who this dark wooer was, and is so intent upon saving him from his fate that she fears no danger for herself. passionately she clings to him, protesting her affection, and when he looses her, and erik would fain detain her by force, she struggles frantically to follow him. erik's cry brings daland, mary, and the chorus to the rescue, and they too strive to restrain senta, when they hear the stranger proclaim from the deck of his phantom ship that he is the scourge of the sea,--the flying dutchman. the vessel sails away from the harbour. senta escapes from her friends, and rushes to a projecting cliff, whence she casts herself recklessly into the seething waves, intent only upon showing her love and saving him, and thereby proving herself faithful unto death:- 'praise thou thine angel for what he saith; here stand i, faithful, yea, till death!' as senta sinks beneath the waves the phantom vessel vanishes also, and as the storm abates and the rosy evening clouds appear in the west the transfigured forms of senta and the flying dutchman hover for a moment over the wreck, and, rising slowly, float upward and out of sight, embracing each other, for her faithful love has indeed accomplished his salvation, and his spirit, may now be at rest. [illustration: tannhäuser and venus.] tannhäuser. in 1829, when wagner was only sixteen years of age, he first became acquainted, through hoffmann's novels, with the story of the mastersingers of nürnberg, and with the mediæval legend of tannhäuser, as versified by ludwig tieck. the 'mystical coquetry and frivolous catholicism' of this modern poem repelled him, and it was not until twelve years later, when he chanced upon a popular version of the same story, that he was struck by its dramatic possibilities. a chance mention of the sängerkrieg of the wartburg in this version made him trace the legend as far back as possible, and in doing so he came across an old poem of lohengrin, and read eschenbach's 'titurel' and 'parzival,' which were to serve as basis for two other great operas. the sketch of the opera of 'tannhäuser' was completed in 1842, at teplitz, during an excursion in the bohemian mountains; but the whole score was not finished until three years later. wagner had gone over it all so carefully that it was printed without much revision, and he had even written the piano score, which was sent to berlin in 1845 and appeared in the same year that the opera was produced at dresden. madame schröder-devrient, whom wagner had in his mind in writing the part of venus, sang that rôle, but, in spite of all her talent, the first performance was not a success. she wrote to wagner concerning it, and said, 'you are a man of genius, but you write such eccentric stuff it is hardly possible to sing it.' the public in general, accustomed to light operas with happy endings, was dismayed at the sad and tragical termination, and, while some of the best musical authorities of the day applauded, others criticised the work unsparingly. schumann alone seems to have realised the force of the author's new style, for he wrote, 'on the whole, wagner may become of great importance and significance to the stage,'--a doubtful prediction which was only triumphantly verified many years afterward. like many of the mediæval legends, the story of tannhäuser is connected with the ancient teutonic religion, which declared that holda, the northern venus, had set up her enchanted abode in the hollow mountain known as the hörselberg, where she entertained her devotees with all the pleasures of love. when the missionaries came preaching christianity, they diligently taught the people that all these heathen divinities were demons, and although holda and her court were not forgotten, she became a type of sensual love. tannhäuser, a minstrel of note, who has won many prizes for his songs, hearing of the wondrous underground palace and of its manifold charm, voluntarily enters the mountain, and abandons himself to the fair goddess's wiles. here he spends a whole year in her company, surrounded by her train of loves and nymphs, yielding to all her enchantments, which at first intoxicate his poetic and beauty loving soul. but at last the sensual pleasures in which he has been steeped begin to pall upon his jaded senses. he longs to tear himself away from the enchantress, and to return to the mingled pleasure and pain of earth. the first scene of the opera represents the charmed grotto where venus gently seeks to beguile the discontented knight, while nymphs, loves, bacchantes, and lovers whirl about in the graceful mazes of the dance, or pose in charming attitudes. seeing tannhäuser's abstraction and evident sadness, venus artfully questions him, and when he confesses his homesickness, and his intense longing to revisit the earth, she again tries to dazzle him, and cast a glamour over all his senses, so as to make him utterly oblivious of all but her. temporarily intoxicated by her charms, tannhäuser, when called upon to tune his lyre, bursts forth into a song extolling her beauty and fascination; but even before the lay is ended the longing to depart again seizes him, and he passionately entreats her to release him from her thrall:- ''tis freedom i must win or die,- for freedom i can all defy; to strife or glory forth i go, come life or death, come joy or woe, no more in bondage will i sigh! o queen, beloved goddess, let me fly!' thus adjured, and seeing her power is temporarily ended, venus haughtily dismisses her slave, warning him that he returns to earth in vain, as he has forfeited all chance of salvation by lingering with her, and bidding him return without fear when the intolerance of man has made him weary of life upon earth. a sudden change of scene occurs. at a sign from venus, the grotto and its voluptuous figures disappear; the roseate light makes way for the glaring sunshine, and tannhäuser, who has not moved, suddenly finds himself upon the hillside, near the highroad and the shrine of the virgin, and within sight of the wartburg castle, where he formerly dwelt and won many a prize for his beautiful songs. the summer silence is at first broken only by the soft notes of a shepherd singing a popular ballad about holda, the northern venus, who issues yearly from the mountain to herald the spring, but as he ceases a band of pilgrims slowly comes into view. these holy wanderers are all clad in penitential robes, and, as they slowly wend their way down the hill and past the shrine, they chant a psalm praying for the forgiveness of their sins. the shepherd calls to them asking them to pray for him in rome, and, as they pass out of sight, still singing, tannhäuser, overcome with remorse for his misspent years, sinks down on his knees before the virgin's shrine, humbly imploring forgiveness for his sins:- 'oh, see my heart by grief oppressed! i faint, i sink beneath the burden! nor will i cease, nor will i rest, till heavenly mercy grants me pardon.' while he is still kneeling there, absorbed in prayer, the landgrave and his minstrel knights appear in hunting costume. their attention is attracted by the bowed figure of the knight, and when he raises his head they recognise him as their former companion. some of the minstrels, jealous of his past triumphs, would fain regard him as their foe, but, influenced by one of their number, wolfram von eschenbach, they welcome him kindly and ask him where he has been. tannhäuser, only partly roused from his half lethargic state, dreamily answers that he has long been tarrying in a land where he found neither peace nor rest, and in answer to their invitation to join them in the wartburg declares he cannot stay, but must wander on forever. wolfram, seeing him about to depart once more, then reminds him of elizabeth, the fair chatelaine of the wartburg, and when he sees that, although tannhäuser trembles at the mere sound of the name of the maiden he once loved, he will nevertheless depart, he asks and obtains the landgrave's permission to reveal a long kept secret. wolfram himself has long loved the fair elizabeth, but such is his unselfish devotion that he would fain see her happy even with a rival. to win the light back to her eyes and the smile to her lips, he now tells tannhäuser how she has drooped ever since he went away, and generously confesses that she took pleasure in his music only, and has persistently avoided the minstrel hall since his departure. his eloquent pleading touches tannhäuser's reawakening heart, and he finally consents to accompany the landgrave and his minstrels back to the wartburg. hither they now make their way on foot and on horseback, singing a triumphal chorus:- 'he doth return, no more to wander; our loved and lost is ours again. all praise and thanks to those we render who could persuade, and not in vain. now let your harps indite a measure of all that hero's hand may dare, of all that poet's heart can pleasure, before the fairest of the fair.' the second act is played in the great hall of the wartburg castle, which is festively decorated, for the minstrels are again to contend for the prize of song, a laurel wreath which will again be bestowed as of yore by the fair hands of the beloved princess elizabeth. as the curtain rises she is alone in the hall, no longer pale and wan, but radiant with happiness, for she knows that tannhäuser, her lover, has returned, and she momentarily expects him to appear. while she is greeting the well known hall, the scene of her lover's former triumphs, with a rapturous little outburst of song, the door suddenly opens and wolfram appears, leading the penitent tannhäuser, who rushes forward and falls at elizabeth's feet, while his friend discreetly withdraws. elizabeth would fain raise the knight, telling him it is unbecoming for him to assume so humble an attitude beneath the roof where he has triumphed over all rivals, and she tenderly asks where he has lingered so long. tannhäuser, ashamed of the past, and absorbed in the present, declares that he has been far away, in the land of oblivion, where he has forgotten all save her alone:- 'far away in strange and distant regions, and between yesterday and to-day oblivion's veil hath fallen. every remembrance hath forever vanished, save one thing only, rising from the darkness,- that i then dared not hope i should behold thee, nor ever raise mine eyes to thy perfection.' elizabeth is so happy to see him once more, so ready to forgive him at the very first word of repentance, that tannhäuser cannot but see how dearly she loves him, and they soon unite in a duet of complete bliss, rejoicing openly over their reunion, and vowing to love each other forever, and never to part again. the landgrave appears just as their song is ended, to congratulate elizabeth upon having at last left her seclusion and honoured the minstrels with her presence. in conclusion, he declares that, as all the contestants know she will be there to bestow the prize, the rivalry will be greater than ever. he is interrupted in this speech, however, by the entrance of knights and nobles, who file in singing a chorus in praise of the noble hall, and of hermann, landgrave of thuringia, the patron of song, whom they repeatedly cheer. when they have all taken their appointed places, the landgrave, rising in his seat, addresses them, bidding them welcome, reminding them of the high aims of their art, and telling them that, while the theme he is about to propose for their lays is love, the princess herself will bestow as prize whatever the winner may ask:- 'therefore hear now the theme you all shall sing. say, what is love? by what signs shall we know it? this be your theme. whoso most nobly this can tell, him shall the princess give the prize. he may demand the fairest guerdon: i vouch that whatsoe'er he ask is granted. up, then, arouse ye! sing, o gallant minstrels! attune your harps to love. great is the prize,' at the summons of the heralds, wolfram von eschenbach first takes up the strain, and as for him love is an ardent desire to see the loved one happy, a longing to sacrifice himself if need be, and an attitude of worshipful devotion, he naturally sings an exalted strain. it finds favour with all his hearers,--with all except tannhäuser, who, having tasted of the passionate joys of unholy love, cannot understand the purity of wolfram's lay, which he stigmatises as cold and unsatisfactory. in his turn, he now attunes his harp to love, and sings a voluptuous strain, which not only contrasts oddly with wolfram's performance, but shows love merely as a passion, a gratification of the senses. the minstrels, jealous for their art, indignantly interrupt him, and one even challenges tannhäuser to mortal combat:- 'to mortal combat i defy thee! shameless blasphemer, draw thy sword! as brother henceforth we deny thee: thy words profane too long we've heard! if i of love divine have spoken, its glorious spell shall be unbroken strength'ning in valour, sword and heart, altho' from life this hour i part. for womanhood and noble honour through death and danger i would go; but for the cheap delights that won thee i scorn them as worth not one blow!' this minstrel's sentiments are loudly echoed by all the knights present, who, having been trained in the school of chivalry, have an exalted conception of love, hold all women in high honour, and deeply resent the attempt just made to degrade them. tannhäuser, whose once pure and noble nature has been perverted and degraded by the year spent with venus, cannot longer understand the exalted pleasures of true love, even though he has just won the heart of a peerless and spotless maiden, and when wolfram, hoping to allay the strife, again resumes his former strain, he impatiently interrupts him. recklessly now, and entirely wrapped up in the recollection of the unholy pleasures of the past, tannhäuser exalts the goddess of love, with whom he has revelled in bliss, and boldly reveals the fact that he has been tarrying with her in her subterranean grove. this confession fills the hearts of all present with nameless terror, for the priests have taught them that the heathen deities are demons disguised. the minstrels one and all fall upon tannhäuser, who is saved from immediate death at their hands only by the prompt intervention of elizabeth. broken-hearted, for now she knows the utter unworthiness of the man to whom she has given her heart, yet loving him still and hoping he may in time win forgiveness for his sin, she pleads so eloquently for him that all fall back. the landgrave, addressing him, then solemnly bids him repent, and join the pilgrims on their way to rome, where perchance the pope may grant him absolution for his sin:- 'one path alone can save thee from perdition, from everlasting woe,--by earth abandon'd, one way is left: that way thou now shalt know. a band of pilgrims now assembled from every part of my domain; this morn the elders went before them, the rest yet in the vale remain. 'tis not for crimes like thine they tremble, and leave their country, friends and home,- desire for heav'nly grace is o'er them: they seek the sacred shrine at rome.' urged to depart by the landgrave, knights, nobles, and even by the pale and sorrowful elizabeth, tannhäuser eagerly acquiesces, for now that the sudden spell of sensuous love has departed, he ardently longs to free his soul from the burden of sin. the pilgrims' chant again falls upon his ear, and, sobered and repentant, tannhäuser joins them to journey on foot to rome, kneeling at every shrine by the way, and devoutly praying for the forgiveness and ultimate absolution of his sins. when the curtain rises upon the third and last act of this opera, one whole year has slowly passed, during which no tidings of the pilgrims have been received. it is now time for their return, and they are daily expected by their friends, who have ardently been praying that they may come home, shrived and happy, to spend the remainder of their lives at home in peace. no one has prayed as fervently as the fair elizabeth, who, forgetting her wonted splendour, has daily wended her way down the hillside, to kneel on the rude stones in front of the virgin's wayside shrine. there she has daily prayed for tannhäuser's happy return, and there she kneels absorbed in prayer when wolfram comes down the path as usual. he has not forgotten his love for her, which is as deep and self-sacrificing as ever, so he too prays that her lover may soon return from rome, entirely absolved, and wipe away her constant tears. elizabeth is suddenly roused from her devotions by the distant chant of the returning pilgrims. they sing of sins forgiven, and of the peace won by their long, painful journey to rome. singing thus they slowly file past wolfram and elizabeth, who eagerly scan every face in search of one whom they cannot discover. when all have passed by, elizabeth, realising that she will see her beloved no more, sinks slowly down on her knees, and, raising her despairing eyes to the image of the virgin. then she solemnly dedicates the remainder of her life to her exclusive service, in the hope that tannhäuser may yet be forgiven, and prays that death may soon come to ease her pain and bring her heart eternal peace:- 'o blessed virgin, hear my prayer! thou star of glory, look on me! here in the dust i bend before thee, now from this earth oh set me free! let me, a maiden, pure and white, enter into thy kingdom bright! if vain desires and earthly longing have turn'd my heart from thee away, the sinful hopes within me thronging before thy blessed feet i lay. i'll wrestle with the love i cherish'd, until in death its flame hath perish'd. if of my sin thou wilt not shrive me, yet in this hour, oh grant thy aid! till thy eternal peace thou give me, i vow to live and die thy maid. and on thy bounty i will call, that heav'nly grace on him may fall.' this prayer ended, the broken-hearted elizabeth slowly totters away, while wolfram von eschenbach, who has seen by her pallid face and wasted frame that the death she prays for will not tarry long, sorrowfully realises at last that all his love can save her no pang. when the evening shadows have fallen, and the stars illumine the sky, he is still lingering by the holy shrine where elizabeth has breathed her last prayer. the silence of the night is suddenly broken by the sound of his harp, as he gives vent to his sorrow by an invocation to the stars, among which his lady-love is going to dwell ere-long, and as he sings the last notes a pilgrim slowly draws near. wolfram does not at first recognise his old friend and rival tannhäuser in this dejected, foot-sore traveller; but when he sees the worn face he anxiously inquires whether he has been absolved, and warns him against venturing within the precincts of the wartburg unless he has received papal pardon for his sins. tannhäuser, instead of answering this query, merely asks him to point out the path, which he once found so easily, the path leading to the venus hill, and only when wolfram renews his questions does he vouchsafe him a brief account of his journey to rome. he tells how he trod the roughest roads barefooted, how he journeyed through heat and cold, eschewing all comforts and alleviation of his hard lot, how he knelt penitently before every shrine, and how fervently he prayed for the forgiveness of the sin which had darkened not only his life but that of his beloved. then, in faltering tones, he relates how the pope shrank from him upon hearing that he had sojourned for a year in the venus hill, and how sternly he declared there could be no more hope of pardon for such a sin than to see his withered staff blossom and bear leaves:- 'if thou hast shar'd the joys of hell, if thou unholy flames hast nurs'd that in the hill of venus dwell, thou art for evermore accurs'd! and as this barren staff i hold ne'er will put forth a flower or leaf, thus shalt thou never more behold salvation or thy sin's relief.' tannhäuser now passionately describes his utter despair, after hearing this awful verdict, his weary homeward journey, and his firm determination, since he is utterly debarred from ever seeing elizabeth again, either in this world or in the next, to hasten back to the hill of venus, where he can at least deaden his remorse with pleasure, and steep his sinful soul in sensual love. in vain wolfram pleads with him not to give up all hope of ultimate salvation, and still to repent of his former sin; he insists upon returning to the enchantress who warned him of the intolerance of man, and whom he now calls upon to guide his steps to the entrance of her abode. this invocation does not remain unheard by the fair goddess of beauty. she appears in the distance with her shadowy train, singing her old alluring song, and welcoming him back to her realm. tannhäuser is about to obey her beckoning hand, and to hasten after her in the direction of the hörselberg, when the sound of a funeral chant falls upon his ear. a long procession is slowly winding down the hill. the mourners are carrying the body of the fair elizabeth, who has died of grief, to its last resting place. while tannhäuser, forgetting all else, is gazing spellbound at the waxen features of his beloved, thus slowly borne down the hill, wolfram tells him how the pure maiden interceded for him in her last prayer on earth, and declares that he knows her innocent soul is now pleading for his forgiveness at the foot of the heavenly throne. this hope of salvation brings such relief to tannhäuser's tormented heart, that he turns his back upon venus, who, realising her prey has escaped, suddenly vanishes in the hörselberg with all her demon train. kneeling by elizabeth's bier, tannhäuser fervently prays for forgiveness, until the bystanders, touched by his remorse, assure him that he will be forgiven,--an assurance which is confirmed as he breathes his last, by the arrival of the pope's messenger. he appears, bearing the withered staff, which has miraculously budded and has burst forth into blossoms and leaves:- 'the lord himself now thy bondage hath riven. go, enter in with the blest in his heaven.' [illustration: ortrud kneeling before elsa.] lohengrin. during a summer vacation at teplitz in bohemia, in 1845, wagner wrote the first sketch of the opera of 'lohengrin.' the poem was written at dresden in 1845, but the score was finished only in 1848. the opera was first performed at weimar in 1850, under the leadership of liszt, who was greatly interested in it, and determined to make it a success. the poet composer had taken the idea for this poem from a mediæval legend, based upon the old greek myth of cupid and psyche. its poetical and musical possibilities immediately struck him, and when the opera was first played to an audience composed of musical and literary people from all parts of europe, whom liszt had invited to be present, it produced 'a powerful impression.' from the memorable night of its first performance 'dates the success of the wagner movement in germany.' during the next nine years this opera was given in fourteen different cities, and wagner, who was then a political exile, is reported to have sadly remarked, 'i shall soon be the only german who has not heard lohengrin.' it was in 1861, eleven years after its first performance, that he finally heard it for the first time in vienna. this opera won for wagner not only lasting fame, but also the enthusiastic admiration of the young ludwig of bavaria. such was the impression this work made upon the young prince, who first heard it when he was only sixteen, that he resolved to do all in his power to help the composer. three years later he succeeded to the throne of bavaria as ludwig ii., and one of the first independent acts of his reign was to send a messenger to invite the master to come and dwell at his court, and to assure him a yearly pension from his private purse. the young king was so infatuated with the story of 'lohengrin' that he not only had his residence decorated with paintings and statues representing different episodes of the opera, but used also to sail about his lake, dressed in the swan knight's costume, in a boat drawn by ingeniously contrived mechanical swans. the story of this opera is as follows:-henry i., the fowler, emperor of germany, about to make war against the hungarians who threaten to invade his realm, comes to antwerp to collect his troops, and to remind all the noblemen of brabant of their allegiance to him. the opera opens with the trumpet call of the heralds, and by henry's speech to the assembled noblemen, who enthusiastically promise him the support of their oft-tried arms. the king, who is pleased with their readiness to serve him, then informs them that he has heard rumours of trouble in their midst, and that by right of his office as high justice of the realm he would fain bring peace among them. he therefore summons frederick of telramund, the guardian of the dukedom of brabant, to state the cause of dissension. this nobleman relates how the dying duke of brabant confided his children, elsa and godfrey, to his care, how tenderly he watched over them, and how much sorrow he felt when the young heir, having gone out in the forest to walk with his sister one day, failed to return. frederick of telramund then goes on, and tells how he could not but suspect elsa of her brother's murder. he had therefore renounced her hand, which he had once hoped to win, had married ortrud, daughter of radbod, the heathen king and former possessor of all this tract of land, which he now claims as his own by right of inheritance. the people at first refuse to believe his dark accusation against elsa; but when frederick declares she murdered her brother so as to become sole mistress of the duchy, and to bestow it upon some unworthy lover, the king sends for the maiden, and, hanging his shield upon an oak, declares he will not depart until he has tried this cause:- 'herald. now shall the cause be tried as ancient use requires. king. never again my shield to wear till judgment is pronounced, i swear.' the people receive this decree with joy, and the men, drawing their swords, thrust them into the ground as they form a circle around the king. these preparations for a solemn court of justice are scarcely ended when elsa appears, all in white, and attended by her ladies, who stand in the background while she timidly advances and stands before the king. her youth, beauty, and apparent innocence produce a great effect, not only upon the bystanders, but also upon the king, who gently begins to question her. but, instead of answering him, the fair maiden merely bows and wrings her hands, exclaiming, 'my hapless brother!' until the king implores her to confide in him. suddenly her tongue is loosened, and she begins to sing, as if in a trance, of a vision with which she has been favoured, wherein a handsome knight had been sent by heaven to become her champion:- 'i saw in splendour shining a knight of glorious mien, on me his eye inclining with tranquil gaze serene; a horn of gold beside him, he leant upon his sword. thus when i erst espied him 'mid clouds of light he soared; his words so low and tender brought life renewed to me. my guardian, my defender, thou shalt my guardian be.' these words and the maiden's rapt and innocent look are so impressive, that the king and people utterly refuse to believe the maiden guilty of crime, until frederick of telramund boldly offers to prove the truth of his assertion by fighting against any champion whom she may choose. elsa accepts this proposal gladly, for she hopes her heaven-sent champion may appear. the lists are immediately prepared, while the herald calls aloud:- 'he who in right of heaven comes here to fight for elsa of brabant, step forth at once.' the first call remains unanswered; but, at elsa's request, the king commands a second to be made, while she sinks on her knees and ardently begins praying for her champion's appearance. her prayer is scarcely ended when the men along the bank become aware of the approach of a snowy swan, drawing a little skiff, in which a handsome young knight in full armour stands erect. amid the general silence of the amazed spectators, lohengrin, the swan knight, springs ashore, and, turning to his swan, dismisses it in a beautiful song, one of the gems of this opera:- 'i give thee thanks, my faithful swan. turn thee again and breast the tide; return unto that land of dawn where joyous we did long abide. well thy appointed task is done. farewell, my trusty swan.' then, while the swan slowly sails down the river and out of sight, the swan knight announces to the king that he has come as elsa's champion, and, turning to her, asks whether she will be his wife if he proves victorious. elsa gladly promises him her hand, nor does she even offer to withdraw this promise when he tells her that she must trust him entirely, and never ask who he is or whence he comes:- 'say, dost thou understand me? never, as thou dost love me, aught shall to question move thee from whence to thee i came, or what my race and name.' elsa faithfully promises to remember all these injunctions, and bids him do battle for her, whereupon he challenges telramund, with whom he begins fighting at a given signal. the swan knight soon defeats his enemy, who is thus convicted of perjury by the judgment of god, but he magnanimously refuses to take his life. then, turning to elsa, who thanks him passionately for saving her, he clasps her in his arms, while telramund and ortrud, his wife, bewail their disgrace, for, according to the law of the land, they are doomed to poverty and exile. their sorrow, however, is quite unheeded by the enthusiastic spectators, who set elsa and lohengrin upon their shields, and then bear them off in triumph, to the glad accompaniment of martial strains:- 'chorus. we sing to thee,--we praise thee, to highest honour raise thee. stranger, we here greet thee delighted. wrong thou hast righted; we gladly greet thee here. thee, thee we sing alone. thy name shall live in story. oh, never will be one to rival thee in glory!' it is night when the curtain rises upon the second act; the knights are still revelling in the part of the palace they occupy, while the women's apartments are dark and still. the street is deserted, and on the steps of the cathedral sit frederick and ortrud, who have been despoiled of their rich garments, and are now clad like beggars. frederick, who feels his disgrace, bitterly reproaches his wife for having blasted his career, and seeks to induce her to depart with him ere day breaks; but ortrud refuses to go. she is not yet conquered, and passionately bids him rouse himself, and listen to her plan, if he would recover his honour, retrieve his fortunes, and avenge himself for his public defeat. she first persuades him that the swan knight won the victory by magic arts only, which was an unpardonable offence, and then declares that, if elsa could only be prevailed upon to disobey her champion's injunctions and ask his name, the spell which protects him would soon be broken, and he would soon become their prey. telramund, overjoyed at the prospect of wiping out his disgrace, acquiesces eagerly, and as elsa just then appears at her window and softly apostrophises the evening breeze, ortrud creeps out of the shadow and timidly addresses her, simulating a distress she is far from feeling. moved by compassion at the sight of the haughty woman thus laid low, and touched by the pretended repentance she shows, elsa, whom happiness has made even more tender than usual, eagerly hastens down with two of her attendants, and, opening the door, bids her come in, promising to intercede in her behalf on the morrow. during the subsequent brief conversation ortrud artfully manages to make elsa vaguely uneasy, and to sow in her innocent mind the first seeds of suspicion. frederick of telramund, in the mean while, has watched his wife disappear with elsa, and, hiding in a niche of the old church, he sees the gradual approach of day, and hears the herald proclaiming through the streets the emperor's ban upon him:- 'our king's august decree through all the lands i here make known,--mark well what he commands: beneath a ban he lays count telramund for tempting heaven with traitorous intent. whoe'er shall harbour or companion him by right shall share his doom with life and limb.' the unhappy man also hears the herald announce elsa's coming marriage with the heaven-sent swan knight, and grimly tells the bystanders he will soon unmask the traitor. a few minutes later, when he has returned to his hiding place, he sees elsa appear in bridal array, followed by her women, and by ortrud, who is very richly clad. but at the church door ortrud insolently presses in front of elsa, claiming the right of precedence as her due, and taunting her for marrying a man who has won her by magic arts only, and whose name and origin she does not even know. this altercation is interrupted by the appearance of the king and his attendants, among whom is the swan knight. he hastens to elsa's side, while the monarch imperiously demands the cause of strife. lohengrin tenderly questions elsa, who tells him all. as ortrud's venomous insinuations have had no apparent effect upon her, he is about to lead her into the church, when telramund suddenly steps forward, loudly declaring that the swan knight overcame him by sorcery, and imploring elsa not to believe a word he says. these accusations are, however, dismissed by the king and his men, since elsa passionately refuses to credit them, and the wedding procession sweeps into the church, followed by the vindictive glances of telramund and ortrud,--glances which the trembling elsa alone seems to perceive. the third act takes place on that selfsame evening. the festivities are nearly ended, and through opposite doors the wedding procession enters the nuptial chamber to the accompaniment of the well known bridal chorus. the attendants soon depart, however, leaving elsa and lohengrin to join in a duet of happy married love. now that they are alone together for the first time, elsa softly begins chiding her lover for not showing more confidence in her, and revealing who he is. in spite of his tender attempts to turn aside the conversation into a less dangerous channel, she gradually becomes more importunate:- 'oh, make me glad with thy reliance, humble me not that bend so low. ne'er shalt thou rue thy dear affiance: him that i love, oh let me know!' seeing her husband does not yield to her tender pleading, elsa then redoubles her caresses. her faint suspicions have taken such firm root, and grow with such rapidity, that she is soon almost wild with suspense. all his attempts to soothe her only seem to excite her more, and suddenly, fancying that she hears the swan boat coming to bear him away from her, she determines to break the magic spell at any cost, as ortrud cunningly advised her, and demands his name. just as lohengrin is gazing upon her in heart-rending but mute reproach, telramund bursts into the room, with a band of hired assassins, to take his life. a quick motion from elsa, whose trust returns when she sees her beloved in danger, permits lohengrin to parry the first blow with his sword, and frederick of telramund soon lies dead upon the floor, while his accomplices cringe at lohengrin's feet imploring his pardon. day is dawning, and lohengrin, after caring tenderly for the half-fainting elsa, bids the would-be assassins bear the corpse into the presence of the king, where he promises to meet elsa and satisfy all her demands:- 'bear hence the corpse into the king's judgment hall. into the royal presence lead her. arrayed as fits so fair a bride; there all she asks i will concede her, nor from her knowledge aught will hide.' at the last scene the king is again near the river, on his judgment throne, whence he watches the mustering of the troops which are to accompany him to the war, and makes a patriotic speech, to which they gladly respond. suddenly, however, the four men appear with the corpse of frederick of telramund, which they lay at the king's feet, declaring they are obeying the orders of the new lord of brabant, who will soon come to explain all. before the king can question further, elsa appears, pale and drooping, in spite of her bridal array, and just as the king is rallying her at wearing so mournful an expression when her bridegroom is only leaving her for a short time to lead his troops to the fray, the swan knight appears, and is enthusiastically welcomed by his men. sadly he informs them he can no longer lead them on to victory, and declares that he slew frederick of telramund in self-defence, a crime for which he is unanimously acquitted. then he sadly goes on to relate that elsa has already broken her promise, and asked the fatal question concerning his name and origin. proudly he tells them that he has no cause to be ashamed of his lineage, as he is lohengrin, son of parsifal, the guardian of the holy grail, sent from the temple on mount salvatch to save and defend elsa. the only magic he had used was the power with which the holy grail endowed all its defenders, and which never forsook them until they revealed their name:- 'he whom the grail to be its servant chooses is armed henceforth by high invincible might; all evil craft its power before him loses, the spirit of the darkness where he dwells takes flight. nor will he lose the awful charm it lendeth, although he should to distant lands, when the high cause of virtue he defendeth: while he's unknown, its spells he still commands.' now, he adds, the sacred spell is broken, he can no longer remain, but is forced to return immediately to the holy grail, and in confirmation of his word the swan and skiff again appear, sailing up the river. tenderly the swan knight now bids the repentant elsa farewell, gently resisting her passionate attempts to detain him, and giving her his sword, horn, and ring, which he bids her bestow upon her brother when he returns to protect her. this boon is denied him, because she could not keep faith with him for one short year, at the end of which time he would have been free to reveal his name, and her missing brother would have been restored to her by the power of the holy grail. placing the fainting elsa in her women's arms, lohengrin then goes down toward the swan boat, amid the loud lamentations of all the people, one person only is glad to see him depart, ortrud, the wife of telramund, and, thinking he can no longer interfere, she cruelly taunts elsa with her lack of faith, and confesses that her magic arts and heathen spells have turned the heir of brabant into the snowy swan which is even now drawing the tiny skiff. these words, which fill the hearts of elsa and all the spectators with horror and dismay, are however overheard by lohengrin, who, accustomed to rely upon divine aid in every need, sinks upon his knees, and is rapt in silent prayer. suddenly a beam of heavenly light streams down upon his upturned face, and the white dove of the holy grail is seen hovering over his head. lohengrin, perceiving it, springs to his feet, looses the golden chain which binds the swan to the skiff, and as the snowy bird sinks out of sight a fair young knight in silver armour rises out of the stream. then all perceive that he is in truth, as lohengrin proclaims, the missing godfrey of brabant, released from bondage by the power of the holy grail. elsa embraces her brother with joy, the king and nobles gladly welcome him, and ortrud sinks fainting to the ground. lohengrin, seeing that his beloved has now a protector, springs into the skiff, whose chain is caught by the dove, and rapidly drawn out of sight. as it vanishes, elsa sinks lifeless to the ground with a last passionate cry of 'my husband!' and all gaze mournfully after him, for they know they will never see lohengrin, the swan knight, again. [illustration: tristan's death.] tristan and ysolde. it was in 1854, when still an exile from his native land, that wagner, weary of his long work, 'the ring of the niblungs,' of which only the first two parts were completed, conceived the idea of using the legend of tristan as basis for a popular opera. three years later the poem was finished, but the opera was played in munich only in 1865 for the first time. the libretto is based on an ancient celtic myth or legend, which was very popular during the middle ages. it was already known in the seventh century, but whether it originally came from wales or brittany is a disputed point. it was very widely known, however, and, thanks to the wandering minstrels, it was translated into all the continental idioms, and became the theme of many poets, even of later times. since the days when godfried of strasburgh wrote his version of the story it has been versified by many others, among whom, in our days, are matthew arnold and swinburne. while the general outline of these various versions remains the same, the legend has undergone many transformations, but wagner has preserved many of the fundamental ideas of the myth, which is intended to illustrate the overpowering force of passion. the scene was originally laid in ireland, cornwall, and french brittany. blanchefleur, sister of king mark of cornwall, falls in love with rivalin, who dies shortly after their union. withdrawing to her husband's castle in brittany, blanchefleur gives birth to a child whom she calls tristan, as he is the child of sorrow, and, feeling that she cannot live much longer, she intrusts him to the care of her faithful steward, kurvenal. when the young hero has reached the age of fifteen, his guardian takes him over to cornwall, where king mark not only recognises him as his nephew, but also designates him as his heir. tristan has been carefully trained, and is so expert in the use of his arms that he soon excites the envy of the courtiers, who are watching for an opportunity to do him harm. the king of cornwall, having been defeated in battle by the king of ireland, is obliged to pay him a yearly tribute, which is collected by morold, a huge giant and a relative of the irish king. morold, coming as usual to collect the tribute money, behaves so insolently that tristan resolves to free the country from thraldom by slaying him. a challenge is given and accepted, and after a terrible combat, such as the mediæval poets love to describe with minute care, the giant falls, after wounding tristan with his poisoned spear. the king of cornwall, instead of sending the wonted tribute to ireland, now forwards morold's head, which is piously preserved by ysolde, the irish princess, who finds in the wound a fragment of sword by which she hopes to identify the murderer, and avenge her kinsman's death. tristan, finding that the skill of all the cornwall leeches can give him no relief, decides to go to ireland and claim the help of ysolde the princess, who, like her mother, is skilled in the art of healing, and knows the antidote for every poison. fearing, however, lest she may seek to avenge morold's death, he goes alone, disguised as a harper, and presents himself before her as tantris, a wandering minstrel. his precarious condition touches ysolde's compassionate heart, and she soon uses all her medical science to accomplish his cure, tenderly nursing him back to health. while sitting beside him one day, she idly draws his sword from the scabbard, and her sharp eyes perceive that a piece is missing. comparing the break in the sword with the fragment in her possession, she is soon convinced that morold's murderer is at her mercy, and she is about to slay her helpless foe when an imploring glance allays her wrath. tristan, having entirely recovered under her care, takes leave of the fair ysolde, who has entirely lost her heart to him, and returns to cornwall, where he relates his adventures, and speaks in such glowing terms of ysolde's beauty and goodness that the courtiers finally prevail upon the king to sue for her hand. as the courtiers have tried to make the king believe that his nephew would fain keep him single lest he should have an heir, tristan reluctantly accepts the commission to bear the king's proposals and escort the bride to cornwall. ysolde is of course overjoyed at his return, for she fancies he reciprocates her love; but when he makes his errand known, she proudly conceals her grief, and prepares to accompany the embassy to cornwall, taking with her her faithful nurse, brangeane. the queen of ireland, another ysolde, well versed in every magic art, then brews a mighty love potion, which she intrusts to brangeane's care, bidding her conceal it in her daughter's medicine chest, and administer it to the royal bride and groom on their wedding night, to insure their future happiness by deep mutual love. wagner's opera opens on shipboard, where ysolde lies sullen and motionless under a tent, brooding over her sorrow and nursing her wrath against tristan, who has further embittered her by treating her with the utmost reserve, and never once approaching her during the whole journey. the call of the pilot floats over the sea, and ysolde, roused from her abstraction, asks brangeane where they are. when she learns that the vessel is already within sight of cornwall, where a new love awaits her, ysolde gives vent to her despair, and openly regrets that she does not possess her mother's power over the elements, as she would gladly conjure a storm which would engulf the vessel and set her free from a life she abhors. brangeane, alarmed at this outburst, vainly tries to comfort her, and as the vessel draws near the land she obeys ysolde's command and goes to summon tristan into her presence. approaching the young hero, who is at the helm, the maid delivers her message, but tristan refuses to comply, under pretext of best fulfilling his trust by steering the vessel safe to land:- 'in every station where i stand i serve with life and blood the pearl of womanhood:- if i the rudder rashly left, who steer'd then safely the ship to good king mark's fair land?' he further feigns to misunderstand the purport of her message, by assuring her that the discomforts of the journey will soon be over. kurvenal, his companion, incensed by brangeane's persistency, then makes a taunting speech to the effect that his master tristan, the slayer of morold, is not the vassal of any queen, and the nurse returns to the tent to report her failure. ysolde, however, has overheard kurvenal's speech, and when she learns that tristan refuses to obey her summons, she comments bitterly upon his lack of gratitude for all her tender care, and confides to brangeane how she spared him when he was ill and at her mercy. brangeane vainly tries to make her believe that tristan has shown his appreciation by wooing her for the king rather than for himself, and when ysolde murmurs against a loveless marriage, she shows her the magic potion intrusted to her care, which will insure her becoming a loving and beloved wife. the sight of the medicine chest in which it is secreted unfortunately reminds ysolde that she too knows the secret of brewing draughts of all kinds, so she prepares a deadly potion, trying all the while to make brangeane believe that it is a perfectly harmless drug, which will merely make her forget the unhappy past. while she is thus occupied, kurvenal suddenly appears to announce that they are about to land, and to bid her prepare to meet the king, who has seen their coming and is wending his way down to the shore to bid her welcome. ysolde haughtily replies that she will not stir a step until tristan proffers an apology for his rude behaviour and obeys her summons. after conferring together for a few moments, tristan and kurvenal agree that it will be wiser to appease the irate beauty by yielding to her wishes, than to have an _esclandre_, and tristan prepares to appear before her. ysolde, in the mean while, has passionately flung herself into brangeane's arms, fondly bidding her farewell, and telling her to have the magic draught she has prepared all ready to give to tristan, with whom she means to drink atonement. while brangeane, who mistrusts her young mistress, is still pleading with her to forget the past, tristan respectfully approaches the princess, and when she haughtily reproves him for slighting her commands, he informs her, with much dignity, that he deemed it his duty to keep his distance:- 'good breeding taught, where i was upbrought, that he who brings the bride to her lord should stay afar from his trust.' ysolde retorts, that, as he is such a rigid observer of etiquette, it would best behoove him to remember that as yet he has not even proffered the usual atonement for shedding the blood of her kin, and that his life is therefore at her disposal. tristan, seeing she is bent upon revenge, haughtily hands her his sword, telling her that, since morold was so dear to her, she had better avenge him. under pretext that king mark might resent such treatment of his nephew and ambassador, ysolde refuses to take advantage of his defencelessness, and declares she will consider herself satisfied if he will only pledge her in the usual cup of atonement, which she motions to brangeane to bring. the bewildered handmaiden hastily pours a drug into the cup. this she tremblingly brings to her mistress, who, hearing the vessel grate on the pebbly shore, tells tristan his loathsome task will soon be over, and that he will soon be able to relinquish her to the care of his uncle. tristan, suspecting that the contents of the cup are poisonous, nevertheless calmly takes it from her hand and puts it to his lips. but ere he has drunk half the potion, ysolde snatches it from his grasp and greedily drains the rest. instead of the ice-cold chill of death which they both expected, tristan and ysolde suddenly feel the electric tingle of love rushing madly through all their veins, and, forgetting all else, fall into each other's arms, exchanging passionate vows of undying love. brangeane, the only witness of this scene, views with terror the effect of her subterfuge, for, fearing lest her mistress should injure tristan or herself, she had hastily substituted the love potion intrusted to her care for the poison ysolde had prepared. while the lovers, clasped in each other's arms, unite in a duet of passionate love, the vessel is made fast to the shore, where the royal bridegroom is waiting, and it is only when brangeane throws the royal mantle over ysolde's shoulders, and when kurvenal bids them step ashore, that the lovers suddenly realise that their brief dream of love is over. the sudden revulsion from great joy to overwhelming despair proves too much for ysolde's delicate frame, and she sinks fainting to the deck, just as king mark appears and the curtain falls upon the first act. several days are supposed to have elapsed, when the second act begins. ysolde after her fainting fit has been conveyed to the king's palace, where she is to dwell alone until her marriage takes place, and where she forgets everything except the passion which she feels for tristan, who now shares all her feelings. in a hurried private interview the lovers have arranged a code of signals, and it is agreed that as soon as the light in ysolde's window is extinguished her lover will join her as speedily as possible. it is a beautiful summer night, and the last echoes of the hunting horn are dying away on the evening breeze, when ysolde turns to brangeane, and impatiently bids her put out the light. the terrified nurse refuses to do so, and implores ysolde not to summon her lover, declaring that she is sure that melot, one of the king's courtiers, noted her pallor and tristan's strange embarrassment. in vain she adds that she knows his suspicions have been aroused, and that he is keeping close watch over them both to denounce them should they do anything amiss. ysolde refuses to believe her. the princess is so happy that she makes fun of her attendant's forebodings, and, after praising the tender passion she feels, she again bids her put out the light. as brangeane will not obey this command, ysolde, too much in love to wait any longer, finally extinguishes the light with her own hand, and bids her nurse go up in the watch-tower and keep a sharp lookout. ysolde then hastens to the open door, and gazes anxiously out into the twilighted forest, frantically waving her veil to hasten the coming of her lover, and runs to meet and embrace him when at last he appears. blissful in each other's company, tristan and ysolde now forget all else, while they exchange passionate vows and declarations of love, bewailing the length of the days which keep them apart, and the shortness of the nights during which they can see each other. in a passionate duet of mutual love and admiration, they also rejoice that, instead of dying together, as ysolde had planned, they are still able to live and love. brangeane, posted in the watch-tower above, repeatedly warns them that they had better part, but her wise advice proves useless, and it is only when she utters a loud cry of alarm that tristan and ysolde start apart. simultaneously almost with brangeane's cry, kurvenal rushes upon the scene with drawn sword, imploring his master to fly; but ere this advice can be followed king mark and the traitor melot appear, closely followed by all the royal hunting party. ysolde, overcome with shame at being thus detected with her lover, sinks fainting to the ground, while tristan, wishing to shield her as much as possible from the scornful glances of these men, stands in front of her with his mantle outspread. he, too, is overwhelmed with shame, and silently bows his head when his uncle bitterly reproves him for betraying him, and robbing him of the bride he had already learned to love. even the sentence of banishment pronounced upon him seems none too severe, and tristan, almost broken-hearted at the sight of his uncle's grief, sadly turns to ask ysolde whether she will share his lot. shame and discovery have in no wise diminished her affection for him, and when she promises to follow him even to the end of the earth he cannot restrain his joy, and notwithstanding the king's presence he passionately clasps her in his arms: 'wherever tristan's home may be, that will ysolde share with thee: that she may follow and to thee hold, the way now shown to ysold'!' melot, enraged at this sight, rushes upon tristan with drawn sword, and wounds him so sorely that he falls back unconscious in kurvenal's arms, while ysolde, clinging to him, faints away as the curtain falls on the second act. the third act is played in tristan's ancestral home in brittany, whither he has been conveyed by kurvenal, who vainly tries to nurse his wounded master back to health and strength. the sick man is lying under a great linden tree, in death-like lethargy, while kurvenal anxiously watches for the vessel which he trusts will bring ysolde from cornwall. she alone can cure his master's grievous wound, and her presence only can woo him back from the grave into which he seems rapidly sinking. from time to time kurvenal interrupts his sad watch beside the pallid sleeper to call to a shepherd piping on the hillside, and to inquire of him whether he descries any signs of the coming sail. slowly and feebly tristan at last opens his eyes, gazes dreamily at his attendant and surroundings, and wonderingly inquires how he came thither. kurvenal gently tells him that he bore him away from cornwall while wounded and unconscious, and brought him home to recover his health amid the peaceful scenes of his happy youth; but tristan sadly declares that life has lost all its charms since he has parted from ysolde. in a sudden return of delirium the wounded hero then fancies he is again in the forest, watching for the light to go out, until kurvenal tells him that ysolde will soon be here, as he has sent a ship to cornwall to bring her safely over the seas. these tidings fill tristan's heart with such rapture that he embraces kurvenal, thanking him brokenly for his lifelong devotion, and bidding him climb up into the watch-tower that he may catch the first glimpse of the coming sail. while kurvenal is hesitating whether he shall obey this order and leave his helpless patient alone, the shepherd joyfully announces the appearance of the ship. kurvenal, ascending the tower, reports to his master how it rounds the point, steers past the dangerous rocks, touches the shore, and permits ysolde to land. tristan has feverishly listened to all these reports, and bids kurvenal hasten down to bring ysolde to him; then, left alone, he bursts forth into rapturous praise of the happy day which brings his beloved to him once more, and of the deep love which has called him back from the gates of the tomb. his impatience to see ysolde soon gets the better of his weakness, however, and he struggles to rise from his couch, although the exertion causes his wounds to bleed afresh. painfully he staggers half across the stage to meet ysolde, who appears only in time to hear his last passionate utterance of her beloved name, and to catch his dying form in her arms. she does not realise that he has breathed his last, however, and gently tries to woo him back to life, and make him open his eyes. but when all her efforts have failed, and she finds his heart no longer beats beneath her hand, she reproaches him tenderly for leaving her thus alone, and sinks unconscious upon his breast. kurvenal, standing beside the lovers, speechless with grief, is roused to sudden action by the shepherd's hurried announcement that a second ship has arrived, and that king mark, melot, and all his train, are about to appear. frenzied with grief, and thinking that they have come once more to injure his master, kurvenal seizes his sword, and, springing to the gate, fights desperately until he has slain melot, and falls mortally wounded at tristan's feet. while the fight is taking place, king mark and brangeane, standing without the castle wall, vainly call to him to stay his hand, as they have come with friendly intentions only, and now that he can resist them no longer they all come rushing in. they are horror-struck at the sight of tristan and ysolde, both apparently dead; but brangeane, having discovered that her mistress has only swooned, soon restores her to consciousness. king mark hastens to assure ysolde that she and tristan are both forgiven; for brangeane having penitently revealed to him the secret of the love potion which she administered, he realises that they could not but yield to its might. ysolde, however, pays no heed to his words, but, gazing fixedly at tristan, she mournfully extols his charms and love, until her heart breaks with grief, and she too sinks lifeless to the ground. no restoratives can now avail to recall the life which has flown forever, and king mark blesses the corpses of the lovers, and of the faithful servant who has expired at their feet, as the curtain falls. [illustration: walther crowned by eva.] the master singers of nuremberg. when richard wagner was only sixteen years of age he read with great enthusiasm one of hoffmann's novels entitled 'sängerkrieg,' giving a romantic account of the ancient musical contests at the wartburg in bavaria. the impression made upon him by this account was first utilised in his opera of 'tannhäuser,' when his attention was attracted also to the picturesque possibilities of the guilds formed by the burghers. it was not until 1845, however, that he made definite use of this material, and began the sketch for his only comic opera. the first outline was drawn during a sojourn in the bohemian mountains, when he felt in an unusually light and festive mood. but the work was soon set aside, and was not resumed until 1862, when it was finished in paris. the score was then begun, and written almost entirely at biberich on the rhine, and wagner himself conducted the overture for the first time at a concert in leipzig. this fragment was very well received and there was an 'enthusiastic demand for a repetition, in which the members of the orchestra took part as much as the audience.' the opera itself, however, was first performed under von bülow, in 1868, at munich. the best singers of the day took the principal parts, and the result of their united efforts was 'a perfect performance; the best that had hitherto been given of any work of the master.' the opera, at first intended as a comical pendant to 'tannhäuser,' is, as we have already stated, wagner's first and only attempt to write in the comic vein, and the text is full of witty and cutting allusions to the thick-headed critics (at whose hands wagner had suffered so sorely), who sweepingly condemn everything that does not conform to their fixed standard. during all the middle ages, and more especially in the middle of the thirteenth century, the quaint old city of nuremberg was the seat of one of the most noted musical guilds, or german training schools for poets and musicians. the members of this fraternity were all burghers, instead of knights like the minnesingers, and held different ranks according to their degree of proficiency. they were therefore called singers when they had mastered a certain number of tunes; poets when they could compose verses to a given air; and master singers when they could write both words and music on an appointed theme. the musical by-laws of this guild were called 'tabulatur,' and every candidate was forced to pass an examination, seven mistakes being the maximum allowed by the chief examiner, who bore the title of marker. the opera opens in the interior of st. catharine's church in nuremberg, where a closing hymn in honour of st. john is being sung. eva pogner and her maid, magdalena, have been present at the service, and are still standing in their pew. but, in spite of her handmaiden's energetic signs and nudges, the young lady pays but little heed to the closing hymn, and turns all her attention upon a handsome young knight, walther von stolzenfels, who, as the last note dies away, presses eagerly forward and enters into conversation with her. to secure a few moments' private interview eva sends her maid back to the pew, first for her forgotten kerchief, next for a pin which she has lost, and lastly for her prayer-book. during these temporary absences the deeply enamoured youth implores eva to tell him whether she is still free, and whether her heart and hand are still at her own disposal. before the agitated girl can answer, the servant comes up, and, overhearing the question, declares that her mistress's hand has already been promised,--a statement which eva modifies by adding that her future bridegroom is yet to be chosen. as these contradictory answers greatly puzzle walther, she hurriedly explains that her father, the wealthiest burgher of the town, wishing to show his veneration for music, has promised his fortune and her hand to a master singer, the preference being given to the one who will win the prize on the morrow. the only proviso made is that the girl may remain free if the bridegroom does not win her approval, and eva timidly confesses that she will either marry walther or remain single all her life. magdalena, who has been carrying on a lively flirtation of her own with david, the sexton, now suddenly hurries her young mistress off, bidding the knight apply to david if he would learn any more concerning the musical test about to take place, and in the same breath she promises her lover some choice dainties if he will only do all in his power to enlighten and favour her mistress's suitor. 'let david supply all the facts of the trial.- david, my dear, just heed what i say! you must induce sir walther to stay. the larder i'll sweep, the best for you keep; to-morrow rewards shall fall faster if this young knight is made master.' walther, who has just passionately declared to eva that he knows he could become both poet and musician for her sweet sake, since her father has vowed never to allow her to marry any but a master, now listens attentively to david's exposition of the school's rules and regulations. in the mean while the apprentices come filing in, prepare the benches and chairs, arrange the marker's curtained box, and gayly chaff each other as they join in an impromptu dance. they only subside when pogner, eva's father, enters with beckmesser, an old widower, the marker of the guild, who flatters himself he can easily win the prize on the morrow, and would fain make pogner promise that the victor should receive the maiden's hand without her consent being asked. he fears lest the capricious fair one may yet refuse to marry him, and decides to make sure of her by singing a serenade under her window that very night. but when he sees the handsome young candidate step forward and receive the support of pogner, (who has already made his acquaintance, and who evidently is inclined to favour him,) the widower looks very glum indeed, and vindictively resolves to prevent his entrance into the guild by fair means or by foul. hans sachs, the poet shoemaker of nuremberg, and all the other members of the guild, having now appeared, beckmesser calls the roll, and pogner repeats his offer to give his fortune and daughter to the winner of the prize on the morrow, and charges the guild to select their candidates for the contest. of course the very first thing to be done is to examine the new candidate. walther, when questioned concerning his teachers and method, boldly declares he has learned his art from nature alone, chooses love as his theme for a trial song, and bursts forth into an impassioned and beautiful strain. but as his words and music are strictly original, and therefore cannot be judged by the usual canons, beckmesser savagely marks down mistake after mistake, and brusquely interrupts the song to declare the singer is 'outsung and outdone.' in proof of this assertion he exhibits his slate, which is covered with bad marks. hans sachs, the only member present who has understood the beauty of this original lay, vainly tries to interfere in walther's behalf, but his efforts only call forth a rude attack on beckmesser's part, who advises him to reserve his opinions, stick to his last, and finish the pair of shoes which he has promised him for the morrow. walther is finally allowed to finish his song, but the prejudiced and intolerant citizens of nuremberg utterly refuse to receive him in their guild, and he rushes out of the hall in despair, for he has lost his best chance to win the hand of his lady love by competing for the prize on the morrow. his departure is a signal for a tumultuous breaking up of the meeting, the apprentices dancing as before, as soon as their masters have departed. the second act represents one of the tortuous alleys and a long straight street of the quaint old city of nuremberg. on one side is hans sachs's modest shoemaker's shop, on the other the entrance to pogner's stately dwelling. it is evening, and david, the shoemaker's apprentice, is leisurely putting up the shutters, when his attention is suddenly attracted by magdalena, who appears with a basket of dainties. she however refuses to give them to him until he tells her the result of the musical examination. when she hears that walther has failed and has been refused admittance to the guild, she pettishly snatches the basket from his grasp and flounces off in great displeasure. the other apprentices, who in the mean while have slyly drawn near, now make unmerciful fun of david, who stands stupidly in the middle of the street gazing regretfully after her. this rough play is soon ended by the appearance of hans sachs. he orders all the apprentices to bed, and, by a judicious application of his strap, drives david into the house. quiet has just been restored once more, when pogner and eva come sauntering down the street, returning from their customary evening walk, and sit down side by side on the bench in front of their door. here pogner tries to sound his daughter's feelings, and to discover whether she has any preference among the morrow's candidates, reiterating his decision, however, that he will never allow her to marry any one except a man who has publicly won the title of master singer. as he cannot ascertain his daughter's feelings, he soon enters the house, while eva lingers outside watching for walther's promised visit. she is soon joined by magdalena, who sorrowfully tells her that walther has been rejected; but, as she can give no details about the examination, eva timidly approaches hans sachs's window hoping to learn more from him. the cobbler is sitting at work near his window, singing a song of his own composition, and the maiden soon enters into a bantering conversation with her old friend. in answer to hans sachs's questions, she soon confides to him that she cannot endure beckmesser, and to flatter him into a good humour she archly suggests that, as he too is a widower, he ought to compete for her hand. hans sachs, who is far too shrewd not to see through her girlish fencing, now resolves to discover whether she is as indifferent to the young knight, and in order to do so he drops a few careless and contemptuous remarks about him, which drive the young lady away in a very bad temper. smiling maliciously at the success of his ruse, the cobbler cheerfully continues his work, while eva rejoins magdalena, who informs her that beckmesser has signified his intention to serenade her that very night. eva cares naught for the widower's music, and, only intent upon securing a private interview with the handsome young knight, refuses to re-enter the house; so magdalena leaves her to answer pogner's call. a few moments later walther himself comes slowly down the street; but, in spite of eva's rapturous welcome, he remains plunged in melancholy, for he has forfeited all hope of winning her on the morrow. the sound of the watchman's horn drives the young people apart, and while eva vanishes into the house, walther hides under the shadow of the great linden tree in front of sachs's house. his presence has been detected by the shoemaker, who makes no sign, and when the night watchman has gone by, singing the hour and admonishing all good people to go to bed, he perceives a female form glide softly out of the house and join the knight. this female is eva, who has exchanged garments with magdalena, and has prevailed upon her to pose at her window during the serenade, while she tries to comfort her beloved. crouching in the shade, the lovers now plan to elope that very night, but hans sachs overhears their conversation, and when they are about to leave their hiding-place and depart, he flings open his shutter so that a broad beam of light streams across the old street. it makes such a brilliant illumination that it is impossible for any one to pass unseen. this ruse, which proves such a hindrance to the lovers, is equally distasteful to beckmesser, who has come down the street and has taken his stand near them to tune his lute and begin his serenade. before he can utter the first note, hans sachs, having become aware of his presence also, and maliciously anxious to defeat his plans, lustily entones a noisy ditty about adam and eve, hammering his shoes to beat time. beckmesser, who has seen eva's window open, and longs to make himself heard, steps up to the shoemaker's window. in answer to his testy questions why he is at his bench at such an hour, hans sachs good-humouredly replies that he must work late to finish the shoes about which he has been twitted in public. at his wit's end to silence the shoemaker and sing his serenade, beckmesser artfully pretends that he would like to have sachs's opinion of the song he intends to sing on the morrow, and proposes to let him hear it then. after a little demur the shoemaker consents, upon condition that he may give a tap with his hammer every time he hears a mistake, and thus carry on the double office of marker and of cobbler. beckmesser is, however, so angry and agitated that his song is utterly spoiled, and he makes so many mistakes that the cobbler's hammer keeps up an incessant clatter. these irritating sounds make the singer more nervous still, and he sings so loudly and so badly that he rouses the whole neighbourhood, and heads pop out of every window to bid him be still. david also ventures to peer forth, and, seeing that the serenade is directed to magdalena, whom he recognises at the window above, his jealous anger knows no bounds. he springs out of the window, and begins belabouring his unlucky rival with a stout cudgel. the nuremberg apprentices, who are divided up into numerous rival guilds, and who are always quarrelling, seize this occasion to bandy words, which soon result in bringing them all out into the street, where a free fight takes place between the rival factions of journeymen and apprentices. magdalena, seeing her beloved david in peril screams aloud, until pogner, deceived by her apparel, pulls her into the room and closes the window, declaring he must go and see that all is safe. sachs, who has closed his shutter at the first sounds of the fight, steals out into the street, approaches the young lovers, and, pretending to take eva for magdalena, he thrusts her quickly into pogner's house, and drags walther into his own dwelling just as the sound of the approaching night watch is heard. as if by magic the brawlers suddenly disappear, the windows close, the lights are extinguished, and as the watchman turns the corner the street has resumed its wonted peaceful aspect. the third act opens on the morrow, in hans sachs's shop, where the cobbler is absorbed in reading and oblivious of the presence of his apprentice david, who comes sneaking in with a basket which he has just received from magdalena. taking advantage of his master's absorption, david examines the ribbons, flowers, cakes, and sausages with which it is stocked, starting guiltily at his master's every movement, and finally seeking to disarm the anger he must feel at the evening's brawl by offering him the gifts he has just received. hans sachs, however, good-naturedly refuses to receive them, and after making his apprentice sing the song for the day he dismisses him to don his festive attire, for he has decided to take him with him to the festival. left alone, sachs soliloquises on the follies of mankind, until walther appears. in reply to his host's polite inquiry how he spent the night, walther declares he has been visited by a wonderful dream, which he goes on to relate. at the very first words the cobbler discovers that it is part of a beautiful song, conforming to all the master singers' rigid rules, and he hastily jots down the words, bidding the young knight be careful to retain the tune. as they both leave the room to don their festive apparel, beckmesser comes limping in. he soon discovers the verses on the bench, and pockets them, intending to substitute them for his own in the coming contest. sachs, coming in, denies all intention of taking part in the day's programme, and when beckmesser jealously asks why he has been inditing a love song if he does not intend to sue for eva's hand, he discovers the larceny. he, however, good-naturedly allows beckmesser to retain the copy of verses, and even promises him that he will never claim the authorship of the song, a promise which beckmesser intends to make use of so as to pass it off as his own. triumphant now and sure of victory, beckmesser departs as eva enters in bridal attire. she is of course devoured by curiosity to know what has become of her lover, but, as excuse for her presence, she petulantly complains that her shoe pinches. kneeling in front of her, sachs investigates the matter, greatly puzzled at first by her confused and contradictory statements and by her senseless replies to his questions. he is turning his back to the inner door, through which walther has also entered the shop, but, soon becoming aware of the cause of her perturbation, he deftly draws the shoe from her foot, and going to his last pretends to be very busy over it, while he is in reality listening intently to discover whether eva's presence will inspire walther with the third and last verse of his song. his expectations are not disappointed, for the knight, approaching the maiden softly, declares his love in a beautiful song. as the last notes die away, the cobbler joyfully exclaims that walther has composed a master song, calls eva and david (who has just entered) as witnesses that he composed it, foretells that, if walther will only yield to his guidance he will yet enable him to win the prize, and, patting eva in a truly paternal fashion, he bids her be happy, for she will yet be able to marry the man she loves. david, who has been made journeyman so that he can bear witness for walther, greets the happy magdalena with the tidings that they no longer need delay, but can marry immediately. after the four happy young people and hans sachs have given vent to their rapture in a beautiful quintette, they adjourn to the meadow outside of the town, where the musical contest is to take place. the peasants and apprentices are merrily dancing on the green, and cease their mirthful gyrations only when the master singers appear. hans sachs addresses the crowd, reads the conditions of the test, proclaims what the prize shall be, and concludes by inviting beckmesser to come forth and begin his song. the young people assembled hail this elderly candidate with veiled scorn, and beckmesser, painfully clambering to the eminence where the candidates are requested to stand, hesitatingly begins his lay. the words, with which he has had no time to become familiar, are entirely unadapted to his tune, so he draws them out, clips them, loses the thread of the verses, and fails in every sense. in his chagrin at having made himself ridiculous, and in anger because his colleagues declare the words of his song have no sense, he suddenly turns upon hans sachs, and, hoping to humiliate him publicly, accuses him of having written the song. hans sachs, of course, disowns the authorship, but stoutly declares the song is a masterpiece, and that he is sure every one present will agree with him if they hear it properly rendered to its appropriate tune. as he is a general favourite among his townsmen, he soon prevails upon them to listen to the author and composer and decide whether he or beckmesser is at fault. walther then springs lightly up the turfy throne, and, inspired by love, he sings with all his heart. the beautiful words, married to an equally beautiful strain, win for him the unanimous plaudits of the crowd, who hail him as victor, while the blushing eva places the laurel crown upon his head. pogner, openly delighted with the favourable turn of affairs, gives him the badge of the guild, and heartily promises him the hand of his only daughter. as for hans sachs, having publicly proved that his judgment was not at fault, and that he had been keen enough to detect genius even when it revealed itself in a new form, he is heartily cheered by all the nurembergers, who are prouder than ever of the cobbler poet who has brought about a happy marriage:- 'hail sachs! hans sachs! hail nuremberg's darling sachs!' [illustration: the rhine maidens.] the nibelung's ring.--rheingold. it was in 1848, after the completion of tannhäuser, that wagner looked about for a subject for a new opera. then 'for the last time the conflicting claims of history and legend presented themselves.' he had studied the story of barbarossa, intending to make use of it, but discarded it in favour of the nibelungen myths, which he decided to dramatise.[1] his first effort was an alliterative poem entitled 'the death of siegfried,' which, however, was soon set aside, a part of it only being incorporated in 'the twilight [or dusk] of the gods.' wagner was then dwelling in dresden, and planning the organisation of a national theatre; but the political troubles of 1849, which resulted in his banishment, soon defeated all these hopes. after a short sojourn in paris, wagner took up his abode in zurich, where he became a naturalised citizen, and where he first turned all his attention to the principal work of his life,--'the nibelungen ring.' in connection with this work wagner himself wrote: 'when i tried to dramatise the most important moment of the mythos of the nibelungen in siegfried's tod, i found it necessary to indicate a vast number of antecedent facts, so as to put the main incidents in the proper light. but i could only _narrate_ these subordinate matters, whereas i felt it imperative that they should be embodied in the action. thus i came to write siegfried. but here again the same difficulty troubled me. finally i wrote "die walküre" and "das rheingold," and thus contrived to incorporate all that was needful to make the action tell its own tale.' the completed poem was privately printed in 1853, and published 'as a literary product' ten years later, when the author was in his fiftieth year. as for the score, it was begun in 1853, and wagner says: 'during a sleepless night at an inn at spezzia, the music of "das rheingold" occurred to me; straightway i turned homeward and set to work.' such was the energy with which he laboured that the complete score of the rheingold was finished in 1854. two years later the music to the walkyrie was all done, and siegfried begun. but pecuniary difficulties now forced the master to undertake more immediately remunerative work, and, 'tired of heaping one silent score upon another,' he undertook and finished 'tristan and ysolde.' he then thought he would never be able to finish his grand work, and wrote: 'i can hardly expect to find leisure to complete the music, and i have dismissed all hope that i may live to see it performed.' fortunately for him, however, ludwig ii. of bavaria had heard 'lohengrin' when only sixteen, and, a passionate lover of music and art, he had become an enthusiastic admirer of the great composer. one of the very first acts of his reign was, therefore, to despatch his own private secretary to wagner with the message, 'come here and finish your work.' as this message was backed by a small pension which would enable the musician to keep the wolf from the door, he hopefully went to munich. but, in spite of the sovereign's continued favour, wagner found so many enemies that the sojourn there became very unpleasant. it was then that the architect semper made the first plans for a theatre, in which the king intended that 'the nibelungen ring' should be played, as he had formally commissioned wagner to complete the work. driven away from his native land once more by the bitterness of his enemies, wagner, who still enjoyed ludwig's entire favour, withdrew in 1865 to triebschen, where the 'ring' progressed steadily. it was there, in 1869, that he completed the siegfried score, and began that of 'the twilight of the gods,' which was finished only some time later. as the king's plan for building a national theatre for the representation of 'the nibelungen ring' had to be abandoned, the scheme was taken up by the municipality of the little town of bayreuth. wagner was cordially invited to take up his residence there, and settled in his new home in 1872, when he was already sixty years of age. thanks to munificent private subscriptions secured in great part by the wagner societies in various parts of the world, the long planned theatre was finally begun. it was finished in 1876, and the entire 'nibelungen ring' was performed there in the month of august, the very best singers of the day taking all the principal parts, which they rendered to the best of their abilities. the result was a magnificent performance, a musical triumph; but as the venture was not a financial success, the performances were not repeated in the following summer. several new ventures, however, were made, and another wagner festival has just taken place, of which the real result is yet unknown, although the attendance was very large, the audience being composed of people from all parts of the world. thus wagner completed and rendered the series of operas, which include plays 'for three days and a fore evening,' whence the series is generally called a 'trilogy,' although it is really composed of four whole operas. away down in the translucent depths of the rhine, three beautiful nymphs, woglinde, wellgunde, and flosshilde, daughters of the river-god, dart in and out among the jagged rocks. they have been stationed there to guard the rhinegold, the priceless treasure of the deep, whence comes all the warm golden light which illumines the utmost recesses of their dark and damp abode. the nymphs suddenly pause in their merry game, for the wily dwarf alberich has emerged from one of the sombre chasms. he is a nibelung, a spirit of night and darkness, and slowly gropes his way to one of the upper ridges, whence he can see the graceful forms of the nymphs, watch their merry evolutions, and overhear them repeatedly admonish each other to keep watch over the gleaming treasure, which their father, the rhinegod, has intrusted to their keeping, warning them that just such a dark and misshapen creature as the dwarf would try to wrest it from their grasp:- 'guard the gold! father said that such was the foe.' but all alberich's senses are fascinated by the water-nymphs' beauty, and he soon falls madly in love with them, and makes almost superhuman efforts to overtake the mocking fair. hotly he pursues them from ridge to ridge, yielding to the blandishments of one after another, and is beside himself with rage as they deftly escape from his clasp just as he fancies he has at last caught them. the fair nymphs, who know they have nothing to fear from so infatuated a lover, swim hither and thither, tantalising him by their nearness, and lure him up and down the rocky river-bed. they have just exhausted his patience, and driven him wild with impotent rage, when the green waters are suddenly illumined by the phosphorescent glow of the rhinegold, the treasure whose presence they hail with a rapturous outburst of song, and whose secret power they extol:- 'the realm of the world by him shall be won who from the rhinegold hath wrought the ring imparting measureless power.'[2] the dwarf, attracted by the brilliant light, hears their words at first without paying any attention to them; but when they repeat that he who is willing to forego love can fashion a ring from this gold which will make him master of all the world, he starts with surprise. fascinated at last by the glow of the treasure, and forgetting all thoughts of love in greed, he suddenly grasps the carelessly guarded gold and plunges with it down into the depths, leaving the three nymphs to bewail its loss in utter darkness. little by little the gloom lightens, however, and instead of the river bed the scene represents the green valley through which the rhine is flowing. in the gray dawn one can descry the high hills on either side, and as the light increases wotan and fricka, the principal deities of northern mythology, are seen lying on the flowery slopes. as they gently awaken from their peaceful slumbers, the morning mists entirely disappear, revealing in the background the fairy-like beauty of a wondrous palace which has just been completed for their abode. this sight startles fricka, for she knows that the assembled gods have promised that fasolt and fafnir, the gigantic builders, should have sun and moon and the fair freya as fee. to lose the bright luminaries of the world were bad enough, but fricka's dismay is still greater at the prospect of parting forever with the fair goddess of beauty and youth. in her sorrow she bitterly regrets that the promise has been made and rendered inviolable by being inscribed on her husband's spear, and reproves him for the joy he shows in viewing the completion of his future abode:- 'in delight thou revel'st when i am alarmed? thou 'rt glad of the fortress, for freya i fear. bethink thee, thou thoughtless god, of the guerdon now to be given! the castle is finished, and forfeit the pledge. forgettest thou what is engaged?' thus suddenly brought to his senses, wotan, king of the northern gods, protests that he never really intended to part with the beauty, light, and sweetness of life, and seeks to excuse himself by urging that loge, the god of fire and the arch-deceiver, overpersuaded him by promising to find some way of escape from the fatal bargain:- 'he whom i hearkened to swore to find a safety for freya; on him my hope have i set.' they are still discussing the matter, and eagerly wondering why loge does not appear, when freya comes rushing wildly upon the stage, with fear-blanched face and trembling limbs, breathlessly imploring the father of the gods to save her from the two huge giants in close pursuit. in her terror she also summons her devoted brothers, donner and fro. but, in spite of the strength of these potent gods of the sunshine and thunder, the giants boldly advance, boasting aloud of their achievement, and demanding the fulfilment of the stipulated contract. the gods are almost at their wits' end with anxiety, when loge, god of fire, appears. they loudly clamour to him to keep his word and release them from the consequences of their rash bargain. in reply to this summons, loge declares he has wandered everywhere in search of something more precious than youth and love, and that he has utterly failed to find it. no one, he says, is ready to relinquish these blessed gifts,--no one except alberich, who has bartered love for the gleaming treasure which he has just stolen from the rhine nymphs. loge concludes his speech by delivering to wotan an imploring message from the defrauded maidens, who summon him to avenge their wrongs and help them to recover the stolen gold. the description of the gleaming treasure, of the power of the ring which alberich has fashioned out of it, and especially of the immense hoard which he has amassed by the unlimited sway which the ring enables him to wield over all the underground folk, has so greatly fascinated the giants, that, after a few moments' consultation, they step forward, offering to relinquish all claim to the previously promised reward, providing the hoard is theirs ere nightfall. this said, they bear the shrieking and reluctant freya away as a hostage, and vanish in the distance. as they depart, the light suddenly grows wan and dim. the goddess who has just departed is the dispenser of the golden apples of perennial youth according to wagner, and, as she vanishes, the gods, deprived of the substance which keeps them ever young, suddenly lose all their vigour and bloom, and grow visibly old and gray, to their openly expressed dismay:- 'without the apples, old and hoar- hoarse and helpless- worth not a dread to the world, the dying gods must grow.' this sudden change, especially in his beloved wife fricka, determines wotan to secure the gold at any price, and he bids loge lead the way to alberich's realm, following him bravely down through a deep cleft in the rock, whence rises a dense mist, which soon blots the whole scene from view. in the mean while, the dwarf alberich has conveyed the gleaming rhinegold to his underground dwelling, where, mindful of the nymphs' words, he has forced his brother and slave, the smith mime, to fashion a ring. no sooner has alberich put on this trinket than he finds himself endowed with unlimited power, which he uses to oppress all his race, and to pile up a mighty hoard, for the greed of gold has now filled all his thoughts. fearful lest any one should wrest the precious ring from him, he next directs mime to make a helmet of gold, the magic tarn-helm, which will render the wearer invisible. mime is at work at his underground forge, and has just finished the helmet which he intends to appropriate to his own use to escape thraldom, when alberich suddenly appears, snatches it from his trembling hand, and, placing it upon his head, becomes invisible to all. the malicious dwarf misuses this power to torture mime with his whip, and rushes off to lash the dwarfs in the rear of the cave as wotan and loge suddenly appear. of course their first impulse is to inquire the cause of mime's writhing and bitter cries, and from him they hear how alberich has become lord of the nibelungs by the might of his ring and magic helmet. in corroboration of this statement, the gods soon behold a long train of dwarfs toiling across the cave, bending beneath their burdens of gold and precious stones, and driven incessantly onward by alberich's whip, which he plies with merciless vigour. he is visible now, for he has hung the magic helmet to his belt; but he no sooner becomes aware of the gods' presence than he strides up to them, and haughtily demands their name and business. disarmed a little by wotan's answer, that they have heard of his new might and have come to ascertain whether the accounts were true, alberich boasts of his power to compel all to bow before his will, and says he can even change his form, thanks to his magic helmet. at loge's urgent request, the dwarf then gives them an exhibition of his power by changing himself first into a huge loathsome dragon, and next into a repulsive toad. while in this shape he is made captive by the gods, deprived of his tarn-helm, and compelled to surrender his hoard as the price of his liberty. before departing, wotan even wrests from his grasp the golden ring, to which he desperately clings, for he knows that as long as it remains in his possession he will have the power to collect more gold. in his rage at being deprived of it, alberich hurls his curse after the gods, declaring the ring will ever bring death and destruction to the possessor:- 'as by curse i found it first, a curse rest on the ring! gave its gold to me measureless might, now deal its wonder death where it is worn!' this curse uttered, he disappears, and while mist invades the place the scene changes, and loge and wotan stand once more on the grassy slopes, where fricka, donner, and fro hasten to welcome them, and to inquire concerning the success of their enterprise. almost at the same moment, the giants fasolt and fafnir also appear, leading freya, whom fricka would fain embrace, but who is withheld from her longing arms. the grim giants vow that no one shall even touch their fair captive until they have received a pile of gold as high as their staffs, which they drive into the ground, and wide enough to screen the goddess entirely. thus admonished, loge and fro pile up the gleaming treasure, which is surmounted by the glittering helmet, whose power the giants do not know. freya is entirely hidden, and only a chink remains through which the giants can catch a glimpse of her golden hair. they insist upon having this chink closed up ere they will relinquish freya, so wotan is forced to give up the magic ring. but he draws it from his finger only when erda, the shadowy earth goddess, half rises out of the ground to command the sacrifice of the treasure which alberich stole from the rhine maidens. as the stipulated ransom has all been paid, the giants release freya. she joyfully embraces her kin, and under her caresses they recover all their former youth and bloom. in the mean while the giants produce their bags, but soon begin quarrelling together about the division of the hoard, and appeal to the gods to decide their dispute. the gods are all too busy to pay any heed to this request, all except the malicious loge, who slyly advises fafnir to seize the ring and pay no heed to the rest. as the ring is accursed, fafnir remorselessly slays his brother to obtain it; then, packing up all the treasure in his great bag, he triumphantly departs. to disperse the shadow hovering over wotan's brow ever since he has been obliged to sacrifice the ring, thor now beats the rocks with his magic hammer, and conjures a brief storm. the long roll of thunder soon dies away, and when the fitful play of the lightning is ended thor shows the assembled gods a glittering rainbow bridge of quivering, changing hues, which stretches from the valley where they are standing to the beautiful portals of the wondrous palace walhalla, the home of the gods! fascinated by this sight, wotan invites the gods to follow him over its lightly swung arch, and as they trip over the rainbow bridge, the lament of the rhine-maidens mourning their treasure falls in slow, pitiful cadences upon their ears:- 'rhinegold! purest gold! o would that thy light waved in the waters below! unfailing faith is found in the deep, while above, in delight, faintness and falsehood abide!' [1] see the author's 'myths of northern lands' and 'legends of the rhine.' [2] all the quotations in the 'ring' have been taken either from dippold's or forman's admirable translations. [illustration: brunhilde discovering siegmund and sieglinde.] the walkyrie. wotan--made secretly uneasy by erda's dark prediction that 'nothing that is ends not; a day of gloom dawns for the gods;- be ruled and waive from the ring'-relinquishes the ring which he had wrested from alberich, as has been seen. his restlessness however daily increases, until at last he penetrates in disguise into the dark underground world and woos the fair earth goddess. so successfully does he plead his cause, that she receives him as her spouse and bears him eight lovely daughters. she also reveals to him the secrets of the future, when walhalla's strong walls shall fall, and the gods shall perish, because they have resorted to fraud and lent a willing ear to loge, prince of evil. notwithstanding this fatal prediction wotan remains undismayed. instead of yielding passively to whatever fate may befall him, he resolves to prepare for a future conflict, and to defend walhalla against every foe. as the gods are few in number, he soon decides to summon mortals to his abode, and in order to have men trained to every hardship and accustomed to war, he flings his spear over the world, and kindles unending strife between all the nations. his eight daughters, the walkyries, are next deputed to ride down to earth every day and bear away the bravest among the slain. these warriors are entertained at his table with heavenly mead, and encouraged to keep up their strength and skill by cutting and hewing each other, their wounds healing magically as soon as made. but, in spite of these preparations, wotan is not yet satisfied. he still remembers the all-powerful ring which he has given to the giants, and which is still in the keeping of fafnir. in case this ring again falls into the hands of the revengeful alberich, he knows the gods cannot hope to escape from his wrath. he himself cannot snatch back a gift once given, so he decides to beget a son, who will unconsciously be his emissary, and who will, moreover, oppose the offspring which erda has predicted that alberich will raise merely to help him avenge his wrongs. disguised as a mortal named wälse, or volsung, wotan takes up his abode upon earth, and marries a mortal woman, who bears him twin children, siegmund and sieglinde. these children are still very young when hunding, a hunter and lover of strife, comes upon their hut in the woods, and burns it to the ground, after slaying the elder woman and carrying off the younger as his captive. on their return from the forest, wälse and siegmund behold with dismay the destruction of their dwelling, and vow constant warfare against their foes. this vow they faithfully keep until siegmund grows up and his father suddenly and mysteriously disappears, leaving behind him nothing but the wolf-skin garment to which he owes his name. hunding, in the mean while, has carried sieglinde off to his dwelling, which is built around the stem of a mighty oak, and when she attains a marriageable age he compels her to become his wife, although she very reluctantly submits to his wish. the opening scene of this opera represents hunding's hall,--in the midst of which stands the mighty oak whose branches overshadow the whole house,--which is dimly illumined by the fire burning on the hearth. suddenly the door is flung wide open, and a stranger rushes in. he is dusty and dishevelled, and examines the apartment with a wild glance. when he has ascertained that it is quite empty, he comes in, closes the door behind him, and sinks exhausted in front of the fire, where he soon falls asleep. a moment later sieglinde, hunding's forced wife, appears. when she sees a stranger in front of the fire, instead of her expected lord and master, she starts back in sudden fear. but, reassured by the motionless attitude of the stranger, she soon draws near, and, bending over him, discovers that he has fallen asleep:- 'his heart still heaves, though his lids be lowered, warlike and manful i deem him though wearied down he sunk.' as she has only a very dim recollection of her past, she fails to recognise her brother in the sleeper. he soon stirs uneasily, and, wakening, tries to utter a few words, which his parched lips almost refuse to articulate, until she compassionately gives him a drink. gazing at sieglinde as if fascinated by some celestial vision, siegmund, in answer to her questions, informs her that he is an unhappy wight, whose footsteps misfortune constantly dogs. he then goes on to inform her that even now he has escaped from his enemies with nothing but his life, and makes a movement to leave her for fear lest he should bring ill-luck upon her too. sieglinde, however, implores him to remain and await the return of her husband. almost as she speaks hunding enters the house, and, allowing her to divest him of his weapons, seems dumbly to inquire the reason of the stranger's presence at his hearth. sieglinde rapidly explains how she found him faint and weary before the fire, and hunding, mindful of the laws of hospitality, bids the stranger welcome, and invites him to partake of the food which sieglinde now sets before them. as siegmund takes his place at the rude board, hunding first becomes aware of the strange resemblance he bears to his wife, and after commenting upon it _sotto voce_, he inquires his guest's name and antecedents. siegmund then mournfully relates his happy youth, the tragic loss of his mother and sister, his roaming life with his father, and the latter's mysterious disappearance. only then does hunding recognize in him the foe whom he has long been seeking to slay. unconscious of all this, siegmund goes on to relate how on that very day he had fought single-handed against countless foes to defend a helpless maiden, running away only when his weapons had failed him and the maiden had been slain at his feet. sieglinde listens breathless to the story of his sad life and of his brave defence of helpless virtue, while hunding suddenly declares that, were it not that the sacred rights of hospitality restrained him, he would then and there slay the man who had made so many of his kinsmen bite the dust. he however contents himself with making an appointment for a hostile encounter early on the morrow, promising to supply siegmund with a good sword, since he has no weapons of his own:- 'my doors ward thee, wölfing, to-day; till the dawn shelter they show; a flawless sword will befit thee at sunrise, by day be ready for fight, and pay thy debt for the dead.' then hunding angrily withdraws with his wife, taking his weapons with him, and muttering dark threats, which fill his guest's heart with nameless fear. left alone, siegmund bitterly mourns his lack of weapons, for he fears lest he may be treacherously attacked by his foe, and in his sorrow he reproaches his father, who had repeatedly told him that he would find a sword ready to his hand in case of direst need. 'a sword,--so promised my father- in sorest need i should find- weaponless falling in the house of the foe, here in pledge to his wrath i am held.' while he is brooding thus over his misfortunes, the flames on the hearth flicker and burn brighter. suddenly their light glints upon the hilt of a sword driven deep in the bole of the mighty oak, and, reassured by the thought that he has a weapon within reach, siegmund disposes himself to sleep. the night wears on. the fire flickers and dies out. the deep silence is broken only by siegmund's peaceful breathing, when the door noiselessly opens, and sieglinde, all dressed in white, steals into the room. she glides up to the sleeping guest and gently rouses him, bidding him escape while her husband is still sound asleep under the influence of an opiate which she has secretly administered:- 'it is i; behold what i say! in heedless sleep is hunding, i set him a drink for his dreams, the night for thy safety thou needest.' leading him to the oak, she then points out the sword, telling him it was driven into the very heart of the tree by a one-eyed stranger. he had come into the hall on her wedding day, and had declared that none but the mortal for whom the gods intended the weapon would ever be able to pull it out. she then goes on to describe how many strong men have tried to withdraw it, and warmly declares it must have been intended for him who had so generously striven to protect a helpless maiden. her tender solicitude fills the poor outcast's famished heart with such love and joy that he clasps her to his breast, and, the door swinging noiselessly open to admit a flood of silvery moonbeams, they join in the marvellous duet known as the 'spring song.' as they gaze enraptured upon each other, they too perceive the strong resemblance which has so struck hunding, but still fail to recognize each other as near of kin. to save sieglinde from her distasteful compulsory marriage, siegmund now consents to fly, providing she will accompany him, vowing to protect her till death with the sword which he easily draws from the oak, and which he declares he knows his father must have placed there, as he recognizes him in the description which sieglinde had given of the stranger:- 'siegmund the volsung, seest thou beside thee! for bridal gift he brings thee this sword. he woos with the blade the blissfullest wife. from the house of the foe he hies with thee. forth from here follow him far, hence to the laughing house of the spring, where nothung the sword defends thee, where siegmund infolds thee in love!' this passionate appeal entirely sweeps away sieglinde's last scruples; she yields rapturously to his wooing, and they steal away softly, hand in hand, to go and seek their happiness out in the wide world. hunding, upon awaking on the morrow, discovers the treachery of his guest and the desertion of his wife. almost beside himself with fury, he prepares to overtake and punish the guilty pair. as a fight is now imminent between siegmund, his mortal son, and hunding, wotan, who is up on a rocky mountain overlooking the earth, summons brunhilde the walkyrie to his side, bidding her saddle her steed and so direct the battle that siegmund may remain victor and hunding only fall. chanting her walkyrie war-cry, brunhilde departs, laughingly calling out to wotan that he had best be prepared for a call from his wife, who is hastening toward him as fast as her rams can draw her brazen chariot. brunhilde has scarcely passed out of sight when fricka comes upon the scene. after upbraiding wotan for forsaking her to woo the goddess erda and a mortal maiden, she says that, as father of the gods and ruler of the world, he is bound to uphold religion and morality. she then dwells angrily upon the immorality of the just consummated union between siegmund and sieglinde, who are brother and sister, and finally forces her husband, much against his will, to promise he will revoke his decree, give the victory to the injured husband, hunding, and punish siegmund, the seducer, by immediate death. wotan therefore summons brunhilde once more, and sadly bids her to shield hunding in the coming fight. brunhilde, who realizes that the second command has been dictated by fricka, implores him to confide his troubles to her. she then hears with dismay an account of the way in which wotan has been beguiled into wrongdoing by loge, of his attempts to gather an army large enough to oppose to his foes when the last day should come, and of his long cherished hope that siegmund would recover the fatal ring which he feared would again fall into the revengeful alberich's hands. finally, however, wotan repeats his order to her to befriend hunding, and brunhilde, awed by his despair, slowly departs to fulfil his commands. the god has just vanished amid the mutterings of thunder, expressive of his wrath if any one dare to disobey his behests, when siegmund and sieglinde suddenly appear upon the mountain side. they are fleeing from hunding, and sieglinde, who has discovered when too late that siegmund is her brother, is so torn by remorse, love, and fear that she soon sinks fainting to the ground. siegmund, alarmed, bends over her, but, having ascertained that she has only fainted, makes no effort to revive her, deeming it better that she should remain unconscious during the encounter which must soon take place, for the horn of the pursuing hunding is already heard in the distance. siegmund has just pressed a tender kiss upon sieglinde's fair forehead, when brunhilde, the walkyrie, suddenly appears before him, and solemnly warns him of his coming defeat and death. he proudly tells her of his matchless sword, but she informs him that his reliance upon it is quite misplaced, for it will be wrenched from his grasp when his need is greatest. then she tries to comfort him by describing the glory which awaits him in walhalla, whither she will convey him after death. siegmund eagerly questions her, but, learning that sieglinde can never be admitted within its shining portals, passionately declares he cannot leave her. he next proposes to kill her and himself, so that they may be together in hela's dark abode, for he will accept no joys which she cannot share:- 'then greet for me valhall, greet for me wotan; hail unto wälse, and all the heroes! greet, too, the graceful warlike mist-maidens: for now i follow thee not.' brunhilde's heart is so touched by his love for and utter devotion to sieglinde, and she is so anxious at the same time to fulfil wotan's real wish, in defiance of his orders, that she finally allows compassion to get the better of her reason, and impulsively promises siegmund that she will protect him in the coming fray. at the same moment hunding's horn is heard, and brunhilde disappears, while the scene darkens with the rapid approach of a thunderstorm. such is the darkness that siegmund, who has sprung down the path in his eagerness to meet his foe, misses his way, while sieglinde slowly rouses from her swoon, muttering of the days of her happy childhood when she dwelt with her family in the great wood. suddenly, the lightning flashes, and hunding and siegmund, meeting upon a ridge, begin fighting, in spite of sieglinde's frantic cries. as the struggle begins, brunhilde, true to her promise, hovers over the combatants, holding her shield over siegmund and warding off every dangerous blow, while sieglinde gazes in speechless terror upon the combatants. but in the very midst of the fray, when siegmund is about to pierce hunding's heart with his glittering sword, wotan suddenly appears, and, extending his sacred spear to parry the blow, he shivers the sword nothung to pieces. hunding basely takes advantage of this accident to slay his defenceless foe, while brunhilde, fearing wotan's wrath and hunding's cruelty, catches up the fainting sieglinde and bears her rapidly away upon her fleet-footed steed. after gazing for a moment in speechless sorrow at his lifeless favourite, wotan turns a wrathful glance upon the treacherous hunding, who, unable to endure the divine accusation of his unflinching gaze, falls lifeless to the ground. then the god mounts his steed, and rides off on the wings of the storm in pursuit of the disobedient walkyrie, whom he is obliged to punish severely for his oath's sake. the next scene represents an elevated plateau, the trysting spot of the eight walkyries, on hindarfiall, or walkürenfels, whither they all come hastening, bearing the bodies of the slain across their fleet steeds. brunhilde appears last of all, carrying sieglinde. she breathlessly pours out the story of the day's adventures, and implores her sisters to devise some means of hiding sieglinde, and to protect her from wotan's dreaded wrath:- 'the raging hunter behind me who rides, he nears, he nears from the north! save me, sisters! ward this woman.' the sound of the tempest has been growing louder and louder while she is speaking, and as she ends her narrative sieglinde recovers consciousness, but only to upbraid her for having saved her life. she wildly proposes suicide, until brunhilde bids her live for the sake of siegmund's son whom she will bring into the world, and tells her to treasure the fragments of the sword nothung, which she had carried away. sieglinde, anxious now to live for her child's sake, hides the broken fragments in her bosom, and, in obedience to brunhilde's advice, speeds into the dense forest where fafnir has his lair, and where wotan will never venture lest the curse of the ring should fall upon him. 'save for thy son the broken sword! where his father fell on the field i found it. who welds it anew and waves it again, his name he gains from me now- "siegfried" the hero be hailed.' the noise of the storm and rushing wind has become greater and greater, the walkyries have anxiously been noting wotan's approach. as sieglinde vanishes in the dim recesses of the primeval forest, the wrathful god comes striding upon the stage in search of brunhilde, who cowers tremblingly behind her sisters. after a scathing rebuke to the walkyries, who would fain shelter a culprit from his all-seeing eye, wotan bids brunhilde step forth. solemnly he then pronounces her sentence, declaring she shall serve him as walkyrie no longer, but shall be banished to earth, where she will have to live as a mere mortal, and, marrying, to know naught beyond the joys and sorrows of other women:- 'heard you not how her fate i have fixed? far from your side shall the faithless sister be sundered; her horse no more in your midst through the breezes shall haste her; her flower of maidenhood will falter and fade; a husband will win her womanly heart, she meekly will bend to the mastering man the hearth she'll heed, as she spins, and to laughers is left for their sport.' brunhilde, hearing this terrible decree, which degrades her from the rank of a goddess to that of a mere mortal, sinks to her knees and utters a great cry of despair. this is echoed by the walkyries, who, however, depart at wotan's command, leaving their unhappy sister alone with him. passionately now brunhilde pleads with her father, declaring she had meant to serve him best by disobeying his commands, and imploring him not to banish her forever from his beloved presence. but, although wotan still loves her dearly, he cannot revoke his decree, and repeats to her that he will leave her on the mountain, bound in the fetters of sleep, a prey to the first man who comes to awaken her and claim her as his bride. all brunhilde's tears and passionate pleadings only wring from him a promise that she will be hedged in by a barrier of living flames, so that none but the very bravest among men can ever come near her to claim her as his own. wotan, holding his beloved daughter in a close embrace, then gently seals her eyes in slumber with tender kisses, lays her softly down upon the green mound, and draws down the visor of her helmet. then, after covering her with her shield to protect her from all harm, he begins a powerful incantation, summoning loge to surround her with an impassable barrier of flames. as this incantation proceeds, small flickering tongues of fire start forth on every side; they soon rise higher and higher, roaring and crackling until, as wotan disappears, they form a fiery barrier all around the sleeping walkyrie:- 'loge, hear! hitherward listen! as i found thee at first- in arrowy flame as thereafter thou fleddest- in fluttering fire; as i dealt with thee once, i wield thee to-day! arise, billowing blaze, and fold in thy fire the rock! loge! loge! aloft! who fears the spike of my spear to face, he will pierce not the planted fire.' [illustration: siegfried and mime.] siegfried. sieglinde, having dragged herself into the depths of the great untrodden forest, dwelt there in utter solitude until the time came for her son siegfried to come into the world. sick and alone, the poor woman went about in search of aid, and finally came to mime's cavern, where, after giving birth to her child and intrusting him to the care of the dwarf, she gently breathed her last. here, in the grand old forest, young siegfried grew up to manhood, knowing nothing of his parentage except the lie which mime, the wily dwarf, chose to tell him, that he was his own son. strong, fearless, and unruly, the youth soon felt the utmost contempt for the cringing dwarf, and, instead of bending over the anvil and swinging the heavy hammer, he preferred to range the forest, hunting the wild beasts, climbing the tallest trees, and scaling the steepest rocks. as the opera opens, the curtain rises upon a sooty cave, where the dwarf mime is alone at work, hammering a sword upon his anvil and complaining bitterly of the strength and violence of young siegfried, who shatters every weapon he makes. in spite of repeated disappointments, however, mime the nibelung works on. his sole aim is to weld a sword which in the bold youth's hands will avail to slay his enemy, the giant fafnir, the owner of the ring and magic helm, and the possessor of all the mighty hoard. while busy in his forge, mime tells how the giant fled with his treasure far away from the haunts of men, concealed his gold in the neidhole, a grewsome den. there, thanks to the magic helmet, he has assumed the loathsome shape of a great dragon, whose fiery breath and lashing tail none dares to encounter. as mime finishes the sword he has been fashioning, siegfried, singing his merry hunting song, dashes into the cave, holding a bear in leash. after some rough play, which nearly drives the unhappy mime mad with terror, siegfried sets the beast free, grasps the sword, and with one single blow shatters it to pieces on the anvil, to mime's great chagrin. another weapon has failed to satisfy his needs, and the youth, after harshly upbraiding the unhappy smith, throws himself sullenly down in front of the fire. mime then cringingly approaches him with servile offers of food and drink, continually vaunting his love and devotion. these protests of simulated affection greatly disgust siegfried, who is well aware of the fact that they are nothing but the merest pretence. in his anger against this constant deceit, he finally resorts to violence to wring the truth from mime, who, with many interruptions and many attempts to resume his old whining tone, finally reveals to him the secret of his birth and the name of his mother. he also tells him all he gleaned about his father, who fell in battle, and, in proof of the veracity of his words, produces the fragments of siegmund's sword, which the dying sieglinde had left for her son:- 'lo! what thy mother had left me! for my pains and worry together she gave me this poor reward. see! a broken sword, brandished, she said, by thy father, when foiled in the last of his fights.' siegfried, who has listened to all this tale with breathless attention, interrupting the dwarf only to silence his recurring attempts at self-praise, now declares he will fare forth into the wild world as soon as mime has welded together the precious fragments of the sword. in the mean while, finding the dwarf's hated presence too unbearable, he rushes out and vanishes in the green forest depths. left alone once more, mime wistfully gazes after him, thinking how he may detain the youth until the dragon has been slain. at last he slowly begins to hammer the fragments of the sword, which will not yield to his skill and resume their former shape. while the dwarf mime is abandoning himself to moody despair, wotan has been walking through the forest. he is disguised as a wanderer, according to his wont, and suddenly enters mime's cave. the dwarf starts up in alarm at the sight of a stranger, but after asking him who he may be, and learning that he prides himself upon his wisdom, he bids him begone. wotan, however, who has come hither to ascertain whether there is any prospect of discovering anything new, now proposes a contest of wit, in which the loser's head shall be at the winner's disposal. mime reluctantly assents, and begins by asking a question concerning the dwarfs and their treasures. this wotan answers by describing the nibelungs' gold, and the power wielded by alberich as long as he was owner of the magic ring. mime's second inquiry is relative to the inhabitants of earth, and wotan describes the great stature of the giants, who, however, were no match for the dwarfs, until they obtained possession not only of the ring, but also of the great hoard over which fafnir now broods in the guise of a dragon. then mime questions him concerning the gods, but only to be told that wotan, the most powerful of them all, holds an invincible spear upon whose shaft are engraved powerful runes. in speaking thus the disguised god strikes the ground with his spear, and a long roll of thunder falls upon the terrified mime's ear. the three questions have been asked and successfully answered, and it is now mime's turn to submit to an interrogatory, from which he evidently shrinks, but to which he must yield. wotan now proceeds to ask him which race, beloved by wotan, is yet visited by his wrath, which sword is the most invincible of weapons, and who will weld its broken pieces together. mime triumphantly answers the first two questions by naming the volsung race and siegmund's blade, nothung; but as he has failed to weld the sword anew, and has no idea who will be able to achieve the feat, he is forced to acknowledge himself beaten by the third. scorning to take any advantage of so puny a rival, wotan refuses to take the forfeited head, and departs, after telling the nibelung that the sword can only be restored to its pristine glory by the hand of a man who knows no fear, and that the same man will claim it as his lawful prize and dispose of mime's head:- 'hark thou forfeited dwarf; none but he who never feared, nothung forges anew. henceforth beware! thy wily head is forfeit to him whose heart is free from fear.' when siegfried returns and finds the fire low, the dwarf idle, and the sword unfinished, he angrily demands an explanation. mime then reveals to him that none but a fearless man can ever accomplish the task. as siegfried does not even know the meaning of the word, mime graphically describes all the various phases of terror to enlighten him. siegfried listens to his explanations, but when they have come to an end and he has ascertained that such a feeling has never been harboured in his breast, he springs up and seizes the pieces of the broken sword. he files them to dust, melts the metal on the fire, which he blows into an intense glow, and after moulding tempers the sword. while hammering lustily siegfried gaily sings the song of the sword. the blade, when finished, flashes in his hand like a streak of lightning, and possesses so keen an edge that he cleaves the huge anvil in two with a single stroke. while siegfried is thus busily employed, mime, dreading the man who knows no fear, and to whom he has been told his head was forfeit, concocts a poisonous draught. this he intends to administer to the young hero as soon as the frightful dragon is slain, for he has artfully incited the youth to go forth and attack the monster, in hope of learning the peculiar sensation of fear, which he has never yet known. in another cave, in the depths of the selfsame dense forest, is alberich the dwarf, mime's brother and former master. he mounts guard night and day over the neidhole, where fafnir, the giant dragon, gloats over his gold. it is night and the darkness is so great that the entrance to the neidhole only dimly appears. the storm wind rises and sweeps through the woods, rustling all the forest leaves. it subsides however almost as soon as it has risen, and wotan, still disguised as a wanderer, appears in the moonlight, to the great alarm of the wily dwarf. a moment's examination suffices to enable him to recognise his quondam foe, whom he maliciously taunts with the loss of the ring, for well he knows the god cannot take back what he has once given away. wotan, however, seems in no wise inclined to resent this taunting speech, but warns alberich of the approach of mime, accompanied by a youth who knows no fear, and whose keen blade will slay the monster. he adds that the youth will appropriate the hoard, ere he rouses fafnir to foretell the enemy's coming. then he disappears with the usual accompaniment of rushing winds and rumbling thunder. the warning which alberich would fain disbelieve is verified, as soon as the morning breaks, by the appearance of siegfried and mime. the latter is acting as guide, and eagerly points out the mighty dragon's lair. but even then the youth still refuses to tremble, and when mime describes fafnir's fiery breath, coiling tail, and impenetrable hide, he good-naturedly declares he will save his most telling blow until the monster's side is exposed, and he can plunge nothung deep into his gigantic breast. thus forewarned against the dragon's various modes of attack, siegfried advances boldly, while mime prudently retires to a place of safety. he is closely watched by alberich, who crouches unseen in his cave. siegfried seats himself on the bank to wait for the dragon's awakening, and beguiles the time by trying to imitate the songs of the birds, which he would fain understand quite clearly. as all his efforts result in failure, siegfried soon casts aside the reed with which he had tried to reproduce their liquid notes, and, winding his horn, boldly summons fafnir to come forth and encounter him in single fight. this challenge immediately brings forth the frightful dragon. to siegfried's surprise he can still talk like a man. after a few of the usual amenities, the fight begins. mindful of his boast, siegfried skilfully parries every blow, evades the fiery breath, lashing tail, and dangerous claws, and, biding his time, thrusts his sword up to the very hilt in the giant's heart. with his dying breath, the monster tells the youth of the curse which accompanies his hoard, and, rolling over, dies in terrible convulsions. the young hero, seeing the monster is dead, withdraws his sword from the wound; but as he does so a drop of the fiery blood falls upon his naked hand. the intolerable smarting sensation it produces causes him to put it to his lips to allay the pain. no sooner has he done so than he suddenly becomes aware that a miracle has happened, for he can understand the songs of all the forest birds. listening wonderingly, siegfried soon hears a bird overhead warning him to possess himself of the tarn-helmet and magic ring, and proclaiming that the treasure of the nibelungs is now his own. he immediately thanks the bird for its advice, and vanishes into the gaping neidhole in search of the promised treasures:- 'hi! siegfried shall have now the nibelungs' hoard, for here in the hole it awaits his hand! let him not turn from the tarn-helm, it leads to tasks of delight; but finds he a ring for his finger, the world he will rule with his will.' alberich and mime, who have been trembling with fear as long as the conflict raged, now timidly venture out of their respective hiding places. then only they become aware of each other's intention to hasten into the cave and appropriate the treasure, and begin a violent quarrel. it is brought to a speedy close, however, by the reappearance of siegfried wearing the glittering helmet, armour, and magic ring. the mere appearance of this martial young figure causes both dwarfs to slink back to their hiding places, while the birds resume their song. they warn siegfried to distrust mime, who is even then approaching with the poisonous draught. this the dwarf urges upon him with such persistency that siegfried, disgusted with his fawning hypocrisy, finally draws his sword and kills him with one blow:- 'taste of my sword, sickening talker! meed for hate nothung makes; work for which he was mended.' then, while alberich is laughing in malicious glee over the downfall of his rival, siegfried flings his body into the neidhole, and rolls the dragon's carcass in front of the opening to protect the gold. he next pauses again to listen to the bird in the lime tree, which sings of a lovely maiden surrounded by flames, who can be won as bride only by the man who knows no fear:- 'ha! siegfried has slain the slanderous dwarf. o, would that the fairest wife he might find! on lofty heights she sleeps, a fire embraces her hall; if he strides through the blaze, and wakens the bride, brunhilde he wins to wife.' this new quest sounds so alluring to siegfried, that he immediately sets out upon it, following the road which the wanderer has previously taken. the latter has gone on to the very foot of the mountain, upon which the flickering flames which surrounded brunhilde are burning brightly. there he pauses to conjure the goddess erda to appear and reveal future events. slowly and reluctantly the earth goddess arises from her prolonged sleep. her face is pallid as the newly fallen snow, her head crowned with glittering icicles, and her form enveloped in a great white winding-sheet. in answer to the god's inquiries about the future, she bids him question the norns and brunhilde. after a few obscure prophecies he allows her to sink down into her grave once more, for he now knows that one of the volsung race has won the magic ring, and is even now on his way up the mountain to awaken brunhilde. in corroboration of these words, siegfried appears a few moments after the prophetess or wala has again sunk into rest. challenged by wotan the wanderer, he declares he is on the way to rouse the sleeping maiden. in answer to a few questions, he rapidly adds that he has slain mime and the dragon, has tasted its blood, and brandishes aloft the glittering sword which has done him good service and which he has welded himself. wotan, wishing to test his courage, and at the same time to fulfil his promise to brunhilde that none should attempt to pass the flames except the one who feared not even his magic spear, now declares that he has slain his father, siegmund. siegfried, the avenger, boldly draws his gleaming sword, which, instead of shattering as once before against the divine spear, cuts it to pieces. in the same instant the wanderer disappears, amid thunder and lightning. siegfried, looking about him to find brunhilde, becomes aware of the flickering flames of a great fire, which rise higher and higher as he rushes joyfully into their very midst, blowing his horn and singing his merry hunting lay. the flames, which now invade the whole stage, soon flicker and die out, and, as the scene becomes visible once more, brunhilde is seen fast asleep upon a grassy mound. siegfried comes, and, after commenting upon the drowsing steed, draws nearer still. then he perceives the sleeping figure in armour, and bends solicitously over it. gently he removes the shield and helmet, cuts open the armour, and starts back in surprise when he sees a flood of bright golden hair fall rippling all around the fair form of a sleeping woman:- 'no man it is! hallowed rapture thrills through my heart; fiery anguish enfolds my eyes. my senses wander and waver. whom shall i summon hither to help me? mother! mother! be mindful of me.' his head suddenly sinks down upon her bosom, but, as her immobility continues, he experiences for the first time a faint sensation of fear. this is born of his love for her, and, in a frantic endeavour to recall her to life, he bends down and kisses her passionately. at the magic touch of his lips, brunhilde opens her eyes, and, overjoyed at the sight of the rising sun, greets it with a burst of rapturous song ere she turns to thank her deliverer. the first glimpse of the hero in his glittering mail is enough to fill her heart with love, and recognizing in him siegfried, the hero whose coming she herself has foretold, she welcomes him with joy. siegfried then relates how he found her, how he delivered her from the fetters of sleep, and, impetuously declaring his passion, claims her love in return. the scene between the young lovers, the personifications of the sun and of spring, is one of indescribable passion and beauty, and when they have joined in a duet of unalterable love, brunhilde no longer regrets past glories, but declares the world well lost for the love she has won. 'away walhall's lightening world! in dust with thy seeming, towers lie down! farewell greatness and gift of the gods! end in bliss thou unwithering breed! you, norns, unravel the rope of runes! darken upwards dusk of the gods! night of annulment, near in thy cloud!- i stand in sight of siegfried's star; for me he was and for me he will be, ever and always, one and all lighting love and laughing death.' these sentiments are more than echoed by the enamoured siegfried, who is beside himself with rapture at the mere thought of possessing the glorious creature, who has forgotten all her divine state to become naught but a loving and lovable woman. [illustration: siegfried and the rhine maidens.] dusk of the gods. the norns, or northern goddesses of fate, are seen in the dim light before dawn, busily weaving the web of destiny on the rocky hillside where the walkyries formerly held their tryst. as they twist their rope, which is stretched from north to south, they sing of the age of gold. then they sat beneath the great world-ash, near the limpid well, where wotan had left an eye in pledge to win a daily draught of wisdom. they also sing how the god tore from the mighty ash a limb which he fashioned into an invincible spear. this caused the death of the tree, which withered and died in spite of all their care. the third norn then continues the tale her sisters have begun, and tells how wotan came home with a shivered spear one day, and bade the gods cut down the tree. its limbs were piled like fuel all around walhalla, the castle which the giants had built, and since then wotan has sat there in moody silence, awaiting the predicted end, which can no longer be far distant. while they are singing, the barrier of flame in the background burns brightly, and its light grows pale only as dawn breaks slowly over the scene. the rope which the norns are weaving then suddenly parts beneath their fingers; so they bind the fragments about them and sink slowly into the ground, to join their mother erda, wailing a prophecy concerning the end of the old heathen world:- 'away now is our knowledge! the world meets from wisdom no more; below to mother, below!' as they vanish, the day slowly breaks, and siegfried and brunhilde come out of the cave. the former is in full armour and bears a jewelled shield, the latter leads her horse, grane, by the bridle. tenderly brunhilde bids her lover farewell, telling him that she will not restrain his ardour, for she knows it is a hero's part to journey out into the world and perform the noble tasks which await him. but her strength and martial fury have entirely departed since she has learned to love, and she repeatedly adjures him not to forget her, promising to await his homecoming behind her flickering barrier of flame, and to think constantly of him while he is away. siegfried reminds her that she need not fear he will forget her as long as she wears the nibelung ring, the seal of their troth, and gladly accepts from her in exchange the steed grane. although it can no longer scurry along the paths of air, this horse is afraid of nothing, and is ready to rush through water and fire at his command. as siegfried goes down the hill leading his steed, brunhilde watches him out of sight, and it is only when the last echoes of his hunting horn die away in the distance that the curtain falls. the next scene is played at worms on the rhine. gunther and his sister gutrune are sitting in their ancestral hall, with their half-brother hagen. he is the son of alberich, and has been begotten with the sole hope that he will once help his father to recover the nibelung ring. hagen advises gunther to remember the duty he owes his race, and to marry as soon as possible, and recommends as suitable mate the fair brunhilde, who is fenced in by a huge barrier of living flame. gunther is not at all averse to matrimony, and is anxious to secure the peerless bride proposed, yet he knows he can never pass through the flames, and asks how brunhilde is to be won. hagen, who as a nibelung knows the future, foretells that siegfried, the dauntless hero, will soon be there, and adds that, if they can only efface from his memory all recollection of past love by means of a magic potion, they can soon induce him to promise his aid in exchange for the hand of gutrune. as he speaks, the sound of a horn is heard, and hagen, looking out, sees siegfried crossing the river in a boat, and goes down to the landing with gunther to bid the hero welcome. hagen leads the horse away, but soon returns, while gunther ushers siegfried into the hall of the gibichungs, and enters into conversation with him. as siegfried's curiosity has been roused by the strangers calling him by name, he soon inquires how they knew him, and hagen declares that the mere sight of the tarn-cap had been enough. he then reveals to siegfried its magical properties, and asks him what he has done with the hoard, and especially with the ring, which he vainly seeks on his hand. siegfried carelessly replies that the gold is still in the neidhole, guarded by the body of the dragon, while the ring now adorns a woman's fair hand. as he finishes this statement, gutrune timidly draws near, and offers him a drinking horn, the draught of welcome, in which, however, the magic potion of forgetfulness has been mixed. siegfried drains it eagerly, remarking to himself that he drinks to brunhilde alone. but no sooner has he partaken of it than her memory leaves him, and he finds himself gazing admiringly upon gutrune. gunther then proceeds to tell siegfried the story of brunhilde, whom he would fain woo to wife. although the hero dreamily repeats his words, and seems to be struggling hard to recall some past memory, he does not succeed in doing so. finally he shakes off his abstraction, and ardently proposes to pass through the fire and win brunhilde for gunther in exchange for gutrune's hand:- 'me frights not her fire; i'll woo for thee the maid; for with might and mind am i thy man- a wife in gutrun' to win.' the two heroes now decide upon swearing blood brotherhood according to northern custom,--an inviolable oath,--and, charging hagen to guard the hall of the gibichungs, they immediately sally forth on their quest. brunhilde, in the mean while, has remained on the walkürenfels anxiously watching for siegfried's return, and spending long hours in contemplating the magic ring, her lover husband's last gift. her solitude is, however, soon invaded by waltraute, one of her sister walkyries. she informs her that wotan has been plunged in melancholy thought ever since he returned home from his wanderings with a shattered spear, and bade the gods pile the wood of the withered world-ash all around walhalla. this he has decided shall be his funeral pyre, when the predicted doom of the gods overtakes him. waltraute adds also that she alone has found the clue to his sorrow, for she has overheard him mutter that, if the ring were given back to the rhine-daughters, the curse spoken by alberich would be annulled, and the gods could yet be saved from their doom:- 'the day the river's daughters find from her finger the ring, will the curse's weight be cast from the god and the world.' brunhilde pays but indifferent attention to all this account, and it is only when waltraute informs her that it is in her power to avert the gods' doom by restoring the ring she wears to the mourning rhine-daughters, that she starts angrily from her abstraction, swearing she will never part with siegfried's gift, the emblem and seal of their plighted troth. waltraute, seeing no prayers will avail to win the ring, then rides sadly away, while the twilight gradually settles down, and the barrier of flames burns on with a redder glow. at the sound of a hunting horn, brunhilde rushes joyously to the back of the scene, with a rapturous cry of 'siegfried!' but shrinks suddenly back in fear and dismay when, instead of the bright beloved form, a dark man appears through the flickering flames. it is siegfried, who, by virtue of the tarn-helmet, has assumed gunther's form and voice, and boldly claims brunhilde as his bride, in reward for having made his way through the barrier of fire. brunhilde indignantly refuses to recognize him as her master. passionately kissing her ring, she loudly declares that as long as it graces her finger she will have the strength to repulse every attack and keep her troth to the giver. this declaration so incenses siegfried--who, owing to the magic potion, has entirely forgotten her and her love--that he rushes towards her, and after a violent struggle wrenches the ring from her finger, and places it upon his own. cowed by the violence of this rude wooer, and deprived of her ring, brunhilde no longer resists, but tacitly yields when he claims her as wife, and both soon disappear in the cave. there siegfried, mindful of his oath to marry her by proxy only, lays his unsheathed sword between him and his friend's bride:- 'now, nothung, witness well that faithfully i wooed; lest i wane in truth to my brother, bar me away from his bride!' hagen, left alone at worms to guard the hall of the gibichungs, is favored in his sleep by a visit from his father, alberich. the dwarf informs him that ever since the gods touched the fatal ring their power has waned, and that he must do all in his power to recover it from siegfried, who again holds it, and who little suspects its magic power. as alberich disappears, carrying with him hagen's promise to do all he can, the latter awakens just in time to welcome the returning siegfried. the young hero joyfully announces the success of their expedition, and rapturously claims gutrune as his bride. after hearing her lover's account of his night's adventures, the maiden leads him into the hall in search of rest and refreshment, while hagen, summoning the people with repeated blasts of his horn, admonishes them to deck the altars of wotan, freya, and donner, and to prepare to receive their master and mistress with every demonstration of joy. the festive preparations are barely completed, when gunther and brunhilde arrive. the bride is pale and reluctant, and advances with downcast eyes, which she raises only when she stands opposite gutrune and siegfried, and hears the latter's name. dropping gunther's hand, she rushes forward impetuously to throw herself in siegfried's arms, but, arrested by his cold unrecognising glance, she tremblingly inquires how he came there, and why he stands by gutrune's side? calmly then siegfried announces his coming marriage:- 'gunther's winsome sister she that i wed as gunther thee.' brunhilde indignantly denies her marriage to gunther, and almost swoons, but siegfried supports her, and, although brunhilde softly and passionately asks him if he does not know her, the young hero indifferently hands her over to gunther, bidding him look after his wife. at a motion of his hand, brunhilde's attention is attracted to the ring, and she angrily demands how he dare wear the token which gunther wrested from her hand. bewildered by this question, siegfried denies ever having received the ring from gunther, and declares he won it from the dragon in the neidhole; but hagen, anxious to stir up strife, interferes, and elicits from brunhilde an assurance that the hero can have won the ring only by guile. a misunderstanding now ensues, for while brunhilde in speaking refers to their first meeting, and swears that siegfried had wooed and treated her as his wife, he, recollecting only the second encounter, during which he acted only as gunther's proxy, denies her assertions. both solemnly swear to the truth of their statement upon hagen's spear, calling the vengeance of heaven down upon them in case of perjury. then the interrupted wedding festivities are resumed, for gunther knows only too well by what fraud his bride was obtained, and thinks the transformation has not been complete enough to blind the wise brunhilde. as siegfried gently leads gutrune away into the hall, whither all but hagen, gunther, and brunhilde follow him, the latter gives way to her extravagant grief. hagen approaches her, offering to avenge all her wrongs, and even slay siegfried if nothing else will satisfy her, and wipe away the foul stain upon her honour. but brunhilde tells him it is quite useless to challenge the hero, for she herself had made him invulnerable to every blow by blessing every part of his body except his back. this she deemed useless to protect, as siegfried, the bravest of men, never fled from any foe:- 'hagen. so wounds him nowhere a weapon? brunhilde. in battle none:--but still bare to the stroke is his back never--i felt- in flight he would find a foe to be harmful behind him, so spared i his back from the blessing.' her resentment against siegfried has reached such a pitch, however, that she finally hails with fierce joy hagen's proposal to slay him in the forest on the morrow. even gunther acquiesces in this crime, which will leave his sister a widow, and they soon agree that it shall be explained to gutrune as a hunting casualty. at noon on the next day siegfried arrives alone on the banks of the rhine, in search of a quarry which has escaped him. the rhine daughters, who concealed it purposely in hopes of recovering their ring, rise up out of the water, and swimming gracefully around promise to help him recover his game if he will only give them his ring. siegfried, who attaches no value whatever to the trinket, but wishes to tease them, refuses it at first; but when they change their bantering into a prophetic tone and try to frighten him by telling him the ring will prove his bane unless he intrust it to their care, he proudly answers that he has never yet learned to fear, and declares he will keep it, and see whether their prediction will be fulfilled:- 'my sword once splintered a spear;- the endless coil of counsel of old, wove they with wasting curses its web; norns shall not cover from nothung! one warned me beware of the curse a worm; but he failed to make me to fear,- the world's riches i won with a ring, that for love's delight swiftly i'd leave; i'll yield it for sweetness to you; but for safety of limbs and of life,- were it not worth of a finger's weight,- no ring from me you will reach!' the rhine maidens then bid him farewell, and swim away repeating their ominous prophecy. after they have gone, the hunting party appear, heralded by the merry music of their horns. all sit down to partake of the refreshments that have been brought, and as siegfried has provided no game, he tries to do his share by entertaining them with tales of his early youth. after telling them of his childhood spent in mime's forge, of the welding of nothung and the slaying of fafnir, he describes how a mere taste of the dragon's blood enabled him to understand the songs of the birds. encouraged by hagen, he next relates the capture of the tarn-helm and ring, and then, draining his horn in which hagen has secretly poured an antidote to the draught of forgetfulness administered by gutrune, he describes his departure in quest of the sleeping walkyrie and his first meeting with brunhilde. at the mere mention of her name, all the past returns to his mind. he suddenly remembers all her beauty and love, and starts wildly to his feet, but only to be pierced by the spear of the treacherous hagen, who had stolen behind him to drive it into his heart. the dying hero makes one last vain effort to avenge himself, then sinks feebly to the earth, while hagen slips away, declaring that the perjurer had fully deserved to be slain by the weapon upon which he had sworn his false oath. gunther, sorry now that it is too late, bends sadly over the prostrate hero, who, released from the fatal effects of gutrune's draught, speaks once more of his beloved brunhilde, and fancies he is once more clasped in her arms as of old. then, when he has breathed his last, the hunters place his body upon a shield and bear it away in the rapidly falling dusk, to the slow, mournful accompaniment of a funeral march, whose muffled notes fall like a knell on the listener's ear. gutrune, who has found the day very long indeed without her beloved siegfried, comes out of her room at nightfall, and listens intently for the sound of the hunting horn which will proclaim his welcome return. she is not the only watcher, however, for brunhilde has stolen down to the river, and her apartment is quite empty. suddenly hagen comes in, and gutrune, terrified at his unexpected appearance, anxiously inquires why she has not heard her husband's horn. without any preparation, roughly, brutally, hagen informs her the hero is dead, just as the bearers enter and deposit his lifeless body at her feet. gutrune faints, but when she recovers consciousness she indignantly refuses to credit hagen's story, that her husband was slain by a boar. she wildly accuses gunther, who frees himself from suspicion by denouncing hagen. without showing the least sign of remorse, the dark son of alberich then acknowledges the deed, and, seeing that gunther is about to appropriate the fatal ring, draws his sword and slays him also. wildly now hagen snatches at the ring, that long coveted treasure; but he starts back in dismay without having secured it, for the dead hand is threateningly raised, to the horror of all the spectators. next brunhilde comes upon the scene, singing a song of vengeance; and when gutrune wildly accuses her of being the cause of her husband's murder, she declares that she alone was siegfried's lawful wife, and that he would always have been true to her had not gutrune won him by the ruse of a magic draught. sadly gutrune acknowledges the truth of this statement, and, feeling that she has no right to mourn over the husband of another woman, she creeps over to gunther's corpse and bends motionless over him. brunhilde's anger is all forgotten now that the hero is dead, and, after caressing him tenderly for a while, she directs the bystanders to erect a huge funeral pyre. while they are thus occupied she sings the hero's dirge, and draws the ring unhindered from his dead hand. then she announces her decision to perish in the flames beside him, and declares the rhine maidens can come and reclaim their stolen treasure from their mingled ashes:- 'thou guilty ring! running gold! my hand gathers, and gives thee again. you wisely seeing water sisters, the rhine's unresting daughters, i deem your word was of weight! all that you ask now is your own; here from my ashes' heap you may have it!- the flame as it clasps me round free from the curse of the ring!- back to its gold unbind it again, and far in the flood withhold its fire, the rhine's unslumbering sun, that for harm from him was reft.' the curse of the ring is at an end. the ravens of wotan, perching aloft, fly heavily off to announce the tidings in walhalla, while brunhilde, after seeing siegfried's body carefully deposited on the pyre with all his weapons, kindles the fire with her own hand. then, springing upon grane, she rides into the very midst of the flames, which soon rise so high that they swallow her up and entirely hide her from the spectators' sight. after a short time the flames die down, the bright light fades, the stage darkens, and the river rises and overflows its banks, until its waves come dashing over the funeral pyre. they bear upon their swelling crests the rhine maidens who have come to recover their ring, hagen, standing gloomily in the background, becomes suddenly aware of their intention, wildly flings his weapons aside, and rushes forward, crying, 'unhand the ring!' but he is caught in the twining arms of two of the rhine maidens, who draw him down under the water, and drown him, while the third, having secured the nibelung ring, returns in triumph on the ebbing waves to her native depths, chanting the rhinegold strain. as she disappears, a reddish glow like the aurora borealis appears in the sky. it grows brighter and brighter, until one can discern the shining abode of walhalla, enveloped in lurid flames from the burning world-ash, and in the centre the assembled gods calmly seated upon their thrones, to submit to their long predicted doom, the 'götterdämmerung.'[3] [3] see prof. g.t. dippold's 'ring of the nibelung.' [illustration: parsifal in the enchanted garden.] parsifal. it was while he was searching for the material for tannhäuser, that wagner came across wolfram von eschenbach's poems of 'parsifal' and 'titurel,'[4] and, as he reports, 'an entirely new world of poetical matter suddenly opened before me.' wagner made no use of this idea, however, until 1857, some fifteen years later, when he drew up the first sketch of his parsifal, during his residence at zurich; twenty years later he finished the poem at bayreuth. he then immediately began the music, although he was sixty-five years of age. that same year, while he was making a concert tour in london, he read the poem to a select audience of friends, by whose advice it was published. although the music for this opera, which is designated as 'a solemn work destined to hallow the stage,' was finished in 1879, the instrumentation was completed only in 1882, at palermo, a few months before its first production at bayreuth. this opera, which wagner himself called a religious drama, is intended as the 'song of songs of divine love, as tristan and ysolde is the song of songs of terrestrial love.' the performance was repeated sixteen times at bayreuth, where many people had come from all parts of the world to hear and see it, and has since been revived a number of times. it is the most difficult and least easily understood of the master's intricate works, and bears the imprint not only of his philosophical studies, but also of the spirit of oriental mysticism, in which he delighted, and which he at one time intended to make use of for the stage. the opera opens in the forest, where gurnemanz, an old servant of amfortas, guardian of the holy grail, is lying asleep with two squires. suddenly, reveille sounds from the top of mount salvat, the sacred hill upon which the temple stands. gurnemanz, springing to his feet, rouses the squires, and bids them prepare the bath for their ailing master, who will soon appear as is his daily custom. this amfortas, whose coming they momentarily expect, is the son of titurel, the founder of the temple erected on mount salvat for the reception of the holy grail, a vessel in which joseph of arimathea caught a few drops of blood from the dying redeemer's side, after it had served as chalice during the last supper. titurel, feeling too old to continue his office as guardian of the grail, appointed amfortas as his successor, giving him the sacred lance which pierced the saviour's side, and told him that none could resist him as long as he wielded it and kept himself perfectly pure. during many years amfortas led a stainless life, defending the holy grail from every foe, performing all his sacred offices with exemplary piety, and teaching the knights of the grail to fight for the right, and rescue the feeble and oppressed. he also sent out messengers to all parts of the world to right the wrong, whenever called upon to do so, by the words which suddenly appeared and glowed like fire around the edge of the mystic vase. all the knights who served the holy grail were not only fed with celestial viands by its power alone, but were endowed with resistless might, which assured their victory everywhere as long as they remained unknown. they had moreover the privilege of recovering, as if by magic, from every wound. of course, many knights were desirous of being admitted into the temple, but none except those whose lives were pure and whose purposes lofty were ever accepted. when klingsor, the magician, attempted to enter, therefore, he was repulsed. in his anger he established himself upon the other side of the mountain, where, summoning all the arts of magic to his aid, he called up delusions of every kind. thus he beguiled many of the knights in search of the holy grail, caught them in his toils and led them on to sin, until they were unfit for the holy life to which they had once aspired. amfortas, hearing of this, and too confident in his own strength, sallied forth one day, armed with the sacred lance, determined to destroy klingsor, and put an end to his magic. but alas! he had no sooner entered the magician's garden, where roamed a host of lovely maidens trained to lure all men to sin, than he yielded to the blandishments of the fairest among them. carelessly flinging his sacred lance aside, he gave himself up to the delights of passion. such was his bewitched condition that he never even noticed the stealthy approach of the magician, who seized the lance and thrust it into his side. this deep wound, which had refused to heal ever since, caused him incessant tortures, which were increased rather than diminished whenever he uncovered the holy grail. although no remedy could allay this torture, the holy grail decreed that it should be stilled by a guileless fool, who, enlightened by pity, would find the only cure. but, as he tarried, many knights travelled all over the world in search of simples, and kundry, a wild, witch-like woman, also sought in vain to relieve him. while the squires, in obedience to gurnemanz's orders, prepare the bath, kundry comes riding wildly on the scene. in breathless haste she thrusts a curious little flask into gurnemanz's hand, telling him it is a precious balsam she has brought from a great distance to alleviate amfortas's suffering. she is so exhausted by her long ride that she flings herself upon the ground, where she remains while a little procession comes down the hill. it is composed of knights bearing the wounded amfortas, and they set the litter down for a moment, as the king gives vent to heart-rending groans. to soothe him, his attendants remind him that there are many more remedies to try, and gurnemanz adds that, failing all others, they can always rely upon the promise of the holy grail, and await the coming of the guileless fool. when amfortas learns that kundry has made another attempt to help him, he thanks her kindly, but his gentle words only seem to increase her distress, for she writhes uneasily on the ground and refuses all thanks. when the king and his bearers have gone down the hill, and have passed out of sight, the squires begin chaffing poor kundry. she gazes upon them with the wild eyes of an animal at bay, until gurnemanz comes to her rescue, and chides the youths. he tells them that although she may once have been, as they declare, under a curse, she has repented of her sins, and serves the holy grail with a humility and singleness of purpose which they would do well to imitate rather than deride. in answer to their questions, he then goes on to describe how amfortas received the grievous wound which causes him such intolerable pain, and lost the sacred spear, which only enhances klingsor's power for evil, and which none but a stainless knight can ever recover. their quiet conversation is brusquely interrupted by the heavy fall of a swan, which lies dead at their feet. this arouses their keenest indignation, for the rules of the order forbid any deed of violence within sight or hearing of the sacred edifice containing the holy grail. gazing around in search of the culprit, they soon behold the youth parsifal, clad in the rough and motley garments of a fool, and when gurnemanz angrily reproves him, and questions him concerning his name and origin, he is amazed by the ignorance the lad displays. by the help of kundry, however, who, having travelled everywhere, knows everything, gurnemanz finally ascertains that the youth is a descendant of the royal family, his father, gamuret, having died when he was born. his mother, herzeloide (heart's affliction), has brought him up in utter solitude and ignorance, to prevent his becoming a knight and leave her perchance to fall in battle:- 'bereft of father his mother bore him. for in battle perished gamuret: from like untimely hero's death to save her offspring, strange to arms she reared him a witless fool in deserts.' the youth, however, pays no heed to kundry's explanations, but goes on to tell gurnemanz that he saw some men riding through the forest in glittering array, and followed them through the world with no other weapon than the bow he had manufactured. but when kundry again interrupts him, declaring that his sudden disappearance has caused his mother's death, he shows the greatest sensibility, and even faints with grief. while the squires gently bathe his face and hands to bring him back to life, kundry, feeling the sudden and overpowering desire for sleep which often mysteriously overpowers her, creeps reluctantly into a neighbouring thicket, where she immediately sinks into a comatose state. in the mean while, the king's procession comes up from the bath, and slowly passes across the stage and up the hill. gurnemanz, whose heart has been filled with a sudden hope that the youth before him may be the promised guileless fool who alone can cure the king, puts an arm around him, gently raises him, and, supporting his feeble footsteps, leads him up the hill. they walk along dark passages, and finally come into the great hall on the top of mount salvat, which is empty now, and where only the sound of the bells in the dome is heard as gurnemanz says to parsifal:- 'now give good heed, and let me see, if thou 'rt a fool and pure what wisdom thou presently canst secure.' parsifal, the unsophisticated youth, stands spellbound at the marvels he beholds, nor does he move when the great doors open, and the knights of the grail come marching in, singing of the mystic vessel and of its magic properties. this strain is taken up not only by the youths who follow them, but also by a boy choir in the dome which is intended to represent the angels. when the knights have all taken their places, the doors open again to admit the bearers of the sacred vessel, which is kept in a shrine. they are followed by amfortas, in his litter, and when he has been carefully laid upon a couch, and the vessel has been placed upon the altar before him, all bow down in silent prayer. suddenly the silence is broken by the voice of the aged titurel. he is lying in a niche in the rear of the hall, and calls solemnly upon his son to uncover the holy grail, and give him a sight of the glorious vessel, which alone can renew his failing strength. the boys are about to remove the veil when amfortas suddenly detains them, and begins a passionate protest, relating how his sufferings increase every time he beholds the grail. he implores his father to resume the sacred office, and wildly asks how long his sufferings must endure. to this appeal the angels' voices respond by repeating the prophecy made by the holy grail:- 'by pity 'lightened the guileless fool- wait for him my chosen tool.' strengthened by this reminder of ultimate relief, and by the voice of the knights and of titurel again calling for the uncovering of the grail, amfortas takes the crystal cup from its shrine, bends over it in devout prayer, while the angel voices above chant a sort of communion service, and the hall is gradually darkened. suddenly a beam of blinding light shoots down through the dome and falls upon the cup, which 'glows with an increased purple lustre,' while amfortas holds it above his head, and gently waves it to and fro, so that its mystic light can be seen by all the knights and squires, who have sunk to their knees. titurel hails the sight with a pious ejaculation, and when amfortas has replaced the vessel in the shrine the beam of light disappears, daylight again fills the hall, and knights and squires begin to partake of the bread and wine before them, a feast to which gurnemanz invites the amazed parsifal by a mute gesture. the youth is too astonished to accept; he remains spellbound, while the invisible choir resume their chant, which is taken up first by the youths' voices, and then by the knights, and ends only as the meal draws to a close, and amfortas is borne out, preceded by the holy grail and followed by the long train of knights and squires. gurnemanz and parsifal alone remain. the fool, though guileless, has not been enlightened by pity to inquire the cause of amfortas's wound. he has thus missed his opportunity to cure him, and gurnemanz, indignant at his boundless stupidity, opens a side door, and thrusts him out into the forest, uttering a contemptuous dismissal. 'thou art then nothing but a fool! come away, on thy road be gone and put my rede to use: leave all our swans for the future alone and seek thyself, gander, a goose.' the second act represents the inner keep of klingsor's castle, the magician himself being seated on the battlement. he is gazing intently into the magic mirror, wherein all the world may be seen, and comments with malicious glee upon parsifal's ejection from the temple of the holy grail and his approach to his enchanted ground. laying aside his magic mirror, klingsor then begins one of his uncanny spells, and in the midst of a bluish vapor calls up kundry from the enchanted sleep into which his art has bound her. he tells her that, although she has succeeded in escaping his power for a short time, and has gone over to the enemy whom she has done all in her power to serve, he now requires her to exercise all her fascinations to beguile parsifal away from the path of virtue, as she once lured amfortas, the king and guardian of the holy grail. in vain the half awakened kundry struggles and tries to resist his power, klingsor has her again in his toils, and once more compels her, much against her wishes, to execute his will. just as parsifal, overcoming all resistance, drives away the guards of the castle and springs up on the ramparts, the magician waves his wand. he and his tower sink from view, and a beautiful garden appears, in which lovely damsels flit excitedly about in very scanty attire. after a few moments spent in motionless admiration of the scene before him, parsifal springs down into the garden, where he is immediately surrounded by the fair nymphs. they pull him this way and that, tease and cajole him, and use all their wiles to attract his attention and win his admiration. seeing him very indifferent to their unadorned charms, a few of them hastily retire into a bower, where they don gay flower costumes, in which they soon appear before him, winding in and out in the gay mazes of the dance. their youthful companions immediately follow their example, and also try to beguile parsifal by their flower hues, their kisses and caresses, but he stands stolidly by until kundry, who is now no longer a terrible and haggard witch, but a fair enchantress reclining upon a bed of roses, calls him to her side. as in a dream, parsifal obeys her summons, while the flower nymphs flit away to their respective bowers. wonderingly he now inquires how kundry knows his name, and again hears her relate how she was present at his birth, watched over his childhood, and witnessed the death of his mother. at this mention the youth is again overcome with grief. to comfort him, kundry, the enchantress, tenderly embraces him, and lavishes soft words upon him, but all her caresses have no effect, except to awaken in his heart a sudden miraculous comprehension of all he has seen. love is suddenly born in his heart, but it is not the evil passion which kundry had striven to bring to life, but the pure, unselfish feeling which enables one human being to understand and sympathise with another. he now knows that amfortas yielded to passion's spell, and in punishment suffered the spear wound in his side, and realizes that he alone could have given him relief. moved to sudden indignation by his compassion, he flings kundry's caressing arms aside, promising, however, to help her win her own redemption, if she will only tell him how to save amfortas, and will reveal who wielded the spear which dealt the fatal wound. but kundry, who is acting now entirely under klingsor's influence, and not by her own volition, seeing she cannot lure him to sin, and that he is about to escape forever, shrieks frantically for help, cursing him vehemently, and declaring that he will have to wander long ere he can again find a way to the realm of the holy grail. her piercing screams bring the flower damsels and klingsor upon the scene, and the latter, standing upon the rampart, flings the holy spear at parsifal, expecting to wound him as grievously as amfortas. but the youth has committed no sin, he is quite pure; so the spear remains poised above his head, until he stretches out his hand, and, seizing it, makes a sign of the cross, adjuring the magic to cease:- 'this sign i make, and ban thy cursed magic: as the wound shall be closed which thou with this once clovest,- to wrack and to ruin falls thy unreal display!' at the holy sign, the enchanter's delusions vanish, maidens and gardens disappear, and kundry sinks motionless upon the arid soil, while parsifal springs over the broken wall, calling out that they shall meet again. the third act is played also upon the slopes of the mountain, upon which the temple stands. many years have elapsed, however, and gurnemanz, bent with age, slowly comes out of his hut at the sound of a groan in a neighbouring thicket. the sounds are repeated until the good old man, who has assumed the garb of a hermit, searches in the thicket, and, tearing the brambles aside, finds the witch kundry in one of her lethargic states. he has seen her so before in days gone by, and, dragging her rigid form out from the thicket, he proceeds to restore her to life. wildly as of old her eyes roll about, but she has no sooner come to her senses than she clamours for some work to do for the holy grail, and proceeds to draw water and perform sundry menial tasks. gurnemanz, watching her closely, comments upon her altered behaviour, and expresses a conviction that she will ultimately be saved, since she has returned to the grail after many years on the morning of good friday. he is so occupied in examining her that he does not notice the approach of parsifal, clad in black armour, with closed helmet and lowered spear, and it is only when kundry calls his attention to the stranger that he welcomes him, but without recognizing him in the least. parsifal, however, has not forgotten the old man whom he has sought so long in vain, and is, so overcome by emotion that he cannot speak. he obeys gurnemanz's injunctions to remove his arms, as none dare enter the holy precincts of the holy grail in martial array, and, planting the spear he recovered from klingsor into the ground, he bends the knee before it, and returns silent thanks that his quest is ended, and he may at last be vouchsafed to quiet the pain which amfortas still endures. while he is wrapt in prayer, gurnemanz, staring at him, suddenly recognizes him as the guileless fool who came so long ago, and imparts his knowledge to kundry, who confirms it. parsifal, having finished his prayer, and recovered the power of speech, now greets gurnemanz, and in answer to his question says that he has wandered long, and expresses a fervent hope that he has not come too late to retrieve his former fault:- 'through error and through suffering lay my pathway; may i believe that i have freed me from it, now that this forest's murmur falls upon my senses, and worthy voice of age doth welcome? or yet--is 't new error? all's altered here meseemeth.' gurnemanz is almost overcome with joy when he hears the young man declare that he has brought back the sacred lance undefiled, although he has suffered much to defend it from countless foes who would fain have wrested it from him. as parsifal now begins eagerly to question him, he mournfully relates that times have changed indeed. amfortas still lives, and suffers untold tortures from his unhealed wound, but titurel, the aged king, no longer quickened by the sight of the holy grail, (which has never again been unveiled since his unhappy visit,) has slowly passed away, and has closed his eyes in a last sleep. at these sad tidings parsifal faints with remorse, and gurnemanz and kundry restore him with water from the holy spring, with which they also wash away all the soil of travel. as he comes to life again, inquiring whether he will be allowed to see amfortas, gurnemanz tells him that the knights are to assemble once more in the temple, as of old, to celebrate titurel's obsequies, and that amfortas has solemnly promised to unveil the holy grail, although at the cost of suffering to himself. he wishes to comfort the knights, who have lost all their courage and strength, and are no longer called upon to go forth and battle for the right in the name of the grail. to enable parsifal to appear in the temple, gurnemanz now baptises him with water from the spring, and kundry, anointing his feet with a costly perfume, wipes them with her hair. parsifal rewards her for this humble office by baptising her in his turn. then gurnemanz anoints parsifal's head with the same ointment, for it is decreed he shall be king, and after he and kundry have helped him to don the usual habit of the servants of the holy grail they proceed, as in the first act, to the temple, and once more enter the great hall. as they appear, the doors open, and two processions enter, chanting a mournful refrain. ten knights bear the bier containing titurel's corpse, the others carry the wasted form of the wounded king. the chorus ended, the coffin is opened, and at the sight of the dead titurel all the assistants cry out in distress. no wail is so bitter, however, as that of amfortas, who mournfully addresses his dead father, imploring him to intercede for him before the heavenly throne, and to obtain for him the long hoped for and long expected release. then he bids the knights uncover the holy grail; but ere they can do so he bursts out into a paroxysm of grief, exposing his bleeding and throbbing wound, and declaring he has not the courage to endure the sacred beam of light from the holy grail. but, unnoticed by all, parsifal, gurnemanz, and kundry have drawn near. suddenly the youth extends the sacred spear, and, touching amfortas with its point, declares that its power alone can stanch the blood and heal the wounded side, and pronounces the absolution of his sin:- 'be whole, unsullied and absolved, for i now govern in thy place. oh blessed be thy sorrows, for pity's potent might and knowledge's purest power they taught a timid fool.' no sooner has the sacred point touched the wound than it is indeed healed, and while amfortas sinks tottering with emotion into the arms of gurnemanz, all the knights gaze enraptured at the spear. then parsifal announces that he is commanded by divine decree to become the guardian of the grail, which he unveils and reverently receives into his hands. once more the hall is darkened, once more the beam of refulgent light illumines the gloom, and, as parsifal slowly waves the vessel to and fro, a snowy dove, the emblem of the holy grail, hovers lightly over his head. suddenly the beam of light falls across the face of the dead titurel, who, coming to life again in its radiance, raises his hand in fervent blessing ere he sinks back once more to peaceful rest. kundry, too, has seen the holy grail before her eyes closed in death, and amfortas, cured and forgiven, joins the knights and invisible choir in praising god for his great mercy, which endures forever. [4] see the author's 'legends of the middle ages,' in press. the end. the wagner story book [illustration: "at last we can see something in the fire."] the wagner story book firelight tales of the great music dramas by william henry frost illustrated by sydney richmond burleigh to helen krebbier contents the stolen treasure the daughter of the god the hero who knew no fear the end of the ring the knight of the swan the prize of a song the blood-red sail the love potion the minstrel knight the king of the grail the ashes list of illustrations "at last we can see something in the fire" "the gold shines out so bright and beautiful" "the daughter of the god" "the sunlight follows him straight into the cave" "their treasure is their own again" "the knight of her dream" "he saw her eyes brighter than the stars" "through the black storm and his own blacker despair" "as if they could never gaze enough" "the strangest flowers grow up under their feet" "the king of the grail" the stolen treasure there is a certain little girl who sometimes tries to find out when i am not over busy, so that she may ask me to tell her a story. she is kind enough to say that she likes my stories, and this so flatters my vanity that i like nothing better than telling them to her. one reason why she likes them, i suspect, is that they are not really my stories at all, the most of them. they are the stories that the whole world has known and loved all these hundreds and thousands of years, tales of the gods and the heroes, of the giants and the goblins. those are the right stories to tell to children, i believe, and the right ones for children to hear--the wonderful things that used to be done, up in the sky, and down under the ocean, and inside the mountains. if the boys and girls do not find out now, while they are young, all about the strange, mysterious, magical life of the days when the whole world was young, it is ten to one that they will never find out about it at all, for the most of us do not keep ourselves like children always, though surely we have all been told plainly enough that that is what we ought to do. this little girl's mother is rather a strange sort of woman. i do not know that she exactly disagrees with us about these stories that we both like so much, but she seems to have a different way of looking at them from ours. i sometimes suspect that she does not even believe in fairies at all, that she never so much as thought she saw a ghost, that, if she heard a dozen wild horses galloping over the roof of the house and then flying away into the sky, she would think it was only the wind, and that she is no more afraid of ogres than of policemen. still she is a woman whom one cannot help liking, in some respects. but one day she said something to the little girl that surprised me, and made me think that perhaps i had done her injustice. the child came to me with a face full of perplexity and said: "what do you suppose mamma just told me?" "i am sure i can't guess," i replied; "your mother tells you such ridiculous things that i am always afraid to think what will be the next. perhaps she says that william tell didn't shoot an apple off his little boy's head, or that the baker's wife didn't box king alfred's ears for letting the cakes burn." "oh, no," said the child, "it isn't a bit like that; she says that you can see pictures in the fire sometimes--men and horses and trees and all kinds of things." "does she, indeed? and how does your mother know what i can see in the fire or what i can't see?" "oh, i don't mean just you--yourself, i mean anybody. now can you? i mean can anybody?" "why, yes, if that is what you mean; i think some people can. it is the most sensible thing i have known your mother to say in a long time." "but how can anybody see such things? can you see them? i have been looking at the fire ever so long, and i can't see anything at all but just the fire, the wood, and the ashes." "let us look at it together," i said; and i put a chair that was big enough to hold both of us before the fireplace. "just see how bright the fire is; look down into those deep places under the sticks, and see how it glows and shines like melted gold. now, you know when you look into a mirror you can see pictures of the things in front of it--your own face, the walls of the room, the furniture. that is because the mirror is so bright that it reflects these things; yet the mirror is not bright enough to reflect anything except what is there before it, such things as you can see with your eyes and touch with your hands. but the fire can do better than that, for it is a great deal brighter than the mirror, and it is so bright that it can reflect thoughts. so you must think of the pictures first, and then, if you know just how to look for them in the fire, you will find them reflected there, and after a little while you will be surprised at the wonderful things you will see." "i don't know what you mean at all," said the child; "tell me what you can see in the fire now." "very well. suppose, then, first, that you almost close your eyes, but not quite, so that you will not see the fire so plainly, and it will all run together and look dim and misty. when i look at it in that way it seems to me to be fire no more, but water. it is as if we were down under a broad, deep river, and could see all the mass of water slowly eddying and whirling and flowing on above us, with just the little glow and glimmer of brightness that come down from the daylight and the air above. but there is one little spot that is brighter, right in the middle of the fire, where you see that one little yellow flame all by itself. in my picture, it is like a big lump of pure gold, resting on a point of rock that stands straight up from the bottom of the river. it is really gold, and magic gold at that, for you know wonderful treasures often lie at the bottoms of rivers. one of the wonderful things about this gold is that, if anybody could have a ring made of it, he could compel everybody else to obey him and serve him, and could rule the whole world. "three forms i can see now moving backward and forward, and up and down, and around and around about the gold. now they grow a little clearer. they are river nymphs, or something of the sort, and they are here to guard the gold, lest anybody should try to steal it. it would not be easy to steal, even if it had no guard, and knowing this has perhaps made these pretty keepers a little careless about it, so that now, instead of watching it very closely, they are swimming and diving and circling about, trying to catch one another, having the jolliest time in the world, and never thinking that there may be danger near." "and you can see all those things in the fire?" said the little girl. "i can't see any of them. how do you see them?" "just as i told you at first, by thinking of them and then seeing the thoughts reflected there." "well, tell me some more." "look at that little dark spot under the fire. when i look at it in the way i have told you, it is the form of a dwarf. he is ugly and roughlooking, he is crooked, and he has a wicked face. he slips and tumbles slowly along, till he catches sight of the water nymphs, and they look so pretty and graceful and happy, as they chase one another about and up and down and around, that his cruel little eyes light up with pleasure, and he calls to them that he should like to come up and play with them too." "oh, now i don't believe any of it at all," said the child; "i thought just for a little while you might know how to see all those funny things in the fire, but you can't hear people talk in the fire." "oh, my dear child, you don't know very much about the fire if you think i can't see anything i want to in it, or hear anything i want to either. i tell you i can hear what this dwarf says, just as plainly as i can see him walk about. still, if you don't believe any of it and don't care to know about the dwarf and the nymphs and the gold, perhaps you might better go and study your multiplication table, and i will find something else to do." "oh, but i do want to know about them. please tell me some more. what do the nymphs say to the dwarf? can you hear that too?" "of course i can hear it; they call to him to come up and play with them if he likes, and he clambers up over the rocks and trees to catch one of them after another, while they swim and glide away from him, and find it much better fun than chasing one another. it is good fun, no doubt, for the dwarf cannot swim like them, but only scrambles about in the most ridiculous way, with never any hope of catching one of them, except when she lets him come near her for a moment, to plague him by slipping away again quite out of his reach. at last he gets thoroughly tired and discouraged and angry, while the three sisters laugh at him and taunt him and chatter with one another, and have clearly enough forgotten all about the gold that they are supposed to be watching. "but see now how much brighter the fire is getting. it makes me think that something must have happened up above the river. the sun must have risen, or something of that sort, for everything looks clearer and the gold shines out so bright and beautiful, that the blear-eyed dwarf himself sees it and forgets all about trying to catch water nymphs in wondering what it is. he asks the nymphs, and they tell him about the ring that could be made of it if only it could be stolen from them; but it is of no use for him to try, they say, because it is a part of the magic of the gold that it can never be stolen except by some one who loves nobody in the world and has sworn that he will never love anybody, and it is clear enough that the dwarf is in love with all three of them at this very minute. when such a strange treasure as this was to be guarded, it was no doubt very clever to set three such beautiful creatures as these to watch it, for if a thief were not in love already, it is a hundred to one that he would be before he got near enough to the gold to steal it. "but the nymphs do not understand at all how much more a heartless little monster like this dwarf loves the glitter of gold than he could ever possibly love them. so, even while they are laughing at him, he is forgetting them completely, and then he swears a deep oath that as long as he lives he will never love any living thing. now, if you can think of anything that anybody could do more wicked, more horrible, more cruel than that, you must know a great deal more about wicked and horrible things than you have any right to know. after that every kind of wrong is easy, and a little thing like stealing a lump of gold of the size of a bushel basket is a mere nothing. the dwarf scrambles up the point of rock again, while the nymphs, who think that he is still chasing them, swim far away from him, and he seizes the gold and plunges down to the bottom with it. the nymphs rush together again with a cry of horror and grief and fright, and in an instant everything is dark, as the flames of our fire suddenly drop down. [illustration: "the gold shines out so bright and beautiful."] "but you see they fall only for a moment, and now, as they blaze up again, brighter than ever, i see another picture. it is on the hilltop above the river. the grass there is soft and fresh, the trees are cool and green, and the mellow light of morning is over them all. a light, white morning mist comes up from the river, and the sun, which has just risen from behind the purple hills, away off where the sky touches them, turns the mist into shifting and shimmering silver, so that it makes the whole scene look brighter instead of dimmer. on the hill across the river is a glorious sight. it is a castle, the grandest and most beautiful you ever saw. its walls are thick and strong enough for a fortress, yet its towers and battlements look so light and graceful that you would think they might hold themselves up there in the air, or rest on the silver river mist, if there were no walls under them. as i look at the castle through the mist it seems half clear and solid and firm, and half wavering and dim, mysterious and magical, like a castle in a dream. "there is something magical about it, for it was all built in one night by two giants, and they built it for the gods themselves. and now you must be prepared to meet some very fine company, for right here before us are the great father and the great mother of the gods, looking across the river at their splendid new home." "do you mean jupiter and juno?" the little girl asked. "no, these are not jupiter and juno; and the other gods whom we shall see soon, if the fire burns right, are not the gods you know already, but they are a good deal like them in some ways. the father of the gods is full of joy at having such a glorious castle, and the mother of the gods is full of dread at the price that must be paid to the giants for building it. a terrible price indeed it is, as she does not hesitate to remind him, for the gods have promised to give the giants the beautiful goddess of love and youth. it was a foolish and wicked promise for them to make, foolish because if they kept it they could never in the world get on without her, and wicked because they did not intend to keep it. the homes of the gods, like any other homes, would be dreary enough without the goddess of love, but it is worse than that, for she has a garden where apples grow for the gods to eat; it is eating these apples that makes the gods always young, and nobody but her knows how to care for them, so that if she goes away the gods will begin to grow old at once and will soon die." "were the apples like that--oh, what was it? you know the name of it-that the other gods used to eat?" "ambrosia? yes, something like it, but not quite. you know the gods who ate ambrosia would live forever and are living still; we have seen some of them ourselves up among the stars. but these gods have to eat the apples often, and they must get them from the goddess of love. this is much the better story of the two, i think, because it shows us how gods and other people, as long as they keep love with them, will be always young, no matter how many years they may live; and how, if they let it go away from them, they will be old at once, no matter how few their years. "all this the father and the mother of the gods are talking over together now, and he tells her how the fire god, who proposed the bargain in the first place, said that the price need never be paid and that he trusts the fire god may yet find some way out of the trouble. yet the giants must be made in some way to give up their price of themselves, for the father of the gods has the words of the promise cut upon his spear, and he cannot break a promise that he has once made. the fire god has gone away now to search through the world for something that may be offered to the giants instead of the goddess of love. and now i see her come, running to the father of the gods for protection, and the other gods are here, to help her if they can, and the giants themselves have come to claim her for the building of the castle. "well, to be sure, they are all in a fine state of excitement. the giants are big, dreadful-looking fellows, with clubs made of the trunks of trees, and the poor goddess does not want to go with them in the least. all the other gods declare, too, that she shall not go with them, and the giants insist that she shall. the thunder god is there and he has a wonderful hammer, a blow of which is like a stroke of lightning. he is about to strike the giants with it, and that, you may be sure, would settle the whole matter, big as they are, but the father of the gods will not let him harm them. he has promised, and whatever happens he cannot break his word. "while everything is in this dreadful state, the fire god comes back from his search. it is not a very cheering story that he has to tell. he has been through all the world, he says, and he has asked everywhere what there is that is as good for gods or giants, or anybody else, as the love of a woman, which makes those who have it always young. but the people in those days knew more than a good many of the people in these days, and everywhere they laughed at him and told him that he might as well give up his search, for he would never find what he sought." "what do you mean by 'the people in those days'?" the child asked; "i thought you said you could see them right here in the fire now." "so i can, but it is the beauty of these pictures in the fire that i can see things that happened years ago, thousands of years ago, if i like, just as well as things that happen now, and perhaps a little better. so you see the fire god has not had very good luck, but as he was coming back, he says, he passed near where the river nymphs were, and they called to him, telling him that their beautiful gold had been stolen, and begging him to ask the father of the gods to get it back for them. they told him, too, about the wicked dwarf who stole it, and how, before he could steal it, he had to swear never again, as long as he lived, to love anybody or anything. the fire god seems to have heard about the dwarf somewhere else, too, for he says that he has already made the magic ring out of the gold, that by the help of the ring he has compelled all the other dwarfs to obey him and serve him, and has piled up such a treasure of gold and jewels as was never seen before; and finally, that, if the gods are not careful, the dwarf will soon rule over them and the whole world besides. "so it seems that there is one person in the world who has found something which he thinks is worth more than love. and there are at least two others who are as foolish as he, though they may not be quite so wicked. and these are the giants, for when they hear the fire god tell of the wonderful treasure that the dwarf has heaped together, they say to the gods that they think the dwarf is quite right, they would rather have all that gold than the love of any woman, and, if the gods will get it for them, they may keep their goddess of love and youth. the father of the gods hesitates; how can he get the treasure? he asks. "'you can find some way to get it, if you like,' the giants reply. "'i will not get it for you; you shall not have it,' says the father of the gods. "'then we will hold to our first bargain,' they answer, 'and take your love goddess with us. to-night we will bring her back; if you have the treasure ready for us, then you may keep her; if not, then you have lost her forever.' and they seize her and stride away, dragging her with them, while the gods look on in grief and fear. and well they may fear at the change that comes as soon as the beautiful goddess is gone. you can see the change yourself in the fire. if it did not fit the story that i am finding in it so well, i should say that the fire needed more wood, for it seems almost out; see how the blackened sticks are smouldering and smoking, with scarcely any bright flames at all. the smoke is spreading like an ugly gray cloud over everything; the trees and the flowers droop; the sky is dull and the grass is dingy; the castle looks grim and heavy, and no longer bright and graceful; the faces of the gods themselves grow pale and haggard; they feel that they are suddenly older. they have not eaten the apples of youth to-day, and nobody can get them but the one goddess who has gone. they know that they will grow older every hour and will soon die if they do not get her back, and the only way is to find the dwarf's treasure for the giants. "'come quickly,' says the father of the gods, 'and let us get this treasure; let us hasten down under the ground where the dwarfs live, for we must have it to-night, when the giants come.' "there, where the dirty yellow smoke is pouring out between the sticks of wood at the top of the pile, i see a crevice in the rocks. the father of the gods and the fire god go down into it, and the smoke comes thicker and blacker, and hides everything but those two, and i see them climbing down and down over the rough, sharp rocks, toward the caverns of the dwarfs, while the little tongues of flame shoot out at them from the fissures, as if they were trying to catch and burn and sting them, just as they shoot out from between the black, charred sticks here before our eyes. "it is a deep, dark cave that i see now, with little spots of light here and there, like forges, and there is the sound of anvils. the dwarfs live here, and they are all working hard, as they must now, for the dwarf who stole the gold and made the ring from it. i see him too, and he is scolding and beating another dwarf, who is his brother. it is all about a piece of fine metal work that he has set his brother to do, and now the brother wants to keep what he has made. but he drops it on the ground and the dwarf king, for a king he really is now, picks it up and claps it on his head. it is a helmet, made of delicate rings of steel linked together. it is a magic helmet, and anybody who wears it can disappear from sight whenever he likes, or can take any shape he chooses. in a minute the dwarf is no more to be seen, and in his place there is only a cloud of smoke. but he can still beat his brother, and presently he leaves him whining and crying on the ground, and the cloud floats away. "you are not to suppose because this dwarf is treated in this cruel way that he is any better than his brother who beats him. one of them is just as wicked as the other, and he deserves all he gets. so here, lying upon the ground and groaning, the two gods find him, as they come down into the cave. 'what is the matter?' they ask, and he tells them about the magic helmet. then back comes the other dwarf, who wears the helmet and the ring, driving before him a crowd of his fellows, all laden down with gold and gems, and they throw them in a pile. they are so rich and dazzling, and there is such a quantity of them that the fire actually burns brighter there in the corner where they have heaped them up. the dwarf drives all his workmen away, and then sulkily asks the gods what they want here, for with his ring and his helmet he thinks that he is just as good as any of the gods. "the fire god tells him that they have heard so much about his great wealth that they have come to see it, and now they find his treasure greater and finer than anything they ever saw before. at that the dwarf is flattered and begins to boast. 'this that you see is nothing,' he says; 'i shall soon have much more, and by the magic of my ring i mean to rule the whole world and you gods too.' "'but suppose,' says the fire god, 'that some one should steal the ring from you while you were asleep?' "'that shows how little you know about it,' the dwarf answers. 'why, do you see this magic helmet of mine? with this i can make myself invisible, or i can take any form i like, and so nobody can find me while i am asleep to steal the ring.' "'oh, now you are telling us too big a story,' says the fire god; 'it is nonsense to say you can take any form you like, helmet or no helmet; you can't expect us to believe that.' "at this the dwarf begins to get a little angry; 'i tell you i can,' he cries; 'i will prove it to you; i can change myself into anything; what shall it be?' "'oh, whatever you like,' says the fire god, 'only let it be something big and horrible to show just how much you can do.' "so, to show what he can do, in a second the dwarf changes himself into a horrible dragon, with slimy scales and a writhing tail, and eyes and jaws that look as wicked as the dwarf himself, and twice as savage. the fire god pretends to be dreadfully frightened, and when the dwarf comes back to his own shape again he says: 'that was very good, but that does not seem so hard, after all. now, the way for you to hide, it seems to me, would be to make yourself very small, so that you could slip into a crack in the rocks. you can puff yourself up like a dragon, of course, but can you make yourself small as easily? oh, no, i cannot believe that.' "'i can be anything, anything, i tell you,' the dwarf cries, getting still more angry; 'i will be as small as you like,' and in another second he has changed himself into a toad, not much bigger than your hand, as slimy as ever, looking still just as wicked as the dwarf himself, and almost as ugly. "'now is the time--quick!' cries the fire god, and in an instant the father of the gods stamps his foot upon the toad and has him fast. the fire god stoops and pulls the magic helmet off the toad's head, and instantly he is the dwarf again, but he is still firmly held under the god's foot, and they tie him with cords and drag him away with them, up among the rocks from which they came." "that is just the way puss in boots caught the ogre, when he turned himself into a mouse," said the little girl. "yes, to be sure it is, but you know there are only a very few stories in the world, any way, and we cannot find new ones. the most we can ever do is to tell the old ones over in different ways, and after all it is better so, for old things are better than new almost always, as you will find when you get a little older yourself. but now, with the fire burning up a little better to help me, we are back above ground. let us put on more wood and see if we cannot make it better yet. we are just where we were before, on the hill by the river and the castle of the gods. and back now come the two gods from under the ground, dragging the dwarf with them. 'and what will you give us now,' they cry, 'if we will untie you and let you go?' "'what must i give you?' he asks. "'you must give us the whole of your treasure,' they answer; 'we will not let you go for anything less.' "that seems a large price, but the dwarf is as crafty as he is wicked, though his craft seldom does him much good, and he thinks that even if he gives up all his treasure he can soon pile up as much more, with the help of the ring. so, by the power of the ring, he calls the dwarfs to bring him the treasure, and up they come with it, out of the cleft of the rocks, and they pile it in a great, glittering heap just there where the new fire is beginning to burn so bright. 'there is the gold,' cries the dwarf, 'let me go.' "'not yet,' says the father of the gods; 'give us your ring first, that belongs to the treasure.' "at that the dwarf screams and struggles and writhes and curses the gods, but it is all of no use; the father of the gods tears the ring from his finger, and then they untie him and tell him to take himself off where he will. and now, as he goes, he lays a terrible curse on the ring. to every one who shall ever gain it, he swears, shall come ill luck, misfortune, sorrow, terror, and death; let him rule the world if he will, never shall he be happy; everyone shall long for the ring, and to him who gets it, it shall bring misery and ruin. truly the dwarf has gained little by stealing the gold from the river nymphs, but the gods have done wrong as well in stealing it from him, and they are doing wrong still in not giving it back to the nymphs; so they must suffer too. "but it is not yet time for that, for now, as the fire burns up, the whole picture grows brighter again. that is because the giants are bringing back the goddess of love and youth, to see if the treasure is ready for them. the trees lift up their branches again and the happy sunlight pours down through them; the flowers open their eyes to see it; the sky is clear and bright, and the grass is again fresh; while the faces of the gods, who run to meet their sister, look young and happy as before. only the castle is still hidden by the shining silver river mist. the giants have come near. 'is the ransom ready for us?' they cry. "'there is your treasure.' says the father of the gods, 'take it and be gone.' "'we must see that it is enough first,' they answer; 'our treasure must be as much as your goddess, so you must pile it up before her till she is quite hidden by it; then we will take it, and you shall have her back.' "they heap up the gold and the jewels before the goddess, higher and higher, till everything is gone from the old pile to the new one. then one of the giants looks over it and still sees the gold of her hair above the gold of the treasure. 'give me that helmet that you carry,' he says to the fire god, 'to put on the top.' and he gives it. now the other giant peeps through a chink in the pile and sees one of her eyes. 'quick,' he cries to the father of the gods, 'give me that ring you wear to stop this chink.' "'no,' says the father of the gods, 'you shall not have that; it is the ring that gives the power to rule the world, and i will keep it.' "' very well, then,' say the giants, 'we will have no more to do with you, and we will take the goddess back with us.' "all the gods stand terrified and pale. will their great father let the goddess of love be taken from them again, and must they all grow old and die, that he may keep this ring? everything grows dark again, as our fire here drops down; only there is that pale blue flame that gives no light, away at the back of the hearth. and now, right in the pale blue flame, rises the form of a woman out of the ground. it is the earth goddess, the wisest woman in the world, who knows all that ever was, all that is, and all that ever shall be. she speaks to the father of the gods and tells him to give the ring to the giants, for the curse that the dwarf has laid upon it will surely destroy him who keeps it. then she sinks out of sight, and the father of the gods takes from his finger the ring, and gives it. "and even while the giants are stowing the treasure in a sack to carry it away, they fall to quarrelling about how it shall be divided, and one of them strikes the other a terrible blow with his club which lays him dead upon the ground. then he strides away with the treasure, leaving the gods filled with horror at the first fatal work done by the curse of the ring. "yet only for a moment; their grand new castle is ready for them now. high up upon a rock stands the thunder god. he swings his hammer and the black clouds roll around him. the thunder mutters, and lightning flames flash out from the dark vapors. the fire flickers and blazes up again, the clouds part and melt away, and all is light at last. a rainbow reaches across the river from shore to shore, and the gods slowly walk across upon it toward their castle. up from the river, far below them, comes a sad cry of the nymphs, begging the gods to give them back their gold. but the gods do not heed it. they rest upon the rainbow, gazing only at their castle, as it stands before them, stately, graceful, radiant, and rosy in the warm glow of the sunset." "and did you really, really see it all in the fire?" the little girl asked, after she had thought it all over for a few minutes. "it sounds just as if it was a story you had read in a book." "well, perhaps i may have seen something, or heard something, or read something of the kind somewhere," i replied, "but you know i told you at first that you must think of the pictures before you could see them reflected in the fire." the little girl sat still and thought about it again for a time. "i don't believe you saw any pictures in the fire at all," she said at last. the daughter of the god "if you say you can see all those things in the fire," said the little girl, with an air of doubt not yet quite overcome, "i suppose i shall have to believe it, but i don't see how. i try to think of them the way you said, but i don't see them in the fire a bit. can you see them all the time?" "it makes a good deal of difference how i feel about it," i answered, "and a little difference how the fire burns. to-night, you see, the fire does not burn quite as it usually does. it is cold out of doors, and there is a wind that comes in gusts and blows different ways. it gives the fire a good draught, and on the whole it burns rather fiercely, but when the wind goes down the fire goes down a little too, and when the wind changes it blows a puff of smoke down the chimney now and then. altogether it is not a well-behaved fire at all, and i am afraid if we try to see things in it, some of them will be rather rough and rude, and none of them very cheerful. still, if you would like to try--" "oh, do try," the child said, "i like nice gloomy things." "very well. just now the fire is so fierce and hot that it seems to me nothing less than a house on fire. it is a house that stands all alone in the woods. before it was set on fire a boy and a girl lived there. neither of them had any mother, but the boy's father lived with them and took care of them, going out hunting and leaving the boy and the girl together, till the boy was old enough to go hunting with him, and then the girl was left alone. they were very happy there together, all three of them, and the father always thought that the girl would sometime grow up and be his son's wife. but now, while they are hunting, a robber has come and has burned the house, and he takes the girl with him and carries her off to his own house, far away among the mountains. "after this it is not so pleasant roaming the woods and hunting all day, with no house to go back to and no greeting of a bright face in the evening. to make it still worse, one day, while they are hunting, the poor boy loses sight of his father and never finds him again. so now he is quite alone, but he still lives in the woods in the old way till he grows to be a tall, strong, handsome young man. perhaps he is all the stronger and the better fighter because the most of his enemies, and his friends too, for that matter, have been wild beasts. that he has had one good enemy i know, because the coat that he wears is the skin of a bear. "and all this time the girl has been kept a prisoner at the house of the robber, and she has grown up as well, now, to be a tall, beautiful woman. at times, no doubt, the robber has treated her well enough, and at times, i am afraid, not so well. but always he has urged her and has tried to make her promise to be his wife, and now, after all these years, at last she has promised. she has never forgotten the brave boy whom she used to love, but the robber has told her that he is dead, and finally she has come to believe it and has no more any hope of ever being happy. "i am looking right into the robber's house now. it is a strange house, for right in the middle of it stands a large tree, which grows up through the roof and spreads its branches over the house. and more wonderful still, there is a sword sticking in this tree, up to the hilt. perhaps i might better tell you something about this sword before we go any farther. do you remember the gold that was stolen from the river nymphs, the other night, when we were watching the fire, and the magic ring that the dwarf made of it? of course you do, and you remember too how the father of the gods got it and paid it to the giants for building his castle, and would not give it back to the river nymphs, and how one of the giants killed the other and kept all the treasure. well, the father of the gods has been learning and thinking a good deal since then, and he has begun to see what a great wrong he did when he put the gold to his own uses, instead of giving it back to the nymphs. it is no light punishment that falls on gods when they do wrong, and he sees that for this sin he and all the other gods who live with him in his castle must at last be destroyed utterly. yet he still hopes to save them if only the gold, or at least the ring, can be given back again to the nymphs. "now, the giant who took all the treasure carried it away to a deep cave in the side of a mountain, and then, by the help of the magic helmet, he changed himself into a horrible, fierce, fiery, poisonous dragon, so that he might stay in the cave and guard it. and there he has stayed guarding it ever since. you will see at once that the treasure never would do him any good in that way, but giants are usually stupid, and he could not think of anything better to do with it. a boy who has a penny and knows enough to buy a penny whistle with it is richer than this dragon giant. yet he guards the treasure pretty well, and the father of the gods cannot take it away from him, and cannot help anybody else to take it away from him, because he paid it to him for the castle, and to touch it now would be to break his promise. yet he wishes that somebody, without his help, would kill the dragon and give the gold back to its real owners. this would not really do him any good, for his own old sin would still be just as great, and he knows it; yet he has a strange kind of hope that it may somehow help him. but the dragon is so big and fierce and fiery and poisonous, that nobody could ever hope to kill him except the very greatest of heroes, and one who simply did not know what fear meant. even such a hero might have a good deal of trouble about it, if he did not have a sword that was just as keen and strong, just as sharp and firm and true as himself. so, that he may not want for such a good blade, the father of the gods has made a magic sword. no one but a god could make a sword like this, and he has driven it up to the hilt into the great tree in the robber's house. it is quite safe there, for the magic of it is that nobody but the bravest, strongest, truest hero living can ever draw it out, but for him it will be easy. there are some things besides drawing swords out of trees which can be done easily by men who are brave and strong and true, and which no other man can do at all. "all this time i have been looking into the robber's house. there is a storm outside, worse than the wind that is troubling our fire. it howls above the house, and tears at the branches of the tree, till even the great trunk shivers and trembles and makes the roof creak and groan. suddenly the door is burst open, and in, out of the storm, rushes a man, and falls before the fire as if he were so weary that he could move no more. then from another room of the house comes the woman who has promised to be the robber's wife, the girl who once lived in the house that the robber burned. when she sees the stranger lying before the fire, she lifts him up and brings him a big drinking-horn, and tells him to stay and rest till the robber comes home. then he looks at her, and she seems to him the kindest, the sweetest, and the loveliest woman he has ever seen. "soon the robber comes home, and he asks the stranger what he is and how he came here. then the stranger tells him all the story that i have told you of the burning of the house where he lived with his father, and how since then he has wandered the woods and has fought with the wild beasts and with his enemies. as soon as he tells that, the woman knows that the boy whom she used to love so long ago is not dead, but is sitting here before her, and the hope comes to her that he may take her away from this place, so that she may not have to be married to the robber. then she asks the stranger why he is unarmed, and he says that he fought to rescue a woman from her enemies; he killed some of them, but the others were so many that they broke his spear and his shield, and he had to save himself from them, and so it was that he came to this house. "at this the robber grows red and pale with anger. he has heard of the fight, and the men who were killed were his friends. 'stay here to-night,' he says; 'while you are in my house i cannot harm you, but to-morrow you must go out and fight with me for killing my friends.' "the robber and the woman have gone away and the stranger is left alone. sad and gloomy enough are his thoughts, for to-morrow he must fight with the robber, and he has no sword, no spear, no shield. the fire before him dies down, as our fire dies down too, for the moment, and as all his hope grows darker and colder. and then, just as his life and the world and the future seem blackest, the woman comes back. why should her coming bring him hope? he could not tell, perhaps, yet her very presence cheers him; misfortune and death seem not so near when she is by, and not so terrible, even should they come. he may not know why it is, but i know, and so do you. "she hastens to him and shows him the sword in the tree. she tells him of its magic; he must be the hero to draw it out, she says, and then, in the fight to-morrow, he must overcome his enemy and give her revenge for all she had suffered from him. and how gladly he will do her bidding! he seizes the sword and draws it quickly out of the tree, while her eyes gaze at him and are filled with joy. the hero has come-her hero. he holds the wonderful magic sword in his hand, but only for a moment he looks upon its long, gleaming, beautiful blade. then he turns to her again. they twine their arms about each other and together they leave this hateful house. and now, of a sudden, it is as if their two hearts were all the world, as indeed they are, to each other, for all around them the storm was stilled; the winter is gone and it is spring; the peaceful moonlight fills the happy woods with a soft glory; sweet airs breathe tenderly on them and on the flowers in their path; quiet voices speak to them out of the budding trees; and so together they are gone into the forest. "the father of the gods has done more than i have told you yet to guard against the end which he knows must come, in spite of all that he can do. he has fancied that his castle might be safer if he were to fill it with strong warriors to fight for him in any need. therefore, wherever battles are fought he sends his nine daughters to choose the bravest of the men who are killed and to bring them to his castle. each of these daughters has a horse which flies through the air faster than any bird. when the fallen heroes have come thus to the halls of the gods, they are brought to life and their wounds are healed by means that the gods know how to use, and they live there, feasting day after day with other heroes. and lest they should forget their old skill and bravery in fighting, every day they have a battle and many of them are killed and chopped to pieces by the others' swords, but at sunset they are all alive and well again, and they go back together to their feast in the halls of the gods. "it is one of these daughters of the god, one of these choosers of heroes, whom i see before me now. i wish that i could make you see her. she is more than a beautiful woman, and also she is less. she is tall and her form is strong, yet light and buoyant. she is dressed all in armor, and she has a spear and a shield which gleams and glistens like a beacon-light for an army. she herself, as i see her here, is as graceful and as full of warm life as a flame of the fire, the same hot glow stirs her heart and moves her to the same eager, free action. her face is as clear and pure as the fire itself, and almost as radiant as her silver shield, while the gold of her hair breaking from under the light of her helmet, outshines them all. beating under her bosom, thrilling through her form, glowing in her cheeks, and beaming from her eyes, is the joy of life and strength and beauty. yet where is the tenderness that one would seek in a woman's eyes? a glad light shines in hers, but it is not softened by any kindly ray of gentleness or mercy. where is the sweetness of a woman's lips? hers are calm and beautiful, but they tempt no more than a stain of blood upon the snow. what is there in her face that could melt into a woman's compassion and pity? her face is not cruel, not unkind, only still, stern, and placid as marble. she is not a woman, you know; only a goddess--a war goddess. "just now the father of the gods is telling his daughter of the fight that is to come between the robber and the hero who won the sword, and he commands her to help the hero to win. she is delighted at this, for she loves all brave, true heroes as he does, but she has scarcely left her father when the mother of the gods comes, riding furiously through the air in a chariot drawn by two rams. she has heard of the fight too, and she takes quite a different view of it. 'this man whom you would save and help,' she says, 'has taken the woman away from the man whose wife she promised to be. is that all you care for a promise? he must be punished; you must help his enemy to kill him.' [illustration: "daughter of the god."] "you see she cares nothing at all about heroes, but to her a promise is a promise. and the father of the gods himself is very particular about promises, as you must remember, so he is forced to say that he will not help the hero. but that is not enough for her; he must command his daughter not to help him. she shall not, he says, but that is not enough; he must help his enemy and see that he wins. this is hard for the father of the gods, for he loves the hero, and if he is left to himself he must win, with his magic sword, yet he cannot choose; the promise has been broken, and he gives his word that the hero shall die. "the father of the gods is left alone, and again his daughter comes to him. he tells her sadly that she must help the robber in the fight, and that the hero must die. she is as sad as he at this command, for all that she ever wishes is to do what he would have her do, and she knows that, though he says that the hero must die, yet he would have him live. but his word is given, and, full of sorrow, the god and his daughter part. and now comes the hero himself, with his bride. she is fearful of what may befall him in the fight, and would have him flee farther away. he will not do that, and he tries to cheer her, till she faints and sinks down at his feet. then, beautiful and sad, but still calm, stern, and placid, the daughter of the god stands before him. "'soon,' she says to him, 'you must come with me to the castle of the gods. there the father of the gods will welcome you, there your own father, whom you lost so long ago, waits for you, there you will fight and feast with heroes, and the daughters of the god will serve you.' "'and shall this woman here,' he asks, 'whom i love, go with me and with you there?' "'no,' she answers, 'this woman cannot go.' "'then i will not go,' he replies; 'gladly i would stand before the father of the gods, gladly i would see my own father again and the heroes and the daughters of the god, but not without her; i will not go with you; leave us here.' "if the daughter of the god were a woman she would understand all this, but now it would make her impatient, if anything could. she cannot know and cannot feel why this man, who has had only trouble and ill luck all his life, should choose to stay and wait for more trouble and ill luck with this one poor woman who lies at their feet, fainting and knowing not even that she is alive, rather than to sit and feast with gods and heroes. how little a war goddess can really know about brave men! "yet she does know that her father, whose wishes are her own, wishes this woman to live, and that she will be in danger after her hero has left her; so she tells him that he may leave his bride with her and she will protect her. but the man is still more unreasonable. he says that she is cruel and hard-hearted. that is unjust, for she is not cruel. he says too that the woman shall die rather than be left with her. if he must die, he will kill the woman, too, and he is about to do it, when the daughter of the god holds his hand. she thinks only now of how much her father longs that this man may live; she resolves that in spite of the command she will save him; she tells him that he shall have her help in the fight, and she leaves him, just as there comes a noise and a shout of the robber with his men and his dogs hunting for the hero to kill him. "see how the black smoke is driven down the chimney by the changing gusts of wind. it is like dark clouds gathering over the sky and dropping down upon the mountain, so that it is hard to see anything at all. the fire goes down, too, and its flames dart and flicker in sudden, angry flashes. some of them are like lightning, brightening the whole scene for an instant, and then i can see the hero and the robber in their fight, springing and thrusting and striking at each other so that it seems as if they must both be killed a dozen times over. again in the sparkle of the fire i see the gleaming of the magic sword, as the hero whirls it above his head and strikes at his enemy. then comes a flare of flame that shines from the shield of the daughter of the god, as she throws it over the hero to protect and save him. it is all in vain, for there comes a hot, red glow in which for an instant all the rest is lost, and now, in the midst of it stands the father of the gods himself. the daughter falls back helpless before him, and he stretches his spear toward the hero. the magic sword falls upon the spear and is shivered to pieces. nothing indeed could shatter that blade but the spear of the god who made it, but with that spear to help him the robber springs upon his enemy and his sword is through his heart, and he is fallen. "the daughter of the god has come back to where the woman lay, she has lifted her from the ground and has laid her across her horse's saddle as if she were dead; she leaps upon his back and they are galloping away like the wind. the father of the gods has avenged the broken promise; he has killed the hero whom he loved, and now he turns for one moment toward the robber whom he has helped to win the fight. only once the god waves his hand toward him and the robber falls dead; he will fight and kill brave men no more. but a harder task than all is to come for the father of the gods; how shall he deal with his own daughter, who has disobeyed him? "the fire is burning a little better now, but it does not yet seem to be quite on good terms with the wind outside. the smoke is going up again instead of down, and that is an improvement. it rises in sudden puffs and flurries, like clouds flying across the sky after a storm. the shadows of the clouds fall upon a mountain height, a rugged, rocky, wild, beautiful place, where the daughters of the god are meeting to ride home together with the heroes they have brought from some field of battle. now and then, as the quick flames leap up into the smoke, i can see another and another coming, riding on her flying horse, racing with the driving wind and the hurrying clouds, each with her warrior lying before her across her saddle, and so alighting here and joining her sisters. they are all here at last except the one daughter of the god whom we have seen before, and now she comes, but she brings no warrior across her saddle, only the poor woman with whom she fled from the fight. "she tells her sisters how she has disobeyed their father, and she begs them to protect her and the woman against his anger. they dare not help her; never has one of them done anything that was not his will. what can she do? he is coming in pursuit of her; sooner or later he must find her, but she may at least save the woman. she bids her flee alone while she waits with her sisters for her father and her punishment to come. far away, she tells her, there is a deep forest, and in the forest is a cave where the horrible dragon that was once the giant keeps and guards his treasure. so much does the father of the gods dread the curse that the wicked dwarf laid upon the ring, and the doom which he knows is coming to himself because of his own sin, that he never wanders there. to this forest she must go, and there she may find a refuge. the daughter of the god gives the woman the fragments of the broken magic sword, which she has brought with her from the field of the fight, and bids her go. "and now, with angry lightnings flashing all around him, comes the father of the gods. never before has he been shaken by such a storm as this. his daughter whom he loved more than all the others, has disobeyed him. never before has she done anything but that which it was his will that she should do. now she has known his will, she has heard his command, and she has broken it. she stands before him, sorrowful, but still calm, stern, and placid, and asks what is to be her punishment. she has brought her doom upon herself, he answers, and now she must be a war goddess no more, but only a woman. he must kiss her once, and all the strength and the valor and the pride of the goddess will be gone. then she will sink to sleep, and here on this rocky mountain height she must lie till some man comes and awakes her, and she must be a woman only and his wife. "very dreadful this seems to the poor war goddess, but it is because she has never been a woman, and does not know much about women. to me it does not seem dreadful at all. it is much better and sweeter and nobler, i believe, to be the best that a woman can be than the strongest and greatest and proudest that a goddess can be. and i hope you will always remember what we see here in the fire to-night, and if you ever feel that there is any danger of your being a goddess, or if anybody ever tells you that you are one, then let somebody kiss you and make you a woman. "but to one who has so long been used to wearing armor and riding through the air, and choosing the bravest of the fallen heroes, and bearing them to the castle of the gods, the change may well seem hard to suffer at first. so the daughter of the god thinks that no heavier punishment could have been found for her. her sisters think so, too, and they beg their father to have mercy on her, but he sternly bids them be silent and to leave him. now the daughter of the god tells him how she tried to do what he would have her do; she knew that he loved the hero and hated the robber, and that his command to her was given unwillingly; she hoped to gain for him the wish of his heart, in spite of his words, and she threw her shield over the hero. "it is useless; he cannot stay her punishment now, but his anger is all gone and he is filled with sorrow like her own. he loves her still, more than any other daughter, and now he will never have her beside him in the halls of the gods again, never again see her ride to the battle, never see her return with brave men to guard his house, never again speak to her as he could to no other, and tell her all that is in his heart, never again see her glad, deep, answering eyes look into his, full of sympathy and help. one thing yet she begs: if all that they have been to each other, the god and his daughter, must be no more, if she must sleep and wait here for an unknown husband to wake her, she prays him to set some guard around her, a wall of fire, that no one but a brave man, the bravest of men, may win her for his bride. "yes, he will do this; she shall be shut in by fire and none shall ever come to her but the bravest of heroes, one who knows no fear at all. no one who fears even his own terrible spear, that spear which broke the magic sword that he himself had made, shall ever awake her who was his daughter, and now is to be his daughter no more. he draws her to him for one last time; he kisses her lips and they are silent; he kisses her eyes and they close. he lays her on a bank of soft moss; he closes her helmet and covers her with her shield. near by her horse lies upon the ground asleep too; the flowers among the grass and in the crevices of the rocks droop their drowsy heads; the winds as they pass make no noise. he touches the point of his spear to the ground. instantly the fire springs up; it makes a fierce, raging ring around the rock; surely only one who knows no fear can ever pass it. the father of the gods is gone. now we can see nothing but the fire streaming up and exulting in its life and its hot defiance of all but the bravest; but there in the midst of it lies the daughter of the god, asleep till her lover shall call her with a kiss to come with him and be a woman." the little girl's mother had come into the room and had heard the last of the story. "isn't it time," she said, "that the daughter of somebody else was asleep, too, if she wants to grow to be a woman?" "it is late," i had to admit. "well, the daughter of the god is safe for the present. perhaps some other time, when we have a better-behaved fire, we may see something of the lover." the hero who knew no fear "don't you think the fire is very good to-night?" the little girl asked. "yes, it is certainly very good indeed," i admitted. "i should think," she said, "that anybody that could see things in fires might see very nice things in this one." when she who might command deigns thus delicately to make a mere suggestion, it is the part both of chivalry and of loyalty to obey. i should feel that having my head chopped off was altogether too good for me if i hesitated at such a time. "come," i said, "and let us see what the fire really looks like. what does it look like to you?" "oh, it doesn't look like anything at all to me, only just the fire. what does it to you?" "it looks like a fire to me too, but it is the fire of a smith's forge. the place where it is looks half like a room and half like a cavern. it is all of rocks, but there is the forge and there are the chimney and the anvil and the bellows and all sorts of smith's tools." "you can see things all around the fire, just the same as in it, can't you?" said the child. "oh, to be sure; when i want to see these things that make themselves into stories, i can see them almost anywhere, only i think the fire is a particularly good place. and who do you think is working at the forge? it is an ugly little dwarf, the very one whom we saw the other night, who made the magic helmet, the brother of the one who stole the treasure from the river nymphs. you remember he was a clever smith, else he never could have made that wonderful helmet. now he is at work here trying to make a sword. and he does make a sword too, but he does not seem pleased with it when it is finished, and he leaves off his work and sits down, with a very dissatisfied, sulky, ugly look in his face. "it would be hard for anybody to look more unlike the dwarf than the person i see now coming into the cave. he is a boy, or perhaps he would rather be called a young man, and i shall be glad to call him whatever he likes. he is dressed in skins and wears a little silver horn at his side. if the dwarf is short and ugly, he is tall and handsome; if the dwarf's face has a scowl of wicked hatred and cunning, his has a smile that beams with kindliness and candor; if the dwarf is old and crooked and rough and hairy, he is young and straight and graceful and fair. in short, you surely never saw a young man who looked more free, happy, generous, noble, strong, and bold than he. it makes one more goodhumored to look at him, and the sunlight follows him straight into the cave. something else follows him too, for he is leading a big brown bear by a cord twisted around its neck. he sends the bear at the dwarf, who screams and runs away in terror. the young man seems to have caught the bear in the woods just to frighten the dwarf, and he lets it go again when the dwarf tells him that the sword is finished and ready for him. he takes the sword and looks at it scornfully. it is good for nothing, he says. he strikes it upon the anvil and breaks it into a dozen pieces. he is a little particular about his swords; he does not like them unless he can chop anvils with them. "before we try to see any more, perhaps i ought to tell you something about this wonderful youth and why he lives here in the cave with the dwarf. he was born here. this is the forest where the treasure is hidden that was paid to the giants for building the castle of the gods. it is guarded, as you know, by the giant who killed his brother so that he might have the whole of it, and he has changed himself into a horrible dragon, by the magic helmet, so that he may guard it better. the young man's mother was the woman whom the daughter of the god sent away into this forest to save her from the anger of the father of the gods, as you remember. she took refuge here in the dwarf's cave and she died soon after her son was born, and then the dwarf kept the boy and brought him up. but it was not because he cared for him at all or had the least kindly feeling for anybody. it was just because he wanted, as so many others wanted, that rich treasure and the magic helmet and the magic ring with the curse upon it. "now, you see, the boy's mother gave him the pieces of the broken magic sword and told him to keep them for the boy. he knew something about the sword and so he got it into his head that this was the very sword that would sometime kill that dragon. and since this boy was to have the sword, he thought, too, that he might very likely grow up to be the man who would kill the dragon. do you see, then, why he has kept him and fed him and brought him up so carefully? it was just because he was so cunning and cruel and selfish that he took good care of the boy. he knew very well that he himself would never dare to go near enough to that dragon for it to breathe on him, but he thought: 'some day i will give this boy the magic sword and make him go and kill the monster with it, and then i will kill him and get all the treasure, with the helmet and the ring, and then i shall be the ruler of all the dwarfs, of men, of the gods themselves, and of the whole world.' [illustration: "the sunlight follows him straight into the cave."] "so the baby that the dwarf took and tended at first has grown to be this noble, brave, generous young man, and he hates the dwarf as anyone as good and strong as he must hate anything so cowardly and mean and wicked. all these years the dwarf has never told him anything about his mother or how he came to be living with him here in the cave. but now of a sudden the young man asks the dwarf some questions and shows that he means to treat him very roughly if he does not answer them. so the dwarf tells him a little of what i have told you, and to prove that what he says about his mother is true he shows him the pieces of the broken sword. "the young man gets interested in these at once, you may be sure. 'that was a good sword,' he cries; 'that is the sword i must have; mend it for me, dwarf, and mend it quickly. i will go into the forest, and, if it is not done when i come back, you shall be sorry that you worked so badly.' "then away he goes to play with the bears, perhaps, in the forest. now you can be quite sure that the dwarf has not kept that broken sword all these years without ever trying to mend it. he has tried many times, and he can no more put the pieces together than he can look as handsome as the fiery youth who has just left him here frightened half to death. so he simply sits down and lets himself get more frightened till he looks up and finds that he has a visitor. "the visitor is a tall old man whom he does not know, but i know him; he is the father of the gods. he asks the dwarf to let him sit down and rest, but the dwarf is even more ill-natured than usual and bids him go away and not trouble him. the father of the gods replies that he might perhaps tell the dwarf something that would be of use to him if he would let him stay. now you see what a good chance this would be for the dwarf to ask how to mend the broken sword, but he is so cross and surly that he thinks of nothing but how to be as disagreeable as possible, so he says that he knows all that he needs to know and does not care to learn from anybody. but the father of the gods persists; he will give the dwarf his head, he says, if he cannot answer any three questions that he may ask him. this pleases the dwarf, for he thinks it would be a pleasure to him to cut off somebody's head. 'what people, then,' he asks for his first question, 'live under the ground?' "'the dwarfs,' says the stranger; 'one of them had a ring once, by which he ruled all the others.' "'and what people,' asks the dwarf, 'live upon the mountains?' "'the giants; one of them, in the form of a dragon, has the ring now.' "'and who live up among the clouds?' "'the gods,' says the stranger, 'and the father of the gods has a spear with which he rules the world.' "as he says that, he lets the end of the spear which he carries drop upon the ground and instantly there is a peal of thunder. "'now,' says the stranger, 'as i have saved my head, you must pledge me yours to answer the three questions which i shall ask. who is the strongest of heroes whom the father of the gods loves?' "the dwarf answers that he thinks it must be the son of the woman who died long ago in the forest, who will kill the dragon and win the treasure. this is a good answer, and the stranger asks again: 'what sword must he use to kill the dragon?' "what easy questions these are, to be sure! the dwarf says at once: 'the magic sword that the father of the gods made.' "now the stranger looks stern and says: 'but who shall mend the sword that it may be fit for the fight?' "at this the dwarf is frightened indeed. he cries out in terror that he cannot do it, he knows no better smith than himself, and he does not see how it can be done. 'then you should have asked me that,' says the stranger, 'instead of foolish questions about things that you knew already. yet i will tell you: as none but the best of heroes could pull that sword out of the tree where it once stuck, so now none but a hero who knows no fear can put its broken pieces together. your poor head, which belongs to me, i will leave to the same hero, and so good-by.' "the dwarf falls upon the ground in a trembling heap, and so the young man finds him when he comes back to ask if he has yet mended the sword. 'i can never mend it,' he cries. 'have you ever known fear?' "'fear?' he answers; 'no, what is fear? is it something i ought to know how to do, something you ought to have taught me and have not? is it a pleasant thing to have or to know or to do? what is it like?' "'i cannot teach you fear,' says the dwarf, 'but i know one who can, or else you never can learn it. it is the dragon that lives in the cave at the end of the wood. i will take you to him and if he will not teach you fear then you may kill him.' "'very well,' says the young man, 'i will go; but first mend the sword for me; i shall need it.' "'i cannot mend it for you.' the dwarf answers; 'only one who does not know how to fear can do that.' "'then i must do it myself,' says the young man, and he sets about it at once. "the fire on that forge has never been so hot and the fire here on our hearth has never been so bright as now when the young man who knows no fear blows the bellows. while the coals under that eager blast shine redder and redder and then whiter and whiter he begins filing the pieces of the sword to powder. the dwarf cries out to him that that is not the way to mend a sword; but this is not a common sword, and the dwarf has shown well enough already that he knows nothing about mending it. so the young smith pays no attention to him, but goes on with his work. in mending magic swords, just as in some other things, knowing how at the start does not count for so much as not knowing any fear. "so without any fear the young man melts the filings of the sword with the splendid fire which you can surely see just as well as anybody, and pours the melted metal into a mould of the shape of a sword blade. by this time the dwarf has found that it is of no use to interrupt him and has begun to think about his own work. when the dragon has been killed, he thinks, the hero will be hot and tired, and then he will offer him something to drink. it will be poison, the hero will die, and then he, the poor dwarf, who has worked and waited all these years for this day, will have all the treasure, with the magic helmet and the ring. so he sets himself to brewing the poison by the very same fire that the young man is using to forge his sword. "and now the young man has heated the sword again and shaped it with hammers and cooled it with water, he is sharpening and polishing the blade and fitting it to the hilt, and now at last he holds it in his hand and it is done. he has forged the magic sword and has proved his right; he is the true hero, the hero who knows no fear. and is there any thing that such a hero loves better than a good sword? yes, to be sure; but to this hero the time for that has not come yet, and he has never felt such delight as fills him now when he looks along the bright, smooth, keen edge of this blade. oh, the sword was not like this before it was broken. sometimes people say that beautiful polished things are like mirrors, but this sword is like a flame. it burns and twinkles as he holds it and turns it in his hand. i can scarcely see of what shape it is, for now it shines like a straight beam of light, now, as he twists it, there is a flash in a half circle, like a scymitar, and again the point alone gleams out and flashes, as if it would find its own way to the heart of a foe, with no hand to guide it. he swings the sword above his head, as he did the other that the dwarf made for him, and strikes it upon the anvil. and this time the anvil falls in two as if it were made of paper, and the sword glitters and shines and shimmers in the joy of its magic sharpness and strength. "now that the sword is ready, the dwarf leads the young man away through the woods, a long journey, to a place where he has never been before, to find the dragon. you see that deep, dark hole under the sticks; that is the dragon's cave in the side of the mountain. just a little light shines at the very bottom of it, where the dragon is resting and breathing out fire. 'there is his hole,' says the dwarf; 'just wait here till he comes out and then kill him, look out for his teeth or he will catch you and eat you; be careful about his breath, for it is fiery and poisonous; beware of his tail, for he may wind it around you and crush you.' "'i do not care for his teeth or his breath or his tail,' says the young man; 'i only want to find his heart. leave me here, and never let me see you again.' "the dwarf goes away and the young man sits down on the grass to wait for the dragon. you see, since he knows nothing at all about fear it does not seem to him such a great thing to kill a dragon. he does not care much whether he kills it or not, and he is in no hurry about it. so he sits on the grass and looks at the gray old rocks and the bright young flowers about him, sees the golden sunlight falling in little spots and flecks through the branches, feels the cool, fresh morning air, and hears the soft rustle of the trees and the singing of the birds. most of all, he listens to the birds that flutter about in the branches above him, as the sparks hover over the fire there, before they fly away up the chimney, and in particular to one bird, right over his head in the tree. it sings so loudly and so clearly that it seems to be talking to him, only, of course, he cannot understand what it says. he has wished for a long time that he might have some better company than the ugly dwarf, and he thinks now that he should like to talk with the bird. "if he cannot understand the bird, perhaps the next best thing would be to make the bird understand him, so he makes a pipe out of a reed and tries to play upon it something like the bird's song. i don't know what he thinks he is saying to the bird with his reed, and he seems not much pleased with it himself, for he throws it away and blows a ringing, echoing blast on his horn instead. and now he gets an answer, for this time he has awakened the dragon, and it comes out of its cave to see what is making so much noise so early in the morning. "oh, but it is an ugly-looking monster! it is something like a snake, but more like a giant lizard. it has scales all over its body and it has a long, shiny tail. it walks clumsily, because its legs are too small for it, and writhes and wriggles itself along, raising its head now and then to look about, and breathing out red fire and black smoke like a blast from a furnace. when its poisonous breath has blown this smoke away for an instant, it shows two rows of teeth like knives and a long forked tongue like a snake's, and its jaws are opened wide enough to take the young man into them and bite him into a dozen pieces at one snap. surely if he is ever to learn what fear is now is his chance. "he sees all this just as plainly as i see it here in the fire; but do you think he is afraid? why, he simply laughs at the monster. 'a pleasant-looking fellow you are,' he says; 'can you teach me what fear is? if you cannot, i shall prick you with my sword to make you think about it.' "now, this dragon can talk just as well as it could when it was a giant, so it begins to get angry and tells the impudent young man to come on and see what he can do with his little tailor's needle of a sword. he does not have to be asked twice, and in a minute there is just as lively a fight as you ever saw. the dragon tries to breathe fire upon the hero and scorch him up to a black cinder, but he does not want to be a cinder and he runs around to the dragon's side. then the dragon tries to catch him with its long slimy tail, so that it may crush him to a jelly, but he does not want to be a jelly either, so as soon as the tail comes near enough he gives it a terrible wound with his sword, and then runs back in front of the dragon. the monster gives a dreadful roar as it feels the wound, and raises its head and breast high up in the air, striking at the hero with its long, sharp claws and trying to throw the whole weight of its body upon him. this is just what he has been watching for, and as the dragon lifts itself before him he drives his sword clear through its heart. "then he springs lightly away again, as the dragon, with another horrible bellow, falls down and rolls over upon its side. 'it is the curse of the ring that has killed me,' says the dragon, as it dies; 'my treasure is there in the cave; you can take it now, bold boy, but the curse of the ring will bring death to you, as it has brought it to me.' "so the dragon lies dead. the young hero seizes the hilt of the sword to draw it from the dragon's body, and as he pulls it out the blood from the wound spurts upon his hand. it burns as if it were the fuel of the creature's fiery breath. as he feels its heat he puts his fingers into his mouth, and the instant that he tastes the blood the most wonderful thing of all happens to him. he understands the songs of the birds. the one that he tried to talk with before sings to him again, and now he knows every word. it tells him that in the cave are gold and jewels untold, that with the magic helmet he can do wonderful things, and that with the magic ring he can rule the world. he thanks the bird for telling him such good things, and goes to find the helmet and the ring. in a minute he comes back with them; he does not want the rest of the treasure, for he knows nothing about gold and cares nothing about it. "now the bird sings to him again. 'beware of the dwarf,' it says, 'he means to do you harm. but when he speaks to you the blood of the dragon which you have tasted will help you to understand the meaning that is in his heart instead of the words that he says.' "so the dwarf comes back, with a drinking-horn in which he has poured the poison, and he offers it to the hero to drink. but with all the friendly words that he tries to speak, he can hide nothing from the young man, who reads his heart and knows that he has kept him and fed him all these years only that he might kill the dragon, and that now he means to poison him and get the gold for himself. there is only one thing to be done with such wickedness as this. he raises his sword and with one blow strikes the dwarf dead. "you can guess how the bird is delighted at this. it sings to him again: 'i know where you could find the loveliest woman in the world. there is fire burning all around her, and if you could only pass through that you could win her for your wife.' "'but could i pass through the fire?' he asks. "'only the hero who knows no fear can do that,' sings the bird. "'very well, then, i know no fear,' he answers; 'the dragon could not teach it to me; lead me to this woman; perhaps i may learn it from her.' "the bird flutters down a little from the tree and then flies away. did you see the big, bright spark that flew up the chimney? "away runs the hero too, following the bird. it is a long journey, through the forest and over the rocks and the mountains, but he is young and eager, and his light heart makes the way almost as easy for him as it is for the bird. yet the bird is the faster, and by and by it flies so far ahead that he cannot see it at all, and then his way is barred by a mighty form that stands before him. it is the father of the gods. the young man does not know what a terrible person he has met, though it is fair to say that if he did know he would not care, and he asks him if he knows where he may find the beautiful woman with the fire all about her. "the father of the gods asks him in turn how he heard of this woman, what taught him to understand the song of the bird, who forged the sword with which he killed the dragon. all these things he answers, and the father of the gods is sure that the hero who knows no fear has come at last. yet one test remains for him. 'there is the place you seek,' he says, as he points to the mountain-top, where the bright flames are whirling and dancing and leaping up into the very sky, 'there is your way, yet not another step upon it shall you go.' and he stretches his spear across the path to keep the young man back. "ah, once before that spear was raised against this magic sword. it was a mighty arm that swung the sword then, the arm of the best of heroes living, but the hero had done a wrong, he had helped to break a promise, and he who breaks promises can never break the spears of the gods. his arm had not the young strength of that which masters the sword to-day. fierce and brave and noble was he, yet he had seen many sorrows, and he knew what fear was; the glad, free hope of the new hero was not his. the sword then was true of temper, bright and sharp, but the heat and the light of the fire of a new manhood had not been forged into it then, and it was not aflame with the glory of youth and the promise of love. and so, with a sweep and a flash as of lightning, the magic sword cuts through the spear that no other sword ever dared even strike, and as the fragments fall upon the ground, the mountain shakes and shudders, and the thunder rolls and rumbles about its top. the young man is again upon his way. half sadly and half gladly, the father of the gods looks after him. he has come and has passed, the hero who knows no fear; he has not even feared the spear that ruled the world, and now that spear is broken. the time of the gods is near. "again i see the whole fire streaming up fiercely and joyously, as it did when the father of the gods kissed his daughter to sleep. the winds are still hushed around the mountain top, the flowers in the grass and on the rock still droop with folded petals, and the horse still sleeps upon the ground, for there, in the midst of the fire, on the bank of moss still lies the daughter of the god, her form covered with her shield, and her face hidden by her closed helmet. through all these years nothing has changed or stirred in this magic circle except the changing, stirring, restless, watchful fire that rings it around. now, the time for life has come again. up from the mountain side comes a ringing horn note, and in a moment the hero strides through the flames that dart and flicker and lick at him, but cannot harm him, and stands in the magic circle gazing in wonder upon its strange sleep. "'who is that,' he thinks, 'covered with the shield? it must be a knight, but is it not hard for him to lie there all dressed in armor?' he gently takes off the helmet and starts back in surprise as he sees the lovely face and the soft spun gold that falls out upon the moss as he lifts the helmet away. now he raises the shield and tries to open the armor in front, that the knight may breathe more freely. he cannot unfasten it, and at last he cuts it with his sword, and then he starts again as he sees the light, snowy folds of the garment underneath. this can be no knight, this is a woman. what has he done? what shall he do? he stands and looks at her; he has never seen anything half so beautiful, and as he looks he trembles; he fears to wake her and he fears to leave her asleep. yes, the hero who knew no fear trembles. he has learned to fear from this woman. not by anything that she has done has she taught him, for she still sleeps. it is only because she is a woman that he fears. he is no less a hero for that. a man who lived long and never feared at all would be no hero. the time has come to him, as it must come to every man, when it is braver to fear. "yet, though he fears, he does not hesitate. he does just the only thing that he possibly could do. he kneels beside her and kisses her lips. then she awakes. she opens those eyes that are blue with the depth of the sea and the light of the sky. she gazes around her at the rocks, at the trees, at the sunlight, at her hero, and her face is filled with joy. and what a face it is! no longer as it was before. at her father's kiss the goddess slept; her hero's kiss awoke the woman. her face is as clear, as pure, and as radiant as before, but soft and gracious and gentle; her eyes are as full of light as they were, but there is tenderness in them too; her lips are as calm and beautiful, but they are all sweetness; what was still and stern and placid is full of sympathy, kind, and loving. "the flowers lift up their heads and open to look at her; the horse neighs to say that he is awake again and knows her; the little winds come back and murmur softly at first among the leaves; then they get bolder and kiss her cheek and lift her hair and shake it out to the light, and whisper to her hero and ask him if he saw any gold like that in the dragon's cave. he has never seen any woman before, yet he knows that in all the world there cannot be another such as this. she has seen many heroes, yet this is he for whom she has waited so long. each knows all the depth of the other's thoughts, and so they stand and gaze each into the other's eyes and into the other's heart." "and is that all?" said the child. "it ends just like 'the sleeping beauty,' doesn't it?" "no; just here it is like 'the sleeping beauty,' but we shall see more some other time. this is the end for the night." the end of the ring the fire has always fascinated and charmed me. when i was a child myself i used to watch it till my eyes ached, and my habit of throwing sticks and paper into it to see them burn was a terror to all my aunts. a bonfire was a delicious joy, and fireworks, especially if i could set them off myself, were the summit of happiness. even now, whenever i see a house on fire i am afraid my pleasure in watching it is much greater than my sorrow for the people who are losing their property or their home. i do not want houses to burn, but if they must burn i want to see them. as for the fire on the hearth, that is my counsellor and friend. when we are alone together i sit and gaze into it, and it tells me of old, happy times, of other friends who are far away now, and of the pleasant nights we had together. it speaks to me of old hopes, it is glad with me in their fulfilment or it cheers me in their loss. it talks of bright, new hopes, and tells me that even if all else fails, it will still be true to me and will try, if i will come back to it, to cheer and help me again as it cheers and helps me now. as i sat in this way with the fire, the little girl came and took a low stool beside me. she looked into the fire too, laying her cheek upon my hand, which rested on the arm of the chair. she does not care for our talks about other hearth fires that long ago went out, so we had to do something else to entertain her. "did you want to know more about the daughter of the god and the hero who knew no fear?" i said. "well, i can see them both now, just where we saw them last on the mountain top, with the fire burning around them as it did before, but not so high and fierce as before, because it is not needed for a guard so much as it was. "the daughter of the god is telling her hero that he ought to go to seek more adventures. perhaps he may find other things for his magic sword to kill besides dragons and wicked dwarfs, and the more such things he does the better she will love him when he comes back. oh, she knows all about heroes and what they ought to do. he does not like to leave her at all, but if he knows that she really wants him to seek adventures, you may be sure he will seek them. before he goes, he gives her the ring that he got from the dragon's cave, with the curse upon it, but they are not the sort of man and woman to trouble themselves about curses. in return she gives him her horse and her shield, not that he will need it much against his enemies, with that magic sword, and besides she knows how to cast a spell upon him so that he cannot be wounded in battle; but the shield may keep off the rain, if he has to sleep out of doors. so he goes away down the mountain and she waits for him to come back. "now all the fire changes to a shining river. it is the same river where the treasure was once kept by the nymphs, only now we are above it instead of under it. on the bank is the hall of a king and i see the king himself sitting on his throne, with his sister, a beautiful princess, beside him. with them too is their half-brother. he is a strange fellow and you ought to know him. his father is the dwarf who stole the treasure, and his father has told him all about it many times and has taught him to hope that some time he may get it again, so that they two may divide all the riches between them, and with the ring and the helmet may rule the world. he is just as wicked as his father, all he cares for in the world is to get that treasure, and you may be sure that he will try to get it in every way that he can find, good or bad. "he is trying at this very moment, and in rather a strange way, you may think at first. he is telling the king that he ought to have a wife, and that his sister ought to have a husband. the king asks, just as everybody always asks when he is told that, 'whom do you want me to have?' "'the most beautiful and the most royal of all women,' says the halfbrother, 'lives upon a rock with fire all around it for a guard, and whoever shall break through the fire and come to her shall win her for his wife.' "this does not encourage the king at all. he never walked through a fire or did anything of the sort, and he does not even care to try. you see the difference between a king and a hero. but the half-brother says that he knows of a hero who would be glad to go through the fire and get this woman for the king, if only he might have the king's sister for himself. the princess is not displeased at all at the notion of a husband who is so brave and can do such wonderful things, but she fears that such a hero must long ago have seen and loved some woman more beautiful than she, and that he will not care for her at all. but the half-brother answers: 'there is a magic drink which you shall give him, and it will make him forget any other woman he has ever seen, no matter who she is.' "the half-brother knows very well, i believe, that the hero already loves the daughter of the god, and it is she that he means to make him forget before he sends him to get her for the king. of course the king and his sister know nothing about this, or they would have nothing to do with such a wicked plan, for they are reasonably good people. the half-brother says that the hero is going about the world to find adventures and is sure to come here before long, and true enough, even while he is speaking they see him coming with his horse in a little boat on the river. they call to him to come on shore, and they welcome him as if they were never so glad to see anybody before in their lives. "perhaps, indeed, they never were so glad to see anybody, and i am sure the princess never was. a form so full of life and action and vigor, or a face so full of freedom and courage and cheer surely she has never seen. the fine frankness of his ways and the young grace of his motion are new to her too, and that she can hope to win him at once for herself is almost more than she can believe. she would not think of such a thing at all if she knew how little he thought or cared about her. he is charming and polite enough, of course, but as often as he thinks of her or of anything else once he thinks of the daughter of the god twice, and when his thoughts are not especially drawn away he thinks of her all the time. but now the princess offers him a horn filled with the magic drink that is to make him forget. oh, if only that clever little bird were here now to warn him, as it did when the dwarf mixed the drink for him, how much trouble might be saved! but, you know, he never thinks of danger, so he drinks, and then he thinks of nothing at all--nothing at all but the princess. "well, that is not surprising, for you know she is only the second woman he ever saw and he has forgotten the first. you would scarcely believe how much he has forgotten her. why, if the king were to tell him at this moment that a woman slept under a shield, guarded by fire, that a young man came through the fire, cut open her armor, kissed her, awakened her, and vowed that he would love her forever, he would not remember that he had ever known of anything of the kind or had ever heard of such a young man. for him there is no woman in the world now but the princess. "the king does tell him a little of this story, when the hero asks him, still thinking of the princess, whether he has a wife as well a sister. 'no,' the king answers, 'i have no wife. the woman i want for my wife i fear i never can win; she is far away upon a mountain and a fire burns all around her. he who could pass through the fire and come to her might win her, but i could never do it.' "it is just as i told you. this absurd young man does not know that he ever heard of a woman in the middle of a fire before; he does not know that he ever learned to fear, so he says: 'i am not afraid of a little fire; i will go and get your bride for you if you will give me your sister for mine.' "'i will give you my sister gladly,' says the king; 'but how is my bride to be made to think that it is i who come to her and win her, instead of you?' "'that is easy,' says the half-brother; 'with that helmet which he wears he can take any form he will, and he can make himself look exactly like you. he shall bring the woman away through the fire and then he shall leave her to you, and she will never know that it was not you who came to her rock.' "now, the hero, you know, never knew what could be done with that helmet. he only took it with him from the dragon's cave because the little bird told him it was good for something. now that he has learned its use everything that he and the king want to do seems simple enough, and they set off in the little boat for the rock with the fire around it. the half-brother stays on the shore and looks after them, with his pale face and his wicked eyes. the woman far away on that rock has the magic ring. when the king brings her here as his bride he will find some way to get the ring, and then what will he care for kings or brides, for princesses or heroes? he and the wicked dwarf, his father, will rule the world. "the fire burns up high and clear again and within its circle sits the daughter of the god. she does not sleep now; she sits and gazes at the ring her hero gave her, thinking nothing of the curse upon it, and wonders when he will come back to her. ah, when will her hero come back to her? do you remember how once on this very rock the daughters of the god met to ride together to his castle, and how they came each riding on her flying horse, racing with the driving wind and the hurrying clouds? with just such a leap and a flash of a sudden flame up into the smoke i can see one of them riding now. so quickly she gallops through the sky that i can scarcely see what she is till she reaches the rock, springs from her horse, and stands before her sister. her sister runs to meet her and to ask if their father is still angry with her. "the war goddess has sad things to tell of their father. he sits in his castle with the gods and his heroes around him. they do not go out to fight and kill each other, and to be made alive and well again at sunset any more. the father of the gods only sits there and looks at his broken spear, and the rest, full of dread, look only at him. he is weary of ruling the world, weary of all the trouble that has come from the wrong that he did in not giving that treasure back to the river nymphs. he is not sorry that his spear is broken and he would gladly hasten the end of all. he has made his heroes cut down the great ash tree from which his spear was made, the tree that spread its branches over all his castle, and they have piled the wood high around the walls. when the end comes it will help the castle to burn. and now the father of the gods says that, if the woman who has the magic ring whose curse has been so heavy would but give it back to the river nymphs, all his great sorrows would be over. "this his daughter, the war goddess, heard, and hastened here to tell it to his daughter, the woman. will she give up the ring? will she help the gods to find the rest that they long for? ah, but a war goddess knows as little of women as she does of men. no, no, the woman loves the man who gave her the ring and she would not lose it for a moment to gain ages of peace for the gods whose homes she shares no more. she cares nothing for weary gods; she has a hero. the war goddess cannot understand her sister. she leaves her and is away again, toward the castle of the gods, riding on her flying horse, galloping against the driving wind and the hurrying clouds. "a horn sounds down in the valley. there is only one horn in the world like that, and the woman springs joyfully up to meet her hero. he comes and walks through the fire as he did before, but oh! how different he is from what he was before! then his face was young and fresh and noble and his form was graceful and light; now his face and his form are those of the king. is this the promise that the father of the gods made to his daughter? he said that none should ever come to her or win her but the bravest of heroes. yes, this is indeed the promise and this the hero, but how sadly for her the promise is kept! when he saw her before he gently lifted off her helmet and kissed her and learned to fear before her; now he thinks only of the princess, away there by the river, and he tells the daughter of the god that he is the king and that she must come with him and be his bride. "she resists him, and he seizes her to force her. she holds out her hand to him with the ring and bids him beware its power, which will protect her from him; he seizes her hand and pulls the ring from her finger. she is helpless; she faints in his grasp; he carries her through the fire and down the mountain to where the real king is. he leaves them together and goes back alone to the hall by the river and to the princess. "very glad is the princess, you may be sure, to see him come back so quickly and so safely, and glad too is the half-brother, but for a different reason, for he sees the ring on his finger. now they call all the people together to greet the king and his bride as they come in their boat on the river. there are shouts and cheers, and men with waving banners and women who scatter flowers; the king smiles upon his people and thanks them for their greeting, and there is only one who is not merry and glad. and whom do you think the king's new bride sees in all this happy crowd? only her hero, in his own form again, and, if her heart was wounded and sad before, it dies within her now, when she sees him leading the princess out to meet them and knows that he thinks no longer of her. she turns pale and faint at first and then angry and fierce. she cries out that this man was her lover, that he has betrayed her for the princess and that he has betrayed the king too. "of course, nobody can understand that at all--nobody but the halfbrother--but you can think how everybody must be shocked and astonished, and how everybody tries to make out what she means, and fails. to be sure, she understands it herself as little as the rest. she knows nothing about the magic drink that made her lover forget her; she knows only that he swore always to love her and that now he loves the princess. the king does not know that the hero ever saw his bride till he went to her mountain to bring her for him, so he supposes that, if he ever told her that he loved her, it must have been then; that would be betraying the king, his friend, in a most cruel way, of course. the princess knows only just what the king knows, and if the king has been deceived and betrayed, she must have been deceived and betrayed a great deal more. as for the poor hero himself, he does not remember that he ever saw this woman before, he does not know how he can have done any wrong, and he is more puzzled than any of the rest. only the half-brother knows all about it, that nobody is to blame at all except himself, and it is he whom nobody thinks of suspecting. the hero lays his hand on the half-brother's spear and swears that he has never wronged anyone here; if he has, he says, may this very spear slay him. "now is the time for the half-brother to work the hero's ruin and to try to get the ring that he wears. when all have gone but him and the king and his bride, he whispers to her that he will help her, and will kill the hero to revenge the wrong that he has done her. 'you kill him!' she cries. 'if he once looked at you, you would not dare come near him.' "'yet,' he says, 'there must be some way that i could do it; tell me what it is and you will be revenged.' "'i cast a spell upon him,' she says, 'so that he could not be wounded in battle, but i knew that he would never turn his back upon an enemy, so i set no spell there; you may strike him in the back.' "now, he tells the king that nothing but the hero's death can restore the honor that he has lost. 'to-morrow,' he says, 'we will go hunting; i will kill him with my spear, and we will tell the princess that it was a wild boar that did it.' "'it shall be so,' they all cry; 'he must die.' "and whom do you think i see now? the river nymphs again. not before the king's house, where we have been so long, but in another part of the river, all shut in by wild woods and rocks. they are swimming and playing on the water, just as they did under it when we saw them first, and they seem just as careless and happy as they did then, but they are still mourning for their lost treasure and longing to get it back again. if they could only get the ring it would do as well as the whole treasure, for the ring is the magic part of it. and now to this very spot comes the hero, who wears the ring on his finger. he has wandered away from the king and his men, who were hunting with him, and as soon as the nymphs see him they beg him to give them back their ring. "he says that he will not, at first; it was too much trouble for him to win it from the dragon. but he really does not care so very much about it, and i think he would let them have it in the end if it were not for a great mistake that they make in asking for it. they tell him about the curse of the ring, and that if he keeps it he will be killed this very day. now, you can see easily enough that that is the very worst thing they could say if they hoped to get the ring from him, for he is not in the least afraid of being killed, and he will not have anybody believe that he is afraid. they shall not have it, he says, happen what will. they will have it, they call back to him, and this very day; and so they dive down under the water and leave him. "now come the rest of the huntsmen and sit about in a circle to rest here in the shade and to talk. the king is gloomy, thinking still of the wrongs that have been done him. his half-brother asks the hero if it is true that he knows what the birds say. 'i listen to them no more,' he answers; 'but to cheer the king i will tell you some stories of the things that i have seen and the things that i have done.' "he tells them of the dwarf who kept him and brought him up that he might fight the dragon; he tells how he mended the magic sword, how he killed the dragon with it, and took the helmet and the ring from the cave. a bird then sang to him, he says, and told him that the dwarf would try to kill him, but he killed the dwarf instead. here he stops, for he cannot remember anything about the mountain top with the fire around it, or the daughter of the god, or even what the bird sang to him next. but the king's half-brother squeezes something into his wine and tells him to drink it and it will make him remember better. "he drinks, and it does make him remember better. he tells of the lovely woman who slept with the fire all around her, and how he kissed her and awoke her. then suddenly the king understands it all; he remembers the drink of forgetfulness that they gave the hero, and he knows that nobody has done any wrong but his wicked half-brother; he it was who told him of the woman in the fire who should be his wife, he who said that the hero should bring her to him, he who bade them give him the drink to make him forget, he who first said that the hero must die. the king would gladly save the hero now, but it is too late. "it is too late, for of a sudden two ravens fly up from beside the river and away over the heads of them all. they are the ravens that fly all over the world and then to the father of the gods, to tell him all that they see and all that they hear. they are going now to tell him that the end of the gods, the end that he longs for, is near. the hero starts up to hear what they say. he turns his back to the others, and the half-brother, before the king can stop him, thrusts his spear into his back. the hero turns for an instant to rush against the murderer, but his strength is gone, and he falls helpless upon the ground. all the rest cry out in horror, and the half-brother turns from them and strides away. "and what now of the hero? he speaks no word to those who stand about him as he lies here dying on the ground. where are his thoughts now? he is thinking of the only time he ever feared. he is back again upon the rock, with the flames curling and whirling all around him. before him once more lies the daughter of the god. again he kisses her lips. she awakes. he sees again those deep, blue, wonderful eyes. he does not see the rocks, or the trees, or the sunlight--only her. again for one last moment he knows that in all the world there cannot be another woman such as this. they look each into the other's eyes and into the other's heart. he is dead. "they lay him on his shield and lift it upon their shoulders, and so they bear him back to the king's house by the river. the half-brother is there before them and tells the princess that her lover has been killed by a wild boar. she does not believe him, and when the others come she calls the king and all the rest his murderers. the king indeed wished his death once, but he is sorry enough for it now, and says that it was his half-brother alone who did it. 'well, then,' cries the murderer, 'it was i, and now i will have my reward; i will take the ring.' "the king cries out that he shall not have it, and draws his sword. the half-brother draws his own and rushes upon him, and before the men can run between them the king too lies dead upon the ground. then again the murderer turns toward the body of the hero to take the ring, but, as he comes near it, the hand that wears the ring rises of itself, as if it were not dead and would ward him off. he falls back in terror, and so do all the rest. "but now comes the daughter of the god. she bids them all stand back from her hero. 'he was mine, not yours,' she says to the princess; 'he loved me and i loved him before you ever saw him.' "'then it was all the fault of this wicked man who has murdered him,' the princess answers; 'he gave me the drink for him that made him forget you.' "she turns away from the hero and bends over the king, her brother. the daughter of the god understands now; he was never faithless to her of himself. she tells the men to build a funeral pyre. they pile up the wood and the women scatter flowers upon it. then she takes the ring from her hero's hand. while they lay his body on the pyre she bids them bring his horse, the horse that once was hers, that flew with her through the clouds when she was a goddess, and slept on the mountain top with the fire around it where she slept. with a torch she lights the pyre. see how the flames leap up and catch at the wood and stream and grow. once more the ravens fly up from the river bank and away into the sky. now the end for the gods comes indeed. "the daughter of the god springs upon the horse and with one bound they leap into the middle of the flames. yet, as soon as they are there, they are gone, nor can i see the hero there any more. the pyre all falls together; but in the middle of its hot, red embers i see something brighter than all the rest. it is the ring. the water of the river rises and rises till it flows over the fire and puts it out. then on the surface, swimming and playing about as always, i see the river nymphs. they have found the ring, and their treasure is their own again. but the wicked half-brother of the king, the son of that dwarf who stole it at first long ago, tries one last time to gain it. he plunges into the river to seize it from the nymphs, but one of them holds it up high in her hand and swims away from him, and the others twine their arms around him and draw him down and down under the water and he is seen no more. the river sinks back to its old bed. the treasure that was stolen is restored. all the evil and the punishment that came from the curse of the ring is done." [illustration: "their treasure is their own again."] a big stick that had been burning brightly and steadily for a long time suddenly fell in two and the quick flames and the sparks sprang high up into the chimney. "see, it is the castle of the gods itself that is burning and lighting up all the sky. the wrong that they have done and the sorrow that they have suffered are past, and their end has come. but the fire burns fiercer still. it seizes upon everything, in the sky and on the earth. perhaps it is better that it should. the world that we have seen in our fire here grew so selfish and cruel and bad after the gold was stolen from the river that it may be best for it to end in these flames. they will last for only a moment. even now they are not so fierce. i can see the sky again. there is a beautiful brightness in it, like the coming of the morning; yet it is more than that, for it streams and flashes like the northern lights. i can see the earth again too, but it is not as it was before. it is a new world. it has all the beautiful things that the old one had, the green pastures and plains, the silver rivers, the blue mountains. some of the gods have come back, but not those who did such wrong and made the old world so wicked. the god of summer, who died long ago when the evil began, has come again; and if he and all who were good and beautiful before are to be here still, i am sure that the daughter of the god and the hero who knew no fear must find their way here somehow. a new world that is to be all unselfish and brave and true needs such a woman and such a hero." the knight of the swan the little girl was lying on the rug before the fire, one elbow buried in the long fur, and one cheek resting on her hand. she was gazing into the fire, studying the bright, flickering flames and the red embers. i had not noticed that she was there till her mother said, "you will ruin that child's eyes with your stories about the things in the fire. she would watch it half the day if i would let her; it is too bright and too hot to look at so long and so near. come away, dear, and don't look at the fire again to-day." "but why can't i see such things as you see?" the child said to me, with a little sigh, as she got up slowly from the rug and came toward me. "just because you have not quite learned how yet," i said; "now suppose you give up trying for a little while, because you might hurt your eyes, as your mother says, and let me look into the fire for you again. sit here in the big chair with me; turn your face right away from the fire and lay it against my shoulder. now shut your eyes. some people can see a great deal better with their eyes shut, especially such things as we are trying to see, because when their eyes are open they see the every-day things all around them, and it confuses them and prevents their seeing what they want to see or what they ought to see. they are people who have not learned to look right through the everyday things and see others, in spite of them, that are much better and more beautiful, as you will learn to do some time. but just now keep your eyes shut. "i see then, first, a splendid company of knights and people. the shining of the fire is like the light of the sun, that glances from the polished armor, the gleaming weapons, the standards, and the banners of bright-colored silk and gold. it is all so fine that it looks like a holiday time; but it is not that, for the crowds of people seem bent on something more important than dancing and playing games. they are all looking toward the king, who stands under a great tree and seems to have something to say to them. the heralds are blowing their trumpets and calling to the people to come and hear what the king has to say, though they are all there already and are only too anxious to hear, and so the king speaks. he says that far away at the other end of the country there is danger. enemies are coming against him and his people, and he calls upon all the men here about him to help him to guard the land. "then they all shout and wave their banners and their arms, as i can see in the flickering of the bright little flames, and they all cry that they will fight for their king and their country. but this does not satisfy the king, for he says that since he has come here he finds everything going wrong and everybody quarrelling, and he asks what it all means. now there comes forward a man who has all this while been standing silent beside his wife; and it may be as well to say just here that this man's wife is a wicked witch and that the man himself is none too good. so a part of what he tells the king is true and another good large part is not true at all. when he tells what the king knew before, he tells the truth; and when he tells anything that the king did not know before, it is generally a lie. "so he tells the king that he was left the guardian of the two children of the duke who ruled in this part of the country, and who died a few years ago. one of the children was a girl and the other was a boy, and he tells the king, too, how he took care of them as they grew up. all this is true and the king knew all about it before. but now he goes on to say that one day, when the brother and the sister had gone away from their castle together, the sister came back alone, trembling and crying and saying that she had lost her brother. probably this is true enough too, but when he says that the poor sister was not really sorry at all, because she had killed her brother herself, he is telling a dreadful, cruel lie. still perhaps it is not so much his fault, for his wife, the witch, who you must remember is a good deal more wicked than himself, knows much more about it all than it would do for her to tell, and she may have deceived him as well as other people. "of course the king is shocked at such a dreadful story as this, and he wants to know how the sister could ever have done anything so wicked. well, of course the man who accuses her so boldly has a reason to give for what he says she did, or he never would have dared mention it at all. so he explains that the sister was to be married to him and that she refused him, and then he married the witch instead, only he does not call her a witch. he thinks that the sister must have had some other lover, and she must have thought that if her brother, who ought to be duke as soon as he should be old enough, were only dead, she could be married to her lover, and then he would be the duke. and now he says that he thinks he himself ought to be duke, since there is nobody who deserves to be one better than he, and he asks the king to make him so. now, of course anybody as bright as you are can see at once that the whole reason for all these wicked stories is just that he wants to be duke; but kings and knights and crowds of people are not always very bright, though they may look so there in the fire, and they do not feel so sure about it as you or i would. so the quarrel lies between a rich and powerful man who is a soldier and once saved the king's life, with a wife who is a witch and knows all about magic, and one poor girl who knows nothing about magic and who has no friends who would dare to help her. for these people here about the king are a peculiar sort of people who shout very loud about justice and their own rights and others' rights, but seldom do anything unless they feel sure that they are on the side that is going to win. there are no such people nowadays, of course; but there were once. "but the king himself is a good king, and he means to be quite fair and just, and he calls for the sister to come before him and tell her own story. so the heralds blow their trumpets again and call for her, and she comes. she is dressed all in white, and she looks so beautiful and pale and sad that nobody who was not wicked himself could ever suspect her of doing anything wicked, and all the men about mutter that the one who says that she killed her brother will have to prove it. they have just heard the king say something of the kind, so they feel very righteous and very bold about it. the king, then, asks her if she can say anything about this dreadful accusation, and she tells him how often she has prayed for help, how, after she has prayed, she has fallen into a sweet sleep and has seen a knight in bright armor, leaning on his sword, and how he has comforted her. this knight, she says, shall be the one to fight for her and to protect her. "now, of course, this is all very pretty, but it does not seem to have much to do with the question of whether she killed her poor little brother or not. yet it does have something to do with it, and i will tell you how. a long time ago, hundreds of years, when people had quarrels, they did not hire lawyers to argue and plead and plot and contrive for them, but they just stood up together, if they were both strong men, and fought till one of them killed the other or showed that he could if he wanted to. and everybody who looked on felt perfectly sure that the one who was right could not possibly lose such a fight and the one who was wrong could not possibly win it. if one of the two who had the quarrel was a woman, some friend who trusted her enough to think that she was right would fight for her." "but what made the man who was wrong ever fight at all," the little girl asked, "if everybody believed that he was sure to get beaten?" "i have thought of that myself," i admitted, "and i think that it must have been for one of two reasons: either the bad people did not believe that the right was sure to win, or else the people who were wrong usually thought that they were really right. i believe that was the true reason, and it shows that bad people are not always quite so bad as we think, for they usually contrive in some way, i am sure, to make themselves believe they are right. and now, though all these things that i am telling you are things that i see right here in the fire, yet they are like things that must have happened long, long ago, and this very way of settling disagreements by a good hard fight is the way that the question of this poor girl's guilt or innocence must be settled. she probably knows this just as well as anybody, and that is what she means when she says that the knight she saw in her dream shall be the one to fight for her. but the accuser turns everything against her, as usual, and says: 'you see it is just as i said; she is talking about this lover of hers who she hopes will marry her and be duke instead of her brother. yet he says he is quite ready to fight anybody who wants to try it with him, and he invites any of the men standing about to come forward and fight for the poor, helpless girl, if he wants to. but they all say no, they should be very sorry to have to kill such a great man and so brave a soldier. the truth is, you see, they are all afraid that if they should fight they might get hurt, and why should they trouble themselves about this girl's rights or wrongs? "still she says that the knight whom she saw in her dream shall be her champion, and if he will come now and help her in this need she will be his bride if he will take her, and he shall have all her father's lands and his crown, since her brother is dead. but nobody comes, and the people all begin to think that she must be guilty after all, and that, instead of the accuser having to prove that she is, she will have to prove that she is not, if she wants any sympathy from them, though why she should want it i hardly know. but the king still means to give her every chance, and he orders the heralds to blow their trumpets toward the north and the east and the south and the west, and to call upon anybody who will defend her straightway to appear. and the heralds blow their loud trumpets and the people gaze anxiously in all directions, but nobody comes to help her. and then she tells the king that her knight dwells far off and does not hear, and she begs him to call upon him again, and the heralds blow once more, and she prays that her knight may be sent to her, and now suddenly all the eyes of the crowd are turned one way, and all the people shout and point and gaze at something which they see away in the distance. "i can see it too, for there in the fire, back on the hearth, is a bed of bright embers that shines and glitters like a broad river under the sun of noon, and at the very farthest place is one little spot brighter than all the rest, and it seems to come nearer and nearer, and as it comes i begin to make out its wonderful shape. there is a little boat, and in it stands a knight, all in silver armor, and it is his armor that shines so. but the strangest thing of all is that a beautiful white swan, its wings almost as bright as the knight's armor, is drawing the boat along by a silver chain wound about its neck. it is this that makes the people gaze and point, and, while the swan and the boat are coming nearer, i will tell you more about the knight than he will be willing to tell about himself. did you ever hear of the holy grail? it was the crystal cup, the old stories say, out of which the saviour drank at the last supper, and afterward his blood was caught in it, as he hung upon the cross. hundreds of years later it was kept in a beautiful temple which nobody ever knew how to find, except a few chosen knights, who guarded the grail and did its bidding, for this cup seemed still to have the life of that blood in it, and it had ways of telling its knights what they must do. and so they were sometimes sent far away to fight for the right or to punish wrong, but wherever they went they never knew hunger or thirst or weariness, and they could never be killed or overcome in battle; but no one must ever ask one of these knights his name or his dwelling place, and, if anyone having the right should ask these questions, the knight must return to the temple of the holy grail. now, seven days ago a bell in the temple rang, all of itself, meaning that help was needed somewhere. one of the knights put on his armor and called for his horse, and stood ready, but he knew not where he was to go or what he was to do, till a swan drawing a little boat came sailing along upon the river, and the knight said: 'take back the horse; i will go with the swan,' and so here is he come to see what help is wanted of him. "and now i see him step on shore, and the girl whom he has come to rescue knows him as the knight of her dream, and everybody is glad of his coming except the accuser and his wife, the witch, and she, strangely enough, seems a good deal more frightened at the sight of the swan than at that of the knight. now the knight asks the young girl whether, if he will fight her battle and win it, she will promise never to ask him whence he comes or what he is, and she swears that she will always love him and trust him, and will do whatever he commands. so now the two knights, with all the people looking on and holding their breaths with anxiety, and the king watching that all may be done fairly and in order, draw their swords and stand against each other. but i see only one or two little flashes of the flames as the gleaming swords are whirled above their heads, and then the wicked accuser falls and the knight of the swan spares his life, while all the people shout and lift the knight above their heads on his shield, just as if they had known all along that the girl was innocent, and just as if they would not have shouted just as loud if the battle had gone the other way. [illustration: "the knight of her dream."] "the fire is going down a little and everything looks darker. it is night now. here on one side is a church, all dark, and on the other side, where the light still shines, i can see the bright windows of the palace, where they are making preparations for a grand wedding tomorrow, and you can guess who are to be married. on the steps of the church, looking up at the palace windows and the lights that shine in them, are the witch and her husband. he is bemoaning his disgrace and accusing his wife of causing it all by telling him that the good sister had killed her brother. and this shows me, more than anything he has done before, how bad he is, and what a coward he is, because, when a man has tried to gain things that he knows are not his by ways that he knows are not right, he ought to take all the consequences, if he fails, like a man, and not snivel and say that a woman made him do it. but the witch says that there is a chance yet for them to be revenged, for, if only the knight of the swan can be made to tell who he is, he will have to go away as he came and be lost, and she believes she can find some way to tempt his bride to ask him the forbidden questions, and then he will have to answer. "now the bride that is to be to-morrow comes out upon a balcony of the palace, and the witch, sending her husband away, calls to her and tells her how sorry they both are for all that they have done. no doubt they are very sorry indeed, as they ought to be. but the bride is so happy and so kind that she cannot bear to see anybody unhappy, so she says that she forgives them, and if she has injured them in any way she asks that they forgive her. that is absurd, of course. then she lets the witch talk to her till the wicked woman says that she hopes the knight who came to her in such a strange way, that nobody can account for, will never deceive her, and that she will always live happily with him; and by this she means, of course, that she thinks that he will deceive her and that she will not be happy. but the bride says that she trusts her knight wholly, and she asks the witch to come in with her and rest for the night. and that is just the one thing she ought not to do, for here is what i hope you will see and remember more than anything else in all this: be as kind and as helpful and as compassionate as you can, always, but never help, never listen to, never allow to be near you a man or a woman who says one word against anyone you love. put no trust in anyone till you know that trust is safe, and, when you once know, never hear of one breath of doubt again. "the fire burns higher and brighter, and the morning is coming. the square grows light and fills with people. now come the heralds again, and they sound their trumpets and proclaim that the knight of the swan is to have the crown of his bride's father, and is to be called guardian instead of duke, that the accuser of his bride is an outcast and must be shunned by all men, and finally that everybody to-day is to come to the marriage, but that to-morrow all the men must go to the defence of the king and the country. and now, with all its sparkle and glitter, comes the procession, leading the bride to the church, when, just as she is at the door, right before her stands the witch, full of anger and pride, and cries aloud that it is her place to go before this woman, and no one shall keep her from the place that is hers, and she taunts the bride with not knowing who or what her knight is; and so a great clamor arises among the people, and in the midst of it come the king and the knight of the swan and their train. the witch's wicked husband comes, too, and calls out that the knight beat him yesterday by magic and not by honest fighting, and he demands that the king ask the knight who he is. but he and his wife are put aside, and the procession goes into the church, and as i look into the church itself now the whole of the fire is a blaze of candles on the altar. now turn your face away from the fire as it was before and shut your eyes again. there is no more to be seen in this wedding than there was in the battle of the two knights, and all that there is i will tell you. "the light of the candles on the altar changes to a blaze of wedding torches, and the king and the knights and the ladies are leading the bride and the bridegroom to their chamber. slowly and solemnly, yet joyfully, they march along, and it is all so clear to me that i can even hear the music that they chant as they come. soft and low it is at first, and then it swells out fuller and stronger and clearer but always so noble and pure and stately in its melody and its rhythm that nobody who had once heard it could ever forget how grand and beautiful it was. i have heard it many times, and you will hear it often, too, and once, i hope--i almost know--you will hear it at one of the sweetest moments of your life, and whenever you hear it i think it will be more full of meaning for you if you will think of the knight of the swan and his bride. but do not think of what comes to them afterward, for that need never come to you or to anyone who remembers what i told you a little while ago; and if ever you feel tempted to forget for one moment, then think of this true and lovely music--you will know it well and can think of it when you like by that time--and i am sure you will feel truer and better again at once. "but the torches pass away and out of sight, and the knight and his bride are left alone; and now comes the sad part, for the poor bride has listened too much to those who spoke evil of her husband, or something evil has come into her own mind and made her forget her promise, for she tells him that she loves him so much that she wishes she might know what he is whom she loves. now this may be very natural and might be very right if she had not promised never to ask; but though he begs her not to demand of him this one thing, yet she implores him more and more to tell her, till at last she speaks very cruelly to him, and as much as tells him that he does not love her at all. you would never think that she was the same poor girl who knelt by the river and prayed that her knight might be sent to help her in her danger. and suddenly, as he is about to tell her all she asks, her old accuser breaks into the room with his men, and rushes with his sword drawn to kill the knight, and now indeed his bride does seize his sword and hold it out to him, while he draws it from the sheath; then there is one little flash of a flame as he swings it high above his head, and his enemy lies at last dead before him. he tells the men to take him away and to lead his bride before the king, where he will come and tell her everything. "it is morning again on the banks of the river, and the knights and the people are coming in crowds as i saw them in the beginning. the king comes, and the poor bride, sadder now even than she was at first. the knight of the swan comes too, and he asks the king if he did right to kill his wicked enemy, who was trying to kill him unprepared. the king answers that he did right. then he says that he cannot go with the king to his wars, because his bride has forgotten her promise to him, and has asked him whence he came, and now, by the law which he obeys, as soon as he has answered her, he must leave her and all the rest forever. then, while they all listen in sorrow, he tells them that he is a knight of the holy grail, and must go back to the temple which he left to come here and help his bride. and while she weeps at the thought of losing him, suddenly i see the swan again on the river, drawing the little boat as before, ready to take the knight away, and then he tells his bride that if she could but have trusted him and never questioned him for a year, her brother would have come back to her. "and now for one last time the witch stands up, more proud and revengeful then ever, and cries out that she has beaten them all, for the swan is really the brother, and that it was she who wound the chain about his neck that enchanted him and made him a swan. but while she exults in her triumph, there flies down over the heads of all of them a beautiful white dove. it is the dove that comes once a year to the temple and strengthens the power of the holy grail, and as the knight sees it he kneels and prays and then rises and unwinds the silver chain from the swan's neck, and at the very instant the swan is changed into a beautiful boy, the lost brother, and he runs to his sister and they clasp each other in their arms, while the witch falls down upon the ground, overcome at last and powerless, and the knight steps into the boat, the dove lifts the silver chain, and they glide away upon the river, farther and farther, and the little spot where they were, that was the brightest in the fire, grows dimmer and fainter and goes out and is dark." "and won't the knight come back at all?" asked the little girl. "no," i answered, "the brother and the sister are close in each other's arms and they are gazing away upon the river as far as they can see, but the knight of the swan will never come back." the prize of a song the fire was almost out. it was so late in the spring that none at all was needed, but we liked it to look at. as for the little girl and me, we should hardly have known how to get on without it, and the little girl's mother chose to humor us, so we wasted a great deal of wood, as ignorant people would think, and were just as comfortable with the sky smiling and the trees budding all around us as if we had been in the midst of snow-drifts and howling storms. this afternoon the sun had been shining right in upon the fire, as if he would like to know what it was doing there at all, when he was making the weather quite warm enough, in the house as well as out. a fire never burns well when the sun shines on it, and besides, nobody had taken much care of ours, so that after the sun had gone it looked very low and discouraged. "do you think anybody could see anything in a fire like that?" the little girl asked, with a doubtful gaze into it and a meaning, clearly enough, that, if i thought it at all possible for anybody to see anything, she wished that i myself would try. "we will put on another stick," i said, "and have a better fire. it will not be a very hot fire even then, and with all this soft spring air about us, i don't think we can see any more gods and giants and knights and dragons in it. but we may see some simpler people, with bright young hearts that begin to stir and move and to beat quicker and harder in the spring, as young hearts ought to do, not only in the spring of the year, but in their own spring, and we may perhaps see some people with older hearts, which stirred and beat too in their time, and we shall see by them that those which move freest and grow warmest in their spring are the fullest and the richest in their autumn and can never be hurt in the winter, just as the tree in which the sap flows best in the spring spreads out the broadest shade in the fierce heat of the summer, bears the finest fruit in the autumn, and lives the strongest till the next spring comes. if you ever tell any very learned people what we see here in this fire they may tell you, perhaps, that it all happened on midsummer day and not in the spring at all, and they will be quite right, in their own poor way of being right, but midsummer day is not in the middle of the summer, you know, but just at the beginning of it, when the spring has been gone only a few days. it is then that the lovely touch of the spring has done all that it can for the world, when the sun climbs his very highest in the heavens to look at all the sweetness and beauty that have been spread over the earth, when the summer is young and happy and kind and has not begun to burn and wither everything that would like to love its brightness and its power. so if you would see all the joy and the light that the spring can bring, you must look for them not far from midsummer day. "we shall not begin to see all this till our new stick begins to burn better, but in the meantime we may see some things that are pleasant enough, if they are not quite so radiant, and while the fire is still rather dark, just burning quietly in a few little places, we seem to me to be in a dim, old church. the service is just ending. in one of the pews sits a pretty girl who is behaving herself in a most unbecoming way, for she is constantly sending shy glances toward a young man who leans against a pillar not far off and looks at her in his turn in a way that really ought to shock her, instead of pleasing her, as it seems to do." "is he a knight?" asked the little girl, instinctively knowing him for the hero of the story. "do you want him to be a knight?" "oh, yes; let's have just one knight, if we can't have any giants or dragons." "i believe you are beginning to see the pictures in the fire yourself. well, he shall be a knight, but he shall not wear any armor and he shall not fight, and all the rest of the people we see shall be quite common people, mere tradesmen, a goldsmith and a tailor and a toy-maker and a cobbler and the like. but whether the young man is a knight or not, he and the pretty girl ought to know better than to look at each other in that way in church, with looks that seem to mean so much and yet to have no connection with the service at all. the service is over now and the people all leave the church, except a few, but the young knight and the pretty girl stay behind, and he does not lose a minute in telling her that he loves her and that he is dreadfully anxious to know if she can love him. now, of course, as she has done nothing all through the service but steal glances at him and probably could not even tell what hymns were sung, or whether there was a sermon or not, and has been thinking all the time how handsome he was, and knows very well that he was looking at her all the time, and knows very well, too, being a pretty girl, that he was thinking how pretty she was, of course, you see, she could not tell at all whether she could love him or not, and such a question naturally throws her into the greatest confusion. "but while the young man is saying all the pretty things that the time allows, and the young woman is trying to think what she shall answer, her maid, who has been running about all this time, looking for things she has lost, bustles up, hears a part of what the young man says, and tells him that her mistress is already betrothed; and the mistress quickly says yes, but that nobody yet knows to whom. this is such a surprising state of things that it needs an explanation; so the maid tells the young knight that her mistress is to be given as bride for a prize to-morrow, which will be midsummer day, to the man who shall sing the best song. he asks if the bride herself is to judge whose song is best; and at that she makes up her mind at last, and says that she will choose nobody but him. but there is something else, for nobody can even try for the prize unless he belongs to a certain company or society of poets and singers here in the town, and the knight, though he has a pretty good opinion of the song he could make if he should try, is quite a stranger here. and now, as if for the very purpose of helping the knight, comes another young man, who turns out to be a prentice, and he begins arranging benches and chairs in some queer sort of way, while the looks that he casts at the maid and the looks she throws back at him show that they are not total strangers; and he tells them that these very poets and singers are to meet here in a few minutes, and that if anybody wants to join them he will have a chance to sing to them and to prove whether he is worthy. "so the young man of course determines that he will try, and it is clear that he expects nothing in the world but that he will carry everything before him; and while the young women hurry away, the prentice tells him something about the singers, who are always called masters, and the queer rules that they have for making all their songs. queer enough they are, too, and so many that if you were to hear them all you would think that they were quite enough to prevent anybody's ever making a song at all; but the most important thing that the knight learns is that, while he is singing, the judge will make a mark with chalk every time he breaks a rule, and, if more than seven chalk marks are scored against him, he cannot be a master, and so cannot try for the prize that he wants so much to win to-morrow. "now the masters begin to gather for their meeting, coming in one by one and two by two. first comes a goldsmith, the father of the pretty girl we have just seen. with him is a queer-looking, awkward, selfconceited man, who, anybody can see in a minute, must be a town clerk. from what he is saying to the goldsmith it is clear that he means to try for the prize of his daughter's hand to-morrow. he is in no doubt that he can sing better than anybody else, but is not sure that the goldsmith's daughter will think so. that is a very unlucky thing that happens to singers sometimes; they themselves know perfectly well that they can sing better than anybody else anywhere about, but all the other people are so stupid that they will not understand it. "the young knight, who knows the goldsmith, tells him now that he wants to join this company of singers, and be a master too; and the goldsmith says that he shall be glad to help all he can. but the town clerk overhears them, and he sees at once that what the knight wants is to sing for the prize to-morrow. now, the rule is, you remember, that nobody but a master may even try for the prize; so the jealous town clerk resolves that he will keep the young man from becoming a master. and it happens, by good luck for him and bad luck for the knight, that it is his turn to-day to take the chalk and mark the mistakes that are made in singing by anybody who tries to prove himself worthy to be a master. "when the masters are all met, the goldsmith makes a little speech, and tells them how the prize is to be given to-morrow. they are to decide who wins, but his daughter is to judge too. she may choose none without their voice, but she may refuse any. that is no more than fair, of course. no girl would like to be married to a man just because the lines of his poetry came out right when somebody else counted them. yet the masters all argue and dispute and suggest about the rules; but in the end they agree to do just what the goldsmith says, since they cannot do anything else. "now comes the trial of the young knight who wants to be a master. the town clerk goes behind a curtain, with his slate and his chalk, and you may be sure he does not forget his promise to himself that the knight shall fail. then the young man stands up in the midst of them all and sings his song. a happy, free, beautiful song it is. it tells first how the spring came into the forest and awakened the trees and brought the flowers. then it tells how the spring came into the young man's own heart, as you know i told you it ought to do, and how it made him sing of love; and that is quite right too, though perhaps i forgot to say so before. "but happy and beautiful as the song is, it is scarcely begun before the most dreadful scratching of the chalk is heard behind the curtain. all the masters begin to shake their heads, too, for this knight is bold enough to make his own song in his own way, and he knows and cares no more about the rules and measures of these masters for making songs than you know or care about the game laws of scotland. so by the time the song is half over, out rushes the town clerk with his slate, not with the eight marks on it that would end the singer's hopes of being a master, but with nearer eighty. he vows the case is hopeless, and as he shows the slate to the other masters they all seem to agree with him, though they are not all quite so jealous as he is. "all but one; for there is one old shoemaker who says that he thinks the song was very good. it did not follow the rules, but it had rules of its own, and he liked it. then there is trouble indeed. for any man to say in this old church and this old town that a song can be good when it has one line too many or one rhyme too few is almost as bad as for him to say that the king is bald-headed and that the oldest princess has freckles. all the masters say that to let such a song pass is out of the question, and that the shoemaker is quite absurd to think of such a thing. at this the shoemaker declares that the town clerk is not a fair judge, because he is jealous. at that again the town clerk says that the shoemaker had better not talk so much about poetry, but go home and finish the shoes he has ordered. now, the shoemaker is really the only one of all the masters who knows anything at all about poetry; but now and then, years ago, a man who knew a great deal had to stand aside and let others, who knew very little but could talk louder, do what they liked in their own way. that is what the shoemaker has to do now, and for this time the knight has failed. "what a bad fire we have, to be sure! it is getting lower and lower, and even our new stick will not burn. while everything is as dark as this we shall have to think that it is night. never mind, we can see a little still, and the little that i can see is the street of the old town, with its queer old houses and peaked roofs and sharp steeples. here, on one side, where there is a bit of light shining like a glow in a window, is the shop of our old cobbler; and over there, with no light at all, the fire is so bad, is the goldsmith's house. the cobbler is sitting outside his door, trying to work; but the light is as bad for him as it is for us, and, besides, he cannot think of his work, much less do it. he is thinking, i know, of the young knight and his song, and is wishing that he might win the prize to-morrow, master or no master. his heart had its spring-time once, you may be sure, and its glowing summer, and they have brought it a rich, peaceful autumn, such as they alone can bring. that was why he knew all the meaning of the song and liked it, though it broke every one of his own rules. and so, like the good old fellow that he is, he wishes the man who sang the song all joy and good luck--and the prize. "while he is thinking of all this, comes the goldsmith's daughter, for she has heard that the young man has failed, and she is sad, and wants to talk to some one. perhaps, too, she wants to know something. they talk about to-morrow, of course, and the shoemaker tells her that the town clerk means to sing for the prize. at that the prize herself gets quite alarmed, for she likes the town clerk no better than you or i do. 'but why should he not win?' the shoemaker says; 'there will not be many bachelors there to try.' "'and might not a widower try?' she asks slyly. "now, the shoemaker knows that she means himself, but he says no, he is too old. and then the absurd girl actually urges him to try, though she does not want him the least bit, and does not want anybody except the young knight, who makes such beautiful songs that are all out of shape. when you get to be a woman, perhaps you will know why she does this; but i confess i do not. perhaps she thinks that the shoemaker would not be half so bad as the town clerk, or perhaps she only wants to find out if the shoemaker really does mean to sing, so that she may know whether he is the knight's friend or his enemy. at any rate, he pretends to be not half so much the friend of the young people as i know he really is, and when she is beginning to get quite angry with him her maid comes and tries to lead her into the house. but just at this moment the knight himself is seen coming down the street, and not a step toward the house does she go after that. "the shoemaker has gone into his shop now, and the lovers are alone. he tells her how he sang his very best, that he might be a master, because that was the only way to win her, and it was of no use. but she does not care whether he failed or not. she declares that he is a poet, that she will give the prize herself and to nobody but him; so now what do you suppose it matters to him if all the masters in the world said that his songs were wrong? he will not sing for them, and they need not listen. "there is just one way now, as anybody can see, for him to make sure of the prize, and that is to take it while he has it. and that is just what he is about to do. but i am sorry to see that the cobbler, behind the door of his shop, has been impolite enough to listen to all this important talk about poets and songs; and he sees that if he lets these two run away together now, there will be no prize and no singing for to-morrow. so he sets a lamp in his window, right there where the fire is kind enough to burn for us a little at last, and sends the light streaming out across the street, and the lovers know that if they try to pass they will be seen. and while they are helping each other think what they can do, somebody else comes slowly down the street, walking in the shadows and looking around to see if he is watched, like a burglar. it is the town clerk, and he has come here just to sing under the window of the goldsmith's daughter the song that he means to sing to-morrow, to see if she will like it and if she will probably give it the prize. oh, he is a good, honest poet and faithful lover, and he means to leave nothing untried that can help him. one does not get a chance to marry a goldsmith's daughter every day. "all this is annoying enough, but there is nothing for the lovers to do but to wait for the town clerk to sing and go away; so they get into the deepest shadow, and then they put their arms around each other so that they can stand closer and not be seen so easily. it is a good plan for another reason, too, because some people can wait much more patiently in that position than in any other. but things are getting worse and worse, for the shoe-maker seems bound to have his part of the fun too; and just as the town clerk is about to sing he begins to work again and to hammer on his last. this is the most impolite shoemaker, i suppose, that this polite old town ever saw, if he is a poet. think of a man who will hammer on a shoe when a town clerk is going to sing, and a song that he made himself, too. something must be done, of course; so the town clerk comes and talks with the cobbler, and pretends that he is very anxious to get his opinion of the song he is going to sing. that seems natural enough, because everybody knows that the cobbler is the best poet in town. so they agree that whenever the town clerk breaks a rule in his song the cobbler shall strike one blow on his last, just as if he were marking the mistakes on the slate, the way the town clerk himself did with the knight. "oh, but he must be a good town clerk, he knows so many tricks, and can always arrange everything so well to make it go his way. the town is lucky to have such a clerk. yet, strange to say, the minute he begins to sing, he makes more mistakes than even the poor young knight did, and it is really a question whether his song or the shoemaker's pounding makes the more noise. mind, i say noise, not music; if it were a question of music the shoemaker would be far ahead. well, between them, they wake up the shoemaker's prentice, and he comes to the window of the shop, to see what is the matter. he is the same prentice whom we saw in the church, who looked at the goldsmith's daughter's maid in such a strange way, you remember. and now, as he looks across at the house opposite, he sees the goldsmith's daughter's maid again, standing at the window. she is standing there in one of her mistress's gowns, to make the town clerk think that the mistress herself is listening to his song; and he does think so, but the poor prentice knows who she is very well indeed. and since he knows who she is, of course he makes up his mind at once that the town clerk is singing to her, that he loves her, and that just as likely as not she loves him. no doubt you think he might know better; and perhaps he might, if he were not so much in love with the goldsmith's daughter's maid; but when a man is in love he is always ready to believe anything that it is particularly uncomfortable for him to believe. "so, what does the shoemaker's prentice do but jump right out of the window, fetch the good town clerk one blow under the chin, that shuts his mouth and stops his singing, and begin just as lively a fight with him as any we ever saw among our knights and giants and dragons. they make so much noise that more people wake up, and come out of their houses into the street; and, since the old town is usually a bit dull and quiet, they find this just the sort of thing they like, and they all begin fighting, too, with a jolly good will. of course, not one of them has the slightest notion of what he is fighting about; but that makes no difference to any good, honest fighter, and there is a fine breaking of heads and kicking of shins. just as everything is in the most delightful confusion possible, the knight and the goldsmith's daughter try to make their way through the crowd and escape; but the troublesome old shoemaker, who has been watching them from the very beginning, runs quickly out, pushes the girl to her own door, where her father stands to receive her, drags the knight into his shop, seizes his prentice too, and shuts his door behind him. somebody cries that the watchman is coming; the people scatter right and left, and, by the time that little flame there under the andiron has burned up and shown itself to me as the old watchman's lantern, it shines on nothing but the quiet, empty street. "but there is more light than the watchman's lantern, for our new stick is beginning to burn now. the night must be past, and, if the night is past, it is midsummer day. it is not so bright yet as it might be. let us put on still another stick, and have all the midsummer weather we can. i see a room now, not very handsome or rich, but very comfortable and cheerful, with flowers in the window and more flowers scattered about. it is the old shoemaker's shop, and the old shoemaker himself sits at the window, pretending to read, but really thinking, as usual, about the young knight who sings to please himself and not to obey other people's rules, and about the goldsmith's daughter; and he is trying, also as usual, to plan some way to make the prize go as he wants it to go. he does not quite see how it is to be done, but he has a comfortable feeling that it will all come out right; and while he is studying over it, the knight himself comes put of the room where he has slept to say good-morning. "he tells the shoemaker that he has had a beautiful dream, and the shoemaker asks him what it was, saying that it is the true business of a poet to have dreams and to tell them, so that everybody may know them. so the knight tells his dream, making it into a song as he goes along, and now and then the shoemaker stops him quietly to tell him what are the rules of the masters for making such songs as this. the knight always asks why such rules should be, and the shoemaker gives him some pretty reason for each one, and he shows that the rules are not so bad after all, if only one knows how to use them and to make the most of them. the dream was about a beautiful garden with a tree that bore fruit of gold, and as the dreamer looked at it there came a lovely maiden, who you may be sure was the goldsmith's daughter, and she embraced him and then pointed to the fruit of the tree, and when she pointed to it, it was golden fruit no longer, but stars, and the tree itself was a laurel-tree. "you may guess that the poor old masters never heard such a song as this. as the knight sings it the shoemaker writes it down on a bit of paper and tells the knight to remember the melody, and then they go away together. scarcely have they gone when the door opens softly and in a treacherous-looking sort of way that must be strange to the shoemaker's door, and in comes the town clerk. ridiculous enough he looks in his gorgeous holiday clothes, and limping along, because of the beating that the prentice gave him last night. and angry enough he is, too, with the shoemaker and the prentice and the knight and the world in general, except himself, with whom it might be reasonable for him to be angry. you can see a wicked red glow, right there in the middle of the fire, where he stands. but he has not forgotten about the prize--oh, not in the least. he is still plotting and contriving how he can best make sure of it, and so it does not take long for his sharp little eyes to find the song lying on the table, where the shoemaker left it when he went out. "now, there is one peculiar thing about these people who can see through mill-stones, and that is, that they sometimes think they are seeing through one when there is really no mill-stone there at all; just as you and i might think we were looking through a glass window when it was only an empty sash. just see, for instance, how much cleverer the town clerk is than there is any sort of need for him to be. he sees that this song is a song; well, anybody could see that. he sees that it is in the shoemaker's handwriting; anybody who knew the shoemaker's handwriting could see that. but now he takes the liberty of guessing that the shoemaker made this song himself, and that he is going to sing it himself for the prize. so he gets more angry still, for he knows that the shoemaker is the best poet in all this dear old town, where anybody can be a poet by learning the rules, and he knows that if the shoemaker tries to win the prize he will probably do so. but he hears the shoemaker coming back and he has just time to hide the song in his pocket. "now he boldly accuses the shoemaker of meaning to sing for the prize. it may seem to you that it is no affair of his whether the shoemaker means to sing or not, and it may seem so to me too, but we are not town clerks. yet the shoemaker assures him that he does not mean to sing, accuses him in turn of stealing the song, and then, to prove his own words, gives it to him. with that the town clerk is altogether delighted, for he is one of those shallow people who think that when one man has done a good thing, another man can do just as well as he by doing the same thing. he feels sure that if he sings one of the shoemaker's songs he cannot fail to win the prize, and he makes the shoemaker promise that, whatever happens, he will not claim the song as his. the shoemaker is quite ready to promise anything, because he is a wise old soul and he knows that it is not altogether what one does, but pretty largely how one does it, as a cobbler or as a town clerk or as a singer, that wins him fame and honor--and midsummer day prizes. "the town clerk hobbles away, and now who should come in but the goldsmith's daughter herself? well, no one could wonder at her lover's having pleasant dreams, for she is as pretty a prize as ever a poet sang a song for, or to, or about. with her best gown and her flowers and her jewels, and especially with herself, i don't think you could find any prize that a poet would rather have, even in a town twice as big as this. it seems there is something wrong about the shoe that the cobbler has made for her to wear to-day, and she has come to get him to mend it. i wonder, by the way, if she knows that the knight was the shoemaker's guest last night. she says that when she wants to standstill the shoe insists on walking, and when she wants to walk the shoe makes up its mind to stand still. you see yourself what a remarkable and improper way this is for a shoe to behave. it is so strange that i am inclined to doubt if it is the fault of the shoe at all, or if she really knows whether she wants to walk or stand still. you see it is not easy for us to tell just how a girl would feel at being put up for a prize. "while the cobbler is at work on the shoe, the knight too appears, and the cobbler hints that he should like to hear the rest of the dream that the young man began to tell him before. so he sings more of his song and tells how the stars among the branches of the laurel-tree formed a crown for the lovely maiden's head, how her eyes, as he looked into her face, were to him brighter than all of them, and how then she twined with her own hand, about his head, the wreath of the star-fruit of the laurel-tree, and still and always he saw her eyes brighter than the stars. "after he has sung this they all seem to understand one another better. the goldsmith's daughter's maid comes in to look for her mistress, the prentice tumbles in to look for the maid, or for something else, and away they all start for the fields outside the town, where all who will--that is, if they are masters and may--are to sing for the prize. "at last the fire is burning as it ought, and we can see all the life and light that we care to enjoy. those flames that stream up so far must mean that the sun has mounted his very highest to mark the noon of midsummer day, and the floods of merry sparks that pour up the chimney are not brighter or merrier than the throngs of people, men and women, boys and girls, that walk and run, and caper and dance, and tumble out of the city gates and into the meadows where the singing is to be. but there is more gravity all at once when the masters come. they are mighty and important persons at any time, and above all they are so to-day, when they are to decide who is to have this wonderful prize. they have a higher place to sit than the rest of the meadow, and the common people of the town, who do not pretend to be poets at all, can stand wherever they can find room. the goldsmith and his daughter have the highest seats of all, and the shoemaker is next to them, for he is supposed to know a good song when he hears it. all the other masters have good places too, including the town clerk. the knight is somewhere in the crowd of people who know nothing about poetry. [illustration: "he saw her eyes brighter than the stars."] "when everything is ready the town clerk is the first to sing his song for the prize, because he is the oldest of those who are to try, and indeed he seems to be about the only one, with the knight quite out of the race, because he did so badly in the church yesterday. so the town clerk stands forth, and after a little opening plink-plunk on his guitar, he tries to sing the knight's own song, which the shoemaker gave him, knowing well that he would get into trouble with it. and indeed, the dream that he tells about must have been a nightmare, though nobody who hears him knows what it is about, and the poor town clerk seems to know least of all. he has the song under his coat and tries to look at it now and then, but he reads it wrong and sings nonsense, and in a moment all the people are laughing at him, even those who do not know a good song when they hear it, for they seem to know a bad song very well when they hear it. "at that he gets angry, stops singing, and says that the song is not his at all but the shoemaker's, and he is to blame. here is a fine state of things, for the shoemaker is supposed, as i said before, to know more about songs than any of the other people in town, and indeed he knows more about most things than all of them put together. he says that the song is not his, but that it is good enough, if only it could be sung right, and he asks if there is anybody here who knows how to sing it. "this is the time for the young knight, and he comes forward from the crowd and says that he will try. but first, the shoemaker makes all the masters promise that if he sings the song well and if it is a good song he shall have all the honor just as if he were a master. now the young man takes his place and everybody is still. he looks straight at the goldsmith's daughter; he does not know that there are any others around him; and now he sings. and what a glorious song it is, full of hope and happiness and victory and joy! he did not sing like this to the masters in the church yesterday; not even to the shoemaker this morning did he sing like this. it is not hard to see the reason. yesterday he tried to be a master, and when he sang he was wondering how these fussy old fellows would measure his song with their rhyme-gauges and their footrules. how could anybody sing when he was thinking of that? even then it was not a bad song and the goldsmith's daughter would have known it if she had been the judge. the shoemaker, with his warm old spring-time heart, knew it as it was, but the masters were too learned ever to know anything. but now the goldsmith's daughter is the judge and the young poet sings only to her, only for her, only about her. if one smile curves her pretty lips as he sings, it is more to him than the shouts of all the people. that is the way to sing, and that is why, when he is done, all the people do shout, and do clap their hands and wave their hats, and do cry out that he must have the prize. "and he does have the prize. she crowns his head with a wreath of laurel, which he cares for only because she sets it there, and the goldsmith himself brings him the gold chain that makes him a master. this the young man would put aside, but the wise old shoemaker bids him take this too, and to honor the masters and their art; for, he says, though the holy roman empire should vanish in smoke, yet art will remain. and i think he means by this that all the kingdoms of the earth may be lost and may fall into dust and ashes, as our fire here will do when we leave it to-night, but that the happy young people, with their stirring hearts of spring, and the kindly old people, with their ripe hearts of autumn, will still sing songs and still tell stories." the blood-red sail the fire had been out for weeks. somebody who came from the country had almost filled the fireplace with a huge bouquet of wild roses. they made it look very pretty for a few days, but now the roses had all faded and fallen to pieces too, and nobody cared enough even to sweep up the dry, dead leaves and throw them out. it all looked forsaken and desolate enough. but it was no more desolate than i. we were lonely and unhappy for the same reason, the poor fireplace and i, because the little girl had gone away with her mother down to the sea and would not be back for more weeks and weeks yet. the city was so hot and dull and stupid! it made me feel dull and stupid to stay in it, except when it made me angry. yet perhaps the fireplace was even a little worse off than i, though it was not more forsaken and alone, for it had no work to do, while i had plenty. then again the fireplace, in spite of all the wonderful and beautiful things we had seen in it sometimes, had never been anywhere except just where it was now, and it knew nothing about the sea. but i had been in several other places; and even in the city, with the heat pouring down from the sky and quivering up from the pavements, one can dream of "waters, winds, and rocks," and dreams are good things to have for those who can have nothing else. and i had the dreams and something else. for the little girl and her mother had said that i might come down to the sea too, whenever i thought the city could get on without me. what surprised me was that the city got on at all, but all the time i thought more and more that i was of no use to it, and it was of no use to me, and finally i left all my work in it to take care of itself and fled away to the sea. oh, how lovely it was! that first long unbroken sight of the line where the sky and the water met made me feel, as i always feel at such times, that it was worth half the year's worry and care just to see this ocean and this heaven, to breathe this free, salt air, to smell the flowers by the roadside, and to gaze and gaze again at the two great tracts of peaceful blue. how wonderful is this calm rest of a thing that can rage and destroy when it will! the peace of a field of daisies is pretty and sweet; the peace of the ocean is like that of god. the little girl and i had a long walk along the beaches, over the rocks, and through the tall, salt grass. we hunted among the smooth, round pebbles for the smoothest and the roundest; we studied the jellyfish that was borne up the beach by the wave and then glided swiftly back again with it, as if it had forgotten something, till one wave, higher than the others, would leave it lying on the sand at our feet, where we could study it as much as we liked; we wondered if the jellyfish ever did forget anything and if he had remembered it now, so that he did not want to go back any more. we caught little crabs and made them run races, laying huge wagers on our favorites; i filled my pocket, and the little girl filled her handkerchief with the tiny, pointed shells that can be strung into such pretty necklaces. then we found a great, bright, curly ribbon of seaweed, as wide as two hands, so long that when the little girl held it by the middle she could scarcely lift the ends off the sand, and rich and beautiful in color like dark-red tortoise-shell. the little girl looped one end of it around her head and wound the rest about her body, so that she looked a true little sea princess. all day a fresh, cool breeze came up from the sea, so different from the air of the dreadful city. toward evening it grew cooler yet. the wind blew more, and little shreds and patches of fog, and then larger clouds of it, hurried along over the fields. we could see them coming, away off over the water, then they reached the shore and hid the walls and the pastures, then they wrapped us up within themselves and passed us, and we saw them flying off again as if they were trying to carry a chill from the sea as far into the land as they could. and it was chilly after the sun was quite gone--not very cold, but just cool enough so that everybody thought it would be pleasant to have a bit of fire on the hearth. and when we thought a fire would be pleasant we always had it. of course down there we never think of making a fire of anything but driftwood. it makes the most wonderful, magical fire in the world. one could dream out stories for a whole evening from the wood alone. here is a stick that must have been a part of a spar. was it blown away from the mast in a gale? now hold your breath and think if some poor sailor was blown off into the waves with it. did he catch at this very stick as he sank? did his wife wait and wait for him at home, till his shipmate came and told her? here is a little piece of smooth board, with a bit of cornice fastened to the end. it must be from the wall of a cabin. did the captain's daughter and the young mate sit under it and whisper stories to each other in the calm evenings of the voyage? there is a piece of barrel-stave. perhaps it once held rum for the sailors' grog; it burns as if it did. there again is a float from a fisherman's net. was the net torn when it broke away, and did the fisherman lose some fish? and because of that did his sweetheart perhaps lose a ribbon or a trinket? then here is a broken fragment of a lobster pot. even this might be some loss to a poor man. and not only are all these things and a hundred times as many more to be thought of, but all this wood has been soaked in the salts of the sea, and when it burns the flames are of all sorts of strange and beautiful and ghostly colors-white and red and green and blue and yellow and violet. everybody feels the charm of a driftwood fire. the little girl surely could not help feeling it, and she came and sat on the stool at my feet, leaned her head against my knee, and gazed at the flames without saying a word. but i answered her thought. "yes," i said, "we may see almost anything in that fire. look at that strip of cocoanut husk. does it not tell of green palm-groves and sunny skies and warm breezes? yet as it lies there on its curved side, with the two ends lifted from the hearth, has it not the shape of a galley, like those in which the rude old pirates of the north used to sweep over the sea, bringing terror to all who came in their way? it is all burnt and blackened, and right over it rises a tall flame of bright red. it is a black ship, with sails all of the color of blood. the strangest of ships it is, and it has the strangest of stories. "long, long years ago, in a fearful storm, the captain tried to sail this ship around the cape. the captain of another ship hailed him and asked him if he did not mean to find a harbor for the night. but he swore a terrible oath that he would sail around the cape in spite of davy jones, if it took till doomsday. at this davy jones was angry, and swore on his part that it should take till doomsday, that the captain should sail in the storm till then and should never get around the cape. do you know who davy jones is? he is the wicked spirit of the sea. when the winds and the waves rage and tear away the sails of the ships, or sink the ships or drive them upon the reefs, it is his work; when it is all smooth and calm and sparkling, as we saw it to-day, then the good fairies of the sea are there and are making everything about it calm and happy. "but the fairies never came near this ship. she was always driven about, and there was a storm wherever she went. never could her captain bring her into any port and never could he round the cape. only for years and years he sailed and sailed in the storm, and found no harbor and no rest. at first he was bold and tried to sail on and gain his port; then he was angry and raged again, and swore that he would not be beaten; then he was in despair; and at last he grew so weary with the storm and the sea and the clouds and again the wind and the sky and the ocean and yet the rain and the waves and the fog, that he longed only to die and to be at peace. "but he did not die, and no one of his crew died. the sailors all grew old, and their hair and their beards were white, and they looked like ghosts, and their ship was like the ghost of a ship; but they were not ghosts; they were real men and they sailed in a real ship. sometimes the crews of other ships saw them. sometimes they hailed the crews of the other ships and begged them to take letters to their friends at home. they said that their almanac had been blown away and they did not know how long they had been from home. they would lower a boat and row to the ship they had hailed, in a sea that would swamp any other boat in half a minute, and so they would bring their letters on deck. those who knew their story refused to take the letters, and then the sailors would nail them to the mast or lay them on the deck, with a heavy weight to keep them from blowing away, and go back to their own ship. so the letters sometimes reached their homes, for it was said to bring bad luck either to take their letters willingly or to throw them away when they were left on the ship. "but oh, what of those to whom the letters were sent? once a captain brought a packet of them to the port from which the strange ship had sailed. not one of those to whom they were directed could be found, and he opened some of them, hoping that the letters themselves might tell him some way of finding the sailors' friends. one of the sailors had written to his father that after this voyage he meant to live on the land with him and never to go to sea again. when the captain took this letter to its address, he found a man of the right name, but the man said: 'no, no, the letter is not for me; no son of mine is a sailor. none of our family ever went to sea except one, for there is an old story that my great-grandfather's brother once went away in a ship and that the ship was never heard of again. for years his old father used to dream about him and to declare that his ship still floated, and he died believing that his boy was yet alive. no, that is my name on the letter, but it is not for me' one sailor had sent a bank-note to his sister, but where her house stood there was a church, and it had been there for a hundred years. another in his letter sent a pressed tropical flower to his sweetheart. it was of the color that looked pretty in her hair, but the poor fellow forgot that pressing it would spoil it for that. the captain, despairing of delivering the letters, went into the church, and there, on one of the stones of the floor, he read the sweetheart's name. it said that she was ninety years old when she died, and the words were almost worn away by the feet that had crossed them. the captain dropped the flower upon the stone, and the next morning it was swept away. "so the sailors grew so old that it seemed they could not grow any older. then slowly they began to know what they had always refused to believe, that they had been sailing for years and for hundreds of years, and that all who ever knew them and loved them had been long, long dead. then their eyes grew more hollow, and their hair and their long beards thinner, and their faces more wrinkled and withered, and it was as if all the blood had dried out of their hearts. perhaps it was when the blood went out of their hearts that it stained the sails that dreadful red. so much for the crew, but it was different with the captain. davy jones was preparing something worse yet for him, or thought he was. he was tired of seeing him simply wander hopelessly on the ocean; he wanted to plague him more. he could do this, he thought, by giving him now and then a little hope and then shattering it and sinking it to the bottom of the sea, and dragging the man's heart to the bottom of the sea, too, with a leaden load of despair. "the captain had never grown to look old, and now, to carry out his wicked plan, davy jones promised that once in every seven years he might enter a port and go on shore, and if ever he should find a good woman who would love him and give her life for him, he might rest and never sail again; but when he failed to find such a woman he must go on board his ship again and sail through the storm and the wind and the waves for seven years more. now, davy jones would never have promised this if he had thought that there could be such a good and loving woman, but being only a wicked spirit of the sea he did not know much about good women. "and for a long time his plan did succeed and the poor captain was more wretched than ever. once in seven years he would go on shore to seek that true woman, and as often he would return to his ship and sail away. good women he found many, but none of them would love him. then his heart would fill with bitterness, for he saw them loving and giving their lives to men who, he could not but know, were less brave and patient and worthy of them than he; faithless men who forgot them, cruel men who misused them, dull men who knew not their own blessings. why should they love such men as these and never him? now, you and i, who are so wise, know, of course, that such thoughts were selfish and wicked. for what was he to any woman that she should give her life, or even an hour of it, for him? was his life or his peace better than another's, that another's should be given for his? why should any woman love him when there were so many others for her to love? "but he never thought of these things, so he would rage against all women and he would steer his ship into the most awful waves and whirlpools, hoping that she would be wrecked and sunk, but his ship was never harmed; and he would steer toward pirates, hoping that they would kill him for the chests of gold he had, but even the pirates, when they saw his blood-red sails, would cross themselves and flee from him. then the seven years would pass and he would go on shore, and now, perhaps, a woman would say that she loved him; yet when the time came she would not give her life for him, and he would throw himself down upon his face on the deck of his ship and steer nowhere, but still drive on through the wind, the black waves, the black storm, and his own blacker despair." "oh, my!" said the little girl, "that's awfully nice and ghosty, but i thought this was the best fire we ever had, and now you don't see anything in it at all." "oh, yes, i do," i replied, "i have seen the ship all the time, that black ship with its sail of red flame. i have seen it tossing upon the sea, sweeping up till the flame of its sail almost touched the clouds, and then plunging down into the black water, but always, always rushing on with the storm around it and with never any rest. and i have seen the angry clouds tearing across the sky; you can see them yourself when the smoke flies up the chimney, and then when the white flames are flickering and flashing up and then dying down, you can think that you see the lightning. yes, and you cannot help hearing the wind, whistling up there around the top of the chimney as it would whistle through the rigging of a ship. "the seven years have passed again, and now the ship has come to land, that the captain may try the little chance once more that has failed him so often. the red flame has dropped down, for the sails are furled, and the wind has stopped for a minute, too, while the ship is at anchor, and there is no need for the storm to pursue it. i see the captain walking on the shore and talking with the master of another ship that is anchored near by. the master tells him that he lives only a few miles away, and asks him if he will come and spend the night with him on shore. the captain replies that for a little rest at his house he will give the master untold treasures from his ship. he makes a sign to his men and they bring a big chest. he opens it and shows the master that it is full to the top of gold and pearls and rubies and emeralds, that flash and shine with all the colors that ever our driftwood fire can show us. [illustration: "through the black storm and his own blacker despair."] "such a price for a night's or a year's lodging the master never dreamed of. he cannot believe that such wealth is all for him, and he asks what he can ever do for the captain to earn it. 'have you not a daughter?' the captain asks. you see he knows how to go about his work without loss of time, even though he has never been very lucky in it. "'indeed i have,' the master answers, 'a good, true, lovely girl.' "'give her to me,' says the captain, 'for my wife; that is all i ask.' "the master thinks that is a good deal to ask, but not too much, when he looks at the chest again, and he says, joyfully enough: 'you shall have her, indeed; i know such a man as you will make a good son-in-law; come home with me quickly.' "so each goes on board his own ship. the master sails first to lead the way, and then the red flaming sail springs up again and the black ship is off the shore. and the storm howls again too; the waves rise, the clouds tear across the sky, and in a minute the ship has passed out of sight. "listen to the wind around the chimney. it was roaring and whistling a minute ago, but now it is not so loud. it grows fainter still, till its sound is no more a roar or a whistle, but only the lightest humming of a wind, and to me all the wind seems gone now and it is the hum of whirling spinning wheels that i hear. and what i see is a room where a dozen girls sit spinning and singing songs about their wheels and about their lovers. but one among them does not spin. she lets her wheel stand idle and only sits and looks at a picture that hangs on the wall. it is of a dark man with black hair, a black beard, and deep, piercing eyes; it is the captain whom we have seen so much already. the other girls laugh at her, say that she is in love with the picture, and ask her why she does not sing with them. she cannot sing their happy songs, she says. then they ask her to sing by herself, and she sings them a song about the captain. it tells them his story, as we know it already, and as she sings they all stop their wheels and begin to gather around her, and in spite of all their merriment it moves them at last, as such a sad story ought to move anybody. "and when she has finished they all say, 'ah, poor fellow, if only some good woman would save him from his dreadful lot! but who would do it and give up her own life?' "'i would do it,' she replies, 'and i hope that the winds may blow him here, so that i can tell him that i am ready to love him and to save him.' "the others, who are very charming girls, no doubt, but just now not quite so noble and resolute as this one, are almost frightened to hear her talk so, and when somebody says that her father is coming they all slip away and leave her to meet him alone, while they chatter among themselves about what a strange girl she is to want to give her life for a man whose black hair and piercing eyes she has never even seen except in a picture. her father is the shipmaster whom we saw, as you have guessed by this time, and he has brought the stranger captain home with him. 'this is my daughter,' he says; 'is she not all and more than all that i told you?' "then, having always found her, no doubt, a good and obedient child, he tells her at once that the captain is to stay with them, and that he expects her to be his wife. some girls do not like to be ordered to marry even the men they love; but she is so true and simple and kind that she means to love the captain with all her heart, and even her father's wish that she shall do so cannot change her. the father thinks very wisely that they will get on better without him, so he leaves them, and they do get on better at once. first they gaze for a long time into each other's eyes, those deep, piercing, sad eyes of the captain, and those true, soft, young eyes of the master's daughter. then he thinks that her face is not strange to him, as he remembers, dimly at first and then more clearly, that he has seen this face in dreams many times, when it was the face of an angel who was to save him from his long weariness. and the dreams were not far wrong, for she looks into his eyes with no thought for herself, but only: 'this is one who has suffered for many years and must suffer for many years more, unless i love him and save him.' "he asks her if she can give herself wholly to him, and she answers that, whatever his fate may be and whatever hers, she will take it all and will be all his own forever. 'if you knew what it would cost you to be true to me,' he says, 'you would shrink away from me and try to save yourself.' 'never,' she answers; 'let it cost what it will, i will be true to you till death.' "i see the shore and the sea again. this time it is near the master's house, and the two ships are moored not far apart. the red sails are furled, but on the ship there is the little pale blue flame of a ghostly watch-fire. the captain comes out of the house and strides up and down along the shore. all the gladness that he had when we saw him last is gone--no, not all, but there is doubt and perplexity with it now. the fact is that the captain has learned something now that he never knew before. all these weary years he has been longing and hoping for some good woman to love him, but he has never thought much about loving any good woman. what right had he to expect anything when he meant to give nothing? he has never thought of this before, but he thinks of it now. and the reason is that now, when he has found a woman who loves him and will gladly die for him, he finds too that he loves her as well; and if he loves her, how can he let her die for him? she is so good and unselfish that perhaps it would be a happiness to her to do it, but it is the more to his credit that he does not think of that. "that is why he paces up and down the shore and fights hard with himself. only think of it. for all these many years, while other men were living happy lives and growing old, and their children and their grand-children were growing old too, the angry winds and waves have driven him about and have given him no rest; now this woman could save him, but his love tells him that he ought to save her instead. can he save her and go back again to the rage of the storm and live in it forever, live in it till doomsday? oh, it is a hard fight, but at last he answers yes; all that he has borne so long he can bear still longer. the sea shall swallow his ship and cast it up again, the clouds shall sink down upon it, the winds shall drive it over the whole ocean, but she shall not die because of him. and it will not be with him quite as it was before; now he will remember through all the hundreds of years that are to come that she loved him once, he will think of her always, and thinking of her he will wait for doomsday. "i see him go on board his ship again; he is calling to his men; they are hoisting the sails; see the red flame spring up again. the storm comes again too. look at the black smoke that is like flying clouds, and hear the wind up there around the chimney. but now out of her father's house comes the master's daughter. she sees the ship speeding away, and in an instant she knows all the reason; she knows it because she would have done the same if she had been the captain. then she runs to a high rock that stands out into the sea; she calls through the loud wind that drowns her voice that she will come to him and will be true to him till death, and then she leaps from the rock into the rough, raging waves. but look; the waves that very instant are rough and raging no more; the sea is all still; the clouds are gone, and the wind is silent. the ship with the blood-red sails is sinking out of sight. see how the red flame dies down and the black hull is breaking to pieces. and right where it was i can see the captain and the master's daughter rising out of the sea together, with a beautiful light around them, as beautiful as all the colors of our fire can make it. they seem to float along the water, away and away, and i think the good fairies of the sea must be taking them to fairyland or to some pleasant island, where they will always live happily together." the fire blazed up brighter than ever for a minute and then dropped down again. "come here to the window," i said; "see how the fog has all cleared away and has left the moon shining down upon the sea. what a broad track of light it makes from the shore here where it is nearest us, away off to the edge of the sky! how the little flecks and sparkles of light run and dance and chase one another, and how happy and glad they seem, riding the little ripples of waves in the light of the moon! are they the sea fairies, dancing and playing together and calming the water, to bring the sailors safe back to their homes, do you think?" the love potion there was a beautiful moon and everybody said it was a pity to have it wasted. so indeed it was, and everybody asked everybody else what we should do to prevent its being wasted. a few, who had made the best possible use of more moons than the rest of us, were in favor of simply sitting on the rocks and looking at the moon and the sea under it. that was really not a bad plan at all. when you sit with somebody beside you and the rest of the party not too near, on a high rock that runs far out into the water, and look at the big white moon and the soft colors of the sky around it, and then at the stretch of water, unobstructed to the horizon, with the moon's reflection broken by the waves into a million dancing sparkles, when you turn and look toward the beach, seeing the black surges rolling swiftly up to the shore and then breaking into gleaming foam, but still plunging on, like banks of tumbling snow--then indeed you can think of wonderful things and say wonderful things if you like. but perhaps you may prefer to say nothing at all, and that is a very good and pleasant way too, for at such a time it seems really not quite right to talk unless you can talk in poetry, and that is not easy to do, no matter how much you may feel like doing it. these people who had made the best of so many moons knew all this, but some of the others thought that this moon was worthy of a greater effort and a more deep-laid plan. all the things that are usually done on moonlight nights were rejected one by one. then one of those strange persons who are always noticing things said, not at all as if he thought it had anything to do with the subject, that there was an uncommon quantity of wood scattered along the shore. then it was decided, just because nothing better could be thought of, that there should be a bonfire down on the shore, and nothing else, except the moon. so in the forenoon the daily bathing party started for the shore a little earlier than usual, and instead of spending our extra time in lying on our backs with the sun in our eyes, in the hope of getting sunburned, we spent it in gathering wood for the fire. picking up driftwood for a bonfire is not very easy work, but there were so many of us that we soon had two good piles, one for the fire at the start and one to feed it as it burned. among the wood there were two whole barrels, and one of them had had tar in it, so we were sure of a splendid fire. then we all went home, and after it was dark we all came back again. the fire was lighted; the bright-colored flames of the driftwood played together and grew and streamed up above our heads, crackled and roared and sent up torrents of black smoke mixed with golden sparks. for a little while nobody was tired of feeding it and watching it, but by and by we let a few attend to keeping it up, while the rest of us made a very little fire among the stones and let it quickly die down to a bed of red embers for toasting marshmallow drops. the man up at the village who keeps the shop with everything in it, and the post-office, must have a notion that city people live chiefly on marshmallow drops, that is, if he ever lets himself be troubled by any notions except those he keeps to sell. after that the most of the people strolled away along the shore. some said they wanted to see how the fire looked from a distance, and others, i think, were trying to get nearer to the moon. at last the little girl and i were left alone. we made cushions of folded coats and shawls, and sat leaning against a big rock, looking at the fire. "we scarcely need the fire to-night," i said; "if we try a little we can see pictures through it and all around it, as well as in it. see that big, black rock, that stands almost in the edge of the water, like an old castle, built upon the shore. then look away across the water to the island over yonder. i see a ship coming from the island toward our shore; perhaps you do not see it yet. as it gets nearer i can see a knight standing in the bow. he is a big, bold, fine-looking fellow, and he is all in black armor. the ship reaches the shore and the knight and his men go toward the castle, where the king lives, while the king and all his court come out to meet him. some people may tell you, or you may some time find out for yourself, that this king is a very wicked man, mean, cruel, and treacherous. perhaps he is, but all i can tell you is that now he does not seem so to me; on the contrary he seems as kind and generous as you could wish. "the knight in the black armor marches proudly up to him and tells him that he has been sent by his brother, the king of the island over there from which he came, to get the tribute which the king here has owed to him for years, and it must be paid, or else the king or some one of his knights must fight with him to see whether it shall be paid or not. the black knight is such a big man and looks like such a good fighter that the men about the king seem to think it would be a pretty good thing to pay the tribute and let him go home with it. not one of them says a word about wanting to fight with him, for a little while; but by and by, when all the rest have had a fair chance, a young man comes forward and asks the king if he may try. he is as big a man as the black knight himself, and as handsome and brave looking as any you ever dreamed of seeing, but he is so young that he cannot have fought many battles, and one would think that he would be afraid to set himself against the big black knight, unless one looked at his face, as i do, and saw that he could not possibly be afraid of anything." "is he braver than the one that killed the dragon?" the child asked. "why, no, i suppose not; nobody could be braver than he, because, you know, he could not learn what fear meant, and did not even know whether it was something to feel or something to eat or something to wear, but this young knight is just as brave as there is any need for anybody to be, and when he asks the king to let him try to beat the black knight, all the other knights say at once, 'by all means, let him try,' and they are really quite eager about it, and almost all of them change their minds about giving the tribute. so the king says that he may fight the battle if he will, and he puts on his armor, which is all of green, and mounts his horse. "the black knight is on his horse too, and they ride far apart and then face each other and hold their long spears before them, ready for the battle. all the people stand far off at the sides, the heralds blow their trumpets, and the two knights run together with all the speed of their horses. the points of their spears are down and they are both well aimed, but each catches the other's spear fairly in the middle of his shield, and they rush together so hard that there is a great crash, and both the knights and both the horses fall to the ground with a terrible clatter of arms. but the knights are both on their feet again in a moment, and are falling upon each other with their swords, cutting and slashing and warding and advancing and retreating, till it is hard to tell which is the black knight and which the green, or whether they are not both black and both green. first one seems to be getting a little the better of the fight and then the other. the black knight is better trained, but the green knight is so much younger and fresher that he keeps his strength better, and by and by the black knight sees that he is surely gaining a little. then he rushes upon the green knight and fights with all his strength and all his skill, and at last he gives him a wound on the shoulder. then the green knight sees that if he is ever to do anything in this fight he must do it now, and he uses all his strength and all his skill too, and he brings down such a blow with his sword on the head of the black knight that it cuts through the helmet, and the edge of the sword is broken, and with another clash and clatter of arms the black knight falls to the ground. "the black knight's men run to him and carry him to his ship, and sail away as quickly as they can toward their island. i can see them all the way, though it is a little dark out there, in spite of the moon, and i can see everything they do after they get there; i have to, you know, or it would spoil the story. they carry him to the king's castle, and the queen and her daughter, who know all about medicines, and even some things that are stronger than medicines, dress his wound and nurse him and watch him day and night. but it is all of no use; nothing can cure the black knight's wound, and so he dies; but in dressing the wound the princess has found in it a little piece of steel that was broken from the edge of the green knight's sword. "now you ought to know, before we go any farther, that this princess is probably altogether the most beautiful princess that you ever heard a story about." "oh, that's the way they always are," said the little girl; "is she beautifuller than the one that had the fire all round her?" "perhaps not, but she was not a princess, you know; she was a goddess till her father kissed her, and then she was nothing at all till her lover came and kissed her, and after that she was a woman, which was altogether the best thing she could possibly be. but when we first saw her she was a goddess, and we have a right to expect more of her than of a princess. so i say again that this is quite the most beautiful princess that you have ever heard a story about, and you must believe it, if you please, or i shall not tell you any more about her." "oh, i believe anything you say," said the child, "but where is the green knight?" "he is still here on the shore, in the king's castle, and his wound is a very bad one too, and after all the doctors have tried to cure it and have failed, one of them says that it can never be cured at all except in the country of the black knight who gave it to him. now it is not very safe for the knight to go over to that island, where so many people would probably be glad to kill him for killing the black knight, so he disguises himself as much as he can before he goes. and he goes straight to the king's castle, just as the black knight did, and the queen and the princess take care of him just as they took care of the black knight, only this time they have better luck, and in a little while he gets well. "but long before he gets well the princess, who is watching by his side, sees the sword that he brought lying near by, and having nothing better to do, she looks first at the jewels in the hilt and then slowly draws the sword out of its scabbard to let her eye run along the polished blade, with its smooth, sharp edge. and then her eye quickly comes to a break in the smooth, sharp edge, and in an instant she thinks of the splinter of a sword edge that she found in her uncle's wound. at that she quickly drops the sword. then she gets the splinter, which she has kept, and finds that it just fits the broken place in the sword, so she knows that this knight whom she is nursing and curing of his wound is the one who killed her uncle when he was fighting for her father. for a moment she thinks that she will kill him, and she lifts the sword above him, but when she sees the helpless look in his eyes she has not the heart to do it, and she lets the sword fall again. if the truth were told, i think she is already a little in love with him, and if he were any kind of knight except a green one, he would be in love with her too. "if he only would fall in love now it might save a good deal of trouble afterwards, but because of his habit of wearing green clothes and green armor, or for some other reason, he does not, and when his wound is quite cured he sails cheerfully away again, just as if it were an everyday affair to be nursed by a queen and a princess. he sails back here to our own shore now, to the king's castle, and the king and everybody else are as glad as possible to see him. he tells them all about the queen and the princess, and how beautiful she is, for it seems he did notice that, till by and by, when the knights of the court find that he is talking about her only in the way he would talk about a picture that pleased him, they whisper to the king that such a princess, who is so beautiful, and knows so much about curing wounds, would no doubt make a good queen, and they advise him to send for her and marry her. the green knight himself hears these whispers, and he says, 'yes, by all means; i will go and get her; she will be glad to come, and her father and mother will be delighted to have her.' did you ever hear of such absurd conduct from a young man dressed in green? "away he sails again, over to the island, and when he tells his errand the king and the queen are delighted indeed. the princess is not so much delighted as some young women might be at the prospect of being married to a king, but she pretends to be very well pleased and says that she will go. this time it is she who makes a sad mistake, for if she would only say, right out aloud, 'i do not want to be married to this king; i want to be married to the green knight,' again it might save a good deal of trouble afterwards. she need not say it to him, but she might say it to her mother, and if he did not love her the queen would know very well how to make him, as you shall see by and by. still, if there were no trouble there would be no story, so we might better not complain, as long as the trouble will not be ours. so the princess sails away with the knight, and the queen, before she goes, like a careful mother, gives her a little box of medicines such as she uses herself. that is to say, medicines and other things. one of the other things is a poison that kills anybody who drinks it, in just about a minute, and it looks and tastes just like wine. another is a stranger mixture yet, for when a man and a woman drink it together it makes them, from that instant, love each other as long as they live, more than they love life or honor or their country or anything or anybody else in the world. and this, too, looks and tastes just like wine. it would not be easy to find two more dangerous drinks than these together. "i see the knight and the princess now on board the ship, coming here to our shore. the knight stands near the helmsman, looking away at the sea and the sky, and thinking of nothing more sensible than how glad his king will be when he sees his bride, and how much his king will thank him for finding for him and bringing to him such a lovely princess. but the princess, who is sitting far away from him, at the other end of the ship, is thinking a great deal, and of such bitter things that she does not look at the beautiful sea and sky at all. the end of half her thoughts is that in a very little while now she will have to be the wife of a king whom she has never seen and never wants to see, because she loves the green knight, and the end of the other half of her thoughts is that she hates the knight who has brought her to this, as she could never in the world hate anybody except one whom she loved. "and this is how her thoughts come, for you know i can see thoughts just as plainly as i can see castles and ships and battles: she thinks of her uncle, whom she loved, who fought for her father and for her country, who was wounded, and whose life she could not save; she thinks of the unknown knight who came to her, wounded too, whom she nursed and did save; she thinks how she began to love him, for the most of us love better those whom we help than those who help us; she thinks of that time when she saw his sword and knew that it was he who had killed her uncle, how her anger rose against him for that and because he had dared to come to her for help, how she had been about to kill him, and how she saw that helpless look in his eyes and had not the heart to do it. it is now that her thoughts grow bitter, for she thinks how he went away again and never dreamed of loving her for healing his wound and saving his life, and then sparing his life and loving him, when she ought to hate him and kill him, because he killed her uncle. she is beautiful enough to be loved, she thinks. then comes a maddening thought of how this man whom she loved not only cared no more for her than for one of her father's dogs, but himself came back to ask her hand for another. this seems an insult to her and it makes her whole soul burn. she wishes she had killed him when she had his sword in her hands, and the madness fills her mind and burns her soul till she resolves that she will kill him now. "she not only thinks all this but says it to her maid, and she orders her to take the poison out of the box of medicines that her mother gave her, and put it into a goblet, and she says that the knight shall drink some of it and that she will drink the rest herself, and so punish her enemy and be rid of the king who is to be her husband, for she will gladly die rather than be married to him. of course this throws the poor maid into a terrible fright, for she is not a princess, and poisoning and cutting off heads, and such things seem like serious matters to her, so she would gladly save the knight and her mistress too, if she could. if you were in her place i know very well what you would do. you would give the princess some wine instead of the poison, and before she could find out what you had done, she and the knight would be on shore and would be saved. but this poor girl is so frightened that she can think of nothing to do but to give her mistress and the knight the love drink instead of the poison. "the princess calls the knight to her and frowns upon him as dreadfully as she knows how. can you think how a bunch of sweet, fresh, red and white roses would look if it should get terribly angry? well, that is about the way the princess frowns. but it is not her fault. she was not made to frown. she tells the knight that he has been very cruel and very untrue to her, and that she ought to have killed him for killing her uncle; but now she says she will forgive him, and to show that they are friends she asks him to drink this wine with her. and now you may see how brave this green knight really is, for he sees well enough that she does not forgive him at all and means to kill him; yet he takes the goblet from her hand without a tremor of his own and drinks. then she snatches the goblet from him and drinks the rest herself, and cries, 'now we shall both die; i have my revenge upon you, and you shall not marry me to your king!' "but, oh, it is the drink of love, and instead of dying the two stand and gaze at each other as if they could never gaze enough, then they stretch their arms toward each other, and so they meet, and now, whatever happens to either of them, they must always love each other as long as they live, more than they love life or honor or their country or anything or anybody else in the world. "how they ever get on shore i don't know, but i do know that when they are there they make another great mistake, for they hide from the king that they love each other, and they let him think still that the princess means to be married to him, when i am sure she can mean nothing of the kind. he is a very good sort of king, who wants everybody to be as happy as possible, and he never has seen this princess before, so what can he really care for her? if they would only tell him i am sure he would be glad to help them, instead of standing in their way, but they are just as foolish as they have both been all along, and they say nothing about it. "the princess is in the garden of the castle with her maid and they are waiting for the knight to come. the king and all his men have ridden ahunting. it is night, and a torch burns at the castle door; at last we can see something in the fire. the knight will not come till they put out the torch, for that is the signal they have arranged, and they will not put out the torch till the hunting party is far away. you see they are still so absurdly secret about it! the maid tells the princess that she might better not put out the torch at all, for a treacherous friend of the knight has watched them, suspects their love, and has told the king; that the hunting party is only a trap, and that the king will soon come back. if it were a real hunt it would be strange for the green knight himself not to go, for he is the best huntsman in the whole country. all this is quite true; for the king, kind and generous as he is, does not like to be deceived any better than anybody else, and he wants people to keep the promises that they make to him. "but the princess is in such haste to see the green knight again that she will not heed the maid's warning. she sends her up to the tower to watch, as soon as she thinks the hunters are far enough away, and then she throws the torch down upon the ground and puts it out. then the green knight comes. but they have scarcely sat down on the grassy bank to tell each other how much they love each other, and to forget all about the poor king, when the maid cries out from the tower that the huntsmen are coming back, the knight's old servant comes running with his sword drawn to his master and begs him to save himself, and in a minute they all come, the treacherous friend of the green knight leading the way, and the king next after him. the knight is standing before the princess, not thinking of himself, and the traitor, who could never match him for a moment in a fair fight, rushes upon him and wounds him, but before he can do more the king himself holds him back. the old servant raises the knight from the ground where he has fallen, drags him quickly to the shore and puts him in a ship that is there, and once more they sail away. [illustration: "as if they could never gaze enough."] "the rock there by the water is no longer the castle of the king. it is the green knight's castle now, in another country, across the sea. the old servant has brought the knight here, away from his enemies, to try to heal his wound. all his care seems useless. the poor knight has all the time grown worse. but his faithful old servant has remembered who it was that cured another wound of his before, and he has sent a ship with secret messengers to bring the princess if they can. that he may know as soon as he sees the ship whether the princess is on board, he has told the sailors to hoist white sails if they bring her with them, and black sails if they do not. he is watching now for the ship to come back. "it is the court-yard of the castle that i see, and a sweet, calm, lovely picture it is. the knight and his servant have been so long away that the place has been neglected, but it is all the prettier for that. the grass has grown long, and, as the light winds breathe upon it, it sways and sinks and rises in waves, as if it tried to be like the sea down there below it. the gray old walls and ramparts of the castle have bright green moss upon them, and from the crannies hang little plants and vines. high up, where a rough stone projects a little from the tower, a cluster of bluebells swings in the breeze and nods to the other flowers and the grass and the trees down below. are the bluebells trying to say to the grass that up there on their airy lookout they can see away over the shining water, that the ship is not yet in sight, but that they know she will come? beyond and away, clear to the edge of the sky, just as it is here before us now, lies the sea. smooth and peaceful it is, as if it were resting all through this calm day. over it all the sun is sending a flood of light, fifty times as bright as the light of this splendid moon of ours. but now and then it is dimmed a little, for far away on the sea lies a strip of shade, the shadow of a cloud; slowly it moves toward the land, as the cloud sails through the blue sky, and as it comes it is seen plainer and moves faster, till the shadow reaches the shore and rests for an instant on the castle and the court-yard, and then it passes away into the land and everything is sunny again. "yet in all this light and peaceful beauty there is something that seems like sadness. in the court-yard, on his couch, lies the knight, in the cool shade. he does not know where he is, and he does not know his servant, who stands beside him, with the tears in his faithful old eyes, but he must know that he is in a beautiful place. does everything in the place know that he is here, too, and feel sad to see him lying sick and wounded and weak and weary? the sun veils his face oftener than he does on some of our bright days, and when there is no cloud he shines with a soft, mellow light, the sea throws shades of purple over its blue and silver, and its waves break against the shore with only a soft little sound, and a sort of hushed song that is like a moan and is like a lullaby too. you can hear it down there among the pebbles around the rock. the bluebells swing softly, as if they were afraid to ring out aloud and disturb the sleeping knight. the hard walls look softer for their coverings of moss; the grass waves slowly and bends toward the wounded man, seeming to listen to his breathing. a shepherd leans over the rampart and plays a soft, sad, sleepy little air on his pipe. 'is the knight awake?' he calls to the servant. "'no,' the servant answers, 'and unless the princess comes i fear he will never wake; watch for the ship.' "'i will watch,' the shepherd says, 'and if i see the ship i will play a lively tune on my pipe to tell you of it.' "the knight begins to wake and stir; he asks where he is, and the servant tells him that he is at his own castle. he has been dreaming of the princess, and the servant says, 'i have sent the ship for her; she will come to-day.' but the knight is so weak that he cannot understand or talk of one thing very long, and he falls half asleep again and dreams of the princess, and because he has heard of a ship he dreams of other ships. he has his old wound now and is lying, just as he lies here, in that ship which bore him the first time toward the princess; now she is with him and his face grows lighter. she is looking at his sword; she raises it again, as she did so long ago, to kill him; but she sees again the helpless look in his eyes and has not the heart to do it, and she lets the sword fall again. he is on a second ship, sailing toward the princess to bring her for the king's bride; now the ship is sailing back and they are together on the deck. she holds out to him that goblet of strange wine; they both drink, they gaze into each other's eyes, the dream is too happy to last, and he awakes and cries, 'has the ship come? can you not see her yet?' "'not yet,' the servant answers; 'but she must come soon.' "the knight is in the garden of the castle--the other castle--waiting for the princess to put out the torch, that he may come to her. the torch falls upon the ground, he runs toward the place, and they are together yet again. it is another happy dream that cannot stay. 'is the ship nowhere in sight?' "before the servant can answer he hears the merry tune from the shepherd's pipe and knows that the ship is coming now, indeed. he looks away across the sea and tells his master how swiftly it flies over the water toward them, with its white sails, for the sails are white and the princess is on board. the time seems long to the knight and his servant, yet it is really short, for the wind is fair. the ship comes nearer and nearer, it passes the dangerous reef, it is so near that the servant can see the faces of the princess and the helmsman and the sailors. now it is at the very shore and the princess is at the gate. ah, it was not medicines that the knight needed. with the very knowledge that the princess is there, he raises himself from his couch and walks toward the gate. then his little strength fails again and he would fall, but the princess herself catches him in her arms and holds him. this time it is no dream. "she leads him back to the couch, he sinks upon it, and she bends over him. but suddenly the shepherd runs to the rampart and cries that another ship is coming, the king's ship. are the king's men coming then to carry back the princess, perhaps to kill the knight? the servant calls the men of the castle and they try to barricade and guard the gate. but they are too late; the king's men and the king himself break through the barriers and are in the courtyard. the very first of them is the knight's treacherous friend; the old servant instantly cuts him down with his sword, and there is one good stroke at least. then the king calls to all to hold their hands and to strike no more; he has come only to give the princess to the knight. he has heard of the love drink, and knows at last that they were not to blame for what they did, and that they never meant to be false to him. "but still the knight lies there on his couch and the princess kneels by his side and bends over him, and neither of them speaks or moves." "and will the knight get well again?" the little girl asked. "let us not try to find out any more now," i said. "the knight and the princess are both here, and i know that they are happier together than they have ever been before. that is enough, is it not?" all at once there were voices behind us, three voices at least. "hello, there! who's attending to the fire? you're letting it all go out, and there's plenty of wood left." "what are you two doing here all alone? don't you know you'll catch your death o' cold sitting here so long?" "are there any marshmallows left?" "no," said the little girl, answering the last question, "we don't care about marshmallows any way," and i really believe just then she thought she did not care about them, though usually she likes them almost as well as anybody. the minstrel knight the little girl stayed at the seashore till the middle of the autumn. that is the way sensible people do, when they can, and i have worked much in vain if i have not shown by this time that this little girl is a sensible little person. the spring is very lovely, to be sure, and of course we all love it. i should be the last one to say anything against it. but to me the most beautiful time of the whole beautiful year is the early autumn. the heat and the work and the worry of the year are over, and the clear, rich, golden good of it all is left to be enjoyed. the flowers are not pink and pale blue any more; they are of deep, splendid yellow and red and purple. the golden-rod and the asters are lords of flowers, and the cardinal is their high-priest, while if you will have something that is delicate and modest, there is the fringed gentian, and that shows, too, how healthy and brave and free it is by keeping no company with dark shadows, and opening only when the bright sun shines full upon it. but of the things that are best in the autumn, the best above all others is the sea. it has been lying quiet and restful all summer, and now it awakes and begins to move and to show the strength and the freedom of its glorious life. as you stand upon the shore and look at it, it draws itself away from you and away from the land as if it were done with it forever; then it pauses, and in a moment begins to come back. up and up the beach it marches with a majestic will that nothing else in the world is like; as it comes it lifts itself higher and higher; then the wave leaps into the air and its crest is turned to emerald as the sunlight strikes through it for the pause of another instant, there is a roll, a mad plunge, the spray dashes high above your head, the foam floats and flies up the beach to your very feet, the hollow rumble of the water sounds fainter and farther along the sands, and the ocean draws itself back away from you and away from the land. its colors are different, too. before it had all sorts of fanciful hues and shades, pale green and blue, silver, violet, almost rose sometimes, the colors of summer dreams. now the dreaming time is over. the green of the wave-crests is luminous, the white and the blue have the gleam of polished steel, the violet and the rose are turned to deep, rich purple. the sea is not cold, harsh, and cruel yet, but it is free, bold, and majestic. all this i knew because i remembered it, not because i saw it, for i had been back in the city a long time. the fire was lighted again and i had sat before it often, thinking of the driftwood fire away down there, with the little girl sitting before it, seeing pictures in it for herself, perhaps, and listening to the low sound of the sea, coming up through the still evening air. but one night she came and sat with me again, and once more we both looked into the same fire. "i believe i can almost see pictures myself now," she said. "can you? and what do you see in the fire now?" "oh, i can see a prince and a princess--and a knight--and a lovely goddess, like the one that had the apples--and a cave, like the one where the dragon lived--" "and don't you see the dragon himself? where is he?" "no, there isn't any dragon; that would be too much like the other story." "but you must not mind that. there are only a few good stories altogether, and the most we can do, as i told you once before, is to tell them over and over again in different ways." "but i don't want any dragon in this one. now you tell me what they all do, the goddess and the knight, and the prince and the princess, and what the cave is for." "very well, i will try. first i see the knight. he is riding along upon his horse, through the forests, over the hills and across the valleys. it is a lovely day of summer. when he comes to the top of a hill, he sees the country lying before him and all around him, deep green with woods and pastures and paler green where the grain is ripening. here and there, too, it is sprinkled with tiny dots of red, where the poppies grow thick in a field, and there are spots that are almost blue with cornflowers. a silver ribbon of a river winds through it, and the sight of it is lost among the blue mountains. as he rides down into a valley the branches wave above him and break the sunshine that falls upon the road and the grass beside it. the flecks of light and the patches of shade tremble and waver and dart across and across the way, as if they were weaving a robe for the earth, of gold and brown and green. the air is full of the smell of the flowers, a brook makes a soft, cheery little noise, and from the pastures comes the sleepy sound of sheep-bells. "the knight is riding toward the castle of the prince. he is a minstrel, as well as a knight, and at the castle he will meet other minstrels who are his friends, and they are all to sing for a prize which the prince has offered. there is as much happiness in the heart of the knight as in everything around him, for he loves the prince's daughter, and he knows that she loves him. besides this she is to give the prize to the one who wins it, and with his mind full of gladness and thoughts of her, he feels sure that he can win. "as he rides thus the evening falls. the moon comes up, and from the hills the country stretches darkly away all around, with the silver ribbon of the river still winding through it. the shade is so deep in the valleys that he has to ride through them slowly. the robe of the earth now is all of deep gray and silver. the smell of the flowers is stronger and sweeter than before, the brooks sound louder, and the sheep bells are silent. the knight's thoughts just now are wandering away from the princess, and he is thinking of the fame that he hopes to win as a minstrel, how he will gain this prize and many other prizes, how kings will send for him to come to their courts, that they may hear his songs, how he will grow great and rich, and how his name will live on after he is dead. "as he thinks of these things, suddenly he sees a strange form before him in the valley. it is like a woman, wonderfully beautiful, marvellously, magically beautiful. something more than the moonlight seems to rest upon her and to show him her face with its deep eyes and soft cheeks, her movements, so graceful and gentle that it seems as if she did not move herself at all, but were just stirred and swayed by the little breezes. a rosy light shines from her face and around her dark hair. all about her are nymphs, or fairies, dancing and gliding and scattering roses for her to walk upon. it seems really quite needless to do that, for she appears rather to float and move in the air and to rest on the flower-perfumed wind than to stand or walk upon the ground. now a knight who was also a minstrel could not possibly make any mistake about such a person as this, and he knows at once that she is the very goddess of love and beauty." "is she the one that had the apples?" the little girl asked. "no, not quite the same. she is one something like her, yet a good deal different." "is she venus then?" "yes, you have guessed just right, and so at last somebody in our story has a name. but she is not altogether like the venus that you have heard about so many times before. some people used to believe that after the old gods whom you know so well had lost their rule on mount olympus, they went to live inside the mountains and under the ground, and that they were not kind to men any more, but always did harm, whenever they were able to do anything. now, for myself, i don't quite see how this could be, because you know we have felt so sure that we saw some of them up in the sky sometimes. yet now that i see venus here, it does seem to me as if there were something in the story after all, and i believe it would be better for the knight if he had never seen her at all. if he were thinking of the princess at the time i do not believe he would look twice at venus. no, i am sure he would not even see her once. "but since he is not thinking of the princess, but only of what a great man he would be if he could make his songs seem as wonderful to everybody else as they seem to himself, it is not surprising that he is delighted by such a vision, and it is not surprising, either, when the goddess and her nymphs beckon to him and then glide away as if they wanted him to follow them, that he gets off his horse and does follow them. they move along so fast that he cannot keep up with them, and soon he cannot even see them, but it is still easy for him to follow. for everywhere they go the strangest flowers spring up under their feet and make a pathway to lead him. they are huge, bright flowers, cupshaped and star-shaped and sun-shaped. flowers of such wonderful form and size, and such gorgeous colors the knight never saw before. some of them seem to be made of hammered gold, and some of silver; some have stamens of precious stones, and some look like clear crystal, bloodred, deep purple, or orange, as if they were cut from solid gems; some of them have petals like flames, that shimmer and glow and are reflected by the others; the leaves are all glistening emerald and they are sprinkled with pearls like drops of evening dew. the stems twine about like serpents, and they seem to the knight to move and turn about to show him all their magic splendor. some of them, with coiling tendrils, like gold wire, sway toward him as if they would catch him and hold him, others dance and wave about on their stems and twinkle as the other stars do, up above the trees, as if they were laughing and mocking at him, and still others bow and bend away from him and beckon him on. the whole of the fire is scarcely enough to show me this strange garden. a pale, ghostly light rises from all the flowers and hovers over the path. the knight would stop to pick some of them, but those before him seem always more beautiful than those close at hand, and, besides, he is eager to follow the goddess. so on he hurries till he sees before him a way straight into the side of the mountain and within a great glare of light. if he would only think of the princess now, for one instant! but he goes straight on into the mountain, and the way shuts behind him, and outside the magic flowers are gone, and there is nothing but the soft grass, the whispering trees, the dark sky, with the stars, and the calm night. [illustration: "the strangest flowers spring up under their feet."] "do you see how very wrong it is for the knight to go away after the goddess into the mountain? when people let themselves be led away like that by fairies and goddesses it is usually a long time before they get back. a knight like this one, who is a minstrel as well, ought to know all about such things, and i dare say he does. he must have heard of men who went to such places and saw beautiful and wonderful sights, and feasted and danced till they thought that they had been away from their homes for a day, or a week, and then, when they went back to them, found that they had really been gone for years, perhaps for hundreds of years, and that all their friends were dead. he ought to think of his friends, the other knights and minstrels, who will be grieved when they meet and he is not with them. for his own sake he ought to know better than to run into strange and dangerous places just because they look pleasant. more than all, he ought to think of the princess. if he does not care for the prize of his song any more for itself he should care for her who is to give it. he should remember how much she loves him, little as he deserves it. she will not forget him as he does her. when she waits and waits for him and he does not come she will believe that he is dead, and she will cry her pretty eyes out. she will never think that he has gone away from her to visit a goddess of love and beauty who lives in a cave. "now i see the cave of the goddess, deep in the mountain. it seems dim and misty and confused at first, but gradually i can see it clearer. all around the sides and the top are great pendants of gems, like icicles, of all sorts of colors, as if the precious stones had once been liquid and had run down into the cave and then had frozen into crystal. here and there are diamonds and rubies and opals and emeralds as big as your head, set in the roof, and they have some magical way of shining all by themselves and light up the whole cave like lamps. the ground is covered with flowers like those that made the path to lead the knight to the place. a stream of water runs from the cave and is fed by fountains in the middle. these fountains are wonderful affairs too. sometimes they throw jets of liquid silver almost to the roof; then they fall down and spread out wide in sheets, of the color and the brightness of melted gold; again the water rises in little streams that twine and weave themselves together like basket-work, and all of deep, shining crimson; then the fountains take other fantastic forms and other colors, purple or green or orange, but always glowing with light, and so they pass to silver and to gold again. "this is the cave of venus. it is filled with the nymphs who attend her, and they are singing choruses in her praise, and dancing wonderful, mazy, mad, delirious dances. they whirl about and around alone, in couples, in lines, in circles, and in crowds, their arms waving and their hair streaming in the air. sometimes while they dance every one is plainly to be seen, and again their garments surround them like clouds, and they are all one waving, streaming, fluttering mass. these mists of light robes then are like the fountains, for now they are shining white, now red or yellow or green or purple, now all the colors together, mixed and blended like broken and tangled rainbows. "if you could see all that i see here in the fire i think you would be delighted with it, for a little while. but how do you suppose the minstrel knight likes it? he sits beside the goddess and looks at it wearily. he has seen them all so much that walls of gems and streams of gold and whirling rainbows do not please him any more. he has been here in the cave for a whole year. he sees now how wrong it was for him to come, and he is so tired of it all that he is beginning to feel that he would rather die than be among these mad pleasures any longer. but he cannot do that because nobody ever dies here. when he sees these walls of cold crystal, gleaming with the colored light from the great gems, he thinks of the broad, lovely country that he once saw, that stretched away and ended only at the blue mountains, and of the silver river that never changed to blood, or to green fire, with the clear sunlight brightening them all. "if he tries to rest his eyes upon the great, glowing, magic flowers that cover the ground, they only make him think of the red poppies that shone out from the fields of ripening grain, and of the blue of the corn-flowers, and then he tries to think of the perfume from the flowers that filled the air after it grew still at evening. there are odors here, too, but they are so heavy and sweet that after a time it is almost a pain to smell them. he hears the rush and the dash of the fountains, and he longs for the low, merry little sound of the brook that ran along beside his road. the air here is full of music, the rich harmonies of many instruments and the voices of the nymphs who sing their choruses to venus, but his ears are tired of the sounds, and he wishes that he might hear only the sleepy tinkle of the sheep-bells, chiming with the voice of the brook. but more than everything else he thinks of the princess. he remembers now how kind and true she was, and how much truer he ought to have been in return than he really was. he wonders if she still remembers him, if she thinks him dead, and then his heart stops, as he wonders if she herself is dead. oh, it is a fine time now to think of these things! if he had only remembered the princess once before, instead of thinking what a great minstrel he was, he would never have followed venus into her cave. now he can only think of that great wrong he did and long for the fresh fields and woods, for the air, the sunlight--and the princess. "venus, sitting by his side, sees that he is troubled and asks him why. he tells her how much he wishes that he might see again the world he used to know, and live the life he used to live, and he begs her to let him go. she is angry at first. has she not brought him to live here among such delights as no man before ever knew, and is he tired of them now, and does he want to escape from them? he can only say that he will never forget her or the beautiful things he has seen here, but he can never be happy here again, and if she will only let him he must go. at last she tells him that he may go. 'but you will not be happy,' she says; 'your old friends will scorn you when they know where you have been. they will never forgive you for coming here. you will find no rest, no help, no hope. then, when you learn that you can have peace nowhere else, come back to me and stay with me forever.' "all at once the cave, with everything in it, is gone. the knight knows how or where it went no more than i. as for him, he does not know that he has moved from his place, and as for me, the fire is burning just as it did before. yet now i see him lying on the soft grass of a beautiful valley. above him are the sky and the nodding branches of the trees; around are the hills. he sees and he smells the flowers that were lost to him so long. the low tinkle of the sheep-bells comes again drowsily to his ears. a little way up the hill a shepherd is playing softly on his pipe. he picks a flower and smells it, to be sure that it is all real. then the tears come to his eyes as he thinks of all the beauty and sweetness of the life that he lost and has found again. "but now a band of pious pilgrims passes, on the way to rome. they are going to ask the pope to forgive their sins. the sight of them brings a new thought to the knight. it is the thought of his own sin. now that he sees again the sweet loveliness of the world, he feels at last fully how wicked it was for him to leave it and all his own duties and his friends in it. he is in despair when he thinks that he is no longer worthy of the princess, if indeed he ever were. he dares not see her again; he dares not ask his friends to be his friends longer; he throws himself upon the ground and feels that he has no more a place in this happy world. "at this very moment comes a company of huntsmen riding past. their leader is the prince himself and the rest are the friends of the minstrel knight, the very ones with whom he should have sung for the prize a year ago. very glad they are to find him, after thinking him dead so long, and they insist that he must come with them and be one of them again. he will not go with them. he feels that he is not like them any more. his wrong has been so great that he dares not be with brave, good men. they urge him, but it is useless. but there is one among them, a knight and a minstrel too, who also loves the princess. she does not love him, but his own love is so deep and true that he will do anything to make her happy. when he finds that nothing else can move the stubborn knight he tells him that the princess still loves him, that she has grieved for him all the time that he has been lost, and that he must come back to them for her sake. he is touched at last. he had not dared to ask of her, and now he knows that he may see her again, that she could never forget like him, that she will love him and forgive him. he cannot resist. he will go. "they are all in the hall of the prince's castle now. they are to sing again for a prize and again the princess is to give it. the prince tells them that they must all sing of love. the knight who loves the princess hopelessly begins. he sings of his own love, how it is fixed upon one who does not love him in return, and how still his love for her is all the joy he has, and he would gladly lose the last blood of his heart for her. they all cry out that he has sung nobly, except the knight from the cave of venus. he thinks this is a very weak, silly kind of love; he sings in a very different way, and he tells them that if they want to know what love really is they must go and learn of the goddess of love. "they are all filled with horror. they know now where he has been. he has left the princess for venus; he has learned to scorn their knightly love; worse than all, it seems to them, he, a christian man, has passed a whole year in the home of a heathen goddess. they declare that he has betrayed them in daring to come among them like an honest knight. they forget that he refused to come, that he told them he was unworthy of them and was too wicked to be one of them, and they almost compelled him. so their swords are out to kill him. but the princess, whom he has injured a thousand times as much as all of them put together, commands them to spare him. he may yet be forgiven, she says, and it is not for them to judge. she will pray for him as long as she lives, and god may pardon him. at her word they draw back and put up their swords, yet they think his guilt too great ever to be forgiven. there can be but one only hope for him, says the prince; some of the pilgrims on their way to rome are still in the valley; he must go with them and pray for pardon from the pope. "never another pilgrim toiled along the road to rome feeling such a heavy weight of sin to be forgiven as the minstrel knight. he does not talk with the others or lighten the way as they do with holy songs. he knows not how to suffer enough for his guilt, and to seek out punishments for himself is his only content. some of the pilgrims walk where the grass is soft and cool; he chooses the paths that are full of stones and thorns. they drink at the springs of cold water; he thirsts more than they, but he turns away and lets the noon sun blaze down upon his bare head. they find shelter and rest for the night; he lies upon the snow of the mountain and sleeps there, if he sleeps at all. when he comes near to italy he fears that the sight of that lovely land will be pleasing to his eyes, and so he has himself led blindfold on to rome. "the pope sits upon his throne, and before him come all who seek for pardon. he forgives them, blesses them, and sends them away. at last comes the minstrel knight. he throws himself on the stones before the feet of the pope and tells the story of all the wrong that he has done. the pope listens and is filled with horror, as the prince and the knights were before, and there is no princess here to say one word of love or mercy. 'there is no hope for you,' he answers, 'no pardon, no hope. your guilt is too deep and black. as soon shall this naked staff i hold bear flowers and leaves as one like you find forgiveness or mercy.' "and so the minstrel knight shrinks away. he knows not where to turn. all places are alike to him, alike full of darkness and despair. the pilgrims are returning home. he follows them, as a dog that had been struck and wounded might crawl after men who had been his friends. "i see the beautiful valley again. the princess is kneeling before a little cross. she is praying that the knight whom she loves may be forgiven. back in the rising shadows of the evening stands the knight who loves her hopelessly, watching her as she prays. the pilgrims are coming from rome. they are singing songs of mercy and peace. the princess looks eagerly among them. the minstrel knight is not there. 'he will never come back,' she sighs, and she turns away and slowly climbs the hill toward her father's castle, where she may pray for him again. "and now a dark figure comes slowly, fearfully on, by the way that the pilgrims have passed. he sees his friend, standing where he stood while the princess prayed. he calls to him to stand back; he is too guilty for any good man to touch or come near him. he tells him how he went to rome and what the pope said. then he tells the awful thought that is now in his mind. the goddess of love and beauty bade him when all hope should be lost to come to her again and stay with her forever. he is seeking her mountain now. he calls to her to guide him. now at the very back of the fire i see a rising red glow. the goddess is there and she calls to him to hasten to her. 'you are mad,' cries his friend; 'stay; be brave; bear it all, and you may yet be forgiven.' "suddenly there comes to the knight another thought--the best thought he has ever had--the princess. instantly the red glow is gone and the goddess is hidden from him forever. his friend knows his thought. 'she is up there,' he says, 'praying for you still.' "at last the knight is humbled, overcome, subdued. he falls upon his face and prays for pardon, as the princess is praying for him up there in the castle. and now all at once there is a glad shout, a song of happiness and peace. another band of pilgrims has come from rome. they are bringing the staff of the pope, and all in a night it has borne flowers and leaves. the smell of lilies fills the air. they are carrying the staff through the land to tell the knight and all other men like him, if, indeed, there are others, that they are forgiven. the minstrel knight has found pardon and he may rest." "and what became of the princess?" the little girl asked. "the fire is too low," i said; "i cannot see any more. what do you think became of her?" "i don't know," she answered, "but i think she must be very happy that the knight is forgiven." "i think they are both very happy," i said. the king of the grail it was the last evening of the year. in honor of the occasion the little girl was allowed to sit up rather later than usual--not till midnight, of course, so that she could see how different the whole world would look after the clock had struck, but long enough to make her feel that she was doing something very pleasant, because something that it was not good for her to do very often. our friends down by the sea had sent us a strange christmas present, but they knew what we wanted. it was a big box of driftwood, almost a wagon-load. we resolved that it should not be used except on great occasions, and of course new year's eve was a great occasion. here in the city we could not listen in the evening stillness and catch the low murmur of the restless water, but the fire burned with the same strange and lovely colors as if it had been kindled on the beach. tonight it was not likely that we should see any storms or any ghostly ships, yet the little girl knew well enough that there were wonderful things to be seen in that fire. "what can you see in it?" i asked her. "i don't want to see things myself," she said. "i want you to see them. just think; this is the last time we can have any stories about the fire this year." "but the new year will begin to-morrow," i said, "and it will be just as good as the old one, will it not?" "oh, yes, i suppose so," she said, "but this has been such a nice year that i don't like to have it go. but now tell me what is in the fire." "there are so many strange things in it that i scarcely know how to begin to tell you about them. i am very much afraid that i shall not make you understand all that i see in the fire to-night, and i am the more afraid of it because i am not at all sure that i can quite understand it all myself. but first the reddest and brightest spot in the whole fire begins to grow redder and brighter and to take a new shape. it is the shape of a goblet. it is of clear crystal and its sharp angles and edges sparkle with many colors, but within it that strange, deep red glows and shines and grows brighter still, till it beats and throbs as if it were alive. and all around it, too, there is a circle of soft rays of light, like a halo. "perhaps you know what this is, but i am afraid you don't do you remember what i told you once about the holy grail? this is the holy grail--the cup from which the saviour drank at the last supper, and in which afterwards his blood was caught as he hung upon the cross. it is that blood in the cup which is still alive and glows and beats and throbs. this holy grail, as i told you before, is guarded by a band of knights in a beautiful temple, which nobody can find except those whom the grail itself has chosen and allowed to come. i can see the temple now. it has a high, light, graceful dome, which rests on tall pillars of marble that is like snow. the whole temple may be of something like snow, too, for it melts away so that i cannot see it and comes again, then half of it is gone and then the other half, so that i scarcely know whether i see it at all. perhaps it is the smoke of the fire that makes it seem so. but i can see that the dome is all covered with figures and traceries of gold, which bloom out bright like flowers whenever the whole dome looks plainest, and then fade again. but when the smoke comes across the whole picture and darkens it for a moment, then the lines upon the dome show through it like fire, and they change and waver, and then the whole temple is gone again. "you remember something about the grail's knights. the knight of the swan was one of them. they live here in the temple, except when they are sent away on some journey, to help some one who is in trouble, to do some act of justice, to fight for the right, or to punish the wrong. and whether they stay here or go as far away as they can, they never need any food except what the grail gives them. the grail chooses them at first, feeds them afterwards, and gives them their commands, for sometimes, in that halo that shines around it, there appear letters and words to tell the knights what they should know. and once a year, on good friday, a white dove flies into the temple and rests upon the holy grail, to give it more of these powers for the coming year. "i see now a strange-looking man with a dark face and deep, bright eyes which seem never to rest, but always to look and search for something that they never find. yet now and then a cruel light comes into them and makes them blaze for an instant, and his hard lips smile a little, and then his face grows stern and gloomy again. he is a wicked magician. once he wanted to join the knights of the grail. he could even be their king, he thought. but the grail chose its own knights and it did not choose him. then he swore that he would be avenged upon the grail knights; he would tempt them away from the temple, he would overthrow them, he would find a way to steal the grail itself. it was for this that he learned his magic. he built an enchanted castle not far from the temple of the grail and filled it with every kind of pleasure that he could devise. then he tried to entice good knights to come to his castle, and if any knight came, if any stayed in the enchanted halls to eat or drink or dance or play, that knight was lost forever. he could go back to his old friends and his old life no more, and his use in the world was ended. "again i see a woman--a woman yet more strange than this man. you will think so when i tell you who she is. you remember the wife of the king, whose daughter danced before the king and pleased him so much that he promised her any gift she should ask; how the queen told her to ask for the head of the great prophet, who was in prison, and how the head was cut off and brought to her. this woman whom i see was that queen. the old stories say that she saw the saviour as he passed, bearing his cross upon his back, and that she laughed at him. he only looked at her sorrowfully and spoke no word. but always from that time she was forced to wander through the world, and laugh at everything that was true and good. can you think of anything more horrible? after a long, weary time she wished that she might die, but still through all lands she journeyed, laughing at everything she saw that was sweet and pure and holy. the wish to die grew and grew till it was her only longing. but she could not die. for hundreds of years she has lived unchanged. some say that she can never die or grow old till the best knight of all the world shall come and pardon her great sins. others say that she must live till one comes whom she cannot tempt away by her beauty from the path he follows. "for she is very beautiful. it is not the beauty of a common woman that she has, but something far beyond it. she can be tender, sweet, gentle, enticing, and then in an instant proud, defiant, radiant. perhaps the wicked magician has given her some of this wonderful beauty by his magic, for she is in his power and helps him to entrap knights into his castle, where they lose all hope of returning to the life of the world and of doing good in it. she does not wish to do this, but the magician compels her. so always she must tempt and entice at his command the knights who come near his castle, and always she must long for one to come whom she cannot tempt, for then she will be free. the knights of the grail are not the men for whom she waits. to tempt them is only too easy. even their king cannot resist her. "i see the king of the grail now. he holds a spear in his hand that is almost as great and wonderful a thing as the grail itself. from the point of the spear flows a little stream of blood. it trickles down the shaft of the spear to the king's hand that holds it, but the blood does not stain the hand; it flows over it and leaves it clean and white. it is the very spear with which the roman soldier wounded the side of the saviour, and ever since that time the blood has run from its point. but the king has wandered too far away from the temple of the grail and too near the magician's enchanted castle. the magician sees him and sends the woman to try to bring him within his power. such wonderful beauty as hers the king has never seen before. for one instant in looking at her he forgets to guard the spear; he lets it go from his hand, the magician seizes it and strikes the king with it in the side. he is borne back to the temple with just such a wound as that other which this same spear made so many years ago. and the magician has the spear. as he holds it the blood flows from its point and trickles down the shaft, and as it flows over his hand it stains it a deep, ugly red. he carries the spear to his castle. he has stolen this, and now he will wait on and watch for a chance to steal the grail. "and the wound in the king's side will not heal. all that can be done with medicines and balsams and ointments is done, but they are of no use. many years pass--yes, just while we are looking into the fire--and still the wound is the same, still it burns and stings, and still it bleeds again whenever the king uncovers the grail so that it may feed the knights who are in the temple and help those who are far away. some wounds, some sicknesses, the grail itself can cure, but it cannot cure this, or it will not. yet once, while the king knelt before it, he saw words that shone like fire in the halo around it, and they said: 'wait for the simple fool, taught by pity, for him i have chosen.' perhaps you do not see quite what that means. well, i don't think the king quite knows what it means either, but he knows that he has something to wait for, and that is better than knowing nothing at all about it. that was years ago, and still the wound burns and stings, and still it bleeds when the king uncovers the grail. "when we look into the fire we can go back through the years just as well as forward. so now, going back for a little while and far away from the temple of the grail, i see something very different from what we have seen before. i see a boy who lives with his mother in a forest. his father was a knight and was killed in battle. his mother feared that when he grew up he would want to be a knight too, and would be killed in the same way, so she brought him here to the forest and kept him away from the great world where men live and work and fight, and never let him know anything about knights or battles or tournaments or the courts of kings. she lets him learn to shoot with a bow as he grows up, and to hunt the beasts of the woods. he can hit any bird that flies with his arrows, and he runs so fast that he can catch the deer by the horns. "yet he does not know that men wear armor and fight with spears and swords, and he has never heard of an army or a battle. perhaps he may be almost enough of a simple fool about these things to help the king of the grail." "i don't think he was a fool at all," said the little girl, "if his mother wouldn't let him hear anything about such things." "i think," i answered, "that the letters around the grail could not have meant quite what we mean by a fool. the grail would not choose any such person, i am sure. they must have meant some one who was good and simple and had not learned the ways of the world. and then you know the letters said, 'taught by pity,' so i suppose he is to be a fool at all only till he is 'taught by pity.' well, the mother might have known that she could not keep her boy in this ignorance forever, and so one day he meets three knights riding through the forest. he is filled with wonder and delight at their polished armor, their waving plumes, and their long spears, with their glittering points. he asks them who they are and what all these wonderful things are for. they tell him that they are knights, and everything else that he wants to know, and then he runs home to his mother and tells her that he wants to go away and see the world and be a knight too. "she tries to tell him that knights are wicked men, but he will not believe it, and he begs her to let him go. she sees that she cannot keep him, that all her care has been lost, and at last she says that he may go. he has no armor, but perhaps he may get that some time. he takes his bow and his arrows and wanders away through the forest, and his mother looks after him till she can see no more through her tears. "we are back near the temple of the grail now. i see a beautiful, deep forest. an old knight and two young squires are lying on a green bank and are just awaking at the sound of trumpets from the temple. they are scarcely awake when a strange creature is seen coming toward them. it is a woman upon a galloping horse. and the horse is strange enough too. its mane is so long that it drags upon the ground, and then the wind catches it and blows it about till the horse looks like a hurrying black cloud, and its eyes show through the cloud like flashes of lightning. the woman's eyes sometimes are deep and full of fire, and sometimes they look dull and cold, almost dead. she is not beautiful. she has a dark face, burned as if she had travelled much under hot suns. her long black hair is in disorder and flies all about her in the wind. her dress is in disorder too, and it is fastened around the waist by a girdle of snake skin, with long ends that hang down to the ground. everything about her looks wild and terrible. she is a woman whom you would not care to meet on a lonely road after dark and on a horse like this. yet if you looked at her face more closely you would not find anything cruel in it, but you would find a great deal of sorrow and suffering. "you can never guess who this woman is, so i must tell you. she is the very same who helps the wicked magician to entice knights into his castle. she looks very different now, to be sure, but it is a strange life that she leads altogether. it is only when she is asleep that the magician has power over her. when she is awake she tries to atone a little for her great sins by serving the holy grail. she rides all over the world and brings news of battles or messages from knights of the grail who are in distant countries, or she stays here and finds work to do at home. but always, because of her curse, she laughs, even at the good that she herself tries to do. and at last the longing for rest comes upon her again till she cannot resist it. she sinks to sleep, and then the magician calls her. she is forced to obey him, he gives her back that wonderful beauty, and she helps him in his wicked work. "now she has been all the way to arabia to find a balsam for the king's wound. she gives it to the old knight, in a little flask, and then throws herself upon the ground to rest. at the same time there comes a train of knights, bearing the king of the grail in a litter toward the lake for his morning bath. he thanks the woman for bringing the balsam, but she only laughs at what she has done and at his thanks. it will do him no good, she says. alas, he knows too well that it will do him none. nobody can do him good but the simple fool, taught by pity. and so they carry him on to his bath. "the old knight stays behind. 'why should we try all these things,' he thinks again, 'when none can help him but the simple fool?' at this instant a swan flies up from the lake and then suddenly flutters and falls upon the ground. there is an arrow through its heart. everybody who sees it cries out in horror, for it is one of the laws of this place that no animal shall be harmed. what man cruel enough to kill this beautiful, harmless swan can have found his way here, where none can come who is not chosen by the grail? in a moment some squires run in, bringing the murderer of the swan. he is scarcely a man at all, hardly more than a boy, and he carries a bow and arrow. it is the same boy whom we saw living in the woods with his mother. the old knight looks at him sorrowfully. 'did you kill this poor bird?' he asks. "'yes, to be sure,' says the young man,' i can hit anything.' "the old knight talks with him kindly and tells him how wrong it is to kill harmless things. his mother never taught him that. she only tried to keep him from knowing anything about knights. the old man makes him see how cruel he has been, and at last the boy throws away his arrows and breaks his bow. now the knight asks him who he is, whence he comes, and who was his father, but he can answer nothing. indeed, he knows little enough of these things, for his mother never told him. his mother and the life that he led with her in the forest are all that he can remember to tell the old knight. even of his mother and of his old life the strange woman who lies upon the grass can tell more than he, for she has seen him and his mother often, though they did not see her, and she laughs at the poor woman who thought she could keep her son from ever knowing anything of arms and battles. she tells him, too, that his mother is dead; she saw her die as she passed, because he had left her. the boy is moved at last, frightened, bewildered. he never knew anybody but his mother; she was his only friend; she taught him all he ever learned; and she is dead because of him. what shall he do now? "the king and his train come back again from the lake and pass on toward the temple. the woman feels the terrible weariness coming upon her again. she struggles against it, but it is of no use. she sinks upon the ground behind the low bushes and sleeps. the magician can have her now if he wants her, and surely he will want her. "the old knight has been watching the boy. 'can it be,' he thinks, 'that this is the fool, taught by pity, for whom we were to wait?' that he is a fool the old man thinks is clear enough, but how could he kill the swan? he cannot have been taught very much by pity. but perhaps the time for that has not come yet, and surely he could not get here at all if the grail had not chosen him in some way. perhaps if he sees the king, so pale and sick with his wound, and knows how he has suffered with it these many years, he may be moved to pity and may learn some needful things. so the old knight leads him gently away toward the temple of the grail. "they walk through the forest and among the rocks, and as they go there comes to them a sound of chimes. it grows clearer as they go on, till they reach the temple, and then it is over their heads. they are in a grand, beautiful hall that is something like a church, but not quite. there are tall pillars and arches, and high above everything is the dome, so high that, as one looks up into it, its loftiest curves seem dim and misty and the eye loses itself in trying to see how high it is. yet all the light of the great hall streams down from there, and down from there too comes the sound of the bells. "the knights of the grail are coming into the hall and sitting at two tables, long and curved, so that they make a great circle just under the dome. on the tables before them are cups, but nothing else. as the knights come they sing in chorus, and voices up in the dome and others still higher answer their song, while from the height far above them all still rings the soft voice of the chimes. and now the king of the grail is borne in upon his couch and is brought to the highest place in the hall. before him something is carried covered with purple cloth. it is the holy grail itself, and the time has come when it must be uncovered, that it may feed and strengthen its knights. "but the king fears. it is when the grail is uncovered and when it does so much good to all the others, that his wound always bleeds again and the pain of it is most terrible. perhaps you think he is not very brave to delay what he knows he must do, but only think of that dreadful wound that can never be cured but by the one who is so long in coming; yes, think of the slow, weary years that he has waited for the simple fool, and you will not wonder that it is a terrible thing to him to uncover the grail again. but the voices up in the dome still sing the promise: 'wait for the simple fool, taught by pity, for him i have chosen.' the knights gently bid their king do his duty. he makes a sign to the boys who have brought the grail. they uncover it and place it in his hand. everything else in the hall grows dim, while one clear ray of light falls from the dome straight upon the grail, and the red blood that is in it shines through the crystal of the goblet as if it were a light itself. "a feeling of peace and gladness comes upon all, even upon the king. but now the grail grows dimmer. the boys cover it again and the old light comes slowly back into the hall. all the cups on the tables are filled with wine, and beside each one is a piece of bread. it is thus that the holy grail feeds its knights. but the king does not eat, and suddenly he grows paler and presses his hand to his side. his wound is bleeding again and his squires quickly carry him away. the knights leave the hall too. the old knight is still watching the boy. if he is the fool that was promised, if he is to be taught by pity, surely he must pity the poor king and he will ask something about him, why he suffers so, or what is his wound. but the old knight waits and the boy says nothing. 'do you know what you have seen?' the knight asks. the boy only shakes his head. then he has not been moved at all; he does not pity. 'begone,' says the knight, 'you are good for nothing,' and he sends him away and is alone. and still from the dome, far up and out of sight, comes the chiming of the bells. if the old man could hear it right, surely it would say to him again: 'wait for the simple fool, taught by pity, for him i have chosen.' "the temple of the grail is gone now. we are in the castle of the wicked magician. he has been thinking too of the young man--the boy-the fool, who was at the temple of the grail, and he knows more about him than the poor old knight. he knows that if he is ever to steal the holy grail, as he so long has hoped to do, he must get this fool into his power, of all people in the world. he has a magic mirror in which he can see him. he sees that he has left the temple of the grail and is coming nearer his own castle. "now he needs the help of the woman, the woman who is sleeping and cannot resist him. he lights a magic fire, right there where you see that blue flame in our own fire, he speaks magic words, and the woman rises out of the very blue flame itself, and stands before him. but how different she is from that woman we saw among the grail knights! she had no beauty then. now it is radiant, burning, blinding. all that might make the beauty of a hundred women--the pride, the tenderness, the stateliness, the modesty, the fierceness, the gentleness, the rounded form, the glowing color, the waves of hair, the deep eyes, now flashing and fiery, and now soft and dewy--are hers. the magician smiles as he sees her. with her to help him, what can he not do? he tells her whom she is to entice into his power. she will not do it, she says. he reminds her that if she cannot entice the fool she will herself be saved from all her wanderings and her weary life. he need not remind her of anything. she cannot resist him any more than she could resist the sleep that came upon her. what he commands she must do. "still the magician sees the boy approaching. he calls to the knights of the castle to defend it against him. they run out in a crowd to meet the fool. he snatches weapons from the foremost of them and fights them all at once. some he wounds and all he drives before him, for the knights that are in the magician's power quickly grow to be cowards. not all of them together can keep him back. "and now i see the garden of the castle. it is full of big, gay-colored, gorgeous flowers. they trail along the ground, they cluster upon the terraces, they climb upon the walls of the castle and of the garden, and they clutch at the ramparts and twine and twist about them. i suppose i must say that they are beautiful flowers, but they are not of the sort that i like. anybody can see that there is magic about them. the earth and the water, the air and the sunshine, never would make such flowers. it might not be easy to say why, but just a single look at them is enough to make one feel sure that they are all poisonous. on the wall of the garden, with a sword in his hand, stands the fool, looking down into it and wondering at the flowers. there were none in the least like these in the forest where he lived with his mother, and none about the temple of the grail. "but what is this more wonderful sight still that he sees? are the flowers alive, and are they running about and playing together? it is a crowd of girls, with queer, bright colored gowns that make them look for all the world like the huge flowers of the garden. they have just run out of the castle and they are all in confusion, and are crying and complaining because the knights, who were their play-fellows, have been beaten and wounded. who is he that has done it? where is he? if they could find him they would tear him all to little bits, you would think. and then they do find him. there he stands on the wall, looking down at them and wondering. and when he says that he will play with them instead of the knights, they forget all about everybody but him in a moment, and instead of quarrelling with him or trying to punish him for wounding their knights, they only quarrel with one another, because every one of them wants him all for herself. "he has come down from the wall and they all gather around him, chattering and struggling for him. he does not seem to care half so much for them as they do for him, and when he sees that they will do nothing but quarrel about him he turns to go away again, but a voice calls him and tells him to stay. he turns again and stops, and all the living flowers run away, chattering and laughing at him. the voice that called him was the woman's, he is bewildered when he sees her. he has never seen such beauty before, any more than you or i ever have. for an instant he thinks that she is another of the strange flowers of this strange garden. yet her beauty does not seem to move him very much. perhaps that is because he is a fool. "but she speaks to him not at all as the other living flowers did. at first she makes him remember the old years when he was with his mother, how she cared for him in everything, and how she tried to keep him from knowing those things which she dreaded that he should learn. then she tells him again how she died when he had left her. this, she thinks, with what she is to say next, may move him, and indeed it does, but not as she meant that it should. the great sorrow for his mother comes upon him again, and stronger than when he heard first that she was dead. he weeps now and throws himself upon the ground, and nothing can comfort him. "the woman tries to console him now. she tells him that if he will but stay he may have all the pleasures of the magician's castle, and she will love him, she, the most beautiful woman in the whole world. but he does not heed her, the fool--he is thinking of other things. he remembers the king and his wound. so much he remembers that he almost feels the wound in himself. and as the woman bends above him there comes another thought. nobody has ever told him, yet somehow now he knows, that it was she who tempted the king when he got that wound, just as she tries to tempt him now. i think that it is his own great sorrow that has made him know something of what another's sorrow must be, and when he has remembered the king and has felt the wound himself, all this has helped him to see and to know much more. perhaps this is the way that he is 'taught by pity.' "the woman cannot move him more, cannot tempt him, but now the magician himself stands on the wall of the castle with the spear in his hand. the blood still flows from the point and trickles down the shaft to his hand and stains it that deep, ugly red. he poises the spear a moment and then hurls it at the fool. but it will not strike him. it stops above his head and hangs in the air. the fool lifts his hand and grasps the spear. the blood from its point runs down the shaft and over his hand, and leaves it clean and white. he only shakes the spear in his hand, and the castle and the garden tremble and fall, as the fire here falls together, and they are gone. "once more we are near the temple of the grail. the place is at the edge of woods which reach away in one direction, while in the other are fields and meadows. it is spring, and the green of the trees is fresh and light, and the fields are covered with flowers. they are not like the flowers of that magic garden. their bright little cups hold cool drops of dew, and the air is full of their perfume. the old knight is here. he has heard a sound like a groan from the little thicket of low bushes and brambles at the border of the wood. he searches, and brings out a woman--the same woman. she is still asleep, but in a moment she slowly awakes. she is no longer beautiful. she is out of the magician's power now, even if he is not buried under his ruined castle. she is ready to serve the grail. "the grail! alas! nobody serves the grail now. the poor king, since that last time when the fool saw him uncover the grail, will touch it no more. he fears too much the pain of his wound. it cannot feed or help its knights now, and they cannot go any more to carry help into far-off lands. but to-day the king has promised that he will uncover it for one last time, for this is good friday, when the dove comes to renew the power of the grail. "while the old knight and the woman stand here, another comes toward them. he is a knight in black armor, with his helmet closed, and carrying a spear. 'do you not know,' the old knight asks him, 'what holy day this is, and that none now should come here bearing arms?' the black knight only shakes his head. he sets his spear in the ground and kneels before it, taking off his helmet and gazing up at the point, from which the blood flows. the old knight looks at him and at the spear in wonder. then he sees the blood, and by that he knows what spear it is. he looks again at the knight, with his helmet off, and now he knows him too. he is filled with a joy that he has not known these many years. yes, the sorrows of the king and of the knights of the grail are over now. this is indeed 'the simple fool, taught by pity,' this is he whom the grail has chosen. "and now there comes the soft sound of the chimes to tell them that it is time for them to go to the temple to see the grail uncovered. the old knight leads the way and the others follow. through the woods and along the rocky pathways they walk, the sound of the bells grows plainer, and so they come to the temple. the hall is filled with the knights of the grail. the king is borne in as he was before, and is brought to the highest place. the holy grail is carried before him with its purple cover. they all look at the king and wait for him. for a moment he wavers, then he springs from his couch--no, no, he will not uncover the grail again; let him die rather; let them kill him, and then the grail shall feed them and bless them, and shall torture him no more. [illustration: "the king of the grail."] "they all draw back from him in dread at his look and his words--all but one. for the fool goes straight to him and touches the wound with the spear. instantly the wound is healed. 'you shall uncover the grail no more,' he says, 'for i am chosen to be its king instead of you.' he makes a sign to the boys who have brought it, and they uncover it and place it in his hand. he holds it above his head and again the red blood in it glows and throbs. down from the dome flies a white dove and rests above it. before it, and before him who holds it, kneel the old king, no longer king now, the old knight, and the woman, for her too this new king has saved, for he has come, the best knight of the world and one whom she could not tempt. the simple fool is the king of the grail. the sound of the singing voices comes down from the dome, and from far above them come still the voices of the bells. surely to any who could know how to hear it their chiming must say again: 'taught by pity--him i have chosen,'" the ashes after the little girl had gone, i still sat for a long time looking into the fire. i was seeing pictures for myself, not now of the days so long gone by, but of days not yet come, pictures with the little girl in them. there, in the flames where we had seen so much together, i could see pretty clearly, as i thought, what she would be and all that she would be some time. but when i tried to see what she would do and how her lot should fall, the fire would tell me no more. yet wherever and however it shall fall, may she not be a little better, a little wiser, a little happier perhaps, for knowing these old stories that have helped so many women and so many men before her to live their lives? will it not be good for her to remember brã¼nnhilde's fearless truth, senta's sacrifice, elizabeth's constancy? and if to the thoughts of these she add parsifal's lesson of compassion, surely then even a little of eva's coquetry can do no harm. and then i tried to see something of her knight. but the fire had all died down now, and was only a heap of ashes. i could question as much as i would, but there was no reply. would he seek her out and come to her like siegfried, through struggles and through fire? would he find and help her in her greatest need, like lohengrin? would he only love her and sing a song for her, like walter? or would it be for her to help and to save him, like vanderdecken?--surely not like tannhã¤user. no, no answer. i stirred the ashes. underneath there was still a bright, ruddy, friendly glow, but nothing more. a clock somewhere in the house, with a low, musical note, struck midnight. but what was this other music that followed it? was it again the bells of monsalvat, this soft chime that came on the still air? no, no, only church bells far off, ringing in the new year, many times i had heard them and well i knew their sound. and all around those bells, i knew too, at this moment, there were noise and uproar and confusion, so much that those who stood nearest to them in the street could not tell whether they were ringing, just as many other sweet and pleasant things are made to seem lost among the coarse and the commonplace. but to me here, away from the vulgar crowd and forgetting it, the music came, faint indeed, yet clear and pure. i opened the window and the chime came plainer with the keen winter air, and the bells--i am sure of it--answered all my questions and rang a promise for the new year and for all the years. the standard light operas their plots and their music _a handbook_ by george p. upton author of "the standard operas," etc. chicago a. c. mcclurg & co. 1902 copyright a. c. mcclurg & co. 1902 published september 13, 1902 to my friend charles c. curtiss preface. the present volume, "the standard light operas," has been prepared not only with the hope that it may supply a popular want in these days when the light opera is so much in vogue, but also with the purpose of completing the series which the author has already compiled, including the opera, oratorio, cantata, and symphony. it has been somewhat difficult to select from the "embarrassment of riches" in the material offered by the profusion of operettas, musical comedies, and legitimate light operas which have been produced during the last few years, and which are still turned out with almost bewildering rapidity. still more difficult is it to determine accurately those among them which are standard. a few of the lighter works which are contained in the original edition of the "standard operas" have been recast, as they properly belong in a work of this kind, and as they may answer the needs of those who have not the former volume. the opera comique and the opera bouffe are also represented by the best of their class, those whose text is clearly objectionable being omitted. the entire list of the characteristic and delightful operettas by the late sir alexander sullivan is included, and some of the musical comedies which have a strong hold upon popular admiration. the operas have not been analyzed with that closeness of detail which characterizes the "standard operas," as they do not call for treatment of that kind, and in many cases the leading numbers are only suggested. they are described rather than criticised, and as they have been compiled solely for the use of the general public they have been presented as untechnically as possible. they are intended to heighten popular enjoyment rather than to supply information for musicians, and as a _vade mecum_ for the opera-goer rather than a reference for the musical student. g. p. u. chicago, august, 1902. contents page adam the postilion of lonjumeau 15 auber fra diavolo 19 the crown diamonds 22 audran olivette 26 the mascot 29 balfe the bohemian girl 33 the rose of castile 36 bellini la sonnambula 40 benedict the lily of killarney 43 boieldieu la dame blanche 47 cellier dorothy 50 chassaique falka 52 dekoven robin hood 57 maid marian 60 rob roy 63 the fencing-master 67 delibes lakmé 70 donizetti the daughter of the regiment 73 don pasquale 76 linda 78 the elixir of love 81 eichberg the doctor of alcantara 84 flotow martha 87 stradella 90 genée nanon 93 gounod mirella 97 humperdinck hansel and gretel 100 jakobowski erminie 103 lecocq girofle-girofla 106 la fille de madame angot 109 lörtzing czar and carpenter 113 luders king dodo 116 the prince of pilsen 118 massé paul and virginia 121 queen topaze 124 the marriage of jeannette 126 millöcker the beggar student 128 the black hussar 131 nessler the trumpeter of säkkingen 134 nicolai the merry wives of windsor 138 offenbach the grand duchess of gerolstein 141 la belle hélène 145 orpheus 148 planquette the chimes of normandy 152 ricci crispino 155 rossini the barber of seville 158 solomon billee taylor 161 sousa el capitan 164 strauss the merry war 167 the queen's lace handkerchief 169 queen indigo 171 die fledermaus (the bat) 174 stuart florodora 177 sullivan cox and box 180 trial by jury 182 the sorcerer 185 h. m. s. pinafore 188 the pirates of penzance 193 patience 196 iolanthe 200 princess ida 203 the mikado 206 ruddygore 209 the yeomen of the guard 213 the gondoliers 216 suppé fatinitza 220 boccaccio 224 the beautiful galatea 227 thomas mignon 230 wallace maritana 233 lurline 236 the standard light operas. adam, adolphe charles. the postilion of lonjumeau. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by de leuven and brunswick. first produced at the opéra comique, paris, october 13, 1836.] personages. chapelou, postilion. madeleine, mistress of the inn. marquis de courcy, opera manager. bijou, village blacksmith. boudon, chorus leader. [villagers, chorus singers, etc.] the scene of the opera is laid in lonjumeau, a french village, and paris; time of louis the fifteenth. the sprightly opera "the postilion of lonjumeau" is characterized by grace and elegance of treatment, fascinating rhythm, and odd contrasts in effects. its plot is very dramatic, and affords ample scope for humorous action. the opening scene of the first act introduces us to the wedding of chapelou, the postilion, and madeleine, mistress of the inn. during the merriment which follows, the marquis de courcy, superintendent of the paris grand opera, whose carriage has broken down, makes his appearance, seeking the aid of a wheelwright. he hears chapelou singing, and is so pleased with his voice that he offers him a position in the opera. chapelou after some persuasion accepts, entreats bijou, the village blacksmith, to look after madeleine, and goes off with the marquis in quest of artistic glory. bijou informs madeleine of chapelou's baseness, and the act closes with her denunciations of him, in which she is enthusiastically assisted by the female members of the wedding-party. the second act opens in paris. madeleine has inherited a fortune from an aunt, and makes her appearance in the gay city as a rich and noble lady, under the assumed name of madame de la tour. the marquis de courcy, who is in love with her, at her request brings chapelou, who is now a famous tenor known as st. phar, bijou, the lonjumeau blacksmith, who is primo basso under the name of alcindor, and the operatic chorus to her château for a rehearsal. st. phar, not wishing to sing, pleads a cold, but when he learns that he is in the apartments of madame de la tour he consents, and the rehearsal goes off finely. left alone with his hostess, he proposes to her and is accepted, but as he is already married he arranges that boudon, the chorus leader, shall play the part of priest. the marquis, who overhears the conspiracy, informs madame de la tour, who sends for a real priest and accompanies st. phar to the altar, where they are married for the second time. in the third act st. phar, who fears that he will be hanged for committing bigamy, finds a happy escape from his troubles. the marquis, furious because he has been rejected by madame de la tour in favor of an opera singer, seeks revenge, but his plans are thwarted. a humorous scene ensues, in which st. phar is tormented by alcindor and the wedding-party, as well as by the marquis, who is now reconciled. finally, upon being left alone in a darkened room with madame de la tour, she also aggravates him by personating two characters, singing from different sides of the apartment in the voice of the madame and that of madeleine. the dénouement ensues when she appears to him as the veritable madeleine of lonjumeau, whither the joyous pair return and are happy ever after. the principal music of the first act is a romanza for soprano, "husband ever dear," leading into a dance chorus; the famous postilion's song with whip-snapping accompaniment; and a balcony serenade by madeleine. the second act opens with a long and well-written aria for soprano, which is followed by the rehearsal scene,--a clever bit of humorous musical writing. in the course of this scene the tenor has a characteristic aria, preceded by a clarinet obligato, and the basso also has one running down to g, in which he describes with much gusto the immunities of a basso with a "double g." a duet follows for soprano and tenor with a cadenza of extraordinary length, the act closing with a finale in the conventional italian style. the third act opens with a long clarinet solo, the refrain of which is heard in the close of the act. this is followed by a "good night" chorus in mazurka time. the tenor then has an aria followed by a comic trio, which in reality is a duet, as the soprano is personating two singers with different voices. a duet and finale close the opera, the music of which is of just the class to be popular, while the action is so sustained in its humor as to make the bright little opera a favorite wherever heard. auber, daniel françois esprit. fra diavolo. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by scribe. first produced at the opéra comique, paris, january 28, 1830; in english, at drury lane theatre, london, november 3, 1831; in italian, at the lyceum, london, july 9, 1857.] personages. fra diavolo, leader of the brigands. lord allcash, english nobleman. lady allcash, his wife. matteo, innkeeper. zerlina, matteo's daughter. lorenzo, zerlina's lover. beppo, } giacomo, } brigands. the scene is laid at the village of terracina, italy; time, last century. the first act of this universally favorite opera opens with the hurried arrival of lord allcash, a typical english tourist, and his wife, at the inn of terracina, kept by matteo, whose daughter, zerlina, is loved by lorenzo, a young soldier. the latter is about to start for the capture of fra diavolo, the leader of the bandits, when the action of the opera begins. the english tourists have been robbed on their journey by the band of this same fra diavolo, who has followed them in the disguise of a marquis and has been very attentive to the susceptible lady allcash. lord allcash has a quarrel with his wife on this account in a humorous duet, "i don't object." fra diavolo learns that the travellers have saved the most of their valuables, and lays his own plans to secure them. in an interview with zerlina, she, mistaking him for the marquis, sings him the story of fra diavolo in a romanza, "on yonder rock reclining," which has become a favorite the world over. to further his schemes he makes love to lady allcash in a graceful barcarole, "the gondolier, fond passion's slave." in the finale of the act lorenzo and his carbineers return, and not finding fra diavolo at the inn, where they had hoped to surprise him, resume their search, leaving him to perfect his plans for the robbery. in the opening scene of the second act zerlina is in her chamber, preparing to retire. before doing so, she lights lord and lady allcash to their room. during her absence fra diavolo and his companions, beppo and giacomo, conceal themselves in her closet, fra diavolo having previously given them the signal that the coast was clear by singing a serenade, "young agnes," in violation of every rule of dramatic consistency. zerlina returns, and after singing a simple but charming prayer, "oh! holy virgin," retires to rest. in attempting to cross the room they partially awake her. one of the bandits rushes to the bed to stab her, but desists from his purpose as he hears her murmuring her prayer. then follows a trio by the robbers, sung pianissimo, which is very dramatic in its effect. at this point the carbineers return again, and the house at once is in an uproar. lord and lady allcash rush in to find out the cause, followed by lorenzo, who came to greet zerlina. a sudden noise in the closet disturbs them. fra diavolo, knowing that he will be discovered, steps out into the room, and declares he is there to keep an appointment with zerlina, whereupon lorenzo challenges him. he accepts the challenge and coolly walks out of the room. one of his comrades is captured, but to secure his liberty agrees to betray his chief. the opening of the third act finds fra diavolo once more among his native mountains. he gives expression to his exultation in a dashing, vigorous song, "proudly and wide my standard flies," followed by the pretty rondo, "then since life glides so fast away." as he joyously contemplates a speedy meeting with lord and lady allcash and the securing of their valuables, villagers arrayed in festival attire in honor of the approaching nuptials of lorenzo and zerlina enter, singing a bright pastoral chorus, "oh, holy virgin, bright and fair." the finale of the act is occupied with the development of the scheme between lorenzo, beppo, and giacomo to ensnare fra diavolo, and the final tragedy in which he meets his death at the hands of the carbineers, but not before he has declared zerlina's innocence. the text of the opera is full of vivacity and humor, and the music so bright and melodious and yet artistically scored that it made auber's reputation at the opéra comique. the crown diamonds. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by scribe and st. george. first produced in paris in 1841; in english, at the princess theatre, london, may 2, 1844.] personages. count de campo mayor, minister of police. don henrique, nephew of the count. don sebastian, friend of don henrique. rebelledo, chief coiner. catarina, leader of the coiners. diana, cousin of don henrique. the scene is laid in portugal; time, 1777. the story of "the crown diamonds," one of the most melodious of auber's works, is as follows: don henrique, nephew of the count de campo mayor, minister of police at coimbra, on his way to participate in the coronation ceremonies and at the same time to sign a marriage contract with his cousin diana, daughter of the minister of police, is overtaken by a storm in the mountains and seeks shelter in a ruined castle near the monastery of st. huberto. while there he espies rebelledo, the chief coiner, and two of his comrades examining the contents of his trunk. the latter, discovering him in turn and thinking him a spy, rush upon him, but he is saved by catarina, the leader of the gang, who returns him his trunk and allows him to depart upon condition that he shall not mention what he has seen for a year. he consents, but before he leaves, the gang is surrounded by soldiers led by don sebastian, a friend of don henrique. they make their escape, however, disguised as monks, while rebelledo and catarina disappear through an underground passage, carrying with them a mysterious casket of jewels. the second act opens in the château de coimbra, and discloses don henrique in love with the mysterious catarina and diana with don sebastian. as diana and don henrique are singing together, don sebastian announces that an accident has happened to a carriage and that its occupants desire shelter. catarina and rebelledo enter and accept the proffered hospitality. when diana begins to read the account of a robbery containing a description of rebelledo and his companions, that worthy vanishes, but catarina remains in spite of don henrique's warning that she is in the house of the minister of police. he declares his love for her, and begs her to fly with him; she refuses, but gives him a ring as a souvenir. at this point the count enters, and announces that the crown jewels have been stolen and don henrique's ring is recognized as one of them. catarina is saved by diana, who promises don henrique she will send her away in the count's carriage if he will refuse to sign the marriage contract. he consents, and catarina makes her escape. the last act opens in the anteroom of the royal palace at lisbon, where the count, don henrique, and don sebastian are present, and diana awaits an audience with the queen. while they converse, rebelledo enters, announced as the count fuentes, and an usher brings him word that the queen will have private audience with him. while awaiting her, rebelledo in a monologue explains that the real crown jewels have been pledged for the national debt, and that he has been employed to make duplicates of them to be worn on state occasions until the genuine ones can be redeemed. the queen enters, declares she is satisfied with the work, and makes rebelledo minister of secret police. count de campo mayor then announces to her the decision of the council that she shall marry the prince of spain. she declares she will make her own choice, and when the count remonstrates she threatens to confiscate his property for allowing the crown jewels to be stolen, and orders him to arrest his daughter and nephew for giving shelter to the thieves. diana, suddenly entering, fails to recognize her as catarina, and implores pardon for her connivance in the escape. then don henrique still further complicates the situation. he recognizes catarina, and declares to diana he will seize her and fly to some distant land. his purpose is thwarted by his arrest for treason upon the queen's order. he rushes forward to implore mercy for catarina, when the queen reveals herself and announces that she has chosen don henrique for her husband and their king. the principal musical numbers of the opera are rebelledo's rollicking muleteer's song, "o'er mountain steep, through valley roaming," the rondo, "the young pedrillo," with chorus accompaniment, and the lugubrious chorus of the pseudo monks, "unto the hermit of the chapel," in the first act; the nocturne, "the brigand," closing in gay bolero time, "in the deep ravine of the forest," catarina's bravura aria, "love! at once i break thy fetters," the duet, "if i could but courage feel," and the beautiful ballade, "oh! whisper what thou feelest," in the second act; the usually interpolated air, "when doubt the tortured frame is rending," originally written for louisa pyne, who really made the first success for the opera, and the charming cavatina, "love, dwell with me," sung by the queen in the last act. audran, edmund. olivette. [comic opera, in three acts; text by chivat and duru. first produced at the bouffes parisiens, paris, november 13, 1879; first american production, new york, january 7, 1881.] personages. captain de mérimac, of the man of war "cormorant." valentine, his nephew, officer of the rousillon guards. duc des ifs, cousin of the countess. coquelicot, his foster brother. marvejol, seneschal to the countess. olivette, daughter of the seneschal. bathilde, countess of rousillon. veloutine, the seneschal's housekeeper. moustique, captain's boy on board the "cormorant." [nobles of the court of rousillon, the watch of perpignan, citizens, gossips, wedding-guests, sailors, etc.] the scene is laid at perpignan on the mediterranean sea; time of louis the fourteenth. following the english version of the opera, at the opening of the first act the villagers of perpignan are greatly excited over the approaching marriage of olivette, the seneschal's daughter, and de mérimac, an old sea-captain. olivette, however, just out of a convent, is in love with valentine, a young officer and the captain's nephew. in the mean time the countess of rousillon is also in love with valentine and has come to perpignan to see him. she is at the house of the seneschal, and is surprised there by valentine, who has climbed her balcony expecting to find olivette. the old captain, who is making slow progress with his suit, writes to the countess demanding olivette's hand. valentine seizes his opportunity, passes himself off as the captain, and marries olivette at the request of the countess herself. the second act opens with a ball which the countess gives in honor of the wedding, at which valentine is forced to personate both himself and the captain. the latter appears upon the scene, and is heartily congratulated as the bridegroom. when valentine also appears as the old man, de mérimac resolves he will have the bride whom valentine has secured by the use of his name. by a little craft olivette rids herself of her elderly suitor only to encounter fresh trouble, for the countess declares she will marry the soldier. a plot is formed, the result of which is an order sending the countess out of the kingdom. the opening of the last act shows that the plot is partially successful. the countess is a prisoner on board de mérimac's vessel, and olivette and valentine, who are disguised as sailors, seek a vessel to take them away; but valentine is recognized and seized, olivette contrives to free the countess, and passes herself off for her, olivette's maid, veloutine, pretending to be her mistress. this introduces a new complication, for the near-sighted duke des ifs courts the maid, supposing her to be olivette, and boasts of it to valentine in the hearing of de mérimac. both uncle and nephew then renounce olivette until the countess returns and an explanation is made. in the dénouement valentine is united to olivette and the countess to the duke, while the old captain is advised to follow the example of the venetian doges and "marry the sea," which he promptly hastens to do, and follows his bride ever after. the music of "olivette" is light and sprightly throughout, the most taking numbers being the marine madrigal, a song with chorus, "the yacht and the brig"; the pretty waltz song, "o heart, wherefore so light," sung by the countess; olivette's tyrolienne song, "the convent slept"; valentine's serenade, "in quaint and in mystic word," and olivette's characteristic sob song, "oh! my father," in the first act: olivette's serio-comic song, "the matron of an hour"; the countess' song, "when lovers around woman throng"; another humorous song for olivette, "i do think fate, upon my life"; a charming duet for olivette and the countess, "like carrier dove, i'll swift be flying," with the refrain, "i love my love so well," and the jolly farandole, "the vintage over, then maid and lover," sung and danced by olivette, countess, and chorus, in the second act: the romanza "nearest and dearest," an effective number for the countess, and three delicious bits of nonsense,--"give milk to babes, to peasants beer," styled in the score a grog-orian chant, the ridiculous legend "the torpedo and the whale," and the dashing bolero, "where balmy garlic scents the air," in the last act. the mascot. [comic opera, in three acts; text by chivat and duru. first produced at the bouffes parisiens, paris, december 29, 1880; first american production, gaiety theatre, boston, april 12, 1881.] personages. bettina, the mascot. fiametta, daughter of prince lorenzo. pippo, a shepherd. lorenzo, prince of piombino. rocco, a farmer. frederic, prince of pisa. parafante, sergeant. matheo, innkeeper. [peasants, lords and ladies of court, soldiers, etc.] the scene is laid in piombino, italy; time, the fifteenth century. the story of "the mascot" is charmingly romantic, and much more consistent and coherent than the usual plots of the comic operas. the first act opens with a vintage festival. the peasants are all rejoicing except rocco, the farmer, who has had bad luck. pippo, his shepherd, whom he had sent to his brother for help, returns with a basket of eggs and a letter in which he informs rocco that he has also sent him bettina, his turkey-keeper, who will bring him prosperity, as she is a mascot. pippo, who is in love with bettina, waxes eloquent over her charms, but when she comes she is coldly received by rocco and ordered to go back. as she is preparing to leave, prince lorenzo, his daughter fiametta, prince frederic, and others of a hunting-party arrive and stop for refreshment. prince lorenzo, who is one of the unlucky kind, learns by chance of bettina's gift, and determines to take her to his court; but rocco objects. the prince, however, gains his consent by promising to make him lord chamberlain. the party sets off homeward with rocco in good spirits and bettina sad, while poor pippo is left behind disconsolate. the second act opens in the palace at piombino, where a festival is to be given in honor of the marriage of fiametta to prince frederic of pisa. among the attractions of the fête is an entertainment by a troupe of actors and dancers, the most prominent of whom is saltarello, in reality pippo in disguise. the lovers discover each other and plan an escape; but rocco, who has recognized pippo, frustrates their scheme by disclosing his identity to the prince, who orders his arrest. the situation is still further complicated by the fickle fiametta, who has fallen in love with pippo and tells him that bettina is false and is about to marry prince lorenzo. at last pippo and bettina have a chance to meet, and they make their escape by leaping through a window into the river. the last act opens in the hall of an inn in pisa. there has been a war between the two princes, and frederic has defeated lorenzo. pippo has been a captain in the pisan army, and bettina, disguised as a trooper, has fought by his side. they reveal their real names to frederic, and declare their intention of marriage. during preparations for the wedding prince lorenzo, fiametta, and rocco, who are travelling about the country as minstrels to make their living, owing to the misfortunes of war, meet the bridal party at the inn. after mutual explanations fiametta returns to her old lover frederic, and pippo and bettina are married. the mascot brings good luck to them all at last. the most interesting numbers in the opera are the drinking-song, "all morose thoughts now are flying"; the legend of the mascots, "one day the arch fiend drunk with pride," sung by pippo and chorus; bettina's song, "don't come too near, i tell you"; the quaint duet for bettina and pippo, "when i behold your manly form"; the charming coaching-chorus, "come, let us now be off as quick as a bird," sung by bettina and chorus in the first act; the chorus and air of saltarello, "hail, princesses and lords"; the pretty duet, "know'st thou those robes," for bettina and pippo, and the concerted finale of the second act; the stirring rataplan, "marking time with cadence so steady," the entrance of the refugees preluding the grotesque "orang-outang song," sung by fiametta and chorus, and the graceful arietta following the entrance of the wedding-party in the last act. balfe, michael william. the bohemian girl. [grand opera, in three acts; text by bunn. first produced at drury lane theatre, london, november 27, 1843.] personages. arline, daughter of count arnheim. thaddeus, a polish exile. gypsy queen. devilshoof, gypsy leader. count arnheim, governor of presburg. florestein, nephew of the count. [retainers, hunters, soldiers, gypsies, etc.] the scene is laid at presburg, hungary; time, last century. "the bohemian girl," usually designated as grand opera, strictly speaking, is a ballad opera, and is one of the few english works of its class which has made a success upon the continent and in the united states. the first act opens with the rescue of arline, daughter of count arnheim, from the attack of a stag by thaddeus, a polish fugitive, who has joined a gypsy band to save himself from arrest. in return for his timely aid, the count invites him to a banquet, where he gets into trouble by refusing to drink the health of the emperor. devilshoof, the leader of the band, saves him from the angry soldiers, but in turn is himself seized. the count allows thaddeus to go, and devilshoof subsequently escapes, carrying arline with him. twelve years elapse between the first and second acts. the count has received no tidings from arline and has given her up as lost. the second act opens in the gypsy camp in the suburbs of presburg, and discloses arline asleep with thaddeus watching over her. the gypsies themselves depart in quest of plunder, headed by devilshoof, and happen upon florestein, the count's nephew, returning in a drunken condition from a revel. they speedily relieve him of his valuables. after their departure arline awakes, and thaddeus tells her how she received the scar upon her arm and of her rescue from the stag, at the same time declaring his love for her. arline confesses her love for him, and the two are united according to the laws of the tribe by the gypsy queen, who is also in love with thaddeus, and vows vengeance upon the pair. the scene now changes to a street in the city. a fair is in progress, and the gypsies resort to it with arline at their head. as they mingle among the people, florestein attempts to insult arline, and an altercation ensues between them, ending in his repulse. he seeks revenge by having her arrested for stealing a medallion which belonged to him and which the gypsy queen, knowing it to be his, had maliciously given to her. arline is brought before the count for trial, during which he asks her about the scar on her arm. she replies by relating the story thaddeus had told her, and this leads to his discovery of his daughter. the last act finds arline restored to her old position but still retaining her love for thaddeus. with devilshoof's help he secures a meeting with her. the gypsy queen gives information to the count, and thaddeus is ordered to leave. arline implores her father to relent, and threatens to go with her lover. the situation happily resolves itself when thaddeus proves that he is of noble descent. the count thereupon yields and gives his daughter to him. the baffled and furious gypsy queen induces one of the tribe to fire at thaddeus, but by a timely movement of devilshoof the bullet pierces the heart of the queen. the principal musical numbers of the first act are the count's solo, "a soldier's life"; the pathetic song, "'t is sad to leave your fatherland"; the gypsy chorus, "in the gypsy's life you may read," and the prayer in the finale, "thou who in might supreme." the second act contains some of the most melodious and effective numbers in the work, including the quaint little chorus, "silence, silence, the lady moon"; the joyous song, "i dreamed i dwelt in marble halls," which is a universal favorite; the musical dialogue and ensemble, "the secret of her birth"; the gypsy's song, "come with the gypsy bride"; the beautiful unaccompanied quartette, "from the valleys and hills," and the impressive reverie by the count, "the heart bowed down." the last act has two delightful numbers,--the tender and impassioned song, "when other lips and other hearts," and the stirring martial song, "when the fair land of poland," in which thaddeus avows his noble descent and boasts the deeds of his ancestry in battle. the rose of castile. [comic opera, in three acts; text by harris and falconer. first produced at the lyceum theatre, london, october 29, 1857.] personages. elvira, queen of leon and "rose of castile." manuel, don sebastian, the infant, in disguise of muleteer. carmen, attendant of the queen. don pedro, } don sallust, } don florio } conspirators. the scene is laid in spain; time, last century. at the opening of the opera, elvira, queen of leon, has just ascended the throne, and her hand has been demanded by the king of castile for his brother, don sebastian, the infant. the latter, with the design of satisfying his curiosity about her, is on the eve of entering castile disguised as a muleteer. elvira hears of this, and adopts the same expedient, by starting with carmen, one of her attendants, disguised as peasants to intercept him. in the opening of the first act the two appear at an inn where the peasants are dancing. the innkeeper is rude to them, but don sebastian, disguised as manuel the muleteer, protects them, and offers his services as escort, which the queen willingly accepts, for she has recognized him and he has fulfilled the motive of the story by falling in love with her. at this point don pedro, who has designs upon the throne, with his fellow-conspirators don sallust and don florio, enter. observing elvira's likeness to the queen, they persuade her to personate her majesty, which, after feigned reluctance, she consents to do. she also accepts their services as escorts, and all the more unhesitatingly because she knows manuel will follow her. the second act opens in the throne-room of the palace. don pedro enters, somewhat dejected by the uncertainty of his schemes. the queen, who has eluded the surveillance of the conspirators, also appears and grants an audience to manuel, in which he informs her of the meeting with the peasant girl and boy and declares his belief they were the queen and carmen. he also informs her of the conspirators' plot to imprison her, which she thwarts by inducing a silly old duchess to personate the queen for one day and, closely veiled, ride to the palace in the royal carriage. her scheme succeeds admirably. the duchess is seized and conveyed to a convent. in the next scene don pedro and don florio are mourning over the loss of their peasant girl, when she appears. their mourning turns to desperate perplexity when the queen reveals herself and announces her intention of marrying the muleteer. in the last act carmen and don florio agree to marry. then the queen and her ladies enter, and a message is delivered her from don sebastian announcing his marriage. enraged at the discovery that the muleteer is not don sebastian, the queen upbraids him and yet declares she will be true to him. this pleases don pedro, as he believes he can force her to abdicate if she marries a muleteer; but in the last scene manuel mounts the throne, and announces he is king of castile, elvira expresses her delight, and all ends happily. the story of the opera is exceedingly involved, but the music is well sustained and ranks with the best that balfe has written. the principal numbers of the first act are the lively chorus, "list to the gay castanet"; the vocal scherzo by elvira, "yes, i'll obey you"; manuel's rollicking song, "i am a simple muleteer"; the buffo trio, which ends in a spirited bacchanal, "wine, wine, the magician thou art"; and elvira's pleasing rondo, "oh! were i the queen of spain." the second act contains the expressive conspirators' chorus, "the queen in the palace"; the beautiful ballad, "though fortune darkly o'er me frowns," sung by don pedro; the ballad, "the convent cell," sung by elvira, which is one of balfe's happiest inspirations; the buffo trio, "i'm not the queen, ha, ha"; and elvira's characteristic scena, "i'm but a simple peasant maid." the leading numbers of the last act are the bravura air, "oh! joyous, happy day," which was intended by the composer to show the vocal ability of eliza pyne, who first appeared in the role of elvira; manuel's fine ballad, "'twas rank and fame that tempted thee"; don pedro's martial song, "hark, hark, methinks i hear"; the stirring song by manuel, when he mounts the throne, which recalls "the fair land of poland" in "the bohemian girl"; and elvira's second bravura air, "oh! no, by fortune blessed." bellini, vincenzo. la sonnambula. [grand opera, in two acts; text by romani. produced for the first time in milan, march 6, 1831; in london, at the king's theatre, july 28, 1831; in paris, october 28, 1831; in new york, may 14, 1842.] personages. amina, ward of the miller's wife. elvino, a landholder. rodolfo, lord of the village. lisa, innkeeper. alessio, a peasant, lover of lisa. teresa, mistress of the mill. the scene is laid in switzerland; time, last century. the first act of the opera opens with the preparations for the marriage of amina and elvino. lisa, the mistress of the inn, is also in love with elvino and jealous of amina. on the day before the wedding, rodolfo, the young lord of the village, arrives to look after his estates, and puts up at the inn, where he meets amina. he pays her many pretty compliments, much to the dissatisfaction of elvino, who is inclined to quarrel with him. after rodolfo retires to his chamber, amina, who is addicted to sleep-walking, enters the room and throws herself upon the bed as if it were her own. she is seen not only by rodolfo, but also by lisa, who has been vainly seeking to captivate him. to escape the embarrassment of the situation, rodolfo quietly goes out; but the malicious lisa hastens to inform elvino of what amina has done, at the same time thoughtlessly leaving her handkerchief in rodolfo's room. elvino rushes to the spot with other villagers, finds amina as lisa had described, denounces her, and offers himself to the latter. in the last act amina is seen stepping from the window of the mill in her sleep. she crosses a frail bridge above the mill wheel, descends in safety, and walks into elvino's arms amid the jubilant songs of the villagers. elvino at last is convinced of her innocence, while the discovery of lisa's handkerchief in rodolfo's room proclaims her the faithless one. the little pastoral story is of the simplest kind, but it is set to music as melodious as ever has come from an italian composer, and the rôle of the heroine has engaged the services of nearly all the great artists of the nineteenth century from malibran to patti. its most striking melodies are the aria "sovra il sen" ("on my heart your hand do place"), in the third scene of the first act, where amina declares her happiness; the aria for baritone in the sixth scene, "vi ravviso" ("i recognize you, pleasant spot"), sung by rodolfo; the playful duet, "mai piu dubbi" ("away with doubts"), in which amina chides her lover for his jealousy; the humorous and characteristic chorus of the villagers in the tenth scene, "osservate, l'uscio è aperto" ("observe, the door is open"), as they tiptoe into the chamber; the duet in the next scene, "o mio dolor" ("oh, my sorrow"), in which amina asserts her innocence; the aria for tenor in the third scene of the second act, "tutto e sciolto" ("every tie is broken"), in which elvino bemoans his hard lot; and that joyous outburst of birdlike melody, "ah! non giunge" ("human thought cannot conceive"), which closes the opera. benedict, sir julius. the lily of killarney. [romantic opera, in three acts; text by oxenford and boucicault. first produced at covent garden theatre, london, february 8, 1862.] personages. anne chute, the heiress. mrs. cregan, of the hall at tore cregan. father tom, the priest. eily o'connor, the colleen bawn. hardress cregan, son of mrs. cregan. sheelah. danny mann, the boatman. myles na coppaleen. corrigan, "the middle-man." the scene is laid at killarney, ireland; time, last century. the opera "the lily of killarney" is the musical setting of the drama, "the colleen bawn." the plot is essentially similar, and the characters are identical. the first act opens with the festivities of hardress cregan's friends at the hall at tore cregan. during their temporary absence to witness a horse-race, corrigan, "the middle-man," calls upon mrs. cregan and suggests to her the marriage of her son to the heiress, anne chute, as the only chance of securing the payment of a mortgage he holds upon the place. failing in this, he expresses his own willingness to accept mrs. cregan's hand, but the hint meets with no favor. at this point danny mann, hardress' boatman, is heard singing, and corrigan informs mrs. cregan he is about to take her son to see eily, the colleen bawn, anne chute's peasant rival. danny and hardress set off on their errand, leaving mrs. cregan disconsolate and corrigan exultant. in the second scene corrigan and myles na coppaleen, the peasant lover of the colleen bawn, have an interview in which corrigan tells him she is the mistress of hardress. the next scene introduces us to eily's cottage, where father tom is seeking to induce her to persuade hardress to make public announcement of his marriage to her. when hardress appears he asks her to give up the marriage certificate and conceal their union; but myles prevents this, and father tom makes eily promise she will never surrender it. in the second act hardress is paying court to anne chute, but is haunted by remorse over his desertion of eily. danny mann suggests putting her on board a vessel and shipping her to america, but hardress rejects the scheme. danny then agrees that eily shall disappear if he will send his glove, a token secretly understood between them. this also he rejects. meanwhile corrigan is pressing his alternative upon mrs. cregan, but is interrupted by hardress, who threatens to kill him if he does not desist. corrigan retires uttering threats of revenge. danny mann then intimates to mrs. cregan that if she will induce hardress to send the glove, he can bring happiness to the family again. she secures the glove and gives it to danny, who promptly takes it to eily with the message that her husband has sent for her. eily, in spite of myles' warnings, gets into danny's boat and trusts herself to him. danny rows out to a water cave, and ordering her to step upon a rock demands the certificate. she refuses to give it up, and danny pushes her into the water. myles, who uses the cave for secret purposes, mistakes danny for another and shoots him, and then, espying eily, plunges in and saves her. the dénouement of the story is quickly told in the last act. hardress is arrested for murder, but danny, who was fatally wounded, makes a dying confession of his scheme against the life of the colleen bawn. corrigan brings soldiers to the house of anne chute at the moment of hardress' marriage with her, but is thwarted in his revenge when myles produces eily cregan, hardress' lawful wife. mrs. cregan also confesses her part in the plot, and absolves her son from intentional guilt. everything being cleared up, eily rushes into hardress' arms, and the chorus declares "a cloudless day at last will dawn upon the hapless colleen bawn." the music is very elaborate for light-opera purposes, and is written broadly and effectively, especially for the orchestra. many irish melodies sprinkled through the work relieve its heaviness. the principal numbers are the serenade and duet, "the moon has raised her lamp above"; myles' song, "it is a charming girl i love"; eily's song, "in my wild mountain valley he sought me," and the well-known original irish melody, "the cruiskeen lawn," also sung by eily; the "tally-ho" chorus, introducing the second act; danny mann's recitative and airs, "the colleen bawn" and "duty? yes, i'll do my duty"; the dramatic finale to the second act; myles' serenade in the third act, "your slumbers, och! soft as your glance may be"; hardress' beautiful song, "eily mavourneen, i see thee before me"; and the fine concerted trio which closes the act. boieldieu, françois adrien. la dame blanche. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by scribe. first produced at the opéra comique, paris, december 10, 1825; first time in english under the title of "the white maid" at covent garden, london, january 2, 1827.] personages. george brown, or julius of avenel. gaveston, late steward of the avenel estate. macirton, an auctioneer. dikson, an honest farmer. anna, adopted child of the lady of avenel. jenny, wife of dikson. margaret, servant of the late lady of avenel. [mountaineers, peasants, etc.] the scene is laid in scotland; time of the stuarts. the story of this favorite opera, adapted from walter scott's novels "the monastery" and "guy mannering," runs as follows. the laird of avenel, a stuart partisan, upon the eve of going into exile after the battle of culloden, entrusts his estate and a considerable treasure concealed in a statue, called "the white lady," to gaveston, his steward. the traditions affirmed that the white lady was the protectress of the avenels, and the villagers declared they had seen her in the neighborhood. gaveston, however, who puts no faith in the legend, announces the sale of the castle, hoping that the superstition may keep others from bidding and that he may get it for a low price. the steward decides to sell, because he has heard the laird is dead and knows there is no heir. anna, an orphan, who had been befriended by the laird, determines to frustrate the designs of gaveston, and appears in the village disguised as the white lady. she writes to dikson, a farmer who is indebted to her, to meet her at midnight in the castle of avenel. his superstitious fears lead him to decline the invitation, but george brown, a young british soldier on furlough, who is sharing the farmer's hospitality, volunteers in his stead. he encounters the white lady at the castle, and is informed by her that he will speedily meet a young lady who has saved his life by her careful nursing, anna recognizing him as her recent patient. when the day of sale comes, george and anna are present, and the former buys the castle in obedience to anna's instructions, though he has not a shilling to his name. when the time for payment comes, anna produces the treasure which had been concealed in the statue, and still in the disguise of the white lady reveals to him the secret of his birth during the exile of his parents, and informs him he is julius of avenel. gaveston approaches the spectre, and tears off her veil, revealing anna. moved by the zeal and fidelity of his father's ward, george offers her his hand, which after some maidenly scruples she accepts. in the first act the principal numbers are the opening song of george, "ah! what pleasure a soldier to be"; the characteristic ballad of the white lady with choral responses, "where yon trees your eye discovers"; and the graceful trio in the finale, "heavens! what do i hear." the second act opens with a plaintive romanza, "poor margaret, spin away," sung by margaret, anna's old nurse, at her spinning-wheel, as she thinks of the absent laird, followed in the fifth scene by a beautiful cavatina for tenor, "come, o gentle lady." in the seventh scene there is a charming duet, "from these halls," and the act closes with an ensemble for seven voices and chorus which is extremely effective. the third act opens with a sentimental air for anna, "with what delight i behold," followed in the third scene by a stirring chorus of mountaineers, "hail to our gallant, our new-made lord," and leading up to "the lay ever sung by the clan of avenel"--set to the familiar melody of "robin adair." though somewhat old-fashioned, the opera still retains its freshness, and its refined sentiment finds charming musical expression. cellier, alfred. dorothy. [comic opera, in three acts; text by stephenson. first produced at the gaiety theatre, london, september 25, 1886.] personages. dorothy bantam, squire bantam's daughter. lydia hawthorne, her cousin. priscilla privett, a widow. phyllis, tuppet's daughter. geoffrey wilder, bantam's nephew. harry sherwood, wilder's chum. squire bantam, of chanticleer hall. lurcher, a sheriff's officer. tuppet, the village landlord. tom grass, in love with phyllis. [farm hands, hop-pickers, and ballet.] the scene is laid in kent, england; time, a hundred years ago. the story of "dorothy" is a simple one, but affords much scope for humor. the first act opens in a hop-field, introducing a chorus and dance of the hop-pickers. afterward appears dorothy, daughter of a wealthy squire, who is masquerading in a peasant's dress, and while serving the landlord's customers falls in love with a gentleman whose horse has lost a shoe. her cousin, lydia hawthorne, who is with her in disguise, also falls in love with a customer. each girl gives her lover a ring, and each lover vows he will never part with it; but that same evening at a ball the faithless swains give the rings to two fine ladies, who are none other than dorothy and lydia as their proper selves. after they have parted, the two lovers, wilder and sherwood, play the part of burglars and rob squire bantam. dorothy, disguised in male attire, then challenges her lover, who, though he accepts, displays arrant cowardice, which leads up to the inevitable explanations. incidentally there is much fun growing out of the efforts of lurcher, the sheriff's officer, who has followed wilder and sherwood down from london to collect a bill against the former. in the end wilder and sherwood are united to dorothy and lydia amid great rejoicing at chanticleer hall. the principal numbers are the ballad, "with such a dainty dame"; the song of "the sheriff's man" by lurcher, wilder, and sherwood; the quartette "you swear to be good," and the jolly chorus "under the pump," in the first act; the introduction and country dance, the bass song by bantam, "contentment i give you," and the ballad, "i stand at your threshold," sung by sherwood, in the second act; and the chorus of old women, "dancing is not what it used to be," phyllis' ballad, "the time has come when i must yield" and the septette and chorus, "what joy untold," leading up to the elaborate finale of the last act. chassaique, f. falka. [comic opera, in three acts; text by letterier and vanloo.] personages. kolbach, military governor of montgratz. tancred, his nephew. arthur, student, son of a rich hungarian farmer. lay brother pelican, doorkeeper of the convent. konrad, captain of the governor's pages. tekeli, sergeant of the patrol. boboky, gypsy scout. boleslas, chief of the gypsies. the seneschal, kolbach's steward. falka, niece of kolbach, at the convent school. edwige, sister of boleslas. alexina de kelkirsch, a young heiress. minna, her maid. janotha, landlady of the inn. [military pages, soldiers of the watch, maids of honor, peasants, bohemians, etc.] the scene is laid in hungary; time, the middle of the eighteenth century. the first act of "falka" opens with the announcement that kolbach, the military governor of hungary, has been promised a patent of nobility by the emperor upon the condition that he can establish the succession with a male heir, either direct or collateral. he is childless himself, but he has a niece, falka, who is in a convent, and a nephew, tancred, who is usher in a village school. the brother of kolbach is dead. his hopes for the heir rest upon tancred, whom he has never seen. he summons him to take a place in his house as the heir presumptive. on his way, tancred is captured by a band of gypsies, led by boleslas, but is released by edwige, boleslas' sister, on condition that he marries her. all this has happened in the night, and edwige has not even seen tancred's face. the latter, when he learns who edwige is, flies, and is pursued to the city where kolbach lives by boleslas and edwige. from a pocket-book he has dropped they discover he is the nephew of the governor, and plot to identify him at the meeting, but tancred, overhearing them, decides to baffle them by not appearing, and writes to his uncle that he is detained by illness. in the mean time falka, the niece, has eloped with a young man named arthur. closely pursued by brother pelican, the convent doorkeeper, the fugitives arrive at the inn where kolbach and tancred were to have met. to foil brother pelican, falka arrays herself in a suit of arthur's, and then boldly decides to personate her brother. kolbach is easily deceived, but new complications ensue. brother pelican, finding falka's convent dress, suspects she has disguised herself as a boy and arrests arthur for her. boleslas and edwige, witnessing the meeting of falka and kolbach, are certain falka is the missing tancred. for falka's sake arthur is silent, and the cortège sets out for the castle where the heir presumptive is to be engaged, by the emperor's order, to the rich young alexina de kelkirsch. in the second act brother pelican takes arthur to the convent in falka's dress, and falka remains in a soldier's uniform to win the consent of her uncle to their union. her plans are now disturbed by the arrival of tancred, disguised as a footman, to watch his own interests and thwart the schemes of the young soldier, who he little dreams is his own sister. he is afraid to reveal himself because he knows boleslas is on his track. he contrives that falka shall be accused of broken vows before kolbach, and she is challenged by boleslas, but escapes by revealing her sex to edwige. arthur, who has been brought back from the convent, confesses the interchange of dresses with falka, whereupon kolbach orders them both out of his presence. tancred displays unusual satisfaction, and thus discloses his identity to edwige. thus the act closes with kolbach's discovery that tancred is betrothed to a gypsy and that the pseudo tancred is his niece falka. in the last act kolbach reluctantly prepares for the marriage of tancred to alexina, as the emperor desires. falka is shut up in a tower, whence she is to be sent back to the convent. at this point boleslas appears with edwige. an interview between the two brides leads to the substitution of edwige for alexina, and tancred marries the gypsy. falka escapes from the tower, but is caught and brought before her uncle, who at last pardons her various follies, all the more willingly because he has received a despatch from the emperor that he may adopt her as his heiress, the succession having been settled in the female line. the principal numbers in the first act are the stirring air and refrain, "i'm the captain," sung by edwige, tancred, and boleslas, preluded by a short march movement; a taking little nocturne, "there was no ray of light," sung by edwige; a rondo duet, "for your indulgence"; and the long and elaborate finale, which closes with an octette and full chorus. the second act opens with a charming chorus, "tap, tap," sung by the maids of honor, followed by couplets, "perhaps you will excuse." falka has a pretty air, "yon life it seems," followed by the exit chorus, "ah! is she not a beauty?" this in turn is followed by a characteristic bohemian chorus, "tra-la-la," with a gypsy air, "cradled upon the heather," coming in as a kind of vocal intermezzo. after a long ensemble, "it was tancred," a trio, "oh joy! oh rapture!" is sung, in the course of which there is an ingenious passage burlesquing italian opera, followed by a quintette, "his aspect's not so overpowering," and leading up to an elaborately concerted finale. the last act, though short, contains many brilliant numbers; among them the bridal chorus, "rampart and bastian gray," followed by a lively hungarian rondo and dance, "catchee, catchee"; a romanza "at eventide," which literally passes "from grave to gay, from lively to severe," as it begins with an andante agitato, changing to an andante religioso, and ending with a waltz tempo, and repeating with the same abrupt changes; a charming duo berceuse, "slumber, o sentinel"; and the bell chorus, "there the bells go," preceding a short finale. dekoven, reginald. robin hood. [comic opera, in three acts; text by harry b. smith. first produced in chicago, june 9, 1890.] personages. robert of huntington, afterward robin hood. sheriff of nottingham. sir guy of gisborne, his ward. little john, } will scarlet, } friar tuck, } allan a dale, } outlaws. lady marian fitzwalker, afterwards maid marian. dame durden, a widow. annabel, her daughter. [villagers, milkmaids, outlaws, king's foresters, archers, pedlers, etc.] the scene is laid in england; time of richard the first. the first act of "robin hood" opens in the market-place of nottingham, where the villagers are holding a fair and at the same time celebrating may day with a blithe chorus, for robin hood's name is often associated with that day. the three outlaws allan a dale, little john, and will scarlet, enter, and sing most lustily the praises of their free life in sherwood forest, the villagers joining in chorus. the tantara changes to a graceful and yet hilarious dance chorus, "a morris dance must you entrance," sung fortissimo. the second number is a characteristic and lively song by friar tuck, in which he offers at auction venison, ale, and homespun, followed by no. 3, a humorous pastoral, the milkmaid's song with chorus, "when chanticleer crowing." this leads up to the entrance of robin hood in a spirited chorus, "come the bowmen in lincoln green," in which the free life of the forest is still further extolled. another and still more spirited scene introduces maid marian, which is followed by an expressive and graceful duet for maid marian and robin hood, "though it was within this hour we met," closing in waltz time. this is followed by the sheriff's buffo song with chorus, "i am the merry sheriff of nottingham," and this in turn by a trio introduced by the sheriff, "when a peer makes love to a damsel fair," which, after the entrance of sir guy and his luckless wooing, closes in a gay waltz movement, "sweetheart, my own sweetheart." in the finale robin hood demands that the sheriff shall proclaim him earl. the sheriff declares that by his father's will he has been disinherited, and that he has the documents to show that before robin hood's birth his father was secretly married to a young peasant girl, who died when the earl's first child was born. he further declares that he reared the child, and that he is sir guy, the rightful heir of huntington. maid marian declares she will suppress the king's command and not accept sir guy's hand, and robin hood vows justice shall be done when the king returns from the crusades. the second act opens with a brisk hunting-chorus, "oh! cheerily soundeth the hunter's horn," sung by allan a dale, little john, scarlet, and the male chorus, in the course of which scarlet tells the story of the tailor and the crow, set to a humming accompaniment. this is followed by little john's unctuous apostrophe to the nut-brown ale, "and it's will ye quaff with me, my lads." the next number is a tinkers' song, "'tis merry journeymen we are," with characteristic accompaniment, followed by an elaborate sextette, "oh, see the lambkins play." maid marian sings a joyous forest song, "in greenwood fair," followed by robin hood's serenade, "a troubadour sang to his love," and a quartette in which maid marian declares her love for robin hood and allan a dale vows revenge. in the finale, opening in waltz time, the sheriff is placed in the stocks by the outlaws, who jeer at him while dame durden flouts him, but he is finally rescued by sir guy and his archers. the outlaws in turn find themselves in trouble, and maid marian and robin hood are in despair. the last act opens with a vigorous armorers' song, "let hammer on anvil ring," followed by a pretty romance, "the legend of the chimes," with a ding-dong accompaniment. a graceful duet follows, "there will come a time," in which robin hood and maid marian plight their troth. in strong contrast with this, annabel, dame durden, sir guy, the sheriff, and friar tuck indulge in a vivacious quintette, "when life seems made of pains and pangs, i sing my too-ral-loo-ral-loo." a jolly country dance and chorus, "happy day, happy day," introduce the finale, in which maid marian is saved by the timely arrival of robin hood at the church door with the king's pardon, leaving him free to marry. maid marian. [comic opera, in three acts; text by harry b. smith. first produced at chestnut street opera house, philadelphia, pa., november 4, 1901.] personages. sheriff of nottingham. little john. robin hood. will scarlet. friar tuck. allan a dale. guy of gisborne. dame durden. giles, } geoffrey, } gamekeepers. yussuf, a slave merchant. sir h. vere de vere, } sir hugh montford, } knights of st. george. amina, a snake-charmer. lady vivian. maid marian. [huntsmen, men at arms, saracen warriors, mummers, crusaders, etc.] the scene is laid in england and palestine; time of richard the first. the story of "maid marian" introduces most of the familiar characters in "robin hood" and some new ones, and the scene alternates between sherwood forest and palestine. it is intended as a sequel to the latter opera. the plot begins at the point where maid marian and robin hood were betrothed. robin has joined the crusaders and left marian on the eve of the wedding. he also leaves a letter for marian in little john's charge, directing her in case of trouble to apply to him for help. this letter is stolen by the sheriff of nottingham, who substitutes for it a forged missive calculated to make her believe that robin is false. the first act closes with the arrival of little john and the forest outlaws, who leave for the holy war. marian joins them to seek for robin. the second act opens in the camp of the crusaders, near the city of acre. maid marian has been captured by the saracens and sold into slavery, but is rescued by robin hood. then the sheriff of nottingham and guy of gisborne, the latter still intent upon marrying marian, appear in the disguise of merchants and betray the camp into the hands of the saracens. dame durden's encounter with the sheriff and friar tuck's antics as an odalisque add merriment to the story. in the last act all the principals are back in england and the scene opens with a christmas revel in huntington castle. robin thwarts all the schemes of the sheriff, comes into his rights, and is reunited to maid marian. while the story lacks in interest as compared with that of "robin hood," the music gains in dramatic power and seriousness of purpose, and at the same time is full of life and vivacity. the overture is notable for being in genuine concert form,--the first instance of the kind in comic opera for many years past,--and thus naturally sets the pace, as it were, for the opera, and gives the clew to its musical contents. the most noticeable numbers in the first act are the cellarer's toast, "the cellar is dark and the cellar is deep," a rollicking song for scarlet, friar tuck, and chorus; the charmingly melodious "song of the falcon," "let one who will go hunt the deer," for maid marian; the sheriff's song, "i am the sheriff mild and good," which is always popular; and a delightful madrigal, the quintette "love may come and love may go." the second act contains many pleasing and characteristic songs, among them "the monk and the magpie," sung by scarlet and chorus; the "song of the outlaw," a spirited ballad by robin hood; the sheriff's serenade, a popular tune, "when a man is in love"; "the snake charmer's song," by maid marian; and the vigorous "song of the crusader" by robin; but the two most effective numbers are a graceful song, "tell me again, sweetheart," sung by allan a dale, and the duet in waltz manner, "true love is not for a day," by robin and marian. the third act is largely choral, the introductory christmas carolling and dance rhythms being especially effective, but it contains one of the best solo numbers in the work, the dainty song with chorus, "under the mistletoe bough." the music throughout is dramatic, strong, and well written. while the opera has not been as popular as its predecessor, yet the music is of a higher order, and occasionally approaches grand opera in its breadth and earnestness. rob roy. [romantic comic opera, in three acts; text by harry b. smith. first produced at the herald square theatre, new york, october 29, 1894.] personages. rob roy macgregor, highland chief. janet, daughter of the mayor. prince charles edward stuart, the young pretender. flora macdonald, partisan of the pretender. dugald macwheeble, mayor of perth. lochiel, otherwise donald cameron. capt. ralph sheridan, of the grenadiers. sandy macsherry, town-crier. tammas macsorlie, the mayor's henchman. lieut. cornwallis, of the grenadiers. lieut. clinton. angus macallister. duncan campbell. stuart macpherson. donald macalpine. nellie, barmaid of "the crown and thistle." [highlanders, lowlanders, townsmen, watchmen, drummer-boys, english grenadiers, etc.] the scene is laid in scotland; time of george the second. the first act of "rob roy" opens in perth, where lochiel and his highlanders have stolen a considerable sum of money in the keeping of the provost, with which they propose to aid prince charles stuart in his designs upon the english throne. flora macdonald, a zealous partisan of the young pretender, appears upon the scene, and induces the provost to consent to a gathering of the clans in perth. hearing of a scotch victory, he compels his daughter janet to marry sandy macsherry, the town-crier, who claims relationship with the stuarts. in the mean time english grenadiers enter perth, and their captain, ralph sheridan, falls in love with janet. the provost, who is always on the side that is uppermost, forces his daughter to declare herself the captain's wife and then accuses sandy of stealing the missing money. janet obeys him, but immediately afterwards rob roy captures the town, and the provost, to get rid of his new english son-in-law, causes his arrest. it now appears that the crafty janet when she went through the scotch form of marriage with sandy and the captain was already secretly married to rob roy. to escape her two nominal husbands she proposes to go with rob roy's highlanders as his orderly. the act closes with the gathering of the clans and the elevation of the standard. the second act opens with the defeat of the scotch at culloden. a reward is offered for the prince, who is in hiding among the macgregors in their mountain stronghold. the provost and his henchmen appear as strolling balladmongers, still in highland dress, and not having heard of the scotch defeat. when sandy macsherry arrives with the news of the english victory, the provost gets into english uniform at once, and determines to secure the reward offered for the prince. at last the prince is found by the english, but when they are about to take him away, flora macdonald appears in the prince's costume, declares him her servant, and is led away by the soldiers in spite of the efforts of rob roy and the prince to rescue her. the third act opens near stirling castle, where flora is confined under sentence of death on the morrow. lochiel aids her to escape, and she goes to the macgregors' cave, where the prince is to join her. meanwhile, her cell being empty, lochiel, who has taken the turnkey's place, puts sandy in it. the provost, who is now an english corporal, supposing that flora is still in the castle, brings her a disguise costume in which sandy manages to effect his escape. flora is found in the cave and brought back to the camp, but is saved from being shot by the timely arrival of the prince, who gives himself up. as he is about to be executed, the lowlanders around him throw off their coats and stand revealed as armed highlanders. they keep the english soldiers at bay while the prince and flora are seen sailing away for france. in the first act, after a long choral scene and ensemble, flora makes her entrance with the spirited song, "away in the morning early," which is followed by a sentimental duet with the prince, "thou, dear heart." the town-crier next has a characteristic song with a ding-dong accompaniment. after a grenadier song and chorus by captain sheridan and his soldiers, there is a vigorous highland chorus and song by rob roy, "the white and the red, huzzah." the remaining prominent numbers in this act are a pretty duet for rob roy and janet, "there he is and nae one wi' him"; a charming scotch ballad, "my hame is where the heather blooms," and a humorous song by the provost, "my hairt is in the highlands." the principal numbers in the second act are janet's joyous song, "there was a merry miller of the lowland"; the spirited martial lay of the cavalier, "with their trappings all a-jingle"; the jolly song of the balladmongers, "from place to place i fare, lads"; rob roy's song, "come, lairds of the highlands"; and the effective romanza, "dearest heart of my heart," sung by flora. the third act opens with a vigorous rataplan chorus followed by a charming chansonette and duet, "who can tell me where she dwells," sung by the prince and flora. the remaining numbers are a short but exceedingly effective bass song, "in the donjon deep"; the provost's serenade, "the land of romances," followed by a dance, and a pretty little rustic song, "there's a lass, some think her bonny," for rob roy, janet, and chorus, leading up to a vigorous choral finale. the fencing-master. [comic opera, in three acts; text by harry b. smith. first produced at the new york casino, november 14, 1892.] personages. francesca, torquato's daughter, brought up as a boy. torquato, fencing-master of the milanese court. pasquino, private astrologer to the duke. galeazzo visconti, duke of milan. count guido malespine. filippa, the duke's ward. marchesa di goldoni. theresa, daughter of a milanese money-lender. pietro, an innkeeper. michaele steno, doge of venice. rinaldo, captain of the doge's guards. fortunio, rightful heir to the ducal throne. [students in torquato's academy.] the scene is laid in milan and venice; time, the first quarter of the fifteenth century. the heroine of this opera is francesca, daughter of a fencing-master, who has brought her up as a boy and taught her fencing among other accomplishments. she is in love with fortunio, rightful heir to the throne of milan, who believes her to be a boy. fortunio in turn is in love with the countess filippa, and the marchesa di goldoni, a young widow, is in love with francesca. the bankrupt and usurping duke of milan and his private astrologer, of whom he has purchased so many horoscopes as to deplete his exchequer, furnish the comedy element of the opera. the duke has mortgaged one room after another in his palace to money-lenders, and has also employed a regularly organized stock company of venetian bravos to remove fortunio. the first act closes with the departure of fortunio and francesca to venice on political business. the second act opens in venice. filippa has been sent there to be married, but fortunio plans an elopement with her and entrusts the secret to francesca. the jealous francesca betrays the plan to guido, his rival, who abducts filippa. when fortunio discovers what francesca has done, he challenges the supposed young man, whose identity is revealed after he has wounded her. fortunio is arrested by the duke and is about to be taken to prison, when francesca declares herself as the real traitor and is imprisoned in his stead. in the last act francesca escapes through the connivance of the marchesa, who still believes her to be a man. at a fête filippa is expected to name her future husband. fortunio has made an appointment with her, but meets francesca disguised as the countess, in a mask and domino like hers. she learns from fortunio that he really loves her and not filippa. the opera closes with the downfall of the usurping duke and his astrologer and the restoration of fortunio to his rights. the music has the italian color, the first act containing a graceful tarantella and chorus, "under thy window i wait"; a duet, gavotte, and chorus, "oh, listen, and in verse i will relate," sung by theresa and pasquino; a lively song, "the life of a rover," by fortunio; a charming habanera and quintette, "true love is a gem so fair and rare"; and a waltz quintette, "lady fair, i must decline." the second act opens with a barcarole, "over the moonlit waves we glide," and contains also a graceful maranesca, "oh, come, my love, the stars are bright"; a humorous serenade for the duke, "singing a serenade is no light task"; a sentimental romanza for francesca, "the nightingale and the rose"; and a brilliant finale in which the music accompanies the historic ceremony of the marriage with the adriatic. the principal numbers of the third act are a graceful carnival scene with chorus opening the act; the serenade for the marchesa and cavaliers, "wild bird that singeth"; a will-o'-the-wisp song by francesca, "traveller wandering wearily"; and a melodious duet for francesca and fortunio, "dwells an image in my heart," leading up to a short finale. delibes, leo. lakmé. [romantic opera, in three acts; text by goudinet and gille. first produced at the opéra comique, paris, april 14, 1883; in new york, march 1, 1886.] personages. lakmé, daughter of nilakantha. nilakantha, a brahmin priest. gerald, an english officer, lover of lakmé. frederick, an english officer. mallika, slave of lakmé. hadji, slave of lakmé. ellen, } rose, } daughters of the viceroy. mrs. benson, their governess. [hindoos, chinamen, fruit-venders, sailors, etc.] the scene is laid in india; time, last century. the opera of "lakmé" opens in the sacred grounds of nilakantha, a brahmin priest who has an aversion to all foreigners, where gerald and frederick, two young english officers, with ladies are strolling about. they gradually retire with the exception of gerald, who is curious to see the owner of some jewels left upon a shrine. lakmé, the daughter of nilakantha, returns for them, espies gerald, and there is a case of love at first sight. the priest however interrupts their demonstrations, and gerald escapes his vengeance in a convenient thunder-storm. in the second act lakmé and nilakantha appear in the market-place in the guise of penitents. he forces his daughter to sing, hoping that her voice will induce her lover to disclose himself. the scheme succeeds, and nilakantha, stealing upon gerald, stabs him in the back and makes good his escape. the third act opens in a jungle where lakmé is nursing gerald with the hope of retaining his love. she eventually saves his life, but while she is absent to obtain some water which, according to the indian legend, will make love eternal, frederick finds him and urges him to return to his regiment. duty is more powerful than passion, and he consents. when lakmé finds that he is going, she takes poison and dies in gerald's arms. the first act opens with a chorus of hindoos, oriental in its coloring, followed by a duet between lakmé and her father, the scene closing with a sacred chant. a beautiful duet for lakmé and her slave follows, "neath yon dome where jasmines with the roses are blooming." as lakmé appears at the shrine, she sings a restless love song, "why love i thus to stray?" followed by gerald's ardent response, "the god of truth so glowing." the first number of importance in the second act is the pathetic aria of nilakantha, addressed to his daughter, "lakmé, thy soft looks are over-clouded." then follows lakmé's bell song, "where strays the hindoo maiden," a brilliant and gracefully embellished aria with tinkling accompaniment which will always be popular. the remaining principal numbers are an impassioned song by gerald, "ah! then 'tis slumbering love," followed by the mysterious response from lakmé, "in the forest near at hand." the music of the third act is tinged with sadness throughout, as the action hastens to the tragic dénouement. its principal numbers are the low murmuring song by lakmé, "'neath the dome of moon and star," as she watches her sleeping lover; gerald's song, "tho' speechless i, my heart remembers," followed by a pretty three-part chorus in the distance; and lakmé's last dying songs, "to me the fairest dream thou'st given," and "farewell, the dream is over." donizetti, gaetano. the daughter of the regiment. [opéra comique, in two acts; text by bayard and st. georges. first produced at the opéra comique, paris, february 11, 1840.] personages. sulpice, an old sergeant. tony, a tyrolean peasant in love with marie. hortensius, secretary of the marchioness. marie, the adopted daughter of the regiment. marchioness de berkenfeld. duchesse de crackenthorpe. [villagers, soldiers, gentlemen, guests.] the scene is laid in the tyrol; time, about twelve years after the battle of marengo. at the opening of the opera marie, the heroine, and vivandière in napoleon's twenty-first regiment, has been saved from falling over a precipice by tony, a tyrolean peasant, and is ever after the object of his special admiration and, shortly, of his love. she tells the story of her life, from which it appears that she was adopted as the daughter of the regiment because she was picked up on the field of battle by sergeant sulpice, who found upon her person a letter written by her father to the marchioness de berkenfeld. tony's reward for his rescue of marie is his arrest as a spy, but not before he has declared his love for her. he easily clears up his record, and the soldiers decide he may have marie's hand if he will join them. he gives joyous assent to this proposition, but his hopes are suddenly dashed to the ground when the marchioness de berkenfeld appears. sergeant sulpice delivers the letter to her, after reading which she claims marie as her niece, and carries her off amidst smothered imprecations by the soldiers and especially by tony upon the marchioness. in the second act marie is found in her new home at the castle of berkenfeld, and the old sergeant is with her, while she is rehearsing a romance which she is to sing to a grand company. she and sulpice suddenly break out into a rollicking rataplan, and go through military evolutions to the horror of the marchioness. while the latter is expostulating with them, martial music announces the approach of the gallant twenty-first, with tony at their head, for he is now a colonel. he makes another appeal for marie's hand, and the appeal is seconded by the soldiers, but the marchioness refuses the favor. tony then proposes an elopement, to which marie consents. to thwart this scheme, the marchioness announces that early in life she had been secretly married to an army officer of low rank and that he was marie's father. unable to disobey her mother's wishes, marie gives up tony and falls into a melancholy mood. her sad plight rouses old associations in the mind of the marchioness, and she at last gives her consent to the union. the music of the first act is very brilliant, and includes among its best numbers marie's opening song, "the camp was my birthplace"; the duet with sulpice, known the world over as "the rataplan," stirring and martial in its character and accompanied by the rattling of drums and the sonorous strains of the brasses; the spirited "salute to france"; marie's song of the regiment, "all men confess it"; her pretty duet with tony, "no longer can i doubt it"; and her touching adieu to the regiment, "farewell, a long farewell." in the second act the principal numbers are the "rataplan" (repeated); marie's aria, "by the glitter of greatness and riches"; the soldiers' spirited choral appeal, "we have come our child to free"; tony's romance, "that i might live in her dear sight"; and the effective trio, "once again, what delight," leading to the exultant finale. the music of the opera is light, but exceedingly brilliant, and the leading rôles have always been esteemed by great artists. that of marie was a favorite one with jenny lind, patti, sontag, and albani. don pasquale. [opera buffa, in three acts; text and music by donizetti. first produced at the theatre des italiens, paris, january 4, 1843.] personages. don pasquale, an obstinate but kind-hearted bachelor. dr. malatesta, his friend and physician. ernesto, don pasquale's nephew. norina, a young widow. notary. [valets, chambermaids, majordomo, dressmaker, etc.] the scene is laid in rome; time, last century. the opening of the first act of "don pasquale" discloses the don enraged with ernesto, his nephew, because he will not marry to suit him. dr. malatesta, a mutual friend, comes to the help of ernesto, to whom he is greatly attached, and contrives a scheme to further his interests. he urges the don to marry a lady, pretending she is his (the doctor's) sister, in reality norina, with whom ernesto is in love. norina is let into the secret, her part being to consent to the marriage contract and then so torment don pasquale that he will be glad to get rid of her and even consent to her marriage with ernesto. in the second act ernesto is found bewailing his fate. the don enters, showily arrayed for his wedding. norina appears with the doctor, and shyly and reluctantly signs the wedding-contract. as soon as she has signed it, however, she drops all modesty. the bewildered ernesto is kept quiet by signs from the doctor. norina first refuses all the don's demonstrations, and then declares ernesto shall be her escort. she summons the servants, and lays out a scheme of housekeeping upon such an extravagant scale that don pasquale declares he will not pay the bills. she says he shall, as she is now master of the house. in the third act norina continues her annoying antics. she employs the most expensive milliners and modistes. at length, when he finds that she is going to the theatre, he forbids it. a quarrel follows. she boxes his ears, and as she flounces out of the room she purposely drops a letter, the contents of which add jealousy to his other troubles. at this juncture dr. malatesta comes in and condoles with him. nothing will satisfy don pasquale, however, except her leaving the house, and finally he orders her to go, at the same time taxing her with having a lover concealed on the premises. the doctor pleads with him to let his nephew marry norina. when he finds she is really the doctor's sister, he is only too glad to get out of his troubles by consenting to the marriage of the young couple and blessing them. the principal numbers in the first act are the duet for ernesto and don pasquale; the scena for norina, "and in that look she gave"; and the charming duet for norina and the doctor, "what sport we'll have," closing the act. the second act opens with the lugubrious aria, "oh! how at one fell blow," in which ernesto bewails his sad condition, and also contains a charming quartette. the gem of the opera is the serenade in the last act, "how soft the air -in april night so fair," better known perhaps by its italian title, "com 'e gentil," which was inserted by donizetti after the first performance to strengthen the work and make it more popular. the serenade has been heard the world over and is a favorite concert number still. the charm of "don pasquale" lies in its humorous situations and the bright, melodious music which illustrates them. for brilliant gayety it stands in the front rank of comic operas. linda. [grand opera, in three acts; text by rossi. first produced at the kärnthnerthor theatre, vienna, may 19, 1842.] personages. linda, daughter of antonio. pierotto, a villager. antonio, a farmer. madalina, his wife. marquis of boisfleury. carlo, the marquis' son. prefect. [villagers, savoyards, etc.] the scene is laid in switzerland; time, last century. the first act of "linda de chamouni" opens in the valley of that name, and discloses the home of antonio lonstolat, a farmer, and his old wife, madalina, whose only daughter, linda, is in love with carlo, a young painter who has recently come into the valley. misfortunes have overtaken the old couple, and they are in danger of losing their farm, which is owned by the marchioness de sirval. their anxiety is temporarily relieved when the marquis of boisfleury visits them and assures them he will save the farm, his real purpose being to effect the ruin of linda by ingratiating himself with her parents. the prefect of the village, however, is aware of his designs, and induces them to let linda accompany a party of villagers to paris, promising at the same time to place her with his brother, who is supposed to be living in that city. she soon leaves under the protection of pierotto, the savoyard. the second act discloses them on the way to paris, but linda unfortunately loses her companion. upon reaching paris she finds that the prefect's brother is dead. meanwhile carlo, who has followed her, arrives, and reveals to her that he is the viscount sirval, son of the marchioness, and nephew of the marquis. he renews his offer of marriage, and places her in a handsome apartment. in these questionable surroundings pierotto discovers her. her father, who has had to give up the farm, also finds her, and, distrusting her innocence amid such luxury, curses her. the marchioness meanwhile, who has learned of her son's attachment, threatens to imprison linda if he does not marry the lady she has selected for him. he gives his feigned consent, and linda, thinking he has deserted her, goes insane. in the last act pierotto takes her back to her native village. carlo arrives there in search of her, and finding her with pierotto sings to her, hoping she will recognize his voice and that her reason may return. the song has the desired effect. subsequently the marchioness relents, gives her consent to their union, and all ends happily. the music of "linda" is of that serious and dignified kind which justifies its inclusion in the list of grand operas. in the first act the opening aria of antonio, "we were both in this valley nurtured," is a touching expression of the sorrow of the aged couple. linda's farewell, "oh, stars that guide my fervent love," familiar on the concert stage by its italian title, "o, luce di quest' anima," is an aria of strong dramatic power, and has always been a popular favorite. in this act also are pierotto's pathetic ballad, "once a better fortune seeking," and the passionate duet for linda and carlo, "oh that the blessed day were come." the principal numbers in the second act are the brilliant duet for linda and pierotto, "oh, linda, at thy happy fate," which is highly embellished, and the aria for linda, "ah! go, my love." the last act contains a mournful aria by carlo, "if from heaven the bolts should reach me"; his charming song in which he appeals to linda, "hear the voice that, softly singing"; and the rapturous duet for linda and carlo, "ah! the vision of thy sorrow fades," which closes the opera. the elixir of love. [opera buffa, in two acts; text by romani. first produced in milan in 1832; in english at drury lane theatre, london, in 1839.] personages. nemorino, a young husbandman. sergeant belcore. dr. dulcamara, a travelling quack. landlord. notary. pietro, peasant. adina, a country girl. gianetta, } floretta, } her companions. [farmers, peasants, soldiers, villagers, etc.] the scene is laid in an italian village; time, last century. few more graceful little operas have been written than "the elixir of love." its heroine, adina, a capricious country girl, is loved by nemorino, a farmer, whose uncle lies at the point of death, also by belcore, a sergeant, whose troops are billeted upon the neighboring village. adina has both her lovers in suspense when dr. dulcamara, a quack, arrives in the village to sell his nostrums. nemorino applies to him for a bottle of the elixir of love, and receives from him a bottle of ordinary wine with the assurance that if he drinks of it he can command the love of any one on the morrow. to make sure of its agreeable properties, he drinks the whole of it with the result that he accosts adina in a half-tipsy condition, and so disgusts her that she promises to marry the sergeant in a week. in the mean time an order comes for the departure of the troops, and the sergeant presses her to marry him that day. adina gives her consent, and the second act opens with the assembling of the villagers to witness the signing of the marriage contract. while the principals and notary retire for the signing, nemorino enters, and finding dr. dulcamara begs of him some charm that will make adina love him; but as he has no money the quack refuses to assist him. nemorino is in despair, but at this juncture the sergeant enters out of humor, as the capricious adina has refused to sign until evening. finding that nemorino needs money, he urges him to enlist, and for the sake of the bonus of twenty crowns he consents. nemorino hastens with the money to the quack, and obtains a second bottle of elixir which is much more powerful than the first. the girls of the village somehow have discovered that nemorino's uncle has died and left him a handsome property, of which good fortune, however, nemorino is ignorant. they use all their charms to attract his favor. nemorino attributes his sudden popularity to the elixir, and even the quack himself is surprised at the remarkable change in his customer. nemorino now pays adina off in kind by making her jealous. dr. dulcamara comes to her assistance, seeing an opportunity for the sale of more elixir. he explains its properties to her, tells her of nemorino's attachment, and advises her to try some of it. struck with his devotion, she announces another change of mind to the sergeant, and bestows her hand upon the faithful nemorino. the opera abounds with bright and gay musical numbers, the most attractive of which are the long and characteristic buffo song, "give ear now, ye rustic ones," in which dr. dulcamara describes his various nostrums to the villagers; the charmingly humorous duet, "much obliged," for nemorino and dr. dulcamara; and the ensemble, "the wine-cup full teeming," in which the half-tipsy nemorino appears in the finale of the first act. the prominent numbers of the second act are the beautiful duet, "what affection and oh, how cruel," for adina and dr. dulcamara; the beautiful romanza for nemorino, "in her dark eye embathed there stood" ("una furtiva lacrima"), which is of world-wide popularity; and adina's gracefully melodious aria, "so much joy is more than my heart can contain." eichberg, julius. the doctor of alcantara. [comic operetta, in two acts; text by wolfe. first produced at the museum, boston, mass., april 7, 1862.] personages. dr. paracelsus. señor balthazar. carlos, his son. perez, } sancho, } porters. don pomposo, alguazil. donna lucrezia, wife of dr. paracelsus. isabella, her daughter. inez, her maid. [serenaders, citizens, etc.] the scene is laid in alcantara, spain; time, last century. the first act of this operetta opens with a dainty serenade by carlos, son of señor balthazar, to señorita isabella, daughter of dr. paracelsus, with whom he is in love. isabella, who is intended for another by her mother, donna lucrezia, prefers this unknown serenader. as the song closes, isabella, lucrezia, and even the maid inez claim it as a compliment, and quarrel over it in an effective buffo trio, "you saucy jade." three songs follow this number,--"beneath the gloomy convent wall," "when a lover is poor," and "there was a knight, as i've been told," in which the three women recite their unfortunate love affairs. as their songs close, the doctor enters with the announcement that a basket has arrived, ostensibly for inez. the curious lucrezia looks into it, and finds carlos, who immediately jumps out and sings a passionate love-song, "i love, i love," which the infatuated lucrezia takes to herself. the love scene is interrupted by a sudden noise, and in alarm she hurries carlos back into the basket and flies. carlos in the mean time gets out again and fills it with books. the doctor and inez enter, and to conceal the receipt of the basket from lucrezia, as she might be angry with the maid, they remove it to a balcony, whence by accident it tumbles into the river. their terror when they learn that a man was concealed in it makes an amusing scene, and this is heightened by the entrance of the alguazil, who announces himself in a pompous bass song, "i'm don hypolito lopez pomposo," and inquires into the supposed murder. in the second act the situation becomes still further complicated when the doctor and inez find carlos in the house. convinced that he is a detective, they seek to conciliate him by offering him wine, but by mistake give him a narcotic draught which the doctor had mixed for one of his patients. carlos falls insensible, and thinking him dead, they hide him under a sofa. meanwhile señor balthazar, the father of the youth whom isabella supposes she is to be forced to marry, and who turns out to be carlos, arrives to pass the night. as they have no bed for him, he sleeps upon the sofa over the supposed corpse of his own son. a quartette, "good-night, señor balthazar," follows, which is full of humor, mingled with ghostly terror, and grotesque in its effect, especially in the accompaniment. daylight, however, dispels the illusion, and a happy dénouement is reached in the finale, "hope, ever smiling," which is quite brilliant in character. the operetta is very amusing in its situations, the songs are pretty and tuneful, and the concerted music is particularly effective. flotow, friedrich von. martha. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by st. georges. first produced in vienna, november 25, 1847.] personages. plunkett, a wealthy young farmer. lionel, his adopted brother, afterwards earl of derby. lord tristan mickleford, lady henrietta's cousin. sheriff of richmond, footman to lady henrietta. lady henrietta, maid of honor to the queen. nancy, her waiting-maid. molly pitt, } polly smith, } betsy witt, } servants. [farmers, farmers' wives, servants, ladies, hunters, huntresses, and footmen.] the scene is laid in richmond, england; time of queen anne. the first act of "martha," unquestionably the most popular of all light operas, opens during the progress of the servants' fair at richmond, whither lady henrietta, maid of honor to the queen, accompanied by nancy, her maid, and sir tristan, her aged cousin and admirer, tired of court life, have resorted in the disguise of servants. in the first three scenes they arrange their masquerade. sir tristan, much to his disgust, is to be known as john, and lady henrietta as martha. the first number is a duet for the two ladies, "of the knights so brave and charming," followed by an animated trio with sir tristan, in dance time. the fourth scene is laid in the market-place, in which appear plunkett, a wealthy farmer, and lionel, his adopted brother. the parentage of the latter is unknown, but he has a souvenir from his father in the form of a ring which he is to present to the queen whenever he shall find himself in trouble. lionel tells his story in a tenor aria, "lost, proscribed, a humble stranger," which has been a favorite song the world over for years. the two have come to the fair to engage servants for the year, who are bound over by the sheriff. plunkett and lionel meet martha and nancy, and are so delighted with their looks that they tender the customary bonus which secures them. they accept it as a joke, but find that it is a serious matter when the young farmers drive off with them, leaving sir tristan in despair. the second act opens in plunkett's farmhouse. after having learned their names, plunkett attempts to find out what they can do, and tests them first at the spinning-wheel, which leads up to the delightful spinning quartette, "when the foot the wheel turns lightly." it does not take the brothers long to find out that they have engaged servants who are more ornamental than useful, but they decide to keep them. nancy in a pet kicks her wheel over and runs off, followed by plunkett, leaving lionel alone with martha. he at once falls in love with her, snatches a rose from her bosom, and refuses to return it unless she will sing. she replies with the familiar song, "the last rose of summer," interpolated by flotow, and made still more effective by introducing the tenor in the refrain. he asks for her hand, but she makes sport of him. in the mean time plunkett and nancy return, and a beautiful good-night quartette follows, "midnight sounds." the brothers then retire, and martha and nancy, aided by sir tristan, make their escape. the next scene opens in the woods where farmers are carousing; among them plunkett, who sings a rollicking drinking-song, "i want to ask you." the revel is interrupted by a hunting-party of court ladies, headed by the queen. martha and nancy are among them, and are recognized by plunkett and lionel, but they are not recognized in turn. plunkett attempts to seize nancy, but the huntresses drive him off, leaving lionel and lady henrietta alone. the scene is one of the most effective in the opera, and contains a beautiful tenor solo, "like a dream bright and fair"--better known perhaps by its italian title, "m'appari," and a romance for soprano, "here in deepest forest shadows," the act closing with a finely concerted quintette and chorus. the despairing lionel bethinks him of his ring, gives it to plunkett, and asks him to show it to the queen. it proves that he is the only son of the late earl of derby, and his estate, of which he has been unjustly deprived, is restored to him. the opera reaches its musical climax in the second act. the third is mainly devoted to the dénouement. the lady henrietta, who has really been seriously in love with lionel, is united to him, and it hardly needs to be added that nancy and plunkett go and do likewise. stradella. [romantic opera, in three acts; text by deschamps and pacini. first produced as a lyric drama at the palais royal theatre, paris, in 1837; rewritten and produced in its present form, at hamburg, december 30, 1844.] personages. alessandro stradella, a famous singer. bassi, a rich venetian. leonora, his ward. barbarino, } malvolio, } bandits. [pupils of stradella, masqueraders, guards, and people of the romagna.] the scene is laid in venice and rome; time, the year 1769. the story of the opera follows in the main the familiar historical, and probably apochryphal, narrative of the experiences of the italian musician, alessandro stradella, varying from it only in the dénouement. stradella wins the hand of leonora, the fair ward of the wealthy venetian merchant, bassi, who is also in love with her. they fly to rome and are married, but in the mean time are pursued by two bravos, barbarino and malvolio, who have been employed by bassi to make way with stradella. they track him to his house, and while the bridal party are absent, they enter in company with bassi and conceal themselves. not being able to accomplish their purpose on this occasion, they secure admission a second time, disguised as pilgrims, and are kindly received by stradella. in the next scene, while stradella, leonora, and the two bravos are singing the praises of their native italy, pilgrims on their way to the shrine of the virgin are heard singing outside, and leonora and stradella go out to greet them. the bravos are so touched by stradella's singing that they hesitate in their purpose. bassi upbraids them, and finally, upon receiving an additional sum of money, they agree to execute his designs, and conceal themselves. when stradella returns and rehearses a hymn to the virgin which he is to sing on the morrow, they are so affected that they emerge from their hiding-place, confess the object of their visit, and implore his forgiveness. explanations follow, a reconciliation is effected, and the lovers are made happy. this dénouement differs from that of the historical version, in which both lovers are killed. the principal numbers are stradella's serenade, "hark! dearest, hark"; the following nocturne, "through the valleys"; the brilliant carnival chorus, "joyous ringing, pleasure singing," in the first act: the aria of leonora in her chamber, "be witness to my fond heart's dreaming," the rollicking drinking-song of the two bravos, "quick, let us drink," and the bandit ballad, "within lofty mountains," sung by stradella, in the second act; and an exquisite terzetto, "tell me, then, friend barbarino," sung by bassi and the two bravos when they hesitate to perform their work; and stradella's lovely hymn to the virgin, "virgin maria, humbly adoring," in the third act. genée, richard. nanon. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by zell. first produced in vienna in 1877.] personages. marquis de marsillac. hector, his nephew. marquis d' aubigné, king's chamberlain. bombardine, his henchman. louis xiv. mons. l'abbé. nanon, mistress of the golden lamb. ninon de l'enclos, a famous beauty. mme. de frontenac, } countess houliers, } ninon's friends. gaston. mme. de maintenon, king's mistress. [country relatives, peasants, soldiers, courtiers, ladies, etc.] the scene is laid in paris; time of louis the fourteenth. the first act opens at the inn of the golden lamb, near the gates of paris, kept by nanon, who has become so famous for her wit and beauty that the marquis de marsillac, director of the royal theatre, takes his nephew hector there to see her. thither also goes ninon de l'enclos, the famous beauty, to get a sight of nanon, who, she suspects, has attracted the attentions of her own lover, the marquis d'aubigné. she is told that nanon is to be married to grignan, the drummer, and returns to the city with her suspicions allayed. grignan, however, is in reality the marquis, who, in the disguise of a drummer, intends to abduct nanon. after a serenade to her she surprises him with a proposal of marriage; but when everything is ready for the ceremony, the marquis secures his own arrest by his colonel on account of a duel. while grieving over the arrest, nanon receives a ring and some friendly assurances from gaston, the page of ninon de l'enclos, and thereupon turns to her for help in rescuing the supposed grignan from death, which is the penalty for duelling. the second act opens in ninon's salon. marsillac, his nephew, and an abbé, who is one of ninon's lovers and confessor of mme. de maintenon, are present at a ball, likewise d'aubigné, who is reproached by ninon for having remained away so long and forgotten her birthday. to escape embarrassment he sings to her the same serenade he had sung to nanon. shortly afterwards nanon arrives to seek ninon's aid in saving grignan. in the mean time d'aubigné, jealous of hector, because he pays court both to nanon and ninon, challenges him, and they hurry into the latter's garden and settle their quarrel with the sword. during their absence marsillac, who has noted grignan's serenade, also sings it, accompanied by the musicians of the court chapel, but is only laughed at for his trouble. when d'aubigné returns from the duel, he is asked to clear up the mystery of this song; but before he can do so the guard, who has seen the duel, enters and arrests hector, who has been wounded and refuses to give the name of his opponent. the third act opens in the private chapel of mme. de maintenon, where the abbé sings to her the same serenade in the form of a hymn. marsillac appears to ask for hector's pardon, and receives it when it appears that d'aubigné was the challenging party. d'aubigné thereupon congratulates her upon her birthday with the serenade, and marsillac repeats it. ninon and nanon next appear to intercede for their lovers, d'aubigné and grignan. the king presents nanon with the life of grignan, and she in turn, recognizing grignan, presents the pardon to ninon. touched by her generosity, grignan offers nanon his hand, and mme. de maintenon, who is somewhat uneasy at the king's evident admiration for nanon, gives her consent and she is made marquise d'aubigné. the music of "nanon" is gay and brilliant throughout. the principal numbers are the serenade, a minstrel's song, as it is usually designated, "ah! what a joyful day is this; i am so full of glee," which is heard in various forms in all three acts; the opening drinking-choruses; nanon's ballad, "once before this tavern straying"; the jolly chorus of the country relatives, "here we come in troops of dozens, uncles, nephews, aunts, and cousins"; gaston's ballad, "all that frenchmen now will heed"; hector's song, "young appearing," in the second act; and the lively concerted finale of the last act. gounod, charles. mirella. [pastoral opera, in three acts; text by carré. first produced at the théâtre lyrique, paris, march 19, 1864.] personages. mirella, daughter of raimondo. tavena, a fortune-teller. andreluno, a shepherd boy. vincenzina, sister of vincenzo. clemenza, a peasant girl. vincenzo, lover of mirella. urias, his rival. raimondo, a wealthy farmer. ambrogio, father of vincenzo. [villagers, citizens, etc.] the scene is laid in provence; time, the last century. the opera of "mirella," in france known as "mireille," is founded upon the "mireio" of mistral, the provençal poet, and was originally written in five acts. subsequently it was reduced to three acts and a waltz was added to the finale. though one of the lighter of gounod's operas, and not very strong dramatically, it has great lyric beauty. the first scene opens in a mulberry grove. mirella is rallied by the girls upon her love for vincenzo, the basket-maker, and is also warned by tavena, the fortune-teller, against yielding to her attachment, as she foresees that raimondo, mirella's father, will never consent to the union. when she meets her lover, however, they renew their pledges and arrange, if their plans are thwarted, to meet at the chapel of the virgin. the second act opens with a merry-making at arles. tavena informs mirella that vincenzo has a rival in urias, a wild herdsman, who has asked her hand of her father. mirella however repulses him when he brings the father's consent. ambrogio, vincenzo's father, and his daughter, vincenzina, intercede with raimondo in vincenzo's behalf, but in vain. mirella, who has overheard them, declares to her father her irrevocable attachment for vincenzo, which throws him into such a rage that he is about to strike her. she is saved from the blow by appealing to the memory of her mother. the last act opens upon a desolate sunburned plain. mirella appears toiling across the hot sands to keep her appointment with her lover at the chapel of the virgin, accompanied by andreluno, the shepherd boy, singing to the accompaniment of his pipe. tavena meets them, and assures mirella that vincenzo will keep his appointment, and then returns to arles to plead with the father in mirella's behalf. the poor girl arrives at the chapel nearly prostrated with the burning heat. vincenzo soon appears, and is shortly followed by raimondo, who is so affected by the pitiable condition of his daughter, that he gives his consent to their union. a biographer of gounod has condensed the story of the opera into these few words: "a rich young girl, a poor young man, an ill-fated love; and death of the young girl by sunstroke." in the revised version the dénouement is happy instead of tragic. the first act opens with the pretty and graceful pastoral chorus of the maidens under the mulberry-trees, "sing, happy maidens, as we gather." the second act also opens with an equally graceful chorus and farandole, "the gay farandole never fails to delight," followed by a beautiful provençal folk song, "evening is sweet with summer flowers," which is full of local color. tavena sings a quaint fortune-teller's roundelay, "'tis the season of the year," and in the next scene mirella has a number of rare beauty, "the frowns of fortune i fear no longer," in which she declares her unalterable love for vincenzo. the finale of this act with its vigorous aria for mirella, "at your feet, behold, i remain," is the only really dramatic episode in the opera. the third act opens with the quaint little song of andreluno with oboe accompaniment, "the day awakes," and also contains a plaintive song for tenor, "angels of paradise." it closes with a waltz song, "gentle bird of the morning," which is most lavishly embellished and ends the quiet, naïve, little pastoral opera with a brilliant vocal pyrotechnical display. humperdinck, engelbert. hansel and gretel. [fairy opera, in three acts; text by wette. first produced, in germany in 1894.] personages. peter, a broom-maker. gertrude, his wife. witch. hansel. gretel. sandman, the sleep fairy. dewman, the dawn fairy. [angels, witches, and fairies.] the scene is laid in a german forest; time, the present. the story of "hansel and gretel" is based upon one of grimm's fairy tales. the first act opens at the house of peter, the broom-maker, who with his wife is away seeking food. the children, hansel and gretel, have been left with injunctions to knit and make brooms. instead of working they indulge in a childish romp, which is interrupted by the mother, who has returned. in her anger she upsets a pitcher of milk, which was the only hope of supper in the house. thereupon she sends them into the forest, and bids them not to come home until they have filled their basket with strawberries. when peter returns he brings provisions with him, but breaks out in a fit of rage when he is informed the children have been sent away, telling his wife of the witch who haunts the woods, entices children to her honey-cake house, bakes them into gingerbread, and devours them. the second act opens with a characteristic instrumental number, "the witches' ride." the children are disclosed near the ilsenstein, making garlands and mocking the cuckoos in a beautiful duet with echo accompaniment. at last they realize that they are lost, and their distress is heightened by strange sights and sounds. in the midst of their trouble the sandman approaches, strews sand in their eyes, and sings them to sleep with a charming lullaby, after they have recited their prayer, "when at night i go to sleep, fourteen angels watch do keep." as they go to sleep, the fourteen angels come down and surround them, while other angels perform a stately dance. the third act is called "the witch's house." the angels have disappeared, and the dawn fairy wakens the children, singing a delightful song, "i'm up with early dawning." gretel wakes first, and rouses hansel by tickling him with a leaf, accompanying the act with a tickling song. when fairly aroused, they discover the witch's house, with an oven on one side and a cage on the other. the house is made of sweets and creams. enticed by its sweetness, the hungry children break off fragments, and are surprised at their work by the old witch within. she comes out, and, after a series of invocations, accompanied with characteristic music, prepares to bake gretel in the oven; but while she is looking into it the children push her into the fire. then they dance a witch waltz, and meanwhile the oven falls into bits. swarms of children rush round them, released from their gingerbread disguise, and sing a song of gratitude as two of the boys drag out the witch from the ruins in the form of a big cake. the father and mother at last find the children, and all join in the pious little hymn, "when past bearing is our grief, god, the lord, will send relief." it is only a little child's tale, but it is accompanied by music of the highest order, and built up on the same plan of motives which wagner has used in his imposing nibelung trilogy. jakobowski, edward. erminie. [musical comedy, in two acts; text by bellamy and paulton. first produced at the comedy theatre, london, november 9, 1885; in new york at the casino, march 10, 1886.] personages. marquis de pontvert. eugene marcel, the marquis' secretary. vicomte de brissac. delaunay, a young officer. dufois, landlord of the golden lion. chevalier de brabazon, guest of the marquis. ravannes, } cadeaux, } two thieves. cerise marcel, erminie's companion. javatte, erminie's maid. princesse de gramponeur. erminie de pontvert. [soldiers, peasantry, guards, waiters, etc.] the scene is laid in france; time, the last century. the story of "erminie" is based upon the old melodrama "robert macaire," the two vagabonds, ravannes and cadeaux, taking the places of the two murderers, macaire and jacques strop. few melodramas were more popular in their day than "robert macaire," in which lemaitre, the great french actor, made one of his most conspicuous successes. it is also true that few musical comedies have been more successful than "erminie." at the opening of the opera, a gallant on the way to his betrothal with a young lady whom he has never seen is attacked by two thieves, ravannes and cadeaux, who carry off his wardrobe and tie him to a tree. later, ravannes arrives in the midst of the betrothal festivities, and passes himself off as the expected guest. he introduces cadeaux as a nobleman, and explains their lack of proper attire with the statement that they had been robbed while on the way there. erminie has an affection for eugene, her father's secretary, and none for the man who claims to be a suitor for her hand. ernst, who was the real victim of the robbery, and who is in love with cerise, escapes from the predicament in which the two thieves placed him, and arrives in time for the festivities, to find himself denounced by ravannes as the highwayman who had attacked them earlier in the day. ravannes, by assuming great magnanimity and a certain nobility of conduct, and by his proffers of help to erminie in securing the man she loves in return for her assistance in his plans, of which she of course is ignorant, so ingratiates himself in her confidence that he nearly succeeds in robbing the house. in the end, however, the two vagabonds are unmasked. eugene obtains the hand of erminie, and ernst and cerise are equally fortunate. the music of "erminie" is light and graceful throughout. its principal numbers are erminie's song, "ah! when love is young"; the duet for eugene and erminie, "past and future"; the marquis' stirring martial song, "dull is the life of the soldier in peace"; the rollicking thieves' duet, "we're a philanthropic couple, be it known"; erminie's pretty dream song, "at midnight on my pillow lying," and the lullaby "dear mother, in dreams i see her," which is the gem of the opera; the song and whistling chorus, "what the dicky birds say"; the vocal gavotte, "join in pleasures, dance a measure"; and the concerted piece, "good-night," which leads up to the close of the last act. lecocq, charles. giroflé-girofla. [opera bouffe, in three acts; text by vanloo and aterrier. first produced at the thèâtre des fantasies parisiennes, brussels, march 21, 1874; in paris, november 11, 1874; in new york at the park theatre, 1875.] personages. don bolero d'alcarazas, a spanish grandee. marasquin, banker. mourzook, a moorish chief. giroflé, } girofla, } don bolero's twin daughters. aurore, their mother. pedro, the page. paquita. pirate chief. godfather. godmother. fernand. guzman. [cousins, bridesmaids, pages, pirates, moors, etc.] the scene is laid in spain; time, the last century. the opening scene of "giroflé-girofla" which, with "la fille de madame angot," made the reputation of lecocq as an opera-bouffe composer, introduces don bolero d'alcarazas, a spanish grandee, and aurore, his wife, also their twin daughters, giroflé and girofla, who, being of marriageble age, have been hastily betrothed, giroflé to marasquin, a banker to whom don bolero is heavily indebted, and girofla to mourzook, a moorish chief who has made regular demands upon don bolero for money on penalty of death. by the double marriage he expects to get rid of his obligations on the one hand and avoid the payment of the enforced tribute on the other. giroflé is married as arranged, but girofla, who was to have been married the same day, is abducted by pirates before the ceremony can be performed. when mourzook arrives and finds he has no bride, he is in a terrible rage, but is quieted down when, after a little manoeuvring by aurore, giroflé is passed off on him as girofla and is thus to be married a second time. in the second act the wedding festivities are going on and both bridegrooms are clamoring for their brides. no word is heard from admiral matamoras, who has been sent to capture the pirates. don bolero and aurore resort to all kinds of expedients to settle matters and pacify the irate banker and the furious moor, and besides have much trouble in restraining giroflé from flying to her marasquin. at last she is locked up. she manages to get out, however, and goes off with some of her cousins for a revel. her absence is explained by a report that the pirates have carried her off also, which adds to the parents' perplexity as well as to the fury of marasquin and mourzook. at last giroflé appears in a tipsy condition and is claimed by both. the act closes with the report that matamoras has been defeated, and that the pirates have carried girofla to constantinople. the third act opens on the following morning. the two would-be husbands have been locked into their apartments. marasquin has passed a quiet night, but mourzook has smashed the furniture and escaped through the window from his chamber. the parents assure marasquin that even if mourzook returns he will have to leave that afternoon, and suggest that there can be no harm in letting him have giroflé for his wife until that time. marasquin reluctantly consents, and when mourzook returns and giroflé is presented to him as girofla, a ridiculous love scene occurs, which marasquin contrives to interrupt by various devices. finally the return of girofla is announced, and matamoras with his sailors appears, leading her by the hand. explanations are made all round, the parents are forgiven, and mourzook is satisfied. the music is lively throughout and oftentimes brilliant, and of a higher standard than usually characterizes opera bouffe. the most taking numbers are the ballad with pizzicato accompaniment, sung by paquita, "lorsque la journée est finis" ("when the day is finished"); the concerted ensemble, "à la chapelle" ("to the church"); the grotesque pirates' chorus, "parmi les choses délicates" ("among the delicate things to do"), and the sparkling duet for giroflé and marasquin, "c'est fini, le mariage" ("the marriage has been solemnized"), in the first act: the bacchanalian chorus, "écoutez cette musique" ("listen to this music"), leading up to a dance; a vivacious and well-written quintette, "matamoras, grand capitaine" ("matamoras, our great captain"); a fascinating drinking-song, "le punch scintille" ("this flaming bowl"), and the andante duet "o giroflé, o girofla," a smooth, tender melody, which is in striking contrast with the drinking-music preceding it and that which immediately follows the chorus of the half-tipsy wedding-guests, "c'ést le canon" ("it is the cannon"): and the rondo, "beau père une telle demand" ("oh, my father, now you ask"), sung by marasquin, and the duet for mourzook and giroflé "ma belle giroflé" ("my lovely giroflé"), in the third act. la fille de madame angot. [opera bouffe, in three acts; text by clairville, sirandin, and konig. first produced at the fantasies parisiennes, brussels, november, 1872; in paris at the folies dramatiques, february 23, 1873.] personages. clairette angot, daughter of the market. mlle. lange, comedienne. ange pitou, street singer. pomponnet, hairdresser. larivaudière, } louchard, } police officials. javotte. amaranthe. cydalise. hersilie. babet. trenitz. [bourgeois, grenadiers, conspirators, hussars, servants, marketwomen, etc. the scene is laid in paris; time, about the period of the french revolution. the first act opens in a market square in paris where the marketwomen and others in holiday costume are making ready to celebrate the wedding of pomponnet, the hairdresser, and clairette, the daughter of the late madame angot. during the festive preparations, for which clairette has little desire, as her affections are fixed upon ange pitou, a street singer, who is continually in trouble by reason of his political songs, the latter makes his appearance. he is informed of the forthcoming wedding, which has been arranged by the market people, who have adopted clairette as the child of the market. at the same time larivaudière and louchard, the police officials who caused his arrest because of his knowledge of the relations of larivaudière and mademoiselle lange, the comedienne and favorite of barras, are surprised to find him at large. to prevent him from reciting his knowledge in a song which he is sure has been written, larivaudière buys him off. pitou subsequently regrets his bargain. when the crowd clamors for a song, he says he has none. the people are furious with him, but clairette comes to his rescue. she has found the song denouncing larivaudière, sings it, and is arrested, notwithstanding pitou's declaration that he is the author of it. the second act opens in mademoiselle lange's salon. she has persuaded barras to release clairette and have her brought to her apartments, so that she may discover why she sings this song denouncing the government and insulting her also. in the mean time she has also sent for pomponnet, her hairdresser, and informs him what his future wife has done. he replies that pitou wrote the song, and that he (pomponnet) has it. she orders him to fetch it to her. when clairette arrives they recognize each other as old school friends. mademoiselle lange assures her she shall not go back to prison and that she need not marry pomponnet. she retires to mademoiselle lange's boudoir, when a visitor is announced. it is ange pitou, and a love scene at once occurs. the jealous larivaudière enters and accuses them of being lovers. to justify herself mademoiselle lange declares that pitou and clairette are lovers, and the latter confirms the statement. pomponnet's voice is heard in the outer room. he is admitted, and promptly arrested for having the revolutionary song on his person. the act closes with a meeting of conspirators, and mademoiselle lange's clever oiling of the grenadiers who have come to arrest them by turning the whole affair into a grand ball, to which they are invited. the last act is occupied with plots and counter-plots which at last succeed in disentangling all the complications. mademoiselle lange's perfidy, as well as pitou's, is shown up, larivaudière has his revenge, and clairette and pomponnet are made happy. the music of the opera is so bright, gay, and characteristic that it made lecocq a dangerous rival of offenbach. the most conspicuous numbers are clairette's pretty romance, "l'enfant de la halle" ("the child of the market"); amaranthe's jolly couplets, "marchande de marée" ("a beautiful fishwoman"); ange pitou's rondo, "certainement j'aimais clairette" ("'tis true i loved clairette") and clairette's spirited song, "jadis les rois, race proscrite" ("once kings, a race proscribed"), in the first act: another equally spirited song, "comme un coursier" ("like a courser"); pomponnet's pretty air, "elle est tellement innocente" ("she is so innocent"); a charming sentimental duet for mademoiselle lange and clairette, "jours fortunes de notre enfance" ("happy days of childhood"); a striking ensemble in the form of a quintette, "oui, je vous le dis, c'est pour elle" ("yes, 'tis on her account alone"); and the famous conspirators' chorus, "quand on conspire" ("when one conspires"), in the second act: and clairette's couplets with chorus, "vous aviez fait de la dépense" ("you put yourselves to great expense"); the humorous duet, "larivaudière and pomponnet," and clairette's song, "ah! c'est donc toi" ("ah! 'tis you, then"), in the last act. lörtzing, albert. czar and carpenter. [opéra comique, in three acts; text and music by lörtzing. first produced in berlin in 1854.] personages. peter i., czar of russia under the name of peter michaelhoff. peter ivanoff, a young russian shipwright. herr van bett, burgomaster of saardam. gen. lefort, russian ambassador. lord syndham, british ambassador. marquis of chateauneuf, french ambassador. marie, niece of the burgomaster. widow brown, mistress of the shipyard. [shipwrights, workmen, sailors, villagers, etc.] the scene is laid in saardam; time, the year 1698. the opening of the first act of the "czar and carpenter" discloses peter the great and peter ivanoff, a deserter from the russian army, at work in the shipyard of mrs. brown in saardam. the british and french ambassadors, having been notified that the czar is there in disguise, are searching for him with the object of negotiating a treaty with him, or, failing that, to abduct him. the british ambassador employs the pompous burgomaster of saardam to find him a russian named peter, without however disclosing his real character to him. the burgomaster happens upon peter ivanoff and brings him to the ambassador, who, supposing him to be the czar, seeks to arrange a treaty with him, and finally gives him a passport so that he may visit england. meanwhile the people of saardam, being informed that the czar is with them, prepare a reception for him. the french ambassador, who has also been searching for the czar, finds the real one by telling him the story of a russian defeat which causes him to betray himself. the czar, who is now anxious to go home and crush out the rebellion, seeks for some means to get away without the knowledge of the dutch and the english. finding out by chance that ivanoff has an english passport, he secures it, and gives ivanoff another paper which he is not to open until an hour has passed. during this time ivanoff is enjoying the public reception, which suddenly is interrupted by cannon reports. the gateway of the port is opened, showing the czar with the russian and french ambassadors sailing away. ivanoff opens his paper, and finds that his companion was the czar, who has given him a good situation as well as his consent to his marriage with marie, the burgomaster's niece. the leading numbers of the first act are the carpenter's spirited song, "grip your axes"; marie's jealousy song, "ah! jealousy is a bad companion"; the humorous aria of van bett, "oh! sancta justitia, i shall go raving"; the long duet for van bett and ivanoff, "shall i make a full confession?" and the effective quartettes in the finale. the second act contains the best music of the opera. it opens with a mixed chorus of a bacchanalian sort, "long live joy and pleasure," which after a long dialogue is followed by the tenor romanza, "fare thee well, my flandrish maiden," a quaint melody, running at the end of each stanza into a duet, closing with full chorus accompaniment. a sextette, "the work that we're beginning," immediately follows, which, though brief, is the most effective number in the opera. the next number of any consequence in this act, is a rollicking bridal song, "charming maiden, why do blushes," sung by marie. the last act has a comic aria and chorus, "to greet our hero with a stately reception," and an effective song for the czar, "in childhood, with crown and with sceptre i played." luders, gustave. king dodo. [a musical comedy, in three acts; text by pixley. first produced at the studebaker theatre, chicago, may 27, 1901.] personages. king dodo i. pedro, court chamberlain. dr. fizz, court physician. mudge, court historian. sancho, an innkeeper. bonilla, prime minister to queen lili. lo baswood. lopez. diego. josé. unio. queen lili. angela, the king's ward. piola, a soldier of fortune. annette. [courtiers, knights, ladies, etc.] the scene is laid in dodoland and the south sea islands; time, the present. "king dodo," though usually set down on the programmes as a comic opera, strictly speaking, is a musical comedy, or comedy opera. its plot turns upon the efforts of king dodo to find the elixir of youth. his adventures carry him from his own kingdom in the land of nowhere in particular to the south sea islands and back, a few absurd love episodes adding to the humor of the situations in which he finds himself. the old king is enamoured of the princess angela, and to secure her he determines to find the fountain which will renew his youth. his court physician has failed in the attempt; but piola, "a soldier of fortune," claims to know where the fountain is, but demands that when he finds it he shall have the hand of angela as his reward. the king reluctantly consents, and starts with his whole establishment to find it. the wonderful spring is discovered in the land of the spoopjus, and there king dodo also finds queen lili, who promptly falls in love with him, because her ideal for a husband is a man full of years and experience. the king, however, accidentally drinks from the fountain, and is transformed into a child, whereupon the queen rejects him. as the waters fortunately work both ways, when dodo is thrown into them by conspirators, he becomes himself again, and the queen devotes herself to him anew with such assiduity that they are united. pedro and annette and piola and angela also improve the occasion to get married, and all return in great glee to dodoland. the musical numbers in "king dodo," are all of a light, catchy kind, their success depending much upon the sprightliness of the performers. the most popular are the "cats' quartette"; "the tale of the bumble-bee"; piola's song, "i'll do or die," which is accompanied by a stirring chorus; the melodious "zamoña," sung by angela and chorus; a drinking-song of a spirited sort by annette and chorus; "the eminent dr. fizz," sung by the doctor himself; and "the jolly old potentate" and the topical song, "they gave me a medal for that," sung by king dodo. the prince of pilsen. [a musical comedy, in two acts; text by pixley. first produced in the tremont theatre, boston, may 21, 1902.] personages. carl otto, the prince. hans wagner, an american citizen. tom wagner, his son. arthur st. john wilberforce. françois. mrs. madison crocker, an american widow. sidonie. edith. nellie. jimmy. [tourists, students, flower-girls, sailors, etc. the scene is laid in nice; time, the present. "the prince of pilsen," the latest, and in many respects the best, of mr. luders' productions, like most musical comedies of the prevailing kind, has but a brief and somewhat incongruous story. the first act opens during the annual flower festival at nice. the proprietor of the hôtel internationale learns that the prince of pilsen will reach there on the morrow incognito, and determines he shall be received with all the attentions due to his rank. he employs a band of musicians to escort him from the station to the hotel, and hires flower-girls to strew his way with roses. hans wagner, a german-american brewer from cincinnati, and his daughter, who go to nice to meet the brewer's son, an american naval officer, arrive on the same day. the brewer is mistaken for the prince, and he and his party meet with a brilliant but somewhat surprising reception. he can account for it in no other way than that his greeting as the prince of pilsen is a tribute to the excellence of his pilsener beer, and accepts it complaisantly. when the real prince arrives, however, with a company of heidelberg students, he is ignored, and even has some difficulty in securing accommodations. the prince, however, does not declare his identity at once, but waits for an opportunity to expose the impostor who is trading on his name. he accidentally meets the daughter, and after some conversation with her is sure that her father has not intended to deceive and is not responsible for the mistake. he decides therefore to continue the rôle of private citizen, and is the more confirmed in his decision when he finds himself falling in love with the brewer's daughter. this enrages the brother, who challenges the prince, which leads to the arrest of both of them. in the second act all the complications get straightened out. the real prince marries the brewer's daughter, and the brewer himself takes home the american widow, mrs. madison crocker, as his wife. on this somewhat slight thread of a plot the composer has strung numerous bits of lively, exhilarating music, some of it of a decidedly better kind than is usually found in these potpourris, but the most of it of the sort which is popular and easily caught up. the number of the lyrics as well as of the topical songs, choruses, and extravaganzas is so large, and they are of such uniformity in interest and tunefulness, that it is difficult to single out the most conspicuous. the numbers, however, which have made the greatest success are wagner's topical song, "he didn't know exactly what to do"; a charming smoking-song, "pictures in the smoke"; the "tale of the sea-shell"; the unaccompanied male chorus, "oh! heidelberg, dear heidelberg," which should be a favorite students' song; and the "song of the cities," in which the peculiarities of the girls of various american cities are imitated, the song ending with a droll cake walk. so far as numbers go, indeed, the opera presents a bewildering embarrassment of good things. massé, victor. paul and virginia. [romantic opera, in three acts and seven tableaux; text by carré and barbier. first produced at the opéra national lyrique, paris, november 15, 1876; in london, june 1, 1878; in new york, march 28, 1883.] personages. paul. st. croix, slave-master. domingo, mulatto slave. m. de la bourdonnais, governor of the island. negro slave. virginia. meala, mulatto slave. mme. de la tour, mother of virginia. margaret, mother of paul. overseer. old lady, grand-aunt of virginia. [inhabitants of the island, sailors, slaves, etc.] the scene is laid upon an island on the african coast; time, the eighteenth century. the story of "paul and virginia," massé's masterpiece, follows the lines of bernardin st. pierre's beautiful romance of the same name. the first act opens with the recital of the history of madame de la tour, mother of virginia, and margaret, the mother of paul, and reveals the love of the two children for each other. while they are discussing the advisability of sending paul to india for a time, against which his slave domingo piteously protests, islanders come rushing towards the cabin announcing the arrival of a vessel from france. in hopes that she will have a letter announcing that she has been forgiven by the relatives who have renounced her, madame de la tour goes to the port. a love scene between the children follows, which is interrupted by the hurried entrance of the slave meala, who is flying from punishment by her master, st. croix. the two offer to go back with her and to intercede for her forgiveness, in which they are successful. st. croix, who has designs upon virginia, begs them to remain until night; but meala warns them of their danger in a song, and they leave while st. croix wreaks his revenge upon meala. the second act opens in the home of madame de la tour. she has had a letter from her aunt forgiving her, making virginia her heiress if she will come to france, and sending money for the journey. after a long struggle between duty to her mother and love for paul, she declines to go. meala makes them another hurried call, again flying from st. croix, who this time is pursuing her with a twofold purpose, first, of punishing meala and, second, of carrying out his base designs against virginia. he soon appears at the house and demands his slave, but paul refuses to give her up. at last st. croix offers to sell her to paul, and virginia furnishes the money. the faithful meala that night informs them of st. croix's plot to seize virginia when she goes to the vessel; but he is foiled, as she does not leave. the act closes with a call from the governor of the island, who bears express orders from virginia's relatives, signed by the king, that she must go to france. the last act is brief, and relates the tragedy. it opens at a grotto on the seashore, where the melancholy paul has waited and watched week by week for the vessel which will bring virginia back to him. at last it is sighted, but a storm comes up and soon develops into a hurricane, and when it subsides the vessel is a wreck, and virginia is found dead upon the beach. the opera is replete with beautiful melodies. there are, in the first act, a characteristic minor song for domingo, "ah! do not send my dear young master," which the composer evidently intended to be in the ethiopian manner; a chanson of the genuine french style, "ah! hapless black," though sung by a negro boy; a lonely and expressive melody sung by virginia, as she pleads with st. croix, "what i would say my tongue forgetteth"; the weird bamboula chorus, sung by the slaves; and a very dramatic aria for meala, "'neath the vines entwining," in which she warns the children of their danger. the principal numbers in the second act are virginia's romance, "as last night thro' the woods"; a beautiful chanson for domingo, "the bird flies yonder"; paul's couplets, "ah! crush not my courage"; the passionate duet for paul and virginia, "ah! since thou wilt go," closing in unison; and virginia's florid aria, "ah, what entrancing calm," the cadenza of which is exceedingly brilliant. the best numbers in the short last act are meala's song, "in vain on this distant shore"; paul's letter song, "dearest mother"; and the vision and storm music at the close. queen topaze. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by lockroy and battu. first produced at the théâtre lyrique, paris, december 27, 1856.] personages. la reine topaze. le capitaine rafael. annibal. francappa. fritellino. filomèle. [gypsies, soldiers, etc.] the scene is laid in france; time, last century. "queen topaze" ("la reine topaze") is one of the few of massé's earlier works which have held the boards, mainly on account of its charming melodiousness. the rôle of the queen was a great favorite with miolan-carvalho and parepa-rosa, as it offers opportunities for brilliant vocal execution. its story is of the slightest kind. in her infancy topaze is stolen by a band of gypsies and eventually becomes their queen. she falls in love with rafael, a captain whom she wins from his affianced, a rich noblewoman. he does not marry her, however, until she discloses to him the secret of her birth. some byplay among the gypsies supplies the humor of the situations. as to the text it is far from dramatic in character, and the dialogue is tedious and dragging. the music, however, is excellent, and it was to this feature that massé owed his election in the year of its production as auber's successor in the french academy. the gypsy music is particularly charming. there are also a clever sextette, "we are six noblemen"--indeed, there is an unusual amount of six and seven part writing in the opera; the "song of the bee," a delightful melody for queen topaze with a particularly characteristic accompaniment, likewise a brilliant bolero; a lovely romance in the last act for rafael, and a somewhat dramatic narrative song for him in the first act; and a skilfully constructed trio for annibal and the two gypsies. the remaining number of importance is an interpolated one,--"the carnival of venice," with the paganini variations, which was first introduced by miolan-carvalho, the creator of the title rôle. the marriage of jeannette. [opéra comique, in one act; text by carré and barbière. first produced at the opéra comique, paris, february 4, 1853; in new york, in 1861.] personages. jean. jeannette. thomas. petit pierre. [chorus of peasants.] the scene is laid in a french country village; time, the last century. nothing could be simpler than the story of massé's little opera, "les noces de jeannette" ("the marriage of jeannette"), which was first given in this country in 1861, with clara louise kellogg and m. dubreul in the two principal parts, and twenty-five years later was a favorite in the repertory of the american opera company, under the direction of theodore thomas, who produced it as an after piece to delibes' two-act ballet, "sylvia." the story concerns only two persons. jean, a boorish rustic, falls in love with jeannette and proposes marriage. on the wedding-day, however, he suddenly changes his mind, and just as the notary hands him the pen to sign the contract, takes to his heels and runs home. jeannette follows him up to demand an explanation, and pretends that she will not force him to marry her. in lieu of that she asks him to sign another contract from which she will withhold her name just to show that he was willing to do so. she furthermore promises publicly to reject him. when he has signed the new contract, she suddenly changes her mind also, and declares they are man and wife. in his fury jean breaks up nearly everything in the house before he goes to sleep. the next day in his absence jeannette provides new furniture from her own store, places things to rights again, sets the dinner, and awaits jean's return. when he comes back again, he is in more tractable mood, and seeing what jeannette has done acknowledges her as his wife. this simple story the composer has framed in a dainty musical setting, the principal numbers being the song "others may hastily marry," sung by jean after his escapade; jeannette's pretty, simple melody, "from out a throng of lovers"; jean's vigorous and defiant "ah! little do you fancy"; the graceful song by jeannette, "fly now, my needle, glancing brightly"; her brilliant and exultant song, "voice that's sweetest"; and the spirited unison male chorus, "ring out, village bells," that closes this refined and beautiful work. millöcker, carl. the beggar student. [opéra comique, in three acts; first produced in vienna, 1882.] personages. symon symonovicz, the beggar student. janitsky, his friend. gen. ollendorf, military governor of krakow. enterich, } puffki, } jailers. major holtzheim. sitzky, an innkeeper. countess palmatica. laura, } bronislava, } her daughters. eva. ononphrie. lieut. poppenburg. lieut. schmeinitz. lieut. wangerheim. burgomaster. bogumil. [prisoners, peasants, soldiers, musicians, courtiers, etc.] the scene is laid in krakow; time, the year 1704. the first act of this tuneful opera opens in the city of krakow. general ollendorf, the military governor, is in a rage because he has been repulsed by laura, daughter of the countess palmatica, to whom he has showed some unwelcome attentions. to avenge what he considers an insult, he conceives the idea of dressing some poor and low-born young fellow in the finery of a prince, and passing him off as such upon the countess and her daughter, trusting that their poverty will induce them to accept the impostor. after such a marriage his revenge would be complete. he finds his accomplice in the military prison. symon symonovicz, a vagabond polish student, is ready to play the gentleman, and only insists on taking along with him janitsky, a fellow prisoner, to act as his secretary. the plot is successful. the countess and her daughter, who have been living for a long time in genteel poverty, are dazzled by the finery and prospects of the suitor, and the act closes with the betrothal of symon and laura. in the second act the two find that they are really in love with each other. as the money furnished by the general is all spent, symon decides to tell laura of the deception practised upon her, though it may cost him the marriage, which was to have taken place that day. afraid to tell her in person, he writes the disclosure, and intrusts the letter to the countess with the request to have it given to laura before the ceremony. the general, however, thwarts this scheme, and the pair are married, whereupon he exposes symon to the assembled guests as an impostor and has him driven from the palace. at the opening of the third act symon appears in melancholy plight and contemplating suicide. his friend janitsky, who is in love with laura's sister, bronislava, comes to his rescue. he comes forward as a polish officer engaged in a plot for the capture of the citadel and the reinstatement of king stanislaus upon the throne of poland. the plot with symon's help succeeds, and in return symon is not only ennobled, but the countess and his wife forgive him, and the governor-general is foiled at every point. the principal numbers are ollendorf's entrance song in waltz time, "and they say that towards ladies"; the characteristic duet by symon and janitsky on leaving jail, "confounded cell, at last i leave thee"; the charming entrance trio for laura, bronislava, and the countess, "some little shopping really we ought to do"; and laura's brilliant song, "but when the song is sweetly sounding," in the finale of the first act; laura's humorous song, "if joy in married life you'd find"; the sentimental duet of bronislava and janitsky, "this kiss, sweet love"; ollendorf's grotesque songs, "one day i was perambulating," and "there in the chamber polish," which is usually adapted as a topical song; and the long and cleverly concerted finale of the second act: and bronislava's song, "prince a beggar's said to be," and symon's couplet, "i'm penniless and outlawed too," in the third act. the black hussar. [opéra comique, in three acts. first produced at vienna, 1886.] personages. helbert, officer of the black hussars. waldermann, his companion. hackenback, magistrate of trautenfeld. piffkow, his man of all work. thorillière, major in napoleon's army. hetman, captain of the cossacks. mifflin, an actor. minna, } rosetta, } hackenback's daughters. barrara. ricci. goddess of liberty. germania. [soldiers, peasants, villagers, conspirators, etc.] the scene is laid in the german village of trautenfeld; time, the years 1812-13. the story of "the black hussar" is simple. von helbert, an officer of the black hussars, in the disguise of an army chaplain, is seeking to foment an insurrection in the town of trautenfeld. hackenback, the town magistrate, has carried himself so diplomatically, as between the russians and french, and is so opposed to any rupture with either from fear of sudden visitation, that von helbert's efforts to induce his townsmen to rise against the napoleonic régime are not altogether successful. the french in the mean time are hunting for him, but he cunningly succeeds in getting a description of the magistrate posted for that of himself. to be ready for any sudden emergency, hackenback has a reversible panel on his house, one side having the portrait of the czar and the other that of napoleon. when he is suspected by the french, he calls their attention to it; but unfortunately for him the russian side is exposed, and this with the description which von helbert had so kindly posted leads to his arrest. finally the black hussar regiment arrives, and captures the french troops just as they have captured the russian, which had previously been in occupation, so that there is no need for further disguises. the humorous situations in the opera grow out of the love-making between von helbert and his companion waldermann and the magistrate's daughters minna and rosetta. although "the black hussar" is musically inferior to "the beggar student," yet it has many interesting numbers, among them the long descriptive song of piffkow, the man of all work, "piffkow, piffkow, that's the cry," which reminds one in its general character of figaro's famous song in "the barber of seville"; the magistrate's buffo song, "all night long i've weighed and sifted"; helbert's martial recitative, "i've traversed lands that once were green"; the jolly gossipers' chorus, introducing the second act; piffkow's bombastic song, "'twas in the adjacent town last night"; minna's quaint russian song, "ivan loved his katza well"; the introduced song, "ohe, mamma"; and the trio following it, "the ways of love are very strange," which closes the act. nessler, victor ernst. the trumpeter of säkkingen. [opera comique, in a prelude and three acts; text by bunge. first produced at the stadt theatre, leipsic, may 4, 1884.] personages. baron of schoenau. margaretha, his daughter. count of wildenstein. countess wildenstein, the baron's cousin. damian, the count's son by a second marriage. werner kirchoff, the "trumpeter." conradin, a trooper. [heralds, youths, maidens, peasants, school children, students, troopers, etc.] the scene is laid in säkkingen, on the rhine; time, the year 1650, near the close of the thirty years' war. few operas have had the advantage of such an excellent book as nessler's "trumpeter of säkkingen," and few light operas have had their stories so legitimately and skilfully illustrated with music. the text is based upon the metrical romance of victor von scheffel's "trumpeter von säkkingen," known and admired all over germany, which tells the story of the young werner and the fair margaretha, their romantic wooing and final union. the time is near the close of the thirty years' war, and the hero is werner kirchoff, a handsome, dashing young student, who, with others of his comrades, is expelled from the university of heidelberg because of their frequent carousals. they join a body of troopers, werner in the capacity of a trumpeter, and go with them to säkkingen. while there he has the good fortune to protect margaretha, on a saint's fête day, from the rudeness of some hauenstein peasants who are ready for a revolt against the baron von schoenau, her father. margaretha, who is in company with the countess wildenstein, a cousin of the baron, who has separated from her husband, gratefully gives werner a forget-me-not. the countess inquires his name of his trooper comrade, conradin, and is struck with his resemblance to her son who had been carried off by gypsies in his childhood. in the next scene the baron has received a letter from count wildenstein, in which he states that his second wife has died, that he wishes to settle the misunderstanding with his first wife, the countess, and proposes damian, his son by the second marriage, as a husband for margaretha,--a proposal which the baron promptly accepts. when margaretha enters and tells of her adventures with werner, the baron regrets that his old trumpeter, rassmann, is not alive to summon assistance from the city in case of attack by the peasants. margaretha tells him of werner, and notwithstanding the countess' objections, he gives the position to him. the second act opens with a love scene between werner and margaretha, which is discovered by the countess, who at once informs the baron. when werner asks him for the hand of margaretha, he not only refuses it, but orders him to leave the castle. werner takes his farewell of margaretha, and leaves for his old position with the troopers in the city. meanwhile the count of wildenstein arrives with damian, but he makes no impression upon margaretha notwithstanding the baron's favor. in the last act the dénouement comes quickly. the peasants attack the castle, and the baron calls upon damian to head his retainers and go out to meet the mob. he proves himself, however, an arrant coward, and in the midst of his irresolution werner rides up at the head of his troopers, performs prodigies of valor, and saves the inmates of the castle. a birthmark upon his arm reveals him as the long-lost son of the countess, and nothing now stands in the way of margaretha's and werner's felicity. in the prelude and first act the most noticeable numbers are the students' and troopers' choruses, written in the best german style--the prelude indeed is almost entirely choral; the peasants' choruses and lively dances on st. fridolin's day; the characteristic growl of the baron over his gout and the unreasonable peasants; and the charming lyric sung by margaretha, "how proud and grand his bearing." the most conspicuous numbers in the second act are a lyric sung by werner, "on shore i played me a merry tune"; the love scene between margaretha and werner, "sun, has thy light not grown in splendor?" the dramatic quintette, "must so soon the sunshine vanish?" and werner's sentimental and beautiful farewell, "oh, it is sad that in this life below." the principal numbers of the third act are margaretha's song, "my love rode out to the wide, wide world"; the may song, "there comes a youth of sweet renown"; the pantomime and dance composing a may idyll; the duet for margaretha and werner, "true love, i give thee greeting"; and the ringing mass chorus, "faithful love and trumpet blowing," which closes the opera. nicolai, otto. the merry wives of windsor. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by mosenthal. first produced in vienna, april 1, 1847; in london, may 3, 1864; in new york, april 27, 1863.] personages. sir john falstaff. mr. ford, } mr. page, } gentlemen dwelling at windsor. fenton. slender. dr. caius, the french physician. mistress ford. mistress page. anne page, her daughter, in love with fenton. host of the garter inn. [citizens, wives of windsor, servants, fairies, elves, etc.] the scene is laid at windsor; time, the sixteenth century. the story of the opera follows closely that of the shakespearian comedy, though the action is principally concerned with falstaff's adventures with the merry wives, with the attachment between fenton and anne furnishing the romantic incident. though the work of a german, the music is largely in the italian style, and the dramatic finish is french. it is unnecessary to indicate the plot in further detail than to say it includes the receipt of sir john's amatory epistles by mrs. ford and mrs. page, his concealment among the foul linen in the hamper and subsequent sousing in the thames, his sad experiences with ford's cudgels, and his painful encounter with the mock fairies, elves, and other sprites in windsor park. the leading numbers in the opera are a duet for the two merry wives, opening the opera, in which they read falstaff's letters, "no, no, this really is too bad," closing with an exquisitely humorous phrase as they pronounce the name of the writer in unison; a beautiful little aria, "joking and laughter," in the italian style, sung by mrs. ford; and the finale to the first act beginning with a mock serious aria in which mrs. ford bewails her husband's jealousy, followed by a sextette and chorus, and closing with a highly dramatic aria in which mrs. ford changes from grief to rage and violently denounces ford. the second act opens with a drinking-song for falstaff, "whilst yet a child on my mother's breast," which is full of rollicking, bacchanalian humor, as well as are the accessories of the song. falstaff sings one verse, and his followers drain their huge mugs to the bottom. one of them falls senselessly drunk, and is immediately borne out upon the shoulders of his comrades with funereal honors, led off by falstaff, all chanting a sort of mock dirge. a descriptive and spirited buffo duet between falstaff and ford follows, in which the former relates his adventures in the hamper. the only remaining number of consequence in this act is the romanza, "hark, the lark in yonder grove," sung by fenton. the last act is very short, and made up of a beautiful trio for mrs. ford, mrs. page, and falstaff, "the bell has pealed the midnight chime"; the romantic ballad, "of herne, the hunter, a legend old," and the fairy dance and chorus, "about, about, ye elves, about," which close the opera. offenbach, jacques. the grand duchess of gerolstein. [opera bouffe, in three acts; text by meilhac and halévy. first produced at the variétés, paris, april 12, 1867.] personages. grand duchess. wanda, a peasant girl. iza, maid of honor. olga, maid of honor. prince paul, neglected suitor of the duchess. gen. boum, in command of the army. baron puck, court chamberlain. baron grog, emissary. fritz, a recruit. nepomuc, aide de camp. [lords and court ladies, pages, soldiers, vivandières, country girls, etc.] the scene is laid in the imaginary duchy of gerolstein; time, the year 1720. "the grand duchess of gerolstein," though in some respects inferior musically to "orpheus," by the same composer, is altogether the most perfect type of the opera bouffe. for the drollness of its story, the originality of its characters as well as of its music and obstreperous gayety, dash, and geniality mixed with occasional seriousness and grace, this work when it first appeared was unique, though offenbach rose to his highest achievement when dealing with the gods and goddesses of olympus in his "orpheus," which revealed his powers of musical burlesque at their best. the first act opens with a grand review of the army of the duchy, commanded by the pompous general boum, at which the duchess is present. in its ranks there is a recruit, known by the name of fritz, who has already aroused the general's jealousy by his attentions to wanda, a peasant girl. he continues still further to add to this jealousy when the duchess, attracted by his good looks, singles him out for her regard and promotes him to the post of corporal. when she learns of his relations to wanda, she raises him to the rank of lieutenant, evidently to separate him from wanda by the new elevation. the review over, the duchess studies the plan of a pending campaign against a neighboring enemy. she summons general boum in the presence of baron puck, her court chamberlain, prince paul, a feeble and neglected suitor of the duchess, and lieutenant fritz, who is now her special body-guard, and asks him for his plan of campaign, which he states, much to the disgust of fritz, who declares it to be sheer nonsense. the duchess then asks the latter for his plan, and is so much pleased with it that she appoints him general and raises him to the rank of baron, much to the discomfort and indignation of the others. the second act opens with the return of fritz. he has been victorious, and at the public reception given him he tells the story of his adventures. subsequently at a tête-à-tête with the duchess, she makes open love to him; but he is so occupied with thoughts of wanda that he is insensible to all her advances, which puts her in a rage. overhearing a conspiracy between puck, paul, and the deposed general boum against his life, she joins with them, and the act closes with a wild, hilarious dance. in the third act baron grog, emissary of prince paul's father, appears upon the scene to expedite the marriage of the prince to the duchess. he joins the conspiracy against fritz, and so ingratiates himself with the duchess that she finally consents to marry the prince. in the mean time she countermands the order for fritz's assassination, and gives him permission to marry wanda. the conspirators, however, play a practical joke upon fritz by a false message summoning him to the battle-field. he leaves at once on the wedding-night, but through the connivance of general boum is waylaid and badly beaten. while the betrothal of the duchess is being celebrated, fritz returns in sad plight, with the sabre which the duchess has given him in a battered condition. she adds to his misfortunes by depriving him of his command and bestowing it upon baron grog, but learning that he has a family, she reinstates general boum. in the dénouement fritz is restored to his wanda and the duchess marries prince paul. the music is in keeping with the drollery of the situations, and abounds in vivacity and odd descriptiveness, defying all accepted laws and adapting itself to the grotesquerie and extravagance of the action. the principal numbers in the first act are the pompous "pif, paf, pouf" song of general boum; the grand duchess' air, "ah! i love the military" ("ah! que j'aime les militaires"); the regiment song for her and fritz, "oh! what a famous regiment" ("ah! c'est un fameux régiment"); the couplets of prince paul, "to marry a princess" ("pour épouser une princesse"); and the famous sabre song, "lo, here the sabre of my sire" ("voici, le sabre de mon père"). the best numbers of the second act are fritz's spirited rondo, "all in good order, colors flying" ("en très bon ordre nous partîmes"), in which he tells the story of his victory; the romanza "say to him" ("dites lui"), a delightful little song, and so refined that it hardly seems to belong to the opera; and the conspirators' trio, "max was a soldier of fortune" ("max était soldat de fortune"), which is irresistible in its broad humor and queer rhythms. the musical interest really reaches its climax in the second act. outside of the chorus work in the third act, there is little of interest except the duchess' ballad, "there lived in times now long gone by" ("il était un de mes aieux"), and fritz' song to the duchess, "behold here, your highness" ("eh bien, altesse, me voilà!"). la belle hélène. [opera bouffe, in three acts; text by de meilhac and halévy. first produced at the théâtre des variétés, paris, december 17, 1864.] personages. helen, queen of sparta. paris, son of priam. menelaus, king of sparta. agamemnon, king of the kings. calchas, augur. achilles, king of phthiotis. ajax i., king of salamis. ajax ii., king of the locrians. orestes, son of agamemnon. bacchis, attendant of helen. parthoenis. loena. philocomes, servant of calchas. euthycles, a blacksmith. [princes, princesses, courtiers, helen's attendants, slaves, etc.] the scene is laid in sparta; time mythical. in "la belle hélène" offenbach goes back to the mythical period, and presents the heroes of the time of helen and paris in modern burlesque. the first act opens at the temple of jupiter in sparta, where, among others who have placed their offerings at his shrine, is helen. when alone with calchas, the augur, they discuss some means of avoiding the decree of the oracle which has declared she is to leave menelaus, her husband, and fly with paris, son of priam, to troy. before a decision is reached, paris, disguised as a shepherd, arrives, and soon he and helen are lovers. they meet again in a grand tournament in which the two ajaxes, achilles, agamemnon, and others announce themselves in the most comic fashion and guess at conundrums for a prize. paris wins, and proclaims his name and lineage, to the delight of helen, whose delight is still further enhanced when the oracle orders menelaus to set off at once for crete. in the second act helen struggles against the decrees of venus. paris has an interview with her, but she will not yield, and he retires. by the aid of calchas he secures admission to the chamber of the slumbering queen, when menelaus suddenly returns and an altercation ensues, during which paris defies all the grecian heroes, and helen philosophically informs menelaus he should have announced his coming beforehand. paris again retreats, and helen is now in despair. in the third act helen and menelaus have a family quarrel, and he charges her with being false. she denies it, and declares he has been dreaming. calchas now appears, and announces that a new augur has been appointed and is on his way there. a golden galley is seen approaching, and the new augur is found to be paris himself. he brings word that venus is angry at what has been going on, but will relent if helen will return with him to her shrine and sacrifice white heifers. she is reluctant to go, but finally decides to obey the voice of destiny, and sails away with him, leaving them all behind in grief and menelaus in rage. the dialogue of "la belle hélène" is very witty, though coarse at times, and many of the situations are full of a humorous incongruity and drollness growing out of the attempt to modernize these mythological heroes. the music admirably fits the text, and though not so gay as that of "the grand duchess," yet is fresh, original, and interesting throughout. the chief numbers of the work are helen's passionate song of mourning for adonis, "divine love" ("amours divins"); paris' fable, "on mount ida, three goddesses" ("au mont ida, trois déesses"), in which he tells the well-known apple story; the march and chorus, "here are the kings of greece" ("voici les rois de la grèce"), in which, one after the other, they come forward and announce themselves in an irresistibly funny manner; helen's mock sentimental song, "we all are born with solicitude" ("nous naissons toutes soucieuses"); the droll goose march of the kings; a fascinating chorus, "let us wreathe crowns of roses" ("en courronnes tressons roses"); helen's song, "a husband wise" ("un mari sage"), one of the most characteristic numbers in the opera; and in the last act orestes' song, "in spite of this ardent flame" ("malgré cette ardente flamme"); the spirited trio, "when greece has become a field of carnage" ("lorsque la grèce est un camp de carnage"); and the final chorus, "let now our wrath" ("que notre colère"), which preludes the trojan war. orpheus. [opera bouffe, in three acts; text by cremieux. first produced at the bouffes parisiens, paris, october 21, 1858.] personages. pluto, disguised as aristeus. jupiter, king of the gods. orpheus, the lutist. john styx, the ferryman. mercury, the messenger. bacchus, god of wine. mars, god of war. eurydice, spouse of orpheus. diana, goddess of the hunt. public opinion. juno, consort of jupiter. venus, goddess of love. cupid, her messenger. minerva, goddess of wisdom. the scene is laid near thebes; time, mythical. the best musical work of offenbach undoubtedly is to be found in his "orpheus aux enfers," and the text which his librettist furnished him is in keeping with the music. it was a bold as well as droll conception to invest the olympian gods and goddesses with human attributes and make them symbols of worldly departments of action and official life, to parade them in processions like the ordinary street pageant, to present them in banquets, to dress them in the most fantastically individual manner, and to make nineteenth-century caricatures of the whole olympian coterie. the first scene of the opera discloses eurydice in the theban meadows plucking flowers with which to decorate the cabin of aristeus, the shepherd, who is really pluto in disguise. suddenly orpheus appears, not with his tortoise-shell lyre, but playing the violin and serenading, as he supposes, a shepherdess with whom he is in love. his mistake reveals the fact that each of them is false to the other, and a violent quarrel of the most ludicrous description ensues, ending in their separation. he goes to his shepherdess, she to her shepherd. shortly afterwards, aristeus meets eurydice in the fields and reveals his real self. by supernatural power he turns day into night and brings on a tempest, in the midst of which he bears her away to the infernal regions, but not before she has written upon orpheus' hut the fate that has overtaken her. when orpheus returns he is overjoyed at his loss, but in the midst of his exultation, public opinion appears and commands him to go to olympus and demand from jupiter the restoration of his wife. orpheus reluctantly obeys the order. the second act opens in olympus, where the gods and goddesses are enjoying a nap, from which they are awakened by the blasts of diana's horn. thereupon much slanderous gossip is circulated amongst them, the latest news discussed being pluto's abduction of eurydice. pluto himself shortly comes in, and is at once taxed by jupiter with his unseemly behavior, whereupon pluto retaliates by reference to jupiter's numerous amours with mortals. this arouses the jealousy of juno. venus, with cupid's assistance, starts a veritable riot, which is suddenly interrupted by the arrival of orpheus and his guide, public opinion. he demands that his wife shall be restored to him, and jupiter not only consents, but agrees to attend to the matter personally. the third act finds eurydice in hades, carefully guarded by john styx. jupiter is faithful to his promise, and soon arrives there, but not in his proper person. he appears in the disguise of a fly, and allows eurydice to catch him, after which he reveals himself. when pluto comes in, he finds her transformed into a bacchante of the most convivial sort. other deities make their appearance, and finally orpheus comes sailing up the styx, playing his violin, and demanding of jupiter the fulfilment of his contract. jupiter consents, but makes the condition that he shall return to his boat, eurydice following him, and that he must not look back. orpheus sets out, but just before he reaches the boat, the cunning jupiter launches a thunderbolt after him, which causes him to turn and lose eurydice, much to the disgust of public opinion, but greatly to the edification of orpheus, who is now at liberty to return to his shepherdess on the theban plain. the most striking numbers in this curious travesty are the opening aria of eurydice, as she gathers the flowers, "woman that dreams" ("la femme dont la coeur rêve"); the pastoral sung to her by aristeus, "to see through the vines" ("voir voltiger sous les treilles"); the fascinating hunting-song of diana, "when diana comes down the plain" ("quand diane descend dans la plaine"); the characteristic and taking song of john styx, "when i was king of boeotia" ("quand j'étais roi de beotie"), which in its way is as striking as the sabre song in "the grand duchess"; eurydice's delicate fly-song, "beautiful insect, with golden wings" ("bel insecte, à l'aile dorée"); the drinking-song in the infernal regions, "hail to the wine" ("vive le vin"); and eurydice's vivacious bacchanalian song which immediately follows it, "i have seen the god bacchus" ("j'ai vu le dieu bacchus"). planquette, robert. the chimes of normandy. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by clairville and gabet. first produced at the folies dramatiques, paris, april 19, 1877.] personages. serpolette, the good-for-nothing. germaine, the lost marchioness. susanne. jeanne. henri, marquis of corneville. jean grenicheux, a fisherman. gaspard, an old miser. baillie, magistrate. notary. [peasants, sailors, servants, waiting-maids, etc.] the scene is laid in normandy; time of louis the fifteenth. the first act of this charming opera, one of the most popular of its class, opens in an old norman village during the progress of a fair. henri, the marquis of villeroi, who has been an exile since childhood, has just returned. the first scene discloses a number of village gossips who are retailing scandals about serpolette, the good-for-nothing, who arrives in time to vindicate herself and retaliate upon the gossips. gaspard, the miser, has arranged to give his niece germaine in marriage to the sheriff, who is the chief dignitary in the village. germaine, however, objects to the proposition, since if she marries at all she claims she must marry jean grenicheux, a young fisherman, in gratitude for saving her life. to escape the marriage she and jean become the servants of the marquis, and are joined by serpolette, which is one of the privileges of fair-time. the second act is occupied with the exposure of the ghosts in the castle of villeroi. the marquis is confident that there is nothing supernatural about the apparition which has been seen or the sounds which have been heard in the various apartments. he therefore introduces his servants into the castle, and after careful searching discovers that the ghost of villeroi is old gaspard, the miser, who, when he is found out, becomes crazy through fear of losing treasures which are concealed there. in the last act the castle is restored to its old splendor, and the marquis takes possession as master. he gives a fête and the villagers are invited, the crazy gaspard being among them. serpolette appears as a grand lady with jean as her factotum, some papers found in the castle indicating she is the lost heiress. after a love scene between henri and germaine, however, gaspard, who has recovered his reason, discloses that germaine, and not serpolette, is the rightful heiress and the true claimant to the title of marchioness. all the complications are now unravelled. gaspard's treasure is restored to its rightful owner. germaine comes to her rights, and serpolette remains with her as her friend. the music of the opera is delightful throughout, and has scarcely a dull moment. its most conspicuous numbers are serpolette's rondo, "in my mysterious history"; a delightful little fantaisie, "go, little sailor"; the legend of the chimes, "alas! we have lost excellent masters"; henri's grand aria, "i have thrice made the tour of the world"; and his couplets, "under the armor from top to toe"; serpolette's sprightly aria, "viscountess and marchioness"; the chorus with the chimes, a most graceful and interesting number closing the second act; and in the last act gaspard's quaint old norman song, "we were full five hundred rogues"; serpolette's rondo, "the apple's a fruit full of vigor"; and henri's romance, "a servant, what matter to me?" ricci, luigi. crispino. [opera buffa, in three acts; text by piave. first produced in venice, in 1850.] personages. annetta, the cobbler's wife. la comare, the fairy. crispino, the cobbler. il contino, the count. dr. fabrizio. dr. mirobolante. don asdrubal. lisetta. [clerks, waiters, servants, etc.] the scene is laid in venice; time, the last century. the first act of this charming little fairy opera opens with a unison chorus of apothecary's apprentices, "thump, thump" ("batti, batti"). crispino, a poor cobbler, over head and ears in debt, whose wife annetta tries to help him out by ballad singing, is seated at his bench at work in front of his house. in the intervals of the chorus the count, who figures in a side plot, sings a beautiful romanza, "thou beauteous as an angel art" ("bella siccome un angelo"). then crispino bewails his hard fortune in a quaint melody, "once a cobbler" ("una volta un ciabattino"), after which annetta introduces herself with a canzonetta, "my pretty tales and songs" ("istorie belle e leggere"), leading up to a minor duet between them. in the sixth scene a buffo aria, "i am a bit of a philosopher" ("io sono un po' filosofo") is sung by dr. fabrizio. at last crispino gets into such desperate straits that he resolves to make way with himself. he is about to jump into a well when a fairy appears and dissuades him, at the same time giving him a purse of gold and offering to set him up in business as a doctor, telling him he must look about him whenever he has a patient, and if she is not present he will be successful. the act closes with a duet for crispino and annetta, "since you have found a fairy" ("troffo so, basta per ova"). the second act discloses crispino in the midst of a nourishing business, and the delighted annetta sings a joyous little melody, "i no longer am annetta" ("io non sono piu l'annetta"). a workman who has met with an accident is brought to crispino for treatment, and as the fairy is not present he is successful. the musical treatment of the healing scene is worked up with great skill. it begins with a baritone solo, leading up to a duet with soprano and chorus accompaniment. a sextette then takes up the theme, and in the close all on the stage give it with impressive effect. a broadly humorous but very melodious trio of the doctors follows, "sirs, what means this quarrel?" ("ma signori, perchè tantes questione?"). in the next scene annetta sings the pretty fritola song, "pietro, darling, this cake so tempting" ("piero mio, go qua una fritola"), in which she boasts the merits of a cake she has made for the carnival. meanwhile crispino grows so puffed up with his wealth that when annetta invites some old friends to the house he drives them out, and is about to strike annetta when the fairy suddenly appears. in the last act the fairy has taken crispino to a cavern, where she shows him crystal vases in which more or less brilliant lights are burning. she tells him that each represents a human life. the one burning so brightly is annetta's, the one so dimly is his own. when he asks her to take some oil out of annetta's lamp and put it into his, she upbraids him, reveals herself as death, and tells him to make his last request, for he is about to die. in a doleful ballad, "little i ask, dearest fairy" ("poco cerco, o mia comare"), he asks for only a half-hour more, so that he may see annetta and the children. a sudden change of scene shows him in his own house, awaking from sleep in his chair. as he realizes that it has been only a nightmare, occasioned by a sudden fit of illness, he expresses his delight and annetta expresses her joy in a brilliant waltz movement, "there's no joy that e'er hath given me" ("non ha gioja in tal momento"), which closes the opera. rossini, gioachino antonio. the barber of seville. [opera buffa, in two acts; text by sterbini. first produced at the argentina theatre, rome, february 5, 1816.] personages. rosina, ward of dr. bartolo. berta. figaro, the barber. count almaviva, lover of rosina. dr. bartolo. basilio, a music-master. [officers, soldiers, etc.] the scene is laid in seville; time, the eighteenth century. the story and the music of "the barber of seville" are as fresh and delightful as when the opera was first produced eighty-six years ago. its story is almost as familiar as household words, and no music has been more popular on the operatic stage than its gay, brilliant arias. count almaviva loves rosina, the ward of dr. bartolo, who wishes to marry her himself, but the count is unable to get an interview with her until it is arranged for by figaro, the factotum of the place. in spite of bartolo's watchfulness, as well as that of don basilio, her music-teacher, who is only too willing to serve bartolo, she succeeds in writing to the count and telling him that his love is returned. with figaro's help the count gets into the house disguised as a drunken dragoon, but is promptly arrested. the next time he secures admission as a music-teacher upon the pretence that don basilio is sick, and has sent him to give rosina her lesson. he further hoodwinks bartolo by producing the letter rosina had written to himself, and promises to persuade her that the letter has been given him by a mistress of the count, which will break the connection between the two. he secures the coveted interview, and an elopement is planned. the unexpected appearance of don basilio, however, upsets the arrangements, and the disconcerted lover makes good his escape. in the mean time bartolo, who has the letter, shows it to his ward and arouses her jealousy. she thereupon promises to marry her guardian. at the time set for the elopement, the count and figaro arrive. a reconciliation is speedily effected, and the count and rosina are married just as bartolo makes his appearance with officers to arrest the count. after mutual explanations, however, all ends happily. the opera opens, after a short chorus, with the count's serenade, "lo, smiling in the orient sky" ("ecco ridente in cielo"), one of the most beautiful numbers in the opera. in the second scene figaro sings the lively and well-known buffo aria, "make room for the factotum" ("largo al factotum"). a light and lively duet between figaro and the count leads up to the chamber aria of rosina, "the voice i heard just now" ("una voce poco fa"), which is not only very expressive but remarkably rich in ornamentation. in the next scene occurs the calumny aria, "oh! calumny is like the sigh" ("la calunnia è un venticello"). it is followed by a florid duet and a dialogue between rosina and bartolo, closing with the bass aria, "no longer conceal the truth" ("non piu tacete"). the finale is composed of three scenes full of glittering dialogue and melodious passages. the second act opens with a soliloquy by bartolo, interrupted by a duet with the count. the music-lesson scene follows in which the artist personating rosina is given an opportunity for interpolation. in the next scene occurs a dialogue quintette, which is followed by a long aria for bertha, "there is always noise" ("sempre gridi"), which the italians called the "aria de sorbetto," as they used to eat ices while it was sung. in the eighth scene, after a long recitative, an instrumental prelude occurs, representing a stormy night, followed by recitative in which the count reveals himself, leading up to a florid trio, and this in turn to the elegant terzetto, "softly, softly, no delay" ("zitti, zitti, piano, piano"). a bravura and finale of light, graceful melody close the opera. solomon, edward. billee taylor. [nautical comic opera, in two acts; text by stephens. first produced in london in 1880] personages. felix flapper, r. n., captain of "h. m. s. thunderbomb." sir mincing lane, knight. billee taylor. ben barnacle. christopher crab, tutor. phoebe farleigh, a charity girl. arabella lane, heiress. eliza dabsey. susan. jane scraggs. [villagers, peasants, sailors, press gang, etc.] the scene is laid in southampton, england; time, the year 1805. the story of "billee taylor" is based upon an old english marine ballad of the same name. the first act opens at the inn of the royal george in southampton, where the villagers have gathered to celebrate the wedding of billee taylor and phoebe farleigh, a charity girl. the heiress, arabella lane, is also in love with billee, and has offered him her hand, which he has rejected. her father, sir mincing lane, is going to give the villagers a feast upon the occasion of billee's wedding, and invites his friend, captain flapper, to attend. the captain accepts, falls in love with phoebe at sight, and vows billee shall not marry her. crab, the tutor, is also in love with phoebe. in captain flapper's crew is bill barnacle, who went to sea "on account of eliza," who had been unfaithful to him, and he is ordered by the press gang to carry billee away, which he does during the wedding festivities. the second act opens at portsmouth, two years supposedly having elapsed. all the charity girls, among them phoebe, disguised as sailors, followed billee to sea, who in the mean time has risen to a lieutenancy. arabella forces her attentions upon him and he is inclined to yield. at this juncture phoebe, still seeking her lover, turns up as a common sailor answering to the name of richard carr. captain flapper in her presence mentions that he is in love with her, also that billee is about to marry arabella. sir mincing lane, now a commander of volunteers, endeavors to persuade some of the sailors to join him, and phoebe offers herself as a recruit, but is claimed as a messmate by barnacle, which leads to a quarrel. crab then incites phoebe to revenge herself upon her recreant lover, and she fires at him, but the shot hits crab. she is arrested and is about to be executed, but is released when she declares herself a woman. in the end billee is disrated, but marries arabella. barnacle secures his eliza. phoebe marries the captain, and is made full lieutenant of the "thunderbomb." "billee taylor" is essentially a ballad opera. the best of the ballads are "the virtuous gardener," in which billee describes the ethical pleasures of gardening; "the two rivers," sung by phoebe, susan, and chorus; "the self-made knight," by sir mincing lane, which resembles sir joseph porter's song in the first act of "pinafore" ("when i was a lad i served a term"); phoebe's sentimental song, "the guileless orphan"; barnacle's well-known song, "all on account of eliza"; crab's humorous ditty, "the poor wicked man"; angelina's sentimental "ballad of the billow"; and captain flapper's disquisition on love in the interrogative song, "do you know why the rabbits are caught in the snares?" sousa, john philip. el capitan. [comic opera, in three acts; text by klein. first produced at the tremont theatre, boston, april 13, 1896.] personages. medigua, viceroy of peru. cazarro, deposed viceroy. pozzo, secretary of medigua. verrada, in love with isabel. scaramba, an insurgent. estrelda, cazarro's daughter. marghanza, medigua's wife. isabel, her daughter. [troops, insurgents, peasants, etc.] the scene is laid in peru; time, the eighteenth century. at the opening of the story cazarro, viceroy of peru, has been deposed by the king of spain, and medigua has been appointed in his stead. cazarro incites a revolution, and sends to spain for el capitan, a noted soldier, to come to his help. he sails on the same ship with medigua, in the disguise of a seaman, but is killed in a quarrel on board. medigua finds out who he was, and when he lands, discovering that his faction is in a hopeless minority, he proclaims himself el capitan and joins the rebels. to further his scheme he induces his secretary, pozzo, to represent the viceroy. among the other characters are scaramba, a revolutionist in love with estrelda, daughter of cazarro; the princess marghanza, wife of medigua; her daughter isabel; and count verrada, who is in love with her. estrelda falls in love with the pseudo el capitan, which arouses scaramba's jealousy. pozzo is thrust into prison, much to the grief of the princess and of isabel, who believe him to be medigua. after the arrival of the spanish troops, however, medigua declares himself. the rebellion is squelched, all are pardoned, and everything ends happily. the principal numbers of the first act are a pretty drinking-song for the chorus; a solo for medigua, "if you examine human kind," followed by a dialogue and leading up to an aria for estrelda, "when we hear the call for battle," with chorus in march time; a second march, "in me you see el capitan," which heralds medigua's entrance; the chorus, "lo, the awful man approaches"; and the solo and chorus, "bah, bah," closing the act. the second act opens with a march song, "ditty of the drill," which is shortly followed by an effective scene in which a mournful accompaniment representing the grief of marghanza and isabel, and a festive accompaniment setting forth the exultation of estrelda and her companions as they bind el capitan with garlands of roses, are interwoven. as the princess discovers medigua in el capitan, a quarrel duet follows between her and estrelda, leading up to a pompous military finale, as the spanish troops appear. the leading numbers of the third act are a serenade and duet for verrada and isabel; a song by the tipsy medigua, "the typical tune of zanzibar," which is the most popular number in the opera; and a final march with chorus. strauss, johann. the merry war. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by zell and genée. first produced in vienna, november 25, 1881.] personages. countess violetta. col. umberto. duke de limburg. balthasar groats, dealer in tulip bulbs. else, wife of groats. spiuzzi. franchetti. biffi. [soldiers, citizens, etc.] the scene is laid in genoa; time, the eighteenth century. the "merry war" is not a very serious one, as may be inferred from its title. it is a quarrel between two petty states, genoa and massa carrara, growing out of the fact that a popular dancer has made simultaneous engagements at the theatres of each. both claim her, and the question at issue is at which theatre the dancer shall appear. one harmless hand grenade is thrown from either side with monotonous regularity each day, and the "merry war" is without interesting incident until the pretty countess violetta appears in one of the camps. she is seeking to make her way in disguise into the city of the other camp, to take command of the citadel. umberto, the colonel commanding, is deceived by her, and allows her to pass through the lines. when informed of the deception he determines to take his revenge by marrying her. understanding that she is to marry the duke de limburg by proxy, he impersonates the duke and is married to violetta without arousing her suspicions. he is assisted in his scheme by balthasar groats, a dutch speculator in tulip bulbs, whom the soldiers have arrested, thinking him a spy, and who is naturally willing to do anything for the colonel to get him out of his predicament. complications arise, however, when groats' wife appears and becomes jealous, also because of violetta's antipathy towards her supposed husband and her affection for umberto. all these matters are arranged satisfactorily, however, when there is an opportunity for explanation, and a treaty of peace is signed between the two states, when it is found that the cause of the "merry war" will not keep her engagement with either theatre. the music of "the merry war" is light and gay throughout. like all the rest of the strauss operas, it might be said that it is a collection of marches and waltzes, and a repetition of dance music which has done good service in ballrooms, strung upon the slight thread of a story. its most taking numbers are umberto's couplets, "till now no drop of blood"; balthasar's comical song, "general, ho!" and his tulip song, "from holland to florence in peace we were going"; violetta's arietta, "in vain i cannot fly"; the dainty duet for violetta and umberto, "please do"; else's romantic song, "i wandered on"; the ensemble and dutch song by artemisia, "the much admired one"; umberto's love song, "the night begins to creep"; violetta's song, "i am yet commander for to-day," leading to a terzetto and spirited final chorus, "of their warlike renown." the queen's lace handkerchief. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by genée and bohrmann-riegen. first produced at vienna, october 2, 1880.] personages. the king. the queen. donna irene, the queen's confidante. marquis of villareal. cervantes, poet. count villaboisy roderiguez, prime minister. don sancho de avellaneda, tutor to the king. marquis de la mancha villareal, minister of war. duke of feria, minister of finance. count san gregorio, minister of the interior. count ermos, minister of the navy. don diego de barados, minister of police. dancing-master. master of ceremonies. antonio, innkeeper. [students, doctors, ladies and gentlemen of the court, toreadors, brigands, etc.] the scene is laid in portugal; time, the year 1570. the romance of the story of "the queen's lace handkerchief" has helped to make this opera one of the most popular of strauss' works. the action begins at a time when portugal is ruled by a ministry whose premier is in league with philip ii. of spain, and who, to keep possession of power, has fomented trouble between the young queen and king, and encouraged the latter in all kinds of dissipations. at this time cervantes, the poet, who has been banished from spain, is a captain in the royal guards, and in love with irene, a lady in waiting. these two are good friends of both the king and queen, and are eager to depose the ministry. cervantes is reader to the queen, and the latter, having a sentimental attachment for him, writes upon her handkerchief, "a queen doth love thee, yet art thou no king," and placing it in a volume of "don quixote," hands it to him. the book is seized, and as "don quixote" is minister of war and "sancho panza" minister of instruction, cervantes is arrested for libel and treason. irene and the king, however, save him by proving him insane, and the king and queen ascend the throne. in desperation the premier hands the king the handkerchief with the inscription on it, which leads to the re-arrest of cervantes and the banishment of the queen to a convent. cervantes escapes, however, and joins some brigands. they capture the queen on her way to the convent, and in the disguise of the host and waiting-maid of an inn, they serve the king, who happens there on a hunting-trip. everything is satisfactorily accounted for, and the inscription on the handkerchief is explained as a message which the queen sent to the king by cervantes. the music is light and brilliant. much of it is in the waltz movement, and the choral work is a strong feature. its best numbers are the queen's humorous romanza, "it was a wondrous fair and starry night"; another humorous number, the king's truffle song, "such dish by man not oft is seen"; the epicurean duet for the king and premier, "these oysters are great"; cervantes' recitative, "once sat a youth," in the finale of the first act: a dainty little romanza for cervantes, "where the wild rose sweetly doth blow"; the trio and chorus, "great professors, learned doctors"; the fine duet for the king and cervantes, "brighter glance on him shall repose"; sancho's vivacious couplet, "in the night his zither holding"; the queen's showy song, "seventeen years had just passed o'er me"; and the two closing choruses, "now the king all hail," in march time, and the bull-fight, which is full of dash and spirit. queen indigo. [opera comique, in three acts; text by jaime and wilder. first produced in vienna, february 10, 1871.] personages. montadada i., widow of king indigo. fantasca, the late king's favorite. janio, the late king's jester. romadour, chief of the eunuchs. babazouck, fruit and vegetable vender. mysouf, general-in-chief. [inmates of the harem, eunuchs, cooks, courtiers, soldiers, sailors, etc.] the scene is laid in asiatic turkey; time, the last century. at the opening of the opera king indigo has just died, and his widow, montadada i., decides to sell the harem. fantasca, a beautiful slave, who was the favorite of the king, is included among those to be sold, and romadour, chief of the eunuchs, resolves to secure her. fantasca is in love with janio, the king's jester, of her own country. queen montadada is also in love with him and has chosen him for her second husband, but he prefers fantasca. the two contrive a cunning plot for the escape of the entire harem. janio informs the queen that one of her tribes has revolted, and as her troops are all sick he proposes that the women be armed and that he be placed in command. she accepts the proposal, and promises that the victor "shall choose the woman he loves, did she even wear a crown," not doubting janio will select her, but, much to her chagrin, he announces fantasca as his choice. the second act discloses the amazon army with janio and fantasca at its head. the queen also accompanies them, still bent upon securing janio's love. at the first alarm the troops fly in all directions, and the queen, suspicious that something is wrong, scours the woods for janio, who makes his escape by changing clothes with babazouck, a fruit-vender. the queen meanwhile arrays herself in male attire, so that she may compete in physical attractions with fantasca. she furthermore gets into a semi-drunken condition, but recognizes the cheat when babazouck is brought before her. immediately thereafter she falls into a drunken stupor. romadour also comes in intoxicated, and mistaking her for fantasca, sings to her, "o, my queen, i love you," in a deep bass voice. the act closes with the two sleeping side by side, and the women of the harem carrying off the royal treasures. in the last act janio, fantasca, and the other slaves are preparing for flight, when the queen and romadour enter. the former announces she no longer loves janio, but the man who had declared, "oh, my queen, i love you." at her request romadour repeats the remark, but this time in a high falsetto voice which she does not recognize. subsequently he changes his mind, after hearing of fantasca's prowess in battle, and exclaims, "o, my queen, i love you," in the bass voice. the queen promptly claims him for her husband and he acquiesces. she then orders janio and fantasca to be sold, but romadour intercedes in their behalf, and she banishes them. like all the strauss operas, "queen indigo" is full of charming waltz music, comprising, in addition to many novelties, several of his old-time favorites. the most effective vocal numbers are the trio, "what dark forebodings" ("quel sombre et noir présage"); fantasca's couplets, "a model soldier" ("cavalier modèle"), and her song, "woman is a cunning bird" ("la femme est un oiseau subtil"); the waltz song, "oh! maddening flame" ("o flamme cuivrante"); the characteristic tyrolienne, "youpla! why, fond lover" ("youplà, pourquoi, bel amoureux"); and the "blue danube" chorus of the sailors, in the last act. the bat. (_die fledermaus._) [opéra comique, in three acts; text by haffner and genée. first produced in vienna, july, 1874.] personages. eisenstein. alfred, singing-master. frosch, court usher. frank, prison director. dr. blind, attorney. dr. falke, notary. ivan, prince chamberlain. ali bey, an egyptian. murray, an american. cancorney, a marquis. rosalind, wife of eisenstein. prince orlofsky. adele, rosalind's maid. lord middleton. [dancers, masqueraders, etc.] the scene is laid in germany; time, the last century. strauss' "die fledermaus," or "the bat," is founded upon meilhac and halévy's "le revillon." in music it is viennese; in dramatic effect, it is french. the scene opens with adele, maid of the baroness rosalind, seeking permission to visit her sister ida, a ballet-dancer, who is to be at a masked ball given by prince orlofsky, a russian millionaire. she receives permission, and after she has gone, dr. falke, a notary, who has arranged the ball, calls at the house of the baron eisenstein, and induces him to go to it before going to jail, to which he has been sentenced for contempt of court. the purpose of the doctor is to seek revenge for his shabby treatment by the baron some time before at a masquerade which they had attended,--eisenstein dressed as a butterfly, and falke as a bat. the doctor then notifies the baroness that her husband will be at the ball. she thereupon decides that she will also be present. an amusing scene occurs when the baron seeks to pass himself off as a french marquis, and pays his devotions to the ladies, but is quite astonished to find his wife there, flirting with an old lover. there are further complications caused by falke, who manages to have alfred, the singing-master, in the baroness' apartments when the sheriff comes to arrest the baron, and arrests alfred, supposing him to be eisenstein. in the last act, however, all the complications are disentangled, and everything ends happily. it would be impossible to name the conspicuous numbers in this animated and sprightly work without making a catalogue of them all. the opera is a grand potpourri of waltz and polka motives and fresh, bright melodies. the composer does not linger long with the dialogue, but goes from one waltz melody to another in a most bewildering manner, interspersing them with romanzas, drinking-songs, czardas, an almost endless variety of dance rhythms and choruses of a brilliant sort. it is a charming mixture of viennese gayety and french drollery, and, like his "roman carnival" and "queen indigo," is the very essence of the dance. stuart, leslie. florodora. [musical comedy, in two acts; text by hall. first produced in london, november 11, 1899.] personages. cyrus w. gilfain, proprietor of the island of florodora. capt. arthur donegal, lady holyrood's brother. frank abercoed, manager for mr. gilfain. leandro, overseer. anthony tweedlepunch, phrenologist. dolores. valleda, maid to lady holyrood. estelle lamont, stenographer. angela gilfain. lady holyrood. [florodorean farmers, flower-girls, peasants, etc.] the scene is laid in the island of florodora and wales; time, the present. "florodora," the title of a musical comedy which has had extraordinary success both in england and the united states, is the name of an island and a perfume. the island has been stolen by cyrus gilfain, the manufacturer of the perfume, from its rightful owner, whose daughter dolores works in his factory. he is anxious to marry the girl, so that he may retain possession of the island, but she is in love with abercoed, the chief clerk, who in reality is lord abercoed. the conspicuous comedy element of the work is supplied by tweedlepunch, a detective, who arrives at the island in gilfain's absence, disguised as a phrenologist and palmist, in search of the real owner's daughter. when gilfain returns he is accompanied by lady holyrood, a london society woman, who is scheming to marry him. lady holyrood's brother, meanwhile, is in love with angela, gilfain's daughter. gilfain, finding that tweedlepunch is a phrenologist, bribes him to decide, after examination, that he and dolores must wed, and that abercoed, whom he has learned is a peer, must marry his daughter angela. the scheme does not satisfy any one but gilfain, and, least of all, lady holyrood, who bribes tweedlepunch again to decide that she and gilfain must marry. abercoed refuses to marry angela, is discharged by gilfain, and goes back to england with the intention of returning later for dolores. the second act opens in the grounds of abercoed castle in wales, which has been bought by gilfain, who refuses to admit his former clerk. he manages to get in, however, in company with tweedlepunch and dolores, and tweedlepunch, by a story of the ghost of an ancient abercoed which has threatened dreadful things will happen to gilfain, so terrifies him that he confesses his villainy, and all ends happily. gilfain finally marries lady holyrood, donegal and angela and abercoed and dolores are also married, and the castle is restored to the rightful owner. the music of "florodora" is light and catchy, but though original of its kind, the work would hardly have achieved its remarkable vogue had it not been for its brilliant stage setting, dances, and the extravagant comedy rôle of tweedlepunch. the best numbers in the first act are the sextette, "the credit due to me," by the clerks and chorus; the song, "when i leave town," by lady holyrood; and abercoed's sentimental song, "in the shade of the sheltering palm," the only serious and musicianly number in the work. the principal numbers of the second act are lady holyrood's topical song "tact," and "i've an inkling"; angela's clever song, "the fellow who might"; donegal's song, "i want to be a military man"; the grotesque song and dance by leandro and valleda, "we get up at 8 a. m."; and the double sextette, "tell me, pretty maiden," which is cleverly constructed and has a fascinating rhythm. sullivan, arthur. cox and box. [comic operetta, in one act and seven tableaux; text by burnand. first produced at the adelphi theatre, london, 1867.] personages. james john cox, a journeyman hatter. john james box, a journeyman printer. sergt. bouncer, late of the hampshire yeomanry. the scene is laid in london; time, the present. "cox and box" is of interest because it is the germ from which sprang the long list of sullivan's charming comic operas. burnand, the author of the libretto, has told the story of how they came to write this little operetta. they had been to a private performance of offenbach's "les deux aveugles," and, burnand wishing to present something of the same kind to a party of his own friends, the notion suddenly occurred to him of turning morton's well-known farce of "box and cox" into an opera. sullivan took to the plan enthusiastically. burnand reversed the title to "cox and box," and turned mrs. bouncer into sergeant bouncer, so as to admit of a martial air. they had but three weeks before them, but at the end of that time the work was finished, sullivan setting the music with almost incredible rapidity. it made such a great hit that it was decided to give it publicly, and at the last moment the composer wrote an overture for it. the story is the familiar old one which as "box and cox" was for so many years and still is such a favorite on the stage. it turns upon the funny experiences of cox, the hatter, and box, the printer, who are occupying the same room, the one by night and the other by day, unbeknown to each other, and for which sergeant bouncer gets double rent. at last they meet in the room which each one claims as his own. after a ludicrous dispute they gradually become reconciled to each other, but another dispute ensues when cox finds that the widow penelope ann, whom he is about to marry, has been deserted by box, the latter pretending to have committed suicide to get rid of her. cox insists upon restoring box to the arms of his intended, but box declines his generous offer. then they agree to decide by lot which shall have her, but each tries to cheat the other. the situation resolves itself satisfactorily when a letter comes to cox from penelope ann, announcing that she has decided to marry knox. they give three cheers for knox, and bouncer closes the scene with a joyous rataplan in which all three join. the situations are extremely humorous throughout, and the action moves briskly. though sullivan wrote the music in great haste, it is in perfect keeping with the fun of the farce and keeps up its interest to the end. the principal numbers are bouncer's rataplan song, "yes, in those merry days," and his duet with cox, "stay, bouncer, stay"; cox's joyous song, "my master is punctual always in business," with its dance at the end of each stanza; the characteristic serenade, "the buttercup dwells in the lowly mead" (cox) and "the floweret shines on the minaret fair" (box); box's solemn description of his pretended suicide, "listen! i solemnly walked to the cliff"; and the finale by the jolly triumvirate with the "rataplan." trial by jury. [operetta, in one act; text by gilbert. first produced at the royalty theatre, london, march 25, 1875.] personages. learned judge. plaintiff. defendant. counsel for the plaintiff. usher. foreman of the jury. associate. first bridesmaid. [barristers, attorneys, journeymen, and bridesmaids.] the scene is laid in a london court of justice; time, the nineteenth century. the little operetta, "trial by jury," was the first result of the successful collaboration of gilbert and sullivan, though it gave little hint of the extraordinary excellence as well as popularity of the long list which followed it. "the words and music were written and all the rehearsals completed within three weeks, and all london went to see it," says sullivan's biographer. it was produced march 25, 1875, and had quite a run, frederick sullivan, sir arthur's brother, appearing in the rôle of the judge and contributing much to its success. the story is a satire upon the english courts, the incident being a breach of promise case. edwin is sued by angelina. the usher impresses upon the jury its duty to divest itself of prejudice in one breath, and in the next seeks to prejudice it against the defendant by most violent denunciations of him. when edwin enters he is at once requested by the jury to "dread our damages." he tells them how he became "the lovesick boy" first of one and then of another. the jurymen in chorus, while admitting that they were fickle when young, declare that they are now respectable and have no sympathy with him. the judge enters, and after informing the audience how he came to the bench, announces he is ready to try the breach of promise case. the jury is sworn. angelina enters, accompanied by her bridesmaids. the judge takes a great fancy to the first bridesmaid, and sends her a note, which she kisses rapturously and places in her bosom. immediately thereafter the judge transfers his admiration to the plaintiff, and directs the usher to take the note from the bridesmaid and give it to angelina, which he does, while the jurymen taunt the judge with being a sly dog, and then express their love for her also. the plaintiff's counsel makes the opening speech, and angelina takes the witness-stand, but, feeling faint, falls sobbing on the foreman's breast, who kisses her as a father. she revives, and then falls sobbing upon the judge's breast, while the jurymen shake their fists at the defendant, who comes forward and offers to marry angelina "to-day and marry the other to-morrow." the judge thinks it a reasonable proposition, but the plaintiff's counsel submits that "to marry two at once is burglaree." in this dilemma angelina embraces edwin rapturously, but he repels her furiously and throws her into the arms of her counsel. the jury thereupon becomes distracted, and asks for guidance, whereupon the judge decides he will marry angelina himself, to which she gives enthusiastic consent. the best numbers in the operetta are the defendant's song, "when first my old, old love i knew"; the juryman's song, "oh! i was like that when i was a lad"; the judge's song, "when i, good friends, was called to the bar"; the pretty chorus of the bridesmaids, "cover the broken flower"; the plaintiff's song, "o'er the season vernal"; and the defendant's song, "oh! gentlemen, listen, i pray." the london "times," after the first performance, said: "there is a genuine humor in the music, as for instance in the unison chorus of the jurymen, and the clever parody on one of the most renowned finales of modern italian opera; and there is also melody, both catching and fluent, here and there, moreover, set off by little touches in the orchestral accompaniments which reveal the experienced hand." the sorcerer. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the opéra comique, london, november 18, 1877.] personages. sir marmaduke pointdextre, an elderly baronet. alexis, his son, of the grenadier guards. dr. daly, vicar of ploverleigh. notary. john wellington wells, of wells & co., family sorcerers. lady sangazure, a lady of ancient lineage. aline, her daughter, betrothed to alexis. mrs. partlet, a pew-opener. constance, her daughter. [chorus of peasantry.] the scene is laid upon an english estate; time, the present. the success of the two operettas, "cox and box" and "trial by jury," led to the organization of a company under the management of mr. d'oyly carte for the production of the sullivan-gilbert collaborations, and the first of its performances was "the sorcerer." incidentally it may be stated that this opera introduced mr. george grossmith to the stage, and its success led to a proposition from "lewis carroll" to sullivan to set his "alice in wonderland" as an opera, though the scheme was never realized. the libretto is replete with humor, and the music is original and characteristic, and particularly noticeable for its admirable parodies of the italian operas, and yet it is always scholarly. the first act opens upon the grounds of sir marmaduke pointdextre's estate, where the villagers are gathered to celebrate the betrothal of his son alexis, and aline, daughter of lady sangazure, with whom, fifty years before, sir marmaduke had been in love. mrs. partlet, the pew-opener, enters with her daughter constance, who is hopelessly in love with dr. daly, the vicar, for he cannot be made to understand, either by her demonstrations or by the mother's hints, that he is the object of her devotion. alexis and aline are congratulated by all, and sign the marriage contract. when alone together, alexis discourses upon his favorite theory that all artificial barriers should be broken down and that marriage should be contracted without regard to rank. to put his theory into practice he procures from the firm of j. w. wells & co., the old established family sorcerers of the place, a large quantity of their love potion, which has no effect upon married persons but will cause unmarried ones to couple without regard to rank or condition, mixes it with the tea and serves it out to all who are in attendance at the betrothal banquet. gradually all fall insensible, and the act closes. the second act opens upon sir marmaduke's grounds at midnight. the guests, one after the other, are waking. alexis tells aline she must take some of the potion so that he may be sure of her love, which she does after much protesting. as they regain their senses, each guest makes offer of marriage to the first one seen. constance declares her love for the old notary. sir marmaduke enters with mrs. partlet, the venerable pew-opener, on his arm and announces his intention of marrying her. wells appears on the grounds in a remorseful condition as he beholds the mischief he has caused, and lady sangazure proposes to him, and leaves in great anguish when he declares he is already engaged to "a maiden fair on a south pacific isle." aline beholds dr. daly and begins to fall violently in love with him and he with her. alexis, in alarm at the trouble he is making, seeks out wells and demands that he shall remove the spell. wells explains that in order to do this, one or the other of them must offer his life to ahrimanes. alexis is not willing to give up aline, and wells is averse to losing his profitable business. they agree to leave the decision to the guests, and the latter agree that wells shall make the sacrifice. he consents, and all go back to their old lovers as he sinks through a trap amid red fire. the most conspicuous numbers in the first act are dr. daly's ballad, "time was when love and i were well acquainted"; the duet between sir marmaduke and lady sangazure, "welcome joy, adieu to sadness"; alexis' ballad, "love feeds on many kinds of food i know"; wells' long and rollicking song, "oh! my name is john wellington wells"; and the incantation music, "sprites of earth and air." the second act opens with a charming little country dance. the principal numbers which follow it are constance's aria, "dear friends, take pity on my lot"; the ensemble for aline, alexis, constance, and the notary, "o, joy! o, joy!"; alexis' ballad, "thou hast the power thy vaunted love"; the quintette, "i rejoice that it's decided"; dr. daly's humorous song, "oh! my voice is sad and low"; and the final ensemble, "now to the banquet we press." h. m. s. pinafore; or, the lass that loved a sailor. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the opéra comique, london, may 28, 1878.] personages. the rt. hon. sir joseph porter, k.c.b., first lord of the admiralty. capt. corcoran, commanding "h. m. s. pinafore." ralph rackstraw, able seaman. dick deadeye, able seaman. bill bobstay, boatswain's mate. bob becket, carpenter's man. tom tucker, midshipmite. sergeant of marines. josephine, the captain's daughter. hebe, sir joseph's first cousin. little buttercup, a bumboat woman. [first lord's sisters, his cousins, his aunts, sailors, marines, etc.] the scene is laid on the quarterdeck of "h. m. s. pinafore"; time, the present. although "pinafore," when it was first produced in london, was received so coolly that it was decided to take it off the boards, yet eventually, with the exception of "the beggar's opera," it proved to be the most popular opera ever produced in england; while in the united states it was for years the rage, and is still a prime favorite. the first scene introduces the leading characters on the deck of "h. m. s. pinafore" in the harbor of portsmouth. little buttercup, a bumboat woman, "the rosiest, the roundest, and the reddest beauty in all spithead," comes on board and has an interview with dick deadeye, the villain of the story, and ralph rackstraw, "the smartest lad in all the fleet," who is in love with josephine, captain corcoran's daughter. the captain comes on deck in a melancholy mood because josephine has shown herself indifferent to sir joseph porter, k.c.b., who is to ask for her hand that afternoon. she confesses to her father that she loves a common sailor, but will carry her love to the grave without letting him know of it. sir joseph comes on board with a long retinue of sisters, cousins, and aunts, who chant his praises. after attending to some minor details, he has a fruitless interview with the captain and josephine. she declares she cannot love him. shortly afterwards she meets ralph, who declares his love for her, but she haughtily rejects him. when he draws his pistol and declares he will shoot himself, she acknowledges her love, and they plan to steal ashore at night and be married. dick deadeye overhears the plot and threatens to thwart it. the second act opens at night. captain corcoran is discovered sadly complaining to the moon, and wondering why everything is at "sixes and sevens." little buttercup sympathizes with him, and is about to become affectionate, when he informs her he can only be her friend. she grows enraged, and warns him there is a change in store for him. sir joseph enters, and informs the captain he is much disappointed at the way josephine has acted. the captain replies that she is probably dazzled by his rank, and that if he will reason with her and convince her that "love levels all ranks," everything will be right. sir joseph does so, but only pleads his rival's cause. she tells him she has hesitated, but now she hesitates no longer. sir joseph and the captain are rejoicing over her apparent change of heart, when dick deadeye reveals the plot to elope that night. the captain confronts them as they are stealthily leaving the vessel, and insists upon knowing what josephine is about to do. ralph steps forward and declares his love, whereupon the captain grows furious and lets slip an oath. he is overheard by sir joseph, who orders him to his cabin "with celerity." he then inquires of ralph what he has done to make the captain profane. he replies it was his acknowledgment of love for josephine, whereupon, in a towering rage, sir joseph orders his imprisonment in the ship's dungeon. he then remonstrates with josephine, whereupon little buttercup reveals her secret. years before, when she was practising baby-farming, she nursed two babies, one of "low condition," the other "a regular patrician," and she "mixed those children up and not a creature knew it." "the well-born babe was ralph, your captain was the other." sir joseph orders the two before him, gives ralph the command of "h. m. s. pinafore," and corcoran ralph's place. as his marriage with josephine is now impossible, he gives her to ralph, and captain corcoran, now a common seaman, unites his fortunes with those of little buttercup. it is one of the principal charms of this delightful work that it is entirely free from coarseness and vulgarity. the wit is always delicate, though the satire is keen. words and music rarely go so well together as in this opera. as a prominent english critic said of "trial by jury," "it seems, as in the great wagnerian operas, as though poem and music had proceeded simultaneously from one and the same brain." the chorus plays a very important part in it, and in the most solemnly ludicrous manner repeats the assertions of the principals in the third person. all its numbers might be styled the leading ones, but those which have become most popular are the song, "i'm called little buttercup"; josephine's sentimental song, "sorry her lot who loves too well," one of the few serious numbers in the opera; sir joseph porter's song, "i am the monarch of the sea," with its irresistible choral refrain, "and so are his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, his sisters and his cousins, whom he reckons by the dozens," leading up to the satirical song, "when i was a lad, i served a term"; the stirring trio, "a british tar is a soaring soul"; captain corcoran's sentimental ditty, "fair moon, to thee i sing"; josephine's scena, "the hours creep on apace," with its mock heroic recitative; dick deadeye's delightful song, "the merry maiden and the tar"; the pretty octette and chorus, "farewell, my own"; little buttercup's legend, "a many years ago, when i was young and charming"; and the choral finale, "then give three cheers and one cheer more." the pirates of penzance; or, the slave of duty. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced in england at the opéra comique, april 3, 1880.] personages. maj.-gen. stanley. pirate king. samuel, his lieutenant. frederic, the pirate apprentice. sergeant of police. mabel, } edith, } kate, } isabel, } gen. stanley's daughters. ruth, a pirate maid of all work. [pirates, police, etc.] the scene is laid on the coast of cornwall; time, the present. "the pirates of penzance" has a local interest from the fact that it was first produced in new york on new year's eve, december 31, 1879, under the immediate supervision of both mr. sullivan and mr. gilbert. when the composer left england he had only finished the second act, and that was without orchestration. after his arrival here he wrote the first act and scored the entire opera. by this performance the profits of the representations in this country were secured. the work was not published until after their return to england. at the opening of the opera it is disclosed that frederic, when a boy, in pursuance of his father's orders, was to have been apprenticed to a pilot until his twenty-first year, but by the mistake of his nurse-maid, ruth, he was bound out to one of the pirates of penzance, who were celebrated for their gentleness and never molested orphans because they were orphans themselves. in the first scene the pirates are making merry, as frederic has reached his majority and is about to leave them and seek some other occupation. upon the eve of departure ruth requests him to marry her, and he consents, as he has never seen any other woman, but shortly afterwards he encounters the daughters of general stanley, falls in love with mabel, the youngest, and denounces ruth as a deceiver. the pirates encounter the girls about the same time, and propose to marry them, but when the general arrives and announces that he is an orphan, they relent and allow the girls to go. the second act opens in the general's ancient baronial hall, and reveals him surrounded by his daughters, lamenting that he has deceived the pirates by calling himself an orphan. frederic appears, and bids mabel farewell, as he is about to lead an expedition for the extermination of the pirates. while he is alone, the pirate king and ruth visit him and show him the papers which bound him to them. it is stated in them that he is bound "until his twenty-first birthday," but as his birthday is the 29th of february, he has had but five. led by his strong sense of duty, he decides that he will go back to his old associates. then he tells them of the general's orphan story, which so enrages them that they swear vengeance. they come by night to carry off the general, but are overpowered by the police and sent to prison, where they confess they are english noblemen. upon promising to give up their piratical career, they are pardoned, and this releases frederic. the principal numbers in the first act are ruth's song, "when frederic was a little lad"; the pirate king's song, "oh! better far to live and die"; frederic's sentimental song, "oh! is there not one maiden breast"; mabel's reply, "poor wandering one"; and the descriptive song of the general, "i am the very pattern of a modern major-general," which reminds one of sir joseph's song, "when i was a lad i served a term," in "pinafore," and wells' song, "oh! my name is john wellington wells," in "the sorcerer." the second act opens with a chorus of the daughters and solo by mabel, "dear father, why leave your bed." the remaining most popular numbers are the tarantara of the sergeant; the pirate king's humorous chant, "for some ridiculous reason"; mabel's ballad, "oh, leave me not to pine," and the sergeant's irresistible song, "when a fellow's not engaged in his employment," which has become familiar as a household word by frequent quotation. patience; or, bunthorne's bride. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the opéra comique, london, april 23, 1881.] personages. col. calverley, } major murgatroyd, } lieutenant the duke of dunstable, } officers of dragoon guards. reginald bunthorne, a fleshly poet. archibald grosvenor, an idyllic poet. mr. bunthorne's solicitor. lady angela, } lady saphir, } lady ella, } lady jane, } rapturous maidens. patience, a dairy-maid. [guards, æsthetic maidens.] the scene is laid at castle bunthorne; time, the last century. the opera of "patience" is a pungent satire upon the fleshly school of poetry as represented by oscar wilde and his imitators, as well as upon the fad for æsthetic culture which raged so violently a quarter of a century ago. bunthorne, in one of his soliloquies, aptly expresses the hollowness of the sham,- "i am _not_ fond of uttering platitudes in stained-glass attitudes; in short, my mediævalism's affectation born of a morbid love of admiration." in these four lines gilbert pricked the æsthetic bubble, and nothing did so much to end the fad of lank, languorous maidens, and long haired, sunflowered male æsthetes, as gilbert's well-directed shafts of ridicule in this opera. the story of the opera tells of the struggle for supremacy over female hearts between an æsthetic (bunthorne) and an idyllic poet (grosvenor). in the opening scene lovesick maidens in clinging gowns, playing mandolins, sing plaintively of their love for bunthorne. patience, a healthy milkmaid, comes upon the scene, and makes fun of them, and asks them why they sit and sob and sigh. she announces to them that the dragoon guards will soon arrive, but although they doted upon dragoons the year before they spurn them now and go to the door of bunthorne to carol to him. the guards duly arrive, and are hardly settled down when bunthorne passes by in the act of composing a poem, followed by the twenty lovesick maidens. after finishing his poem he reads it to them, and they go off together, without paying any attention to the dragoons, who declare they have been insulted and leave in a rage. bunthorne, when alone, confesses to himself he is a sham, and at the close of his confession patience comes in. he at once makes love to her, but only frightens her. she then confers with lady angela, who explains love to her, and tells her it is her duty to love some one. patience declares she will not go to bed until she has fallen in love with some one, when grosvenor, the idyllic poet and "apostle of simplicity," enters. he and patience had been playmates in early childhood, and she promptly falls in love with him, though he is indifferent. in the closing scene bunthorne, twined with garlands, is led in by the maidens, and puts himself up as a prize in a lottery; but the drawing is interrupted by patience, who snatches away the papers and offers herself as a bride to bunthorne, who promptly accepts her. the maidens then make advances to the dragoons, but when grosvenor appears they all declare their love for him. bunthorne recognizes him as a dangerous rival, and threatens "he shall meet a hideous doom." the opening of the second act reveals jane, an antique charmer, sitting by a sheet of water mourning because the fickle maidens have deserted bunthorne, and because he has taken up with "a puling milkmaid," while she alone is faithful to him. in the next scene grosvenor enters with the maidens, of whom he is tired. they soon leave him in low spirits, when patience appears and tells him she loves him, but can never be his, for it is her duty to love bunthorne. the latter next appears, followed by the antique jane, who clings to him in spite of his efforts to get rid of her. he accuses patience of loving grosvenor, and goes off with jane in a wildly jealous mood. in the next scene the dragoons, to win favor with the maidens, transform themselves into a group of æsthetes. bunthorne and grosvenor finally meet, and bunthorne taxes his rival with monopolizing the attentions of the young ladies. grosvenor replies that he cannot help it, but would be glad of any suggestion that would lead to his being less attractive. bunthorne tells him he must change his conversation, cut his hair, and have a back parting, and wear a commonplace costume. grosvenor at first protests, but yields when threatened with bunthorne's curse. in the finale, when it is discovered that grosvenor has become a commonplace young man, the maidens decide that if "archibald the all-right" has discarded æstheticism, it is right for them to do so. patience takes the same view of the case, and leaves bunthorne for grosvenor. the maidens find suitors among the dragoons, and even the antique jane takes up with the duke, and bunthorne is left alone with his lily, nobody's bride. the most popular musical numbers in the opera are the colonel's song, "if you want a receipt for that popular mystery"; bunthorne's "wild, weird, fleshly" song, "what time the poet hath hymned," also his song, "if you're anxious for to shine"; the romantic duet of patience and grosvenor, "prithee, pretty maiden"; the sextette, "i hear the soft note of the echoing voice"; jane's song, "silvered is the raven hair"; patience's ballad, "love is a plaintive song"; grosvenor's fable of the magnet and the churn; the rollicking duet of bunthorne and grosvenor, "when i go out of door," and the "prettily pattering, cheerily chattering" chorus in the finale of the last act. iolanthe; or, the peer and the peri. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the savoy theatre, london, november 25, 1882.] personages. lord chancellor. earl of mountararat. earl tollaller. private willis, of the grenadier guards. strephon, an arcadian shepherd. iolanthe, a fairy, strephon's mother. queen of the fairies. celia, } leila, } fleta, } fairies. phyllis, an arcadian shepherdess and ward in chancery. [dukes, marquises, earls, viscounts, barons, and fairies] the scene is laid in arcady and at westminster; time, between 1700 and 1882. the first act of "iolanthe" opens in arcady. iolanthe, a fairy, having offended her queen by marrying a mortal, has been banished for life; but in the opening scene, after twenty years of exile, she is pardoned. she tells the queen of her marriage, and her son strephon, half a fairy and half a shepherd, who is engaged to phyllis, a shepherdess, and ward in chancery. at this point strephon enters, and informs his mother that the lord chancellor will not permit him to marry phyllis, but he will do so in spite of him. he curses his fairyhood, but the queen says she has a borough at her disposal, and will return him to parliament as a liberal-conservative. in the next scene strephon meets phyllis and pleads against delay in marriage, since the lord chancellor himself may marry her, and many of the lords are attentive to her. meanwhile the lords meet to decide which one of them shall have phyllis, the lord chancellor waiving his claim, as it might lay his decision open to misconstruction. phyllis is summoned before them, but is deaf to all entreaties, and declares she is in love with strephon, who has just entered. the peers march out in a dignified manner, while the lord chancellor separates phyllis and strephon and orders her away. he then refuses strephon his suit, whereupon the latter invokes the aid of his fairy mother, who promises to lay the case before her queen. in the finale the peers are seen leading phyllis, who overhears something said by strephon and iolanthe which induces her to believe he is faithless, and she denounces him. he replies that iolanthe is his mother, but cannot convince her. she charges him with deceit, and offers her hand to any one of the peers. he then appeals to the queen, who threatens vengeance upon the peers and declares that strephon shall go into parliament. the peers beg her for mercy, and phyllis implores strephon to relent, but he casts her from him. the second act opens at westminster. strephon is in parliament and carrying things with a high hand. phyllis is engaged to two of the lords and cannot decide between them, nor can they settle the matter satisfactorily. whereupon the lord chancellor decides to press his own suit for her hand. strephon finally proves his birth to phyllis and explains away all her fears. iolanthe then acknowledges that the lord chancellor is her husband and pleads with him in strephon's behalf. when she makes this confession, she is condemned to death for breaking her fairy vow. thereupon all the fairies confess that they have married peers. as it is impracticable to kill them all, the queen hunts up a husband, and finds one in private willis, the sentry in the palace yard. all the husbands join the fairies, and thus matters are straightened out. the music of "iolanthe" is peculiarly refined and fanciful, and abounds in taking numbers. the best of these are strephon's song, "good morrow"; the delightful duet between strephon and phyllis, "none shall part us from each other," one of the most felicitous of the composer's lighter compositions; the lord chancellor's song, "when i went to the bar"; strephon's charming ballad, "in babyhood upon her lap i lay"; private willis's song, "when all night long a chap remains"; the patter song of the lord chancellor, "when you're lying awake with a dismal headache"; the duet of strephon and phyllis, "if we're weak enough to tarry"; and iolanthe's pretty ballad, "he loves! if in the bygone years." princess ida; or, castle adamant. [comic opera, in three acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the savoy theatre, london, january 5, 1884.] personages. king hildebrand. hilarion, his son. cyril, } florian, } hilarion's friends. king gama. avac, } guron, } scynthius, } gama's sons. princess ida, gama's daughter. lady blanche, professor of abstract science. lady psyche, professor of humanities. melissa, lady blanche's daughter. sacharissa, } chloe, } ada, } girl graduates. [soldiers, courtiers, girl graduates, "daughters of the plough," etc.] the scene is laid at king hildebrand's palace and castle adamant; time, the present. "princess ida" is the least effective of the sullivan operas. its libretto is also the least effective of the gilbert stories set to the former's music. at the time it was written the composer was depressed by a severe family affliction, and at the same time had met the misfortune of losing all his savings through the failure of those to whom he had intrusted them. it may have been also that the labored and heavy style of the story had something to do with the dry and somewhat forced style of the music, as well as its lack of the brightness and fancy which are so apparent in "pinafore" and "patience." the first act opens at king hildebrand's palace, where the courtiers are watching for the arrival of king gama and his daughter, the princess ida, who has been promised in marriage to hilarion, hildebrand's son. when gama finally comes, ida is not with him, and he explains to the enraged hildebrand that she is at castle adamant, one of his country houses, where she is president of a woman's university. gama and his three sons, avac, guron, and scynthius, are seized and held as hostages for her appearance, and in the mean time hilarion, and his two friends, cyril and florian, determine to go to castle adamant and see if they cannot make some impression upon the princess. the second act opens at castle adamant, and discloses the pupils of the university in discourse with lady psyche, the professor of humanities, and lady blanche, professor of abstract science, who is ambitious to get control of the institution. hilarion and his two friends scale the wall and get into the grounds, and finding some academic robes they disguise themselves as girls. they first meet the princess and explain to her that they wish to enter the university, to which she gives her consent upon their subscription to the rules. they sign with enthusiasm, especially when they discover that there is one which requires them to give the fulness of their love to the hundred maidens of the university. shortly afterwards they encounter lady psyche, who recognizes florian as her brother. they tell their secret to her. melissa, the daughter of lady blanche, overhears them, and is in raptures at her first sight of men. she discloses to her mother what she has discovered, but urges her not to speak of it, for if hilarion is successful in his suit she (the lady blanche) may succeed to the presidency. at the luncheon, however, the princess discovers she is entertaining three men and flees from the spot. in crossing a bridge she falls into the river, but is rescued by hilarion. her anger is not appeased by his gallantry, and she orders the arrest of the three. as they are marched off, there is a tumult outside. hildebrand, with an armed force and with his four hostages, has arrived, and gives the princess until the morrow afternoon to release hilarion and become his bride. the last act opens with the preparations of the princess and her pupils to defend themselves, but one after the other their courage deserts them. gama proposes that his three sons shall be pitted against hilarion and his two friends, and if the latter are defeated the princess shall be free. in the contest gama's sons are defeated, whereupon the princess at once resigns and accepts hilarion. the lady psyche falls to cyril, and the delighted melissa to florian, and it is to be presumed the presidency of the woman's college falls to lady blanche. as has already been intimated, the music as a whole is labored, but there are some numbers that are fully up to the sullivan standard; among them hilarion's ballad, "ida was a twelvemonth old"; gama's characteristic song, "if you give me your attention," and the trio of gama's sons, "for a month to dwell," in the first act: the princess's long aria, "at this my call"; lady blanche's song, "come, mighty must"; lady psyche's sarcastic evolution song, "a lady fair of lineage high"; cyril's song, "would you know the kind of maid"; and hilarion's song, "whom thou hast chained must wear his chain," in the second act: and the princess's song, "i built upon a rock"; gama's song, "whene'er i spoke sarcastic joke"; the soldiers' chorus, "when anger spreads his wing"; and the finale, "with joy abiding," in the third act. the mikado; or, the town of titipu. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the savoy theatre, london, march 14, 1885.] personages. mikado of japan. nanki-poo, his son, disguised as a minstrel, in love with yum-yum. ko-ko, lord high executioner of titipu. pooh-bah, lord high everything else. pish-tush, a noble lord. yum-yum, } pitti-sing, } peep-bo, } three sisters, wards of ko-ko. katisha, an elderly lady, in love with nanki-poo. [school girls, nobles, guards, and coolies.] the scene is laid in japan; time, the present. that the "princess ida," ineffective as it is in some respects, did not indicate that the resources of gilbert and sullivan were exhausted, is shown by the great success of both in "the mikado," which immediately followed it. this charming travesty of japan, with the exception perhaps of "pinafore," has proved to be the most popular of the sullivan operas, and has even made an impression in germany. it has been an equal success for both the musician and the librettist, and still retains its freshness and vivacity after seventeen years of performance. the story of "the mikado" is so well known that it need not be given with much fulness of detail. nanki-poo, the mikado's son, is in love with yum-yum, the ward of the tailor ko-ko, who is also lord high executioner, and to whom she is betrothed, as nanki-poo is informed by pooh-bah, when he comes to titipu in quest of her. pooh-bah, who accepted all the offices of the ministers of state after their resignations when ko-ko was made lord high executioner, is also "the retailer of state secrets at a low figure," and furnishes much of the delightful comedy of the opera. nanki-poo nevertheless manages to secure an interview with yum-yum, confesses to her he is the mikado's son, and that he is in disguise to escape punishment for not marrying the elderly katisha. ko-ko's matrimonial arrangements are interfered with by a message from the mikado, that unless some one is beheaded in titipu within a month he will be degraded. nanki-poo consents to be beheaded if he is allowed to marry yum-yum and live with her for the month. this being satisfactory, the arrangements for the nuptials are made. the second act opens with yum-yum's preparations for her marriage. a _tête-à-tête_ with nanki-poo is interrupted by ko-ko, who announces that by the law when a married man is beheaded his wife must be burned alive. this cools yum-yum's passion, and to save her nanki-poo threatens to perform the happy despatch that day. as this would endanger ko-ko, he arranges to swear to a false statement of nanki-poo's execution. suddenly the mikado arrives. ko-ko gives him the statement, but a great danger is imminent when the mikado informs him he has killed the heir apparent and must suffer some horrible punishment. in the dénouement nanki-poo reappears, and ko-ko gets out of trouble by marrying the ancient katisha, leaving yum-yum to nanki-poo. the opera abounds in charming lyrics, though with a single exception, a march chorus in the second act, "miya sama, miya sama," there is no local color to the music, as might have been expected in an opera entirely japanese in its subject and dramatic treatment. its lyrics are none the less delightful on that account. the most popular numbers in the first act are ko-ko's song, with its choral response, "you may put 'em on the list and they never will be missed"; the fascinating trio for yum-yum, peep-bo, and pitti-sing, "three little maids from school are we"; nanki-poo's song, "a wandering minstrel"; and the trio for ko-ko, pooh-bah, and pish-tush, "my brain, it teems." the leading numbers of the second act are yum-yum's song, "the sun, whose rays"; the quartette, "brightly dawns our wedding-day"; the mikado's song, "a more humane mikado never"; ko-ko's romantic ballad, "on a tree by a river a little tomtit," which is in the genuine old english manner, and the well-known duet for nanki-poo and ko-ko, "the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la." ruddygore; or, the witch's curse. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the savoy theatre, london, january 22, 1887.] personages. robin oakapple, a young farmer. richard dauntless, his foster brother and man-o'-war's man. sir despard murgatroyd, the wicked baronet. old adam goodheart, robin's faithful servant. rose maybud, a village maiden. mad margaret. dame hannah, rose's aunt. zorah, } ruth, } professional bridesmaids. six murgatroyd ghosts. sir roderic murgatroyd, twenty-first baronet. [officers, ancestors, and professional bridesmaids.] the scene is laid in cornwall; time, early in the last century. although "ruddygore," a satire upon the old english melodramas, has not been as successful as some of the other sullivan operas, it is as entertaining as any in the series, while the story, with its grotesque dramatic features, is peculiarly gilbertian in its humor. the first act opens in cornwall. sir rupert murgatroyd, the first of the baronets, employed his leisure in persecuting witches and committing other crimes. the chorus of "the legend," sung by hannah, an old spinster, prophesies that each murgatroyd will die "with sinning cloyed." to avoid this fate, the last inheritor of the title, sir ruthven, secludes himself under the name of robin oakapple, in the cornish village of rederring, and his younger brother, despard, believing him to be dead, succeeds to the title. robin, who is shy and modest, is in love with rose, a foundling, who is very discreet. the love-making lags, and meanwhile richard, his foster brother, a man-o'-war's man, returns from sea, and so commiserates robin that he offers to plead his case with rose. instead of that he pleads his own case, and is accepted by her, much to the disappointment of robin, who supports richard's claim, however. robin's younger brother, sir despard, next appears, and hears from richard of the existence of the brother whom he had thought dead. he thereupon claims robin as his elder brother, and rose shows her preference for sir despard, who is also claimed by mad margaret, a village maiden, whom he had mistreated when he was under the influence of the murgatroyd curse. the second act opens in the picture gallery of ruddygore castle. robin and adam, his faithful servant, are in the gallery, the former as sir ruthven, and adam as gideon crawle, a new name he has taken. the new sir ruthven is under the curse, and asks his servant to suggest some daily crime for him to commit. the strong scene of the act is the coming to life of the various baronets whose portraits hang upon the walls, and their announcement that robin will die in fearful agony unless he abducts some lady, it matters not whom. in the dénouement it is revealed that a ruddygore baron can only die through refusing to commit the daily crime, but that such a refusal is tantamount to suicide. hence none of the ancestors ought to have died at all, and they come back to life greatly to the delight of the professional bridesmaids, and rose and robin are at last united. the principal numbers in the first act are the weird legend, "sir rupert murgatroyd, his leisure and his riches," sung by hannah; richard's breezy sea song, "i shipped, d' ye see, in a revenue sloop"; the very tuneful chorus of the bridesmaids, "hail the bridegroom, hail the bride"; mad margaret's whimsical song, "cheerily carols the lark"; the melodious chorus of the bucks and blades, "when thoroughly tired of being admired"; sir despard's song, with its alternating choral refrains, "oh, why am i moody and sad"; the madrigal, "where the buds are blossoming," written in the early english style, and supported by the chorus; and the charming gavotte leading to the finale, which contains some admirable duet and trio numbers. the leading numbers of the second act are the opening duet for robin and adam, "i once was as meek as a new-born lamb," with a most melodramatic "ha ha," followed by another charming duet for richard and rose, with choral refrain, "happily coupled are we"; the weird song of sir roderic, "when the night wind howls in the chimney cowls," which is finely artistic in construction; the patter trio for robin, despard, and margaret, "my eyes are fully open to my awful situation"; hannah's pretty ballad, "there grew a little flower"; and the brilliant finale, beginning with robin's number, "having been a wicked baronet a week." the yeoman of the guard; or, the merry man and his maid. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the savoy theatre, october 3, 1888.] personages. sir richard cholmondeley, lieutenant of the tower. col. fairfax, under sentence of death. sergt. meryll, of the yeomen of the guard. leonard meryll, his son. jack point, a strolling jester. wilfred shadbolt, head jailer of the tower. headsman. elsie maynard, a strolling singer. phoebe meryll, sergt. meryll's daughter. dame carruthers, housekeeper to the tower. kate, her niece. [yeomen of the guard, gentlemen, citizens, etc.] the scene is laid at tower green, london; time, the sixteenth century. although "the yeomen of the guard" has not enjoyed the popularity of some others of sullivan's works, the composer himself believed it to be the best of his operas. the music is in some numbers a parody of the old english; the story is melodramatic. colonel fairfax has been sentenced to death for sorcery. as he has twice saved the life of sergeant meryll in battle, the latter and his daughter, phoebe, are anxious to save him also. the chance comes when the brother of phoebe, who has been appointed a yeoman of the guard, is induced to let fairfax take his place in the ranks. the latter is brought in to the lieutenant of the tower and declares his readiness to die, but asks, as he has been condemned for sorcery through the machinations of one of his kinsmen who will succeed to the estate in case he dies unmarried, that he will find him some one whom he can marry at once. elsie maynard, a strolling singer, happens along with jack point, a jester, and she agrees for a money consideration to be married blindfolded to fairfax, provided she can leave immediately after the ceremony. she marries him, and then the question arises how to get the yeoman suit to fairfax in his cell and let him escape, as the keys are in the possession of wilfred, the head jailer, who is in love with phoebe. the problem is solved by phoebe, who steals the keys, releases fairfax, and returns them before wilfred discovers their absence. the executioner comes forward, and the first act closes as he is waiting for his victim. the second act discloses the civilians and dame carruthers denouncing the warders for permitting their prisoner to escape. point arranges with wilfred that if he will discharge his arquebus and state that he has killed fairfax he shall be a jester. when the shot is heard, wilfred and point notify the governor that fairfax is dead. dame carruthers enters and informs meryll that from what she has heard elsie mutter in her sleep she is sure fairfax is the man she married. fairfax, in order to test her, makes love to elsie in point's interests, but ends by falling in love with her himself. in the dénouement, leonard, son of sergeant meryll, arrives with a pardon which had been kept back by fairfax's kinsmen. now that he is free, fairfax claims elsie, phoebe consents to marry wilfred, and the sergeant surrenders to dame carruthers. the music is in humorous imitation of the antique, in which kind of work sullivan is always happy. the choruses are interesting, especially the opening double one, "tower warders under orders," which is swinging and tuneful. the principal numbers in the first act are dame carruthers' song with chorus, "when our gallant norman foes"; fairfax's sentimental song, "is life a boon"; the irresistibly funny chorus, both in music and words, "here's a man of jollity, jibe, joke, jollify; give us of your quality, come, fool, follify"; the extremely melodramatic duet for elsie and point, "i have a song to sing"; point's recitative and song, "i've jest and joke"; elsie's pretty ballad, "'tis done! i am a bride"; phoebe's graceful song, "were i thy bride"; and the trio in the finale, "to thy fraternal care." the leading numbers of the second act are point's rollicking song, "oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon"; fairfax's ballad, "free from his fetters grim"; the quartette, "strange adventure! maiden wedded"; the trio, "if he's made the best use of his time," and the quartette, "when a wooer goes a-wooing," which leads through a melodramatic ensemble to the finale, "heighdy! heighdy! misery me, lackadaydee! he sipped no sup and he craved no crumb, as he sighed for the love of a ladyee." the gondoliers; or, the king of barataria. [comic opera, in two acts; text by gilbert. first produced at the savoy theatre, london, december 7, 1889.] personages. duke of plaza-toro, a grandee of spain. luiz, his attendant. don alhambra del bolero, the grand inquisitor. duchess of plaza-toro. casilda, her daughter. [gondoliers, contadine, men-at-arms, heralds, and pages.] the scene is laid in venice; time, the year 1750. "the gondoliers" will always bring a feeling of regret to the admirers of the gilbert and sullivan operas, as it was their last joint production. it was during its run at the london theatre that their partnership was dissolved after the extraordinary collaboration of twenty-three years. both were at their best in their swan song. "the gondoliers" is not so much melodrama or pleasant satire as it is genuine comedy. among all the gilbert books which he furnished the composer, none is more delightful or more full of his rollicking humor than this. the story opens in venice. the contadine are weaving garlands for the two favorite gondoliers, marco and giuseppe, who, as they have no preference, make their choice blindfolded, and secure tessa and gianetta for their brides. as all gayly dance off, a gondola arrives with the spanish duke of plaza-toro, the duchess, their daughter casilda, and luiz, their attendant. while waiting for an audience with the grand inquisitor, the duke tells casilda the object of their visit. when she was an infant she was married by proxy to the infant son of the king of barataria. when the latter abandoned the creed of his fathers and became a methodist, the inquisitor had the young husband stolen and taken to venice. now that the king is dead, they have come to find the husband, and proclaim casilda queen. during the audience the inquisitor announces that the husband is a gondolier, and that the person who brought him up had "such a terrible taste for tippling" that he was never certain which child had been intrusted to him, his own or the other. the nurse, however, who is luiz's mother, would know, and he would induce her to tell in the torture chamber. shortly afterwards the inquisitor meets the newly wedded gondoliers, marco and giuseppe, and decides that one or the other of them is the new king, but as he cannot tell which, he arranges that both of them shall rule until the nurse can be found and made to settle the matter. thereupon they bid their wives good-by, and sail away for barataria. the second act discloses the two kings upon the thrones. while they are cleaning the crown and sceptre, and their friends, the gondoliers, are playing cards, contadine arrive with tessa and gianetta. the delighted kings give them a grand banquet and ball, but the dance is interrupted by the inquisitor, who informs them that the ducal party will shortly arrive, and that casilda will claim one of them for her husband. when tessa and gianetta realize that neither of them can be queen, they begin to weep, but are somewhat comforted when the inquisitor assures them they will not be kept long in suspense as the foster-mother is in the torture chamber. in the dénouement she confesses that the late king intrusted the prince to her, and when traitors came to steal him she substituted her own son and kept the prince in hiding, and that luiz is the real prince. thereupon luiz ascends the throne with casilda as his queen, and marco and guiseppe sail joyfully back to venice with tessa and gianetta. the music is of sullivan's best. he has reproduced in the score the old italian forms, employs the legitimate modern ballad and song styles, and introduces also the "patter" songs and the "chant" songs which are so common in his other operas. besides this, he has given strong local color with fandangoes, boleros, cachucas, and other dance rhythms. the best numbers are the ensemble for marco and giuseppe, "we're called gondolieri"; the pompous song of the duke, "in enterprise of martial kind"; the serious duet for casilda and luiz, "there was a time"; the inquisitor's song, "i stab the prince"; tessa's beautiful song, "when a merry maiden marries"; the frolicsome quartette, "then one of us will be a queen"; the song of marco with chorus, "for every one who feels inclined"; the characteristic song of giuseppe, "rising early in the morning"; the gay and fascinating ensemble, "we will dance a cachuca," with the brilliant dance music that follows it; the song of the inquisitor, "there lived a king"; the ensemble, "in a contemplative fashion," a quiet movement with alternating comments by chorus, reaching a crescendo and then returning to the original movement, one of the most effective numbers in the opera; the duchess' song, "on the day when i was wedded"; and the quintette in the finale, "i am a courtier grave and serious." suppé, franz von. fatinitza. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by zell and genée. first produced in vienna, january 5, 1876.] personages. count timofey gavrilovich kantschakoff, russian general. princess lydia imanovna, his niece. izzet pasha, governor of rustchuk fortress. capt. vasil staravieff. lieut. ossipp safonoff. steipann, a sergeant. vladimir samoiloff, lieutenant of cavalry. julian, special war correspondent. hassan bey, leader of bashi-bazouks. mustapha, guardian of the harem. vuika, a bulgarian. hanna, his wife. [soldiers, bashi-bazouks, cossacks, slaves, moujiks, etc.] the scene is laid at rustchuk and near odessa; time, the last century. franz von suppé has been styled the german offenbach, though the styles of the two composers differ widely. his operas are more purely comic operas, or operettas, than burlesques. he made his first success with an operetta, "das mädchen vom lande" ("the country girl"), produced in vienna in 1847, and his next work, a musical comedy called "paragraph 3," made him known all over germany. his entire list of light operas, musical farces, and vaudevilles includes over one hundred and sixty titles, but of these only two or three are well known in this country. "fatinitza" is the best known, and is universally popular. the story is an interesting one. vladimir samoiloff, a young lieutenant in the russian army, while masquerading in girl's costume under the name of fatinitza, encounters a russian general, count timofey kantschakoff, who falls desperately in love with him. he manages to escape from him, and subsequently meets the general's niece, the princess lydia, whom he knows only as lydia, and the two fall in love. hearing of the attachment, the general transfers the young officer to the russian outposts. the first act opens in camp at rustchuk. julian, a war correspondent, has just been brought in as a spy, but is recognized by vladimir as an old friend. they plan private theatricals, in which vladimir takes a female part. the general unexpectedly appears at the play, and recognizes vladimir as his fatinitza. when the opportunity presents itself, he resumes his love-making, but it is interrupted by the arrival of lydia, whose noble rank vladimir learns for the first time. any danger of recognition, however, is averted by the correspondent, who tells lydia that fatinitza is vladimir's sister. the doting old general commends fatinitza to the princess, and goes off to inspect his troops. in his absence some bashi-bazouks surprise the camp and capture lydia, vladimir, and julian, leaving the latter behind to arrange a ransom. the second act opens in the harem of izzet pasha, governor of the turkish fortress. vladimir, in his female attire, and lydia are brought in as captives, and the pasha announces to his four wives that lydia will be the fifth. julian then arrives with the russian sergeant, steipann, to arrange for the release of his friends. the pasha offers to give up fatinitza, but declares he will retain lydia. steipann returns to the general with the pasha's terms, carrying also a secret message from julian, who has discovered how the russians may capture the turks. julian remains with the pasha, who gives him many entertainments, among them a shadow pantomime, during which the general and his soldiers rush in and rescue their friends. the third act opens in the general's summer palace at odessa. he has promised his niece to an old and crippled friend of his, but julian once more straightens out matters by convincing the general that the real fatinitza has died of grief because she was separated from him. thereupon he consents to his niece's union with fatinitza's brother, vladimir. the principal numbers of the first act are vladimir's romance, in the sentimental vein, "lost is the dream that bound me"; the reporter's (julian) jolly descriptive song, "with my notebook in my hand"; the pompously martial entrance song of general kantschakoff, "thunder! lightning! who goes there?" which forcibly recalls general boum's "pif, paf, pouf" song in offenbach's "grand duchess"; lydia's sleighing-song, "when the snow a veil is flinging"; and the quartette in the next scene, "not a look shall tell," in the mock italian style. the second act opens with the characteristic toilet chorus in the harem, "washing, dressing, brushing, combing." the remaining most striking numbers are izzet's song and dance, "i pine but for progress"; the pretty duet for vladimir and lydia, "new doubts, new fears"; the effective sextette, "'tis well; then learn that this young russian"; the brilliant kismet duet for izzet and julian, "we are simply what fortune pleases"; the sextette in the finale, "silver tinklings, ringing brightly," known as the bell sextette; and the characteristic music to the karagois, or turkish shadow pantomime, which forms a second finale. the leading numbers of the last act are lydia's bell song, "chime, ye bells," accompanied by the ringing of bells on the stage, and distant shots; the trio for lydia, vladimir, and julian, "again, love, we meet," which is one of the most effective bits in the opera; and the brilliant closing chorus, "joy, joy, joy, to the bride." boccaccio. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by zell and genée. first produced at the carl theatre, vienna, february 1, 1879.] personages. boccaccio, novelist and poet. leonetto, his friend and student. pietro, prince of palermo. lutteringhi, a cooper. lambertuccio, a grocer. scalza, a barber. fratelli, a bookseller. checco, a beggar. fresco, the cooper's apprentice. fiametta, lambertuccio's adopted daughter. beatrice, scalza's daughter. isabella, lutteringhi's wife. peronella, lambertuccio's sister. filippa. oretta. [beggars, students, citizens, coopers, courtiers, etc.] the scene is laid in florence; time, near the close of the fourteenth century. suppé is fond of introducing real characters among the personages of his operas, and in this one, which has become such a favorite, sharing equally in popularity with "fatinitza," we find boccaccio of the "decameron," and the fiametta whom he has immortalized in it (the princess maria of naples, with whom he fell violently in love) masquerading as the adopted daughter of lambertuccio, the grocer. in the opera he is rewarded with her hand in the finale. in reality, maria, the fiametta of the "decameron," was already the wife of another when boccaccio was enamoured of her. she died long before her lover, but her memory was cherished by him, as in the case of beatrice and dante, and to her we owe undoubtedly the collection of tales in the "decameron" which furnished such abundant material to subsequent poets, story-tellers, and dramatists. the story of the opera is a simple one. pietro, the prince of palermo, is to be married to fiametta in accordance with the wishes of his father, and goes to florence for that purpose. the duke, her father, for reasons of his own, has had her reared as the adopted daughter of lambertuccio, a grocer, who was not aware of her royal birth and intends that she shall marry pietro, to whom she was betrothed in infancy. on his way to florence pietro falls in with a madcap lot of students, whose leader is boccaccio, and he joins them in many of their pranks. boccaccio himself has incurred the anger of the florentine men for having ridiculed them in his stories, and he too is in love with fiametta. pietro among his other adventures has made love to a married woman whom the students induced him to believe was the niece instead of the wife of lutteringhi, the cooper. he has the misfortune before presenting himself to the duke and fiametta to be mistaken for boccaccio and to receive a sound beating. in the dénouement, when he is about to be united to fiametta for reasons of state, boccaccio, knowing that he is loved by her, arranges a play in which the misdeeds of pietro are set forth in such strong light that she refuses the latter and gives her hand to the poet. the most popular numbers in the opera are the serenade to beatrice, "lovely charmer, hear these sounds"; boccaccio's song with chorus, "i see a gay young fellow standing nigh"; the charming duet for fiametta and peronetta, "listen to the bells' sweet chime"; fiametta's romanza, "if i have but affection"; the duet for boccaccio and fiametta, "a poor blind man implores your aid"; leonetto's song, opening the second act, "the girl of my heart's a treasure"; the cooper's rollicking song, "my wife has a scolding tongue"; the coquette song by isabella, "young maidens must beware"; the "cretin" song by boccaccio, "when they ask me for the news"; the graceful waltz song by fiametta, "blissful tidings, reassuring"; the rollicking drinking-song of pietro, "see the goblet flash and sparkle"; the duet for boccaccio and fiametta, "mia bella fiorentina," in the italian style; and the sextette, "ye foolish men," which leads up to the finale of the last act. the beautiful galatea. [opéra comique, in two acts; text by zell and genée. first produced in vienna, 1865.] personages. galatea, the statue. ganymede, greek boy. pygmalion, sculptor. midas, art patron. [chorus of grecians.] the scene is laid in greece; time, mythological. the opera of "die schöne galatea" ("the beautiful galatea"), though of slight construction, is one of suppé's most melodious works, while the story is a clever setting of the familiar mythological romance in a somewhat modern frame, in which respect it resembles the stories of helen of troy and orpheus and eurydice, which offenbach so cleverly travestied. the first act opens with a graceful chorus of grecians on their way to worship at the temple of venus, at dawn ("aurora is awaking in heaven above"). ganymede, pygmalion's servant, declines to go with them, preferring to sleep, and bids them good-by with a lullaby ("with violets, with roses, let the temple be decked"). his master, pygmalion, who has finished a statue of galatea, his ideal, also goes to the temple, and ganymede decides to take a nap. his slumbers are interrupted, however, by midas, a professional art patron, who has heard of the statue and informs ganymede that he is ready to buy it, but first wishes to see it. the servant declares it is impossible, as his master is in love with it. midas makes a further appeal to him in a long descriptive arietta ("my dear father gordias") in which he boasts of his abilities, his patronage, and his conquests. he finally bribes ganymede to show it to him, and as he stands gazing at it and praising its loveliness, pygmalion, who has suddenly returned, enters and upbraids them. after a spirited trio, "boiling rage i feel within me," ganymede takes to his heels and midas is driven out. when pygmalion is alone with the statue, a sudden impulse moves him to destroy it because it has been polluted by midas's glances, but his hand is stayed as he hears the chorus of the returning worshippers, and he makes an impassioned appeal to venus ("venus, oh, see, i fly to thee") to give life to the marble. venus answers his prayer. the statue comes to life, and galatea falls in love with pygmalion, the first man she has seen, which gives an opportunity for a charming number, the awakening duet ("i feel so warm, so sweet"), and for a solo closing the act ("lightly sways and gently sweeps"). the second act opens with the couplets of ganymede ("we grecians"), at the close of which he espies galatea gathering flowers. as soon as the fickle galatea sees ganymede, she falls in love with him because he is younger and handsomer than pygmalion. as they are discoursing admiringly, midas appears and recognizes galatea, and proceeds to woo her with offers of jewels. a pretty trio follows, "see the trinkets i have brought you." she accepts his trinkets and his money, but declines to accept him. as they are negotiating, pygmalion returns. ganymede once more takes to his heels, and galatea conceals midas by putting him on the pedestal behind the screen where she had stood. she then hides her jewels, and tells pygmalion she is hungry. ganymede is summoned and arranges the table, and they sit down, the servant with them at galatea's request. she sings a brilliant drinking-song ("bright in glass the foaming fluid pass"), in which pygmalion and ganymede join. during the banquet midas is discovered behind the screen, and pygmalion also learns of galatea's fickle conduct later, when he surprises her and ganymede in a pretty love scene ("ah, i'm drawn to thee"). by this time pygmalion is so enraged that he prays venus to let her become a statue again. the goddess graciously consents, and the sculptor promptly gets rid of galatea by selling her to midas. thomas, charles ambroise. mignon. [opéra comique, in three acts; text by barbier and carré. first produced at the opéra comique, paris, november 17, 1866.] personages. mignon. wilhelm meister, a student. laertes, an actor. frederic, an admirer of filina. lotario, mignon's father in disguise of a harper. filina, an actress. [actors, gypsies, etc.] the scene is laid in germany and italy; time, the last century. the story of "mignon," thomas's universally popular opera, is based upon goethe's "wilhelm meister." mignon, the heroine, who is of noble birth, was stolen in her childhood by gypsies. her mother died shortly afterwards, and her father, disguised as lotario, the harper, has long and vainly sought for her. at the opening of the opera, a strolling band of actors, among them filina and laertes, arrive at a german inn on their way to the castle of a neighboring prince, where they are to perform. at the same time a gypsy band appears and arranges to give the guests an entertainment. mignon, who is with the band, is ordered to dance, but being tired, she refuses. the leader of the band rushes at her, but lotario, the old harper, intercedes in her behalf, whereupon he is singled out for assault, but is saved by the wandering student, wilhelm meister. to spare her any further persecution, he engages her as his page, and they follow on in the suite of filina, to whom he is devoted. touched by his kindness to her, mignon falls in love with him; but he, ignorant of her passion, becomes more and more a victim to the actress's fascinations. when they arrive at the castle, all enter except mignon, who is left outside. maddened by jealousy, she is about to drown herself, but is restrained by the notes of lotario's harp. she rushes to him for counsel, and invokes vengeance upon all in the castle. after the entertainment the guests come out, and filina sends mignon in for some flowers she has left. suddenly flames appear in the window. lotario has fired the castle. wilhelm rushes in and brings out the insensible mignon in his arms. in the dénouement wilhelm discovers her attachment to him, and frees himself from filina's fascinations. a casket containing a girdle mignon had worn in childhood, a prayer which she repeats, and the picture of her mother convince lotario that she is his daughter, and wilhelm and mignon are united. the leading numbers of the first act are the quintette immediately following the rescue of mignon by wilhelm; the romanza, "non conosci il bel suol" ("know'st thou the land"), a song full of tender beauty and rare expression; the duet which immediately follows it, "leggiadre rondinelli" ("oh, swallows blithe"), known as the swallow duet, and of almost equal beauty with the romanza: and the graceful aria, "grazia al gentil signore" ("you'll come with us"), in which filina invites wilhelm to join them. the best numbers in the second act are the trio, "ohimè quell' acre riso" ("alas! her bitter laugh"); filina's gay, coquettish aria, "gai complimenti" ("brilliant compliments"); mignon's exquisite and characteristic song, "conosco un zingarello" ("a gypsy lad i well do know"), which the composer himself calls the "styrienne"; a bewitching rondo-gavotte, "ci sono" ("i'm here at last"), sung by the love-lorn frederic; wilhelm's pathetic farewell to mignon, "addio, mignon! fa core" ("farewell, mignon, take heart"); the beautiful duet for mignon and lotario, "sofferto hai tu" ("hast thou e'er suffered"); and the polacca in the fourth scene, which is a perfect _feu de joie_ of sparkling music, closing with an extremely brilliant cadenza. the last act is more dramatic than musical, though it contains a few delightful numbers. among them are the chorus barcarole in the first scene, "orsù, scioglian le vele" ("quick, the sails unfurl"); a song by wilhelm, "ah, non credea" ("ah, little thought"), and the love duet, "ah, son felice" ("ah, i am happy"), in which is heard again the cadenza of filina's polacca. wallace, william vincent. maritana. [romantic opera, in three acts; text by fitzball. first produced at drury lane theatre, london, november 15, 1845.] personages. charles the second, king of spain. don jose de santarem, his minister. don cæsar de bazan. marquis de montefiori. lazarillo. maritana, a gitana. marchioness de montefiori. [nobles, alquazils, soldiers, gypsies, populace, etc.] the scene is laid in madrid; time of charles the second. the story of "maritana" is founded upon the well-known play of "don cæsar de bazan." at the opening of the first act a band of gypsies, maritana among them, are singing to the people. the young king charles listening to her is fascinated by her beauty. don josé, for reasons of his own, extols her charms and arouses her hopes for a brilliant future. at this point don cæsar de bazan, a reckless, rollicking cavalier, once a friend of don josé, makes his appearance. he has parted with the last of his money to gamblers, and while he is relating his misfortunes to don josé, lazarillo, a forlorn lad who has just tried to make away with himself, accosts don cæsar and tells him a piteous tale. the don befriends, and thereby becomes involved in a duel. this leads to his arrest for duelling in holy week, which is forbidden on pain of death. while don cæsar sets off for the prison, don josé promises maritana speedy marriage and presentation at court. the second act opens in the prison. don josé enters, and professes great sympathy for don cæsar. when asked if he has any last request, he begs to die like a soldier. don josé agrees that he shall not die an ignominious death if he will marry. he consents, and is also treated to a banquet, during which lazarillo delivers a paper to don josé containing the royal pardon of don cæsar, but don josé conceals it. maritana, her features disguised by a veil, is married to the don, but at the expiration of an hour he is led out to meet his fate. the soldiers fire at him, but he escapes, as lazarillo has managed to abstract the bullets from their guns. he feigns death, and when the opportunity presents itself hurries to a ball at the montefiori palace, and arrives just as the marquis, who has had his instructions from don josé, is introducing maritana as his niece. don cæsar demands his bride, but don josé arranges with the marquis to present him with the marchioness closely veiled. the scheme does not work, as don cæsar hears maritana's voice and claims her, but she is quickly spirited away. the last act finds maritana in a royal apartment. don josé carries out his plot by introducing the king to her as her husband. at this juncture don cæsar rushes in. the king in a rage demands to know his errand. he replies that he is seeking the countess de bazan, and with equal rage demands to know who he (the king) is. when the king in confusion answers that he is don cæsar, the latter promptly replies, "then i am the king of spain." before further explanations can be made, the king is summoned by the queen. don cæsar and maritana consult together, and he decides to appeal to the queen. while waiting for her in the palace garden, he overhears don josé telling her that the king is to meet his mistress that night. don cæsar denounces him as a traitor, and slays him. the king, when he hears of don cæsar's loyalty, consigns maritana to him, and appoints him governor of valencia. the opera is full of bright, melodious music. the principal numbers in the first act are maritana's song, "it was a knight of princely mien"; the romanza which she sings for don josé, "'tis the harp in the air"; the duet between don josé and maritana, "of fairy wand had i the power"; don cæsar's rollicking drinking-song, "all the world over"; and the delightful chorus, "pretty gitana, tell us what the fates decree." the first scene of the second act is a mine of charming songs, including lazarillo's, "alas! those chimes"; the trio, "turn on, old time, thine hourglass"; don cæsar's stirring martial air, "yes, let me like a soldier fall"; the sentimental ballad, "in happy moments, day by day"; and the quartette and chorus closing the scene, "health to the lady, the lovely bride." the next scene contains a pretty chorus in waltz time, "ah! what pleasure," followed by an aria sung by the king, "the mariner in his bark," and the act closes with a very dramatic ensemble, "what mystery must now control." the leading numbers of the last act are maritana's song, "scenes that are brightest," one of the most admired of all english songs; the love duet between don cæsar and maritana, "this heart with bliss o'erflowing"; and don cæsar's song, "there is a flower that bloometh," which is in the sentimental ballad style. lurline. [romantic opera, in three acts; text by fitzball. first produced at covent garden theatre, london, february 23, 1860.] personages. count rudolph, a young nobleman. wilhelm, his friend. rhineberg, the river king. baron truenfels. zelleck, a gnome. conrad. adolph. lurline, nymph of the lurlei-berg. ghiva, the baron's daughter. liba, a spirit of the rhine. [vassals, conspirators, pages, water spirits.] the scene is laid on the banks and in the waters of the rhine; time, the present. the story of "lurline" closely follows the old legend of the "lorelei." count rudolph, having dissipated his fortune, proposes marriage with ghiva, daughter of a neighboring baron, to recoup himself. the baron, however, turns out to be as poor as the count, and nothing comes of the proposition. meanwhile lurline, the rhine nymph, has seen the count sailing on the river and fallen in love with him. at the last banquet he and his companions give in the old castle, she appears, weaves spells about him, places a magic ring on his finger, and then disappears. when he comes to his reason, he finds himself enamoured of her, follows the notes of her harp on the rhine, and is engulfed in the whirlpool to which lurline allures her victims. the second act opens in lurline's cavern under the rhine, and rudolph is there by virtue of his magic ring. he hears his friends singing and mourning his loss as they sail on the river, and is so touched by it that he implores permission to return to them for a short time. lurline consents to his absence for three days, and agrees to wait for him on the summit of the lurlei-berg at moonrise on the third evening. she also prevails upon her father, the rhine king, to give him treasures, with which he embarks in a fairy skiff, leaving lurline dejected. in the last act rudolph discloses to the baron and his daughter, as well as to his companions, the secret of his wealth. the baron once more encourages his suit, and the crafty ghiva steals the magic ring and throws it into the rhine. in the mean time lurline waits nightly on the lurlei-berg for the return of her lover, and there a gnome brings to her the ring, token of his infidelity. distracted between grief and anger, she determines to reproach him with his perfidy at a banquet in the castle; she suddenly appears, and demands her ring from him. a scene of bitter reproaches ensues, ending with her denunciation of his companions' treachery. growing envious of the count's wealth, they had conspired to destroy him and then plunder the castle. ghiva and her father, overhearing the plot, reveal it to the count and urge him to escape by flight. rudolph, however, preferring death near lurline, confronts the assassins. love returns to lurline once more. she strikes her harp and invokes the rhine, which rises and engulfs the conspirators. when the waves subside, the rhine king appears and gives the hand of his daughter to the count. the principal numbers of the first act are rhineberg's invocation aria, "idle spirit, wildly dreaming"; lurline's beautiful romanzas with harp accompaniment, "flow on, flow on, o silver rhine," and "when the night winds sweep the wave"; the melodious chorus, "sail, sail, sail on the midnight gale"; the drinking-song, "drain the cup of pleasure"; the quaint tenor song, "our bark in moonlight beaming"; and the vigorous chorus of the gnomes in the finale, "vengeance, vengeance." the second act opens with the gnomes' song, "behold wedges of gold." the remaining conspicuous numbers are the count's song, "sweet form that on my dreamy gaze"; lurline's brilliant drinking-song with chorus, "take this cup of sparkling wine"; ghiva's ballad, for contralto, "troubadour enchanting"; the breezy hunting-chorus, "away to the chase, come away"; rhineberg's sentimental song, "the nectar cup may yield delight"; and the ensemble in the finale, which is in the genuine italian style. the third act is specially noticeable for the ballad sung by rudolph, "my home, my heart's first home"; lurline's song on the lurlei-berg, "sweet spirit, hear my prayer," which has been a great favorite on the concert stage; the unaccompanied quartette, "though the world with transport bless me"; the grand duet, "lurline, my naiad queen," and the incantation music and closing chorus, "flow on, thou lovely rhine." by george p. upton musical handbooks the standard operas the standard oratorios the standard cantatas the standard symphonies the standard light operas 12mo. yellow edges. per volume, $1.50 woman in music 16mo. $1.00 musical pastels: a series of essays on quaint and curious musical subjects. large 8vo. with ten full-page illustrations from rare wood engravings. a. c. mcclurg & company · chicago transcriber's notes silently corrected a few typos. relocated promotional material to the end of the text. generated a new cover image, provided for free use with this ebook. included copyright information from the original printed book (this ebook is public-domain in the country of publication.) produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) stars of the opera by mabel wagnalls [illustration: photographs copyright by aimé dupont and falk, new york. "stars of the opera."] stars of the opera a description of operas & a series of personal interviews with marcela sembrich, emma eames, emma calve, lillian nordica, lilli lehmann, geraldine farrar & nellie melba by mabel wagnalls author of "miserere," "selma, the soprano," etc. revised and enlarged edition funk & wagnalls company new york & london 1909 copyright, 1899, and 1907 by funk & wagnalls company registered at stationers' hall, london [printed in the united states] author's note _all the interviews in this book have been proof-read by the singers_ published, september, 1907 to those who love music but have no opportunity to familiarize themselves with grand opera this book is respectfully dedicated table of contents page an interview with marcella sembrich 13 "semiramide" 25 a call on emma eames 43 "faust" 57 "werther" 79 calvé and "carmen" 105 "carmen" 117 "hamlet" 143 a talk with lillian nordica 169 "lohengrin" 185 "aida" 215 "the huguenots" 239 an hour with lilli lehmann 265 "the flying dutchman" 279 melba, the australian nightingale 303 "lakme" 315 "i pagliacci" 337 "orpheus and eurydice" 357 the genius of geraldine farrar 369 "madame butterfly" 379 list of illustrations facing page group of miniature portraits, "stars of the opera" _frontispiece_ marcella sembrich 15 sembrich as rosina in "the barber of seville" 22 emma eames 45 melba as marguerite in "faust" 64 emma calvé 107 calvé as carmen 128 calvé as ophelia in "hamlet" 164 lillian nordica 171 nordica as brunhilde in "siegfried" 182 eames as elsa in "lohengrin" 202 nordica as aida 220 lilli lehmann 267 lehmann as isolde in "tristan and isolde" 270 lehmann as venus in "tannhäuser" 276 nellie melba 305 melba as elizabeth in "tannhäuser" 312 geraldine farrar 371 miss farrar as "madame butterfly" 384 an interview with marcella sembrich [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. marcella sembrich.] stars of the opera an interview with marcella sembrich early in the season of 1898-99 there was a performance of "traviata" in the metropolitan opera-house which might be described as "an occasion of superlatives"--including the largest auditorium, the biggest audience, the finest singers. grand opera in itself is a culmination and combination of the greatest efforts of the greatest minds. there is, in the first place, the plot of the libretto, which in the case of "traviata" was the masterpiece of dumas, france's greatest dramatist--a man who labored all his life as tho achievement required only work, and who yet possessed such mental power as no amount of work could achieve. after dumas comes the librettist who transposed the story into suitable italian verse to be set to music. and then we have the work, the inmost thoughts, of giuseppe verdi, italy's greatest living composer. there was a day when each of these sparkling melodies that now delight the whole world was born in the soul of verdi, and heard by him alone. but he patiently put upon paper every note that his years of study and his gifted soul impelled. the work of the composer, the dramatist, and the librettist belongs to the past, however, and that audience of five thousand people did not bestow much thought on them. nor did they think very often of the orchestra, composed of fifty thorough musicians, who really worked more during the performance than any of the other participants. it may be mentioned here that in all grand operas the orchestra plays continually; it is the wall upon which the picture is hung. there may be pauses in the singing, but the conductor's baton never rests. people seldom appreciate the vast knowledge of music and the remarkable ability in sight-reading which these orchestra players possess. not one of them but has worked at his art from childhood; most of them play several different instruments; and they all hold as a creed that a false note is a sin, and a variation in rhythm is a fall from grace. the director is their temporary deity who commands the orchestra beneath and the stage above--a little universe of music. he holds all together and dictates the tempo, the expression, and the phrasing. his commands are for the time being immutable as the laws of nature, for any serious disobedience would cause the whole structure to fall to pieces. the five thousand listeners gave some applause to the director after the playing of the introduction, and they gave a little more to the chorus--those earnest workers who serve grand opera as the stokers do a ship. then the tenor received a good deal of applause--his reward for training his voice, studying music, memorizing operas, overcoming nervousness, and singing in public twenty years. but the great applause, the "bravos," the cheering, the excitement, were reserved for the star, the soprano--marcella sembrich! it is always impressive to witness such a success. it is inspiring to know that one woman can so stir the hearts of the people. madame sembrich's voice is as perfect a voice as the world has ever heard. yet her greatness consists more in her art than in her voice. she has not been satisfied merely to use her gift as nature gave it, but she has acquired a mastery of tone-coloring so that every tone has a meaning of its own, and seems to express a distinct emotion. in the last act of "traviata" the quality of her tones, always beautiful, but ever varying as her art dictates, conveys to the listener surely and truly the approach of death and the hope of heaven. this is great art indeed. no wonder the audience fairly gasps as the last sweet tone leaves the lips of the pale violetta and soars away into infinite space. it was the day after "traviata," when, in response to a knock at madame sembrich's door in the hotel savoy, a mellow voice said, "come in." on my obeying this summons, the singer was "discovered"--as the librettos have it--standing near her grand piano, alone, and as unostentatious as your own sister. there was no effect of the impressive prima donna, all flowers and frills and _frou-frou_. she was quite alone, just as lesser mortals sometimes are; and she furthermore spared her visitor from any sense of interrupted work, or great haste, or the magnitude of the occasion. she was just a courteous, quiet lady who seated herself beside the visitor and talked earnestly about music and work. when asked how early she began to study the art seriously, she replied: "when i was six years old. my father taught me the piano until i was ten. he was a very gifted man. then i also studied for a while with dr. stengel, who is now my husband, and with epstein in vienna." on learning that her visitor was acquainted with vienna, madame sembrich's face lighted up (she has a radiant smile): "ach! then you speak german?" and from this point she talked altogether in german, which is more akin to her native polish. she is fluent, however, in all the continental languages. "we have to know them all, for we need them constantly," she explained. in reply to other questions, the singer told enthusiastically of her early work. "i can not say i was ever discouraged, for i so enjoyed my art that it was always of absorbing interest; but my whole life has been made up of hard work, always work. i also studied the violin and composition, and i used to rise early and go to bed late, for i worked six and seven hours a day." madame sembrich is one of the most thorough, all-round musicians on the lyric stage to-day, for she is not only a singer, but has played successfully in public on piano and violin. her rare gift of voice was not discovered until she was seventeen. then her great knowledge of music enabled her quickly to develop the voice, and it was not long before she appeared in opera and made her first great success in london. when asked if she was ever nervous, the answer came promptly: "oh, yes, very nervous! _now_ i am always nervous. but in the early days it was not so bad. when you are young and have a beautiful voice, you think it is all that is necessary, and are not nervous, because you do not realize the depth and extent of art. but as you grow older you appreciate the possibilities of art--you know what it implies, and how perfect you wish to make it; and then you are nervous. it is more nervous work, too, for such artists as madame patti, madame melba, or myself, who travel about and sing first in one place and then in another, because each time we have to win our audience and make a new conquest. in europe, at the great opera-houses such as are in vienna or berlin, it is different, for there the singers are engaged permanently. the public knows how well they can do, and if sometimes they are not at their best, they know the public will excuse them. i find i am more nervous, too, as my reputation increases, for more is expected of me." referring again to her studies, madame sembrich counted over thirty-seven full operas that she has learned. it is well to consider for a moment what this implies. aside from the native gifts of voice, musical talent, and dramatic temperament, there must be years of practise in singing and acting; then the words of each opera must be memorized, sometimes in three languages. after studying, originating, and mastering the action, the music must be learned, and every word wedded to a certain tone, and every tone to a certain beat of time. herein the actress has but a slight task compared to the opera singer, for in the drama it matters not if a word comes a moment sooner or later; but in grand opera a second's deviation might cause a discord. [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. sembrich as rosina in "the barber of seville."] madame sembrich delights in the opera "traviata" because of its intense action. "but i like, too, the lighter operas. the merriment of 'rosina' amuses me as i act it." one more question was asked as her visitor arose to go. "is it true, madame sembrich, that you walk two hours every day?" "yes," she answered good-humoredly. "i had just returned to-day when you came. i started at eleven and got home at one." regular and rigorous in her daily life even yet! upon meeting madame sembrich, one receives an impression of graciousness and greatness not to be forgotten. "semiramide" "semiramide" all great prima donnas have in their repertoire the majority of famous operas, but through fitness of physique or temperament or quality of voice they become associated with certain rôles more than others. sometimes it is merely a caprice of the public that holds them to a particular line of operas. at present madame sembrich is regarded as the great exponent of the old italian school. among her thirty-seven operas "semiramide" is one in which new yorkers have not yet heard her; but it is in some respects the most typical of its kind. "semiramide" belongs to the old style of italian operas. it is light in substance, but glistening with scales and cadenzas that are scattered over it like spangles upon tulle. rossini's music is always beautiful but conveys little meaning, and it impresses the modern musical taste like a meal of bonbons. although semiramis lived hundreds of years before the christian era, we listen in vain for any ancient atmosphere to the composition or for the "_melodrame tragico_," as designated by the libretto. this music would be as suitable to the "barber of seville" as to the "queen of babylon." in other words, the old operas were a series of separate songs adapted to a connected story, whereas we now expect the score so thoroughly to embody the text that the two are inseparable. "semiramide," however, bears several claims to distinction that prevent the possibility of extinction. it is the opera _par excellence_ of duets. they are the delightful, old-fashioned kind, wherein the two voices are side by side, only separated by a perfect third; and when the conductor has whipped up a good tempo away they go like a span of horses, over hills and valleys of scales and arpeggios, bridged-over intervals, and clumps of trills. differing from all other operas, this one gives as much prominence to the contralto as to the soprano. they must have equal facility of execution; and, indeed, none of the rôles are exempt from this demand. tenor, contralto, baritone, and bass vie with each other in performing dangerous feats of vocal agility. there are passages where they all, one after another, run up a scale and land on a certain note, like athletes jumping from a spring-board. we smile at such display, and are inclined to regard the opera as one big solfeggio; but let it not be forgotten that this is the old italian style, and interesting from this point of view. another claim to lasting fame is its overture--one of the prettiest, happiest, showiest orchestral compositions extant. it is a stock program piece, being simple enough for any orchestra to perform and yet rousing enough always to elicit applause. the opening scene represents a temple wherein oroe, the chief of the magi, is discovered kneeling before an altar. he has received a celestial revelation of some dark crime that is awaiting vengeance, and his first short recitative refers to this secret. arising from his knees, oroe orders the gates of the temple to be opened. the assyrian multitude enter bearing offerings and garlands, while they sing a light melody that would do for a modern topical song. idrenus, an indian prince, also comes in with his attendants, bearing incense and offerings. he is the tenor, but unimportant, because this opera has no love-scene, and consequently little use for a tenor. assur, an assyrian potentate, is another devout supplicant at the altar of belus. we soon learn the occasion of these earnest efforts to propitiate the gods: semiramis, the queen, will to-day select a successor to the late king ninus. a very good example of what we consider the incongruities of the old school is found in these first two arias of idrenus and assur. the tenor comes in alone and delivers a flourishing solo, ornate as his costume. then assur, the basso, makes his entrance and sings in a lower key the same remarkable pyrotechnics. this antagonizes the fundamental rule of modern opera, which requires each character to maintain a musical individuality. there is some further conversation in the form of a terzetto between idrenus, assur, and oroe, and the fact is disclosed that assur expects the queen's choice to fall on him. another light and bright chorus announces the entrance of semiramis. she is represented as young and beautiful, altho she is a widow and the mother of a son who mysteriously disappeared years before the story opens. but radiant as is her appearance, semiramis opens the ceremonies with uneasiness, for she has determined to make arsaces the future king. he is a young army officer, and there is no just reason why he should be favored; but the queen has become enamored of him. arsaces, however, is unconscious of her infatuation. she has summoned him to this ceremony; but he has not yet arrived, and for this reason she hesitates. in a quartet that is worked up like a rondo upon a very pleasing theme, the others urge her to begin. she reluctantly steps forward, but at her first mention of the dead king there is a flash of lightning and the sacred fires are extinguished. the people regard this as a dire omen. oroe glances knowingly at both semiramis and assur as he again refers to a crime that has aroused the wrath of the gods. he orders the ceremonies to be postponed pending the arrival of a sacred oracle from memphis. the queen and her attendants withdraw, and the temple is vacated. the orchestra plays through several pages of sixty-fourth and thirty-second notes, after which the interesting and important arsaces enters with two slaves who bring a casket. arsaces is always a very youthful and impossible-looking general, in spite of his glittering cuirass, for be it known this is the contralto rôle, and, musically speaking, a very great one. we learn from his first recitative that this casket contains precious documents and relics of the late king which have been guarded and concealed by phradates, the supposed father of arsaces. phradates has recently died, and in compliance with his request arsaces brings these treasures to the high priest. we also learn that the young general is puzzled over the queen's summons; and last, but not least, we learn that he is in love with the beautiful princess azema. the mere mention of her name starts him to singing a rapturous song, bubbling over with brilliant roulades. after presenting his casket to the high priest, arsaces encounters assur, who soon makes it known that he also loves the fair azema. this so maddens arsaces that he resolves at once to ask semiramis for the hand of the princess. these rivals cordially hate each other, but rossini inspires them to sing the same melodies, and their voices mingle in beautiful harmony of tone and rhythm. the second rising of the curtain reveals semiramis reclining under a bower in her palace garden. she is surrounded by maidens and slaves who sing languid, luxuriant melodies for her diversion. rossini's style is well suited to this scene. as the arias are presented one by one, it is like unfolding the contents of an assyrian treasure-chest full of shimmering silks and glittering jewels. among this collection there is one gem called the "bel raggio," a name as famous in its way as the koh-i-noor. this musical brilliant belongs to queen semiramis, who displays its scintillating beauty with evident pride. the "bel raggio" is one of the four great corner-stones of the bravura singer's repertoire, of which the remaining three are: "una voce poco fa," also by rossini; the dinorah "shadow song," and eckert's "echo song." when listening to "bel raggio" one should never try to follow the words or even wonder what she is saying. just listen to the music. those radiant, ravishing, intoxicating warbles and runs tell one plainly enough that she is happy, and this is sufficient. semiramis is awaiting arsaces and the oracle from memphis. the latter is received first, and bears the cheering words, "thy peace shall be restored with the return of arsaces." true to the nature of oracles, this one has a double meaning, and semiramis construes it in the wrong way. when arsaces enters there follows a bevy of famous duets. but the conversation is quite at cross purposes. arsaces tells of a long-cherished love, which semiramis thinks is for herself. she promises that all his hopes shall be realized, whereupon the two wander off side by side through a forest of cadences, roulades, and scales. they sometimes become separated, when the soprano pauses to run up the scale-ladder and pluck a brilliant high note, or the contralto lingers to pick up tones that are rich and full as fallen fruit; but they finally emerge together, trilling high and low like birds from a thicket. the third scene represents a magnificent hall in the palace. there are, of course, a throne and other "properties," but most conspicuous is the tomb or mausoleum of ninus. for a second time the assyrian noblemen and people gather to hear the appointment of a new king. as they sing a sweeping march, semiramis enters more gorgeously arrayed than ever. she takes her place at the throne, and with an imperious gesture commands allegiance to the king of her choice. these regal phrases contain such a prodigality of dazzling colorature that we are reminded of the far-famed hanging gardens devised by this same extravagant queen. in the matter of lavish display the music of "semiramide" is strikingly appropriate. assur, arsaces, idrenus, and oroe vow obedience, and their hymn-like ensemble is one of the grandest themes rossini ever composed. like the prayer from weber's "freischütz," this quintet has long held a place in church choir-books, and a more religious and inspiring melody could hardly be imagined. the soprano scatters delicious appoggiaturas and cadenzas above the steady and noble ensemble like flowers upon an altar. the "semiramide quintet" is another one of its claims to lasting fame. in a lighter vein is the queen's next proclamation, to the effect that the future king shall also be her husband. this arouses general surprise. but when she finally designates arsaces, the amazement on all sides is loud. assur demands justice from the queen, insinuating some secret compact that she dare not disregard. he is haughtily silenced by semiramis, who at the same time bestows upon him the hand of fair azema. poor arsaces is beside himself. he tries to explain, but the queen will listen to no remonstrances. an altar is brought forward, and the priests are about to pronounce the marriage bans when a hollow, subterranean sound and distant thunder cause consternation. the people are horrified to behold the tomb of ninus slowly open and its occupant step forth. turning to arsaces, the ghost bids him avenge a terrible crime: "with courage into my tomb descend; there to my ashes a victim thou shalt offer. but first obey the counsel of the priest." the ghost disappears, and the act closes with a strong chorus of dismay. semiramis leads the singing, and for once her music has only prim quarter-notes and half-notes: her colorature is all frightened away. the next act contains an interview between assur and semiramis, wherein we learn about the crime so often referred to. the late king ninus was poisoned by assur, who had been promised the throne. but the guilty queen has since preferred arsaces, and this explains assur's great anger. he threatens to kill the young favorite; but semiramis has resumed her ostentatious manner and music, and will not heed his words. there follows a scene in the queen's apartment. she is still striving to win arsaces, but her overtures repel him more than ever. he has just returned from an interview with the priest. the contents of the casket have been revealed to him, and he shows semiramis a paper proving the startling fact that arsaces himself is her long-lost son. he has also learned that ninus, his father, was murdered. remorse promptly overtakes the queen. she weeps and wails in chromatics and scales that quite touch arsaces. they sing a glorious duet that is like a benediction, so noble and pure are its harmonies. it is called "giorno d'orrore" (day of horror). arsaces bids his mother adieu. he is going to the tomb to avenge his father's death, tho he knows not how nor whom he shall strike. it rests with the gods to guide him; he only obeys the command. there follows another smoothly flowing duet resembling all the others in its simple structure, unmistakable rhythm, and prominent melody. the finale of "semiramide" has little to commend it, being absurd in action and presenting only one pleasing or noticeable theme. this is a dainty, quaint violin passage that delighted us in the overture, but which we never thought of connecting with a tragic climax. how different is this tomb music from that of gounod's "romeo and juliet!" there the marvelous harmonies are like sweet dreams accompanying the sleep of death, but here we are only conscious of the "deep, damp vault, the darkness and the worm." the chief absurdity of this scene lies in the fact that it should be too dark for the characters to see each other and yet it must be light enough for the audience to see everything. another incongruity is the assembling of all the principals and a good-sized chorus in this tomb where we expected arsaces alone. but it is explained that assur heard of the hero's coming and planned to follow with the intention of killing him; oroe heard of assur's plan and brings an armed guard to protect arsaces; and, finally, semiramis follows because she is anxious about everybody and everything. they enter at different times; grope around among tombs, and pretend not to see each other. arsaces finally hears and recognizes the voice of assur. he has no doubt that the gods have sent assur to be the victim. the hero promptly stabs in the direction of the voice, but because it is so very dark he happens to kill semiramis instead of assur. but this mistake does not much affect either the music or the action. the final chorus of the opera is as light and bright as the first. a call on emma eames [illustration: copyright by falk, n. y. emma eames.] a call on emma eames a call at the hotel marie antoinette is a veritable eighteenth-century dream. a powdered footman in satin knee-breeches and the full court costume of that period flings open the great glass doors as you enter, and another one escorts you around some columns, and through some curtains, and down some steps to the main reception-room, where you wait while your name is announced. the hotel marie antoinette is very exclusive, so you happen to be alone in this great apartment, with its stained-glass dome and carved-oak walls; alone, excepting for the pretty soft-voiced maid who is arrayed as were the ladies-in-waiting of the trianon. she assists you in removing your wraps, and at the same time talks enthusiastically about the great personage you have come to see. "we all here just love her, she is so gracious and appreciative of everything we do, and so kind to us. she gives us tickets to the opera, and she isn't at all proud or haughty. she often comes in here of an afternoon to have tea. there is her corner where she always sits"--and the maid points quite reverentially to a dainty recess curtained with tapestries and dreamily illumined by a huge pendant red globe. as your glance roams on, you find many objects that hold your attention. there are historic cabinets of rare value and workmanship, little tea-tables beside the various couches, bearing trays of antique china and tiny spoons of old silver, all sought and selected from the castles and treasure-rooms of europe. there is one dainty solid gold clock that belonged to marie antoinette and was used in her boudoir. another one which she also owned is jeweled with turquoise and garnets. many valuable miniatures of the unfortunate queen and her family are on the desks and writing-tables. in one enticing alcove are two rows of sumptuous volumes bound in red and gold whose mere titles set one to dreaming of court intrigues and palace revels. "the secret memoirs of the court" comprise one set of ten books; ten more are devoted to napoleon, and "the life and times of louis xv." also occupies much shelf-room; while on the center-table is a collection of engravings portraying the life of marie antoinette. you quite feel yourself a court lady by this time; and when the powdered dignitary again appears and calls out your name in stately tones, you follow him with a sense of importance quite pleasant and unusual. you are led past more columns and through more curtains, until finally he leaves you in a moderate-sized ante-room. here you wait for some moments, expectantly watching the doorway by which you entered, when suddenly, on the opposite side of the room, some folding-doors which you had not noticed are flung wide open by unseen hands, and behold the queen--of grand opera, madame emma eames! it was indeed a right royal vision i beheld: a beautiful woman, in every sense of the term, clad in a fawn-colored gown of rich design, and bejeweled with chains of pearls and a brooch of diamonds. she was seated on a pale satin divan, but came forward to greet her visitor, and shook hands cordially. madame eames is more than beautiful, for together with regular features and soft curves she has a strong face and a pose of the head that is all determination and force. she is tall and full-figured, her hair is dark, and her eyes are very blue. she displayed a charming smile as she motioned her visitor to a seat near by, and then followed a rapid sequence of questions and answers. madame eames showed a kindly response to her visitor's spirit of earnestness, and tried to tell as much as possible in every reply she made. first in order of interest is the fact that she was born, august 13, 1867, in shanghai, china. there's a beginning for you!--enough to crush an ordinary mortal. but emma eames took it otherwise; and all who know of her now must admit that to be born under the star of the east on the thirteenth day of the month is after all not bad. as soon as she was old enough to walk she left the land of her birth and came with her mother and father (who was a lawyer of the international courts) to their native home, the city of bath, in maine. here she studied music with her mother, going later on to boston and finally to paris, where she worked with indomitable will studying operas, dramatic action, voice culture, and especially french. this last is very important for those aiming to sing publicly in paris, for the people there will not tolerate any weakness of pronunciation. when asked if she ever had time for any social pleasures, madame eames answered very earnestly: "i have never done anything in my life but work. i cared for other pleasures just as any girl does, but have always foregone them." as a result of this ceaseless work she was fitted for the operatic stage in two years' time. "it was gounod himself who selected me to sing in his opera 'romeo and juliet.' he taught me that music, and also 'faust.' he was a most lovable old man, so modest, and above all sincere and truth-loving in his music. he often said to me, 'never degrade music, the one divine language on earth, to express a lie.' when teaching a phrase, instead of dictating, as you would expect so great a man to do, he always asked, 'how do you _feel_ when you hear that? sing it as _you feel it_, not what i feel or tell you.' and he could sing so exquisitely! yes, old as he was, and he had just the smallest possible voice, yet it was delightful to hear." madame eames's tones were tender and thoughtful as she recalled these reminiscences of her beloved master. the number thirteen looms up again in madame eames's history as the date of her great début. it was the evening of march 13, 1889, in the world's most beautiful opera-house, that the swaying pendants of its great chandelier vibrated to the sound of a new voice and the marble walls of its ornate halls reverberated to the sound of a new name--"emma eames, la jeune américaine." no wonder she made a sensation; she is the ideal juliet, youthful, beautiful, and with a voice of golden timbre. a more lovely scene and more tender tragedy has never been depicted in music than is the last act of this opera. the beholder sees in the somber setting of an iron-barred tomb the white-clad form of juliet lying upon a bier that is raised like an altar above several steps. there are loose flowers still unwithered scattered near the silent sleeper, and one pale torch burns restlessly in a brazier at her head. no other movement; no change on the stage for many minutes. but the listeners, in this pause, are brought heart to heart with the gentle composer, who sleeps himself now in the pantheon of paris. gounod has enwrapped this scene in ethereal harmonies that make one think of death not as the king of terrors, but as the queen of repose. the principal melody is a lulling, loving strain that floats and fades away like a final "hush" to rest. the classic purity of madame eames's beauty impresses itself in these moments perhaps more than any other, and the nobility of her voice reveals itself, in the succeeding dramatic climax of the opera, to the fullest. in speaking now of her début, the singer says that she was very nervous, "for, before the public has approved, you don't feel sure that you know anything. after this, there is some foundation for your nerves to rest on, altho you realize how much there is still to learn. but i am always nervous even yet, never knowing what trick my nerves may play on me. no, my memory gives me no anxiety, for i fortunately have a very reliable one. if by any chance i forget a word on the stage, i know my health is run down, and i then at once take a rest for several days." but emma eames does not take many such rests. young as she is, she has already sung in twenty-one different operas with unvarying success, in england, france, and italy as well as her own country. when studying a new rôle she makes every effort to be accurate in all details. "i always give great thought to my costumes, but when once i have studied thoroughly into the period represented and feel convinced that my designs are correct, i never change them. when one set is shabby i merely have it duplicated." little wonder a prima donna has no time for social gayety when you consider all the accessories to her art. aside from the study and actual performing, she must take proper exercise for her health, must attend rehearsals, give time to the costumer--and, also, to the many interviewers. madame eames smiled at this suggestion, and said: "i don't mind any of these, but i do dread having my photograph taken. we have to put on the entire costumes of different operas: wigs, stockings, gloves, slippers--everything as tho ready to go on with our lines, and all just to stand around in a studio and pose. it is terrible; it takes a whole day sometimes." a question about her method of study brought forth the fact that at one time she was quite misdirected in the use of her voice. "i was turned entirely in the wrong direction, and it is no exaggeration to say that i have fought the battle out step by step and note by note all alone--or, rather, in the very presence of the public. when i first appeared my voice-control was uncertain; i did not dare take any liberties with my tones. i was in constant anxiety, and miserable because i had not the power of voice-emission that i wanted. i assure you in those days i was sometimes so discouraged that i thought seriously of giving up my profession." an astounding assertion this will seem to the thousands of listeners enthralled by her voice to-day. but madame eames was very serious, and she added philosophically: "after all, i don't think one can attain anything worth having unless one has suffered deeply." every summer madame eames takes a six-weeks' vacation in her italian castle near florence. i was shown a description of this edifice, which reads like a page of old history. the sullen gray stone walls are six feet thick, and the heavy doors with their great iron hinges are all carved by hand, as indeed is all the workmanship on the place. the main hall of the castle is sixty feet long and twenty-five feet wide. there are four massive fireplaces in this one apartment, and a wooden balcony reached by a broad stairway runs all around the second story of the hall. the ceiling is of carved oak, and a reproduction of a famous one in florence. everything is in accord with the traditions of the middle ages. madame eames takes great delight in this castle, and she has with her numerous photographs of it. there will probably be many guests in those halls; but even if the gifted owner lived there alone it would always seem peopled by a large assemblage, for madame eames studies much during these vacations, and the mystic characters of her repertoire may be said to hover ever near. the castle is to be furnished with rich hangings and historic trophies; but most priceless of all should be counted the music furnished by her own rare voice. this will soar out and reecho at all hours; sometimes a memory of elsa, and again a thought of sieglinde. it were indeed a pity to fling the stray tones of a great voice upon crude walls and cramped quarters; let them rather resound and reverberate, and perchance be preserved, by the listening atoms of carved wood and chiseled stone. if the earth is god's garden and we are the plants that grow, then madame eames must be likened to a rare orchid, radiant in the sunshine of great success, and showered with all possible blessings. "faust" "faust" faust is the opera in which madame eames has appeared most often in this country. no less than sixteen composers have used goethe's poem as a libretto. many of these works are excellent, and frequently we hear excerpts from them in our concerts. but gounod has clad the words in musical raiment of such surpassing loveliness that he has almost robbed goethe of his masterpiece. at this day, on hearing the name faust we think of the opera simultaneously with, if not before, the poem. he has made of it a "grand opera" in every sense; and yet so abounding in melody that even an untrained ear is captured. there is no overture. it is a fact without a cause that some operas have overtures and some have not. "faust" opens with a short orchestral prelude that is somber and subdued--quite suggestive of the doubt and darkness that characterize the scene upon which the curtain rises. faust, the philosopher, the student, is seated in his cell, surrounded by books, parchments, chemicals, skulls, and hour-glasses. he has grown old in his delving after the mysteries, and even now he has devoted the whole night to study. the lamp burns low, and all about him is dark and gloomy. he closes his book sadly, and exclaims in tones that seem spontaneous, but are, nevertheless, in accurate rhythm with the orchestra, "in vain!" he does not find the knowledge he seeks; his investigations are without avail. it seems strange to hear these laments sounded by a tenor voice; but this trifling incongruity of high tones and old age does not last long. the character faust is one of the greatest tenor rôles. his soliloquy is presently broken in upon by a chorus behind the scenes. it is the song of reapers going to their daily work. the morning light streams in at the window which faust throws open as he listens. but sunshine itself is not brighter than that song. it is so joyous and light-hearted that the listener fairly inhales the dew-laden air of the fields. this first melody in the opera is as perfect a morceau for its size as was ever written. the solitaire in his cell is also affected by the radiant song, and he envies the reapers for their contentment and for their youth. yes, _youth_ is what he longs for. altho faust has declared his study to be "in vain," he has, nevertheless, acquired the accomplishment of being able to call up mephistopheles (this is the operatic name for the great demon), and in his present despair he resorts to this power. mephisto appears without delay. flaming colors and a bass voice are the essential attributes of this great character. it seems rather hard on our artists who sing to low g that a bass voice is so often chosen to represent iniquity; but such happens to be the case. mephisto is invariably clad in red from head to toe; exaggerated eyebrows and a fantastic cap with unobtrusive horns complete his diabolical appearance. in a continuous flow of harmony, faust informs his visitor of his wants, and mephisto promptly states his conditions: for the price of his soul after death the philosopher shall now be granted his youth. faust hesitates at this, whereupon the wily demon causes him to behold a vision. a bright light at the back of the stage suddenly reveals the lovely marguerite at her spinning-wheel. while the picture lasts there is heard in the orchestra a suggestion of one of the themes that come afterward in the love-scene of the opera; this is accompanied by a soft tremolo on the violins. forest scenes, moonlight, and dreams are very often represented in music by a violin tremolo. when the vision passes away, faust is decided, and he drinks the potion mephistopheles prescribes. presto! the gray hair and beard disappear; the long robe falls off, and faust is a young man--tall and handsome, as a tenor should be. he comes forward with an elastic step and sings of youth and its joys, which now are his. the music has undergone a metamorphosis like the singer. it throbs with a life and vigor which were lacking before; and this final song of the first act is one of the best tenor solos in the opera. the second act is chiefly remarkable for its choruses. it is called the kyrmess, and represents a street thronged with villagers in festive array and mood. they dance and sing in honor of their soldiers, who start this day to war. the opening chorus is divided among the students, girls, soldiers, and citizens, the latter being represented by old men, who come forward and sing their delightful refrain in thin, piping voices. every phrase of this first chorus is a surprise, and each one seems more fascinating than the preceding. it is all in a rapid, tripping tempo, and fairly bubbles over with good humor. in this act we are introduced to all the principal characters. siebel, the village youth who loves marguerite, is already on the scene, and very soon her soldier-brother, valentine, appears. this is the baritone rôle, and, while not a long one, is still important, and requires a great artist, for he has a splendid death-scene in the fourth act. his first solo begins with the words "o santa medaglia!" ("o blessed medallion!"). he sings to the token which his sister has just given him at parting. he is depressed at the thought of leaving marguerite alone, for she is an orphan; but siebel consoles him with promises to protect and watch over her. mephisto is the next one to come upon the scene, and, in spite of his satanic make-up, the villagers do not recognize his "name and station." he joins in their merry-making, and soon astounds them with his wizard tricks and actions. he sings a song about "gold--the lord of the earth." it is one of the three important solos of this rôle, and is a most characteristic piece. one has not the least doubt that he learned it at home! such eccentric, sardonic intervals and rhythm at once suggest an unholy origin. [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. melba as marguerite in "faust."] the peasants soon become so convinced of this stranger's evil power that they unanimously hold up the hilts of their swords, which are formed like a cross, and before this emblem mephisto trembles. a very strong and inspiring chorus accompanies this move on the part of the peasants. faust, the handsome cavalier, now comes forward. after a short dialog between this master and servant--who we know are under compact to change places in the hereafter--the chorus again take possession of the stage. they sing first a charming waltz song, which of itself seems to start them all to dancing. and then comes the celebrated "faust waltz," during which the listener should pay most attention to the orchestra. there is some singing and much dancing on the stage, but the instruments have the most important part. of this well-known composition it is unnecessary to say more than that it is a splendid waltz. its brilliant rhythm is temporarily diverted by the entrance of marguerite, who is on her way home from church. she carries a prayer-book in her hand, and is dressed in white, which betokens innocence. this costume of the heroine has been considered as imperative as the make-up of mephisto; but madame eames carefully studied old nuremburg pictures and resurrected the correct style of that period, which somewhat departs from operatic tradition. on seeing marguerite, faust addresses her as "my charming lady," and begs permission to walk home with her. to which marguerite very properly replies that she is neither "charming" nor a "lady," and can go home "alone." the question and response last only a moment, but the two themes are most exquisitely adapted to the words, and should be noted, as they recur later on in the opera. especially lovely are these first notes of the soprano; and after so much chorus and bass and orchestra, they soar out like strokes from a silver bell. marguerite goes on her homeward way, and leaves faust more in love than before. mephisto rejoices, and the waltz is resumed. thus ends act ii. and now for the garden scene--a veritable bouquet of melodies, flowers that never fade! the first aria is, indeed, called the "flower song," but only because siebel sings to the flowers he has brought for marguerite. siebel is the contralto rôle, and therefore always taken by a woman. it is a very short part, but as two of the sweetest songs in the opera belong to siebel, great artists are glad to take the character. the short prelude by the orchestra before the "flower song" is as artistic as any other part. it seems to smooth the brow and quiet the mind, and coax the hearer into just the right mood "to be lulled by sounds of sweetest melody." siebel's song is indeed "sweetest melody"--so much so that a poor singer can hardly spoil it. that gentle and caressing theme captures the heart every time. after siebel has gone, there enter faust and mephistopheles (who gains admission everywhere). the latter is in high spirits, and faust is in love. they look upon the garden with different emotions. faust rhapsodizes and is lost in romance; but mephisto's more practical vision perceives the flowers which siebel has left at marguerite's door. he goes off at once to procure a present that shall outshine these. during his absence faust sings the "salve dimore." these are the first words of the song, which mean "hail! dwelling pure and simple;" but this composition is always given its italian name. it is interesting to note the names by which celebrated arias are known. some are designated by the subject, as the "jewel song," "flower song." then, again, some are known by the rhythm, as the "waltz song" from "romeo and juliet," or the "polacca from 'mignon.'" then, there are others whose names only indicate the number of voices, as the "sextet from 'lucia,'" the "quartet from 'rigoletto';" while many are spoken of by their italian names. the "salve dimore" belongs to this class, and, like the "jewel song," is so celebrated that many people who have not heard the music are still familiar with the name. the tenor who does not receive abundant applause after this aria may feel that he has lost his best chance in the opera. after the solo mephisto reenters with a jewel-casket under his arm. he places this where marguerite will surely find it, and then the two retire. now is an expectant moment, for the soprano holds the stage alone for some time, and has in this scene her finest solos. she comes in through the garden gate and walks very slowly, for she is thinking about the handsome stranger who spoke to her in the street. she tries, however, to forget the occurrence, and resolutely sits down to her spinning. as she spins she sings a ballad called "the king of thule." it is a sad little song, with strange minor intervals that make one feel "teary 'round the heart." marguerite interrupts her ballad to soliloquize again, in pretty recitative tones, about that "fine stranger," but she soon recalls herself and resumes the song. at last she gives up trying to spin, and starts for the house; whereupon she sees siebel's flowers, which are admired, but dropped in amazement when her eyes rest upon the jewel-box. after some misgivings she opens it and discovers jewels so beautiful that from sheer joy and delight she starts to trilling like a bird. this trill is the opening of the great aria, which seems to thus poise for a moment and then fly away in the ascending scale which commences the brilliant theme. the "jewel song" is as difficult as it is beautiful, and the artist who renders it well deserves unstinted praise. before the song is ended, martha, the matron in whose care marguerite has been entrusted, comes into the garden, and soon is followed by faust and mephistopheles. hers is a necessary but unimportant character, as she has no solo and is merely a foil for mephistopheles. she is represented as a very susceptible widow, and he takes upon himself the uninviting task of making love to her in order that faust and marguerite may have a chance. the two couples walk back and forth in the garden, which is supposed to extend beyond the limits of the stage. the courting as done by mephistopheles is highly absurd, and is, in fact, the only touch of humor in the opera. but very different are the scenes between faust and marguerite. every phrase is full of charming sincerity. but it is after the quartet, after the second exit and reappearance, that we hear their great love duet. the evening shadows have lengthened, and "tardi si fa" ("it groweth late") are the first words of this superb composition, which is indeed like pure gold. it stands alone in musical literature as the ideal love music. the only work that is ever compared to it is wagner's duet in the "walküre." some writer has ventured the statement that in this "faust" duo gounod has "actually discovered the intervals of the scale which express the love passion." the idea is not a wild one nor a new one, for it is known that the greeks held a similar belief, and even prohibited certain harmonies and intervals as being too sensuous. be that as it may, there is a subtle charm about gounod's music that eludes description. when we hear that final ecstatic leap from c sharp to high a, a mystic hush and spell steals over us. there is little more after the duo. marguerite rushes into the house, and faust is aroused by the unwelcome voice of mephistopheles. the latter's jesting tone is most irritating to the lover. but this dialog is soon interrupted by one of the loveliest scenes in the opera. marguerite throws open the blinds of her window and looks into the garden, which she believes is now vacant. the moonlight falls upon her, and she suddenly begins singing. it is a burst of melody as spontaneous and free as the song of a nightingale. the song is not long, and soon the curtain descends; but the picture leaves a lasting impression. act iv. comprises three scenes. the first one is short, and depicts marguerite's grief and remorse. faust has forsaken her, and the faithful siebel tries to comfort and console. this second solo of siebel's is a melody of noble simplicity. the beautiful cadence given to the twice-repeated name, "marguerita," reveals a heart full of unselfish love. the next scene represents a street in front of marguerite's house. there is general excitement and anticipation among the villagers, for to-day the soldiers return from war. they presently enter, amid much rejoicing, and sing their great chorus, called the "faust march." this march is so popular and well known that people who believe they have never heard a note of the opera will be surprised to find that they recognize this march. it is played by every military band in the country. after the chorus the soldiers disperse to their homes and friends. valentine is greeted by siebel, but the brother inquires about his sister, and hastens into the house. the stage now is darkened, for the hour is late. presently faust and mephisto appear. the latter has brought his guitar, and he assumes the privilege of singing a serenade to marguerite, while faust stands to one side in melancholy meditation. mephisto's song is more insulting than complimentary. as a musical expression of irony, sarcasm, and insolence, this composition is certainly a success. the last three notes of the first phrase are a veritable leer. this is the second important bass solo, and, when well given, is highly effective, as it admits of great variety of expression. but instead of bringing forth the object of the serenade, marguerite's brother appears at the door, and with drawn sword. he seeks out faust and challenges him to a duel. the challenge is accepted, and they are soon fighting; but the result is inevitable, for mephisto uses his demoniac power to protect faust, and so valentine is wounded. the noise of the scuffle has aroused the villagers, who hurry in with lanterns and find valentine dying. marguerite rushes forward and falls on her knees beside him, but valentine motions her away. he rises up in his death agony and curses her in tones that are like balls of fire. the villagers look on with awe, while poor marguerite is stunned by these terrible words from her dying brother. it is the most tragic moment of the opera. when valentine expires, every one kneels as they sing a solemn prayer, and the curtain falls. we have next the church scene, whose sublime music displays gounod's special forte. he is perhaps greater as a composer of ecclesiastical music than anything else. his genius finds most congenial soil in religious themes, and therefore is this church scene with its mighty choruses and organ interludes truly grand. we hear the organ tones even before the curtain rises, and when it does marguerite is discovered kneeling on a prayer-chair, apart from the other worshipers. she tries to pray and find comfort in her despair, but an awful voice mocks her endeavors, and that voice is mephistopheles, who comes to her now in his true character. he is near her, but she can not see him, while he terrifies and tortures her with fearful prophecies. vainly and desperately she strives to follow the familiar service, but she can hear only the demon's voice. it draws ever nearer, and its words increase her terror. at last with a cry of anguish marguerite falls down unconscious. mephistopheles stands over her, and his face beams with satanic glee. true to goethe's story, marguerite becomes insane from grief and kills her child. the last act finds her in prison. once again she is clad in white. her hair hangs loose upon her shoulders, and chains bind her wrists. she is sleeping on a straw pallet as the curtain rises, and faust enters with his companion. they have come to release the prisoner. but when she is aroused and urged to flee she pays little heed to their request, for she does not recognize them. but the sound of faust's voice recalls to her that first meeting so long ago, when he said, "my fair lady, may i walk with you?" she sings again the charming phrase as we heard it in the second act; but it is now rendered with a certain pathos and simplicity that bring tears to our eyes. she presently perceives mephistopheles, and the sight fills her with terror. she falls on her knees and invokes the angels of heaven to pardon and receive her soul. the fervor of this prayer knows no bounds. a veritable religious ecstasy throbs through the music. the theme is broad and free, and seems to burst asunder every bond. it suggests a glory and splendor that are celestial. ever higher and grander it grows. marguerite is now standing with upraised arms; and altho faust and mephisto join in the singing, our attention is entirely riveted by that white-robed supplicant. the peerless theme is repeated three times, and always higher than before. those soprano tones finally reach an atmosphere so clear and rare that they seem to carry the soul of marguerite with them. the last high b soars up to heaven like a disembodied spirit. it matters not what occurs after this. we have a dim consciousness of marguerite falling down, of some words of lament from faust; but for us the opera was ended with that last supernal note. "werther" "werther" madame eames is the only prima donna whom america has heard in "werther"--a work which in paris ranks as massenet's best. but she does not sing it often, because, as she says, "it all lies in such a low key; and to sing always in one place is hard on the voice." then she adds, "but the love-music of werther is beautiful." goethe's love-stories find favor with french composers. massenet has accomplished with "werther" what his predecessors have done with "mignon" and "faust." his work is very recent and altogether unique. the story is not dramatic, and there are no regulation operatic characters,--no gods, no kings, no peasants, gypsies, fairies, demons, villains, slaves, soldiers, and not even a chorus. the scenery is also unconventional; not a palace, nor a mountain, nor a dungeon in the whole play. the _dramatis personæ_ of "werther" are taken from "ye lower middle classes," and they are graced with such names as schmidt, johann, sophia, and katie. we find it agreeable and gratifying to see our own common selves and everyday emotions elevated to the regions of classic music. it is easy to understand why massenet was attracted by the story, in spite of its dramatic weakness and lack of stage effects. it offers unbounded opportunities for love-music. most opera composers must content themselves with one rousing duet and perhaps a solo or two; but in this story the hero sings of love from first to last. the prelude to this homely opera is like the blessing before a meal. it is peaceful and soothing, and might be called a pastorale. as the curtain rises we are greeted with the chatter and laughter of childish voices: two innovations at one stroke, for real children and real laughter have never before held a place in grand opera. this first scene of "werther" forms a pleasing summer picture. we see the garden and terrace of a simple country house, whose owner, the town bailiff, is seated upon the veranda surrounded by his six children, to whom he is teaching a christmas carol. he seems to be teaching them, but in point of fact he is teaching the audience this charming melody, which must be kept in mind, for it recurs at various intervals during the opera. so the children sing at first very loud and badly. the good-natured bailiff shakes his head and stops his ears. after a second attempt the song goes smoothly, and during this performance schmidt and johann enter the garden. these are some tavern friends of the bailiff, who lend variety to the music by giving occasion for the inevitable drinking-song. they compliment the children and inquire after charlotte. "she is dressing for a ball," answers sophia, the bailiff's second daughter. we might tire of this plain conversation and the buffoon manners of schmidt and johann, but the accompanying music is of absorbing interest. massenet makes much use of counterpoint, which has been broadly defined as the art of combining melodies. a crude but familiar example is that wonder-inspiring piano performance of "yankee doodle" in one hand with "fisher's hornpipe" in the other. it is interesting to follow the various themes in massenet's orchestra. sometimes a bit of the christmas carol combines with the gruff, reeling song of bacchus, which, in turn, is blended with a broad and noble theme that always appears in connection with the name of charlotte. another theme, that might be characterized as severely intellectual, asserts itself whenever the conversation turns upon albert, her absent fiancé. schmidt and johann go off arm in arm, lustily singing, "vivat bacchus." sophia enters the house, while the bailiff retires with the children to an alcove on the veranda, where we see him patiently rehearsing that christmas carol, word for word. the music now undergoes a transition, like a dreamer turning in his sleep. there are harp-chords, arpeggios, and trills written soft and "dim." a richly clad traveler enters the garden, looking about him with evident emotion. it is werther, returned after years of absence to his native village. "i know not if i dream or wake," are his first words, while the instruments recall that pastoral motif of the prelude. birds and trees and the limpid brook are all apostrophized in word and tone, until, with a sunburst of rising chords, there is introduced a new and radiant theme, eulogizing-"all nature, full of grace, queen over time and space;" while under the spell of his emotions--for werther is a poet and a dreamer--there comes to him, like the song of angels, that blessed christmas carol which the children are singing softly and with perfect rhythm. the already familiar charlotte-theme announces the heroine's entrance. the girlish costumes of this bourgeoise character are unusually becoming to madame eames; they present her in quite a new light, and her first entrance gives a pleasing surprise to the audience. she is embraced by the children, who love charlotte dearly, for she is to them both a sister and a mother. regardless of her best gown, she now goes to a buffet on the veranda and distributes slices of bread and butter. this scene has prompted the epithet, "bread-and-butter opera." in the mean time werther is welcomed by the bailiff and introduced to charlotte. sounds of gay music accompany the arrival of guests who will take charlotte to the ball. this festive music is unique. the bass presents a defiant repetition of one chord that is stubbornly out of harmony with the bright melody above, like old age shaking his head at youthful gaiety. it is decided that werther shall go along to the ball. the dance-theme is resumed, and the merry party go out. sophia takes the children into the house, and the bailiff goes off to the tavern, humming on the way that comical drinking-song. the stage grows darker, the music softer, and we hear a fragment of the albert-theme. it is like seeing the shadow before the person, for albert soon enters. he has returned unexpectedly. sophia rushes out to greet him, and she regrets that charlotte is absent. before going into the house albert sings to the night winds of his love, and hopes that charlotte on entering the garden will discover the thoughts that he leaves. the orchestra toys with this melody for a time, but then is diverted by memories of the ball music. snatches of the bewitching strain flit by in different keys, like belated guests in vari-colored dominoes. they are faint as phantoms--a gentle swaying of the violins, a touch of the harp, and then they vanish. there is a pause. the moon has appeared, and the humble garden seems transformed into a fairy bower. like the spirit of a dream is the melody now arising. ethereal in its beauty but supreme in power, it rules over the entire opera. this is the love-theme. we are not surprised to see werther and charlotte enter arm in arm. it is a familiar situation: he is "seeing her home" from the ball. and arrived at their destination, they linger at the gate as couples have done before and since. charlotte is of a serious nature, and their talk is never light. she tells of her mother and the terrible experience of losing one so dear. "i believe that she watches over me and knows when i do her bidding." charlotte's tones are full of pathos, and she becomes abstracted in her memories, while werther, enraptured by her goodness and beauty, gives utterance to the feelings that enthrall him. the music grows stronger and higher, until it breaks forth in a resounding reality of the love-theme. over an accompaniment of throbbing chords this superb melody sweeps by like a meteor passing the earth; and during this luminous transition we hear the voice of werther, "charlotte, i love thee!" there follows a hush, and then a chilling, awful discord. some one is calling from the house, "albert has come home!" charlotte staggers at this news. she explains that albert is her betrothed--it was her mother's wish. "may she forgive me, that for one moment at your side i forgot my vow." charlotte goes up the steps; she turns once, but then hastens inside. werther buries his face in anguish at the thought of her wedding another. several months have elapsed since the events of the first act. the elm-tree foliage is denser and the situations of the drama have changed, but love and music remain the same. schmidt and johann are discovered sitting before the tavern "of a sunday afternoon." their good-natured song of bacchus greets us like an old friend. the church and parsonage are in plain view, and a solemn choral from within alternates with the drinking-song without. the village is to-day _en fête_ in honor of the pastor's golden wedding. the serious and thoughtful albert-theme marks the entrance of charlotte and albert, who are married. they loiter on their way to church and sit down on a bench under the trees. very calm and tender is the music of this little scene between husband and wife. the organ resounds the chords of a beautiful hymn, at which summons charlotte and albert join the other worshipers. werther has been observing the pair from a distance. when they are gone he comes forward, exclaiming with grief and bitterness, "wedded to another!" the tempestuous chords of the orchestra clash into the holy harmonies of the organ. jagged fragments of werther's first song of admiration depict his shattered joy. as one holds together the pieces of a broken vase, sadly recalling its lost loveliness, so does the orchestra again build up that old theme in all its beauty while werther sings of what might have been. rebellious at fate, he cries out: "it is i--i alone whom she could have loved!" the succeeding aria is reckless as a steed galloping to his death. it plunges from high tones to a sob, and the singer, flinging himself upon a bench, buries his face in his arms. albert discovers werther thus despondent, and, suspecting the cause, he questions him; but werther desperately disclaims his love for charlotte. this interview is musically serious and sad. but suddenly the orchestra gives us a new key, a new melody, a sprinkling of lithesome staccatos falling like a shower of apple-blossoms. with a smile on her lips and flowers in her hands, sophia enters, unconscious of the surrounding turbulent emotions. she gaily announces that they intend to dance, and that werther must join her in the minuet. observing his somber expression, she bids him cheer up, for to-day- "all the world is gay! joy is in the air!" this song is the most popular one of the opera. it is bright and light, and full of fluttering phrases--a veritable song of spring. when albert and sophia are gone, werther cries out with explosive candor, "i told a falsehood!" he is wretched beyond compare. he can not cease loving, and he dare not cease lying. charlotte comes from the church, and, greeting him kindly, asks if he, too, is going to the parsonage. they speak lightly but feel deeply, as is evidenced by the music. that wondrous love-theme softly surrounds them like the magic fire of the walküre. the harmonies mount up from the instruments like flames from living embers. a spell is upon them. charlotte stands mute, while werther sings of that evening when he touched her hand and looked into her eyes for the first time. softly and slowly the beautiful melody disappears, giving place to a different chord and motif: "albert loves me--and i am his wife!" charlotte has recovered herself. she entreats werther to turn his heart elsewhere: "why do you love me?" this hero seems to understand himself, for he answers: "ask a madman why he has lost his reason!" then charlotte urges him to go away for a time, say until christmas. "yes, until christmas--good-by, my friend!" she leaves before he has time to refuse. now follows a musical adaptation of goethe's very poetical and ingenious plea for suicide. "do we offend heaven in ceasing to suffer? when a son returns from his journey before the expected time, far from feeling resentment, the father hastens to greet him; and can it be that our heavenly father is less clement?" during this soliloquy we encounter strange chords in the orchestra. strains of a gay minuet play upon these tragic tones like rainbow colors on the angles of a glacier. the dance has begun, and sophia, appearing at the parsonage door, tells werther that she is waiting. he walks away. "you are leaving! but you will come back?" cries the disappointed sophia. "no--never! good-by!" and werther turns down the road out of sight. either for the lost dance or the lost partner, sophia bursts into tears. albert and charlotte find her thus, and between sobs she tells them how monsieur werther has gone away forever. charlotte stands rigid, while albert exclaims to himself: "he loves my wife!" the gay assemblage within the parsonage has no knowledge of this brewing tragedy, so the minuet continues till the curtain descends. the prelude to act iii. is somber and depressing. it clings to the harmonies of that last scene between charlotte and werther--the exile motif. the curtain's rising reveals charlotte sitting at her work-table, lost in thought while her needle plies. the soft light of the lamp illumines a _petit salon_; the hour hand of the clock points to the figure five, and the libretto tells us it is the 24th of december. the subject of her thoughts is werther--always werther! why can she not banish him from her mind as she did from her presence? the question is not hard to answer, for we learn that he has been writing to her. as tho drawn by a magnet, charlotte goes to the desk and reads again the letters she fain would forget. moaning minors like a winter wind accompany the perusal of these sad and poetic epistles. werther writes: "if i never return, blame me not, but weep instead, for i shall be dead." terrifying tremolos accompany the tragic theme that is now let loose in the orchestra like a strange, wild animal in the arena. it preys upon the emotions, gnawing at the heart of every listener. massenet delights in startling contrasts. while charlotte is grieving over these missives, a happy voice greets her, "good day, sweet sister!" it is sophia, come with an armful of toys and a heart full of melody. she is accompanied by the gay staccatos of her "spring song." charlotte hastily conceals the letters; but tears are not so easily disposed of. perceiving the reddened eyes, sophia tries to cheer her sister by singing of "laughter, the light of the heart." the gaiety of this music, with its sparkling scales and tripping tempo, is infectious. but tears again gather in charlotte's eyes when sophia mentions the name of werther. the little sister is very sorry; but charlotte says never mind, weeping does one good. "the tears we do _not_ shed fall back upon the heart, which, altho it is big, is very frail and can break with the weight of a tear." the music to this sentiment is a tone-poem well worthy of the text. it is written in a low key. joy mounts upward on the scale, but grief weighs down. sophia goes out, and all the bright music with her. falling upon her knees, charlotte prays for strength. this supplication is truly grand, with superb crescendos and plaintive diminuendos. the music now swells out with sudden impetus and the parlor door is brusquely opened. charlotte turns around and exclaims--with startled tones, "werther!" he is leaning against the door as tho wearied in mind and body. "i tried not to come--_mais me voici_!" with forced calm charlotte bids him welcome. he looks with fond memory upon the old piano and familiar books. they talk of casual things, and incidentally charlotte calls his attention to the poems he was translating when he left. the music of this scene has been unnaturally tranquil; the gentle charlotte-theme and another phrase, graceful and simple as a nursery rhyme, are used with touching effect. but with the mention of these poems sudden emotion breaks through the constraint. werther turns to the unfinished verse and reads aloud. the ensuing scene is dramatically not a new one. in "francesca da rimini" the heroine is wooed and won by the reading of a poem; but added to the charm of verse we here have the enthralling power of music. in both instances the reading ends with--a kiss. the succeeding aria is a song of soaring ecstasy about "_ce premier baiser_." werther proclaims that "only love is real!" but charlotte suddenly recoils at her weakness, and rushing to a side door, exclaims: "we must never meet again! good-by--for the last time!" and disappears. the music has assumed a dolorous strain that vividly portrays the pathos of her last words. werther calls for her to come back. he knocks at the door, but is only answered by the tragic chords of the orchestra. they are furious and fearful, but, strange to say, they adequately express an awful silence. "so be it!" at last exclaims the sorrowful werther. crashing chords whirl riot in the orchestra as the hero hastens away. the stage is vacated, but the music tells us whom next to expect. the albert-theme, easily recognizable tho a trifle harsher than before, comes forward to preside over the finale of this act. albert steps into the room, surprised and preoccupied. he has met the distracted werther at the front door, and here finds charlotte locked in her room. in answer to his authoritative call she comes forward looking pale and frightened. he questions her, but she answers evasively. at this moment a message is handed to albert by a servant. it is from werther: "i go on a long journey. kindly lend me your pistols. farewell." charlotte knows the import of these words, but dare not speak. perhaps albert also knows. he coldly bids her hand the weapons to the servant. mutely and slowly she goes to the case and delivers the contents as she was bid. that theme in the orchestra continues quietly to move back and forth like a person keeping the death-watch. when the servant has gone, albert strides angrily out of the room. charlotte stands for a moment immobile. the music also seems to stand still; then a sudden impetuous outburst of the instruments coincides with her decision. from highest b to lowest f octaves and chords are hurled together, as charlotte, seizing a mantle, rushes to the door. "pray heaven i may not be too late!" we follow charlotte in her flight. the scene changes to a view of the village. it is christmas eve, nearing midnight. the snow is falling in wild gusts, but through a rift in the clouds the moon looks down upon the peaceful town. roofs and trees are covered with snow, while from some of the windows household lights are gleaming. the church, too, is lighted, but the moonlight and the snow are most prominent. even these however are not so important as the music. more chilling than hail or snow are those sudden blasts of chords and octaves falling one on top of the other, down, down until they join and melt into the steady tremolo of the bass. finally, like death seated on a tombstone, the terrifying tragic theme again looms up. during this introduction the winter scene on the stage remains the same. the snow continues to fall, and we hear it in the orchestra--a steady movement of double thirds over which play varying melodies like christmas lights. the musicians turn their leaves once, twice, three times, but still that slowly palpitating accompaniment goes on. there is something appalling in this persistency. what was at first delightful becomes oppressive, for we are somehow reminded that falling snow can bury the living and hide the dead. a distant bell sounds the hour of twelve. fierce winds arise, and we see the muffled figure of a woman struggling her way against the gale. the tempest is again heard in the orchestra. breathlessly we watch the heroine's slow progress, and wonder if she will be too late. the scene changes to a little room strewn with books and papers. a lamp on the wooden table casts sickly rays upon the surroundings, but we can plainly see a figure reclining on a chair near the open window. it is werther, pale and unconscious. charlotte rushes in, and at sight of the dying man is beside herself with grief. she calls him by name, and the sound of her voice revives him. he asks her faintly to stay near him, to pardon him and love him. while he speaks there arises from the orchestra, like the dim visions of a dying man, that first love-theme so full of summer gladness. charlotte sings to him the words he has longed to hear. this last love-song ends in a whisper. the instruments, too, seem hushed with that mysterious silence of christmas night. we can see through the window the bright moonlight, for the storm has abated. suddenly the dying man looks up as sweet music greets his ear- "noël! noël! noël! proclaim the wondrous birth! christ the lord has come to earth!" it is the happy children's voices singing their christmas song in the church. a merry carillon of the instruments accompanies the familiar tones of sophia's high, bright voice in the distance- "all the world is gay! joy is in the air!" this startling contrast of life and death has never been more beautifully portrayed. werther sadly smiles, murmuring that it is his song of deliverance. he dies in charlotte's arms. she cries out, despairing, inconsolable, "it is finished!" death is in the orchestra, in the darkness, in the ensuing silence. but suddenly, like "the morning in the bright light," those far-away voices again sing- "noël! noël! noël!" calvé and "carmen" [illustration: emma calvé.] calvé and "carmen" "hear calvé in 'carmen'--and die," is the motto which heralded this singer's first visit to america. our curiosity was greatly aroused, for we thought we knew all about "carmen." we clung to the traditions of our own minnie hauk who had created the rôle, and could imagine nothing better than a trim, dainty carmen with high-heeled slippers, short skirts, and a spanish mantilla. great was our amazement on that memorable night in 1894 when we beheld for the first time a real cigarette girl of modern spain. here was a daring innovation that at once aroused attention and new interest in the opera. this carmen wore high-heeled slippers, 'tis true, but somewhat worn down and scuffed, as they must be if she was in the habit of running over the cobblestones of seville as she ran to the footlights on her first entrance. and her skirts, far from being well-setting and so short as to reveal shapely ankles and a suspicion of lace petticoats, were of that sloppy, half-short length, which even the street girls of london wear to-day. but most astounding of all departures was the absence of any sign of a mantilla! how could one be spanish without a mantilla--any more than one could be russian without fur! but this carmen had an eye to color--she could hardly otherwise be a coquette--and in her hair at the nape of her neck was deftly tucked a large crimson flower. her hair, however, was carelessly pinned, and even tumbled quite down later on--a stroke of realism which was added to by the way she coiled it up and jabbed it into place again. a strange performance to behold in a grand opera setting; and we might have resented such defiance of the code had we not been forced to admit that it was all absolutely correct, and this carmen was more truly spanish than any impersonation we had seen. even her voice seemed tropical; such richness of tone, warmth, and color had never before been combined in the singing of bizet's opera. had bizet only lived to this day he might have died happily, for carmen, the child of his brain, found no favor with the public when first introduced. after the surprise of madame calvé's costume and then of her voice, new yorkers awoke to the fact that carmen had never before been acted. this performance was a revelation, a character study of a creature who recklessly holds that it is _right_ to get all the pleasure you can, and _wrong_ not to have what you want. it was the evening after one of these great carmen performances when a knock at the prima-donna's door elicited the parisian response--"entrez." mme. calvé's salon was brilliantly lighted and richly furnished, but it seemed only a sombre setting to the singer's radiant self. not that she was gaudily gowned; on the contrary, her dress was simple, but her personality, her smile, her animation, are a constant delight and surprise. mme. calvé is thoroughly french, and thoroughly handsome, and appears even younger off the stage than on. she is tall and of splendid figure; her complexion is fresh and clear, with an interesting tinge of olive, and her eyes are black as her hair, which was arranged very pompadour. mme. calvé seated herself with a half-serious, half-amused expression, as tho to recite a lesson, and announced that she was ready and willing to answer "toutes les questions que vous voulez." this seemed a golden opportunity to learn all there is to know about singing. it stands to reason that the most direct and easy method of acquiring this art is simply to ask one of the greatest singers of the day how she does it. some one found out how to play the piano by asking rubinstein, who said--"all you have to do is to select the right keys and strike them at the right time." so, with this idea in view, mme. calvé was asked first what she thinks of when she steps before the public--her voice, her acting, or the music? "i think of carmen," she answered, "if that is the opera. i try to _be carmen_--that is all." when asked if she practices her voice much during the day, mme. calvé shook her head. "no--not now. you see, i must have mercy on my poor voice and save it for the evenings when i sing. formerly, of course, i practiced every day, but never more than an hour with full voice. yes, an hour at one time, once a day, that is all. but i studied much besides. at first i wanted to be an actress, and for this purpose gave much time to dramatic art. my mother was a fine musician; she is the one who urged me to sing." "what did you practice when you first began with the voice?--single tones?" mme. calvé looked thoughtful--she could hardly recall, until a friend who was present suggested--"it was rather intervals and arpeggios, n'est ce pas?" then the great carmen quickly nodded. "yes--you are right; intervals at first, and not until later on, sustained tones. i do not consider single sustained tones good for the beginner." in reply to a question about breathing, she answered: "oh, yes; all singers must practice special exercises for the breath. what else did i do? well, i hardly remember. i never had any trouble with my throat or my tongue,--no, i never thought much of these." she was then asked, by way of suggestion: "did you ever _hum_ in your practice?" now her face lighted up. "yes," she replied, all animation, "and, do you know, that is splendid! i do it a great deal even yet, especially for the high tones like this"----, and there and then, without moving a muscle, like a conjurer materializing a flock of birds, she showered upon us a bevy of humming-tones. they were soft, of course, but clear and perfect as tho made with full voice, and you wanted to wrap each one in cotton and take it home. but--they were gone!--and the singer went on speaking. "with mme. marchese i used to hum a great deal. yes, it is an excellent practice, for it brings the tone forward right here," and she touched the bridge of her nose. mme. calvé is so genial and vivacious in conversation that you are led to forget her position and wonderful attainments. but now and then it flashes over you that this is the woman whose manifold art has astonished two continents; a singer who makes any rôle she undertakes so distinctly her own that other singers hardly dispute her right to monopolize it. not only is her "carmen" a creation; ophelia, too, she has imbued with new interest, introducing many startling voice and breath effects. throughout all the mad scene she calls into use an "eerie-tone" that is fearful in its pathos and terror. "i love that rôle!" she exclaimed, as the subject came up. "the mad scene! ah, it is superb." even in faust, the very ancient of days among operas, mme. calvé has surprised us with original touches, altho it is a work that every musician of any description has performed in some way or other. the pianist flourishes with the waltz, or a general fantasia of the opera on every and all occasions. the organist delights in the church-scene music, while the violinist rhapsodizes with the love duo or a potpourri of all the arias. concert sopranos never cease to exploit the jewel-song, while the contralto's audience never tires of the famous flower-song. "o sancta medaglia" is dear to the heart of the barytone, and the tenor has a choice of beautiful solos from the first act to the last. bass singers can find nothing better as a medium for gaining public favor than mephisto's song to the "god of gold." even flutist and clarinetist resort to "faust," the imperishable, when they want something sure to please. and last, but not least, the cornet:--ask any soloist on this instrument what piece he has played most often, and, i warrant you, he will answer, "my faust fantaisie!" the opera singer who does not have in her scrap-book some account of her performance as marguerite can hardly count herself a prima-donna. no other opera is so essentially a piece of common property as is this gounod's "faust." so much the more is mme. calvé's achievement to be wondered at. a very stroke of genius is the dropping of marguerite's prayer-book in the excitement of her first meeting with faust, so symbolical is it of his effect on her life. this is more than realism--it is poetry. again, in the spinning-song, she creates an exquisite effect by disentangling a knot in the thread on her wheel and at the same time slowing up with her song and diminishing it until the wheel turns again and she resumes the tempo. when asked how she ever thinks of these innovations, especially the one of inserting ecstatic little laughs in the jewel-song, she smiled prettily and shrugged her shoulders. "it just comes to me in the acting--i don't know how. but i never change the music." she wished it impressed that, whatever her innovations, she maintains a reverence for all of the composer's work. there is something about mme. calvé that makes you feel in her presence the subtle influence of a large heart and a grand soul. in her own land she is famed not only for her singing, but also for her great generosity. "carmen" "carmen" every one likes "carmen." its popularity has been ascribed to the fact that "the action explains itself to the eye." one might also add that the music explains itself to the ear, for the themes are all unfurled and displayed like so many banners. in choosing mérimée's novel for a libretto, bizet recognized the growing demand for dramatic plots with rapid action--a demand which has since evolved such one-hour tragedies as "cavalleria rusticana" and "i pagliacci." aside from the stirring romance and fascinating music, "carmen" also presents very delightful stage-pictures. the suburbs of seville form an interesting setting, and the characters all require brilliant costumes. a bull-fighter, two smugglers, three gypsies, cigarette girls, and soldiers--not a plain individual among them! before meeting these unusual personages we are presented with a letter of introduction from bizet, which, because it is written in musical notation, the orchestra kindly interprets to us. we herein learn that these people take their pleasures, loves, and hates at a breakneck pace. there is a feverish excitement about the whole prelude; but at the end we hear a tragic minor motif of passion and pain that sends a chill to the heart. it is the carmen-theme--carmen herself. a gay plaza in seville is the first scene of action. at one side is the guard-house, near which are a number of soldiers who mingle and converse with the other strollers and promenaders. a gossiping, good-natured chorus about the square and the people is the opening number. this pleasing melody, in spite of its simplicity, has strange intervals and a restless tempo that are thoroughly spanish. a young peasant girl soon enters, rather timidly. it is michaela, the high soprano rôle, which because of its two fine arias is often taken by a great artist, altho the part is a subordinate one. it has frequently been sung by madame eames. michaela inquires for a brigadier called don josé. an officer politely informs her that don josé belongs to the next guard, which will soon arrive. with a musical phrase of dainty and condescending gallantry he invites her to tarry with them. michaela declines the invitation, and uses the same musical setting for her own words. with the announcement that she will return after a while she escapes from their entreaties. the chorus is resumed, and the walking and talking go on as before. soon the fifes and drums of the relief guard are heard in the distance. the soldiers in front shoulder arms and stand in file as the approaching company appears, followed by a lot of street gamins who keep step and sing to the music. this is so lively and inspiriting that we would march and sing too if we dared. there is a satisfying quantity of this "ta-ta-ta-ra" music. after marching to the foreground the new guards change place with the old, who are then led away with the same contingent of music and street boys. the soldiers and people at last disperse, leaving don josé and a superior officer, zuniga, conversing together. the latter points to a large building, which he says is the cigarette factory, where are employed many pretty girls. don josé professes to care little for these, and we soon learn that he loves michaela. the factory bell now rings, and a crowd of young men and boys at once fill the square in eager anticipation of seeing the cigar girls. josé sits down near the guard-house and busies himself with a little chain he is mending. the tenors sing a short pianissimo chorus about these dark-eyed girls, whom they always court and follow. it closes with a drooping, yearning ritardando that quite prepares us for the next languishing measures. the factory girls enter, with cigarettes in their mouths and a nonchalant manner that is delightful. between puffs of smoke they sing a slumbrous refrain that suggests the effect of nicotine. the lingering legato melody seems to rise softly and rest in the air until it passes away in tones so faint that bizet has marked them four times pianissimo. the young men now accost the girls, and soon inquire for carmen. "where is carmen?" that tragic cry which ended the prelude is heard again in the orchestra, but so disguised by rapid tempo as to be scarcely recognizable, and with this theme carmen rushes upon the scene. black-eyed, pearly-teethed carmen, with cheeks like the red acacia flowers at her throat, and her whole appearance like a splash of sunshine! the youths clamor about her and inquire collectively when she will love them. carmen bestows regardlessly some of her dangerous laughing glances, and then sings her great song, the "habenera," so called because of its rhythm, which is like a spanish dance. but no mazy, undulating dance could be so fascinating as this song about "love, the child of bohemia." the compass of its ravishing melody is within a single octave. the notes cling lovingly together, for the intervals are mostly half-tones; and, indeed, as carmen sings them each one seems like a kiss or a caress. the theme is first given in the minor, and then softly taken up by the chorus in the major--an effect as surprising and delightful as a sudden breeze on a sultry night. the accompaniment is like the soft picking of mandolins, and all things combine to represent the warm luxuriance of spain. during the song carmen has perceived don josé, who continues his work and gives her no attention whatever, which is a new experience for this spoiled and petted cigarette girl. she purposely becomes more personal in her song, and ends with the audacious words, "if you love me not and i love you--beware!" with a sudden dash of impertinent coquetry she flings a flower at don josé, and then rushes off the stage amid peals of laughter from the others, who follow. the young soldier, thus left alone, finds himself troubled with mingled feelings of resentment at the girl's impudence and admiration for her beauty. he puts the flower in his coat, but at once forgets the whole incident as he sees michaela, whom he joyously welcomes. she has come to town for a day, and she brings a letter from his mother, also some money, and still something else, which she hesitates over, but finally delivers as it was given her--a kiss from his mother. there is nothing of the coquette about michaela, and her songs are all straightforward, simple airs that win by their very artlessness. her message is sung with harp accompaniment, and the harmonies are pure and clear. then follows a duet about the mother and home in the village, and the tenderness of this music reveals that don josé is a loving and devoted son. when the duet is ended michaela leaves josé to read his letter. music as peaceful as village church bells comes from the orchestra while the young soldier reads. he touches the letter to his lips and is prepared to obey his mother, especially in the matter of wedding the pretty michaela. his thoughts are interrupted by a wild scream from the factory and sounds of disputing voices. a number of girls rush from the building, all talking at once, and they fairly besiege zuniga with explanations of what has happened. there was a quarrel and carmen struck another girl--some say she did, and some say she didn't. don josé, in the mean time, has gone into the factory and brings out the struggling carmen. he tells his superior officer about the affair, which ended in one girl's being wounded by "this one." carmen tosses her head, and when the officer asks what she has to say in defense she looks into his face and sings "la-la-la-la!" her impertinence would be almost repellent were it not that her voice is "like the wooing wind," and even her "la-la-la" is bewitching. further questioning only elicits the same response, and the officer angrily declares she may finish her song in prison. he orders don josé to fetter her hands and keep watch while he goes to make out the order of imprisonment. while all are gone a most interesting scene occurs between the prisoner and her keeper. the latter ties her hands, and says he must take her soon to prison, as his superior has ordered. carmen, in her present attitude of charming helplessness, announces with sweetest tones that don josé will help her, in spite of the orders, because "i know you love me!" this is too much. when josé recovers from his astonishment at her audacity he commands her to sit still and not speak to him--"not another word." carmen nods her head in saucy obedience, and talks no more; she only sings! sings of "an inn near the ramparts of sevilla" where she will go to dance the seguidilla. the song is in the rhythm of that dance, and its sinuous melody is handled by carmen like a toy. she composes words to suit the occasion: "my heart is free and willing to love whoever loves me." don josé, who has been trying to ignore her, but without success, tells her again to stop. she looks up with a grieved expression and her prettiest smile, and says she is not talking, only singing to herself and thinking; he surely cannot forbid her thinking! so she goes on thinking aloud about a "certain officer, who is not captain, nor even lieutenant--he is only a brigadier; but still he is great enough to win the heart of carmen." such words, music, glances, and smiles are more than don josé can resist, and it is not long before he succumbs to her witchery. he unties her hands and asks desperately, "carmen, carmen, do you mean it?" and for answer she softly sings to him that rapturous song of the seguidilla. [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. calvé as carmen.] the orchestra now starts up a lively repetition of the last chattering chorus, and with it the superior officer, zuniga, reenters. he hands josé the order and bids him lead the prisoner to her destination. carmen holds her hands back, as tho still fettered, and she tells josé in an undertone to let her push him as they march off, and during the commotion thus aroused she will escape. then she turns to zuniga, and with the greatest effrontery favors him with a fragment of the "habenera" song, to which refrain she marches away with apparent docility. the whole group of cigarette girls and young men follow after. just as they are turning to the bridge, carmen escapes as she has planned. she throws back the rope from her hands and runs off laughing. it is fun for all but don josé, who for this neglect of duty is himself escorted to prison. bizet has preceded every act with an orchestral introduction called the _entr'acte_, which presents some important theme or portrays the character of the scene. thus before the curtain rises on the second act we become familiar with a new and happy melody, which we later on recognize and welcome. after the _entr'acte_ the stringed instruments, with a touch of the triangle and tambourine, hold the supremacy as they breathe forth faint, weird harmonies that flit about like moving shadows. the scene presents an interior view of the inn "near the ramparts of sevilla." it is evening, and amid the glow of soft lights carmen and her gypsy friends are entertaining some officers with their dancing. she further enlivens the scene by singing a bohemian song, whose liquid phrases fall upon the air like the soft splashing of a fountain. after the song and dance it is time for the inn to close, but at this moment shouts and hurrahs are heard from without. it is a torchlight procession in honor of escamillo, the bull-fighter, who presently enters amid general acclamations. he wears a gorgeous costume, and sings a rousing song about the exciting life of a toreador. this baritone aria is the most famous of the many popular numbers which comprise this opera. its strongly accented rhythm and pulsating theme immediately suggest the blaze of lights and blare of trumpets which belong to the arena. escamillo soon perceives carmen, and as quickly falls in love. she dismisses him with a coquettish remark that might mean much or little, and then all depart excepting carmen and her two gypsy friends, frasquita and mercedes. these are soon joined by their comrades, the two smugglers, who softly tell of a new enterprise which will require the "ladies' assistance." frasquita and mercedes consent to leave at once. then follows an exquisite quintet, sung with tempo prestissimo and tones pianissimo. carmen suddenly astounds them with the assertion that she can not go, and gives as her reason that she is awaiting don josé, who to-day is released after two months' imprisonment, and further adds that she loves him. they take this at first as a joke; but finding her determined, they suggest that she induce josé to join them. she says she will try, and the rest hurry out as they hear the young soldier approaching. he is singing a gay barrack song, and thus comes to carmen with his heart in his voice and soul in his eyes. she welcomes him impulsively, and ere long she sings and dances for his amusement. her song is but an accompaniment to the dance--a low, crooning melody without words which resembles the contented purring of a magnificent feline as she glides and sways with a splendid grace around the infatuated josé. a bugle-call is heard in the distance, a summons the soldier must obey, and he stops carmen in the midst of her dance. she thinks he is joking and commences again; but when she actually realizes that he is going to leave her, that he finds it _possible_ to leave, a perfect whirlwind succeeds the sirocco. she throws him his cap and sword, and bids him go forever if such is his love. poor don josé remonstrates, but she will not listen until at last he forces her to hear how real and true is his love for her. he draws from his coat the little flower she threw at him two months ago, and he tells how, during all his days in prison, it was his dearest treasure. this music is more like the song of a pilgrim at a sacred shrine than a song of love, it is so simple and sincere. its tenderness seems to reach even the heart of carmen, for she now turns and with entreating looks and wooing tones she coaxes him to go with her and lead the free life of a bandit. the accompaniment is like the distant prancing of wild horses and the melody like the forest wind, low as a whisper, but sweeping before it all the fluttering doubts of a weak conscience. it is desertion, disgrace, dishonor, that carmen asks of him, and josé recoils. he is just on the point of refusing when a knock at the door is heard and zuniga enters. he is himself in love with carmen, and has presumed thus to return after the others have gone, in hopes of finding her alone. on discovering the presence of don josé he is angry and orders him away; but josé's jealousy is also aroused and he firmly refuses to obey. a duel would ensue did not carmen quickly call her friends. they seize zuniga, and to avoid being denounced must keep him prisoner until they have made sure their escape. carmen turns to josé and asks once more if he will be one of them. as there is now no alternative, he consents, whereupon carmen with light steps and light heart rushes to his arms like a sunbeam, dispelling for the moment all clouds of memory and doubt. the free, fearless measures of her mountain song are heard again as all sing about the gypsies' life of liberty. they all go off as the curtain falls. the next _entr'acte_ is sometimes called the intermezzo, for it divides the opera--the comedy from the tragedy--and it contains the first premonition of sorrow. as the curtain rises we hear a stealthy, shivering theme that well characterizes the scene before us--a wild, picturesque ravine, which is the smugglers' retreat. some gypsies are reclining on the rocks; others soon enter, and sing a quite enticing chorus about the dangers and pleasures of their profession. two leaders of the band then go off to reconnoiter, while the others rest. don josé is seen standing on one of the rocks, and when carmen rather moodily inquires his thoughts he tells her of his mother in the village, who still believes him to be an honest man. carmen coldly advises him to go back to her. quick as thought-suggestion the orchestra recalls the tragic motif which we had almost forgotten. it causes us to feel with josé the sting of carmen's words. our attention is now directed to frasquita and mercedes, who are seated on a bale of goods and trying their fortunes. a light staccato accompaniment sustains their still lighter song. the dainty measures are flung up like bubbles, reflecting the gay colors of the cards, which chance to be all diamonds and hearts. carmen also tries her luck, but only the dark cards fall to her--death, always death; and to the superstitious gyspy this is like a knell. again that tragic, mournful theme, like the extended hand of fate, feels its way slowly but surely through the orchestra, and then carmen sings a meditative, melancholy refrain about the cards whose "decrees are never false." the music is in a low key, as tho kept under and depressed by her despair, and it touches our sympathy to see the sunny, frivolous carmen for once thoughtful. the two smugglers presently return and report that three coast-guards intercept the way. the girls promise to entertain and divert these while the men make off with the booty. to the strains of a rollicking chorus they all go out, after stationing don josé as watch on one of the highest rocks. at this moment michaela, with a guide, comes timidly forward. she has dared to follow the smugglers to this retreat for the purpose of seeing josé and begging him to return. she has tried to be brave, but her heart now trembles, and this fact she confesses in her beautiful and best aria, "je dis que rien" ("i say that nothing shall terrify me"). as she begs heaven to strengthen her courage, the soft arpeggios of the instruments seem to rise like incense and carry her sweet prayer with them. she presently perceives josé in the distance and tries to attract his attention, but he is watching another intruder--on whom he now fires. michaela hides herself in terror as escamillo enters and philosophically studies the newly made bullet-hole in his cap. don josé also comes down to interrogate this visitor. the toreador good-naturedly informs him that he has fallen in love with a gypsy girl, carmen, and comes to find her. he also adds, "it is known that a young soldier recently deserted his post for her, but she no longer loves him." jealousy seems but a feeble word to describe the feelings of don josé on hearing this. he quickly reveals his identity and challenges the toreador. after a short duet, which contains chromatic crescendos of blind fury for the tenor and insolent intervals for the baritone, they fight. carmen, for the second time, averts a duel by her timely entrance. she calls for help, and the whole troupe of gypsies rush in. they separate the rivals and order them to suspend their quarrel, as all is now arranged for the journey. before bidding farewell escamillo invites all to his next bull-fight in seville. "whoever loves me will come,"--this with a tender look to carmen that maddens josé. escamillo goes off and the others also start, but they suddenly discover michaela in her hiding-place and bring her forward. she is frightened and rushes to josé for protection, begging him to go home with her. carmen cruelly seconds this entreaty, and then josé turns upon her: "take care, carmen!" the words are menacing, but not so the music. josé suffers more than he hates, and, instead of the rising tones of anger, the harmonies which struggle upward are continually repulsed as they reach the top, like a wild bird that beats its wings against prison bars. when michaela finally tells him that his mother is dying, don josé consents to go. he calls out to carmen, "we shall meet again!" she pays little heed to his words, but a glad smile lights her features as she hears in the distance the song of the toreador. and with this melody the act ends. the final scene represents the gates of the arena where occurs the great bull-fight, and the preceding _entr'acte_ is like the flaming advertisement of a circus, exciting and enthusing from first to last. the opening chorus is sung by venders who throng the square and cry their wares. after this the arena music announces the entrance of the performers. they come in on horseback, and amid enthusiastic greetings from the crowd ride into the arena. escamillo, the hero of the hour, enters with carmen at his ride. the public cry, "vive, escamilla!" and burst into a vociferous singing of the "toreador song." carmen is radiant as the dawn, and the bull-fighter wears colors and spangles that quite eclipse any soldier's uniform. before he enters the ring they sing a love-duet that displays more depth of feeling than we should expect from a zingara. when the toreador has gone and the arena gates are closed, mercedes and frasquita anxiously inform carmen that don josé has been seen in the crowd, and they urge her to leave; but she declares she is not afraid of josé or any one. they leave her alone, and presently the rejected lover appears before her. but not in anger or to avenge does don josé present himself. he is too utterly dejected and broken-hearted for that. he comes only to entreat and plead for her love. before he speaks we are warned by the ever-terrible death-theme, which has hung over the whole opera like a suspended sword, that the end is near. but don josé does not know this. neither does carmen, else perhaps she would not so ruthlessly spurn him when he begs her to go with him and begin a new life. when he piteously asks if she no longer loves him, her answer is a decisive "non; je ne t'aime plus." but words have lost their sting for poor josé. in a minor melody, that seems to cry out for pity, he says he loves her still. he offers to remain a bandit--anything, all things! and then the pathetic minor melody breaks into the major as he desperately adds: "only, carmen, do not leave me!" at this moment a fanfare and applause are heard in the arena, which cause carmen's face to glow with pleasure as she thinks of escamillo. she tries to rush past don josé into the amphitheater, but he intercepts her and forces her to confess that she loves this man whom they applaud. once again the gay fanfare is heard, and carmen tries to pass. it is now that the tragic motif takes possession of the orchestra and dominates all else. fearful and appalling sound those five notes which form the theme as they are repeated in various keys. in a frenzy of anguish don josé asks carmen for the last time to go with him. she refuses, and then, as the toreador's song of triumph announces his success, josé stabs the beautiful gypsy, who falls at his feet like a crushed butterfly. the gates of the arena are thrown open and its glittering pageant comes forth, while josé, with insane grief, calls out, "i have killed her--carmen--whom i adored!" there is no climax more thrilling on the lyric stage than this death of carmen. "hamlet" "hamlet" of all shakespeare's plays, hamlet is the most difficult to surround with music and adapt for the lyric stage. it is more scholastic than dramatic, and for this reason composers have passed it by with the single exception of ambroise thomas. his accomplishment certainly deserves more commendation than was bestowed by an irate critic who said: "there are four weary, dreary acts before you come to the music." this assertion is correct in one way, for the opera is indeed long--quite too long; but there is, nevertheless, much that is beautiful in those four acts preceding the mad scene. but even were this not the case, that last scene is so exquisite that it would atone for any amount of previous ennui. thomas has given his principal rôle to the baritone, which seems an innovation. whenever a lower voice has been honored with the leading rôle in a grand opera the reason is found in the character, as the jovial barber of seville, the deformed rigoletto, the accursed flying dutchman; but the tenor has always held undisputed possession of the lover's part. it takes us some little time to become reconciled to this baritone-voiced young prince. but we finally realize that he is less a lover than a philosopher, which probably explains why thomas turned from the tenor. the opera opens with a short and somber prelude that closely resembles the later introduction to the ghost-scene. it is therefore more descriptive of the melancholy dane than of the first act, which is brilliant throughout. the curtain rises upon a state hall in the palace, where have been celebrated the wedding and coronation of claudius and gertrude, brother and widow of the late king. a sturdy march that is quite danish in character accompanies the grand entrance of the king and queen. that music can express a nationality is clearly evinced by this march, which possesses a rugged, north-sea atmosphere that differs from all others. the first aria is given by the king, who eulogizes his new-made wife, "our sometime sister, now our queen." after this bass solo with its pleasing rhythm and satisfying cadences the queen inquires for her son hamlet, who is not among the revelers. but her anxieties are drowned by the festive music that recommences and continues until the entire court have made their exit. the music now changes to a meditative, minor mood, which announces the entrance of hamlet. he shares no joy on this occasion of his mother's wedding, and his first words are a short recitative about "frailty, thy name is woman." his soliloquy is followed by a phrase in the orchestra--a timid, questioning sort of introduction which before the opera is over we learn to associate with the gentle ophelia. she enters and addresses hamlet, her betrothed, with an anxious inquiry about his intended departure from denmark. on learning from his own lips that the report is true, she asks why he leaves, and begins to doubt his love. there is a daintiness and a delicacy to all of ophelia's music; and in this short melody, so admirably blended with the accompaniment, there is a wooing charm that diverts even hamlet from his grief. he clasps her hands, and with thrilling fervor bids her- "doubt that the stars are fire. doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt i love." this is the great theme of the opera, the center-stone of the musical crown that the french composer has given to shakespeare's hamlet. its love-laden melody would carry conviction to a less trusting heart than ophelia's. she receives it like truth from heaven. its memory lingers ever, and even in her after madness, when the words have no meaning, we hear them again "like sweet bells jangled out of tune." there follows a duet based upon hamlet's vow. the soprano voice occasionally runs up in some happy little roulades which seem like the outburst of joy which can not confine itself to the prescribed theme. however long the whole opera, we certainly could not spare a note from the love-duet; it ends only too soon. ophelia's brother, laertes, comes in. he is a soldier, and has just received a commission which requires his speedy departure; so he sings a farewell to his sister and bids hamlet be as a brother to her in case he never returns. this first and only cavatina of laertes is well worth a good artist. it is melodious and pleasing, even when compared to the previous duet. as he finishes, gay music is heard from the inner hall. ophelia asks hamlet to join the festivities, but he declines and retires sorrowfully as some pages and young officers enter. they sing a unique and merry chorus without accompaniment, which is interrupted by the entrance of horatio and marcellus, who inquire for hamlet. they declare they have seen the ghost of the late king, and seek to apprise hamlet of the fact. the merry-makers laugh and call it a delusion; but the two friends continue their search for the young prince. the dance music is resumed, and so fascinating and emphatic is its rhythm that our pulses throb in tempo long after the curtain descends. the second act represents the esplanade outside of the castle. it is a chilly moonlight night--a sharp contrast to the beam of lights from within and the blare of dance music which ever and anon reaches our ears. but the prelude which opens the act is thoroughly descriptive of the scene before us. it has deep, rumbling tremolos and chilling chromatic crescendos, with here and there a moaning, wo-weighted theme that is piteous to hear. there is much singing without orchestra and much orchestra without singing in this scene of the esplanade, which accounts for the charge against it of being "rather thin ghost music." horatio and marcellus are the first to enter. they are soon joined by hamlet, to whom they recount the strange visitation of the previous night. as they wait and watch for the specter to reappear, a gay fanfare from the palace jars upon the stillness. strains of the wedding-march are heard, and there seems abundant reason for the dead king to rise from his grave! hamlet utters expletives over the mockery of such gaiety within, while "here is the shadow of mourning." his words are accompanied by an oft-repeated minor phrase of four notes which is stealthy and fearful. this ghost-theme alternates with a single monotonous tone that represents the twelve strokes of a clock. hamlet hushes his singing; there is a soft, eerie tremolo of the violins; the pale moonlight falls upon the castle's turreted towers. marcellus and horatio speak in whispers, when suddenly the orchestra gives a great crash of brass and cymbals that makes your blood freeze. the phantom has appeared. now follows the incantation, so called because hamlet conjures the spirit to speak to him. this music is based entirely upon the four-note ghost theme, which is elaborated and carried by the orchestra through many forms. at last the specter speaks, and in a deep monotone informs hamlet how he was murdered by the present king. his own brother stole his life, his wife, and his throne. he bids hamlet avenge this terrible crime, and then disappears. hamlet cries out in a theme large and grand, "farewell to fame, love, and happiness!" revenge shall hereafter be the aim of his life. the peaceful love-music greets our ears as we look upon the next scene, which reveals the gardens of the palace. the superb theme of hamlet's vow rings out in clear, untroubled octaves as the fair ophelia comes forward with a book in her hand. she is trying to read, but thoughts of hamlet constantly intrude themselves. "he has not touched my hand for quite two days, and seems to avoid my presence." she again turns to her book and reads aloud. ophelia reads very beautifully. thomas has with music conveyed the impression of enunciating words from a book. we would know she was reading even if the book were not visible nor the words audible, and yet it is not by means of a monotone that this idea is conveyed. it is a simple song melody, and the effect is probably due to the rhythm rather than the intervals. after reading one stanza, hamlet's vow--that theme so deep and true--is again heard, and the hero himself comes thoughtfully upon the scene. he is in the background, but ophelia has seen him, and she quickly makes a pretense of reading. she listens for every step as he draws nearer, and believes he will speak. he sees her and at first comes forward, but then remembers that he has foresworn love; and thinking she has not seen him, he quietly retires. poor ophelia throws down her book in wildest grief, and a song of despair springs from her heart. "vows have wings and they fly with the dawn; the day which gives them birth also sees them die." every note is like a tear, and the harmonies are plaintive and pitiful. the queen presently enters and is grieved to find ophelia weeping. the latter explains that hamlet no longer loves her, and she begs permission to leave the court; but the queen puts other ideas in her head. she says that hamlet has also acted strangely toward her, and she believes his mind is affected. for this reason she asks ophelia to remain, and hopes her presence may restore him. this first song of the queen, who must have a mezzo-soprano voice of dramatic quality, combines dignity and pathos. its mood does not contrast, but harmonizes with the previous aria. ophelia accepts the queen's advice, and then goes off as the king enters. he confers with his wife about hamlet's alarming behavior, but their conversation is interrupted by the prince himself, who greets them moodily and assumes more vagaries than he feels. he is constantly seeking to entrap the king into some sign or remark which will verify the ghost's charge of murder. he has therefore planned to have a play enacted which shall depict the king's crime. his invitation to this theatrical entertainment is welcomed by the unsuspecting king and queen, who are delighted that he thus seeks diversion. as they go off, hamlet exclaims tragically, "patience, my father, patience!" and the orchestra reveals to us thoughts of revenge, for we hear again that ponderous and melancholy theme which ended the ghost scene. hamlet is now joined by the actors whom he has engaged for the play. they sing a characteristic chorus about their several talents, and then hamlet explains to them the plot they are to enact--how a king whom he calls gonzago shall be poisoned by his brother, who afterward places the crown on his own head and marries the widow. after this preliminary, hamlet calls for wine and bids the players make merry. he sings to them a drinking-song of dazzling exuberance. it is strange how universally successful operatic composers are in the matter of drinking-songs. you can name off-hand more popular _chansons bacchic_ than any other one style of aria. there are various well-known serenades and prayers and spinning-songs, but of drinking-songs there are any number. "lucrezia borgia," "rigoletto," "traviata," "huguenots," "cavalleria rusticana,"--their drinking-songs are heard every day on the hand-organs in the street. and so in "hamlet" its drinking-song is one of the most celebrated numbers of the opera. its bubbling rhythm and hilarious melody are continued even after the song is ended and the curtain descends. it lingers like the effect of wine. act iii. is the play scene. there is a small stage erected at one side of the spacious palace hall, and opposite this is a throne for the king and queen. the orchestra carries everything before it with the rousing danish march which accompanies the ceremonious entrance of the entire court. this composition ranks with the drinking-song in popularity. when all are assembled, hamlet places himself in a position to watch the king, and as the mimic play proceeds he explains the action, which is all in pantomime. the orchestral descriptive music of this play within a play is beautiful and interesting. as in ophelia's reading, the simple melody and hesitating rhythm again convey the impression of something inserted, something apart from the real action of the play. hamlet becomes more and more excited as the play goes on, for he sees unmistakable signs of uneasiness in the king's expression; and when at last the mimic murderer pours poison into the ear of his sleeping victim, the king rises in anger and orders the players away. hamlet in a delirium of vengeful joy cries out the king's guilt. he pushes his way through the surrounding courtiers, and with unbridled fury accuses the murderer. he is sustained by a perfect tidal wave of chords from the orchestra, which dash and beat and break, but only harm the good ship they bear instead of the rock they attack. the people regard hamlet's charge as an outburst of madness, and he presently lends credence to this belief by singing with wild hilarity the drinking-song of the previous act. the following strong and seething chorus of dismay is again interrupted at the very end by hamlet's mad song- "life is short and death is near; we'll sing and drink while yet we may." with a wild mocking laugh he falls into horatio's arms as the king and court withdraw. the great feature of the fourth act is the scene between hamlet and his mother, but there is much besides. the scene represents the queen's apartment in the palace, and the first number is hamlet's soliloquy. he blames himself and deems it cowardice that he did not strike the king dead when he had the opportunity. then follows the musical arrangement of "to be or not to be," a speech so unsuited to music that thomas has cut it down to a few lines. hamlet presently sees the king approaching, and he conceals himself behind a curtain with the intention of attacking him. but the king thinks himself alone, and in agony of mind he kneels on the prie-dieu and prays. it is an impressive composition, this prayer with its cathedral harmonies and blending accompaniment. hamlet glides softly toward the door, for he can not kill even his father's murderer at prayer. the king, who has heard the footsteps, cries out in terror, for he fancies it was the ghost of his brother. polonius, the father of ophelia, quickly enters and reassures the king. they walk out arm in arm, and from their few words it is gleaned that polonius was an accomplice to the crime. hamlet hears them, and is horrified to learn this fact about ophelia's father. at this moment the queen and ophelia enter, and the former announces to hamlet that it is her wish as well as the king's that his marriage shall take place at once. the prince blankly refuses to obey in spite of the queen's urging; but his heart endures a struggle when the poor ophelia sings of her grief and returns to him his ring. the sweet minor strain in her song implies a sad resignation that is more touching than intense lamentation. she goes out weeping. the queen then turns to hamlet and upbraids him for his faithlessness. she presently recurs to the terrible scene at the play, and utters the famous words, "thou hast thy father much offended." the scene which follows demands great dramatic ability of the queen, as well as vocal strength. after a sharp and active recitative dialog, in which hamlet announces himself as her judge and no longer her son, she sings a fine entreaty that the tenderness of the son may mitigate the severity of the judge. it is a strong and powerful theme, but hamlet is obdurate. he contrasts the late king with the present one in words and tones that make his mother cower. she again pleads for mercy and forgiveness, and finally falls in a swoon as the stage is darkened and the ghost appears. hamlet trembles before this admonisher. the music of the incantation is again heard, and the phantom bids hamlet spare his mother, but "fail not to avenge." as the ghost disappears the instruments are weighted with that great and gloomy theme of revenge which seems to descend and enwrap the whole scene like a dark, heavy mist. the queen awakens; but there is little more seen or heard before the curtain falls. act v. is known as the mad scene, one of the most beautiful, most ideal, and most difficult creations ever put upon the lyric stage. it is seldom performed, merely because there are few artists who can adequately render its astonishing music. there are other mad scenes in existence. the one from "lucia di lammermoor" is very celebrated, but its music no more expresses the vagaries of madness than does any other florid aria. of course, lavish colorature seems appropriate and is considered imperative; but donizetti's florid fancies are mere plumes and flounces draped upon a melody, whereas with thomas these form the texture of the theme. the french composer well knows the worth of his mad music, and he has taken pains to present it most advantageously. you are not ushered at once from the grim and gruesome harmonies of the last act to this wealth of inspiration, but are first entertained by a ballet of shepherds and shepherdesses. during this dance we become accustomed to the beautiful rural landscape, the gentle stream at the back and the drooping willows. we are also brought under the spell of a different kind of music; these pastoral ballet motifs are very charming. they are light and fantastic, but at the same time suggest a midsummer peace and tranquillity. at last the dainty dance is ended, and then the rustic group perceive a strange figure approaching--a beautiful maid, with her flowing hair adorned with bits of straw and wild flowers. her white dress is torn, and her bare arms carry a straggling bunch of flowers which she plays with and caresses. that exquisite inquiring little introduction which we heard in the first act again announces the entrance of ophelia. she glances a moment at the pretty peasants, and then, with intuitive politeness, asks permission to join in their sport. there is a subtle pathos about this first little phrase, which is sung without accompaniment, and is simple as a child's question. she goes on to tell them how she left the palace at dawn and no one has followed. "the tears of night were still on the ground and the lark poured forth its morning song." a perfect bird-throat warble of trills and fluttering staccatos follows this memory of the lark. but her thoughts are varied, and she suddenly turns and asks: "why do you whisper to each other? don't you know me? hamlet is my betrothed, and i--i am ophelia." then she tells them, in tones that rest upon the accompaniment like lilies on a lake, how hamlet vowed always to love her and that she has given him her heart in exchange. "if any one should tell you that he will leave and forget me, do not believe it. believe nothing they tell you, for hamlet is my betrothed, and i--i am ophelia." but in spite of this assertion of hamlet's faith, there is throughout all the music a ring of perpetual pain. she clasps her hand to her head with terror, and exclaims: "if he were false i think i should lose my reason!" [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. calvé as ophelia in "hamlet."] the flowers again hold her attention, and she plays with them as the orchestra commences a ravishing waltz theme. she at first pays little heed to the music, but its gay melody at last drifts to her soul and finds immediate expression. the difficult phrases fall from her lips like petals from a flower. gleeful chromatics and happy trills are also thrown in, and we would soon forget it was the sad ophelia did she not suddenly tire of this extravagant virtuosity. she turns to the shepherds and bids them harken to the song she will sing. then follows a ballad whose moaning, minor harmonies sound like a sighing breeze. it is about the sirens beneath the water who lure men to its glassy depths. the wearied, worried mind of the mad girl now revels in a wild, merry laugh, which is as quickly followed by passionate sobs; but she finally remembers to finish her song about the siren. this strange, sad melody possesses a weird charm that is irresistible. again she breaks into hilarious laughter and uncontrolled weeping. grief without hope and joy without memory alternate in rapid succession. the music of this portion defies description. it is a perfect conflagration of impossible staccatos and scales. with one last sweeping chromatic run, that rushes like the whistling wind from low d to high e, ophelia kneels down with her flowers and thinks only of them. the peasants retire from the scene, and the orchestra take up fragments of the waltz. they play for some moments, while ophelia contentedly rearranges her bouquet. but presently a wonderful change comes over the music. we hear only the string instruments and flute, and soon these, too, are hushed, while out of the air a magical song arises. it is the siren's ballad, faint as a vision but with full harmonies. thomas has produced this effect of dream-music by having the chorus sing behind the scenes with closed mouth. this soft humming of a hidden chorus well resembles the buried voices of water-nymphs. ophelia at once recognizes the song, and she is drawn by the music toward the stream, where she hopes to see the sirens. all unconscious, she pushes her way through the rushes and reeds on the bank. the chorus has ceased, and only the tender, liquid tones of the harp now fill the air. ophelia steps too far and soon falls into the "weeping brook." her dress bears her up for a time, and we hear her sweetly singing as she floats down the stream. it is no longer the ballad or the gay waltz, but quite another theme to which her memory now clings. it is hamlet's glorious vow- "doubt that the sun doth move. doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt i love." ophelia ends her song with a lingering high note of such silvery beauty that it seems like a far-away star in the dark night of death. a talk with lillian nordica [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. lillian nordica.] a talk with lillian nordica it was during one of patti's farewell seasons at the old academy of music that a young american girl, by the name of lillian norton, first appeared as a prima donna. she made a success, but not a sensation, for she had not then the halo of a european glory, and people were in those days too intent on the passing star to note any rising one. but later on, when she italianized her name, they applauded the same voice more loudly, tho their attention was still more directed to the foreign artists who appeared every year. the american girl all this time never relaxed her determination, but kept on working with a will, learning rôles there was no prospect of using, and studying all things in her line. at last she was engaged by the metropolitan opera company; but her name was not printed at the top of the list, and she was not held out as the magnet to fill the house on the opening night. in the end, tho, she sang oftener than any of the other sopranos, for when they were indisposed she it was that always came forward. _there was never a rôle she could not sing, and never a time she was not ready._ the dormant appreciation of her countrymen became at last thoroughly aroused. since then her success has swept onward with unabating force. the following season in new york the enthusiasm she inspired was so great that one large club of opera-goers presented her with a diamond tiara, and the people that year had to stand in line when buying seats to hear madame lillian nordica. the waldorf-astoria, where she lives when in new york, is quite a contrast to the humble new england home in farmington, me., where she was born. this hotel is a city in itself, and the visitor who inquires for some distinguished resident is conducted personally along the marble avenues and carpeted byways and through the beautiful "palm-garden." the door of madame nordica's apartment was opened by a white-capped maid, who seated the caller and then left the room. it was the day of a blizzard, and from this sixth-floor elevation the snow-storm without was of superb fury. it battered against the window as tho maddened by the sight within of the prima donna's cosy parlor, of the shaded electric lights, the wide-open grand piano, and the numerous long-stemmed roses, in various tall jars, fragrant and peaceful as a summer's day. through the silken draperies of a doorway could be heard the sound of voices, of occasional laughter, and then--a scale, a trill, and a soft high note. it was an exquisite grand-opera effect with the whistling storm by way of orchestral accompaniment. soon the curtains were parted and madame nordica entered--a woman of regal height and figure, but with manners thoroughly american and democratic. "do you mean to say you came through all this storm to see me! you are certainly very brave." these were her first words; then she drew up a comfortable chair, and added: "well, it's just the sort of day to talk and take things easy." madame nordica's tones convey even more than her words, for her voice is noticeably beautiful in conversation. it is fascinating in its variety, its softness, and its purity. her face is also very expressive, as well as beautiful, with a complexion remarkably fine, teeth of absolute perfection, and thoughtful blue eyes set well apart. she wore a house-gown of pale, clinging blue silk, and, with the exception of her wedding ring, had on no jewelry. she told first of her birthplace and home. "i was the sixth girl, and i think my parents were rather tired out by the time i came. i wasn't even baptized!" then she talked of her work. "i studied first in boston, and sang there in church; but i made my concert début here in new york with gilmore at the old madison square garden. he took me with him afterward to europe. when i returned to america i sang in all the italian operas, especially verdi's." madame nordica still holds to-day a supreme place as a singer of the italian school, altho her greatest fame has been won in the wagner rôles. when asked if she had ever met verdi, the singer replied in the affirmative. "i met him in italy, but only once. i was much better acquainted with gounod, and also the modern composers, leoncavallo, mascagni, etc., but now i devote my chief time to wagner." this led to inquiries about madame cosima wagner. "ah, i lived right with her for three months, and it was a great privilege for me. her husband's music is to her like her very eyes. she taught me the german and helped me in every way. 'lohengrin' had never been sung in baireuth, and i was to create there the rôle of elsa." a remarkable honor this was, indeed: to be the first elsa in wagner's own temple, under the guidance of his own wife, with the grave of the great composer fairly in sight, and memories of the "mad king" on all sides--the king whose ears were deaf to the functions of state, but open to the art of heaven. "it was a great opportunity for me, but i sometimes thought i would have to give it up. oh! i have been so discouraged! i have wept _barrels of tears_!" this is a kind message for the great singer to send to the many struggling aspirants who may to-day be working under discouragement. madame nordica insists that "work is everything. the voice is but the material; it is the stone from which the cathedral is built." after her great success in baireuth, the american prima donna sang elsa in new york. "but i had to sing again in italian, for the rest of the company had not learned the german. it was through my efforts that they have since studied these rôles in the original, and we now sing all the wagner operas in german." it was a great musical event when jean de reszke and madame nordica appeared as tristan and isolde. this love-tragedy done in music is perhaps the most profound of all operas. it is somber with sorrow throughout; even the great love-duet in the second act is too intense and grand in its motifs ever to be called happy. it is not the joyous emotion of youth, but the fervor of maturity, where life itself is staked for a mighty love. this second act is a wondrous musical scene. it is in the moonlit gardens of the cornish castle where tristan and isolde meet clandestinely, while bragaende, the faithful attendant, keeps watch in the tower above. she is not seen, but the calm sustained tones of her watch-tower song soar out in contrast to the intense love-music like a beacon-light on a turbulent sea. another very popular rôle of madame nordica's, tho altogether different in style, is valentine in "the huguenots." her sustained and crescendoed high c in the third act of this opera is worth a long journey to hear. madame fursch-madi in years agone used to sing this rôle very grandly, but she was plain of feature; whereas with madame nordica her valentine is so beautiful to behold that the audience is aroused to greatest sympathy with the hero's struggle between love and duty. "our art is so very legitimate," madame nordica thoughtfully remarked. "the painter or the writer can take advice, can be assisted, and has time to consider his work; but we must face the music alone, at the point of the bayonet as it were, for every tone must come at the right moment and on the right pitch. the actress has neither of these requirements to meet. it is very trying, also, to sing one night in german and the next time in some other language. indeed, every performance is a creation. no wonder we are so insistent on the applause. a painter or writer can say to himself, if his work is not at first well received, 'just wait till i am dead!' but our fate and fame are decided on the spot." madame nordica grew enthusiastic as she talked, and her face was all animation. "it is easy to criticize us, but hard for an outsider to appreciate the difficulties of our art. no one is in a place he does not deserve--at least not for any length of time. and i believe, too, that no one lacks for opportunity. when people say, so-and-so has a beautiful voice, and ought to be on the metropolitan stage, just inquire what that person can do. very likely she only knows one language, and probably can not sing a single act of one opera straight through. why should she be on the metropolitan stage? a girl came to me not long ago who had been singing with some english opera company. she had a beautiful voice and said she could sing everything, which i found to be true. i asked why she did not go to mr. grau, and she replied, quite disheartened, that he would do nothing for her. then i asked, 'are you ready for _anything_? i feel quite sure he could use you now as the page in "romeo and juliet."' 'oh, i wouldn't sing a secondary rôle!' she quickly exclaimed. now that girl makes a great mistake. to sing well one beautiful aria on the same stage with such artists as the two de reszkes and madame melba would do her more good than to sing the first rôles in a poor company." madame nordica spoke very earnestly as she related this story of a lost opportunity, which so plainly points its own moral. another incident she told gives the reverse side of the same idea: "i remember one day some singers were discussing another member of their company, and claiming that he did not deserve his high position; but i protested, and said: 'just consider what that man can do. he knows every language, has a fine stage presence, a good voice, and can sing every rôle in the repertoire. now where will you get another to fill his place?' "our art to-day is very different from what it used to be. people wonder who will replace patti or some other retiring singer; but if one should appear who adequately filled the vacant place, we would at once hear people saying, 'she only sings coloratura rôles and nothing but italian!' no, the great artist to-day is the one who has mastered all, who does the work of three in former years, and not one who shines forth temporarily in a few special rôles." madame nordica can certainly speak with authority on this point, for she is one whom we may truly say has "mastered all." her repertoire is astonishing in its scope and variety; and when we consider that out of eighty-seven million people, which is our present population, including the colonies, she is the only one to-day who sings the three "brünhildes" of wagner and also his "isolde," we can then better appreciate madame nordica's achievement. it needs a very great mind to grasp and portray these wagnerian creations. brünhilde, the war goddess, must be both tender and heroic--as it were, divinely human. no composer but wagner could have imparted these qualities; but he was himself a sort of musical jove, who wielded the scale like a thunderbolt. if any one doubt this, let him hear and behold the wonderful "ride of the walküre," those five war maidens, daughters of wotan, who chase through the clouds on their armored steeds, and call one another in tones unearthly, to an accompaniment of whizzing strings, and clanging brass, and a torrent of intricate chords. the music depicts the fierce clash of the elements, the war gods in battle, the clamor of shields, and the furious dash of wild horses. above it all there rings out on the air the weird, far-reaching cry of brünhilde, the leader of the walküre maidens, and her call is repeated from the east, from the west, from the uttermost mountain-peaks, by her sister spirits, who are sometimes hidden and sometimes revealed by the fast-rushing clouds, through which their steeds gallop and plunge. [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. nordica as brünhilde in "siegfried."] whoever can hear this wonder-work and not bow to wagner's greatness is surely a musical degenerate. "my progress has not been by leaps and bounds," madame nordica presently announced; "it has been more tortoise-like; and i have sometimes seen others sweep past me with apparently little effort. but in the end justice comes around to all. what is it mrs. carter says in 'zaza' about success? 'it comes from much misery.' yes, there is very much of that. 'and much work,'--ah, a _great deal_ of that. 'and a little luck,'--yes, a _very_ little of that; it is not good to have much luck." as i arose to go, madame nordica added with a smile: "you see i could talk on this subject all day. the sum of it is, success comes from steady daily work. you must work well in the morning, and then work some more in the afternoon--and it is well to practise between times too!" "lohengrin" "lohengrin" there seems a very magic about the name of lohengrin--a mythical strength and beauty that at once characterize the whole opera. the fault is occasionally found that wagner's operas are long and at times tedious; but this term is never applied to "lohengrin." one is disarmed of this suspicion in the very first prelude. ah, what a prelude is that! it is like the gradual drawing together from empty space all the music of the spheres. the two first measures are so pianissimo that we scarcely hear them, but the vague and far-away voices come slowly nearer. they mingle with each other and weave in and out, until there is a crescendo mighty and overpowering. we are now prepared for the legendary character of the opera; such music could not represent things earthly. the curtain rises upon a scene of medieval coloring. it is a woodland upon the banks of the scheldt in the province of brabant. a throne is erected on one side, and here the king of germany is holding court. he is visiting this province of his realm to solicit aid in a coming war. after this fact is announced by the herald, the king arises and in stately phrases greets the people and explains more fully the object of his visit. he closes with the observation that it grieves him to find this province in a state of discord, and he requests frederick of telramund, an esteemed nobleman of brabant, to recount the situation. frederick, which is the baritone rôle, tells a strange and interesting story. the province is at present without any ducal ruler, owing to the recent mysterious disappearance of the young heir. he was last seen in company with his sister elsa. the two were walking in the forest, but she returned alone and declared she had lost her brother. frederick now charges elsa with murder, and furthermore lays claim to the ducal throne in the name of himself and also his wife ortrud, who bears some kinship to the late duke. on hearing this charge the king summons elsa, who presently comes forward with bowed head and sorrowful mien. this must have been a thrilling moment at that first performance in baireuth when lillian nordica stepped before the audience. it was not only elsa challenging her accusers, but an american girl challenging german critics under the dome of their most hallowed shrine, with their own music and in their own language. but whatever a singer's emotions may be, she must give no evidence of them. it is wonderful how smoothly these great performances always run. come what may, the play goes on. elsa can say no more in her behalf than has already been given; but when urged by the king to speak freely all that is on her heart, she tells of a wonderful vision which came in her hour of distress. an armored knight, more grand than any she had seen, appeared to her and promised to be her deliverer and champion. this dream-song of elsa's is like a musical apparition, so ethereal and spirituelle; but one must not seek for these wonderful beauties in the voice-part alone. with wagner the orchestra is never a mere accompaniment, but more often the principal part. a theme is sometimes begun in the orchestra and finished by the voice, or it may be altogether with the instruments. wagner handles the voice like a noble metal which can be fashioned into useful vessels to carry and convey the emotions, in contrast to the italian composers, who look upon the voice as a jewel to be displayed and admired for its own sake. to return to elsa's song. it should be understood from the first that each theme in the opera expresses some emotion or idea which is consistently adhered to throughout. for instance, when elsa describes the knight in her dream, there is heard in the orchestra a few bars of the lohengrin--or swan-song, a theme which is constantly revealing itself in this great kaleidoscope of sound whenever the hero appears or is mentioned. again, when she speaks of his glittering armor, the splendid warlike motif which asserts itself is the same one that is worked up in the crescendo preceding lohengrin's arrival. after this strange recital of elsa's, frederick still maintains his charge against her, and states as her motive for the crime that she hoped to gain the throne. the king decides to settle the question by single combat. frederick must defend himself against whomever may come forward as elsa's champion. this custom is according to the ancient belief that "might is right," and that heaven itself is the awarder of victory and defeat. the herald of the king announces, with a trumpet-call, the impending combat, and bids "him who will fight for elsa of brabant to come forth at once." the call dies away, but no one presents himself as her defender, and it appears as tho heaven already indicates which side is right. elsa piteously begs them to call again. her wish is granted, and once more the cry rings forth. she falls on her knees, and in tones that vibrate with intense despair prays heaven to send her the hero of her dream. "elsa's prayer" and "elsa's dream" are two of the most beautiful soprano solos in the opera. the prayer is short, but it accomplishes a thrilling crescendo. the final climax is such a passionate outcry that we are not surprised to see an immediate answer granted. wagner is a master of crescendos, and he now commences one for the chorus which is truly wonderful in effect. instead of starting all the voices pianissimo, or even part of the chorus, he starts with a single voice. one man has perceived a knight floating down the river in a boat drawn by a swan. he whispers it to his neighbor, who in turn says, "look!" and then another and another in quick succession join in exclamations, until all are singing of the strange sight. they rush to the bank, and still the wonder grows. the knight of the swan draws nearer, the orchestra crashes out its stupendous theme, the sopranos ring out above everything, and the whole chorus seems to have doubled its capacity. it is a greeting worthy of the subject, who is lohengrin himself. no wonder the people subside and look at him with awe as he steps upon the bank. he is clad in shining silver, with a helmet, shield, and sword. his face is fair and his hair is blonde. before noticing the people, he turns to the swan and sings it a farewell. this song is only two lines long, and for the most part without accompaniment. it is apparently simple, and differs little from the form of a recitative, and yet so rare and strange is this melody that it portrays the legendary character of the opera more than any other phrase. it seems as tho lohengrin is still singing in the mystical language and music of that other world from which he has come. every one knows this song by its german name, "mein lieber schwan," and it is so much admired and so famous that it is actually paraphrased. a man must be great indeed to be caricatured; how much more is this true of classical music! lohengrin soon comes forward and bows before the king, after which he announces that he has been sent as champion "for a noble maid who is falsely accused." but before entering the combat he speaks to elsa, who has previously offered to bestow her hand and heart upon whomever would fight for her. she now reiterates this vow most gladly, and also makes another promise which the strange knight requests--she must never ask from whence he came, nor what his name. lest there be any misunderstanding, he repeats the impressive phrase in a higher key, and elsa again promises. this short theme is most important. it might be described as the dark motif. it is the one most often heard when ortrud and frederick do their evil plotting, for it is by means of this interdiction of lohengrin's that they eventually succeed in accomplishing elsa's unhappiness. when the two combatants face each other and all is ready, the herald again comes forward and solemnly proclaims the rules governing such contests. they are interesting to note: "no one shall interfere with the fight under penalty of losing his head or his hand;" and furthermore, no sorcery or witchcraft shall be exerted, for heaven alone must decide who is right. after this preliminary the king arises and prays for the just judgment of heaven to show clearly which side is true and which is false. wagner always favored the bass voice when possible, and so he has given to the king this splendid and impressive composition, with its rich, full chords and stirring rhythm. the chorus takes up the prayer and finishes it with inspiring breadth and grandeur. the king strikes upon his shield three times and the battle begins. it does not last long, for frederick is soon disarmed and thrown down by lohengrin, who, however, spares his life. the victory has proven elsa's innocence and frederick's falsehood. the latter is disgraced utterly, while lohengrin is regarded as heaven's favorite. elsa sings forth her joy and gratitude in melodic phrases which would need no words. the music of elsa and lohengrin is like the music of day--it is so clear, so lucid and full of melody in contrast to the rugged, weird, and gloomy themes of ortrud and frederick. the great chorus of victory is the last number of this act. it brings in with wagner's inimitable modulations the martial theme of the previous chorus and also elsa's song of praise. all excepting ortrud and frederick look happy and join in the singing right heartily as the curtain descends. the second act comprises ortrud's great scene. this rôle may be sung by a contralto, but is better adapted to a mezzo-soprano. ortrud is often called the operatic lady macbeth. she is not only as wicked and ambitious as shakespeare's heroine, but is also a sorceress of no mean ability, for it is she who made away with elsa's brother; but this fact is not revealed until the last act. she also exerted her power upon frederick with such effect that he believed her to be a prophetess. he was sincere in his accusation against elsa, for ortrud told him she had witnessed the crime herself. but he is now awakened to her wickedness, and the scene opens with his maledictions against her and his abject wretchedness over his own disgrace. the two are seated upon the church steps facing the palace, where jubilant preparations are going on for the wedding of elsa and lohengrin, which will take place at dawn. it is yet night, and the music is deep and ominous. the dark motif and a new one which seems to represent ortrud are the musical heart and soul of this scene. they stalk about the orchestra like restless phantoms, and are heard in all sorts of keys and instruments. after frederick's great harangue against his wife and fate and everything, she calmly inquires the cause of his anger. she declares that she never deceived him, and that the recent combat was unfairly influenced by lohengrin's sorcery. such is her power over frederick that he again believes and listens to her plans. she explains how lohengrin may yet be robbed of his power and frederick's honor vindicated. elsa must be induced to ask the hero his name, or he must be wounded, be it ever so slightly. either of these methods will annihilate his power. this remarkable scene closes with a duet about revenge, which the two voices sing in unison--a point indicative of their renewed unity of purpose. the music now changes to harmonies that charm and soothe, and elsa appears upon the balcony of her palace. the moonlight falls upon her as she clasps her hands in rapture and sings to the gentle zephyrs of her love. it is a song as peaceful as the night; and in contrast to the recent somber and spectral themes, it beams forth like a diamond against black velvet. this solo of elsa's is one of the most difficult to sing because of its many sustained pianissimo tones. after the last sweet note has died away like a sigh, ortrud, who is still seated on the steps beneath, calls to elsa in a pleading voice. she appeals to the latter's sympathy by announcing herself as "that most unhappy woman, ortrud," wife to the disgraced frederick. "we are cursed by god and man, and welcomed nowhere." thus speaks the sorceress; and elsa, in the goodness of her heart, takes pity and impulsively offers to receive the outcast. she retires from the balcony and presently opens the door below to welcome ortrud, who in this short interim has sung some splendid phrases of gloating animosity. but she kneels like a humble slave before the unsuspecting elsa, who invites her to the wedding and also promises to induce lohengrin to pardon frederick. as an expression of gratitude, ortrud now offers to exert the power of prophecy for elsa's benefit. prophecy and sorcery are regarded in different lights: the latter is wicked and implies collusion with the evil one, while the "prophetic eye" is a gift to be coveted. ortrud pretends to possess this power. she forewarns elsa against too great confidence in her hero, and mysteriously hints that he may leave as suddenly as he came. these words are accompanied by the threatening dark motif, which hovers ever near like a lowering cloud. elsa recoils at the thought--this first seed of suspicion,--but she soon smiles assuredly and sings to ortrud a lovely song about "the faith and trust that knows no doubt." wagner's words are as beautiful as his music, and in this composition they seem to mount upward on the "wings of song" like the spontaneous utterance of a pure heart. elsa puts her arms gently about ortrud and leads her into the palace. frederick, who has kept in the background, watches them disappear, and the scene closes with his final descant on revenge. after his exit the orchestra has a solo, so to speak, while the stage is occupied in representing the dawn of day. villagers stroll in one by one, garlands are hung in honor of the wedding, and the scene becomes constantly brighter and more active. the herald appears above the gates of the palace and makes three announcements in the name of the king: first, that frederick of telramund is banned and shall be befriended by no one; second, that the heaven-favored stranger shall hereafter be called the guardian of brabant; and, third, that this hero shall lead them soon to "victorious war." then follows a chorus about the heaven-sent guardian of brabant, after which there is a momentary commotion caused by frederick, who, in spite of the ban against him, comes forward and asserts that he will defy their much-lauded hero and will open their eyes to his duplicity. but this incident is forgotten in the gorgeous scene which now commences. the wedding-guests come slowly from the palace, and wend their way in stately procession toward the church. their course is accompanied by a march of pontifical solemnity, which attains its grandest beauty when elsa comes down the great stairway clad in robes of regal splendor. all voices join in praise for "elsa of brabant." [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. eames as elsa in "lohengrin."] the procession proceeds to the church; the music increases in strength, when suddenly there is a discord. elsa is confronted at the church entrance by ortrud, who fiercely declares she will no longer follow like an attendant; that she is the one to whom people should bow instead of elsa, whose future lord comes of a land and family which he dare not tell! elsa is dumbfounded by this sudden onslaught from the woman she has befriended. but ortrud maintains her position, and actually defies elsa to ask the hero his name. this attack is diverted by the ceremonious entrance of the king and lohengrin, to whom elsa hastens with her grievance. ortrud is promptly ordered aside, and the procession resumes its march. but again the solemn cathedral music crashes into a discord. frederick, the despised one, dares to rush before the king and bar the way as he begs them to harken to his words. there is great indignation over the interruption, but frederick so intensely cries for justice that at last even the king listens as he charges lohengrin with sorcery. he sustains the charge by demanding lohengrin to tell his name, if he be an honest man; if he can not do this there must be some dark secret to hide. all turn to the hero expectantly, but he only defends himself by saying that he has proven his worth in mortal combat, according to ancient usage, and that he will not answer frederick nor even the king--only elsa shall be answered this question. he turns to her and finds her trembling with agitation. the orchestra tells us her thoughts, for we hear the ortrud-theme and dark motif writhing in and out like venomous serpents. a murmuring sort of chorus about the strange secret which the hero so zealously guards is gradually resolved into a song of allegiance and belief. the king declares frederick unworthy of consideration. but during the jubilant chorus which follows, that miserable steals up to elsa and casts his final poison-shaft. he tells her that if lohengrin were once wounded, "merely pricked in the finger," he would then bestow upon her full confidence and never leave. frederick further says he will "linger near the coming night," and when she calls will enter and commit the deed without harm to lohengrin. elsa spurns the tempter away, and lohengrin, who perceives him at her side, bids him forever begone. but finding elsa even more agitated than before, he asks in the presence of all if she wishes to be told his name. she remembers her vow, and in tones of exultation declares that love is greater than doubt. the magnificent march music is again resumed, and they enter the minster without further incident, excepting the defiant gaze of ortrud as elsa passes; and while the curtain descends we hear again, half hidden in the orchestra, the terrible dark motif. there is a brilliant orchestral introduction to the third act, which represents the marriage fête. its tempo and rhythm are positively gay, tho this is an adjective seldom appropriate to wagner. but the hilarity has subsided by the time the curtain rises: the trumpets and cymbals are hushed, and the gentlest of music greets our ears as we look upon the bridal chamber. the voices are at first distant, but gradually approach, and the effect of their song steals over us like a potent charm. it is the wedding-march--the "lohengrin wedding-march"! we all know the power of that music. there are some compositions which become absorbed, as it were, by the world like important inventions or discoveries. people require certain musical forms of expression as they do artificial light, and we pity those who did without this "wedding-march," or chopin's "funeral march," or the schubert "serenade," as we pity our ancestors who made shift with tallow candles instead of incandescent lamps. the charm of the "wedding-march" is not diminished because we know it so well. with wagner as with beethoven, every hearing reveals new beauties. when the chorus at last leaves elsa and lohengrin alone, we echo his first words: "the sweet song now is ended." but our regrets are quickly appeased by the delicious love-duet which follows. it is a scene of rapt delight--of happiness too great to last. not in vain did we have the dark motif jangled in our ears when the curtain last descended; it meant trouble in the coming act, as we soon perceive. elsa wishes she knew his name--just to speak it lovingly as he does hers. then lohengrin points to the open window through which the moonlight streams upon them, and he sings of the perfumed air which they enjoy without questioning its cause or source; thus, he says, should they love. the exquisite melody of this song seems to exhale from his heart like fragrance from a flower. it is redolent of tenderest love. the nobility and beauty of lohengrin's character so impress themselves, that elsa feels oppressed with her own unworthiness. she wishes she might do something heroic to prove her love. for instance, if he would confide to her his secret, she would guard it so faithfully that death itself could not wrest it from her! very sweetly and beautifully does she coax for this token of trust on his part. lohengrin replies most gently that he has trusted her already by believing that she would keep her vow. then he says she little knows how much she is to him; that no earthly honor--not the king's kingdom--could replace what he has left. only elsa, his bride, can recompense the sacrifice; for not from night and grief does he come, but from a home of joy and pride. like a flash does this remind elsa of ortrud's prophecy that he may leave her. the ortrud-theme swoops down upon the orchestra and settles there like an ill-omened bird. the director's baton may send it away for a moment, but down it comes again, and the dark motif with it. poor elsa becomes almost frenzied. she believes lohengrin will long for his beautiful home, which even now he can not forget. she sees in her mind's eye the swan-boat approaching to take him away. lohengrin speaks reassuringly; but the spell is upon her, and nothing--nothing can give her peace but to know the truth. with mounting tones, the last one of which is like an outcry, she asks the fatal question. lohengrin gives an exclamation of grief. at this moment the door is burst open by frederick, who with drawn sword has come to wound the hero, or, more probably, to kill him. elsa at once recognizes his intention, and frantically bids lohengrin defend himself. with a single thrust he kills his would-be assassin. this intense and tragic climax is followed by a lull. elsa has fallen half-swooning on the couch, and lohengrin stands sorrowfully to one side. he at last exclaims slowly and sadly: "now is our sweet joy fled;" and then we hear in the orchestra, faint and beautiful as a memory, that first love-duet. it is only a fragment, a fleeting thought, but so touching and pathetic that we could weep with lohengrin for the harmony that is gone. the last act is short and almost entirely taken up by lohengrin's story and farewell. the scenery is the same as in the first act, and the entire chorus of noblemen and soldiers again assemble before the king. they have not yet heard of the tragic event which ended the last act, and are therefore surprised when a bier is carried in and placed solemnly before them. it bears the body of frederick. they are still more surprised when elsa enters, pale and dejected, and then their hero, who appears equally sad. but surprise reaches its climax when they hear him announce that he can not be their leader. lohengrin wastes no words. after the first assertion he informs them of frederick's death; whereupon all voices declare his fate to be most just, and the body is removed. lohengrin then announces that elsa, his wife, has broken the vow which they all heard her make, and he has come before them to answer her question and dispel the mad suspicion which a wily tempter implanted in her heart. they shall all learn his name and heritage, and may then judge whether he was worthy of their trust. the people wonder with awe-hushed voices what revelation is in store, and then there floats in the orchestra the soft tremolo of the swan-music, as lohengrin tells them of a distant land called montsalvat, where is a radiant temple. and in this temple is guarded a sacred vessel which possesses wonder-powers. a dove descends from heaven once every year to renew its marvelous strength. this treasure-blessing is called the "grail," and to its chosen votaries a matchless power is given. these knights of the grail are sent abroad as champions of innocence and truth, and they may tarry so long as their name is unknown. but the grail's blessing is too pure and holy to be regarded by common eyes, and if disclosed its champion must leave at once. lohengrin adds that this penalty now falls on him, for he is a knight of the grail: his father, great parsifal, wears its crown, and "i am lohengrin." as in the first prelude and swan-song, the harmonies of this last great recital seem not of earth but from another sphere; they linger and abide with us like a beautiful blessing. this silver-clad knight of the grail has been singing of a hallowed mystery whose purity and spirituality are revealed more in the music than by the words. after bidding farewell to the hapless elsa, from whom he must part in spite of her piteous appeals, there comes gliding upon the river the swan-boat. he sings a sad welcome to the swan, and then announces to elsa that could he have remained one year, through the mercy of the grail her brother would have returned. he hands her his sword and horn and ring to give this brother if ever he comes back. the sword and horn will impart strength and victory, and the ring shall remind him of "lohengrin who loved elsa and was her champion." a jarring interruption is now created by ortrud, who cries out with reckless triumph that the swan who serves lohengrin is the bewitched brother, and that elsa has herself to thank for causing the hero's departure, which forever prevents the young duke's return. on hearing this mocking invection from the sorceress, lohengrin clasps his hands in a fervent prayer, which is at once answered. a dove descends from heaven and touches the swan, which is immediately changed into the young heir. he rushes forward to embrace his sister, while lohengrin steps into the boat, which is drawn away by the dove. it floats silently down the beautiful river, and the hero stands sorrowfully leaning upon his silver shield. this is our last glimpse of lohengrin, the knight of the grail. "aida" "aida" madame nordica's "aida" is an unsurpassed performance and always draws crowded houses, for the strange pathos of the music displays her wonderful voice to its fullest beauty. as in "carmen" every measure scintillates with the sunshine of spain, so in "aida" every phrase seems shadowed by the mysteries of egypt. a comparative study of these two operas will forcibly impress one with the power of music to express nationality. "aida" carries one to a distant land and centuries back; but this power of breathing the musical life of ancient egypt into the still form of a libretto is the culmination of modern art. giuseppe verdi, the greatest modern italian composer, had written twenty-six operas before he wrote "aida." a tender, wistful strain high up in the violins forms the opening of the prelude. with this first faint phrase the composer seems to awaken from her long sleep the muse of egyptian music. like the hero of fairy lore, verdi, the prince of melody, has penetrated a realm of slumbering harmonies. they are at first subdued, dazed, and bewildered with themes mingled and woven together like exquisite cobwebs. the conductor's wand gently disperses these clinging meshes of sound, the curtain is lifted, and we are ushered into the musical life of an ancient civilization. we see a hall in the palace at memphis, and ramphis, the high priest, converses with rhadames, a distinguished soldier. they talk of the impending war against ethiopia, and it is intimated that rhadames may be chosen to lead the egyptians. but the words and song are of little interest compared to the orchestral accompaniment. this is somber and subdued; the notes are of equal length, and the intervals seem of geometric exactitude like the diagram of an astrologer. ramphis goes out leaving rhadames joyous over the prospect of becoming a general. he thinks of his beloved aida, to whom he will return laden with laurels. "celeste aida!" is the title of this great romanza. like all love-songs it is legato, andante, and pianissimo, but at the same time noticeably original and characteristic. the harmonies are constructed with rigid grandeur, but softened and beautified by a tender melody that rests upon them like moonlight on the pyramids. while he is lost in thoughts of aida, the princess amneris enters. she inquires the cause of his radiant expression, and insinuatingly wonders if it is some dream of love. rhadames only replies that he has hopes of martial honors, and is therefore happy. the princess secretly loves rhadames, and her questions are based on jealousy, which is revealed in the nervous, agitated theme that accompanies this duet. her suspicions are further aroused by the entrance of aida. as the heroine approaches we hear again the pensive theme that opened the prelude. it takes on a new and greater meaning, for aida is a captive slave, an exile, and the music reminds us of some great longing that vainly strives to express itself. this effect is due to the fact that the musical cadence is left unresolved. aida must have the dark complexion of the ethiopian, and very few prima donnas look well under coffee-colored cosmetic; but madame nordica's appearance does not suffer from the application. this aida is beautiful, and rhadames can scarce conceal the joy of her presence. the captive also looks down to hide her emotion. but amneris has detected every glance, and again that jealous theme sweeps like a flame over the orchestra. [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. nordica as aida.] the princess addresses her slave by sisterly names, and asks the cause of her downcast looks. aida says she grieves because of the war against her native land. there follows a trio wherein amneris fosters her jealousy, while aida and rhadames tremble lest their secret be discovered. sounds of martial music prelude the entrance of the king and his suite. when they are assembled a messenger comes forward to announce that the ethiopians are marching toward egypt's capital under the leadership of their king, amonasro. upon hearing this name aida exclaims to herself, "my father!" and we thereby learn that she is a princess, but has concealed the fact from her captors. the egyptians impulsively shout "to war!" and rhadames is proclaimed their leader. they sing a war-hymn which is so inspiring that even aida joins in this prayer for victory to rhadames. after a grand climax all go out excepting the heroine. "return victorious!" she repeats this last sweeping phrase, and shudders at the words, for success to rhadames implies defeat to her father. this distressing thought agitates the music like the passing of a great ship over tranquil waters. the ensuing melody rises and falls like waves in the wake of a vessel. aida realizes that she can not pray for either lover or father. "was there ever a heart so oppressed!" her song is like a wail, and the accompaniment introduces a pagan use of the monotone that gives startling effects. "pieta, pieta!" are the final words of aida's great solo. she goes off, and the scene changes to an interior view of the temple of vulcan. it is a brilliant setting, with solid columns and golden statues, mysterious colored lights and fuming incense, priests and priestesses in glittering costumes; but the music of this consecration-scene reveals more barbaric splendor than the surroundings. the first sounds are the full, pulsating chords of a harp, and from an inner sanctum the grand priestess sings with rich soprano tones a weird refrain that is weighted with mystery. the priests in front answer in subdued, awe-hushed voices. three times the wondrous song and answer are repeated, after which the priestesses perform a sacred dance around the altar. the music of this dreamy dance has the most astonishing progressions, but at the same time maintains an imposing solemnity. during the dance rhadames is led to the altar, where a silver veil is placed over his head. ramphis, the high priest, charges him with the welfare of the egyptian army; and then follows a splendid prayer that ramphis starts like a sacred fire. it reaches rhadames, who sings in a higher key, and then it spreads and fills the great temple; bassos, tenors, soloists, and chorus take it up in turn and form one mighty rondo. like a response from heaven comes the chant of the grand priestess from within. her inspired refrain with its harp accompaniment alternates with the exalted prayer in front. this consecration-scene has little to do with the plot of the story, but it contains some of verdi's finest music. several months are supposed to elapse before the second act, which opens with a scene in the apartment of amneris. maids are robing the princess for a festive occasion, and we learn by their chorus that rhadames will to-day return from victorious war. this scene is monopolized by the stringed instruments and female voices. a tropical indolence characterizes the choruses, with their abundant harp accompaniment. amneris ever and anon breaks forth with an expansive theme expressing her unconquered love for rhadames. to divert their mistress a group of moorish slaves perform a lively, grotesque dance, for which verdi has written music of intoxicating witchery. it is crisp as the snapping of fingers and uncivilized as the beating of bamboo reeds--a veritable savage revel that is nevertheless graceful and delicate. the chorus resume their dreamy praise of the hero, and amneris continues her moody thoughts of love. like an electric flash from a sultry sky does the entrance of aida affect the musical atmosphere. at sight of the beautiful captive, amneris again rages with jealousy, as is plainly indicated by the conflicting themes in the orchestra. with subtle devices the princess seeks to entrap her rival. she pretends a deep sympathy for aida's grief over the vanquished ethiopians, and adds that "egypt also has cause to mourn, for our brave leader rhadames is among the slain." this treacherous falsehood is foisted so suddenly that aida loses caution and reveals her emotion. amneris cries out in fury: "tremble, slave! thy secret is discovered!" she informs aida that rhadames lives, and that she, pharaoh's daughter, loves the hero and "will not brook the rivalry of a slave!" amneris threatens death as the punishment for such audacious love. the proud captive stands for a moment in defiance; but realizing the futility of such action, she humbly pleads for pardon. in this song the composer admirably simulates a savage dearth of compass and harmony--an effect of crude simplicity that is charming and touching. the scene is interrupted by a song of victory from the streets, a signal for the festivities to begin. after commanding the ethiopian to follow as a menial in the celebration, amneris goes out. aida closes the scene with the same prayer to heaven "pieta!" that ended the first act. a noisy march introduces the next scene, which represents a grand avenue in egypt's capital. at the back of the stage is a triumphal arch and at one side a throne. the greater part of this act is spectacular, and after an opening chorus the orchestra has for some time entire charge of the music. the march from "aida" is almost as popular as the faust march. its harmonies never swerve from the egyptian type, being always stately and substantial as their architecture. while the brass instruments are playing with full force, we witness the ceremonial entrance of the court, with innumerable priests and soldiers, trumpeters, fan-bearers, standard-bearers, train-bearers, white slaves, black slaves, flower girls, and dancing girls. there follows an elaborate ballet divertissement, clothed in music of gay pattern and gaudy design, but light in substance. five lines of continuous staccatos, like so many strings of beads, form the opening of this dance music. the salient points that impart an unmistakable egyptian atmosphere to this composition are as follows: a savage repetition of every musical phrase, a wild predilection for the monotone, a limited variety of keys, and a preponderant accenting of the rhythm. after the dance more soldiers enter, some more slaves, more banners, chariots, and sacred images. a chorus of welcome to the conquering hero is struck up, and it increases in strength and grandeur with the pageantry on the stage. it is not merely the crescendo, but the glorious swing and rhythm of the melody that so inspires enthusiasm. when at last rhadames is borne in on a golden palanquin, the climax is stupendous. with a final "gloria!" shouted by every voice the hero comes forward to be embraced by the king. a group of ethiopian prisoners are led forward, and aida with a cry of joy recognizes her father. he has disguised himself as a common soldier, and does not wish it known that he is the defeated king amonasro. every one is interested in this reunion of aida with her father, and the princess secretly rejoices to have them both in her power. amonasro makes a noble plea for mercy, and his words are set to music that "droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven." it is like a tone-translation of shakespeare's ode to the quality of mercy. aida and the other captives lend their voices to the entreaty. rhadames, who has been observing aida but dare not address her, is moved by his love to ask for the prisoner's release. the king feels bound to grant the hero's request, but finally decides to retain aida and her father as hostages of peace. as a final honor the king presents his daughter to rhadames, and adds that by her side he shall some day reign over egypt. the act closes with another grand ensemble. amneris gloats over her rival's subjection, rhadames longs for aida but dare not oppose the king, and the heroine bemoans her fate. the priests, people, soldiers, and prisoners praise the king, the trumpets blare forth the aida march, and the curtain descends. act iii. is the most beautiful both scenically and dramatically. it pictures the banks of the nile at night. an illuminated temple is at one side, and we see the silvery river winding its way amid palms and rushes far into the distance. not only is the landscape bathed in "softened light," but also the music imparts an unmistakable effect of moonlight. a faint violin pizzicato that vibrates but never changes position is maintained throughout the introduction, while the other instruments call up weird sounds of the night--the palm-trees rustling together and the plaintive cry of some river-bird--then all is still: only that fluttering moonbeam holds the senses. the silence is broken by a solemn chant from within the temple, and one soprano voice soars out alone in an incantation, mysterious and imposing as an oracle. a royal barge glides to the river's bank, and amneris with her maids and the high priest ramphis betake themselves to the temple, where the princess offers prayers for her coming marriage. the sphinx-like song of the grand priestess is again heard, and then every sound is hushed excepting the dreamy pizzicato movement in the violins that so resembles the flitting of moonbeams. ere long the solitary tones of the aida-theme arise from the stillness like a spirit of night. never before have we realized the full beauty of this melody, for amid the blare and brightness of other harmonies it has been obscured like a sensitive flower. but here in the solitude and darkness it unfolds itself like some glorious night bloom. with cautious steps the heroine enters. rhadames has told her to meet him, and aida wonders what greeting he will have for her. if it is but to say farewell, then "nilus, the mighty river, shall quiet forever the exile's grief." for the present she plunges into a flood of memory about her native land, a stream of words that gently flows through a forest of beautiful harmonies. it is a song of homesickness that soothes tho it saddens. while still under the spell of this music aida is startled by the entrance of her father. he also sings of their distant home, but with an underlying purpose. he says they may yet return; that it is in her power to save ethiopia, to regain her throne, her love, and to vanquish her rival amneris. the father has been quick to detect the love between aida and rhadames. amonasro announces that his people are prepared to renew their attack and that success is assured if they can learn by what path the egyptians will march. he wishes his daughter to win, by fair means or false, this secret from rhadames. aida at first refuses to act this part of treachery, whereupon amonasro chills her with his curse. he says she is no longer his daughter, "no longer princess of ethiopia, but a slave of the pharaohs!" the proud blood of the captive is aroused by this epithet. she entreats her father to recall his words, for "'patria mia' ('my country') is more to me than my love. i will obey." the accompaniment presents an unvaried monotone in the treble, while beneath it there is a pathetic melody half hidden by the upper octaves like romance suppressed by duty. amonasro conceals himself behind palm-trees as rhadames approaches. never has the joy of meeting been more admirably expressed in music than in rhadames's greeting of aida. it is a flight of song as spontaneous and free as the flight of a released bird. he tells her that he will not marry the princess, but must start at once on a second war; and if this time victorious he will tell the king of his love and will claim aida as the reward of his valor. it is a brave plan, but she quickly discovers the weak point. the nervous, inflammatory theme of jealousy that accompanied amneris in the first act again arises like a hot breath from the orchestra. aida well knows that the princess would wreak vengeance "like the lightning of heaven." there is only one course that will unite the lovers, and this is to fly--"fugire!"--to fair ethiopia, aida's native land. she coaxes and entreats in phrases of delirious, dream-like beauty descriptive of that wondrous land--"there where the virgin forests rise 'mid fragrance softly stealing." a halcyon peace pervades the music, and its harmonies are strange and rare like the perfume of some exotic flower. rhadames demurs, but the power of her song is irresistible, and he soon consents to leave egypt for her sake. there is nothing half way about his decision when once made. the orchestra music rises in emphatic, resolute crescendos that are gloriously inspiring, and the singer's voice is carried forward like a rider on his steed. the music recurs to the first impulsive theme of greeting. it is given in full chords, and the soprano joins with the tenor. every note is accented and the crescendos are augmented. both voices and orchestra mount upward and soar away on one final, sustained note. as the lovers start to go, aida asks, "by what route do the egyptians march? we must avoid them in our flight." rhadames names the path, whereupon amonasro steps forward announcing that "the king of ethiopia" has overheard this important secret. he promises royal honors to rhadames; but the hero is overwhelmed with the realization that he has betrayed his country. vengeance falls upon him at once, for amneris and the high priest have also overheard. they come from the temple and denounce rhadames as a traitor. he is seized, but amonasro and aida escape. the first scene of the fourth act reveals a hall in the palace. at the back is a large portal leading to the subterranean court of justice. amneris holds the stage alone during the greater part of this scene. the orchestra preludes it with the familiar theme of jealousy that indicates the ensuing action as clearly as the title to a chapter. rhadames is to-day awaiting judgment, and the princess, as a last resort, offers to secure his pardon if he will promise to forget aida. the hero firmly refuses the proffered love of amneris. he believes aida is dead and prefers to die also. very grandly does the music depict amneris's outraged feelings. she flings a fusilade of wrathful tones, every one bearing the sting of sharp accent. but when he is gone her pride and jealousy wilt under the warmth of genuine love. she sees him led to his doom in the underground courts and hears the priests and judges chanting his name as traitor. this scene resembles the "miserere" in "il trovatore." three times the unseen chorus is followed by the soprano in front, who sings an anguished phrase that starts with a high note and ends with a palpitating, gasping decrescendo that is almost identical with the music of leonore. the priests condemn rhadames to be buried alive. as they again pass through the hall, amneris pleads and implores for mercy, but it is now too late. no power can save the hero. the last scene of the opera is very short, but it is the most important. it represents two floors, the upper one being a splendid and brilliant temple interior, while beneath it is the crypt--gloomy and terrible. this is the tomb of rhadames, who has just been immured. the priests above are placing the final stone as the curtain rises and the hero is seen below reclining on the steps. he is thinking of aida while resignedly awaiting his slow and awful death. suddenly a voice calls him, and aida herself appears to his wondering gaze. she had heard of his fate, and to prove her love has secretly returned and hidden in this tomb to die with him. the following song of the lovers has been humorously referred to as the "starvation duet." the fact of this appellation only reveals how celebrated is the composition. it is more generally known as "the duet from 'aida.'" there are other duets in the opera, but when another is meant it is designated; this is the _great_ one. its pathetic harmonies are mingled with the solemn chant of the grand priestess in the temple above and the music of a sacred dance. aida becomes delirious, and sees in her dreams the gates of heaven opening. indeed, the music is exquisite enough to make any one dream of heaven. when madame nordica sings it, the whole scene seems real and so sadly beautiful that your own heart too almost stops its beating. with soft, sweet tones and bated breath aida sings till she dies. instead of closing with a crescendo, as do most operas, the final of "aida" becomes ever softer and fainter, like a departing spirit. the brass and wood instruments have long since retired, only the violins and harp keep up a gentle vibrating accompaniment like the flutter of cherubs' wings. the curtain descends very slowly, and the last notes of the violin are written doubly pianissimo. the muse of egyptian music glides away as silently as she came. "the huguenots" "the huguenots" it is not surprising that the massacre of st. bartholomew should have attracted such a composer as giacomo meyerbeer. the terrible scene immediately suggests a blaze of orchestral chords, seething strings, and shrieking brass, a style in which meyerbeer delighted. he secured the collaboration of the celebrated french dramatist eugene scribe, who apparently went to work at this libretto by writing the fourth act first and then forcing the preceding situations to fit together as best they would. the result is not wholly satisfactory; but where the plot is vague the music is clear and strong enough to carry our emotions over chasms of inconsistencies. the great theme of the opera is the huguenot hymn, a thrilling song of faith, with firm, bold harmonies that express unswerving belief. this hymn is used in the overture with grand effect. it is sustained and upheld clear and strong amid the murmurings and attacks of surrounding variations until it finally bursts forth in untrammeled splendor like the supremacy of religious faith. the curtain rises upon a banquet-hall in the mansion of count de nevers, who is a gay young nobleman of touraine, the province of france in which the first two acts occur. nevers is giving a supper to his comrades, and the first chorus is the celebrated drinking-song, a refrain so abounding in good cheer that it predisposes one in favor of the whole opera. the revelers are all romanists, with the exception of raoul de nangis, a young huguenot, who because of recent promotion in the army has been included among the guests. nevers proposes a toast to "our sweethearts," and gaily adds that he must soon forego such frivolities as he is to be married. some one suggests that they all recount their love affairs, and raoul is requested to begin. he relates an adventure wherein he rescued a beautiful lady from the rude insults of some boisterous students. he has not seen her since and knows not her name, but she dwells--in his heart. his glowing description of the heroine is a verbal portrait framed in music of golden beauty. it is the best tenor solo of the opera. after this love-story some surprise is caused by the entrance of marcel, a huguenot soldier, who is raoul's faithful attendant and has followed his young master to this banquet merely to be near and watch over him. marcel much disapproves of this "feasting in the camp of the philistines," as he terms it, and by way of atonement he renders in a loud voice that fervid hymn which the huguenots always sing when in danger. raoul begs his friends to excuse the rough soldier, and they promptly attest their good will by inviting marcel to drink. he declines the wine, but consents to sing for them. his song has a wild refrain like the firing of musketry, "piff-paff-piff," and it is a celebrated bass aria. when this whizzing composition is ended a servant informs the host that a strange visitor would like to speak with him privately. nevers at first refuses to see any one; but on learning that it is a veiled lady he changes his mind and goes out, after laughingly announcing that he is thus constantly sought by handsome women. during his absence the others joke about the incognita and handle her reputation lightly. they look through a window and see her conversing with nevers in his private apartment. at sight of her face raoul recoils, for this clandestine visitor is none other than the heroine of his romance--the beauty to whom he had lost his heart. his ideal is shattered by the discovery. when nevers returns the audience learns from an aside remark that the lady was his prospective bride, valentine de st. bris, and that she came to beg release from her promise. he has reluctantly complied, but does not inform his guests of the matter. at this moment a richly attired young page presents himself. it is urban, the contralto rôle, who after bowing gracefully on all sides sings a charming and celebrated aria, "nobil donna,"--"a noble lady sends by me a missive to one of these gentlemen." such is the substance of this exquisite song with its chivalrous melody, surrounded by rococo embellishments that seem as appropriate to the pretty page as are his louis quinze slippers and point-lace ruffs. the note is addressed to raoul, a fact that occasions some surprise. the young huguenot reads aloud what sounds like a practical joke, for the paper tells that a court carriage is in waiting to convey him blindfolded to an unnamed destination. his companions urge him to go, for they have recognized the seal as belonging to queen margaret of touraine; but raoul does not know this. he, however, accepts their advice, and allows himself to be blindfolded in spite of protests from marcel. they sing a bewitching ensemble that is finally resolved into the familiar drinking-song. with these rollicking measures raoul is led away by the page and the curtain descends. the opening of the second act is like a musical mirage--tone-phantasies suspended in the air. we see before us the luxuriant palace gardens where margaret, queen of touraine, is surrounded by her maids of honor. terraces and fountains, jeweled hands and feathered fans, vibrant harps and caroling flute combine to form an effect of elegant repose. margaret is the rôle for colorature soprano, in contradistinction to the heroine, valentine, which is for dramatic soprano. the music of the queen is very beautiful and so difficult that it requires a great artist, altho there is but the one important scene. it is considered by some to be madame melba's best rôle. her first aria is about "this fair land," and we incidentally learn that she deplores the existing dissension between catholics and huguenots, the one blot upon the perfect peace of touraine. her court ladies presently sing an idyllic refrain, and margaret joins in their song; but while the others abide by the simple melody she decks it out with colorature spangles quite befitting a queen. after another florid solo the favorite maid of honor, valentine de st. bris, enters. she wears a riding costume and has just returned from her venturesome interview with de nevers, who, as she joyfully announces, has released all claim to her hand. we soon learn that valentine loves raoul and has confided in the queen, who is planning the marriage of these two, which she much desires because it will unite the leading families of catholics and huguenots. the queen rather delights in playing the good fairy, and for this reason has summoned raoul in the mysterious fashion witnessed in the first act. before he arrives there is another chorus, called the "song of the bathers." a harp accompaniment like rustling leaves plays around the melody, which is of eolian sweetness, until suddenly, like a fitful breeze, there comes an elfish measure all in the treble. after a brief disporting of this air-sprite we hear again the soft eolian harmonies, which rise and fall until lulled into silence. the page urban announces that a stranger is approaching, and the maids of honor gather around as he tells of this young cavalier who comes with blindfolded eyes and knows not his destination. urban's song is brimming over with mischievous coquetry. its opening words are simply, "no, no, no, no, no, no, you never heard so strange a tale." the court ladies are all in a flutter of curiosity when raoul is led in, and they would like to see the outcome of this adventure; but the queen orders them away. now follows a scene that is full of quaint themes and ingenious duets, a musical branch with many blossoms. raoul is permitted to remove the bandage from his eyes. he looks with wonder upon the beautiful scene, and then addresses elegant phrases of adoration to the fair lady before him. she is not devoid of coquetry--this queen of touraine--and for some moments there is a graceful game between the two in which the shuttlecock of love is tossed upon the battledores of music. but it is only a game, and the toy is presently dropped. urban enters to announce that some noblemen of touraine have come to attend the queen. raoul is amazed to learn the lady's identity, and margaret hastens to inform him that in order to unite the huguenots and catholics of her province she has arranged a marriage between him and the daughter of st. bris. raoul bows obedience to her wish. the catholics and protestants enter in stately procession and group themselves on either side of the stage, raoul and marcel heading the huguenots, while st. bris and nevers represent the opposite side. margaret welcomes them in musical phrases that are right royal. she informs st. bris and nevers that the king of france requests their immediate presence in paris, and she then makes her own request, which is that huguenots and catholics shall lay aside all enmity and sanction the marriage that she has arranged. they sing a splendid refrain calling upon heaven to witness their vow of future fellowship. this scene contains some fine climaxes, and several brilliant cadenzas for the queen. margaret sends for valentine, and expects raoul to be thrilled with delight when he recognizes the heroine of his romance. but as valentine comes forward, raoul gives an exclamation of indignant surprise, for he thinks some great insult is implied in asking him to marry this woman who secretly visits de nevers and who has been the subject of jests. without explanation he firmly refuses to accept her for his bride. the consternation hereby aroused is admirably expressed in the music. the first measures are hushed, as tho the chorus were dumbfounded; but they soon gain their voices and denounce raoul in ringing tones. valentine exclaims, "what have i done to earn such disgrace?" and the theme is taken up in grand form by the others. every now and then we catch the firm tones of marcel who amid all this dissension is singing his huguenot hymn. st. bris draws his sword, but the queen forbids a duel in her presence, and reminds him that he must go at once to paris. raoul declares he will follow and is ready to fight st. bris at any time. the action and music increase in strength until the curtain falls. act iii. pictures an open square in paris, the pré-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 pré-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 début 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 rôles; 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 walküre 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--würzburg, 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 aimé 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 début when eighteen years of age. my mother was my first teacher and constant companion. she was herself a dramatic soprano, well known as maria löw, 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 rôles; but two weeks later, during the performance, the dramatic soprano was taken ill, and i then and there went on with her rôle, 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, glück, 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 rôle, 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 rôles 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 rôles, but the most poetic, we deem, is the forest bird. [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont, n. y. lehmann as venus in "tannhäuser."] 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 rôle 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 holländer" 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 mädel." 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 holländer 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 holländer 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 holländer 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 holländer, 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 holländer 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 holländer 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 holländer, 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 holländer 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 holländer. 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 holländer!" 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 holländer. 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 holländer, 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 holländer 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 holländer 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 holländer 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 fête 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 holländer'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 fête; 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 holländer'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 holländer'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 holländer 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 holländer'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 holländer!" 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 holländer 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 début 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 rôle 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, calvé 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 "tannhäuser."] "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 rôles, 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 fiancée, 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 rôle 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 fête 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 fête. 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 "götterdämmerung"--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 calvé, 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 calvé 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. glück'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 glück 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. glück 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 glück'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 _rôle de résistance_. 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. glück 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 glück, 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. act iii. pictures the elysian fields, the abode of the blest where "calm and eternal rest" pervade even the music. the orchestral introduction is saintly, with its religious harmonies and classic purity. it is simple, but yet so interesting that we can imagine the immortal spirits hearing forever and never weary, for classical music is always new and always beautiful. the flute and stringed instruments perform the great part of this elysian music. white-robed spirits glide about, and one soprano voice starts up a happy, flowing melody that inspires a chorus of others. it is eurydice who leads this singing of the blest. there is dancing as well as singing, and during this divertisement the instruments weave out a new musical fabric. the steady accompaniment and firm legato theme are the woof and warp through which, around which, and over which a little five-note appoggiatura sports like a weaver's shuttle. it appears four times in every measure, but never twice in the same place. with wonder and admiration comes orpheus upon the scene. the orchestra continues its blithe harmonies while orpheus sings of the beauteous sight. but not even such surroundings can quell his longing for eurydice. unlike the furies, who only granted his prayer because compelled by his wondrous music, the spirits of the blest can not see any one suffer. with one voice and immediately they tell him to take eurydice. to the strains of softest music orpheus approaches the various spirits. he harkens to their heart-beats, and finally recognizes his loved one without seeing her. the scene changes to another part of the nether world, a forest through which orpheus is leading eurydice back to earth. a nervous, anxious instrumental passage precedes the opening recitative dialogue. eurydice at first rejoices over her new-found life, but then forgets all else in surprise and grief because orpheus will not look at her. she questions him, entreats him, fears she is no longer beautiful, or that his heart has changed. orpheus explains that he dare not look at her, but eurydice is not satisfied. she refuses to go farther, for if he can not look at her she does not wish to live. the ensuing duet is intense and full of climacteric effects. the voices chase each other like clouds before a storm, low down and hovering near that sea of sound, the orchestra, over which the conductor rules with his wand like neptune with his trident. orpheus firmly resists the pleadings of eurydice until she declares that his coldness will break her heart,--she will die of grief if he does not look at her. little wonder that he flings prudence to the winds and impulsively turns to embrace her. but no sooner has he looked upon eurydice than she droops and sinks from his arms like a blighted flower. death has again come between them. orpheus cries aloud his grief, and there springs from his heart a song of lamentation surpassing any other as a geyser does a fountain. "ach, ich habe sie verloren!" is the german and "che in faro" the italian name of this great song that is the standard classical contralto program piece. it is full of sobbing cadenzas and sighing intervals that express more than words or deeds. grief at last gives place to desperation: he is on the point of killing himself when amor reappears. the gods are again moved to pity by his enduring love, and amor with a touch of her wand revives eurydice. the opera closes with a trio between amor and the reunited pair, an ode to the power of love. it is a sort of musical apotheosis. the orchestral accompaniment has a steady, revolving movement that might suggest the wheel of time tuned and turned in harmony with the voice of love. the genius of geraldine farrar [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont. geraldine farrar.] the genius of geraldine farrar some half-dozen years ago rumors, vague as perfume from an unfolding flower, began to reach america about a new prima-donna; a boston girl, very young and very beautiful; singing at the berlin royal opera-house. no american before had ever held such a position--life-member of the opera company which kaiser wilhelm supervises, and the great frederick founded. years went by and still the name of geraldine farrar was wafted across the waters--and still she was spoken of as "very young." american critics grew somewhat incredulous; germany, of course, is musical and deep-rooted in the science of the art, but new york holds a record of her own in matters operatic, and is not disposed to accept unchallenged a verdict from the land of beer and thorough-bass. at last the hour came when geraldine farrar appeared as a star in her native land. it was a momentous occasion--the opening of the season; a brilliant audience, diamond-glinting and decollete; an audience familiar with the value of tiffany tiaras, but inclined to be dubious about berlin laurels. the curtain arose upon the first act of romeo and juliet; a blaze of color and a whirl of gay music. soon the dancers dispersed, and a slender figure in saphire satin sauntered down the capulet stairs, came forward with quiet confidence, and commenced the famous waltz song--slowly--dreamily. with these very first notes geraldine farrar revealed originality; she sang them as tho thinking aloud; the words fell from her lips like a tender caress- "i would linger in this dream that enthralls me." she closed the aria with brilliant tones, a high note--and a smile. geraldine farrar's smile is something to drive a poet to sonnets--and a prince to sighs! one paper the next morning declared: "from that moment she could have wrapped the whole audience around her little finger." there followed a "farrar furor," tho cautious critics were careful to point out that her performance as yet evinced nothing more than "a lovely voice, a peculiarly gifted dramatic temperament, youth, beauty, and considerable experience!" that's all! "she is not yet a finished artist," these critics say, but at four-and-twenty what would you? her voice is "golden," and no one denies that her histrionic gifts are phenomenal. it is strange--this quality of native _greatness_. in the case of these famous singers, one almost feels that the _greatness_ makes the voice. the _mind_ is what counts, after all. geraldine farrar impresses one forcibly with this fact. her mind is alert, keen, observant, thoughtful, quick at reaching conclusions, widely interested, eager to learn, but at the same time self-contained and firmly poised. when talking about music her face lights up. she has much to say; she has thought and studied deeply; she is intense, enthusiastic, full of her subject, aglow with earnestness and vitality. from early childhood she was always singing, always acting, and always _intending to be a prima-donna_. "i began voice-study when i was twelve, but before that had sung all of faust in italian, and acted it according to my own imagination." when asked if she had not run some risk of harming the vocal cords by beginning so young, she explained that her voice at this age was remarkably mature and full. she was possessed, besides, with an irresistible desire to sing, so it seemed both prudent and wise to commence serious study thus early. "a born singer is _instinctive_, and selects, almost instinctively, her individual means of expression, avoiding, in the main, what is distinctly harmful. but practice and study are continuously and always necessary. i work faithfully every day with scales and trills and intervals. before a performance i go over my part, mentally, from beginning to end." in reply to a question about her ambition, she answered promptly and impressively: "yes, i have one very decided ambition: i wish to develop my powers to the fullest extent and most complete beauty, and then--i wish to have the _courage_, when physical strength no longer responds to the creative demands, to _abdicate in favor of youth_! youth must be recognized, enjoyed, encouraged! we should have more of this god-given fragrance in our mimic world, and less of hard-earned, middle-aged experience." miss farrar's favorite recreation is "_sleep_--and much of it!" as for books, she likes "everything." "i read a great deal," she commented. "when i was studying 'madame butterfly,' i read everything i could find about the japanese. i tried to imbue myself with their spirit. i bought up old prints, and pictures, and costumes; i learned how they eat, and sleep, and walk, and talk, and think, and feel. i read books on the subject in french and german, as well as in english." incidentally it came out that she memorized this most difficult of operas in fifteen days. "no, i am never afraid of forgetting my lines." then, tapping her forehead lightly, she added: "when a thing is once learned, it seems to stick in a certain corner of your brain and stay there." there was youth and girlishness in her off-hand manner of making this remark. in fact, the artist and girl are constantly alternating in the play of her features, and it is fascinating to watch this hide-and-seek of youth and maturity. the girl-spirit was uppermost now, as she sank back comfortably in her big arm-chair, drew her frenchy peignoire more snugly about her, and related some of the droll _contretemps_ that occur on the opera-house stage. "the audience never seems to see them, but the most ridiculous things happen, and then it is terrible when you want to laugh, but dare not." a mention of lilli lehmann suddenly sobered the conversation. lilli lehmann is geraldine farrar's teacher--"and a very severe one"--her pupil asserts. "but she--and all germans--appreciate _personality_. that is why i have been allowed to develop my own ideas--to be individual. that is, to me, the most interesting part of the art. i am keenly interested in observing life--the expression of people's faces, their way of saying and doing things. wherever i am, whatever i see, i am always finding something to use in my art. "i once saw a death--it sounds unfeeling to say it, but i now use the very expression i saw then in the finale of 'boheme.'" geraldine farrar's realism is a well-known phase of her art. a striking instance is her performance in the last act of romeo and juliet: she sings almost the entire scene _lying down_! an amazing innovation. "perhaps it is unusual," she commented, "but the simple repose seems to me more fully to accentuate the sublime and lyric climax of the tragedy." this is a little rift into the prima-donna's viewpoint. she believes that "vocal intensity and dramatic value should so merge one into the other that they produce equalized sincerity of expression and constant changing of color, movement, and sentiment." "give your best always; take _sincerity_ for your guide, and _work_, never-ending, for your master." this is geraldine farrar's creed. "madame butterfly" madame butterfly beauty of plot and great music are to an opera what fair features and a noble soul are to woman. "madame butterfly" possesses these attributes, and has consequently won that instant success which only true beauty, in either art or nature, calls forth. very seldom is the story of an opera so intensely thrilling that the original author is borne in mind; but it may be stated as a fact that no one applauds giacomo puccini's splendid music without also thinking "all hail!" to john luther long, who wrote this strangely tender tragedy. distinctly unique as a grand opera setting is the land of cherry-blossoms. never before have the higher harmonies been blended in with embroidered kimonas and chrysanthemum screens. the innovation is delightful, however; refreshing, uplifting, enlarging. by means of great music we are enabled to understand great emotion in the little land. in this opera the hero is the villain, if one may so express it. he is also an american; a lieutenant in the u. s. navy, and from first to last he seems blandly unconscious of his villainy. this is distressing morally, but musically one could wish it no different. as the rainbow-mist rises out of the whirlpool, so the beautiful in art is most often evolved from a maelstrom of sin and tragedy. a flowered veranda to a tiny house, a lilac-garden that overlooks a far, fair view of nagasaki, the bright blue bay and azure sky--this is the opening scene of puccini's opera. the brief orchestral prelude is a pretty piece of fugue work, four-voiced and accurately constructed. a fugue is unusual in grand opera, but puccini has a purpose in everything, and his music is essentially descriptive. the opening conversation in this opera concerns the construction of the tiny villa, and as a fugue is the one music-form suggestive of rules and measurements--a secure foundation and precise superstructure--it is clear that this bit of musical masonry, with its themes overlapping but carefully joined, is intended to represent the house. on the stage the dainty dwelling is glowingly described by goro, a japanese marriage-broker; very obsequious in manners, but characterized in the orchestra by a most energetic, business-like theme that follows him around like a shadow. a wedding of his arranging is soon to take place, and this house has been rented for the honeymoon. the bridegroom, lieutenant pinkerton, of the u. s. navy, is viewing the abode for the first time. he wears a handsome uniform, and serves the opera as tenor, hero, lover, villain--all in one. goro makes him acquainted also with the house-servant, susuki, a solemn-faced, saffron-colored maiden, whose name means "gentle-breeze-of-the-morning." pinkerton prefers to call her "scare-crow." the first invited guest to arrive is the u. s. consul. a sympathetic and genuinely tender theme announces this character's approach. always listen to the orchestra if you would know the real nature of these people of the play. in grand opera, as in real life, _words_ very often conceal thought; but by the power of music the listener is endowed with a temporary sense of omniscience; he can read the hearts and motives of the creatures he observes. it being still early, pinkerton and the consul seat themselves while the hero explains this marriage he is entering upon. but first he orders a "whisky and soda." there is apparently no translation for this barroom barbarism, so the english words are used, and their effect is noticeably jarring. no critic has failed to remark this surprising debut of fire-water on the lyric stage! there is charm and poetry in the italian wine-glass, and we have grown accustomed to see that mingled with melody--but the american whisky-bottle stands remote from music as a pig from paradise. puccini seems to realize this, for he accompanies the obnoxious word with a discord! there is nothing discordant, however, in pinkerton's description of his bride--the lovely lady butterfly--"dainty in stature--quaint little figure--seems to have stepped down, straight from a screen." the music here is delicate and frail, like an exquisite tracery of gold lacquer. [illustration: copyright by aimé dupont. miss farrar as "madame butterfly"] he intends to marry this japanese bride in japanese fashion, thereby making the tie unbinding in america--a slip-knot adjustment that she, poor thing, is unaware of. the consul remonstrates with pinkerton over his "easy-going gospel" of free love, but this light-hearted villain will not listen. he holds up his glass instead, and to a buried accompaniment of the "star-spangled banner," he proposes a toast to america--and also to the day on which he shall wed in _real_ marriage a _real_ wife of his own nationality. with this atrocious toast scarcely uttered, poor little trusting butterfly is heard in the distance with her bridesmaids, singing as they approach. a delirium of joy breathes through this song, which is a weird succession of oriental intervals, strange as an opium dream. as the harmonies grow firmer, butterfly's voice rings out above the others, while in the orchestra the conductor with his baton slowly unearths, like a buried diamond, the great love-theme of the opera. it beams forth in sultry splendor, a cluster of chords with imprisoned tones that flash forth unlooked-for harmonies. at last she enters--this japanese heroine, her brilliant draperies as bright as her name. her maidens all carry huge paper parasols and fluttering fans--a merry group of girls, filled with varied emotions of timidity, envy, curiosity, and fun. they courtesy, and smile, and sing, and sigh, and lower their eyes with knowing charm. throughout this scene it is interesting to note the different themes and their consistent use. a phrase of the opening fugue invariably appears whenever the _house_ is mentioned; still another architectural motif protrudes into prominence every time the town nagasaki is referred to. susuki has a theme of her own; so has the consul. when the relations of the bride troop in, we recognize the fact that they, too, have a theme; we learned it when goro, some time back, was enumerating the expected guests. this theme now asserts itself in the orchestra as the grotesque company assembles. there is nothing great about this melody: it is a mincing, thin-bodied affair, but disports itself with much confidence during its little hour of importance; it shoves out every other theme from the orchestra and demands undivided attention. but at last the director's stick chases it out of the enclosure. the guests in the meantime have been gossiping among themselves, disparaging the bride, criticizing the groom--and partaking of his refreshments. all flats and sharps and accidentals are suddenly dropt from the score when the official registrar reads in monotone voice, and plain c major, the simple marriage form. the ceremony is soon over, but the guests linger on. pinkerton plies them with wine, but makes little headway in hurrying the festivities to an end. he has grown heartily tired of these new relations, and longs to see them go, but, instead of any one leaving, another one suddenly arrives, an absent uncle, who plunges amongst them in a frenzy of wrath and excitement. he has learned at the american mission that butterfly, without telling her family, has changed her religion and cast off the faith of her fathers. cries of horror, moans, and execrations follow this announcement. butterfly is denounced by her family--abjured and disowned. she cowers before them, distressed, but not utterly crushed, for love remains to console her. the tragic theme of the opera; a gruesome sequence of minor thirds, takes this opportunity to stalk into the orchestra and reconnoiter, like an undertaker looking over the premises before he is really needed. this theme has active work to do later on, but as yet does not seem very terrifying. when the relations and guests are gone, butterfly is soon persuaded to forget the "stupid tribe." evening has come; there is a twilight tinge to the music; it is "_dolce_," "_expressione_," and "_rallentando_." puccini is a master of modulations. he employs large, full harmonies, soul-asserting, all-engulfing chords, that feel their way from one key to another, and burst forth in new glory with every transition. this persistent progress through varying keys has an effect of leading the listener through different rooms in some palatial edifice. in the hands of a great composer, each key of the scale unlocks a new vista in the enchanted palace of music. behind a screen on the veranda, butterfly changes her chromatic kimona to one of white silk. she emerges with garments all soft and fluttering, like the trembling white wings of a night-moth. pinkerton leads her into the garden, and there, under the spell of the silent stars, they sing of love and of the glorious mystic night, with its gentle breeze that passes like a benediction over the bending lilacs. fire-flies (cleverly imitated) hover in the air and flicker faintly, like candles in a distant chancel. the conductor waving his wand, like a priest the swinging censor, evokes a wreathing mist of music that enwraps the lovers in a drapery of dreams. melodies and harmonies rise into being and pass away like phantoms floating by, until at last the great love-theme of the opera once again is flashed upon us. the _diamond_, scarce revealed before, is now in its proper setting. it is displayed in solemn glory by the dignitary at the desk, who, with upraised, swaying hands, holds aloft this precious theme, as a priest does the sacred emblem. act ii. pictures the interior of butterfly's house. there is desolation in the home; the orchestra tells us this, for the tragic theme possesses the instruments, creeping around among them, serpent-like, and enfolding them in its coils. the rising curtain reveals susuki kneeling before a shrine; she is praying that pinkerton may return. three times have the dragon-kites swelled in the breeze and the peach trees flushed into bloom since the day he sailed away. her prayer abounds in strange and uncouth harmonies that wail themselves into silence. when the incantation is finished, an orchestral phrase of keen despair and tortured hope accompanies butterfly as she asks: "how soon shall we be starving?" susuki counts over the few remaining yen, and expresses doubt about pinkerton's return. again that same theme of anguish pierces the air like a knife as butterfly shrieks out: "silence!" she will not listen to doubt. she insists that he will return, and she fondly adds, "he will call me again his tiny child-wife, his little butterfly!" with this memory there is a momentary return of the great love-theme in the orchestra; tender and fleeting, like a smile on the face of the dying. butterfly sings of the radiant hour, some day, when they shall see "in the distance a little thread of smoke," and then "a trim, white vessel," flying the american flag! the music of this aria has a confident ring and a forward swing, like a great ship nearing shore. large and splendid is the final climax: "he will return--i know!" a familiar theme in the orchestra heralds the approach of the u. s. consul. he brings a letter from pinkerton which he wishes butterfly to hear, but japanese politeness interferes for some time. he must first accept tea and wine, a pipe to smoke, and a cushion to sit on. he is questioned about his health and the health of his honorable ancestors. his own "augustness" is profusely welcomed. scarcely have these formalities been accomplished when another visitor arrives--a pompous personage, accompanied by servants who bring presents and flowers. he comes to persuade madame butterfly that her husband's absence amounts to a divorce, and that he, prince yamadori, should be accepted as pinkerton's successor. this energetic wooer, lemon-faced and almond-eyed, imparts to the music a spicy flavor, grotesque and japanese. his brief, breezy phrases have a turn and tang that belongs entirely to the land of nippon; staccato suggestions of chop-sticks and oolong. the hostess politely declines to listen to her elaborate suitor. she busies herself pouring tea, while in the orchestra a delightfully tender, untroubled waltz-theme reflects her tranquil spirit, which is like some quiet mountain pool in the path of a coming avalanche. impending disaster is near. pinkerton's letter contains news that will bring devastation to the little japanese home. he is coming back--but not to see butterfly; a new wife comes with him. the consul waits until yamadori has gone, then bravely tries to read the letter, but his eager listener is too excited to hear to the end. "he is coming!" that is enough! her joy is unbounded. she speeds from the room and in a moment returns with a sunny-haired child on her shoulders--her "baby-boy!"--her "noble little american!"--to whom she tells the glad news that his father soon will return. the distressed consul has not the heart to enlighten her further. he leaves rather abruptly. a moment later a signal gun is heard in the distance. susuki plunges in, breathless;--"the harbor cannon!" both women rush to the window. they can see the ship! a man-of-war! the stars and stripes! oh, the pain of this joy! the audience, knowing all, is torn and racked with emotion as the orchestra reiterates butterfly's recent song of confidence about "his sure return." now is her "hour of triumph!" she proclaims it to high heaven--to susuki--and to all "the eight hundred thousand gods and goddesses of japan." all the world had told her he would forget and never return--but she knew!--she knew! now, at last, her faith triumphs--he is here! superb is the crescendo now sweeping upward on the crest of america's martial theme. the star-spangled banner is bugled by the instruments, while butterfly's voice, in high and jubilant accord, sings again the glad words: "he is here!--he loves me!" in the orchestra the love-theme--the great theme--arises slowly and passes by like a spirit of the past, a soul long dead, a memory faded. now follows a poetic scene unsurpassed for picturesque charm and grace. in accordance with japanese custom, the two women sprinkle the room with flowers, in honor of his home-coming. great baskets full of blossoms are brought in by susuki, while butterfly, always singing, showers the room with petals. she sways with the rhythm of joy and music, flinging the flowers in reckless profusion, her voice seeming to follow their flight--up in the air--and down again. susuki, too, scatters rainbow-clouds of jasmine, peach-blooms, and violets; her contralto voice at the same time giving depth of color to the music. in the orchestra dainty, fluttering phrases are lightly tossed about, as tho shaken from the instruments by a passing breeze. full of strange involutions and harmonies, the music of this "flower-duet" possesses the essential quality of all that is lasting and classic--hidden beauty beneath the obvious. with the choicest "mixing" of harmony, orchestra and voice, puccini has brewed a "blend" most rare, and sugared it with melody. when the baskets are emptied and the last flower fallen, a few final notes of the refrain still left in the orchestra are hurriedly brushed out by the conductor's baton. on the stage, as the daylight melts into dusk, butterfly, all in a flurry, is decking herself in her wedding gown, while the orchestra calls up memories of the lilac-garden and the fire-flies. when all is ready, butterfly, susuki, and the little one take positions at the window. long and patiently they watch and wait. the orchestra plays a soft, unchanging staccato accompaniment. the moonlight finds its way into the room. at last the maid and the child fall asleep. not so with butterfly; rigid and still she stands at the window, her eyes on the distant harbor-lights. a sound of far-away voices softly humming a sad, weird refrain, fills the scene with mystery, suggesting the moan of guardian spirits. all this while the gentle staccato harmonies in the orchestra continue to flit back and forth, like the changing lights of swinging lanterns. butterfly does not move. the curtain slowly descends. the prelude to the last act opens with a theme that crashes and tears its way into prominence: a pitiless, gruesome group of notes, that sounds vaguely familiar, tho it has never been emphasized like the tragic-theme and others gone before. in the first act this dire phrase was heard for a moment, buried softly among the harmonies that accompanied butterfly's first entrance song. she was happy then, but, nevertheless, this germ of agony was lurking near, as tho to suggest that we, each one, carry within our own temperament the weakness or fault that will eventually lead us to grief. the orchestra is kept very active during this prelude or intermission. the past is presented in flashes of old themes, and the coming day is presaged by new phrases of potent meaning. sounds of the harbor life beginning to stir, distant voices of sailors chanting, are heard even before the curtain rises. when this is lifted, behold poor butterfly still at her post! all night she has watched and waited, never moving, never doubting. now the dawn, cruel, cold-eyed and leering, begins to peer through the window. the pale, frail figure in her wedding gown still does not move; she still hopes on, counting the stars as they disappear; measuring each moment by her heart's wild beating. the dawn grows rosy, the music in the orchestra tells of the world's awakening. the sun's glad welcome is proclaimed in a resounding pean of harmonies, pierced with sharp, bright strokes from the triangle. but all this brilliant daybreak music fails to modify the tragedy of the dawn. susuki awakens to despair, but poor little butterfly still asserts, "he'll come! he'll come!" when urged by the maid to rest, she takes the little one up in her arms, soothing him gently with a quiet song as she mounts the stairs to her sleeping-room. scarcely has she gone, when susuki is startled by a knock at the door. pinkerton has come--and the consul with him, but they tell the maid not to summon her mistress--not yet. the music of the flower-duet fills the air like a faint perfume as pinkerton observes the withered blossoms, and susuki explains the decorations and tells of butterfly's weary vigil. a moment later she sees through the window a lady waiting in the garden. it is pinkerton's wife. "hallowed souls of our fathers! the world is plunged in gloom!" susuki falls prostrate on her knees. the ensuing trio is a magnificent musical unfoldment of sympathy from the consul, remorse from pinkerton, and consternation from susuki. it is a splendid mingling of emotion and melody. the two men are left alone as the maid goes out to speak with the new wife. pinkerton acts properly distressed over the situation, and his friend, being only human, cannot refrain from saying, "i told you so," whereupon the music of his warning remonstrance in the first act is plainly marked in the orchestra, like an underscoring to written words. pinkerton sighs over the room and its associations, sheds a few tears, and then decides the strain is too great for him. as he leaves the house, his wife and susuki walk into view at the window. at this moment butterfly comes rushing down the stairs; she has heard voices--"he is here!" susuki tries to ward off the evil moment, but the _hour has struck_. the tragic theme rises up supreme--revealing itself in unclothed hideousness: all the other themes have fallen away; they were as mere empty masks over the face of truth--behind life is always death--back of the smile is a skeleton. through the open window butterfly sees the "other woman." "who are you?" mechanically her lips frame the words, as she stands there, paralyzed--stunned. but the question was perfunctory; the explanations that follow only confirm what she knew at first sight. very gently the american wife proposes to butterfly to adopt her child and bring him up as her own. the japanese mother listens dumbly--then slowly realizes that unless she consents to this plan her boy will have no name. butterfly says very little--but she accedes. she asks, however, that mr. pinkerton himself shall come for the child. "come in half an hour--in half an hour." agreed to this, the consul and the american lady go away. susuki is now quietly ordered to leave the room. she protests, but her mistress is firm; she wishes to be alone. when the weeping maid has gone, butterfly lights a lamp at the little shrine and bows before it. then she takes from the wall a dagger, but drops this as the baby suddenly enters, shoved in by susuki--faithful slave! who, forbidden to enter herself, thus blindly tries to frustrate butterfly's ominous wish to be alone. the child rushes to its mother's arms, and butterfly clasps it wildly, calling it all the extravagant love-names japanese fancy can devise. "'tis for you, my love, that i am dying!" she holds him at arm's-length and bids him look long and well upon her face. the baby tosses his head and laughs; he little recks what she is saying: "_take one last look on your mother's face, that the memory may linger._" the tragic theme attains a grandeur now that makes it seem the apotheosis of human heartache. through the alembic of the composer's art this gruesome theme emerges ablaze with a terrible glory. it sweeps apast like a fiery chariot, bearing poor little butterfly's soul to heaven. there is little more to record; the moment of death seems already gone through in bidding the child good-bye. what follows is done very quietly; every movement is lifeless and spiritless. she ties a bandage about the little one's eyes, and she puts in his hand an american flag; the japanese mother's token of surrender. then butterfly picks up the dagger. the deed is soon done; she totters to the floor, and with her last breath tries to reach for her baby's hand. * * * * * advertisements the palace of danger a story of la pompadour by mabel wagnalls a story possessing the five essential qualities that constitute greatness in a novel:--a plot "keenly dramatic" (_review of reviews_); "a wealth of charm of style," (_n. y. press_); such sustained interest that it has "not a dull line from beginning to end." 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"it is perfectly delightful. the theme is new and interesting."--_ella wheeler wilcox._ "it is a story of tender and pathetic interest--the story of a woman with a wonderfully beautiful voice. a dainty and fascinating romance which will appeal to music lovers."--_chicago news._ "it vibrates with musical sentiment. there is a good deal of artistic skill displayed in its description."--_boston watchman._ "a story unique in theme, delightfully told with many delicate touches."--_the arena_, boston. _small 12mo, cloth. illustrated. 40 cents, net_ funk & wagnalls company, pubs., new york * * * * * selma, the soprano by mabel wagnalls forms one of the chapters in the book entitled "one of those coincidences." it is the tragical story of a journalist and his talented sweetheart and wife, who are at first separated, and then reunited by strange fortunes. the story is filled with music and feeling, and holds the reader's intense interest to the very end. other entertaining stories bound in the same volume one of those coincidences by julian hawthorne the taper by count leo tolstoi how viardeau obeyed the black abbe by charles g. d. roberts john merril's experiments in palmistry by florence m. kingsley francisco by walcott le clear beard jacob city by a. stewart clarke at the end of his rope by florence m. kingsley the strange case of esther atkins by mrs. l. e. l. hardenbrook the easter of la mercedes by mary c. francis the romance of a tin roof and a fire escape by myra l. avery one of those coincidences _12mo, cloth. profusely illustrated. price, $1.00_ funk & wagnalls company, pubs., new york a second book of operas by henry edward krehbiel contents and index chapter i biblical operas england and the lord chamberlain's censorship, et gounod's "reine de saba," the transmigrations of "un ballo in maschera," how composers revamp their music, et seq,--handel and keiser, mozart and bertati, beethoven's readaptations of his own works, rossini and his "barber of seville," verdi's "nebuchadnezzar," rossini's "moses," "samson et dalila," goldmark's "konigin von saba," the biblical operas of rubinstein, mehul's "joseph," mendelssohn's "elijah" in dramatic form, oratorios and lenten operas in italy, carissimi and peri, scarlatti's oratorios, scenery and costumes in oratorios, the passage of the red sea and "dal tuo stellato," nerves wrecked by beautiful music, "peter the hermit" and refractory mimic troops, "mi manca la voce" and operatic amenities, operatic prayers and ballets, goethe's criticism of rossini's "mose," chapter ii bible stories in opera and oratorio dr. chrysander's theory of the undramatic nature of the hebrew, his literature, and his life, hebrew history and greek mythology, some parallels, old testament subjects: adam and eve, cain and abel, the "kain" of bulthaupt and d'albert, "tote augen," noah and the deluge, abraham, the exodus, mehal's "joseph," potiphar's wife and richard strauss, raimondi's contrapuntal trilogy, nebuchadnezzar, judas maccabaeus, jephtha and his daughter, judith, esther, athalia, chapter iii rubinstein and his "geistliche oper" anton rubinstein and his ideals, an ambition to emulate wagner, "the tower of babel," the composer's theories and strivings, et seq.--dean stanley, "die makkabaer," "sulamith," "christus," "das verlorene paradies," "moses," action and stage directions, new testament stories in opera, the prodigal son, legendary material and the story of the nativity, christ dramas, hebbel and wagner, "parsifal," chapter iv "samson et dalila" the predecessors of m. saint-saens, voltaire and rameau, duprez and joachim raff, history of saint-saens's opera, et seq.--henri regnault, first performances, as oratorio and opera in new york, an inquiry into the story of samson, samson and herakles, the hebrew hero in legend, a true type for tragedy, mythological interpretations, saint-saens's opera described, et seq.--a choral prologue, local color, the character of dalila, et seq.--milton on her wifehood and patriotism, "printemps qui commence," "mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix," oriental ballet music, the catastrophe, chapter v "die konigin von saba" meritoriousness of the book of goldmark's opera, its slight connection with biblical story, contents of the drama et seq.--parallelism with wagner's "tannhauser," first performance in new york, oriental luxury in scenic outfit, goldmark's music, chapter vi "herodiade" modern opera and ancient courtesans, transformed morals in massenet's opera, a sea-change in england, who and what was salome? plot of the opera, scenic and musical adornments, performances in new york, (footnote). chapter vii "lakme" story of the opera, et seq.--the "bell song," some unnecessary english ladies, first performance in new york, american history of the opera, madame patti, miss van zandt madame sembrich madame tetrazzini, criticism of the drama, the music, chapter viii "pagliacci" the twin operas, "cavalleria rusticana" and "pagliacci," widespread influence of mascagni's opera, it inspires an ambition in leoncavallo, history of his opera, a tragic ending taken from real life, et seq.--controversy between leoncavallo and catulle mendes, et seq.--"la femme de tabarin," "tabarin" operas, the "drama nuevo" of estebanez and mr. howells's "yorick's love," what is a pagliaccio? first performances of the opera in milan and new york, the prologue, et seq.--the opera described, et seq.--bagpipes and vesper bells, harlequin's serenade, the minuet, the gavotte, "plaudite, amici, la commedia finita est!" philip hale on who should speak the final words, chapter ix "cavalleria rusticana" how mascagni's opera impressed the author when it was new, attic tragedy and attic decorum, the loathsome operatic brood which it spawned, not matched by the composer or his imitators since, mascagni's account of how it came to be written, et seq.--verga's story, et seq.--story and libretto compared, the siciliano, the easter hymn, analysis of the opera, et seq.--the prelude, lola's stornello, the intermezzo, "they have killed neighbor turiddu!" chapter x the career of mascagni influence of "cavalleria rusticana" on operatic composition, "santuzza," a german sequel, cilea's "tilda," giordano's "mala vita," tasca's "a santa lucia," mascagni's history, et seq.--composes schiller's "hymn to joy," "il filanda," "ratcliff," "l'amico fritz," "i rantzau," "silvano," "zanetto," "le maschere," "vistillia," "arnica," mascagni's american visit, chapter xi "iris" the song of the sun, allegory and drama, story of the opera, et seq.--the music, et seq.--turbid orchestration, local color, borrowings from meyerbeer, chapter xii "madama butterfly" the opera's ancestry, loti's "madame chrysantheme," john luther long's story, david belasco's play, how the failure of "naughty anthony" suggested "madame butterfly," william furst and his music, success of mr. belasco's play in new york, the success repeated in london, brought to the attention of signor puccini, ricordi and co. and their librettists, "madama butterfly" fails in milan, the first casts in milan, brescia, and new york, (footnote) incidents of the fiasco, rossini and puccini, the opera revised, interruption of the vigil, story of the opera, et seq.--the hiring of wives in japan, experiences of pierre loti, geishas and mousmes, a changed denouement, messager's opera, "madame chrysantheme," the end of loti's romance, japanese melodies in the score, puccini's method and wagner's, "the star-spangled banner," a tune from "the mikado," some of the themes of puccini and william furst, chapter xiii "der rosenkavalier" the opera's predecessors, "guntram," "feuersnot," "salome," oscar wilde makes a mistaken appeal to france, his necrophilism welcomed by richard strauss and berlin, conried's efforts to produce "salome" at the metropolitan opera blouse suppressed, hammerstein produces the work, "elektra," hugo von hoffmannsthal and beaumarchais, strauss and mozart, mozart's themes and strauss's waltzes, dancing in vienna at the time of maria theresa, first performance of the opera at new york, "der rosenkavalier" and "le nozze di figaro," criticism of the play and its music, et seq.--use of a melodic phrase from "die zauberflote," the language of the libretto, the music, cast of the first american performance, (footnote) chapter xiv "konigskinder" story of the play, et seq.--first production of hummerdinck's opera and cast, earlier performance of the work as a melodrama, author and composer, opera and melodrama in germany, wagnerian symbolism and music, "die meistersinger" recalled, hero and leander, humperdinck's music, chapter xv "boris godounoff" first performance of moussorgsky's opera in new york, participation of the chorus in the tragedy, imported french enthusiasm, vocal melody, textual accents and rhythms, slavicism expressed in an italian translation, moussorgsky and debussy, political reasons for french enthusiasm, rimsky-korsakoff's revision of the score, russian operas in america, "nero," "pique dame," "eugene onegin," verstoffeky's "askold's tomb," the nationalism of "boris godounoff," the kolydda song "slava" and beethoven, lack of the feminine element in the drama, the opera's lack of coherency, cast of the first american performance, chapter xvi "madame sans-gene" and other operas by giordano first performance of "madame sans-gene," a singing napoleon, royalties in opera, henry the fowler, king mark, verdi's pharaoh, herod, boris godounoff, macbeth, gustavus and some mythical kings and dukes, et seq.--mattheson's "boris," peter the great, sardou's play and giordano's opera, verdi on an operatic bonaparte, sardou's characters, "andrea chenier," french rhythms, "fedora," "siberia," the historic chenier, russian local color, "schone minka," "slava," "ay ouchnem," french revolutionary airs, "la marseillaise," "la carmagnole," "ca ira," chapter xvii two operas by wolf-ferrari the composer's operas first sung in their original tongue in america, first performances of "le donne curiose," "il segreto di susanna," "i giojelli della madonna," "l'amore medico," story and music of "le donne curiose," methods and apparatus of mozart's day, wolf-ferrari's teutonism, goldoni paraphrased, nicolai and verdi, the german version of "donne curiose," musical motivi in the opera, rameau's "la poule," cast of the first performance in new york, (footnote)--naples and opera, "i giojelli della madonna," et seq.--erlanger's "aphrodite," neapolitan folksongs, wolf-ferrari's individuality, his "vita nuova," first performance in america of "i giojelli," chapter i biblical operas whether or not the english owe a grudge to their lord chamberlain for depriving them of the pleasure of seeing operas based on biblical stories i do not know. if they do, the grudge cannot be a deep one, for it is a long time since biblical operas were in vogue, and in the case of the very few survivals it has been easy to solve the difficulty and salve the conscience of the public censor by the simple device of changing the names of the characters and the scene of action if the works are to be presented on the stage, or omitting scenery, costumes and action and performing them as oratorios. in either case, whenever this has been done, however, it has been the habit of critics to make merry at the expense of my lord chamberlain and the puritanicalness of the popular spirit of which he is supposed to be the official embodiment, and to discourse lugubriously and mayhap profoundly on the perversion of composers' purposes and the loss of things essential to the lyric drama. it may be heretical to say so, but is it not possible that lord chamberlain and critic have both taken too serious a view of the matter? there is a vast amount of admirable material in the bible (historical, legendary or mythical, as one happens to regard it), which would not necessarily be degraded by dramatic treatment, and which might be made entertaining as well as edifying, as it has been made in the past, by stage representation. reverence for this material is neither inculcated nor preserved by shifting the scene and throwing a veil over names too transparent to effect a disguise. moreover, when this is done, there is always danger that the process may involve a sacrifice of the respect to which a work of art is entitled on its merits as such. gounod, in collaboration with barbier and carre, wrote an opera entitled "la reine de saba." the plot had nothing to do with the bible beyond the name of sheba's queen and king solomon. mr. farnie, who used to make comic operetta books in london, adapted the french libretto for performance in english and called the opera "irene." what a title for a grand opera! why not "blanche" or "arabella"? no doubt such a thought flitted through many a careless mind unconscious that an irene was a byzantine empress of the eighth century, who, by her devotion to its tenets, won beatification after death from the greek church. the opera failed on the continent as well as in london, but if it had not been given a comic operetta flavor by its title and association with the name of the excellent mr. farnie, would the change in supposed time, place and people have harmed it? a few years ago i read (with amusement, of course) of the metamorphosis to which massenet's "herodiade" was subjected so that it might masquerade for a brief space on the london stage; but when i saw the opera in new york "in the original package" (to speak commercially), i could well believe that the music sounded the same in london, though john the baptist sang under an alias and the painted scenes were supposed to delineate ethiopia instead of palestine. there is a good deal of nonsensical affectation in the talk about the intimate association in the minds of composers of music, text, incident, and original purpose. "un ballo in maschera," as we see it most often nowadays, plays in nomansland; but i fancy that its music would sound pretty much the same if the theatre of action were transplanted back to sweden, whence it came originally, or left in naples, whither it emigrated, or in boston, to which highly inappropriate place it was banished to oblige the neapolitan censor. so long as composers have the habit of plucking feathers out of their dead birds to make wings for their new, we are likely to remain in happy and contented ignorance of mesalliances between music and score, until they are pointed out by too curious critics or confessed by the author. what is present habit was former custom to which no kind or degree of stigma attached. bach did it; handel did it; nor was either of these worthies always scrupulous in distinguishing between meum and tuum when it came to appropriating existing thematic material. in their day the merit of individuality and the right of property lay more in the manner in which ideas were presented than in the ideas themselves. in 1886 i spent a delightful day with dr. chrysander at his home in bergedorf, near hamburg, and he told me the story of how on one occasion, when keiser was incapacitated by the vice to which he was habitually prone, handel, who sat in his orchestra, was asked by him to write the necessary opera. handel complied, and his success was too great to leave keiser's mind in peace. so he reset the book. before keiser's setting was ready for production handel had gone to italy. hearing of keiser's act, he secured a copy of the new setting from a member of the orchestra and sent back to hamburg a composition based on keiser's melodies "to show how such themes ought to be treated." dr. chrysander, also, when he gave me a copy of bertati's "don giovanni" libretto, for which gazzaniga composed the music, told me that mozart had been only a little less free than the poet in appropriating ideas from the older work. one of the best pieces in the final scene of "fidelio" was taken from a cantata on the death of the emperor of austria, composed by beethoven before he left bonn. the melody originally conceived for the last movement of the symphony in d minor was developed into the finale of one of the last string quartets. in fact the instances in which composers have put their pieces to widely divergent purposes are innumerable and sometimes amusing, in view of the fantastic belief that they are guided by plenary inspiration. the overture which rossini wrote for his "barber of seville" was lost soon after the first production of the opera. the composer did not take the trouble to write another, but appropriated one which had served its purpose in an earlier work. persons ignorant of that fact, but with lively imaginations, as i have said in one of my books, ["a book of operas," p. 9] have rhapsodized on its appositeness, and professed to hear in it the whispered plottings of the lovers and the merry raillery of rosina contrasted with the futile ragings of her grouty guardian; but when rossini composed this piece of music its mission was to introduce an adventure of the emperor aurelianus in palmyra in the third century of the christian era. having served that purpose it became the prelude to another opera which dealt with queen elizabeth of england, a monarch who reigned some twelve hundred years after aurelianus. again, before the melody now known as that of almaviva's cavatina had burst into the efflorescence which now distinguishes it, it came as a chorus from the mouths of cyrus and his persians in ancient babylon. when mr. lumley desired to produce verdi's "nabucodonosor" (called "nabucco" for short) in london in 1846 he deferred to english tradition and brought out the opera as "nino, re d'assyria." i confess that i cannot conceive how changing a king of babylon to a king of assyria could possibly have brought about a change one way or the other in the effectiveness of verdi's italian music, but mr. lumley professed to have found in the transformation reason for the english failure. at any rate, he commented, in his "reminiscences of the opera," "that the opera thus lost much of its original character, especially in the scene where the captive israelites became very uninteresting babylonians, and was thereby shorn of one element of success present on the continent, is undeniable." there is another case even more to the purpose of this present discussion. in 1818 rossini produced his opera "mose in egitto" in naples. the strength of the work lay in its choruses; yet two of them were borrowed from the composer's "armida." in 1822 bochsa performed it as an oratorio at covent garden, but, says john ebers in his "seven years of the king's theatre," published in 1828, "the audience accustomed to the weighty metal and pearls of price of handel's compositions found the 'moses' as dust in the balance in comparison." "the oratorio having failed as completely as erst did pharaoh's host," ebers continues, "the ashes of 'mose in egitto' revived in the form of an opera entitled 'pietro l'eremita.' moses was transformed into peter. in this form the opera was as successful as it had been unfortunate as an oratorio.... 'mose in egitto' was condemned as cold, dull, and heavy. 'pietro l'eremita,' lord sefton, one of the most competent judges of the day, pronounced to be the most effective opera produced within his recollection; and the public confirmed the justice of the remark, for no opera during my management had such unequivocal success." [footnote: "seven years of the king's theatre," by john ebers, pp. 157, 158.] this was not the end of the opera's vicissitudes, to some of which i shall recur presently; let this suffice now: rossini rewrote it in 1827, adding some new music for the academie royal in paris, and called it "moise"; when it was revived for the covent garden oratorios, london, in 1833, it was not only performed with scenery and dresses, but recruited with music from handel's oratorio and renamed "the israelites in egypt; or the passage of the red sea"; when the french "moise" reached the royal italian opera, covent garden, in april, 1850, it had still another name, "zora," though chorley does not mention the fact in his "thirty years' musical recollections," probably because the failure of the opera which he loved grieved him too deeply. for a long time "moses" occupied a prominent place among oratorios. the handel and haydn society of boston adopted it in 1845, and between then and 1878 performed it forty-five times. in all the years of my intimate association with the lyric drama (considerably more than the number of which mr. chorley has left us a record) i have seen but one opera in which the plot adheres to the biblical story indicated by its title. that opera is saint-saens's "samson et dalila." i have seen others whose titles and dramatis personae suggested narratives found in holy writ, but in nearly all these cases it would be a profanation of the book to call them biblical operas. those which come to mind are goldmark's "konigin von saba," massenet's "herodiade" and richard strauss's "salome." i have heard, in whole or part, but not seen, three of the works which rubinstein would fain have us believe are operas, but which are not--"das verlorene paradies," "der thurmbau zu babel" and "moses"; and i have a study acquaintance with the books and scores of his "maccabaer," which is an opera; his "sulamith," which tries to be one, and his "christus," which marks the culmination of the vainest effort that a contemporary composer made to parallel wagner's achievement on a different line. there are other works which are sufficiently known to me through library communion or concert-room contact to enable me to claim enough acquaintanceship to justify converse about them and which must perforce occupy attention in this study. chiefest and noblest of these are rossini's "moses" and mehul's "joseph." finally, there are a few with which i have only a passing or speaking acquaintance; whose faces i can recognize, fragments of whose speech i know, and whose repute is such that i can contrive to guess at their hearts--such as verdi's "nabucodonosor" and gounod's "reine de saba." rossini's "moses" was the last of the italian operas (the last by a significant composer, at least) which used to be composed to ease the lenten conscience in pleasure-loving italy. though written to be played with the adjuncts of scenery and costumes, it has less of action than might easily be infused into a performance of mendelssohn's "elijah," and the epical element which finds its exposition in the choruses is far greater than that in any opera of its time with which i am acquainted. in both its aspects, as oratorio and as opera, it harks back to a time when the two forms were essentially the same save in respect of subject matter. it is a convenient working hypothesis to take the classic tragedy of hellas as the progenitor of the opera. it can also be taken as the prototype of the festival of the ass, which was celebrated as long ago as the twelfth century in france; of the miracle plays which were performed in england at the same time; the commedia spiritiuale of thirteenth-century italy and the geistliche schauspiele of fourteenth-century germany. these mummeries with their admixture of church song, pointed the way as media of edification to the dramatic representations of biblical scenes which saint philip neri used to attract audiences to hear his sermons in the church of st. mary in vallicella, in rome, and the sacred musical dramas came to be called oratorios. while the camerata were seeking to revive the classic drama in florence, carissimi was experimenting with sacred material in rome, and his epoch-making allegory, "la rappresentazione dell' anima e del corpo," was brought out, almost simultaneously with peri's "euridice," in 1600. putting off the fetters of plainsong, music became beautiful for its own sake, and as an agent of dramatic expression. his excursions into biblical story were followed for a century or more by the authors of sacra azione, written to take the place of secular operas in lent. the stories of jephtha and his daughter, hezekiah, belshazzar, abraham and isaac, jonah, job, the judgment of solomon, and the last judgment became the staple of opera composers in italy and germany for more than a century. alessandro scarlatti, whose name looms large in the history of opera, also composed oratorios; and mr. e. j. dent, his biographer, has pointed out that "except that the operas are in three acts and the oratorios in two, the only difference is in the absence of professedly comic characters and of the formal statement in which the author protests that the words fata, dio, dieta, etc., are only scherzi poetici and imply nothing contrary to the catholic faith." zeno and metastasio wrote texts for sacred operas as well as profane, with tobias, absalom, joseph, david, daniel, and sisera as subjects. presently i shall attempt a discussion of the gigantic attempt made by rubinstein to enrich the stage with an art-form to which he gave a distinctive name, but which was little else than, an inflated type of the old sacra azione, employing the larger apparatus which modern invention and enterprise have placed at the command of the playwright, stage manager, and composer. i am compelled to see in his project chiefly a jealous ambition to rival the great and triumphant accomplishment of richard wagner, but it is possible that he had a prescient eye on a coming time. the desire to combine pictures with oratorio has survived the practice which prevailed down to the beginning of the nineteenth century. handel used scenes and costumes when he produced his "esther," as well as his "acis and galatea," in london. dittersdorf has left for us a description of the stage decorations prepared for his oratorios when they were performed in the palace of the bishop of groswardein. of late years there have been a number of theatrical representations of mendelssohn's "elijah." i have witnessed as well as heard a performance of "acis and galatea" and been entertained with the spectacle of polyphemus crushing the head of presumptuous acis with a stave like another fafner while singing "fly, thou massy ruin, fly" to the bludgeon which was playing understudy for the fatal rock. this diverting incident brings me to a consideration of one of the difficulties which stand in the way of effective stage pictures combined with action in the case of some of the most admired of the subjects for oratorios or sacred opera. it was not the lord chamberlain who stood in the way of saint-saens's "samson et dalila" in the united states for many years, but the worldly wisdom of opera managers who shrank from attempting to stage the spectacle of the falling temple of dagon, and found in the work itself a plentiful lack of that dramatic movement which is to-day considered more essential to success than beautiful and inspiriting music. "samson et dalila" was well known in its concert form when the management of the metropolitan opera house first attempted to introduce it as an opera. it had a single performance in the season of 1894-1895 and then sought seclusion from the stage lamps for twenty years. it was, perhaps, fortunate for the work that no attempt was made to repeat it, for, though well sung and satisfactorily acted, the toppling of the pillars of the temple, discreetly supported by too visible wires, at the conclusion made a stronger appeal to the popular sense of the ridiculous than even saint-saens's music could withstand. it is easy to inveigh against the notion frivolous fribbles and trumpery trappings receive more attention than the fine music which ought to be recognized as the soul of the work, the vital spark which irradiates an inconsequential material body; but human nature has not yet freed itself sufficiently from gross clogs to attain so ideal an attitude. it is to a danger similar to that which threatened the original new york "samson" that the world owes the most popular melody in rossini's "mose." the story is old and familiar to the students of operatic history, but will bear retelling. the plague of darkness opens the opera, the passage of the red sea concludes it. rossini's stage manager had no difficulty with the former, which demanded nothing more than the lowering of the stage lights. but he could evolve no device which could save the final miracle from laughter. a hilarious ending to so solemn a work disturbed the management and the librettist, totola, who, just before a projected revival in naples, a year or two after the first production, came to the composer with a project for saving the third act. rossini was in bed, as usual, and the poet showed him the text of the prayer, "dal tuo stellato," which he said he had written in an hour. "i will get up and write the music," said rossini; "you shall have it in a quarter of an hour." and he kept his word, whether literally or not in respect of time does not matter. when the opera was again performed it contained the chorus with its melody which provided paganini with material for one of his sensational performances on the g-string. [figure: a musical score excerpt] carpani tells the story and describes the effect upon the audience which heard it for the first time. laughter was just beginning in the pit when the public was surprised to note that moses was about to sing. the people stopped laughing and prepared to listen. they were awed by the beauty of the minor strain which was echoed by aaron and then by the chorus of israelites. the host marched across the mimic sea and fell on its knees, and the music burst forth again, but now in the major mode. and now the audience joined in the jubilation. the people in the boxes, says carpani, stood up; they leaned over the railings; applauded; they shouted: "bello! bello! o che bello!" carpani adds: "i am almost in tears when i think of this prayer." an impressionable folk, those italians of less than a century ago. "among other things that can be said in praise of our hero," remarked a physician to carpani, amidst the enthusiasm caused by the revamped opera, "do not forget that he is an assassin. i can cite to you more than forty attacks of nervous fever or violent convulsions on the part of young women, fond to excess of music, which have no other origin than the prayer of the hebrews in the third act with its superb change of key!" thus music saved the scene in naples. when the opera was rewritten for london and made to tell a story about peter the hermit, the corresponding scene had to be elided after the first performance. ebers tells the story: "a body of troops was supposed to pass over a bridge which, breaking, was to precipitate them into the water. the troops being made of basketwork and pulled over the bridge by ropes, unfortunately became refractory on their passage, and very sensibly refused, when the bridge was about to give way, to proceed any further; consequently when the downfall of the arches took place the basket men remained very quietly on that part of the bridge which was left standing, and instead of being consigned to the waves had nearly been set on fire. the audience, not giving the troops due credit for their prudence, found no little fault with their compliance with the law of self-preservation. in the following representations of the opera the bridge and basket men which, en passant (or en restant rather), had cost fifty pounds, were omitted." [footnote: op. cit., p. 160] when "moise" was prepared in paris 45,000 francs were sunk in the red sea. i shall recur in a moment to the famous preghiera but, having ebers' book before me, i see an anecdote so delightfully illustrative of the proverbial spirit of the lyric theatre that i cannot resist the temptation to repeat it. in the revised "moses" made for paris there occurs a quartet beginning "mi manca la voce" ("i lack voice") which chorley describes as "a delicious round." camporese had to utter the words first and no sooner had she done so than ronzi di begnis, in a whisper, loud enough to be heard by her companion, made the comment "e vero!" ("true!")--"a remark," says mr. ebers, "which produced a retort courteous somewhat more than verging on the limit of decorum, though not proceeding to the extremity asserted by rumor, which would have been as inconsistent with propriety as with the habitual dignity and self-possession of camporese's demeanor." somebody, i cannot recall who, has said that the success of "dal tuo stellato" set the fashion of introducing prayers into operas. whether this be true or not, it is a fact that a prayer occurs in four of the operas which rossini composed for the paris grand opera and that the formula is become so common that it may be set down as an operatic convention, a convention, moreover, which even the iconoclast wagner left undisturbed. one might think that the propriety of prayer in a religious drama would have been enforced upon the mind of a classicist like goethe by his admiration for the antique, but it was the fact that rossini's opera showed the israelites upon their knees in supplication to god that set the great german poet against "mose." in a conversation recorded by eckermann as taking place in 1828, we hear him uttering his objection to the work: "i do not understand how you can separate and enjoy separately the subject and the music. you pretend here that the subject is worthless, but you are consoled for it by a feast of excellent music. i wonder that your nature is thus organized that your ear can listen to charming sounds while your sight, the most perfect of your senses, is tormented by absurd objects. you will not deny that your 'moses' is in effect very absurd. the curtain is raised and people are praying. this is all wrong. the bible says that when you pray you should go into your chamber and close the door. therefore, there should be no praying in the theatre. as for me, i should have arranged a wholly different 'moses.' at first i should have shown the children of israel bowed down by countless odious burdens and suffering from the tyranny of the egyptian rulers. then you would have appreciated more easily what moses deserved from his race, which he had delivered from a shameful oppression." "then," says mr. philip hale, who directed my attention to this interesting passage, "goethe went on to reconstruct the whole opera. he introduced, for instance, a dance of the egyptians after the plague of darkness was dispelled." may not one criticise goethe? if he so greatly reverenced prayer, according to its institution under the new dispensation, why did he not show regard also for the old and respect the verities of history sufficiently to reserve his ballet till after the passage of the red sea, when moses celebrated the miracle with a song and "miriam, the prophetess, the sister of aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances"? chapter ii bible stories in opera and oratorio it was the fond belief of dr. chrysander, born of his deep devotion to handel, in whose works he lived and moved and had his being, that the heroic histories of the jews offered no fit material for dramatic representation. in his view the jews never created dramatic poetry, partly because of the mosaic prohibition against plastic delineation of their deity, partly because the tragic element, which was so potent an influence in the development of the greek drama, was wanting in their heroes. the theory that the song of songs, that canticle of canticles of love, was a pastoral play had no lodgment in his mind; the poem seemed less dramatic to him than the book of job. the former sprang from the idyllic life of the northern tribes and reflected that life; the latter, much more profound in conception, proved by its form that the road to a real stage-play was insurmountably barred to the hebrew poet. what poetic field was open to him then? only the hymning of a deity, invisible, omnipresent and omnipotent, the swelling call to combat for the glory of god against an inimical world, and the celebration of an ideal consisting in a peaceful, happy existence in the land of promise under god's protecting care. this god presented himself occasionally as a militant, all-powerful warrior, but only in moments when the fortunes of his people were critically at issue. these moments, however, were exceptional and few; as a rule, god manifested himself in prophecy, through words and music. the laws were promulgated in song; so were the prophetic promises, denunciations, and calls to repentance; and there grew up a magnificent liturgical service in the temple. hebrew poetry, epic and lyrical, was thus antagonistic to the drama. so, also, dr. chrysander contends, was the hebrew himself. not only had he no predilection for plastic creation, his life was not dramatic in the sense illustrated in greek tragedy. he lived a care-free, sensuous existence, and either fell under righteous condemnation for his transgressions or walked in the way prescribed of the lord and found rest at last in abraham's bosom. his life was simple; so were his strivings, his longings, his hopes. yet when it came to the defence or celebration of his spiritual possessions his soul was filled with such a spirit of heroic daring, such a glow of enthusiasm, as are not to be paralleled among another of the peoples of antiquity. he thus became a fit subject for only one of the arts--music; in this art for only one of its spheres, the sublime, the most appropriate and efficient vehicle of which is the oratorio. one part of this argument seems to me irrelevant; the other not firmly founded in fact. it does not follow that because the greek conscience evolved the conceptions of rebellious pride and punitive fate while the hebrew conscience did not, therefore the greeks were the predestined creators of the art-form out of which grew the opera and the hebrews of the form which grew into the oratorio. neither is it true that because a people are not disposed toward dramatic creation themselves they can not, or may not, be the cause of dramatic creativeness in others. dr. chrysander's argument, made in a lecture at the johanneum in hamburg in 1896, preceded an analysis of handel's biblical oratorios in their relation to hebrew history, and his exposition of that history as he unfolded it chronologically from the exodus down to the maccabaean period was in itself sufficient to furnish many more fit operatic plots than have yet been written. nor are there lacking in these stories some of the elements of greek legend and mythology which were the mainsprings of the tragedies of athens. the parallels are striking: jephtha's daughter and iphigenia; samson and his slavery and the servitude of hercules and perseus; the fate of ajax and other heroes made mad by pride, and the lycanthropy of nebuchadnezzar, of whose vanity dr. hanslick once reminded wagner, warning him against the fate of the babylonian king who became like unto an ox, "ate grass and was composed by verdi"; think reverently of alcestis and the christian doctrine of atonement! the writers of the first biblical operas sought their subjects as far back in history, or legend, as the written page permitted. theile composed an "adam and eve" in 1678; but our first parents never became popular on the serious stage. perhaps the fearful soul of the theatrical costumer was frightened and perplexed by the problem which the subject put up to him. haydn introduced them into his oratorio "the creation," but, as the custom goes now, the third part of the work, in which they appear, is frequently, if not generally omitted in performance. adam, to judge by the record in holy writ, made an uneventful end: "and all the days that adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years: and he died"; but this did not prevent lesueur from writing an opera on his death ten years after haydn's oratorio had its first performance. he called it "la mort d'adam et son apotheose," and it involved him in a disastrous quarrel with the directors of the conservatoire and the academie. pursuing the search chronologically, the librettists next came upon cain and abel, who offered a more fruitful subject for dramatic and musical invention. we know very little about the sacred operas which shared the list with works based on classical fables and roman history in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; inasmuch, however, as they were an outgrowth of the pious plays of the middle ages and designed for edifying consumption in lent, it is likely that they adhered in their plots pretty close to the biblical accounts. i doubt if the sentimental element which was in vogue when rossini wrote "mose in egitto" played much of a role in such an opera as johann philipp fortsch's "kain und abel; oder der verzweifelnde brudermorder," which was performed in hamburg in 1689, or even in "abel's tod," which came along in 1771. the first fratricidal murder seems to have had an early and an enduring fascination for dramatic poets and composers. metastasio's "la morte d'abele," set by both caldara and leo in 1732, remained a stalking-horse for composers down to morlacchi in 1820. one of the latest of biblical operas is the "kain" of heinrich bulthaupt and eugen d'albert. this opera and a later lyric drama by the same composer, "tote augen" (under which title a casual reader would never suspect that a biblical subject was lurking), call for a little attention because of their indication of a possible drift which future dramatists may follow in treating sacred story. wicked envy and jealousy were not sufficient motives in the eyes of bulthaupt and d'albert for the first fratricide; there must be an infusion of psychology and modern philosophy. abel is an optimist, an idealist, a contented dreamer, joying in the loveliness of life and nature; cain, a pessimist, a morose brooder, for whom life contained no beautiful illusions. he gets up from his couch in the night to question the right of god to create man for suffering. he is answered by lucifer, who proclaims himself the benefactor of the family in having rescued them from the slothful existence of eden and given them a redeemer. the devil discourses on the delightful ministrations of that redeemer, whose name is death. in the morning abel arises and as he offers his sacrifice he hymns the sacred mystery of life and turns a deaf ear to the new-found gospel of his brother. an inspiring thought comes to cain; by killing abel and destroying himself he will save future generations from the sufferings to which they are doomed. with this benevolent purpose in mind he commits the murder. the blow has scarcely been struck before a multitude of spirit-voices call his name and god thunders the question: "where is abel, thy brother?" adam comes from his cave and looks upon the scene with horror. now cain realizes that his work is less than half done: he is himself still alive and so is his son enoch. he rushes forward to kill his child, but the mother throws herself between, and cain discovers that he is not strong-willed enough to carry out his design. god's curse condemns him to eternal unrest, and while the elements rage around him cain goes forth into the mountain wilderness. herr bulthaupt did not permit chronology to stand in the way of his action, but it can at least be said for him that he did not profane the book as herr ewers, mr. d'albert's latest collaborator, did when he turned a story of christ's miraculous healing of a blind woman into a sensational melodrama. in the precious opera, "tote augen" ("dead eyes"), brought out in march, 1916, in dresden, myrocle, the blind woman, is the wife of arcesius, a roman ambassador in jerusalem. never having seen him, myrocle believes her husband to be a paragon of beauty, but he is, in fact, hideous of features, crook-backed, and lame; deformed in mind and heart, too, for he has concealed the truth from her. christ is entering jerusalem, and mary of magdala leads myrocle to him, having heard of the miracles which he performs, and he opens the woman's eyes at the moment that the multitude is shouting its hosannahs. the first man who fills the vision of myrocle is galba, handsome, noble, chivalrous, who had renounced the love he bore her because she was the wife of his friend. in galba the woman believes she sees the husband whom in her fond imagination she had fitted out with the charms of mind and person which his friend possesses. she throws herself into his arms, and he does not repel her mistaken embraces; but the misshapen villain throws himself upon the pair and strangles his friend to death. a slave enlightens the mystified woman; the murderer, not the dead hero at his feet, is her husband. singularly enough, she does not turn from him with hatred and loathing, but looks upon him with a great pity. then she turns her eyes upon the sun, which christ had said should not set until she had cursed him, and gazes into its searing glow until her sight is again dead. moral: it is sinful to love the loveliness of outward things; from the soul must come salvation. as if she had never learned the truth, she returns to her wifely love for arcesius. the story is as false to nature as it is sacrilegious; its trumpery theatricalism is as great a hindrance to a possible return of biblical opera as the disgusting celebration of necrophilism in richard strauss's "salome." in our historical excursion we are still among the patriarchs, and the whole earth is of one language and of one speech. noah, the ark, and the deluge seem now too prodigious to be essayed by opera makers, but, apparently, they did not awe the englishman edward eccleston (or eggleston), who is said to have produced an opera, "noah's flood, or the destruction of the world," in london in 1679, nor seyfried, whose "libera me" was sung at beethoven's funeral, and who, besides biblical operas entitled "saul," "abraham," "the maccabees," and "the israelites in the desert," brought out a "noah" in vienna in 1818. halevy left an unfinished opera, "noe," which bizet, who was his son-in-law, completed. of oratorios dealing with the deluge i do not wish to speak further than to express my admiration for the manner in which saint-saens opened the musical floodgates in "le deluge." on the plain in the land of shinar the families of the sons of noah builded them a city and a tower whose top they arrogantly hoped might reach unto heaven. but the tower fell, the tongues of the people were confounded, and the people were scattered abroad on the face of the earth. rubinstein attempted to give dramatic representation to the tremendous incident, and to his effort and vain dream i shall revert in the next chapter of this book. now i must on with the history of the patriarchs. the story of abraham and his attempted offering of isaac has been much used as oratorio material, and joseph elsner, chopin's teacher, brought out a polish opera, "ofiara abrama," at warsaw in 1827. a significant milestone in the history of the hebrews as well as biblical operas has now been reached. the sojourn of the jews in egypt and their final departure under the guidance of moses have already occupied considerable attention in this study. they provided material for the two operas which seem to me the noblest of their kind--mehul's "joseph" and rossini's "mose in egitto." mehul's opera, more than a decade older than rossini's, still holds a place on the stages of france and germany, and this despite the fact that it foregoes two factors which are popularly supposed to be essential to operatic success--a love episode and woman's presence and participation in the action. the opera, which is in three acts, was brought forward at the theatre feydeau in paris on february 17, 1807. it owed its origin to a biblical tragedy entitled "omasis," by baour lormian. the subject--the sale of joseph by his brothers into egyptian slavery, his rise to power, his forgiveness of the wrong attempted against him, and his provision of a home for the people of israel in the land of goshen--had long been popular with composers of oratorios. the list of these works begins with caldara's "giuseppe" in 1722. metastasio's "giuseppe riconosciuto" was set by half a dozen composers between 1733 and 1788. handel wrote his english oratorio in 1743; g. a. macfarren's was performed at the leeds festival of 1877. lormian thought it necessary to introduce a love episode into his tragedy, but alexander duval, who wrote the book for mehul's opera, was of the opinion that the diversion only enfeebled the beautiful if austere picture of patriarchal domestic life delineated in the bible. he therefore adhered to tradition and created a series of scenes full of beauty, dignity, and pathos, simple and strong in spite of the bombast prevalent in the literary style of the period. mehul's music is marked by grandeur, simplicity, lofty sentiment, and consistent severity of manner. the composer's predilection for ecclesiastical music, created, no doubt, by the blind organist who taught him in his childhood and nourished by his studies and labors at the monastery under the gifted hauser, found opportunity for expression in the religious sentiments of the drama, and his knowledge of plain chant is exhibited in the score "the simplicity, grandeur, and dramatic truth of which will always command the admiration of impartial musicians," remarks gustave choquet. the enthusiasm of m. tiersot goes further still, for he says that the music of "joseph" is more conspicuous for the qualities of dignity and sonority than that of handel's oratorio. the german hanslick, to whom the absence from the action of the "salt of the earth, women" seemed disastrous, nevertheless does not hesitate to institute a comparison between "joseph" and one of mozart's latest operas. "in its mild, passionless benevolence the entire role of joseph in mehul's opera," he says, "reminds one strikingly of mozart's 'titus,' and not to the advantage of the latter. the opera 'titus' is the work of an incomparably greater genius, but it belongs to a partly untruthful, wholly modish, tendency (that of the old opera seria), while the genre of 'joseph' is thoroughly noble, true, and eminently dramatic. 'joseph' has outlived 'titus.'" [footnote: "die moderne opera," p. 92.] carl maria von weber admired mehul's opera greatly, and within recent years felix weingartner has edited a german edition for which he composed recitatives to take the place of the spoken dialogue of the original book. there is no story of passion in "joseph." the love portrayed there is domestic and filial; its objects are the hero's father, brothers, and country--"champs eternels, hebron, douce vallee." it was not until our own day that an author with a perverted sense which had already found gratification in the stench of mental, moral, and physical decay exhaled by "salome" and "elektra" nosed the piquant, pungent odor of the episode of potiphar's wife and blew it into the theatre. joseph's temptress did not tempt even the prurient taste which gave us the parisian operatic versions of the stories of phryne, thais, and messalina. richard strauss's "josephslegende" stands alone in musical literature. there is, indeed, only one reference in the records of oratorio or opera to the woman whose grovelling carnality is made the foil of joseph's virtue in the story as told in the book. that reference is found in a singular trilogy, which was obviously written more to disclose the possibilities of counterpoint than to set forth the story--even if it does that, which i cannot say; the suggestion comes only from a title. in august, 1852, pietro raimondi produced an oratorio in three parts entitled, respectively, "putifar," "giuseppe giusto," and "giacobbe," at the teatro argentina, in rome. the music of the three works was so written that after each had been performed separately, with individual principal singers, choristers, and orchestras, they were united in a simultaneous performance. the success of the stupendous experiment in contrapuntal writing was so great that the composer fell in a faint amidst the applause of the audience and died less than three months afterward. in the course of this study i have mentioned nearly all of the biblical characters who have been turned into operatic heroes. nebuchadnezzar appeared on the stage at hamburg in an opera of keiser's in 1704; ariosti put him through his bovine strides in vienna in 1706. he was put into a ballet by a portuguese composer and made the butt of a french opera bouffe writer, j. j. debillement, in 1871. he recurs to my mind now in connection with a witty fling at "nabucco" made by a french rhymester when verdi's opera was produced at paris in 1845. the noisy brass in the orchestration offended the ears of a critic, and he wrote: vraiment l'affiche est dans son tort; en faux, ou devrait la poursuivre. pourquoi nous annoncer nabuchodonos--or quand c'est nabuchodonos--cuivre? judas maccabaeus is one of the few heroes of ancient israel who have survived in opera, rubinstein's "makkabaer" still having a hold, though not a strong one, on the german stage. the libretto is an adaptation by mosenthal (author also of goldmark's "queen of sheba") of a drama by otto ludwig. in the drama as well as some of its predecessors some liberties have been taken with the story as told in maccabees ii, chapter 7. the tale of the israelitish champion of freedom and his brothers jonathan and simon, who lost their lives in the struggle against the tyranny of the kings of syria, is intensely dramatic. for stage purposes the dramatists have associated the massacre of a mother and her seven sons and the martyrdom of the aged eleazar, who caused the uprising of the jews, with the family history of judas himself. j. w. franck produced "die maccabaische mutter" in hamburg in 1679, ariosti composed "la madre dei maccabei" in 1704, ignaz von seyfried brought out "die makkabaer, oder salmonaa" in 1818, and rubinstein his opera in berlin on april 17,1875. the romantic career of jephtha, a natural son, banished from home, chief of a band of roving marauders, mighty captain and ninth judge of israel, might have fitted out many an opera text, irrespective of the pathetic story of the sacrifice of his daughter in obedience to a vow, though this episode springs first to mind when his name is mentioned, and has been the special subject of the jephtha operas. an italian composer named pollarolo wrote a "jefte" for vienna in 1692; other operas dealing with the history are rolle's "mehala, die tochter jephthas" (1784), meyerbeer's "jephtha's tochter" (munich, 1813), generali, "il voto di jefte" (1827), sanpieri, "la figlia di jefte" (1872). luis cepeda produced a spanish opera in madrid in 1845, and a french opera, in five acts and a prologue, by monteclaire, was prohibited, after one performance, by cardinal de noailles in 1832. judith, the widow of manasseh, who delivered her native city of bethulia from the assyrian holofernes, lulling him to sleep with her charms and then striking off his drunken head with a falchion, though an apocryphal personage, is the most popular of israelitish heroines. the record shows the operas "judith und holofernes" by leopold kotzeluch (1799), "giuditta" by s. levi (1844), achille peri (1860), righi (1871), and sarri (1875). naumann wrote a "judith" in 1858, doppler another in 1870, and alexander seroff a russian opera under the same title in 1863. martin roder, who used to live in boston, composed a "judith," but it was never performed, while george w. chadwick's "judith," half cantata, half opera, which might easily be fitted for the stage, has had to rest content with a concert performance at a worcester (mass.) festival. the memory of esther, the queen of ahasuerus, who saved her people from massacre, is preserved and her deed celebrated by the jews in their gracious festival of purim. a gorgeous figure for the stage, she has been relegated to the oratorio platform since the end of the eighteenth century. racine's tragedy "athalie" has called out music from abbe vogler, gossec, boieldieu, mendelssohn, and others, and a few oratorios, one by handel, have been based on the story of the woman through whom idolatry was introduced into judah; but i have no record of any athalia opera. chapter iii rubinstein's "geistliche oper" i have a strong belief in the essential excellence of biblical subjects for the purposes of the lyric drama--at least from an historical point of view. i can see no reason against but many reasons in favor of a return to the stage of the patriarchal and heroic figures of the people who are a more potent power in the world to-day, despite their dispersal and loss of national unity, than they were in the days of their political grandeur and glory. throughout the greater part of his creative career anton rubinstein was the champion of a similar idea. of the twenty works which he wrote for the theatre, including ballets, six were on biblical subjects, and to promote a propaganda which began with the composition of "der thurmbau zu babel," in 1870, he not only entered the literary field, but made personal appeal for practical assistance in both the old world and the new. his, however, was a religious point of view, not the historical or political. it is very likely that a racial predilection had much to do with his attitude on the subject, but in his effort to bring religion into the service of the lyric stage he was no more jew than christian: the stories to which he applied his greatest energies were those of moses and christ. much against my inclination (for rubinstein came into my intellectual life under circumstances and conditions which made him the strongest personal influence in music that i have ever felt), i have been compelled to believe that there were other reasons besides those which he gave for his championship of biblical opera. smaller men than he, since wagner's death, have written trilogies and dreamed of theatres and festivals devoted to performances of their works. little wonder if rubinstein believed that he had created, or could create, a kind of art-work which should take place by the side of "der ring des nibelungen," and have its special home like bayreuth; and it may have been a belief that his project would excite the sympathetic zeal of the devout jew and pious christian alike, as much as his lack of the capacity for self-criticism, which led him like a will-o'-the-wisp along the path which led into the bogs of failure and disappointment. while i was engaged in writing the programme book for the music festival given in new york in 1881, at which "the tower of babel" was performed in a truly magnificent manner, dr. leopold damrosch, the conductor of the festival, told me that rubinstein had told him that the impulse to use biblical subjects in lyrical dramas had come to him while witnessing a ballet based on a bible story many years before in paris. he said that he had seldom been moved so profoundly by any spectacle as by this ballet, and it suggested to him the propriety of treating sacred subjects in a manner worthy of them, yet different from the conventional oratorio. the explanation has not gotten into the books, but is not inconsistent with the genesis of his biblical operas, as related by rubinstein in his essay on the subject printed by joseph lewinsky in his book "vor den coulissen," published in 1882 after at least three of the operas had been written. the composer's defence of his works and his story of the effort which he made to bring about a realization of his ideals deserve to be rehearsed in justice to his character as man and artist, as well as in the interest of the works themselves and the subjects, which, i believe, will in the near future occupy the minds of composers again. "the oratorio," said rubinstein, "is an art-form which i have always been disposed to protest against. the best-known masterpieces of this form have, not during the study of them but when hearing them performed, always left me cold; indeed, often positively pained me. the stiffness of the musical and still more of the poetical form always seemed to me absolutely incongruous with the high dramatic feeling of the subject. to see and hear gentlemen in dress coats, white cravats, yellow gloves, holding music books before them, or ladies in modern, often extravagant, toilets singing the parts of the grand, imposing figures of the old and new testaments has always disturbed me to such a degree that i could never attain to pure enjoyment. involuntarily i felt and thought how much grander, more impressive, vivid, and true would be all that i had experienced in the concert-room if represented on the stage with costumes, decorations, and full action." the contention, said rubinstein in effect, that biblical subjects are ill adapted to the stage beeause of their sacred character is a testimony of poverty for the theatre, which should be an agency in the service of the highest purposes of culture. the people have always wanted to see stage representations of bible incidents; witness the mystery plays of the middle ages and the passion play at oberammergau to-day. but yielding to a prevalent feeling that such representations are a profanation of sacred history, he had conceived an appropriate type of art-work which was to be produced in theatres to be specially built for the purpose and by companies of artists to be specially trained to that end. this art-work was to be called sacred opera (geistliche oper), to distinguish it from secular opera, but its purpose was to be purely artistic and wholly separate from the interests of the church. he developed ways and means for raising the necessary funds, enlisting artists, overcoming the difficulties presented by the mise en scene and the polyphonic character of the choral music, and set forth his aim in respect of the subject-matter of the dramas to be a representation in chronological order of the chief incidents described in the old and new testaments. he would be willing to include in his scheme biblical operas already existing, if they were not all, with the exception of mehul's "joseph," made unfit by their treatment of sacred matters, especially by their inclusion of love episodes which brought them into the domain of secular opera. for years, while on his concert tours in various countries, rubinstein labored to put his plan into operation. wherever he found a public accustomed to oratorio performances he inquired into the possibility of establishing his sacred theatre there. he laid the project before the grand duke of weimar, who told him that it was feasible only in large cities. the advice sent him to berlin, where he opened his mind to the minister of education, von muhler. the official had his doubts; sacred operas might do for old testament stories, but not for new; moreover, such a theatre should be a private, not a governmental, undertaking. he sought the opinion of stanley, dean of westminster abbey, who said that he could only conceive a realization of the idea in the oldtime popular manner, upon a rude stage at a country fair. for a space it looked as if the leaders of the jewish congregations in paris would provide funds for the enterprise so far as it concerned itself with subjects taken from the old dispensation; but at the last they backed out, fearing to take the initiative in a matter likely to cause popular clamor. "i even thought of america," says rubinstein, "of the daring transatlantic impresarios, with their lust of enterprise, who might be inclined to speculate on a gigantic scale with my idea. i had indeed almost succeeded, but the lack of artists brought it to pass that the plans, already in a considerable degree of forwardness, had to be abandoned. i considered the possibility of forming an association of composers and performing artists to work together to carry on the enterprise materially, intellectually, and administratively; but the great difficulty of enlisting any considerable number of artists for the furtherance of a new idea in art frightened me back from this purpose also." in these schemes there are evidences of rubinstein's willingness to follow examples set by handel as well as wagner. the former composed "judas maccabaeus" and "alexander balus" to please the jews who had come to his help when he made financial shipwreck with his opera; the latter created the richard wagner verein to put the bayreuth enterprise on its feet. of the six sacred operas composed by rubinstein three may be said to be practicable for stage representation. they are "die makkabaer," "sulamith" (based on solomon's song of songs) and "christus." the first has had many performances in germany; the second had a few performances in hamburg in 1883; the last, first performed as an oratorio in berlin in 1885, was staged in bremen in 1895. it has had, i believe, about fourteen representations in all. as for the other three works, "der thurmbau zu babel" (first performance in konigsberg in 1870), "das verlorene paradies" (dusseldorf, 1875), and "moses" (still awaiting theatrical representation, i believe), it may be said of them that they are hybrid creations which combine the oratorio and opera styles by utilizing the powers of the oldtime oratorio chorus and the modern orchestra, with the descriptive capacity of both raised to the highest power, to illustrate an action which is beyond the capabilities of the ordinary stage machinery. in the character of the forms employed in the works there is no startling innovation; we meet the same alternation of chorus, recitative, aria, and ensemble that we have known since the oratorio style was perfected. a change, howeer, has come over the spirit of the expression and the forms have all relaxed some of their rigidity. in the oratorios of handel and haydn there are instances not a few of musical delineation in the instrumental as well as the vocal parts; but nothing in them can be thought of, so far at least as the ambition of the design extends, as a companion piece to the scene in the opera which pictures the destruction of the tower of babel. this is as far beyond the horizon of the fancy of the old masters as it is beyond the instrumental forces which they controlled. "paradise lost," the text paraphrased from portions of milton's epic, is an oratorio pure and simple. it deals with the creation of the world according to the mosaic (or as huxley would have said, miltonic) theory and the medium of expression is an alternation of recitatives and choruses, the latter having some dramatic life and a characteristic accompaniment. it is wholly contemplative; there is nothing like action in it. "the tower of babel" has action in the restricted sense in which it enters into mendelssohn's oratorios, and scenic effects which would tax the utmost powers of the modern stage-machinist who might attempt to carry them out. a mimic tower of babel is more preposterous than a mimic temple of dagon; yet, unless rubinstein's stage directions are to be taken in a pickwickian sense, we ought to listen to this music while looking at a stage-setting more colossal than any ever contemplated by dramatist before. we should see a wide stretch of the plain of shinar; in the foreground a tower so tall as to give color of plausibility to a speech which prates of an early piercing of heaven and so large as to provide room for a sleeping multitude on its scaffoldings. brick kilns, derricks, and all the apparatus and machinery of building should be on all hands, and from the summit of a mound should grow a giant tree, against whose trunk should hang a brazen shield to be used as a signal gong. we should see in the progress of the opera the bustling activity of the workmen, the roaring flames and rolling smoke of the brick kilns, and witness the miraculous spectacle of a man thrown into the fire and walking thence unharmed. we should see (in dissolving views) the dispersion of the races and behold the unfolding of a rainbow in the sky. and, finally, we should get a glimpse of an open heaven and the almighty on his throne, and a yawning hell, with satan and his angels exercising their dread dominion. can such scenes be mimicked successfully enough to preserve a serious frame of mind in the observer? hardly. yet the music seems obviously to have been written in the expectation that sight shall aid hearing to quicken the fancy and emotion and excite the faculties to an appreciation of the work. "the tower of babel" has been performed upon the stage; how i cannot even guess. knowing, probably, that the work would be given in concert form oftener than in dramatic, rubinstein tries to stimulate the fancy of those who must be only listeners by profuse stage directions which are printed in the score as well as the book of words. "moses" is in the same case. by the time that rubinstein had completed it he evidently realized that its hybrid character as well as its stupendous scope would stand in the way of performances of any kind. before even a portion of its music had been heard in public, he wrote in a letter to a friend: "it is too theatrical for the concert-room and too much like an oratorio for the theatre. it is, in fact, the perfect type of the sacred opera that i have dreamed of for years. what will come of it i do not know; i do not think it can be performed entire. as it contains eight distinct parts, one or two may from time to time be given either in a concert or on the stage." america was the first country to act on the suggestion of a fragmentary performance. the first scene was brought forward in new york by walter damrosch at a public rehearsal and concert of the symphony society (the oratorio society assisting) on january 18 and 19, 1889. the third scene was performed by the german liederkranz, under reinhold l. herman, on january 27 of the same year. the third and fourth scenes were in the scheme of the cincinnati music festival, theodore thomas, conductor, on may 25,1894. each of the eight scenes into which the work is divided deals with an episode in the life of israel's lawgiver. in the first scene we have the incident of the finding of the child in the bulrushes; in the second occurs the oppression of the israelites by the egyptian taskmasters, the slaying of one of the overseers by moses, who, till then regarded as the king's son, now proclaims himself one of the oppressed race. the third scene discloses moses protecting zipporah, daughter of jethro, a midianitish priest, from a band of marauding edomites, his acceptance of jethro's hospitality and the scene of the burning bush and the proclamation of his mission. scene iv deals with the plagues, those of blood, hail, locusts, frogs, and vermin being delineated in the instrumental introduction to the part, the action beginning while the land is shrouded in the "thick darkness that might be felt." the egyptians call upon osiris to dispel the darkness, but are forced at last to appeal to moses. he demands the liberation of his people as the price to be paid for the removal of the plague; receiving a promise from pharaoh, he utters a prayer ending with "let there be light." the result is celebrated in a brilliant choral acclamation of the returning sun. the scene has a parallel in rossini's opera. pharaoh now equivocates; he will free the sons of jacob, but not the women, children, or chattels. moses threatens punishment in the death of all of egypt's first-born, and immediately solo and chorus voices bewail the new affliction. when the king hears that his son is dead he gives his consent, and the israelites depart with an ejaculation of thanks to jehovah. the passage of the red sea, miriam's celebration of that miracle, the backsliding of the israelites and their worship of the golden calf, the reception of the tables of the law, the battle between the israelites and modbites on the threshold of the promised land, and the evanishment and apotheosis of moses are the contents of the remainder of the work. it is scarcely to be wondered at that the subjects which opera composers have found adaptable to their uses in the new testament are very few compared with those offered by the old. the books written by the evangelists around the most stupendous tragical story of all time set forth little or nothing (outside of the birth, childhood, teachings, miracles, death, and resurrection of jesus of nazareth) which could by any literary ingenuity be turned into a stage play except the parables with which christ enforced and illustrated his sermons. the sublime language and imagery of the apocalypse have furnished forth the textual body of many oratorios, but it still transcends the capacity of mortal dramatist. in the parable of the prodigal son there is no personage whose presentation in dramatic garb could be looked upon as a profanation of the scriptures. it is this fact, probably, coupled with its profoundly beautiful reflection of human nature, which has made it a popular subject with opera writers. there was an italian "figliuolo prodigo" as early as 1704, composed by one biffi; a french melodrama, "l'enfant prodigue," by morange about 1810; a german piece of similar character by joseph drechsler in vienna in 1820. pierre gaveaux, who composed "leonore, ou l'amour conjugal," which provided beethoven with his "fidelio," brought out a comic opera on the subject of the prodigal son in 1811, and berton, who had also dipped into old testament story in an oratorio, entitled "absalon," illustrated the parable in a ballet. the most recent settings of the theme are also the most significant: auber's five-act opera "l'enfant prodigue," brought out in paris in 1850, and ponchielli's "il figliuolo prodigo," in four acts, which had its first representation at la scala in 1880. the mediaeval mysteries were frequently interspersed with choral songs, for which the liturgy of the church provided material. if we choose to look upon them as incipient operas or precursors of that art-form we must yet observe that their monkish authors, willing enough to trick out the story of the nativity with legendary matter drawn from the apocryphal new testament, which discloses anything but a reverential attitude toward the sublime tragedy, nevertheless stood in such awe before the spectacle of calvary that they deemed it wise to leave its dramatic treatment to the church service in the passion tide. in that service there was something approaching to characterization in the manner of the reading by the three deacons appointed to deliver, respectively, the narrative, the words of christ, and the utterances of the apostles and people; and it may be--that this and the liturgical solemnities of holy week were reverently thought sufficient by them and the authors of the first sacred operas. nevertheless, we have reiser's "der blutige und sterbende jesus," performed at hamburg, and metastasio's "la passione di gesu christi," composed first by caldara, which probably was an oratorio. earlier than these was theile's "die geburt christi," performed in hamburg in 1681. the birth of christ and his childhood (there was an operatic representation of his presentation in the temple) were subjects which appealed more to the writers of the rude plays which catered to the popular love for dramatic mummery than did his crucifixion. i am speaking now more specifically of lyric dramas, but it is worthy of note that in the coventry mysteries, as hone points out in the preface to his book, "ancient mysteries described," [footnote: "ancient mysteries described, especially the english miracle plays founded on apocryphal new testament story," london, 1823.] there are eight plays, or pageants, which deal with the nativity as related in the canon and the pseudo-gospels. in them much stress was laid upon the suspicions of the virgin mother's chastity, for here was material that was good for rude diversion as well as instruction in righteousness. that rubinstein dared to compose a christ drama must be looked upon as proof of the profound sincerity of his belief in the art-form which he fondly hoped he had created; also, perhaps, as evidence of his artistic ingenuousness. only a brave or naive mind could have calmly contemplated a labor from which great dramatists, men as great as hebbel, shrank back in alarm. after the completion of "lohengrin" wagner applied himself to the creation of a tragedy which he called "jesus of nazareth." we know his plan in detail, but he abandoned it after he had offered his sketches to a french poet as the basis of a lyric drama which he hoped to write for paris. he confesses that he was curious to know what the frenchman would do with a work the stage production of which would "provoke a thousand frights." he himself was unwilling to stir up such a tempest in germany; instead, he put his sketches aside and used some of their material in his "parsifal." wagner ignored the religious, or, let us say, the ecclesiastical, point of view entirely in "jesus of nazareth." his hero was to have been, as i have described him elsewhere, [footnote: "a book of operas," p. 288.] "a human philosopher who preached the saving grace of love and sought to redeem his time and people from the domination of conventional law--the offspring of selfishness. his philosophy was socialism imbued by love." rubinstein proceeded along the lines of history, or orthodox belief, as unreservedly in his "christus" as he had done in his "moses." the work may be said to have brought his creative activities to a close, although two compositions (a set of six pianoforte pieces and an orchestral suite) appear in his list of numbered works after the sacred opera. he died on november 20, 1894, without having seen a stage representation of it. nor did he live to see a public theatrical performance of his "moses," though he was privileged to witness a private performance arranged at the german national theatre in prague so that he might form an opinion of its effectiveness. the public has never been permitted to learn anything about the impression which the work made. on may 25, 1895, a series of representations of "christus" was begun in bremen, largely through the instrumentality of professor bulthaupt, a potent and pervasive personage in the old hanseatic town. he was not only a poet and the author of the book of this opera and of some of bruch's works, but also a painter, and his mural decorations in the bremen chamber of commerce are proudly displayed by the citizens of the town. it was under the supervision of the painter-poet that the bremen representations were given and, unless i am mistaken, he painted the scenery or much of it. one of the provisions of the performances was that applause was prohibited out of reverence for the sacred character of the scenes, which were as frankly set forth as at oberammergau. the contents of the tragedy in some scenes and an epilogue briefly outlined are these: the first scene shows the temptation of christ in the wilderness, where the devil "shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time." this disclosure is made by a series of scenes, each opening for a short time in the background--castles, palaces, gardens, mountains of gold, and massive heaps of earth's treasures. in the second scene john the baptist is seen and heard preaching on the banks of the jordan, in whose waters he baptizes jesus. this scene at the bremen representations was painted from sketches made by herr handrich in palestine, as was also that of the "sermon on the mount" and "the miracle of the loaves and fishes," which form the subject of the next part. the fourth tableau shows the expulsion of the money changers from the temple; the fifth the last supper, with the garden of gethsemane as a background; the sixth the trial and the last the crucifixion. here, as if harking back to his "tower of babel," rubinstein brings in pictures of heaven and hell, with angels and devils contemplating the catastrophe. the proclamation of the gospel to the gentiles by st. paul is the subject of the epilogue. chapter iv "samson et dalila" there are but two musical works based on the story of samson on the current list to-day, handel's oratorio and saint-saens's opera; but lyric drama was still in its infancy when the subject first took hold of the fancy of composers and it has held it ever since. the earliest works were of the kind called sacred operas in the books and are spoken of as oratorios now, though they were doubtless performed with scenery and costumes and with action of a sort. such were "il sansone" by giovanni paola colonna (bologna, 1677), "sansone accecato da filistri" by francesco antonio uri (venice, about 1700), "simson" by christoph graupner (hamburg, 1709), "simson" by georg von pasterwitz (about 1770), "samson" by j. n. lefroid mereaux (paris, 1774), "simson" by johann heinrich rolle (about 1790), "simson" by franz tuczek (vienna, 1804), and "il sansone" by francesco basili (naples, 1824). two french operas are associated with great names and have interesting histories. voltaire wrote a dramatic text on the subject at the request of la popeliniere, the farmer-general, who, as poet, musician, and artist, exercised a tremendous influence in his day. rameau was in his service as household clavecinist and set voltaire's poem. the authors looked forward to a production on the stage of the grand opera, where at least two biblical operas, an old testament "jephte" and a new testament "enfant prodigue" were current; but rameau had powerful enemies, and the opera was prohibited on the eve of the day on which it was to have been performed. the composer had to stomach his mortification as best he could; he put some of his hebrew music into the service of his persian "zoroastre". the other french samson to whom i have re ferred had also to undergo a sea-change like unto rameau's, rossini's moses, and verdi's nebuchadnezzar. duprez, who was ambitious to shine as a composer as well as a singer (he wrote no less than eight operas and also an oratorio, "the last judgment"), tried his hand on a samson opera and succeeded in enlisting the help of dumas the elder in writing the libretto. when he was ready to present it at the door of the grand opera the minister of fine arts told him that it was impracticable, as the stage-setting of the last act alone would cost more than 100,000 francs, duprez then followed the example set with rossini's "mose" in london and changed the book to make it tell a story of the crusades which he called "zephora". nevertheless the original form was restored in german and italian translations of the work, and it had concert performances in 1857. to joachim raff was denied even this poor comfort. he wrote a german "simson" between 1851 and 1857. the conductor at darmstadt to whom it was first submitted rejected it on the ground that it was too difficult for his singers. raff then gave it to liszt, with whom he was sojourning at weimar, and who had taken pity on his "konig alfred"; but the tenor singer at the weimar opera said the music was too high for the voice. long afterward wagner's friend, schnorr von carolsfeld, saw the score in the hands of the composer. the heroic stature of the hero delighted him, and his praise moved raff to revise the opera; but before this had been done schnorr died of the cold contracted while creating the role of wagner's tristan at munich in 1865. thus mournfully ended the third episode. as late as 1882 raff spoke of taking the opera in hand again, but though he may have done so his death found the work unperformed and it has not yet seen the light of the stage-lamps. saint-saens's opera has also passed through many vicissitudes, but has succumbed to none and is probably possessed of more vigorous life now than it ever had. it is the recognized operatic masterpiece of the most resourceful and fecund french musician since berlioz. saint-saens began the composition of "samson et dalila" in 1869. the author of the book, ferdinand lemaire, was a cousin of the composer. before the breaking out of the franco-prussian war the score was so far on the way to completion that it was possible to give its second act a private trial. this was done, an incident of the occasion-which afterward introduced one element of pathos in its history-being the singing of the part of samson by the painter henri regnault, who soon after lost his life in the service of his country. a memorial to him and the friendship which existed between him and the composer is the "marche heroique," which bears the dead man's name on its title-page. toward the end of 1872 the opera was finished. for two years the score rested in the composer's desk. then the second act was again brought forth for trial, this time at the country home of mme. viardot, at croissy, the illustrious hostess singing the part of dalila. in 1875 the first act was performed in concert style by m. edouard colonne in paris. liszt interested himself in the opera and secured its acceptance at the grand ducal opera house of weimar, where eduard lassen brought it out on december 2, 1877. brussels heard it in 1878; but it did not reach one of the theatres of france until march 3, 1890, when rouen produced it at its theatre des arts under the direction of m. henri verdhurt. it took nearly seven months more to reach paris, where the first representation was at the eden theatre on october 31 of the same year. two years later, after it had been heard in a number of french and italian provincial theatres, it was given at the academie nationale de musique under the direction of m. colonne. the part of dalila was taken by mme. deschamps-jehin, that of samson by m. vergnet, that of the high priest by m. lassalle. eight months before this it had been performed as an oratorio by the oratorio society of new york. there were two performances, on march 25 and 26, 1892, the conductor being mr. walter damrosch and the principal singers being frau marie ritter-goetze, sebastian montariol, h. e. distelhurst, homer moore, emil fischer, and purdon robinson. london had heard the work twice as an oratorio before it had a stage representation there on april 26, 1909, but this performance was fourteen years later than the first at the metropolitan opera house on february 8, 1895. the new york performance was scenically inadequate, but the integrity of the record demands that the cast be given here: samson, signor tamagno; dalila, mme. mantelli; high priest, signor campanari; abimelech and an old hebrew, m. plancon; first philistine, signor rinaldini; second philistme, signor de vachetti; conductor, signor mancinelli. the metropolitan management did not venture upon a repetition until the opening night of the season 1915-1916, when its success was such that it became an active factor in the repertory of the establishment; but by that time it had been made fairly familiar to the new york public by performances at the manhattan opera house under the management of mr. oscar hammerstein, the first of which took place on november 13, 1908. signor campanini conducted and the cast embraced mme. gerville-reache as dalila, charles dalmores as samson, and m. dufranne as high priest. the cast at the metropolitan opera house's revival of the opera on november 15,1915, was as follows: dalila, mme. margarete matzenauer; samson, signor enrico caruso; high priest, signor pasquale amato; abimelech, herr carl schlegel; an old hebrew, m. leon rothier; a philistine messenger, herr max bloch; first philistine, pietro audisio; second philistine, vincenzo reschiglian; conductor, signor polacco. it would be a curious inquiry to try to determine the source of the fascination which the story of manoah's son has exerted upon mankind for centuries. it bears a likeness to the story of the son of zeus and alcmene, and there are few books on mythology which do not draw a parallel between the two heroes. samson's story is singularly brief. for twenty years he "judged israel," but the biblical history which deals with him consists only of an account of his birth, a recital of the incidents in which he displayed his prodigious strength and valor, the tale of his amours, and, at the end, the account of his tragical destruction, brought about by the weak element in his character. commentators have been perplexed by the tale, irrespective of the adornments which it has received at the hands of the talmudists. is samson a hebrew form of the conception personified by the greek herakles? is he a mythical creature, born in the human imagination of primitive nature worship--a variant of the tyrian sun-god shemesh, whose name his so curiously resembles? [in hebrew he is called shimshon, and the sun shemesh.] was he something more than a man of extraordinary physical strength and extraordinary moral weakness, whose patriotic virtues and pathetic end have kept his memory alive through the ages? have a hundred generations of men to whom the story of herakles has appeared to be only a fanciful romance, the product of that imagination heightened by religion which led the greeks to exalt their supreme heroes to the extent of deification, persisted in hearing and telling the story of samson with a sympathetic interest which betrays at least a sub-conscious belief in its verity? is the story only a parable enforcing a moral lesson which is as old as humanity? if so, how got it into the canonical book of judges, which, with all its mythical and legendary material, seems yet to contain a large substratum of unquestionable history? there was nothing of the divine essence in samson as the hebrews conceived him, except that spirit of god with which he was directly endowed in supreme crises. there is little evidence of his possession of great wisdom, but strong proof of his moral and religious laxity. he sinned against the laws of israel's god when he took a philistine woman, an idolater, to wife; he sinned against the moral law when he visited the harlot at gaza. he was wofully weak in character when he yielded to the blandishments of delilah and wrought his own undoing, as well as that of his people. the disgraceful slavery into which herakles fell was not caused by the hero's incontinence or uxoriousness, but a punishment for crime, in that he had in a fit of madness killed his friend iphitus. and the three years which he spent as the slave of omphale were punctuated by larger and better deeds than those of samson in like situation--bursting the new cords with which the men of judah had bound him and the green withes and new ropes with which delilah shackled him. the record that samson "judged israel in the days of the philistines twenty years" leads the ordinary reader to think of him as a sage, judicial personage, whereas it means only that he was the political and military leader of his people during that period, lifted to a magisterial position by his strength and prowess in war. his achievements were muscular, not mental. rabbinical legends have magnified his stature and power in precisely the same manner as the imagination of the poet of the "lay of the nibelung" magnified the stature and strength of siegfried. his shoulders, says the legend, were sixty ells broad; when the spirit of god came on him he could step from zorah to eshtaol although he was lame in both feet; the hairs of his head arose and clashed against one another so that they could be heard for a like distance; he was so strong that he could uplift two mountains and rub them together like two clods of earth, herakles tore asunder the mountain which, divided, now forms the straits of gibraltar and gates of hercules. the parallel which is frequently drawn between samson and herakles cannot be pursued far with advantage to the hebrew hero. samson rent a young lion on the road to timnath, whither he was going to take his philistine wife; herakles, while still a youthful herdsman, slew the thespian lion and afterward strangled the nemean lion with his hands. samson carried off the gates of gaza and bore them to the top of a hill before hebron; herakles upheld the heavens while atlas went to fetch the golden apples of hesperides. moreover, the feats of herakles show a higher intellectual quality than those of samson, all of which, save one, were predominantly physical. the exception was the trick of tying 300 foxes by their tails, two by two, with firebrands between and turning them loose to burn the corn of the philistines. an ingenious way to spread a conflagration, probably, but primitive, decidedly primitive. herakles was a scientific engineer of the modern school; he yoked the rivers alpheus and peneus to his service by turning their waters through the augean stables and cleansing them of the deposits of 3000 oxen for thirty years. herakles had excellent intellectual training; rhadamanthus taught him wisdom and virtue, linus music. we know nothing about the bringing up of samson save that "the child grew and the lord blessed him. and the lord began to move him at times in the camp of dan between zorah and eshtaol." samson made little use of his musical gifts, if he had any, but that little he made well; herakles made little use of his musical training, and that little he made ill. he lost his temper and killed his music master with his lute; samson, after using an implement which only the black slaves of our south have treated as a musical instrument, to slay a thousand philistines, jubilated in song:- with the jawbone of an ass heaps upon heaps! with the jawbone of an ass have i slain a thousand men! the vast fund of human nature laid bare in the story of samson is, it appears to me, quite sufficient to explain its popularity, and account for its origin. the hero's virtues--strength, courage, patriotism--are those which have ever won the hearts of men, and they present themselves as but the more admirable, as they are made to appear more natural, by pairing with that amiable weakness, susceptibility to woman's charms. after all samson is a true type of the tragic hero, whatever dr. chrysander or another may say. he is impelled by fate into a commission of the follies which bring about the wreck of his body. his marriage with the philistine woman in timnath was part of a divine plot, though unpatriotic and seemingly impious. when his father said unto him: "is there never a woman among the daughters of thy brethren or among all my people that thou goest to take a wife of the uncircumcised philistines?" he did not know that "it was of the lord that he sought an occasion against the philistines." out of that wooing and winning grew the first of the encounters which culminated in the destruction of the temple of dagon, when "the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life." so his yielding to the pleadings of his wife when she betrayed the answer to his riddle and his succumbing to the wheedling arts of delilah when he betrayed the secret of his strength (acts incompatible with the character of an ordinary strong and wise man) were of the type essential to the machinery of the greek drama. a word about the mythological interpretation of the characters which have been placed in parallel: it may be helpful to an understanding of the hellenic mind to conceive herakles as a marvellously strong man, first glorified into a national hero and finally deified. so, too, the theory, that herakles sinking down upon his couch of fire is but a symbol of the declining sun can be entertained without marring the grandeur of the hero or belittling nature's phenomenon; but it would obscure our understanding of the hebrew intellect and profane the hebrew religion to conceive samson as anything but the man that the bible says he was; while to make of him, as ignaz golziher suggests, a symbol of the setting sun whose curly locks (crines phoebi) are sheared by delilah-night, would bring contumely upon one of the most beautiful and impressive of nature's spectacles. before the days of comparative mythology scholars were not troubled by such interpretations. josephus disposes of the delilah episode curtly: "as for samson being ensnared by a woman, that is to be ascribed to human nature, which is too weak to resist sin." it is not often that an operatic figure invites to such a study as that which i have attempted in the case of samson, and it may be that the side-wise excursion in which i have indulged invites criticism of the kind illustrated in the metaphor of using a club to brain a gnat. but i do not think so. if heroic figures seem small on the operatic stage, it is the fault of either the author or the actor. when genius in a creator is paired with genius in an interpreter, the hero of an opera is quite as deserving of analytical study as the hero of a drama which is spoken. no labor would be lost in studying the character of wagner's heroes in order to illuminate the impersonations of niemann, lehmann, or scaria; nor is maurel's lago less worthy of investigation than edwin booth's. the character of delilah presents even more features of interest than that of the man of whom she was the undoing, and to those features i purpose to devote some attention presently. there is no symbolism in saint-saens's opera. it is frankly a piece for the lyric theatre, albeit one in which adherence to a plot suggested by the biblical story compelled a paucity of action which had to be made good by spectacle and music. the best element in a drama being that which finds expression in action and dialogue, and these being restricted by the obvious desire of the composers to avoid such extraneous matter as rossini and others were wont to use to add interest to their biblical operas (the secondary love stories, for instance), saint-saens could do nothing else than employ liberally the splendid factor of choral music which the oratorio form brought to his hand. we are introduced to that factor without delay. even before the first scene is opened to our eyes we hear the voice of the multitude in prayer. the israelites, oppressed by their conquerors and sore stricken at the reflection that their god has deserted them, lament, accuse, protest, and pray. before they have been heard, the poignancy of their woe has been published by the orchestra, which at once takes its place beside the chorus as a peculiarly eloquent expositor of the emotions and passions which propel the actors in the drama. that mission and that eloquence it maintains from the beginning to the final catastrophe, the instrumental band doing its share toward characterizing the opposing forces, emphasizing the solemn dignity of the hebrew religion and contrasting it with the sensuous and sensual frivolity of the worshippers of dagon. the choral prayer has for its instrumental substructure an obstinate syncopated figure, [figure: an musical score excerpt] which rises with the agonized cries of the people and sinks with their utterances of despair. the device of introducing voices before the disclosure of visible action in an opera is not new, and in this case is both uncalled for and ineffective. gounod made a somewhat similar effort in his "romeo et juliette," where a costumed group of singers presents a prologue, vaguely visible through a gauze curtain. meyerbeer tried the expedient in "le pardon de ploermel," and the siciliano in mascagni's "cavalleria rusticana" and the prologue in leoncavallo's "pagliacci" are other cases in point. of these only the last can be said to achieve its purpose in arresting the early attention of the audience. when the curtain opens we see a public place in gaza in front of the temple of dagon. the israelites are on their knees and in attitudes of mourning, among them samson. the voice of lamentation takes a fugal form-[figure: a musical score excerpt] as the oppressed people tell of the sufferings which they have endured:- nous avons vu nos cites renversees et les gentils profanants ton autel, etc. the expression rises almost to the intensity of sacrilegious accusation as the people recall to god the vow made to them in egypt, but sinks to accents of awe when they reflect upon the incidents of their former serfdom. now samson stands forth. in a broad arioso, half recitative, half cantilena, wholly in the oratorio style when it does not drop into the mannerism of meyerbeerian opera, he admonishes his brethren of their need to trust in god, their duty to worship him, of his promises to aid them, of the wonders that he had already wrought in their behalf; he bids them to put off their doubts and put on their armor of faith and valor. as he proceeds in his preachment he develops somewhat of the theatrical pose of john of leyden in "the prophet." the israelites mutter gloomily of the departure of their days of glory, but gradually take warmth from the spirit which has obsessed samson and pledge themselves to do battle with the foe with him under the guidance of jehovah. now abimelech, satrap of gaza, appears surrounded by philistine soldiers. he rails at the israelites as slaves, sneers at their god as impotent and craven, lifts up the horn of dagon, who, he says, shall pursue jehovah as a falcon pursues a dove. the speech fills samson with a divine anger, which bursts forth in a canticle of prayer and prophecy. there is a flash as of swords in the scintillant scale passages which rush upward from the eager, angry, pushing figure which mutters and rages among the instruments. the israelites catch fire from samson's ecstatic ardor and echo the words in which he summons them to break their chains. abimelech rushes forward to kill samson, but the hero wrenches the sword from the philistine's hand and strikes him dead. the satrap's soldiers would come to his aid, but are held in fear by the hero, who is now armed. the israelites rush off to make war on their oppressors. the high priest comes down from the temple of dagon and pauses where the body of abimelech lies. two philistines tell of the fear which had paralyzed them when samson showed his might. the high priest rebukes them roundly for their cowardice, but has scarcely uttered his denunciation before a messenger enters to tell him that samson and his israelitish soldiers have overrun and ravaged the country. curses and vows of vengeance against israel, her hero, and her god from the mouth of dagon's servant. one of his imprecations is destined to be fulfilled:- maudit soit le sein de la femme qui lui donna le jour! qu'enfin une compagne infame trahisse son amour! revolutions run a rapid course in operatic palestine. the insurrection is but begun with the slaying of abimelech, yet as the philistines, bearing away his body, leave the scene, it is only to make room for the israelites, chanting of their victory. we expect a sonorous hymn of triumph, but the people of god have been chastened and awed by their quick deliverance, and their paean is in the solemn tone of temple psalmody, the first striking bit of local color which the composer has introduced into his score--a reticence on his part of which it may be said that it is all the more remarkable from the fact that local color is here completely justified:-[figure: a musical score excerpt, sung to the words "praise, ye jehovah! tell all the wondrous story! psalms of praise loudly swell!] "hymne de joie, hymne de deliverance montez vers l'eternel!" it is a fine piece of dramatic characterization; which is followed by one whose serene beauty is heightened by contrast. dalila and a company of singing and dancing philistine women come in bearing garlands of flowers. not only samson's senses, our own as well, are ravished by the delightful music:- voici le printemps, nous portant des fleurs pour orner le front des guerriers vainquers! melons nos accents aux parfums des roses a peine ecloses! avec l'oiseau chantons, mes soeurs! [figure: a musical score excerpt sung to the words "now spring's generous band, brings flowers to the land"] dalila is here and it is become necessary to say something of her, having said so much about the man whose destruction she accomplished. let the ingenious and erudite philip hale introduce her: "was delilah a patriotic woman, to be ranked with jael and judith, or was she merely a courtesan, as certain opera singers who impersonate her in the opera seem to think? e. meier says that the word 'delilah' means 'the faithless one.' ewald translates it 'traitress,' and so does ranke. knobel characterizes her as 'die zarte,' which means tender, delicate, but also subtle. lange is sure that she was a weaver woman, if not an out-and-out 'zonah.' there are other germans who think the word is akin to the verb 'einlullen,' to lull asleep. some liken it to the arabic dalilah, a woman who misguides, a bawd. see in 'the thousand nights and a night' the speech of the damsel to aziz: 'if thou marry me thou wilt at least be safe from the daughter of dalilah, the wily one.' also 'the rogueries of dalilah, the crafty, and her daughter, zayrah, the coney catcher.'" we are directly concerned here with the dalila of the opera, but mr. hale invites us to an excursion which offers a pleasant occupation for a brief while, and we cheerfully go with him. the biblical delilah is a vague figure, except in two respects: she is a woman of such charms that she wins the love of samson, and such guile and cupidity that she plays upon his passion and betrays him to the lords of the philistines for pay. the bible knows nothing of her patriotism, nor does the sacred historian give her the title of samson's wife, though it has long been the custom of biblical commentators to speak of her in this relation. st. chrysostom set the fashion and milton followed it:- but who is this? what thing of sea or land- female of sex it seems- that, so bedeck'd, ornate and gay comes this way sailing like a stately ship of tarsus, bound for the isles of javan or gadire, with all her bravery on, and tackle trim, sails fill'd and streamers waving, courted by all the winds that hold them play; an amber scent of odorous perfume- her harbinger, a damsel train behind? some rich philistian matron she may seem; and now, at nearer view, no other certain than dalila, thy wife. it cannot be without significance that the author of the story in the book of judges speaks in a different way of each of the three women who play a part in the tragedy of samson's life. the woman who lived among the vineyards of timnath, whose murder samson avenged, was his wife. she was a philistine, but samson married her according to the conventional manner of the time and, also according to the manner of the time, she kept her home with her parents after her marriage. wherefore she has gotten her name in the good books of the sociological philosophers who uphold the matronymic theory touching early society. the woman of gaza whom samson visited what time he confounded his would-be captors by carrying off the doors of the gates of the city was curtly "an harlot." of the third woman it is said only that it came to pass that samson "loved a woman in the valley of sorek, whose name was delilah." thereupon follows the story of her bribery by the lords of the philistines and her betrayal of her lover. evidently a licentious woman who could not aspire even to the merit of the heroine of dekker's play. milton not only accepted the theory of her wifehood, but also attributed patriotic motives to her. she knew that her name would be defamed "in dan, in judah and the bordering tribes." but in my country, where i most desire, in eeron, gaza, asdod and in gath, i shall be nam'd among the famousest of women, sung at solemn festivals, living and dead recorded, who to save her country from a fierce destroyer, chose above the faith of wedlock bands; my tomb with odours visited and annual flowers; not less renown'd than in mount ephraim jael, who, with inhospitable guile, smote sisera sleeping. in the scene before us dalila is wholly and simply a siren, a seductress who plays upon the known love of samson from motives which are not disclosed. as yet one may imagine her moved by a genuine passion. she turns her lustrous black eyes upon him as she hails him a double victor over his foes and her heart, and invites him to rest from his arms in her embraces in the fair valley of sorek. temptation seizes upon the soul of samson. he prays god to make him steadfast; but she winds her toils the tighter: it is for him that she has bound a coronet of purple grapes upon her forehead and entwined the rose of sharon in her ebon tresses. an old hebrew warns against the temptress and samson agonizingly invokes a veil over the beauty that has enchained him. "extinguish the fires of those eyes which enslave me."--thus he. "sweet is the lily of the valley, pleasant the juices of mandragora, but sweeter and more pleasant are my kisses!"--thus she. the old hebrew warns again: "if thou give ear to her honeyed phrases, my son, curses will alight on thee which no tears that thou may'st weep will ever efface." but still the siren song rings in his ears. the maidens who had come upon the scene with dalila (are they priestesses of dagon?) dance, swinging their floral garlands seductively before the eyes of samson and his followers. the hero tries to avoid the glances which dalila, joining in the dance, throws upon him. it is in vain; his eyes follow her through all the voluptuous postures and movements of the dance. [figure: a musical score excerpt] and dalila sings "printemps qui commence"--a song often heard in concert-rooms, but not so often as the air with which the love-duet in the second act reaches its culmination, which is popularly held also to mark the climax of the opera. that song is wondrously insinuating in its charm; it pulsates with passion, so much so, indeed, that it is difficult to conceive that its sentiments are feigned, but this is lovelier in its fresh, suave, graceful, and healthy beauty:-[figure: a musical score excerpt, sung to the words "the spring with her dower of bird and flower, brings hope in her train."] as dalila leaves the scene her voice and eyes repeat their lure, while samson's looks and acts betray the trouble of his soul. it is not until we see and hear dalila in the second act that she is revealed to us in her true character. not till now does she disclose the motives of her conduct toward her lover. night is falling in the valley of sorek, the vale which lies between the hill country which the israelites entered from the east, and the coast land which the philistines, supposedly an island people, invaded from the west. dalila, gorgeously apparelled, is sitting on a rock near the portico of her house. the strings of the orchestra murmur and the chromatic figure which we shall hear again in her love-song coos in the wood-winds: [figure: a musical score excerpt] she awaits him whom passion has made her slave in full confidence of her hold upon him. samson, recherchant ma presence, ce soir doit venir en ces lieux. voici l'heure de la vengeance qui doit satisfaire nos dieux! amour! viens aider ma faiblesse! the vengeance of her gods shall be glutted; it is to that end she invokes the power of love to strengthen her weakness. a passion like his will not down--that she knows. to her comes the high priest: samson's strength, he says, is supernatural and flows from a vow with which he was consecrated to effect the glory of israel. once while he lay in her arms that strength had deserted him, but now, it is said, he flouts her love and doubts his own passion. there is no need to try to awaken [figure: a musical score excerpt] jealousy in the heart of dalila; she hates samson more bitterly than the leader of his enemies. she is not mercenary, like the biblical woman; she scorns the promise of riches which the high priest offers so she obtain the secret of the hebrew's strength. thrice had she essayed to learn that secret and thrice had he set her spell at naught. now she will assail him with tears--a woman's weapon. the rumblings of thunder are heard; the scene is lit up by flashes of lightning. running before the storm, which is only a precursor and a symbol of the tempest which is soon to rend his soul, samson comes. dalila upbraids her lover, rebukes his fears, protests her grief. samson cannot withstand her tears. he confesses his love, but he must obey the will of a higher power. "what god is mightier than love?" let him but doubt her constancy and she will die. and she plays her trump card: "mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix," while the fluttering strings and cooing wood-winds insinuate themselves into the crevices of samson's moral harness and loosen the rivets that hold it together:-[figure: a musical score excerpt to the words "my heart, at thy dear voice"] herein lies the strength and the weakness of music: it must fain be truthful. dalila's words may be hypocritical, but the music speaks the speech of genuine passion. not until we hear the refrain echoed mockingly in the last scene of the drama can we believe that the passion hymned in this song is feigned. and we almost deplore hat the composer put it to such disgraceful use. samson hears the voice of his god in the growing and again hesitates. the storm bursts as dalila shrieks out the hate that fills her and runs toward her dwelling. beethoven sought to suggest external as well as internal peace in the "dona nobis" of his mass in d by mingling the sounds of war with the prayer for peace; saint-saens pictures the storm in nature and in samson's soul by the music which accompanies the hero as he raises his hands mutely in prayer; then follows the temptress with faltering steps and enters her dwelling. the tempest reaches its climax; dalila appears at the window with a shout to the waiting philistine soldiery below. the voice of samson cuts through the stormy night: "trahison!" act iii.--first scene: a prison in gaza. samson, shorn of his flowing locks, which as a nazarite he had vowed should never be touched by shears, labors at the mill. he has been robbed of his eyes and darkness has settled down upon him; darkness, too, upon the people whom his momentary weakness had given back into slavery. "total eclipse!" saint-saens has won our admiration for the solemn dignity with which he has invested the penitent confession of the blind hero. but who shall hymn the blindness of manoah's son after milton and handel? from a crowd of captive hebrews outside the prison walls come taunting accusations, mingled with supplications to god. we recognize again the national mood of the psalmody of the first act. the entire scene is finely conceived. it is dramatic in a lofty sense, for its action plays on the stage of the heart. samson, contrite, humble, broken in spirit, with a prayer for his people's deliverance, is led away to be made sport of in the temple of dagon. there, before the statue of the god, grouped among the columns and before the altar the high priest and the lords of the philistines. dalila, too, with maidens clad for the lascivious dance, and the multitude of philistia. the women's choral song to spring which charmed us in the first act is echoed by mixed voices. the ballet which follows is a prettily exotic one, with an introductory cadence marked by the oriental scale, out of which the second dance melody is constructed--a scale which has the peculiarity of an interval composed of three semitones, and which we know from the song of the priestesses in verdi's "aida":-[figure: a musical score excerpt] [figure: a musical score excerpt] the high priest makes mock of the judge of israel: let him empty the wine cup and sing the praise of his vanquisher! dalila, in the pride of her triumph, tauntingly tells him how simulated love had been made to serve her gods, her hate, and her nation. samson answers only in contrite prayer. together in canonic imitation (the erudite form does not offend, but only gives dignity to the scene) priest and siren offer a libation on the altar of the fish god. [figure: a musical score excerpt] the flames flash upward from the altar. now a supreme act of insolent impiety; samson, too, shall sacrifice to dagon. a boy is told to lead him where all can witness his humiliation. samson feels that the time for retribution upon his enemies is come. he asks to be led between the marble pillars that support the roof of the temple. priests and people, the traitress and her dancing women, the lords of the philistines, the rout of banqueters and worshippers--all hymn the praise of dagon. a brief supplication to israel's god-"and samson took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood and on which it was borne up, of the one with his right hand and of the other with his left. "and samson said, 'let me die with the philistines.' and he bowed himself with all his might: and the house fell upon the lords and upon all the people that were therein. so the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life." chapter v "die konigin von saba" the most obvious reason why goldmark's "konigin von saba" should be seen and heard with pleasure lies in its book and scenic investiture. thoughtfully considered the book is not one of great worth, but in the handling of things which give pleasure to the superficial observer it is admirable. in the first place it presents a dramatic story which is rational; which strongly enlists the interest if not the sympathies of the observer; which is unhackneyed; which abounds with imposing spectacles with which the imagination of childhood already had made play, that are not only intrinsically brilliant and fascinating but occur as necessary adjuncts of the story. viewed from its ethical side and considered with reference to the sources whence its elements sprang, it falls under a considerable measure of condemnation, as will more plainly appear after its incidents have been rehearsed. the title of the opera indicates that the biblical story of the visit of the queen of sheba to solomon had been drawn on for the plot. this is true, but only in a slight degree. sheba's queen comes to solomon in the opera, but that is the end of the draft on the scriptural legend so far as she is concerned. sulamith, who figures in the drama, owes her name to the canticles, from which it was borrowed by the librettist, but no element of her character nor any of the incidents in which she is involved. the "song of songs, which is solomon's" contributes a few lines of poetry to the book, and a ritualistic service which is celebrated in the temple finds its original text in the opening verses of psalms lxvii and cxvii, but with this i have enumerated all that the opera owes to the bible. it is not a biblical opera, in the degree that mehul's "joseph," rossini's "moses," or rubinstein's "maccabees" is biblical, to say nothing of saint-saens's "samson et dalila." solomon's magnificent reign and marvellous wisdom, which contribute a few factors to the sum of the production, belong to profane as well as to sacred history and it will be found most agreeable to deeply rooted preconceptions to think of some other than the scriptural solomon as the prototype of the solomon of mosenthal and goldmark, who, at the best, is a sorry sort of sentimentalist. the local color has been borrowed from the old story; the dramatic motive comes plainly from wagner's "tannhauser." assad, a favorite courtier, is sent by solomon to extend greetings and a welcome to the queen of sheba, who is on the way to visit the king, whose fame for wealth and wisdom has reached her ears in far arabia. assad is the type (though a milk-and-watery one, it must be confessed) of manhood struggling between the things that are of the earth and the things which are of heaven--between a gross, sensual passion and a pure, exalting love. he is betrothed to sulamith, the daughter of the high priest of the temple, who awaits his return from solomon's palace and leads her companions in songs of gladness. assad meets the queen at gath, performs his mission, and sets out to return, but, exhausted by the heat of the day, enters the forest on mount lebanon and lies down on a bank of moss to rest. there the sound of plashing waters arrests his ear. he seeks the cause of the grateful noise and comes upon a transportingly beautiful woman bathing. the nymph, finding herself observed, does not, like another diana, cause the death of her admirer, but discloses herself to be a veritable wagnerian venus. she clips him in her arms and he falls at her feet; but a reed rustles and the charmer flees. these incidents we do not see. they precede the opening of the opera, and we learn of them from assad's narration. assad returns to jerusalem, where, conscience stricken, he seeks to avoid his chaste bride. to solomon, however, he confesses his adventure, and the king sets the morrow as his wedding day with sulamith. the queen of sheba arrives, and when she raises her veil, ostensibly to show unto solomon the first view of her features that mortal man has ever had vouchsafed him, assad recognizes the heroine of his adventure in the woods on lebanon. his mind is in a maze; bewilderingly he addresses her, and haughtily he is repulsed. but the woman has felt the dart no less than assad; she seeks him at night in the palace garden; whither she had gone to brood over her love and the loss which threatens her on the morrow, and the luring song of her slave draws him again into her arms. before the altar in the temple, just as assad is about to pronounce the words which are to bind him to sulamith, she confronts him again, on the specious pretext that she brings gifts for the bride. assad again addresses her. again he is denied. delirium seizes upon his brain; he loudly proclaims the queen as the goddess of his devotion. the people are panic-stricken at the sacrilege and rush from the temple; the priests cry anathema; sulamith bemoans her fate; solomon essays words of comfort; the high priest intercedes with heaven; the soldiery, led by baal-hanan, overseer of the palace, enter to lead the profaner to death. now solomon claims the right to fix his punishment. the queen, fearful that her prey may escape her, begs his life as a boon, but solomon rejects her appeal; assad must work out his salvation by overcoming temptation and mastering his wicked passion. sulamith approaches amid the wailings of her companions. she is about to enter a retreat on the edge of the syrian desert, but she, too, prays for the life of assad. solomon, in a prophetic ecstasy, foretells assad's deliverance from sin and in a vision sees a meeting between him and his pure love under a palm tree in the desert. assad is banished to the sandy waste; there a simoom sweeps down upon him; he falls at the foot of a lonely palm to die, after calling on sulamith with his fleeting breath. she comes with her wailing maidens, sees the fulfilment of solomon's prophecy, and assad dies in her arms. "thy beloved is thine, in love's eternal realm," sing the maidens, while a mirage shows the wicked queen, with her caravan of camels and elephants, returning to her home. the parallel between this story and the immeasurably more poetical and beautiful one of "tannhauser" is apparent to half an eye. sulamith is elizabeth, the queen is venus, assad is tannhauser, solomon is wolfram von eschenbach. the ethical force of the drama--it has some, though very little--was weakened at the performances at the metropolitan opera house [footnote: goldmark's opera was presented for the first time in america at the metropolitan opera house on december 2, 1885. cast: sulamith, fraulein lilli lehmann; die konigin von saba, frau kramer-wiedl; astaroth, fraulein marianne brandt; solomon, herr adolph robinson; assad, herr stritt; der hohe priester, herr emil fischer; baal-hanan, herr-alexi. anton seidl conducted, and the opera had fifteen representations in the season. these performances were in the original german. on april 3, 1888, an english version was presented at the academy of music by the national opera company, then in its death throes. the opera was revived at the metropolitan opera house by mr. conried in the season 1905-1906 and had five performances.] in new york by the excision from the last act of a scene in which the queen attempts to persuade assad to go with her to arabia. now assad rises superior to his grosser nature and drives the temptress away, thus performing the saving act demanded by solomon. herr mosenthal, who made the libretto of "die konigin von saba," treated this material, not with great poetic skill, but with a cunning appreciation of the opportunities which it offers for dramatic effect. the opera opens with a gorgeous picture of the interior of solomon's palace, decked in honor of the coming guest. there is an air of joyous expectancy over everything. sulamith's entrance introduces the element of female charm to brighten the brilliancy of the picture, and her bridal song--in which the refrain is an excerpt from the canticles, "thy beloved is thine, who feeds among the roses"--enables the composer to indulge his strong predilection and fecund gift for oriental melody. the action hurries to a thrilling climax. one glittering pageant treads on the heels of another, each more gorgeous and resplendent than the last, until the stage, set to represent a fantastical hall with a bewildering vista of carved columns, golden lions, and rich draperies, is filled with such a kaleidoscopic mass of colors and groupings as only an oriental mind could conceive. finally all the preceding strokes are eclipsed by the coming of the queen. but no time is lost; the spectacle does not make the action halt for a moment. sheba makes her gifts and uncovers her face, and at once we are confronted by the tragical element, and the action rushes on toward its legitimate and mournful end. in this ingenious blending of play and spectacle one rare opportunity after another is presented to the composer. sulamith's epithalamium, assad's narrative, the choral greeting to the queen, the fateful recognition--all these things are made for music of the inspiring, swelling, passionate kind. in the second act, the queen's monologue, her duet with assad, and, most striking of all, the unaccompanied bit of singing with which astaroth lures assad into the presence of the queen, who is hiding in the shadow of broad-leaved palms behind a running fountain--a melodic phrase saturated with the mystical color of the east--these are gifts of the rarest kind to the composer, which he has enriched to give them in turn to the public. that relief from their stress of passion is necessary is not forgotten, but is provided in the ballet music and the solemn ceremonial in the temple, which takes place amid surroundings that call into active operation one's childhood fancies touching the sacred fane on mount moriah and the pompous liturgical functions of which it was the theatre. goldmark's music is highly spiced. he was an eclectic, and his first aim seems to have been to give the drama a tonal investiture which should be in keeping with its character, external as well as internal. at times his music rushes along like a lava stream of passion, every measure pulsating with eager, excited, and exciting life. he revels in instrumental color. the language of his orchestra is as glowing as the poetry attributed to the royal poet whom his operatic story celebrates. many composers before him made use of oriental cadences, rhythms, and idioms, but to none do they seem to have come so like native language as to goldmark. it is romantic music, against which the strongest objection that can be urged is that it is so unvaryingly stimulated that it wearies the mind and makes the listener long for a change to a fresher and healthier musical atmosphere. chapter vi "herodiade" in the ballet scene of gounod's most popular opera mephistopheles conjures up visions of phryne, lais, aspasia, cleopatra, and helen of troy to beguile the jaded interest of faust. the list reads almost like a catalogue of the operas of massenet whose fine talent was largely given to the celebration of the famous courtesans of the ancient world. with the addition of a few more names from the roster of antiquity (thais, dalila, and aphrodite), and some less ancient but no less immoral creatures of modern fancy, like violetta, manon lescaut, zaza, and louise, we might make a pretty complete list of representatives of the female type in which modern dramatists and composers seem to think the interest of humanity centres. when massenet's "herodiade" was announced as the first opera to be given at the manhattan opera house in new york for the season of 1909-1910 it looked to some observers as if the dominant note of the year was to be sounded by the scarlet woman; but the representation brought a revelation and a surprise. the names of the principal characters were those which for a few years had been filling the lyric theatres of germany with a moral stench; but their bearers in massenet's opera did little or nothing that was especially shocking to good taste or proper morals. herod was a love-sick man of lust, who gazed with longing eyes upon the physical charms of salome and pleaded for her smiles like any sentimental milksop; but he did not offer her capernaum for a dance. salome may have known how, but she did not dance for either half a kingdom or the whole of a man's head. instead, though there were intimations that her reputation was not all that a good maiden's ought to be, she sang pious hosannahs and waved a palm branch conspicuously in honor of the prophet at whose head she had bowled herself in the desert, the public streets, and king's palaces. at the end she killed herself when she found that the vengeful passion of herodias and the jealous hatred of herod had compassed the death of the saintly man whom she had loved. herodias was a wicked woman, no doubt, for john the baptist denounced her publicly as a jezebel, but her jealousy of salome had reached a point beyond her control before she learned that her rival was her own daughter whom she had deserted for love of the tetrarch. as for john the baptist the camel's hair with which he was clothed must have cost as pretty a penny as any of the modern kind, and if he wore a girdle of skins about his loins it was concealed under a really regal cloak. he was a voice; but not one crying in the wilderness. he was in fact an operatic tenor comme il faut, who needed only to be shut up in a subterranean jail with the young woman who had pursued him up hill and down dale, in and out of season to make love to her in the most approved fashion of the paris grand opera. what shall we think of the morals of this french opera, after we have seen and heard that compounded by the englishman oscar wilde and the german richard strauss? no wonder that england's lord chamberlain asked nothing more than an elimination of the biblical names when he licensed a performance of "herodiade" at covent garden. there was no loss of dramatic quality in calling herod, moriame, and herodias, hesotade, and changing the scene from jerusalem to azoum in ethiopia; though it must have been a trifle diverting to hear fair-skinned ethiopians singing schma yisroel, adonai elohenu in a temple which could only be that of jerusalem. john the baptist was only jean in the original and needed not to be changed, and salome is not in the bible, though salome, a very different woman is--a fact which the lord chamberlain seems to have overlooked when he changed the title of the opera from "herodiade" to "salome." where does salome come from, anyway? and where did she get her chameleonlike nature? was she an innocent child, as flaubert represents her, who could but lisp the name of the prophet when her mother told her to ask for his head? had she taken dancing lessons from one of the women of cadiz to learn to dance as she must have danced to excite such lust in herod? was she a monster, a worse than vampire as she is represented by wilde and strauss? was she an "israelitish grisette" as pougin called the heroine of the opera which it took one italian (zanardini) and three frenchmen (milliet, gremont, and massenet) to concoct? no wonder that the brain of saint-saens reeled when he went to hear "herodiade" at its first performance in brussels and found that the woman whom he had looked upon as a type of lasciviousness and monstrous cruelty had become metamorphosed into a penitent magdalen. read the plot of the opera and wonder! salome is a maiden in search of her mother whom john the baptist finds in his wanderings and befriends. she clings to him when he becomes a political as well as a religious power among the jews, though he preaches unctuously to her touching the vanity of earthly love. herodias demands his death of her husband for that he had publicly insulted her, but herod schemes to use his influence over the jews to further his plan to become a real monarch instead of a roman tetrarch. but when the pro-consul vitellius wins the support of the people and herod learns that the maiden who has spurned him is in love with the prophet, he decrees his decapitation. salome, baffled in her effort to save her lover, attempts to kill herodias; but the wicked woman discloses herself as the maiden's mother and salome turns the dagger against her own breast. this is all of the story one needs to know. it is richly garnished with incident, made gorgeous with pageantry, and clothed with much charming music. melodies which may be echoes of synagogal hymns of great antiquity resound in the walls of the temple at jerusalem, in which respect the opera recalls goldmark's "queen of sheba." curved roman trumpets mix their loud clangors with the instruments of the modern brass band and compel us to think of "aida." there are dances of egyptians, babylonians, and phoenicians, and if the movements of the women make us deplore the decay of the choreographic art, the music warms us almost as much as the spanish measures in "le cid." eyes and ears are deluged with oriental color until at the last there comes a longing for the graciously insinuating sentimentalities of which the earlier massenet was a master. two of the opera's airs had long been familiar to the public from performance in the concert-room--salome's "il est doux" and herod's "vision fugitive"--and they stand out as the brightest jewels in the opera's musical crown; but there is much else which woos the ear delightfully, for massenet was ever a gracious if not a profound melodist and a master of construction and theatrical orchestration. when he strives for massive effects, however, he sometimes becomes futile, banal where he would be imposing; but he commands a charm which is insinuating in its moments of intimacy. [footnote: "herodiade" had its first performance in new york (it had previously been given in new orleans by the french opera company) on november 8, 1909. the cast was as follows: salome--lina cavalieri; herodias--gerville-reache; john--charles dalmores; herod--maurice renaud; vitellius--crabbe; phanuel--m. vallier; high priest--m. nicolay. the musical director was henriques de la fuente.] chapter vii "lakme" lakme is the daughter of nilakantha, a fanatical brahmin priest, who has withdrawn to a ruined temple deep in an indian forest. in his retreat the old man nurses his wrath against the british invader, prays assiduously to brahma (thus contributing a fascinating oriental mood to the opening of the opera), and waits for the time to come when he shall be able to wreak his revenge on the despoilers of his country. lakme sings oriental duets with her slave, mallika:- sous le dome epais ou le blanc jasmin a la rose s'assemble, sur la rive en fleurs, riant au matin viens, descendons ensemble-a dreamy, sense-ensnaring, hypnotic barcarole. the opera opens well; by this time the composer has carried us deep into the jungle. the occident is rude: gerald, an english officer, breaks through a bamboo fence and makes love to lakme, who, though widely separated from her operatic colleagues from an ethnological point of view like elsa and senta, to expedite the action requites the passion instanter. after the englishman is gone the father returns and, with an oriental's cunning which does him credit, deduces from the broken fence that an englishman has profaned the sacred spot. this is the business of act i. in act ii the father, disguised as a beggar who holds a dagger ever in readiness, and his daughter, disguised as a street singer, visit a town market in search of the profaner. the business is not to lakme's taste, but it is not for the like of her to neglect the opportunity offered to win applause with the legend of the pariah's daughter, with its tintinnabulatory charm:- ou va la jeune hindoue fille des parias; quand la lune se joue dans les grand mimosas? it is the "bell song," which has tinkled so often in our concert-rooms. gerald recognizes the singer despite her disguise; and nilakantha recognizes him as the despoiler of the hallowed spot in which he worships and incidentally conceals his daughter. the bloodthirsty fanatic observes sententiously that brahma has smiled and cuts short gerald's soliloquizing with a dagger thrust. lakme, with the help of a male slave, removes him to a hut concealed in the forest. while he is convalescing the pair sing duets and exchange vows of undying affection. but the military briton, who has invaded the country at large, must needs now invade also this cosey abode of love. frederick, a brother officer, discovers gerald and informs him that duty calls (britain always expects every man to do his duty, no matter what the consequences to him) and he must march with his regiment. frederick has happened in just as lakme is gone for some sacred water in which she and gerald were to pledge eternal love for each other, to each other. but, spurred on by frederick and the memory that "england expects, etc.," gerald finds the call of the fife and drum more potent than the voice of love. lakme, psychologist as well as botanist, understands the struggle which now takes place in gerald's soul, and relieves him, of his dilemma by crushing a poisonous flower (to be exact, the datura stramonium) between her teeth, dying, it would seem, to the pious delight of her father, who "ecstatically" beholds her dwelling with brahma. the story, borrowed by gondinet and gille from the little romance "le mariage de loti," is worthless except to furnish motives for tropical scenery, hindu dresses, and oriental music. three english ladies, ellen, rose, and mrs. bentson, figure in the play, but without dramatic purpose except to take part in some concerted music. they are, indeed, so insignificant in all other respects that when the opera was given by miss van zandt and a french company in london for the first time in 1885 they were omitted, and the excision was commended by the critics, who knew that it had been made. the conversation of the women is all of the veriest stopgap character. the maidens, rose and ellen, are english ladies visiting in the east; mrs. bentson is their chaperon. all that they have to say is highly unimportant, even when true. "what do you see, frederick?" "a garden." "and you, gerald?" "big, beautiful trees." "anybody about?" "don't know." "look again." "that's not easy; the fence shuts out the view within." "can't you make a peephole through the bamboo?" "girls, girls, be careful." and so on and so on for quantity. but we must fill three acts, and ensemble makes its demands; besides, we want pretty blondes of the english type to put in contrast with the dark-skinned lakme and her slave. at the first representation in new york by the american opera company, at the academy of music, on march 1, 1886, the three women were permitted to interfere with what there is of poetical spirit in the play, and their conversation, like that of the other principals, was uttered in the recitatives composed by delibes to take the place of the spoken dialogue used at the paris opera comique, where spoken dialogue is traditional. theodore thomas conducted the academy performance, at which the cast was as follows: lakme, pauline l'allemand; nilakantha, alonzo e. stoddard; gerald, william candidus; frederick, william h. lee; ellen, charlotte walker; rose, helen dudley campbell; mrs. bentson, may fielding; mallika, jessie bartlett davis; hadji, william h. fessenden. few operas have had a more variegated american history than "lakme." it was quite new when it was first heard in new york, but it had already given rise to considerable theatrical gossip, not to say scandal. the first representation took place at the opera comique in april, 1883, with miss marie van zandt, an american girl, the daughter of a singer who had been actively successful in english opera in new york and london, as creator of the part of the heroine. the opera won a pretty triumph and so did the singer. at once there was talk of a new york performance. mme. etelka gerster studied the titular role with m. delibes and, as a member of colonel mapleson's company at the academy of music, confidently expected to produce the work there in the season of 1883-1884, the first season of the rivalry between the academy and the metropolitan opera house, which had just opened its doors; but though she went so far as to offer to buy the american performing rights from heugel, the publisher, nothing came of it. the reason was easily guessed by those who knew that there has been, or was pending, a quarrel between colonel mapleson and m. heugel concerning the unauthorized use by the impresario of other scores owned by the publisher. during the same season, however, miss emma abbott carried a version (or rather a perversion) of the opera, for which the orchestral parts had been arranged from the pianoforte score, into the cities of the west, and brought down a deal of unmerited criticism on the innocent head of m. delibes. in the season of 1884-1885 colonel mapleson came back to the academy with vouchers of various sorts to back up a promise to give the opera. there was a human voucher in the person of miss emma nevada, who had also enjoyed the instruction of the composer and who had trunkfuls and trunkfuls and trunkfuls of oriental dresses, though lakme needs but few. there were gorgeous uniforms for the british soldiers, the real article, each scarlet coat and every top boot having a piece of history attached, and models of the scenery which any doubting thomas of a newspaper reporter might inspect if he felt so disposed. when the redoubtable colonel came it was to be only a matter of a week or so before the opera would be put on the stage in the finest of styles; it was still a matter of a week or so when the academy season came to an end. when delibes's exquisite and exotic music reached a hearing in the american metropolis, it was sung to english words, and the most emphatic success achieved in performance was the acrobatic one of mme. l'allemand as she rolled down some uncalled-for pagoda steps in the death scene. mme. adelina patti was the second lakme heard in new york. after the fifth season of german opera at the metropolitan opera house had come to an end in the spring of 1890, messrs. abbey and grau took the theatre for a short season of italian opera by a troupe headed by mme. patti. in that season "lakme" was sung once--on april 2, 1890. now came an opportunity for the original representative of the heroine. abbey and grau resumed the management of the theatre in 1891, and in their company was miss van zandt, for whom the opera was "revived" on february 22. mr. abbey had great expectations, but they were disappointed. for the public there was metal more attractive than miss van zandt and the hindu opera in other members of the company and other operas. it was the year of emma eames's coming and also of jean de reszke's (they sang together in gounod's "romeo et juliette") and "cavalleria rusticana" was new. then delibes's opera hibernated in new york for fifteen years, after which the presence in the metropolitan company of mme. marcella sembrich led to another "revival." (operas which are unperformed for a term of two or three years after having been once included in the repertory are "revived" in new york.) it was sung three times in the season of 1906-1907. it also afforded one of mr. hammerstein's many surprises at the manhattan opera house. five days before the close of his last season, on march 21, 1910, it was precipitated on the stage ("pitchforked" is the popular and professional term) to give mme. tetrazzini a chance to sing the bell song. altogether i know of no more singular history than that of "lakme" in new york. lakme is a child of the theatrical boards, who inherited traits from several predecessors, the strongest being those deriving from aida and selika. like the former, she loves a man whom her father believes to be the arch enemy of his native land, and, like her, she is the means of betraying him into the hands of the avenger. like the heroine of meyerbeer's posthumous opera, she has a fatal acquaintance with tropical botany and uses her knowledge to her own destruction. her scientific attainments are on about the same plane as her amiability, her abnormal sense of filial duty, and her musical accomplishments. she loves a man whom her father wishes her to lure to his death by her singing, and she sings entrancingly enough to bring about the meeting between her lover's back and her father's knife. that she does not warble herself into the position of "particeps criminis" in a murder she owes only to the bungling of the old man. having done this, however, she turns physician and nurse and brings the wounded man back to health, thus sacrificing her love to the duty which her lover thinks he owes to the invaders of her country and oppressors of her people. after this she makes the fatal application of her botanical knowledge. such things come about when one goes to india for an operatic heroine. the feature of the libretto which delibes has used to the best purpose is its local color. his music is saturated with the languorous spirit of the east. half a dozen of the melodies are lovely inventions, of marked originality in both matter and treatment, and the first half hour of the opera is apt to take one's fancy completely captive. the drawback lies in the oppressive weariness which succeeds the first trance, and is brought on by the monotonous character of the music. after an hour of "lakme" one yearns for a few crashing chords of c major as a person enduring suffocation longs for a gush of fresh air. the music first grows monotonous, then wearies. delibes's lyrical moments show the most numerous indications of beauty; dramatic life and energy are absent from the score. in the second act he moves his listeners only once--with the attempted repetition of the bell song after lakme has recognized her lover. the odor of the poppy invites to drowsy enjoyment in the beginning, and the first act is far and away the most gratifying in the opera, musically as well as scenically. it would be so if it contained only lakme's song "pourquoi dans les grands bois," the exquisite barcarole--a veritable treasure trove for the composer, who used its melody dramatically throughout the work--and gerald's air, "fantaisie aux divins mensonges." real depth will be looked for in vain in this opera; superficial loveliness is apparent on at least half its pages. chapter viii "pagliaccl" for a quarter of a century "cavalleria rusticana" and "pagliacci" have been the castor and pollux of the operatic theatres of europe and america. together they have joined the hunt of venturesome impresarios for that calydonian boar, success; together they have lighted the way through seasons of tempestuous stress and storm. of recent years at the metropolitan opera house in new york efforts have been made to divorce them and to find associates for one or the other, since neither is sufficient in time for an evening's entertainment; but they refuse to be put asunder as steadfastly as did the twin brothers of helen and clytemnestra. there has been no operatic zeus powerful enough to separate and alternate their existences even for a day; and though blase critics will continue to rail at the "double bill" as they have done for two decades or more, the two fierce little dramas will "sit shining on the sails" of many a managerial ship and bring it safe to haven for many a year to come. twins the operas are in spirit; twins in their capacity as supreme representatives of verismo; twins in the fitness of their association; but twins they are not in respect of parentage or age. "cavalleria rusticana" is two years older than "pagliacci" and as truly its progenitor as weber's operas were the progenitors of wagner's. they are the offspring of the same artistic movement, and it was the phenomenal [figure: a musical score excerpt] success of mascagni's opera which was the spur that drove leoncavallo to write his. when "cavalleria rusticana" appeared on the scene, two generations of opera-goers had passed away without experiencing anything like the sensation caused by this opera. they had witnessed the production, indeed, of great masterpieces, which it would be almost sacrilegious to mention in the same breath with mascagni's turbulent and torrential tragedy, but these works were the productions of mature masters, from whom things monumental and lasting were expected as a matter of course; men like wagner and verdi. the generations had also seen the coming of "carmen" and gradually opened their minds to an appreciation of its meaning and beauty, while the youthful genius who had created it sank almost unnoticed into his grave; but they had not seen the advent of a work which almost in a day set the world on fire and raised an unknown musician from penury and obscurity to affluence and fame. in the face of such an experience it was scarcely to be wondered at that judgment was flung to the winds and that the most volatile of musical nations and the staidest alike hailed the young composer as the successor of verdi, the regenerator of operatic italy, and the pioneer of a new school which should revitalize opera and make unnecessary the hopeless task of trying to work along the lines laid down by wagner. and this opera was the outcome of a competition based on the frankest kind of commercialism--one of those "occasionals" from which we have been taught to believe we ought never to expect anything of ideal and lasting merit. "pagliacci" was, in a way, a fruit of the same competition. three years before "cavalleria rusticana" had started the universal conflagration ruggiero leoncavallo, who at sixteen years of age had won his diploma at the naples conservatory and received the degree of doctor of letters from the university of bologna at twenty, had read his dramatic poem "i medici" to the publisher ricordi and been commissioned to set it to music. for this work he was to receive 2400 francs. he completed the composition within a year, but there was no contract that the opera should be performed, and this hoped-for consummation did not follow. then came mascagni's triumph, and leoncavallo, who had been obliged meanwhile to return to the routine work of an operatic repetiteur, lost patience. satisfied that ricordi would never do anything more for him, and become desperate, he shut himself in his room to attempt "one more work"--as he said in an autobiographical sketch which appeared in "la reforme," a journal published in alexandria. in five months he had written the book and music of "pagliacci," which was accepted for publication and production by sonzogno, ricordi's business rival, after a single reading of the poem. maurel, whose friendship leoncavallo had made while coaching opera singers in paris, used his influence in favor of the opera, offered to create the part of tonio, and did so at the first performance of the opera at the teatro dal verme, milan, on may 17, 1892. leoncavallo's opera turns on a tragical ending to a comedy which is incorporated in the play. the comedy is a familiar one among the strolling players who perform at village fairs in italy, in which columbina, pagliaccio, and arlecchino (respectively the columbine, clown, and harlequin of our pantomime) take part. pagliaccio is husband to colombina and arlecchino is her lover, who hoodwinks pagliaccio. there is a fourth character, taddeo, a servant, who makes foolish love to columbina and, mingling imbecile stupidity with maliciousness, delights in the domestic discord which he helps to foment. the first act of the opera may be looked upon as an induction to the conventional comedy which comes to an unconventional and tragic end through the fact that the clown (canio) is in real life the husband of columbine (nedda) and is murderously jealous of her; wherefore, forgetting himself in a mad rage, he kills her and her lover in the midst of the mimic scene. the lover, however, is not the harlequin of the comedy, but one of the spectators whom canio had vainly sought to identify, but who is unconsciously betrayed by his mistress in her death agony. the taddeo of the comedy is the clown of the company, who in real life entertains a passion for nedda, which is repulsed, whereupon he also carries his part into actuality and betrays nedda's secret to canio. it is in the ingenious interweaving of these threads--the weft of reality with the warp of simulation--that the chief dramatic value of leoncavallo's opera lies. actual murder by a man while apparently playing a part in a drama is older as a dramatic motif than "pagliacci," and leoncavallo's employment of it gave rise to an interesting controversy and a still more interesting revelation in the early days of the opera. old theatre-goers in england and america remember the device as it was employed in dennery's "paillaisse," known on the english stage as "belphegor, the mountebank." in 1874 paul ferrier produced a play entitled "tabarin," in which coquelin appeared at the theatre francais. thirteen years later catulle mendes brought out another play called "la femme de tabarin," for which chabrier wrote the incidental music. the critics were prompt in charging mendes with having plagiarized ferrier, and the former defended himself on the ground that the incident which he had employed, of actual murder in a dramatic performance, was historical and had often been used. this, however, did not prevent him from bringing an accusation of theft against leoncavallo when "pagliacci" was announced for production in french at brussels and of beginning legal proceedings against the composer and his publisher on that score. the controversy which followed showed very plainly that mendes did not have a leg to stand upon either in law or equity, and he withdrew his suit and made a handsome amende in a letter to the editor of "le figaro." before this was done, however, signor leoncavallo wrote a letter to his publisher, which not only established that the incident in question was based upon fact but directed attention to a dramatic use of the motif in a spanish play written thirty-five years before the occurrence which was in the mind of leoncavallo. the letter was as follows:-lugano, sept. 3, 1894. dear signor sonzogno. i have read catulle mendes's two letters. m. mendes goes pretty far in declaring a priori that "pagliacci" is an imitation of his "femme de tabarin." i had not known this book, and only know it now through the accounts given in the daily papers. you will remember that at the time of the first performance of "pagliacci" at milan in 1892 several critics accused me of having taken the subject of my opera from the "drama nuevo" of the well known spanish writer, estebanez. what would m. mendes say if he were accused of having taken the plot of "la femme de tabarin" from the "drama nuevo," which dates back to 1830 or 1840? as a fact, a husband, a comedian, kills in the last scene the lover of his wife before her eyes while he only appears to play his part in the piece. it is absolutely true that i knew at that time no more of the "drama nuevo" than i know now of "la femme de tabarin." i saw the first mentioned work in rome represented by novelli six months after "pagliacci's" first production in milan. in my childhood, while my father was judge at montalto, in calabria (the scene of the opera's plot), a jealous player killed his wife after the performance. this event made a deep and lasting impression on my childish mind, the more since my father was the judge at the criminal's trial; and later, when i took up dramatic work, i used this episode for a drama. i left the frame of the piece as i saw it, and it can be seen now at the festival of madonna della serra, at montalto. the clowns arrive a week or ten days before the festival, which takes place on august 15, to put up their tents and booths in the open space which reaches from the church toward the fields. i have not even invented the coming of the peasants from santo benedetto, a neighboring village, during the chorale. what i write now i have mentioned so often in germany and other parts that several opera houses, notably that of berlin, had printed on their bills "scene of the true event." after all this, m. mendes insisted on his claim, which means that he does not believe my words. had i used m. mendes's ideas i would not have hesitated to open correspondence with him before the first representation, as i have done now with a well known writer who has a subject that i wish to use for a future work. "pagliacci" is my own, entirely my own. if in this opera, a scene reminds one of m. mendes's book, it only proves that we both had the same idea which estebanez had before us. on my honor and conscience i assure you that i have read but two of m. mendes's books in my life--"zo hur" and "la premiere maitresse." when i read at marienbad a little while ago the newspaper notices on the production of "la femme de tabarin" i even wrote to you, dear signor sonzogno, thinking this was an imitation of "pagliacci." this assertion will suffice, coming from an honorable man, to prove my loyalty. if not, then i will place my undoubted rights under the protection of the law, and furnish incontestable proof of what i have stated here. i have the honor, etc., etc. at various times and in various manners, by letters and in newspaper interviews, leoncavallo reiterated the statement that the incident which he had witnessed as a boy in his father's courtroom had suggested his drama. the chief actor in the incident, he said, was still living. after conviction he was asked if he felt penitent. the rough voice which rang through the room years before still echoed in leoncavallo's ears: "i repent me of nothing! on the contrary, if i had it to do over again i'd do it again!" (non mi pento del delitto! tutt altro. se dovessi ricominciare, ricomincerei!) he was sentenced to imprisonment and after the expiration of his term took service in a little calabrian town with baroness sproniere. if mendes had prosecuted his action, "poor alessandro" was ready to appear as a witness and tell the story which leoncavallo had dramatized. i have never seen "la femme de tabarin" and must rely on mr. philip hale, fecund fountain of informal information, for an outline of the play which "pagliacci" called back into public notice: francisquine, the wife of tabarin, irons her petticoats in the players' booth. a musketeer saunters along, stops and makes love to her. she listens greedily. tabarin enters just after she has made an appointment with the man. tabarin is drunk--drunker than usual. he adores his wife; he falls at her feet; he entreats her; he threatens her. meanwhile the crowd gathers to see the "parade." tabarin mounts the platform and tells openly of his jealousy. he calls his wife; she does not answer. he opens the curtain behind him; then he sees her in the arms of the musketeer. tabarin snatches up a sword, stabs his wife in the breast and comes back to the stage with starting eyes and hoarse voice. the crowd marvels at the passion of his play. francisquine, bloody, drags herself along the boards. she chokes; she cannot speak. tabarin, mad with despair, gives her the sword, begs her to kill him. she seizes the sword, raises herself, hiccoughs, gasps out the word "canaille," and dies before she can strike. paul ferrier and emanuel pessard produced a grand opera in two acts entitled "tabarin" in paris in 1885; alboiz and andre a comic opera with the same title, music by georges bousquet, in 1852. gilles and furpilles brought out an operetta called "tabarin duelliste," with music by leon pillaut, in 1866. the works seem to have had only the name of the hero in common. their stories bear no likeness to those of "la femme de tabarin" or "pagliacci." the spanish play, "drama nuevo," by estebanez, was adapted for performance in english by mr. w. d. howells under the title "yorick's love." the translation was made for mr. lawrence barrett and was never published in book form. if it had the denouement suggested in leoncavallo's letter to sonzogno, the fact has escaped the memory of mr. howells, who, in answer to a letter of inquiry which i sent him, wrote: "so far as i can remember there was no likeness between 'yorick's love' and 'pagliacci.' but when i made my version i had not seen or heard 'pagliacci.'" the title of leoncavallo's opera is "pagliacci," not "i pagliacci" as it frequently appears in books and newspapers. when the opera was brought out in the vernacular, mr. frederick e. weatherly, who made the english adaptation, called the play and the character assumed by canio in the comedy "punchinello." this evoked an interesting comment from mr. hale: "'pagliacci' is the plural of pagliaccio, which does not mean and never did mean punchinello. what is a pagliaccio? a type long known to the italians, and familiar to the french as paillasse. the pagliaccio visited paris first in 1570. he was clothed in white and wore big buttons. later, he wore a suit of bedtick, with white and blue checks, the coarse mattress cloth of the period. hence his name. the word that meant straw was afterward used for mattress which was stuffed with straw and then for the buffoon, who wore the mattress cloth suit. in france the paillasse, as i have said, was the same as pagliaccio. sometimes he wore a red checked suit, but the genuine one was known by the colors, white and blue. he wore blue stockings, short breeches puffing out a la blouse, a belted blouse and a black, close-fitting cap. this buffoon was seen at shows of strolling mountebanks. he stood outside the booth and by his jests and antics and grimaces strove to attract the attention of the people, and he told them of the wonders performed by acrobats within, of the freaks exhibited. many of his jests are preserved. they are often in dialogue with the proprietor and are generally of vile indecency. the lowest of the strollers, he was abused by them. the italian pagliaccio is a species of clown, and punchinello was never a mere buffoon. the punch of the puppet-show is a bastard descendant of the latter, but the original type is still seen in naples, where he wears a white costume and a black mask. the original type was not necessarily humpbacked. punchinello is a shrewd fellow, intellectual, yet in touch with the people, cynical; not hesitating at murder if he can make by it; at the same time a local satirist, a dealer in gags and quips. pagliacci is perhaps best translated by 'clowns'; but the latter word must not be taken in its restricted circus sense. these strolling clowns are pantomimists, singers, comedians." at the first performance of "pagliacci" in milan the cast was as follows: canio, geraud; tonio, maurel; silvio, ancona; peppe, daddi; nedda, mme. stehle. the first performance in america was by the hinrichs grand opera company, at the grand opera house, new york, on june 15, 1893; selma kronold was the nedda, montegriffo the canio, and campanari the tonio. the opera was incorporated in the metropolitan repertory in the season of 1893-1894. rinuccini's "dafne," which was written 300 years ago and more, begins with a prologue which was spoken in the character of the poet ovid. leoncavallo's "pagliacci" also begins with a prologue, but it is spoken by one of the people of the play; whether in his character as tonio of the tragedy or pagliaccio of the comedy there is no telling. he speaks the sentiments of the one and wears the motley of the other. text and music, however, are ingeniously contrived to serve as an index to the purposes of the poet and the method and material of the composer. in his speech the prologue tells us that the author of the play is fond of the ancient custom of such an introduction, but not of the old purpose. he does not employ it for the purpose of proclaiming that the tears and passions of the actors are but simulated and false. no! he wishes to let us know that his play is drawn from life as it is--that it is true. it welled up within him when memories of the past sang in his heart and was written down to show us that actors are human beings like unto ourselves. an unnecessary preachment, and if listened to with a critical disposition rather an impertinence, as calculated to rob us of the pleasure of illusion which it is the province of the drama to give. closely analyzed, tonio's speech is very much of a piece with the prologue which bully bottom wanted for the play of "pyramus" in shakespeare's comedy. we are asked to see a play. in this play there is another play. in this other play one of the actors plays at cross-purposes with the author--forgets his lines and himself altogether and becomes in reality the man that he seems to be in the first play. the prologue deliberately aims to deprive us of the thrill of surprise at the unexpected denouement, simply that he may tell us what we already know as well as he, that an actor is a human being. plainly then, from a didactic point of view, this prologue is a gratuitous impertinence. not so its music. structurally, it is little more than a loose-jointed pot-pourri; but it serves the purpose of a thematic catalogue to the chief melodic incidents of the play which is to follow. in this it bears a faint resemblance to the introduction to berlioz's "romeo and juliet" symphony. it begins with an energetic figure, [figure: a musical score excerpt] which is immediately followed by an upward scale-passage with a saucy flourish at the end--not unlike the crack of a whiplash:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] it helps admirably to picture the bustling activity of the festa into which we are soon to be precipitated. the bits of melody which are now introduced might all be labelled in the wolzogen-wagner manner with reference to the play's peoples and their passions if it were worth while to do so, or if their beauty and eloquence were not sufficient unto themselves. first we have the phrase in which canio will tell us how a clown's heart must seem merry and make laughter though it be breaking:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] next the phrase from the love music of nedda and silvio:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] the bustling music returns, develops great energy, then pauses, hesitates, and makes way for tonio, who, putting his head through the curtain, politely asks permission of the audience, steps forward and delivers his homily, which is alternately declamatory and broadly melodious. one of his melodies later becomes the theme of the between-acts music, which separates the supposedly real life of the strolling players from the comedy which they present to the mimic audience:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] at last tonio calls upon his fellow mountebanks to begin their play. the curtain rises. we are in the midst of a rural celebration of the feast of the assumption on the outskirts of a village in calabria. a perambulant theatre has been set up among the trees and the strolling actors are arriving, accompanied by a crowd of villagers, who shout greetings to clown, columbine, and harlequin. nedda arrives in a cart drawn by a donkey led by beppe. canio in character invites the crowd to come to the show at 7 o'clock (ventitre ore). there they shall be regaled with a sight of the domestic troubles of pagliaccio and see the fat mischief-maker tremble. tonio wants to help nedda out of the cart, but canio interferes and lifts her down himself; whereupon the women and boys twit tonio. canio and beppe wet their whistles at the tavern, but tonio remains behind on the plea that he must curry the donkey. the hospitable villager playfully suggests that it is tonio's purpose to make love to nedda. canio, half in earnest, half in jest, points out the difference between real life and the stage. in the play, if he catches a lover with his wife, he flies into a mock passion, preaches a sermon, and takes a drubbing from the swain to the amusement of the audience. but there would be a different ending to the story were nedda actually to deceive him. let tonio beware! does he doubt nedda's fidelity? not at all. he loves her and seals his assurance with a kiss. then off to the tavern. hark to the bagpipes! huzza, here come the zampognari! drone pipes droning and chaunters skirling--as well as they can skirl in italian! [figure: a musical score excerpt] now we have people and pipers on the stage and there's a bell in the steeple ringing for vespers. therefore a chorus. not that we have anything to say that concerns the story in any way. "din, don!" that would suffice, but if you must have more: "let's to church. din, don. all's right with love and the sunset. din, don! but mamma has her eye on the young folk and their inclination for kissing. din, don!" bells and pipes are echoed by the singers. her husband is gone to the tavern for refreshment and nedda is left alone. there is a little trouble in her mind caused by the fierceness of canio's voice and looks. does he suspect? but why yield to such fancies and fears? how beautiful the mid-august sun is! her hopes and longings find expression in the "ballatella"--a waltz tune with twitter of birds and rustle of leaves for accompaniment. pretty birds, where are you going? what is it you say? mother knew your song and used once to tell it to her babe. how your wings flash through the ether! heedless of cloud and tempest, on, on, past the stars, and still on! her wishes take flight with the feathered songsters, but tonio brings her rudely to earth. he pleads for a return of the love which he says he bears her, but she bids him postpone his protestations till he can make them in the play. he grows desperately urgent and attempts to rape a kiss. she cuts him across the face with a donkey whip, and he goes away blaspheming and swearing vengeance. then silvio comes--silvio, the villager, who loves her and who has her heart. she fears he will be discovered, but he bids her be at peace; he had left canio drinking at the tavern. she tells him of the scene with tonio and warns him, but he laughs at her fears. then he pleads with her. she does not love her husband; she is weary of the wandering life which she is forced to lead; if her love is true let her fly with him to happiness. no. 'tis folly, madness; her heart is his, but he must not tempt her to its destruction. tonio slinks in and plays eavesdropper. he hears the mutual protestations of the lovers, hears nedda yield to silvio's wild pleadings, sees them locked in each other's arms, and hurries off to fetch canio. canio comes, but not in time to see the man who had climbed over the wall, yet in time to hear nedda's word of parting: a stanotte--e per sempre tua saro--"to-night, and forever, i am yours!" he throws nedda aside and gives chase after the fugitive, but is baffled. he demands to be told the name of her lover. nedda refuses to answer. he rushes upon her with dagger drawn, but beppe intercepts and disarms him. there is haste now; the villagers are already gathering for the play. tonio insinuates his wicked advice: let us dissemble; the gallant may be caught at the play. the others go out to prepare for their labors. canio staggers toward the theatre. he must act the merry fool, though his heart be torn! why not? what is he? a man? no; a clown! on with the motley! the public must be amused. what though harlequin steals his columbine? laugh, pagliaccio, though thy heart break! the between-acts music is retrospective; it comments on the tragic emotions, the pathos foretold in the prologue. act ii brings the comedy which is to have a realistic and bloody ending. the villagers gather and struggle for places in front of the booth. among them is silvio, to whom nedda speaks a word of warning as she passes him while collecting the admission fees. he reminds her of the assignation; she will be there. the comedy begins to the music of a graceful minuet:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] columbine is waiting for harlequin. taddeo is at the market buying the supper for the mimic lovers. harlequin sings his serenade under the window: "o, colombina, il tenero fido arlecchin"--a pretty measure! taddeo enters and pours out his admiration for colombina in an exaggerated cadenza as he offers her his basket of purchases. the audience shows enjoyment of the sport. taddeo makes love to colombina and harlequin, entering by the window, lifts him up by the ears from the floor where he is kneeling and kicks him out of the room. what fun! the mimic lovers sit at table and discuss the supper and their love. taddeo enters in mock alarm to tell of the coming of pagliaccio. harlequin decamps, but leaves a philtre in the hands of columbine to be poured into her husband's wine. at the window columbine calls after him: a stanotte--e per sempre io saro tua! at this moment canio enters in the character of pagliaccio. he hears again the words which nedda had called after the fleeing silvio, and for a moment is startled out of his character. but he collects himself and begins to play his part. "a man has been here!" "you've been drinking!" the dialogue of the comedy continues, but ever and anon with difficulty on the part of pagliaccio, who begins to put a sinister inflection into his words. taddeo is dragged from the cupboard in which he had taken hiding. he, too, puts color of verity into his lines, especially when he prates about the purity of columbine. canio loses control of himself more and more. "pagliaccio no more, but a man--a man seeking vengeance. the name of your lover!" the audience is moved by his intensity. silvio betrays anxiety. canio rages on. "the name, the name!" the mimic audience shouts, "bravo!" nedda: if he doubts her she will go. "no, by god! you'll remain and tell me the name of your lover!" with a great effort nedda forces herself to remain in character. the music, whose tripping dance measures have given way to sinister mutterings in keeping with canio's mad outbursts, as the mimic play ever and anon threatens to leave its grooves and plunge into the tragic vortex of reality, changes to a gavotte:-[figure: a musical excerpt] columbine explains: she had no idea her husband could put on so tragical a mask. it is only harmless harlequin who has been her companion. "the name! the name!! the name!!!" nedda sees catastrophe approaching and throws her character to the winds. she shrieks out a defiant "no!" and attempts to escape from the mimic stage. silvio starts up with dagger drawn. the spectators rise in confusion and cry "stop him!" canio seizes nedda and plunges his knife into her: "take that! and that! with thy dying gasps thou'lt tell me!" woful intuition! dying, nedda calls: "help, silvio!" silvio rushes forward and receives canio's knife in his heart. "gesumaria!" shriek the women. men throw themselves upon canio. he stands for a moment in a stupor, drops his knife and speaks the words: "the comedy is ended." "ridi pagliaccio!" shrieks the orchestra as the curtain falls. "plaudite, amici," said beethoven on his death bed, "la commedia finita est!" and there is a tradition that these, too, were the last words of the arch-jester rabelais. "when 'pagliacci' was first sung here (in boston), by the tavary company," says mr. philip hale, "tonio pointed to the dead bodies and uttered the sentence in a mocking way. and there is a report that such was leoncavallo's original intention. as the tonio began the piece in explanation so he should end it. but the tenor (de lucia) insisted that he should speak the line. i do not believe the story. (1) as maurel was the original tonio and the tenor was comparatively unknown, it is doubtful whether maurel, of all men, would have allowed of the loss of a fat line. (2) as canio is chief of the company it is eminently proper that he should make the announcement to the crowd. (3) the ghastly irony is accentuated by the speech when it comes from canio's mouth." chapter ix "cavalleria rusticana" having neither the patience nor the inclination to paraphrase a comment on mascagni's "cavalleria rusticana" which i wrote years ago when the opera was comparatively new, and as it appears to me to contain a just estimate and criticism of the work and the school of which it and "pagliacci" remain the foremost exemplars, i quote from my book, "chapters of opera" [footnote: "chapters of opera," by h. e. krehbiel, p.223] "seventeen years ago 'cavalleria rusticana' had no perspective. now, though but a small portion of its progeny has been brought to our notice, we nevertheless look at it through a vista which looks like a valley of moral and physical death through which there flows a sluggish stream thick with filth and red with blood. strangely enough, in spite of the consequences which have followed it, the fierce little drama retains its old potency. it still speaks with a voice which sounds like the voice of truth. its music still makes the nerves tingle, and carries our feelings unresistingly on its turbulent current. but the stage-picture is less sanguinary than it looked in the beginning. it seems to have receded a millennium in time. it has the terrible fierceness of an attic tragedy, but it also has the decorum which the attic tragedy never violated. there is no slaughter in the presence of the audience, despite the humbleness of its personages. it does not keep us perpetually in sight of the shambles. it is, indeed, an exposition of chivalry; rustic, but chivalry nevertheless. it was thus clytemnestra slew her husband, and orestes his mother. note the contrast which the duel between alfio and turiddu presents with the double murder to the piquant accompaniment of comedy in 'pagliacci,' the opera which followed so hard upon its heels. since then piquancy has been the cry; the piquant contemplation of adultery, seduction, and murder amid the reek and stench of the italian barnyard. think of cilea's 'tilda,' giordano's 'mala vita,' spinelli's 'a basso porto,' and tasca's 'a santa lucia'! "the stories chosen for operatic treatment by the champions of verismo are all alike. it is their filth and blood which fructifies the music, which rasps the nerves even as the plays revolt the moral stomach. i repeat: looking back over the time during which this so-called veritism has held its orgies, 'cavalleria rusticana' seems almost classic. its music is highly spiced and tastes 'hot i' th' mouth,' but its eloquence is, after all, in its eager, pulsating, passionate melody--like the music which verdi wrote more than half a century ago for the last act of 'il trovatore.' if neither mascagni himself nor his imitators have succeeded in equalling it since, it is because they have thought too much of the external devices of abrupt and uncouth change of modes and tonalities, of exotic scales and garish orchestration, and too little of the fundamental element of melody which once was the be-all and end-all of italian music. another fountain of gushing melody must be opened before 'cavalleria rusticana' finds a successor in all things worthy of the succession. ingenious artifice, reflection, and technical cleverness will not suffice even with the blood and mud of the slums as a fertilizer." how mascagni came to write his opera he has himself told us in a bright sketch of the early part of his life-history which was printed in the "fanfulla della domenica" of rome shortly after he became famous. recounting the story of his struggle for existence after entering upon his career, he wrote:-in 1888 only a few scenes (of "ratcliff") remained to be composed; but i let them lie and have not touched them since. the thought of "cavalleria rusticana" had been in my head for several years. i wanted to introduce myself with, a work of small dimensions. i appealed to several librettists, but none was willing to undertake the work without a guarantee of recompense. then came notice of the sonzogno competition and i eagerly seized the opportunity to better my condition. but my salary of 100 lire, to which nothing was added, except the fees from a few pianoforte lessons in cerignola and two lessons in the philharmonic society of canosa (a little town a few miles from cerignola), did not permit the luxury of a libretto. at the solicitation of some friends targioni, in leghorn, decided to write a "cavalleria rusticana" for me. my mind was long occupied with the finale. the words: hanno ammazzato compare turiddu! (they have killed neighbor turiddu!) were forever ringing in my ears. i needed a few mighty orchestral chords to give characteristic form to the musical phrase and achieve an impressive close. how it happened i don't know, but one morning, as i was trudging along the road to give my lessons at canosa, the idea came to me like a stroke of lightning, and i had found my chords. they were those seventh chords, which i conscientiously set down in my manuscript. thus i began my opera at the end. when i received the first chorus of my libretto by post (i composed the siciliano in the prelude later) i said in great good humor to my wife: "to-day we must make a large expenditure." "what for?" "an alarm clock." "why?" "to wake me up before dawn so that i may begin to write on 'cavalleria rusticana.'" the expenditure caused a dubious change in the monthly budget, but it was willingly allowed. we went out together, and after a good deal of bargaining spent nine lire. i am sure that i can find the clock, all safe and sound, in cerignola. i wound it up the evening we bought it, but it was destined to be of no service to me, for in that night a son, the first of a row of them, was born to me. in spite of this i carried out my determination, and in the morning began to write the first chorus of "cavalleria." i came to rome in february, 1890, in order to permit the jury to hear my opera; they decided that it was worthy of performance. returning to cerignola in a state of the greatest excitement, i noticed that i did not have a penny in my pocket for the return trip to rome when my opera was to be rehearsed. signor sonzogno helped me out of my embarrassment with a few hundred francs. those beautiful days of fear and hope, of discouragement and confidence, are as vividly before my eyes as if they were now. i see again the constanzi theatre, half filled; i see how, after the last excited measures of the orchestra, they all raise their arms and gesticulate, as if they were threatening me; and in my soul there awakens an echo of that cry of approval which almost prostrated me. the effect made upon me was so powerful that at the second representation i had to request them to turn down the footlights in case i should be called out; for the blinding light seemed a hell to me, like a fiery abyss that threatened to engulf me. it is a rude little tale which giovanni verga wrote and which supplied the librettists, g. targioni-tozzetti and g. menasci, with the plot of mascagni's opera. sententious as the opera seems, it is yet puffed out, padded, and bedizened with unessential ornament compared with the story. this has the simplicity and directness of a folk-tale or folk-song, and much of its characteristic color and strength were lost in fitting it out for music. the play, which signora duse presented to us with a power which no operatic singer can ever hope to match, was more to the purpose, quicker and stronger in movement, fiercer in its onrush of passion, and more pathetic in its silences than the opera with its music, though the note of pathos sounded by signor mascagni is the most admirable element of the score. with half a dozen homely touches verga conjures up the life of a sicilian village and strikes out his characters in bold outline. turiddu macca, son of nunzia, is a bersagliere returned from service. he struts about the village streets in his uniform, smoking a pipe carved with an image of the king on horseback, which he lights with a match fired by a scratch on the seat of his trousers, "lifting his leg as if for a kick." lola, daughter of massaro angelo, was his sweetheart when he was conscripted, but meanwhile she has promised to marry alfio, a teamster from licodia, who has four sortino mules in his stable. now turiddu could do nothing better than sing spiteful songs under her window. lola married the teamster, and on sundays she would sit in the yard with her hands posed on her hips to show off the thick gold rings which her husband had given her. opposite alfio's house lived massaro cola, who was as rich as a hog, as they said, and who had an only daughter named santa. turiddu, to spite lola, paid his addresses to santa and whispered sweet words into her ear. "why don't you go and say these nice things to lola?" asked santa one day. "lola is a fine lady now; she has married a crown prince. but you are worth a thousand lolas; she isn't worthy of wearing your old shoes. i could just eat you up with my eyes, santa"--thus turiddu. "you may eat me with your eyes and welcome, for then there will be no leaving of crumbs." "if i were rich i would like to have a wife just like you." "i shall never marry a crown prince, but i shall have a dowry as well as lola when the good lord sends me a lover." the tassel on his cap had tickled the girl's fancy. her father disapproved of the young soldier, and turned him from his door; but santa opened her window to him until the village gossips got busy with her name and his. lola listened to the talk of the lovers from behind a vase of flowers. one day she called after turiddu: "ah, turiddu! old friends are no longer noticed, eh?" "he is a happy man who has the chance of seeing you, lola." "you know where i live," answered lola. and now turiddu visited lola so often that santa shut her window in his face and the villagers began to smile knowingly when he passed by. alfio was making a round of the fairs with his mules. "next sunday i must go to confession," said lola one day, "for last night i dreamt that i saw black grapes." "never mind the dream," pleaded turiddu. "but easter is coming, and my husband will want to know why i have not confessed." santa was before the confessional waiting her turn when lola was receiving absolution. "i wouldn't send you to rome for absolution," she said. alfio came home with his mules, and money and a rich holiday dress for his wife. "you do well to bring presents to her," said santa to him, "for when you are away your wife adorns your head for you." "holy devil!" screamed alfio. "be sure of what you are saying, or i'll not leave you an eye to cry with!" "i am not in the habit of crying. i haven't wept even when i have seen turiddu going into your wife's house at night." "enough!" said alfio. "i thank you very much." the cat having come back home, turiddu kept off the streets by day, but in the evenings consoled himself with his friends at the tavern. they were enjoying a dish of sausages there on easter eve. when alfio came in turiddu understood what he wanted by the way he fixed his eyes on him. "you know what i want to speak to you about," said alfio when turiddu asked him if he had any commands to give him. he offered alfio a glass of wine, but it was refused with a wave of the hand. "here i am," said turiddu. alfio put his arms around his neck. "we'll talk this thing over if you will meet me to-morrow morning." "you may look for me on the highway at sunrise, and we will go on together." they exchanged the kiss of challenge, and turiddu, as an earnest that he would be on hand, bit alfio's ear. his companions left their sausages uneaten and went home with turiddu. there his mother was sitting up for him. "mamma," turiddu said to her, "do you remember that when i went away to be a soldier you thought i would never come back? kiss me as you did then, mamma, for to-morrow i am going away again." before daybreak he took his knife from the place in the haymow where he had hidden it when he went soldiering, and went out to meet alfio. "holy mother of jesus!" grumbled lola when her husband prepared to go out; "where are you going in such a hurry?" "i am going far away," answered alfio, "and it will be better for you if i never come back!" the two men met on the highway and for a while walked on in silence. turiddu kept his cap pulled down over his face. "neighbor alfio," he said after a space, "as true as i live i know that i have wronged you, and i would let myself be killed if i had not seen my old mother when she got up on the pretext of looking after the hens. and now, as true as i live, i will kill you like a dog so that my dear old mother may not have cause to weep." "good!" answered alfio; "we will both strike hard!" and he took off his coat. both were good with the knife. turiddu received the first blow in his arm, and when he returned it struck for alfio's heart. "ah, turiddu! you really do intend to kill me?" "yes, i told you so. since i saw her in the henyard i have my old mother always in my eyes." "keep those eyes wide open," shouted alfio, "for i am going to return you good measure!" alfio crouched almost to the ground, keeping his left hand on the wound, which pained him. suddenly he seized a handful of dust and threw it into turiddu's eyes. "ah!" howled turiddu, blinded by the dust, "i'm a dead man!" he attempted to save himself by leaping backward, but alfio struck him a second blow, this time in the belly, and a third in the throat. "that makes three--the last for the head you have adorned for me!" turiddu staggered back into the bushes and fell. he tried to say, "ah, my dear mother!" but the blood gurgled up in his throat and he could not. music lends itself incalculably better to the celebration of a mood accomplished or achieved by action, physical or psychological, than to an expression of the action itself. it is in the nature of the lyric drama that this should be so, and there need be no wonder that wherever verga offered an opportunity for set lyricism it was embraced by mascagni and his librettists. verga tells us that turiddu, having lost lola, comforted himself by singing spiteful songs under her window. this suggested the siciliano, which, an afterthought, mascagni put into his prelude as a serenade, not in disparagement, but in praise of lola. it was at easter that alfio returned to discover the infidelity of his wife, and hence we have an easter hymn, one of the musical high lights of the work, though of no dramatic value. verga aims to awaken at least a tittle of extenuation and a spark of sympathy for turiddu by showing us his filial love in conflict with his willingness to make reparation to alfio; mascagni and his librettists do more by showing us the figure of the young soldier blending a request for a farewell kiss from his mother with a prayer for protection for the woman he has wronged. in its delineation of the tender emotions, indeed, the opera is more generous and kindly than the story. santuzza does not betray her lover in cold blood as does santa, but in the depth of her humiliation and at the climax of her jealous fury created by turiddu's rejection of her when he follows lola into church. moreover, her love opens the gates to remorse the moment she realizes what the consequence of her act is to be. the opera sacrifices some of the virility of turiddu's character as sketched by verga, but by its classic treatment of the scene of the killing it saves us from the contemplation of alfio's dastardly trick which turns a duel into a cowardly assassination. the prelude to the opera set the form which leoncavallo followed, slavishly followed, in "pagliacci." the orchestral proclamation of the moving passions of the play is made by the use of fragments of melody which in the vocal score mark climaxes in the dialogue. the first high point in the prelude is reached in the strain to which santuzza begs for the love of turiddu even after she has disclosed to him her knowledge of his infidelity:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] [figure: a musical score excerpt] the second is the broad melody in which she pleads with him to return to her arms:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] between these expositions falls the siciliano, which interrupts the instrumental flood just as lola's careless song, the stornello, interrupts the passionate rush of santuzza's protestations, prayers, and lamentations in the scene between her and her faithless lover:-[figure: a musical score excerpt setting the words "o lola, blanca come flor di spino, quando t'affaci ti s'affaccio il sole"] these sharp contrasts, heightened by the device of surprise, form one of the marked characteristics of mascagni's score and one of the most effective. we meet it also in the instrumentation--the harp accompaniment to the serenade, the pauses which give piquancy to lola's ditty, the unison violins, harp arpeggios, and sustained organ chords of the intermezzo. when the curtain rises it discloses the open square of a sicilian village, flanked by a church and the inn of lucia, turiddu's mother. it is easter morning and villagers and peasants are gathering for the paschal mass. church bells ring and the orchestra breaks into the eager melody which a little later we hear combined with the voices which are hymning the pleasant sights and sounds of nature:-[figure: a musical score excerpt setting the words "tempo e si mormori"] a charming conception is the regular beat and flux and reflux of the women's voices as they sing [figure: a musical score excerpt setting the words "gliaranci olezzano sui verdi margini cantando le allo do le tra i mirti in flor . . ."] delightful and refreshing is the bustling strain of the men. the singers depart with soft exclamations of rapture called out by the contemplation of nature and thoughts of the virgin mother and child in their hearts. comes santuzza, sore distressed, to mamma lucia, to inquire as to the whereabouts of her son turiddu. lucia thinks him at francofonte; but santuzza knows that he spent the night in the village. in pity for the maiden's distress, lucia asks her to enter her home, but santuzza may not--she is excommunicate. alfio enters with boisterous jollity, singing of his jovial carefree life as a teamster and his love of home and a faithful wife. it is a paltry measure, endurable only for its offering of contrast, and we will not tarry with it, though the villagers echo it merrily. alfio, too, has seen turiddu, and lucia is about to express her surprise when santuzza checks her. the hour of devotion is come, and the choir in the church intones the "regina coeli," while the people without fall on their knees and sing the resurrection hymn. after the first outburst, to which the organ appends a brief postlude, santuzza leads in the canticle, "innegiamo il signor non dmorte": let us sing of our lord ris'n victorious! let us sing of our lord ever glorious:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] [figure: a musical score excerpt] the instrumental basses supply a foundation of bachian granite, the chorus within the church interpolates shouts of "alleluia!" and the song swells until the gates of sound fly wide open and we forget the theatre in a fervor of religious devotion. only the critic in his study ought here to think of the parallel scene which leoncavallo sought to create in his opera. thus far the little dramatic matter that has been introduced is wholly expository; yet we are already near the middle of the score. all the stage folk enter the church save santuzza and lucia, and to the mother of her betrayer the maiden tells the story of her wrongs. the romance which she sings is marked by the copious use of one of the distinguishing devices of the veritist composers--the melodic triplet, an efficient help for the pushing, pulsating declamation with which the dramatic dialogue of mascagni, leoncavallo, and their fellows is carried on. lucia can do no more for the unfortunate than commend her to the care of the virgin. she enters the church and turiddu comes. he lies as to where he has been. santuzza is quick with accusation and reproach, but at the first sign of his anger and a hint of the vengeance which alfio will take she abases herself. let him beat and insult her, she will love and pardon though her heart break. she is in the extremity of agony and anguish when lola is heard trolling a careless song:-[figure: musical example setting the word "fior di giaggiolo . . gli angeli belli stanno a mille in cielo . . ."] she is about to begin a second stanza when she enters and sees the pair. she stops with an exclamation. she says she is seeking alfio. is turiddu not going to mass? santuzza, significantly: "it is easter and the lord sees all things! none but the blameless should go to mass." but lola will go, and so will turiddu. scorning santuzza's pleadings and at last hurling her to the ground, he rushes into the church. she shouts after him a threat of easter vengeance and fate sends the agent to her in the very moment. alfio comes and santuzza tells him that turiddu has cuckolded him and lola has robbed her of her lover:- turiddu mi tolse, mi tolse l'onore, e vostra moglie lui rapiva a me! [figure: musical example setting the above words] the oncoming waves of the drama's pathos have risen to a supreme height, their crests have broken, and the wind-blown spume drenches the soul of the listeners; but the composer has not departed from the first principle of the master of whom, for a time, it was hoped he might be the legitimate successor. melody remains the life-blood of his music as it is that of verdi's from his first work to his last;--as it will be so long as music endures. terrible is the outbreak of alfio's rage:- infami lero, ad esse non perdono, vendetta avro pria che tra monti il di. [figure: musical example setting the above words] upon this storm succeeds the calm of the intermezzo--in its day the best abused and most hackneyed piece of music that the world knew; yet a triumph of simple, straightforward tune. it echoes the easter hymn, and in the midst of the tumult of earthly passion proclaims celestial peace. its instrumentation was doubtless borrowed from hellmesberger's arrangement of the air "ombra mai fu" from "serse," known the world over as handel's "largo"--violins in unison, harp arpeggios, and organ harmonies. in nothing artistically distinguished it makes an unexampled appeal to the multitude. some years ago a burlesque on "cavalleria rusticana" was staged at a theatre in vienna. [figure: a musical score excerpt] it was part of the witty conceit of the author to have the intermezzo played on a handorgan. up to this point the audience had been hilarious in its enjoyment of the burlesque, but with the first wheezy tones from the grinder the people settled down to silent attention; and when the end came applause for the music rolled out wave after wave. a burlesque performance could not rob that music of its charm. ite missa est. mass is over. the merry music of the first chorus returns. the worshippers are about to start homeward with pious reflections, when turiddu detains lola and invites his neighbors to a glass of mamma lucia's wine. we could spare the drinking song as easily as alfio, entering, turns aside the cup which turiddu proffers him. turiddu understands. "i await your pleasure." some of the women apprehend mischief and lead lola away. the challenge is given and accepted, sicilian fashion. turiddu confesses his wrong-doing to alfio, but, instead of proclaiming his purpose to kill his enemy, he asks protection for santuzza in case of his death. then, while the violins tremble and throb, he calls for his mother like an errant child:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] he has been too free with the winecup, he says, and must leave her. but first her blessing, as when he went away to be a soldier. should he not return, santa must be her care: "voi dovrete fare; da madre a santa!" it is the cry of a child. "a kiss! another kiss, mamma! farewell!" lucia calls after him. he is gone, santuzza comes in with her phrase of music descriptive of her unhappy love. it grows to a thunderous crash. then a hush! a fateful chord! a whispered roll of the drums! a woman is heard to shriek: "they have killed neighbor turiddu!" a crowd of women rush in excitedly; santuzza and lucia fall in a swoon. "hanno ammazzato compare turiddu!" the tragedy is ended. chapter x the career of mascagni it would be foolish to question or attempt to deny the merits of the type of italian opera established by mascagni's lucky inspiration. the brevity of the realistic little tragedy, the swiftness of its movement, its adherence to the italian ideal of melody first, its ingenious combination of song with an illuminative orchestral part--these elements in union created a style which the composers of italy, france, and germany were quick to adopt. "pagliacci" was the first fruit of the movement and has been the most enduring; indeed, so far as america and england are concerned, "cavalleria rusticana" and "pagliacci" are the only products of the school which have obtained a lasting footing. they were followed by a flood of italian, french, and german works in which low life was realistically portrayed, but, though the manner of composition was as easily copied as the subjects were found in the slums, none of the imitators of mascagni and leoncavallo achieved even a tithe of their success. the men themselves were too shrewd and wise to attempt to repeat the experiment which had once been triumphant. in one respect the influence of the twin operas was deplorable. i have attempted to characterize that influence in general terms, but in order that the lesson may be more plainly presented it seems to me best to present a few examples in detail. the eagerness with which writers sought success in moral muck, regardless of all artistic elements, is strikingly illustrated in an attempt by a german writer, edmund von freihold, [footnote: i owe this illustration to ferdinand pfobl's book "die moderne oper."] to provide "cavalleria rusticana" with a sequel. von freihold wrote the libretto for a "music drama" which he called "santuzza," the story of which begins long enough after the close of verga's story for both the women concerned in "gavalleria rusticana" to have grown children. santuzza has given birth to a son named massimo, and lola to a daughter, anita. the youthful pair grow up side by side in the sicilian village and fall in love with one another. they might have married and in a way expiated the sins of their parents had not alfio overheard his wife, lola, confess that turiddu, not her husband, is the father of anita, the lovers are thus discovered to be half brother and sister. this reminder of his betrayal by lola infuriates alfio anew. he rushes upon his wife to kill her, but santuzza, who hates him as the slayer of her lover, throws herself between and plunges her dagger in alfio's heart. having thus taken revenge for turiddu's death, santuzza dies out of hand, lola, as an inferior character, falls in a faint, and massimo makes an end of the delectable story by going away from there to parts unknown. in cilea's "tilda" a street singer seeks to avenge her wrongs upon a faithless lover. she bribes a jailor to connive at the escape of a robber whom he is leading to capital punishment. this robber she elects to be the instrument of her vengeance. right merrily she lives with him and his companions in the greenwood until the band captures the renegade lover on his wedding journey. tilda rushes upon the bride with drawn dagger, but melts with compassion when she sees her victim in the attitude of prayer. she sinks to her knees beside her, only to receive the death-blow from her seducer. there are piquant contrasts in this picture and ave marias and tarantellas in the music. take the story of giordano's "mala vita." here the hero is a young dyer whose dissolute habits have brought on tuberculosis of the lungs. the principal object of his amours is the wife of a friend. a violent hemorrhage warns him of approaching death. stricken with fear he rushes to the nearest statue of the madonna and registers a vow; he will marry a wanton, effect her redemption, thereby hoping to save his own miserable life. the heroine of the opera appears and she meets his requirements. he marries her and for a while she seems blest. but the siren, the lola in the case, winds her toils about him as the disease stretches him on the floor at her feet. piquancy again, achieved now without that poor palliative, punishment of the evil-doer. tasca's "a santa lucia" has an appetizing story about an oysterman's son who deserts a woman by whom he has a child, in order to marry one to whom he had previously been affianced. the women meet. there is a dainty brawl, and the fiancee of cicillo (he's the oysterman's son) strikes her rival's child to the ground. the mother tries to stab the fiancee with the operatic italian woman's ever-ready dagger, and this act stirs up the embers of cicillo's love. he takes the mother of his child back home--to his father's house, that is. the child must be some four years old by this time, but the oysterman--dear, unsuspecting old man!--knows nothing about the relation existing between his son and his housekeeper. he is thinking of marriage with his common law daughter-in-law when in comes the old fiancee with a tale for cicillo's ears of his mistress's unfaithfulness. "it is not true!" shrieks the poor woman, but the wretch, her seducer, closes his ears to her protestations; and she throws herself into the sea, where the oysters come from. cicillo rushes after her and bears her to the shore, where she dies in his arms, gasping in articulo mortis, "it is not true!" the romantic interest in mascagni's life is confined to the period which preceded his sudden rise to fame. his father was a baker in leghorn, and there he was born on december 7,1863. of humble origin and occupation himself, the father, nevertheless, had large ambitions for his son; but not in the line of art. pietro was to be shaped intellectually for the law. like handel, the boy studied the pianoforte by stealth in the attic. grown in years, he began attending a music-school, when, it is said, his father confined him to his house; thence his uncle freed him and took over his care upon himself. singularly enough, the man who at the height of his success posed as the most italian of italian masters had his inspiration first stirred by german poetry. early in his career beethoven resolved to set schiller's "hymn to joy"; the purpose remained in his mind for forty years or so, and finally became a realization in the finale of the ninth symphony. pietro mascagni resolved as a boy to compose music for the same ode; and did it at once. then he set to work upon a two-act opera, "il filanda." his uncle died, and a count florestan (here is another beethovenian echo!) sent him to the conservatory at milan, where, like nearly all of his native contemporaries, he imbibed knowledge (and musical ideas) from ponchielli. after two years or so of academic study he yielded to a gypsy desire and set out on his wanderings, but not until he had chosen as a companion maffei's translation of heine's "ratcliff"--a gloomy romance which seems to have caught the fancy of many composers. there followed five years of as checkered a life as ever musician led. over and over again he was engaged as conductor of an itinerant or stationary operetta and opera company, only to have the enterprise fail and leave him stranded. for six weeks in naples his daily ration was a plate of macaroni. but he worked at his opera steadily, although, as he once remarked, his dreams of fame were frequently swallowed up in the growls of his stomach, which caused him more trouble than many a millionaire suffers from too little appetite or too much gout. finally, convinced that he could do better as a teacher of the pianoforte, he ran away from an engagement which paid him two dollars a day, and, sending off the manuscript of "ratcliff" in a portmanteau, settled down in cerignola. there he became director of a school for orchestral players, though he had first to learn to play the instruments; he also taught pianoforte and thoroughbass, and eked out a troublous existence until his success in competition for the prize offered by sonzogno, the milanese publisher, made him famous in a day and started him on the road to wealth. it was but natural that, after "cavalleria rusticana" had virulently affected the whole world with what the enemies of signor mascagni called "mascagnitis," his next opera should be looked forward to with feverish anxiety. there was but a year to wait, for "l'amico fritz" was brought forward in rome on the last day of october, 1891. within ten weeks its title found a place on the programme of one of mr. walter damrosch's sunday night concerts in new york; but the music was a disappointment. five numbers were sung by mme. tavary and signor campanini, and mr. damrosch, not having the orchestral parts, played the accompaniments upon a pianoforte. as usual, mr. gustav hinrichs was to the fore with a performance in philadelphia (on june 8, 1892), the principal singers being mme. koert-kronold, clara poole, m. guille, and signor del puente. on january 31, 1893, the philadelphia singers, aided by the new york symphony society, gave a performance of the opera, under the auspices of the young men's hebrew association, for the benefit of its charities, at the carnegie music hall, new york. mr. walter damrosch was to have conducted, but was detained in washington by the funeral of mr. blaine, and mr. hinrichs took his place. another year elapsed, and then, on january 10, 1894, the opera reached the metropolitan opera house. in spite of the fact that madame calve sang the part of suzel, only two performances were given to the work. the failure of this opera did not dampen the industry of mascagni nor the zeal of his enterprising publishers. for his next opera the composer went again to the french authors, erckmann-chatrian, who had supplied him with the story of "l'amico fritz." this time he chose "les deux freres," which they had themselves turned into a drama with the title of "rantzau." mascagni's librettist retained the title. the opera came out in florence in 1892. the tremendous personal popularity of the composer, who was now as much a favorite in vienna and berlin as he was in the town of his birth which had struck a medal in his honor, or the town of his residence which had created him an honorary citizen, could not save the work. now he turned to the opera which he had laid aside to take up his "cavalleria," and in 1895 "guglielmo ratcliff," based upon the gloomy scotch story told by heine, was brought forward at la scala, in milan. it was in a sense the child of his penury and suffering, but he had taken it up inspired by tremendous enthusiasm for the subject, and inasmuch as most of its music had been written before success had turned his head, or desire for notoriety had begun to itch him, there was reason to hope to find in it some of the hot blood which surges through the score of "cavalleria." as a matter of fact, critics who have seen the score or heard the work have pointed out that portions of "i rantzau" and "cavalleria" are as alike as two peas. it would not be a violent assumption that the composer in his eagerness to get his score before the sonzogno jury had plucked his early work of its best feathers and found it difficult to restore plumage of equal brilliancy when he attempted to make restitution. in the same year, 1895, his next opera, "silvano," made a fiasco in milan. a year later there appeared "zanetto," which seems like an effort to contract the frame of the lyric drama still further than is done in "cavalleria." it is a bozzetto, a sketch, based on coppee's duologue "le passant," a scene between a strumpet who is weary of the world and a young minstrel. its orchestration is unique--there are but strings and a harp. it was brought out at pesaro, where, in 1895, mascagni had been appointed director of the liceo musicale rossini. as director of the music-school in rossini's native town mascagni's days were full of trouble from the outset. he was opposed, said his friends, in reformatory efforts by some of the professors and pupils, whose enmity grew so virulent that in 1897 they spread the story that he had killed himself. he was deposed from his position by the administration, but reinstated by the minister of fine arts. the criticism followed him for years that he had neglected his duties to travel about europe, giving concerts and conducting his operas for the greater glory of himself and the profit of his publisher. at the time of the suicide story it was also said that he was in financial straits; to which his friends replied that he received a salary of 60 lire ($12) a day as director, 1000 lire ($200) a month from sonzogno, and lived in a princely dwelling. after "zanetto" came "iris," to which, as the one opera besides "cavalleria rusticana" which has remained in the american repertory, i shall devote the next chapter in this book. "iris" was followed by "le maschere," which was brought out on january 17, 1901, simultaneously in six cities--rome, milan, venice, genoa, turin, and naples. it made an immediate failure in all of these places except rome, where it endured but a short time. mascagni's next operatic work was a lyric drama, entitled "vistilia," the libretto of which, based upon an historical novel by racco de zerbi, was written by menasci and targioni-tozzetti, who collaborated on the book of "cavalleria rusticana." the action goes back to the time of tiberius and deals with the loves of vistilia and helius. then came another failure in the shape of "amica," which lived out its life in monte carlo, where it was produced in march, 1905. in the winter of 1902-1903 signor mascagni was in the united states for the purpose of conducting performances of some of his operas and giving concerts. the company of singers and instrumentalists which his american agents had assembled for his purpose was, with a few exceptions, composed of the usual operatic flotsam and jetsam which can be picked up at any time in new york. the enterprise began in failure and ended in scandal. there had been no adequate preparation for the operas announced, and one of them was not attempted. this was "ratcliff." "cavalleria rusticana," "zanetto," and "iris" were poorly performed at the metropolitan opera house in october, and an attempt at sunday night concerts was made. signor mascagni's countrymen labored hard to create enthusiasm for his cause, but the general public remained indifferent. having failed miserably in new york, mascagni, heavily burdened with debt, went to boston. there he was arrested for breach of contract. he retaliated with a suit for damages against his american managers. the usual amount of crimination and recrimination followed, but eventually the difficulties were compounded and mascagni went back to his home a sadly disillusionized man. [footnote: the story of this visit is told in greater detail in my "chapters of opera," as is also the story of the rivalry among american managers to be first in the field with "cavalleria rusticana."] "zanetto" was produced along with "cavalleria rusticana" at the metropolitan opera house on october 8, 1902, and "iris" on october 16. signor mascagni conducted and the parts were distributed as follows among the singers of the company: iris, marie farneti; osaka, pietro schiavazzi; kyoto, virgilio bollati; il cieco, francesco navarrini; una guecha, dora de filippe; un mercianola, pasquale blasio; un cencianola, bernardino landino. the opera was not heard of again until the season of 1907-1908, when, just before the end of the administration of heinrich conried, it was incorporated into the repertory of the metropolitan opera house apparently for the purpose of giving mme. emma eames an opportunity to vie with miss geraldine farrar in japanese opera. chapter xi "iris" "light is the language of the eternal ones--hear it!" proclaims the librettist of "iris" in that portion of his book which is neither said nor sung nor played. and it is the sun that sings with divers voices after the curtain has risen on a nocturnal scene, and the orchestra has sought to depict the departure of the night, the break of day, the revivification of the flowers and the sunrise. as byron sang of him, so phoebus apollo celebrates himself as "the god of life and poetry and light," but does not stop there. he is also infinite beauty, cause, reason, poetry, and love. the music begins with an all but inaudible descending passage in the basses, answered by sweet concordant harmonies. a calm song tells of the first streaks of light; woodwind and harp add their voices; a mellifluous hymn chants the stirring flowers, and leads into a rhythmically, more incisive, but still sustained, orchestral song, which bears upon its surface the choral proclamation of the sun: "i am! i am life! i am beauty infinite!" the flux and reflux of the instrumental surge grows in intensity, the music begins to glow with color and pulsate with eager life, and reaches a mighty sonority, gorged with the crash of a multitude of tamtams, cymbals, drums, and bells, at the climacteric reiteration of "calore! luce! amor!" the piece is thrillingly effective, but as little operatic as the tintinnabulatory chant of the cherubim in the prologue of boito's "mefistofele." and now allegory makes room for the drama. to the door of her cottage, embowered on the banks of a quiet stream, comes iris. the peak of fujiyama glows in the sunlight. iris is fair and youthful and innocent. a dream has disturbed her. "gorgons and hydras and chimaeras dire" had filled her garden and threatened her doll, which she had put to sleep under a rose-bush. but the sun's rays burst forth and the monsters flee. she lifts her doll and moves its arms in mimic salutation to the sun. osaka, a wealthy rake, and kyoto, a pander, play spy on her actions, gloat on her loveliness and plot to steal her and carry her to the yoshiwara. to this end they go to bring on a puppet show, that its diversion may enable them to steal her away without discovery. women come down to the banks of the river and sing pretty metaphors as they wash their basketloads of muslins. gradually the music of samisens, gongs, and drums approaches. osaka and kyoto have disguised themselves as travelling players, gathered together some geishas and musicians, and now set up a marionette theatre. iris comforts her blind father, the only object of her love, besides her doll, and promises to remain at his side. the puppet play tells the story of a maiden who suffers abuse from a cruel father, who threatens to sell her to a merchant. iris is much affected by the sorrows of the puppet. the voice of jor, the son of the sun, is heard--it is osaka, singing without. the melody is the melody of turridu's siciliano, but the words are a promise of a blissful, kissful death and thereafter life everlasting. the puppet dies and with jor dances off into nirvana. now three geishas, representing beauty, death, and the vampire, begin a dance. kyoto distracts the attention of the spectators while the dancers flaunt their skirts higher and wider until their folds conceal iris, and osaka's hirelings seize her and bear her off toward the city. kyoto places a letter and money at the cottage door for the blind father. through a pedler and the woman he learns that his daughter is gone to be an inmate of the yoshiwara. he implores the people who had been jeering him to lead him thither, that he may spit in her face and curse her. iris is asleep upon a bed in the "green house" of the district, which needs no description. a song, accompanied by the twanging of a samisen and the clanging of tamtams, is sung by three geishas. kyoto brings in osaka to admire her beauty, and sets a high price upon it. osaka sends for jewels. iris awakes and speculates in philosophical vein touching the question of her existence. she cannot be dead, for death brings knowledge and paradise joy; but she weeps. osaka appears. he praises her rapturously--her form, her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her smile. iris thinks him veritably jor, but he says his name is "pleasure." the maiden recoils in terror. a priest had taught her in an allegory that pleasure and death were one! osaka loads her with jewels, fondles her, draws her to his breast, kisses her passionately. iris weeps. she knows nothing of passion, and longs only for her father, her cottage, and her garden. osaka wearies of his guest, but kyoto plans to play still further upon his lust. he clothes her in richer robes, but more transparent, places her upon a balcony, and, withdrawing a curtain, exhibits her beauty to the multitude in the street. amazed cries greet the revelation. osaka returns and pleads for her love. "iris!" it is the cry of the blind man hunting the child whom he thinks has sold herself into disgraceful slavery. the crowd falls back before him, while iris rushes forward to the edge of the veranda and cries out to him, that he may know her presence. he gathers a handful of mud from the street and hurls it in the direction of her voice. "there! in your face! in your forehead! in your mouth! in your eyes! fango!" under the imprecations of her father the mind of iris gives way. she rushes along a corridor and hurls herself out of a window. the third act is reached, and drama merges again into allegory. in the wan light of the moon rag-pickers, men and women, are dragging their hooks through the slimy muck that flows through the open sewer beneath the fatal window. they sing mockingly to the moon. a flash of light from fujiyama awakens a glimmer in the filth. again. they rush forward and pull forth the body of iris and begin to strip it of its adornments. she moves and they fly in superstitious fear. she recovers consciousness, and voices from invisible singers, tell her of the selfish inspirations of osaka, kyoto, and her blind father; osaka's desire baffled by fate--such is life! kyoto's slavery to pleasure and a hangman's reward;--such is life! the blind man's dependence on his child for creature comforts;--such is life! iris bemoans her fate as death comes gently to her. the sky grows rosy and the light brings momentary life. she stretches out her arms to the sun and acclaims the growing orb. as once upon ida- glad earth perceives and from her bosom pours unbidden herbs and voluntary flow'rs! a field of blossoms spreads around her, into which she sinks, while the sun, again many-voiced and articulate, chants his glory as in the beginning. the story is perhaps prettier in the telling than in the performance. what there is in its symbolism and its poetical suggestion that is ingratiating is more effective in the fancy than in the experience. there are fewer clogs, fewer stagnant pools, fewer eddies which whirl to no purpose. in the modern school, with its distemper music put on in splotches, there must be more merit and action. psychological delineation in music which stimulates action, or makes one forget the want of outward movement, demands a different order of genius than that which signor mascagni possesses. mere talent for artful device will not suffice. there are many effective bits of expressive writing in the score of "iris," but most of them are fugitive and aim at coloring a word, a phrase, or at best a temporary situation. there is little flow of natural, fervent melody. what the composer accomplished with tune, characteristic but fluent, eloquent yet sustained, in "cavalleria rusticana," he tries to achieve in "iris" with violent, disjointed, shifting of keys and splashes of instrumental color. in this he is seldom successful, for he is not a master of orchestral writing--that technical facility which nearly all the young musicians have in the same degree that all pianists have finger technic. his orchestral stream is muddy; his effects generally crass and empty of euphony. he throws the din of outlandish instruments of percussion, a battery of gongs, big and little, drums, and cymbals into his score without achieving local color. once only does he utilize it so as to catch the ears and stir the fancy of his listeners--in the beginning of the second act, where there is a murmur of real japanese melody. as a rule, however, signor mascagni seems to have been careless in the matter of local color, properly so, perhaps, for, strictly speaking, local color in the lyric drama is for comedy with its petty limitations, not for tragedy with its appeal to large and universal passions. yet it is in the lighter scenes, the scenes of comedy, like the marionette show, the scenes of mild pathos, like the monologues of iris, and the scenes of mere accessory decoration, like that of the laundresses, the mousmes in the first act, with its purling figure borrowed from "les huguenots" and its unnecessarily uncanny col legno effect conveyed from "l'africaine" that it is most effective. chapter xii "madama butterfly" this is the book of the generation of "madama butterfly": an adventure in japan begat pierre loti's "madame chrysantheme"; "madame chrysantheme" begat john luther long's "madame butterfly," a story; "madame butterfly," the story, begat "madame butterfly," a play by david belasco; "madame butterfly," the play, begat "madama butterfly," the opera by giacomo puccini. the heroine of the roving french romanticist is therefore seen in her third incarnation in the heroine of the opera book which l. illica and g. giacosa made for puccini. but in operatic essence she is still older, for, as dr. korngold, a viennese critic, pointed out, selica is her grandmother and lakme her cousin. even this does not exhaust her family history; there is something like a bar sinister in her escutcheon. mr. belasco's play was not so much begotten, conceived, or born of admiration for mr. long's book as it was of despair wrought by the failure of another play written by mr. belasco. this play was a farce entitled "naughty anthony," created by mr. belasco in a moment of aesthetic aberration for production at the herald square theatre, in new york, in the spring of 1900. mr. belasco doesn't think so now, but at the time he had a notion that the public would find something humorous and attractive in the spectacle of a popular actress's leg swathed in several layers of stocking. so he made a show of blanche bates. the public refused to be amused at the farcical study in comparative anatomy, and when mr. belasco's friends began to fault him for having pandered to a low taste, and he felt the smart of failure in addition, he grew heartily ashamed of himself. his affairs, moreover, began to take on a desperate aspect; the season threatened to be a ruinous failure, and he had no play ready to substitute for "naughty anthony." some time before a friend had sent him mr. long's book, but he had carelessly tossed it aside. in his straits it came under his eyes again, and this time he saw a play in it--a play and a promise of financial salvation. it was late at night when he read the story, but he had come to a resolve by morning and in his mind's eye had already seen his actors in japanese dress. the drama lay in the book snugly enough; it was only necessary to dig it out and materialize it to the vision. that occupation is one in which mr. belasco is at home. the dialogue went to his actors a few pages at a time, and the pictures rose rapidly in his mind. something different from a stockinged leg now! glimpses of nippon--its mountains, waters, bridges, flowers, gardens, geishas; as a foil to their grace and color the prosaic figures of a naval officer and an american consul. all things tinged with the bright light of day, the glories of sunset or the super-glories of sunrise. we must saturate the fancy of the audience with the atmosphere of japan, mused mr. belasco. therefore, japanese scenes, my painter! electrician, your plot shall be worked out as carefully as the dialogue and action of the play's people. "first drop discovered; house-lights down; white foots with blue full work change of color at back of drop; white lens on top of mountain; open light with white, straw, amber, and red on lower part of drop; when full on lower footlights to blue," and so on. mr. belasco's emotions, we know, find eloquent expression in stage lights. but the ear must be carried off to the land of enchantment as well as the eye. "come, william furst, recall your experiences on the western coast. for my first curtain i want a quaint, soft japanese melody, pp--you know how!" and so "madame butterfly," the play, was made. in two weeks all was ready, and a day after the first performance at the herald square theatre, on march 5, 1900, the city began to hum with eager comment on the dramatic intensity of the scene of a japanese woman's vigil, of the enthralling eloquence of a motionless, voiceless figure, looking steadily through a hole torn through a paper partition, with a sleeping child and a nodding maid at her feet, while a mimic night wore on, the lanterns on the floor flickered out one by one and the soft violins crooned a melody to the arpeggios of a harp. the season at the herald square theatre was saved. some time later, when mr. belasco accompanied mr. charles frohman to london to put on "zaza" at the garrick theatre, he took "madame butterfly" with him and staged it at the duke of york's theatre, hard by. on the first night of "madame butterfly" mr. frohman was at the latter playhouse, mr. belasco at the former. the fall of the curtain on the little japanese play was followed by a scene of enthusiasm which endured so long that mr. frohman had time to summon his colleague to take a curtain call. at a stroke the pathetic play had made its fortune in london, and, as it turned out, paved the way for a new and larger triumph for mr. long's story. the musical critics of the london newspapers came to the house and saw operatic possibilities in the drama. so did mr. francis nielson, at the time covent garden's stage manager, who sent word of the discovery to signor puccini. the composer came from milan, and realized on the spot that the successor of "tosca" had been found. signori illica and giacosa, librettists in ordinary to ricordi & co., took the work of making the opera book in hand. signor illica's fancy had roamed in the land of flowers before; he had written the libretto for mascagni's "iris." the ephemeral life of cho-cho-san was over in a few months, but by that time "madama butterfly," glorified by music, had lifted her wings for a new flight in milan. it is an old story that many operas which are recognized as masterpieces later, fail to find appreciation or approval when they are first produced. "madama butterfly" made a fiasco when brought forward at la scala on february 17, 1904. [footnote: at this premiere campanini was the conductor and the cast was as follows: butterfly, storchio; suzuki, giaconia; pinkerton, zenatello; sharpless, de luca; goro, pini-corsi; bonzo, venturini; yakuside, wulmann. at the first performance in london, on july 10, 1905, at covent garden, the cast was: butterfly, destinn; suzuki, lejeune; pinkerton, caruso; sharpless, scotti; goro, dufriche; bonzo, cotreuil; yakuside, rossi. conductor, campanini. after the revision it was produced at brescia on may 28, 1904, with zenatello, of the original cast, krusceniski as butterfly, and bellati as sharpless. the first american performances were in the english version, made by mrs. b. h. elkin, by the savage opera company, which came to the garden theatre, new york, after a trial season in washington, on november 12, 1906. it had a run of nearly three months before it reached the metropolitan opera house, on february 11, 1907. mr. walter rothwell conducted the english performance, in which there were several changes of casts, the original butterfly being elza szamozy (a hungarian singer); suzuki, harriet behne; pinkerton, joseph f. sheehan, and sharpless, winifred goff. arturo vigna conducted the first italian performance at the metropolitan, with geraldine farrar as butterfly, louise homer as suzuki, caruso as pinkerton, scotti as sharpless, and albert reiss as goro.] so complete was the fiasco that in his anxiety to withdraw the work signer puccini is said to have offered to reimburse the management of the theatre for the expenditures entailed by the production. failures of this kind are frequently inexplicable, but it is possible that the unconventional character of the story and the insensibility of the italians to national musical color other than their own, had a great deal to do with it in this case. whatever the cause, the popular attitude toward the opera was displayed in the manner peculiar to italy, the discontented majority whistling, shrilling on house keys, grunting, roaring, bellowing, and laughing in the good old-fashioned manner which might be set down as possessed of some virtuous merit if reserved for obviously stupid creations. "the pall mall gazette" reported that at the time the composer told a friend that on this fateful first night he was shut up in a small room behind the scenes, where he could hear nothing of what was going on on the stage or in the audience-room. on a similar occasion, nearly a century before, when "the barber of seville" scored an equally monumental failure, rossini, in the conductor's chair, faced the mob, shrugged his shoulders, and clapped his hands to show his contempt for his judges, then went home and composedly to bed. puccini, though he could not see the discomfiture of his opera, was not permitted to remain in ignorance of it. his son and his friends brought him the news. his collaborator, giacosa, rushed into the room with dishevelled hair and staring eyes, crying: "i have suffered the passion of death!" while signorina storchio burst into such a flood of tears and sobs that it was feared she would be ill. puccini was cut to the heart, but he did not lose faith in the work. he had composed it in love and knew its potentialities, his faith found justification when he produced it in brescia three months later and saw it start out at once on a triumphal tour of the european theatres. his work of revision was not a large or comprehensive one. he divided the second act into two acts, made some condensations to relieve the long strain, wrote a few measures of introduction for the final scene, but refused otherwise to change the music. his fine sense of the dramatic had told him correctly when he planned the work that there ought not to be a physical interruption of the pathetic vigil out of which blanche bates in new york and evelyn millard in london had made so powerful a scene, but he yielded to the compulsion of practical considerations, trying to save respect for his better judgment by refusing to call the final scene an act, though he permitted the fall of the curtain; but nothing can make good the loss entailed by the interruption. the mood of the play is admirably preserved in the music of the intermezzo, but the mood of the listeners is hopelessly dissipated with the fall of the curtain. when the scene of the vigil is again disclosed, the charm and the pathos have vanished, never to return. it is true that a rigid application of the law of unities would seem to forbid that a vigil of an entire night from eve till morning be compressed into a few minutes; but poetic license also has rights, and they could have been pleaded with convincing eloquence by music, with its marvellous capacity for publishing the conflicting emotions of the waiting wife. his ship having been ordered to the asiatic station, benjamin franklin pinkerton, lieutenant in the united states navy, follows a custom (not at all unusual among naval officers, if pierre loti is to be believed) and for the summer sojourn in japan leases a japanese wife. (the word "wife" is a euphemism for housekeeper, companion, play-fellow, mistress, what not.) this is done in a manner involving little ceremony, as is known to travellers and others familiar with the social customs of nippon, through a nakodo, a marriage broker or matrimonial agent. m. loti called his man kangourou; mr. long gave his the name of goro. that, however, and the character of the simple proceeding before a registrar is immaterial. m. loti, who assures us that his book is merely some pages from a veritable diary, entertains us with some details preliminary to his launch into a singular kind of domestic existence, which are interesting as bearing on the morals of the opera and as indicative of the fact that he is a closer observer of oriental life than his american confrere. he lets us see how merchantable "wives" are chosen, permits m. kangourou to exhibit his wares and expatiate on their merits. there is the daughter of a wealthy china merchant, a young woman of great accomplishments who can write "commercially" and has won a prize in a poetic contest with a sonnet. she is, consequently, very dear--100 yen, say $100--but that is of no consequence; what matters is that she has a disfiguring scar on her cheek. she will not do. then there is mlle. jasmin, a pretty girl of fifteen years, who can be had for $18 or $20 a month (contract cancellable at the end of any month for non-payment), a few dresses of fashionable cut and a pleasant house to live in. mlle. jasmin comes to be inspected with one old lady, two old ladies, three old ladies (mamma and aunts), and a dozen friends and neighbors, big and little. loti's moral stomach revolts at the thought of buying for his uses a child who looks like a doll, and is shocked at the public parade which has been made of her as a commodity. he has not yet been initiated into some of the extraordinary customs of japan, nor yet into some of the distinctions attendant upon those customs. he learns of one of the latter when he suggests to the broker that he might marry a charming geisha who had taken his fancy at a tea house. the manner in which the suggestion was received convinced him that he might as well have purposed to marry the devil himself as a professional dancer and singer. among the train of mlle. jasmin's friends is one less young than mlle. jasmin, say about eighteen, and already more of a woman; and when loti says, "why not her?" m. kangourou trots her out for inspection and, discreetly sending loti away, concludes the arrangement between night-fall and 10 o'clock, when he comes with the announcement: "all is arranged, sir; her parents will give her up for $20 a month--the same price as mlle. jasmin." so mlle. chrysantheme became the wife of pierre loti during his stay at nagasaki, and then dutifully went home to her mother without breaking her heart at all. but she was not a geisha, only a mousme--"one of the prettiest words in the nipponese language," comments m. loti, "it seems almost as if there must be a little moue in the very sound, as if a pretty, taking little pout, such as they put on, and also a little pert physiognomy, were described by it." lieutenant pinkerton, equally ignorant with lieutenant loti but uninstructed evidently, marries a geisha whose father had made the happy dispatch at the request of the son of heaven after making a blunder in his military command. she is cio-cio-san, also madama butterfly, and she comes to her wedding with a bevy of geishas or mousmes (i do not know which) and a retinue of relations. all enjoy the hospitality of the american officer while picking him to pieces, but turn from their kinswoman when they learn from an uncle, who is a buddhist priest and comes late to the wedding like the wicked fairy in the stories, that she has attended the mission school and changed her religion. wherefore the bonze curses her: "hou, hou! cio-cio-san, hou, hou!" sharpless, united states consul at nagasaki, had not approved of pinkerton's adventure, fearing that it might bring unhappiness to the little woman; but pinkerton had laughed at his scruples and emptied his glass to the marriage with an american wife which he hoped to make some day. neither loti nor long troubles us with the details of so prosaic a thing as the marriage ceremony; but puccini and his librettists make much of it, for it provides the only opportunity for a chorus and the musician had found delightfully mellifluous japanese gongs to add a pretty touch of local color to the music. cio-cio-san has been "outcasted" and pinkerton comforts her and they make love in the starlight (after butterfly has changed her habiliments) like any pair of lovers in italy. "dolce notte! quante stelle! vieni, vieni!" for quantity. this is the first act of the opera, and it is all expository to belasco's "tragedy of japan," which plays in one act, with the pathetic vigil separating the two days which form its period of action. when that, like the second act of the opera, opens, pinkerton has been gone from nagasaki and his "wife" three years, and a baby boy of whom he has never heard, but who has his eyes and hair has come to bear butterfly company in the little house on the hill. the money left by the male butterfly when he flitted is all but exhausted. madama butterfly appears to be lamentably ignorant of the customs of her country, for she believes herself to be a wife in the american sense and is fearfully wroth with suzuki, her maid, when she hints that she never knew a foreign husband to come back to a japanese wife. but pinkerton when he sailed away had said that he would be back "when the robins nest again," and that suffices cio-cio-san. but when sharpless comes with a letter to break the news that his friend is coming back with an american wife, he loses courage to perform his mission at the contemplation of the little woman's faith in the truant. does he know when the robins nest in america? in japan they had nested three times since pinkerton went away. the consul quails at that and damns his friend as a scoundrel. now goro, who knows butterfly's pecuniary plight, brings yamadori to her. yamadori is a wealthy japanese citizen of new york in the book and play and a prince in the opera, but in all he is smitten with butterfly's beauty and wants to add her name to the list of wives he has conveniently married and as conveniently divorced on his visits to his native land. butterfly insists that she is an american and cannot be divorced japanese fashion, and is amazed when sharpless hints that pinkerton might have forgotten her and she would better accept yamadori's hand. first she orders him out of the house, but, repenting her of her rudeness, brings in the child to show him something that no one is likely to forget. she asks the consul to write to his friend and tell him that he has a son, so fine a son, indeed, that she indulges in a day dream of the mikado stopping at the head of his troops to admire him and make him a prince of the realm. sharpless goes away with his mission unfulfilled and suzuki comes in dragging goro with her, for that he had been spreading scandalous tales about the treatment which children born like this child receive in america. butterfly is tempted to kill the wretch, but at the last is content to spurn him with her foot. at this moment a cannon shot is heard. a man-of-war is entering the harbor. quick, the glasses! "steady my hand, suzuki, that i may read the name." it is the abraham lincoln, pinkerton's ship! now the cherry tree must give up its every blossom, every bush or vine its violets and jessamines to garnish the room for his welcome! the garden is stripped bare, vases are filled, the floor is strewn with petals. perfumes exhale from the voices of the women and the song of the orchestra. here local color loses its right; the music is all occidental. butterfly is dressed again in her wedding gown of white and her pale cheeks are touched up with carmine. the paper partitions are drawn against the night. butterfly punctures the shoji with three holes--one high up for herself to look through, standing; one lower for the maid to look through, sitting; one near the floor for the baby. and so butterfly stands in an all-night vigil. the lanterns flicker and go out. maid and babe sink down in sleep. the gray dawn creeps over the waters of the harbor. human voices, transformed into instruments, hum a barcarolle. (we heard it when sharpless tried to read the letter.) a japanese tune rises like a sailors' chanty from the band. mariners chant their "yo ho!" day is come. suzuki awakes and begs her mistress to seek rest. butterfly puts the baby to bed, singing a lullaby. sharpless and pinkerton come and learn of the vigil from suzuki, who sees the form of a lady in the garden and hears that it is the american wife of pinkerton. pinkerton pours out his remorse melodiously. he will be haunted forever by the picture of his once happy home and cio-cio-san's reproachful eyes. he leaves money for butterfly in the consul's hands and runs away like a coward. kate, the american wife, and suzuki meet in the garden. the maid is asked to tell her mistress the meaning of the visit, but before she can do so butterfly sees them. her questions bring out half the truth; her intuition tells her the rest. kate (an awful blot she is on the dramatic picture) begs forgiveness and asks for the baby boy that her husband may rear him. butterfly says he shall have him in half an hour if he will come to fetch him. she goes to the shrine of buddha and takes from it a veil and a dagger, reading the words engraved on its blade: "to die with honor when one can no longer live with honor." it is the weapon which the mikado had sent to her father. she points the weapon at her throat, but at the moment suzuki pushes the baby into the room. butterfly addresses it passionately; then, telling it to play, seats it upon a stool, puts an american flag into its hands, a bandage around its eyes. again she takes dagger and veil and goes behind a screen. the dagger is heard to fall. butterfly totters out from behind the screen with a veil wound round her neck. she staggers to the child and falls, dying, at its feet. pinkerton rushes in with a cry of horror and falls on his knees, while sharpless gently takes up the child. i have no desire to comment disparagingly upon the denouement of the book of mr. long or the play of mr. belasco which puccini and his librettists followed; but in view of the origin of the play a bit of comparative criticism seems to be imperative. loti's "madame chrysantheme" was turned into an opera by andre messager. what the opera was like i do not know. it came, it went, and left no sign; yet it would seem to be easy to guess at the reason for its quick evanishment. if it followed the french story, as no doubt it did, it was too faithful to the actualities of japanese life to awaken a throb of emotion in the occidental heart. without such a throb a drama is naught--a sounding brass and tinkling cymbal. the charm of loti's book lies in its marvellously beautiful portrayal of a country, a people, and a characteristic incident in the social life of that people. its interest as a story, outside of the charm of its telling, is like that excited by inspection of an exotic curio. in his dedication of the book the author begged mme. la duchesse de richelieu not to look for any meaning in it, but to receive it in the same spirit in which she would receive "some quaint bit of pottery, some grotesque carved ivory idol, or some preposterous trifle brought back from the fatherland of all preposterousness." it is a record of a bit of the wandering life of a poet who makes himself a part of every scene into which fortune throws him. he has spent a summer with a japanese mousme, whom he had married japanese fashion, and when he has divorced her, also in japanese fashion, with regard for all the conventions, and sailed away from her forever, he is more troubled by thoughts of possible contamination to his own nature than because of any consequences to the woman. before the final farewell he had felt a touch of pity for the "poor little gypsy," but when he mounted the stairs to her room for the last time he heard her singing, and mingled with her voice was a strange metallic sound, dzinn, dzinn! as of coins ringing on the floor. is she amusing herself with quoits, or the jeu du crapaud, or pitch and toss? he creeps in, and there, dressed for the departure to her mother's, sitting on the floor is chrysantheme; and spread out around her all the fine silver dollars he had given her according to agreement the night before. "with the competent dexterity of an old money changer she fingers them, turns them over, throws them on the floor, and armed with a little mallet ad hoc, rings them vigorously against her ear, singing the while i know not what little pensive, birdlike song, which i dare say she improvises as she goes along. well, after all, it is even more completely japanese than i could possibly have imagined it--this last scene of my married life! i feel inclined to laugh." and he commends the little gypsy's worldly wisdom, offers to make good any counterfeit piece which she may find, and refuses to permit her to see him go aboard of his ship. she does, nevertheless, along with the japanese wives of four of his fellow officers, who peep at their flitting husbands through the curtains of their sampans. but when he is far out on the great yellow sea he throws the faded lotus flowers which she had given him through the porthole of his cabin, making his best excuses for "giving to them, natives of japan, a grave so solemn and so vast"; and he utters a prayer: "o ama-terace-omi-kami, wash me clean from this little marriage of mine in the waters of the river of kamo!" the story has no soul, and to give his story, which borrowed its motive from loti's, a soul, mr. long had to do violence to the verities of japanese life. yet might not even a geisha feel a genuine passion? the use of folk-tunes in opera is older than "madama butterfly," but puccini's score stands alone in the extent of the use and the consistency with which japanese melody has been made the foundation of the music. when signor illica, one of the librettists, followed sar peladan and d'annunzio into nippon seeking flowers for "iris," he took mascagni with him--metaphorically, of course. but mascagni was a timid gleaner. puccini plucked with a bolder hand, as indeed he might, for he is an incomparably greater adept in the art of making musical nosegays. in fact, i know of only one score that is comparable with that of "madama butterfly" in respect of its use of national musical color, and that is "boris godounoff." moussorgsky, however, had more, richer, and a greater variety of material to work with than puccini. japanese music is arid and angular, and yet so great is puccini's skill in combining creative imagination and reflection that he knew how to make it blossom like a rose. pity that he could not wholly overcome its rhythmical monotony. japanese melody runs almost uninterruptedly through his instrumental score, giving way at intervals to the italian style of lyricism when the characters and passions become universal rather than local types. structurally, his score rests on the wagnerian method, in that the vocal part floats on an uninterrupted instrumental current. in the orchestral part the tunes which he borrowed from the popular music of japan are continuously recurrent, and fragments of them are used as the connecting links of the whole fabric. he uses also a few typical themes (leitmotive) of his own invention, and to them it might be possible, by ingenious study of their relation to text and situation, to attach significances in the manner of the wagnerian handbooks; but i do not think that such processes occupied the composer's mind to any considerable extent, and the themes are not appreciably characteristic. his most persistent use of a connecting link, arbitrarily chosen, is found in the case of the first motive of the theme, which he treats fugally in the introduction, and which appears thereafter to the end of the chapter (a, in the list of themes printed herewith). what might be called personal themes are the opening notes of "the star-spangled banner" for pinkerton and the melody (d) which comes in with yamadori, in which the japanese tune used by sir arthur sullivan in "the mikado" is echoed. the former fares badly throughout the score (for which no blame need attach to signor puccini), but the latter is used with capital effect, though not always in connection with the character. if signor puccini had needed the suggestion that japanese music was necessary for a japanese play (which of course he did not), he might have received it when he saw mr. belasco's play in london. for the incidental music in that play mr. william furst provided japanese tunes, or tunes made over the very convenient japanese last. through mr. belasco's courtesy i am able to present here a relic of this original "butterfly" music. the first melody (a) was the theme of the curtain-music; (b) that accompanying cho-cho-san, when discovered at the beginning spraying flowers, presenting an offering at the shrine and burning incense in the house at the foot of higashi hill; (c) the yamadori music; (d) the music accompanying the first production of the sword; (e) the music of the vigil. there were also two occidental pieces--the melody of a little song which pinkerton had taught cho-cho-san, "i call her the belle of japan," and "rock-a-bye, baby." [figure: a musical score excerpt] [figure: a musical score excerpt] themes from puccini's "butterfly" music by permission of ricordi & co. [figure: a musical score excerpt] meiodies from mr. furst's "butterfly" music by permission of mr. david belasco. chapter xiii "der rosenkavalier" in the beginning there was "guntram," of which we in america heard only fragmentary echoes in our concert-rooms. then came "feuersnot," which reached us in the same way, but between which and the subject which is to occupy me in this chapter there is a kinship through a single instrumental number, the meaning of which no commentator has dared more than hint at. it is the music which accompanies the episode, politely termed a "love scene," which occurs at the climax of the earlier opera, but is supposed to take place before the opening of the curtain in the later. perhaps i shall recur to them again--if i have the courage. these were the operas of richard strauss which no manager deemed it necessary or advisable to produce in new york. now came "salome." popular neurasthenia was growing. oscar wilde thought france might accept a glorification of necrophilism and wrote his delectable book in french. france would have none of it, but when it was done into german, and richard strauss accentuated its sexual perversity by his hysterical music, lo! berlin accepted it with avidity. the theatres of the prussian capital were keeping pace with the pathological spirit of the day, and were far ahead of those of paris, where, it had long been the habit to think, moral obliquity made its residence. if berlin, then why not new york? so thought mr. conned, saturated with german theatricalism, and seeing no likely difference in the appeal of a "parsifal" which he had successfully produced, and a "salome," he prepared to put the works of wagner and strauss on the same footing at the metropolitan opera house. an influence which has not yet been clearly defined, but which did not spring from the director of the opera nor the gentlemen who were his financial backers, silenced the maunderings of the lust-crazed herod and paralyzed the contortions of the lascivious dancer to whom he was willing to give one-half his kingdom. [footnote: for the story of "salome" in new york, see my "chapters of opera" (henry holt & co., new york), p. 343 et seq.] now mr. hammerstein came to continue the artistic education which the owners of the metropolitan opera house had so strangely and unaccountably checked. salome lived out her mad life in a short time, dying, not by the command of herod, but crushed under the shield of popular opinion. the operation, though effective, was not as swift as it might have been had operatic conditions been different than they are in new york, and before it was accomplished a newer phase of strauss's pathological art had offered itself as a nervous, excitation. it was "elektra," and under the guise of an ancient religious ideal, awful but pathetic, the people were asked to find artistic delight in the contemplation of a woman's maniacal thirst for a mother's blood. it is not necessary to recall the history of the opera at the manhattan opera house to show that the artistic sanity of new york was proof against the new poison. hugo von hoffmannsthal had aided strauss in this brew and collaborated with him in the next, which, it was hoped, probably because of the difference in its concoction and ingredients, would make his rein even more taut than it had ever been on theatrical managers and their public. from the greek classics he turned to the comedy of the beaumarchais period. putting their heads together, the two wrote "der rosenkavalier." it was perhaps shrewd on their part that they avoided all allusion to the opera buffa of the period and called their work a "comedy for music." it enabled them, in the presence of the ignorant, to assume a virtue which they did not possess; but it is questionable if that circumstance will help them any. it is only the curious critic nowadays who takes the trouble to look at the definition, or epithet, on a title page. it is the work which puts the hallmark on itself; not the whim of the composer. it would have been wise, very wise indeed, had hoffmannsthal avoided everything which might call up a comparison between himself and beaumarchais. it was simply fatal to strauss that he tried to avoid all comparison between his treatment of an eighteenth century comedy and mozart's. one of his devices was to make use of the system of musical symbols which are irrevocably associated with wagner's method of composition. mozart knew nothing of this system, but he had a better one in his beaumarchaisian comedy, which "der rosenkavalier" recalls; it was that of thematic expression for each new turn in the dramatic situation--a system which is carried out so brilliantly in "le nozze di figaro" that there is nothing, even in "die meistersinger," which can hold a candle to it. another was to build up the vocal part of his comedy on orchestral waltzes. evidently it was his notion that at the time of maria theresa (in whose early reign the opera is supposed to take place) the viennese world was given over to the dance. it was so given over a generation later, so completely, indeed, that at the meetings in the ridotto, for which mozart, haydn, gyrowetz, beethoven, and others wrote music, retiring rooms had to be provided for ladies who were as unprepared for possible accidents as was one of those described by pepys as figuring in a court ball in his time; but to put scarcely anything but waltz tunes under the dialogue of "der rosenkavalier" is an anachronism which is just as disturbing to the judicious as the fact that herr strauss, though he starts his half-dozen or more of waltzes most insinuatingly, never lets them run the natural course which lanner and the viennese strauss, who suggested their tunes, would have made them do. always, the path which sets out so prettily becomes a byway beset with dissonant thorns and thistles and clogged with rocks. all of this is by way of saying that "der rosenkavalier" reached new york on december 9, 1913, after having endured two years or so in europe, under the management of mr. gatti-casazza, and was treated with the distinction which mr. conried gave "parsifal" and had planned for "salome." it was set apart for a performance outside the subscription, special prices were demanded, and the novelty dressed as sumptuously and prepared with as lavish an expenditure of money and care as if it were a work of the very highest importance. is it that? the question is not answered by the fact that its music was composed by richard strauss, even though one be willing to admit that strauss is the greatest living master of technique in musical composition, the one concerning whose doings the greatest curiosity is felt and certainly the one whose doings are the best advertised. "der rosenkavalier," in spite of all these things, must stand on its merits--as a comedy with music. the author of its book has invited a comparison which has already been suggested by making it a comedy of intrigue merely and placing its time of action in vienna and the middle of the eighteenth century. he has gone further; he has invoked the spirit of beaumarchais to animate his people and his incidents. the one thing which he could not do, or did not do, was to supply the satirical scourge which justified the figaro comedies of his great french prototype and which, while it made their acceptance tardy, because of royal and courtly opposition, made their popular triumph the more emphatic. "le nozze di figaro" gave us more than one figure and more than one scene in the representation, and "le nozze di figaro" is to those who understand its text one of the most questionable operas on the current list. but there is a moral purpose underlying the comedy which to some extent justifies its frank salaciousness. it is to prevent the count from exercising an ancient seigniorial right over the heroine which he had voluntarily resigned, that all the characters in the play unite in the intrigue which makes up the comedy. moreover, there are glimpses over and over again of honest and virtuous love between the characters and beautiful expressions of it in the music which makes the play delightful, despite its salaciousness. even cherubino who seems to have come to life again in octavian, is a lovable youth if for no othe reason than that he represents youth in its amorousness toward all womankind, with thought of special mischief toward none. "der rosenkavalier" is a comedy of lubricity merely, with what little satirical scourge it has applied only to an old roue who is no more deserving of it than most of the other people in the play. so much of its story as will bear telling can be told very briefly. it begins, assuming its instrumental introduction (played with the scene discreetly hidden) to be a part of it, with a young nobleman locked in the embraces of the middle-aged wife of a field marshal, who is conveniently absent on a hunting expedition. the music is of a passionate order, and the composer, seeking a little the odor of virtue, but with an oracular wink in his eye, says in a descriptive note that it is to be played in the spirit of parody (parodistisch). unfortunately the audience cannot see the printed direction, and there is no parody in music except extravagance and ineptitude in the utterance of simple things (like the faulty notes of the horns in mozart's joke on the village musicians, the cadenza for violin solo in the same musical joke, or the twangling of beckmesser's lute); so the introduction is an honest musical description of things which the composer is not willing to confess, and least of all the stage manager, for when the curtain opens there is not presented even the picture called for by the german libretto. nevertheless, morn is dawning, birds are twittering, and the young lover, kneeling before his mistress on a divan, is bemoaning the fact that day is come and that he cannot publish his happiness to the world. the tete-a-tete is interrupted by a rude boor of a nobleman, who come to consult his cousin (the princess) about a messenger to send with the conventional offering of a silver rose to the daughter of a vulgar plebeian just elevated to the nobility because of his wealth. the conversation between the two touches on little more than old amours, and after the lady has held her levee designed to introduce a variety of comedy effects in music as well as action, the princess recommends her lover for the office of rosebearer. meanwhile the lover has donned the garments of a waiting maid and been overwhelmed with the wicked attentions of the roue, lerchenau. when the lovers are again alone there is a confession of renunciation on the part of the princess, based on the philosophical reflection that, after all, her octavian being so young would bring about the inevitable parting sooner or later. in the second act what the princess in her prescient abnegation had foreseen takes place. her lover carries the rose to the young woman whom the roue had picked out for his bride and promptly falls in love with her. she with equal promptness, following the example of wagner's heroines, bowls herself at his head. the noble vulgarian complicates matters by insisting that he receive a dowry instead of paying one. the young hot-blood adds to the difficulties by pinking him in the arm with his sword, but restores order at the last by sending him a letter of assignation in his first act guise of a maid servant of the princess. this assignation is the background of the third act, which is farce of the wildest and most vulgar order. much of it is too silly for description. always, however, there is allusion to the purpose of the meeting on the part of lerchenau, whose plans are spoiled by apparitions in all parts of the room, the entrance of the police, his presumptive bride and her father, a woman who claims him as her husband, four children who raise bedlam (and memories of the contentious jews in "salome"); by shouting "papa! papa!" until his mind is in a whirl and he rushes out in despair. the princess leaves the new-found lovers alone. they hymn their happiness in mozartian strains (the melody copied from the second part of the music with which papageno sets the blackamoors to dancing in "die zauberflote"), the orchestra talks of the matronly renunciation of the princess, enthusiastic straussians of a musical parallel with the quintet from wagner's "meistersinger," and the opera comes to an end after three and one-half hours of more or less unintelligible dialogue poised on waltz melodies. i have said unintelligible dialogue. for this unintelligibility there are two reasons-the chief one musical, the other literary. though strauss treats his voices with more consideration in "der rosenkavalier" than in his tragedies, he still so overburdens them that the words are distinguishable only at intervals. only too frequently he crushes them with orchestral voices, which in themselves are not overwhelming--the voices of his horns, for instance, for which he shows a particular partiality. his style of declamation is melodic, though it is only at the end of the opera that he rises to real vocal melody; but it seems to be put over an orchestral part, and not the orchestral part put under it. there is no moment in which he can say, as wagner truthfully and admiringly said of the wonderful orchestral music of the third act of "tristan und isolde," that all this swelling instrumental song existed only for the sake of what the dying tristan was saying upon his couch. all of strauss's waltzes seem to exist for their own sake, which makes the disappointment greater that they are not carried through in the spirit in which they are begun; that is, the spirit of the naive viennese dance tune. a second reason for the too frequent unintelligibility of the text is its archaic character. its idioms are eighteenth century as well as viennese, and its persistent use of the third person even among individuals of quality, though it gives a tang to the libretto when read in the study, is not welcome when heard with difficulty. besides this, there is use of dialect--vulgar when assumed by octavian, mixed when called for by such characters as valzacchi and his partner in scandal mongery, annina. to be compelled to forego a knowledge of half of what such a master of diction as mr. reiss was saying was a new sensation to his admirers who understand german. yet the fault was as little his as it was mr. goritz's that so much of what he said went for nothing; it was all his misfortune, including the fact that much of the music is not adapted to his voice. the music offers a pleasanter topic than the action and dialogue. it is a relief to those listeners who go to the opera oppressed with memories of "salome" and "elektra." it is not only that their ears are not so often assaulted by rude sounds, they are frequently moved by phrases of great and genuine beauty. unfortunately the straussian system of composition demands that beauty be looked for in fragments. continuity of melodic flow is impossible to strauss--a confession of his inability either to continue wagner's method, to improve on it, or invent anything new in its place. the best that has been done in the wagnerian line belongs to humperdinck. [footnote: "der rosenkavalier" had its first american production at the metropolitan opera house, new york, on december 9, 1913, the cast being as follows:- feldmarschallin furstin werdenberg............ frieda hempel baron ochs auf lerchenau...................... otto goritz octavian, genannt quinquin.................... margarete ober herr von faninal.............................. hermann weil sophie, seine tochter......................... anna case jungfer marianne leitmetzerin................. rita fornia valzacchi, ein intrigant...................... albert reiss annina, seine begleiterin..................... marie mattfeld ein polizeikommissar.......................... carl schlegel haushofmeister der feldmarschalh'n............ pietro audisio haushofmeister bei faninal.................... lambert murphy ein notar..................................... basil ruysdael ein wirt...................................... julius bayer ein sanger.................................... carl jorn drei adelige waisen........................... louise cox rosina van dyck sophie braslau eine modistin................................. jeanne maubourg ein lakai..................................... ludwig burgstaller ein kleiner neger............................. ruth weinstein conductor--alfred hertz] chapter xiv "konigskinder" once upon a time a witch cast a spell upon a king's daughter and held her in servitude as a gooseherd. a prince found her in the forest and loved her. she loved him in return, and would gladly have gone away from her sordid surroundings with him, though she had spurned the crown which he had offered her in exchange for her wreath of flowers; but when she escaped from her jailer she found that she could not break the charm which held her imprisoned in the forest. then the prince left the crown lying at her feet and continued his wanderings. scarcely had he gone when there came to the hut of the witch a broommaker and a woodchopper, guided by a wandering minstrel. they were ambassadors from the city of hellabrunn, which had been so long without a king that its boorish burghers themselves felt the need of a ruler in spite of their boorishness. to the wise woman the ambassadors put the questions: who shall be this ruler and by what sign shall they recognize him? the witch tells them that their sovereign shall be the first person who enters their gates after the bells have rung the noon hour on the morrow, which is the day of the hella festival. then the minstrel catches sight of the lovely goose-girl, and through the prophetic gift possessed by poets he recognizes in her a rightly born princess for his people. by the power of his art he is enabled to put aside the threatening spells of the witch and compel the hag to deliver the maiden into his care. he persuades her to break the enchantment which had held her bound hitherto and defy the wicked power. meanwhile, however, grievous misfortunes have befallen the prince, her lover. he has gone to hellabrunn, and desiring to learn to serve in order that he might better know how to rule, he had taken service as a swineherd. the daughter of the innkeeper becomes enamoured of the shapely body of the prince, whose proud spirit she cannot understand, and who has repulsed her advances. his thoughts go back to the goosegirl whose wreath, with its fresh fragrance, reminds him of his duty. he attempts to teach the burghers their own worth, but the wench whose love he had repulsed accuses him of theffy and he is about to be led off to prison when the bells peal forth the festal hour. joyfully the watchmen throw open the strong town gates and the multitude and gathered councillors fall back to receive their king. but through the doors enters the gooseherd, proudly wearing her crown and followed by her flock and the minstrel the lovers fall into each other's arms, but only the poet and a little child recognize them as of royal blood. the boorish citizens, who had fancied that their king would appear in regal splendor, drive the youth and maiden out with contumely, burn the witch and cripple the minstrel by breaking one of his legs on the wheel. seeking his home, the prince and his love lose their way in the forest during a snowstorm and die of a poisoned loaf made by the witch, for which the prince had bartered his broken crown, under the same tree which had sheltered them on their first meeting; but the children of hellabrunn, who had come out in search of them, guided by a bird, find their bodies buried under the snow and give them royal acclaim and burial. and the prescient minstrel hymns their virtues. this is the story of engelbert humperdinck's opera "konigskinder," which had its first performance on any stage at the metropolitan opera house, new york, on december 28,1910, with the following cast: der konigssohn......................herman jadlowker die gansemagd.......................geraldine farrar der spielmann........................... otto goritz die hexe................................louise homer der holzhacker.......................... adamo didur der besenbinder........................ albert reiss zwei kinder..............edna walter and lotte engel der ratsalteste....................... marcel reiner der wirt..........................antonio pini-corsi die wirtstochter................... florence wickham der schneider.......................... julius bayer die stallmagd.........................marie mattfeld zwei torwachter..... ernst maran and william hinshaw conductor: alfred hertz to some in the audience the drama was new only in the new operatic dress with which humperdinck had clothed it largely at the instance of the metropolitan management. it had been known as a spoken play for twelve years and three of its musical numbers--the overture and two pieces of between-acts music--had been in local concert-lists for the same length of time. the play had been presented with incidental music for many of the scenes as well as the overture and entr'actes in 1898 in an extremely interesting production at the irving place theatre, then under the direction of heinrich conried, in which agnes sorma and rudolf christians had carried the principal parts. it came back four years later in an english version at the herald square theatre, but neither in the german nor the english performance was it vouchsafed us to realize what had been the purpose of the author of the play and the composer of the music. the author, who calls herself ernst rosmer, is a woman, daughter of heinrich forges, for many years a factotum at the bayreuth festivals. it was her father's devotion to wagner which gave her the name of elsa. she married a lawyer and litterateur in munich named bernstein, and has written a number of plays besides "konigskinder," which she published in 1895, and afterward asked herr humperdinck (not yet a royal prussian professor, but a simple musician, who had made essays in criticisms and tried to make a composer out of siegfried wagner) to provide with incidental music. mr. humperdinck took his task seriously. the play, with some incidental music, was two years old before mr. humperdinck had his overture ready. he had tried a new experiment, which proved a failure. the second and third acts had their preludes, and the songs of the minstrel had their melodies and accompaniments, and all the principal scenes had been provided with illustrative music in the wagnerian manner, with this difference, that the dialogue had been "pointed," as a church musician would say--that is, the rhythm was indicated with exactness, and even the variations of pitch, though it was understood that the purpose was not to achieve song, but an intensified utterance, halfway between speech and song. this was melodrama, as herr humperdinck conceived it and as it had no doubt existed for ages--ever since the primitive greek drama, in fact. it is easy to understand how herr humperdinck came to believe in the possibility of an art-form which, though accepted, for temporary effect, by beethoven and cherubini, and used for ballads with greater or less success by schumann, had been harshly rejected by his great model and master, wagner. humperdinck lives in germany, where in nearly every theatre there is more or less of an amalgamation of the spoken drama and the opera--where choristers play small parts and actors, though not professional singers, sing when not too much is required of them. and yet herr humperdinck found out that he had asked too much of his actors with his "pointed" and at times intoned declamation, and "konigskinder" did not have to come to america to learn that the compromise was a failure. no doubt herr humperdinck thought of turning so beautiful a play into an opera then, but it seems to have required the stimulus which finally came from new york to persuade him to carry out the operatic idea, which is more than suggested in the score as it lies before me in its original shape, into a thorough lyric drama. the set pieces which had lived in the interim in the concert-room were transferred into the opera-score with trifling alterations and condensations and so were the set songs. as for the rest it needed only that note-heads be supplied to some of the portions of the dialogue which humperdinck had designed for melodic declamation to have those portions ready for the opera. here an example:-[figure: a musical score excerpt] a german opera can generally stand severer criticism than one in another language, because there is a more strict application of principles in germany when it comes to writing a lyric drama than in any other country. so in the present instance there is no need to conceal the fact that there are outbreaks of eroticism and offences against the german language which are none the less flagrant and censurable because they are, to some extent, concealed under the thin veneer of the allegory and symbolism which every reader must have recognized as running through the play. this is, in a manner, wagnerian, as so much of the music is wagnerian--especially that of the second act, which because it calls up scenes from the "meistersinger" must also necessarily call up music from the same comedy. but there is little cause here for quarrel with professor humperdinck. he has applied the poetical principle of wagner to the fairy tale which is so closely related to the myth, and he has with equal consistency applied wagner's constructive methods musically and dramatically. it is to his great honor that, of all of wagner's successors, he has been the only one to do so successfully. the story of "konigskinder," though it belongs to the class of fairy tales of which "hansel und gretel" is so striking and beautiful an example, is not to be found as the author presents it in the literature of german marchen. mme. bernstein has drawn its elements from many sources and blended them with the utmost freedom. to avoid a misunderstanding germans will insist that the title be used without the article, for "die konigskinder" or "zwei konigskinder" both suggest the simple german form of the old tale of hero and leander, with which story, of course, it has nothing whatever to do. but if literary criticism forbids association between humperdinck's two operas, musical criticism compels it. many of the characters in the operas are close relations, dramatically as well as musically--the royal children themselves, the witches, of course, and the broom-makers. the rest of the characters have been taken from wagner's "meistersinger" picture book; the citizens of hellabrunn are nuremberg's burghers, the city's' councillors, the old master singers. the musical idiom is humperdinck's, though its method of employment is wagner's. but here lies its charm: though the composer hews to a theoretical line, he does it freely, naturally, easily, and always with the principle of musical beauty as well as that of dramatic truthfulness and propriety in view. his people's voices float on a symphonic stream, but the voices of the instruments, while they sing on in endless melody, use the idiom which nature gave them. there is admirable characterization in the orchestral music, but it is music for all that; it never descends to mere noise, designed to keep up an irritation of the nerves. chapter xv "boris godounoff" from whatever point of view it may be considered mossourgsky's opera "boris godounoff" is an extraordinary work. it was brought to the notice of the people of the united states by a first performance at the metropolitan opera house, in new york, on march 19, 1913, but intelligence concerning its character had come to observers of musical doings abroad by reports touching performances in paris and london. it is possible, even likely, that at all the performances of the work outside of russia those who listened to it with the least amount of intellectual sophistication derived the greatest pleasure from it, though to them its artistic deficiencies must also have been most obvious. against these deficiencies, however, it presented itself, first of all, as a historical play shot through and through with a large theme, which, since it belongs to tragedy, is universal and unhampered by time or place or people. to them it had something of the sweep, dignity, and solemnity and also something of the dramatic incongruity and lack of cohesion of a shakespearian drama as contradistinguished from the coherence of purpose and manner of a modern drama. to them also it had much strangeness of style, a style which was not easily reconciled to anything with which the modern stage had made them familiar. they saw and heard the chorus enter into the action, not for the purpose of spectacular pageantry, nor as hymners of the achievements of the principal actors in the story, but as participants. they heard unwonted accents from these actors and saw them behave in conduct which from moment to moment appeared strangely contradictory. there were mutterings of popular discontent, which, under threats, gave way to jubilant acclamation in the first great scenes in the beginning of the opera. there were alternate mockeries and adulations in the next scene in which the people figured; and running through other scenes from invisible singers came ecclesiastical chants, against which were projected, not operatic song in the old conception, but long passages of heightened speech, half declamatory, half musical. a multitude cringed before upraised knouts and fell on its knees before the approach of a man whose agents swung the knotted cords; anon they acclaimed the man who sought to usurp a throne and overwhelmed with ridicule a village imbecile, who was yet supposed because of his mental weakness to be possessed of miraculous prescience, and therefore to have a prevision of what was to follow the usurpation. they saw the incidents of the drama moving past their eyes within a framework of barbaric splendor typical of a wonderful political past, an amazing political present, and possibly prophetic of a still more amazing political future. these happily ingenuous spectators saw an historical personage racked by conscience, nerve-torn by spectres, obsessed by superstitions, strong in position achieved, yet pathetically sweet and moving in his exhibition of paternal love, and going to destruction through remorse for crime committed. they were troubled by no curious questionings as to the accuracy of the historical representation. the boris godounoff before them was a remorse-stricken regicide, whose good works, if he did any, had to be summed up for their imagination in the fact that he loved his son. in all this, and also in some of its music, the new opera was of the opera operatic. but to the unhappily disingenuous (or perhaps it would be better to say, to the instructed) there was much more in the new opera; and it was this more which so often gave judgment pause, even while it stimulated interest and irritated curiosity. it was a pity that a recent extraordinary outburst of enthusiasm about a composer and an opera should have had the effect of distorting their vision and disturbing their judgment. there was a reason to be suspicious touching this enthusiasm, because of its origin. it came from france and not from the home land of the author of the play or the composer of the music. moreover, it was largely based upon an element which has as little genuineness in france as a basis of judgment (and which must therefore be set down largely as an affectation) as in america. loud hallelujahs have been raised in praise of moussorgsky because, discarding conventional law, he vitalized the music of the lyric poem and also the dramatic line, by making it the emotional flowering of the spoken word. when it became necessary for the precious inner brotherhood of frenchmen who hold burning incense sticks under each others' noses to acclaim "pelleas et melisande" as a new and beautiful thing in dramatic music, it was announced that moussorgsky was like debussy in that he had demonstrated in his songs and his operas that vocal melody should and could be written in accordance with the rhythm and accents of the words. we had supposed that we had learned that lesson not only from gluck and wagner, but from every true musical dramatist that ever lived! and when the frenchmen (and their feeble echoers in england and america) began to cry out that the world make obeisance to moussorgsky on that score, there was no wonder that those whose eagerness to enjoy led them to absorb too much information should ask how this marvellous psychical assonance between word and tone was to be conveyed to their unfortunate sense and feeling after the original russian word had been transmogrified into french or english. in new york the opera, which we know to be saturated in some respects with muscovitism, or slavicism, and which we have every reason to believe is also so saturated in its musico-verbal essence, was sung in italian. with the change some of the character that ought to make it dear to the russian heart must have evaporated. it is even likely that vigorous english would have been a better vehicle than the "soft, bastard latin" for the forceful utterances of the operatic people. it is a pity that a suspicion of disingenuousness and affectation should force itself upon one's thoughts in connection with the french enthusiasm over moussorgsky; but it cannot be avoided. so far as moussorgsky reflects anything in his art, it is realism or naturalism, and the latter element is not dominant in french music now, and is not likely to be so long as the present tendency toward sublimated subjectivism prevails. debussy acclaimed moussorgsky enthusiastically a dozen years ago, but for all that moussorgsky and debussy are antipodes in art--they represent extremes. it is much more likely that outside of its purely literary aspect (a large aspect in every respect in. france) the moussorgsky cult of the last few years was a mere outgrowth of the political affiliation between france and russia; as such it may be looked upon in the same light as the sudden appreciation of berlioz which was a product of the chauvinism which followed the franco-prussian war. it is easy even for young people of the day in which i write to remember when a wagner opera at the academie nationale raised a riot, and when the dances at the moulin rouge and such places could not begin until the band had played the russian national hymn. were it not for considerations of this sort it would be surprising to contemplate the fact that moussorgsky has been more written and talked about in france than he was in his native russia, and that even his friend rimsky-korsakoff, to whose revision of the score "boris godounoff" owes its continued existence, has been subjected to much rude criticism because of his work, though we can only think of it as taken up in a spirit of affection and admiration. he and the russians, with scarcely an exception, say that his labors were in the line of purification and rectification; but the modern extremists will have it that by remedying its crudities of harmonization and instrumentation he weakened it--that what he thought its artistic blemishes were its virtues. of that we are in no position to speak, nor ought any one be rash enough to make the proclamation until the original score is published, and then only a russian or a musician familiar with the russian tongue and its genius. the production of the opera outside of russia and in a foreign language ought to furnish an occasion to demand a stay of the artistic cant which is all too common just now in every country. we are told that "boris godounoff" is the first real russian opera that america has ever heard. in a sense that may be true. the present generation has heard little operatic music by russian composers. rubinstein's "nero" was not russian music in any respect. "pique dame," by tschaikowsky, also performed at the metropolitan opera house, had little in it that could be recognized as characteristically russian. "eugene onegin" we know only from concert performances, and its muscovitism was a negligible quantity. the excerpts from other russian operas have been few and they demonstrated nothing, though in an intermezzo from tschaikowsky's "mazeppa," descriptive of the battle of poltava, which has been heard here, we met with the strong choral tune which gives great animation to the most stirring scene in "boris"--the acclamation of the czar by the populace in the first act. of this something more presently. there were american representations, however, of a russian opera which in its day was more popular than "boris" has ever been; but that was so long ago that all memories of it have died, and even the records are difficult to reach. some fifty years ago a russian company came to these shores and performed verstoffsky's "askold's tomb," an opera which was republished as late as 1897 and which within the first twenty-five years of its existence had 400 performances in moscow and 200 in st. petersburg. some venturesome critics have hailed verstoffsky as even more distinctively a predecessor of moussorgsky than glinka; but the clamor of those who are preaching loudly that art must not exist for art's sake, and that the ugly is justified by the beauty of ugliness, has silenced the voices of these critical historians. this may thus far have seemed a long and discursive disquisition on the significance of the new opera; but the questions to which the production of "boris godounoff" give rise are many and grave, especially in the present state of our operatic activities. they have a strong bearing on the problem of nationalism in opera, of which those in charge of our operatic affairs appear to take a careless view. aside from all aesthetic questions, "boris godounoff" bears heavily on that problem. it is a work crude and fragmentary in structure, but it is tremendously puissant in its preachment of nationalism; and it is strong there not so much because of its story and the splendid barbarism of its external integument as because of its nationalism, which is proclaimed in the use of russian folk-song. all previous experiments in this line become insignificant in comparison with it, and it is questionable if any other body of folk-song offers such an opportunity to the operatic composer as does the russian. the hero of the opera is in dramatic stature (or at least in emotional content) a macbeth or a richard iii; his utterances are frequently poignant and heart searching in the extreme; his dramatic portrayal by m. chaliapine in europe and mr. didur in america is so gripping as to call up memories of some of the great english tragedians of the past. but we cannot speak of the psychology of the musical setting of his words because we have been warned that it roots deeply in the accents and inflections of a language with which we are unfamiliar and which was not used in the performance. but the music of the choral masses, the songs sung in the intimacy of the czar boris's household, the chants of the monks, needed not to be strange to any student of folk-song, nor could their puissance be lost upon the musically unlettered. in the old kolyada song "slava" [footnote: lovers of chamber music know this melody from its use in the allegretto in beethoven's e minor quartet dedicated to count rasoumowski, where it appears thus:--] with which boris is greeted by the populace, as well as in the wild shoutings of the polish vagrom men and women in the scene before the last, it is impossible not to hear an out-pouring of that spirit of which tolstoi wrote: "in it is yearning without end, without hope; also power invincible, the fateful stamp of destiny, iron preordination, one of the fundamental principles of our nationality with which it is possible to explain much that in russian life seems incomprehensible." no other people have such a treasure of folk-song to draw on as that thus characterized, and it is not likely that any other people will develop a national school of opera on the lines which lie open to the russian composer, and which the russian composer has been encouraged to exploit by his government for the last twenty years or more. it is possible that some critics, actuated by political rather than artistic considerations, will find reasons [figure: a musical score excerpt] for the present condition of moussorgsky's score in the attitude of the russian government. it is said that court intrigues had much to do with the many changes which the score had to undergo before it became entirely acceptable to the powers that be in the czar's empire. possibly. but every change which has come under the notice of this reviewer has been to its betterment and made for its practical presentation. it is said that the popular scenes were curtailed because they represented the voice of the democracy. but there is still so much choral work in the opera that the judgment of the operatic audiences of to-day is likely to pronounce against it measurably on that account. for, splendid as the choral element in the work is, a chorus is not looked upon with admiration as a dramatic element by the ordinary opera lover. there was a lack of the feminine element in the opera, and to remedy this moussorgsky had to introduce the polish bride of the false dmitri and give the pair a love scene, and incidentally a polonaise; but the love scene is uninteresting until its concluding measures, and these are too meyerbeerian to call for comment beyond the fact that meyerbeer, the much contemned, would have done better. as for the polonaise, tschaikowsky has written a more brilliant one for his "eugene onegin." the various scores of the opera which have been printed show that moussorgsky, with all his genius, was at sea even when it came to applying the principles of the young russian school, of which he is set down as a strong prop, to dramatic composition. with all his additions, emendations, and rearrangements, his opera still falls much short of being a dramatic unit. it is a more loosely connected series of scenes, from the drama of boris godounoff and the false dmitri, than boito's "mefistofele" is of goethe's "faust." had he had his own way the opera would have ended with the scene in which dmitri proceeds to moscow amid the huzzas of a horde of polish vagabonds, and we should have had neither a boris nor a dmitri opera, despite the splendid opportunities offered by both characters. it was made a boris opera by bringing it to an end with the death of boris and leaving everything except the scenes in which the czar declines the imperial crown, then accepts it, and finally dies of a tortured conscience, to serve simply as intermezzi, in which for the moment the tide of tragedy is turned aside. this and the glimpse into the paternal heart of the czar is the only and beautiful purpose of the domestic scene, in which the lighter and more cheerful element of russian folk-song is introduced. at the first american performance of "boris godounoff" the cast was as follows:- boris.....................................adamo didur theodore....................................anna case xenia..................................lenora sparkes the nurse...............................maria duchene marina...................................louise homer schouisky.................................angelo bada tchelkaloff......................vincenzo reschiglian pimenn...................................leon rothier dmitri......................paul althouse (his debut) varlaam....................... ....andrea de segurola missail............................... pietro audisio the innkeeper........................ jeanne maubourg the simpleton............................albert reiss a police officer.........................giulio rossi a court officer..................... leopoldo mariani lovitzky......).two jesuits..........( v. reschiglian tcerniakowsky,) ( louis kreidler conductor: arturo toscanini chapter xvi "madame sans-gene" and other operas by giordano the opera-goers of new york enjoyed a novel experience when giordano's "madame sans-gene" had its first performance on any stage in their presence at the metropolitan opera house on january 25, 1915. it was the first time that a royal and imperial personage who may be said to live freshly and vividly in the minds of the people of this generation as well as in their imaginations appeared before them to sing his thoughts and feelings in operatic fashion. at first blush it seemed as if a singing bonaparte was better calculated to stir their risibilities than their interest or sympathies; and this may, indeed, have been the case; but at any rate they had an opportunity to make the acquaintance of napoleon before he rose to imperial estate. but, in all seriousness, it is easier to imagine the figure which william ii of germany would cut on the operatic stage than the "grand, gloomy, and peculiar" corsican. the royal people with whom the operatic public is familiar as a rule are sufficiently surrounded by the mists of antiquity and obscurity that the contemplation of them arouse little thought of the incongruity which their appearance as operatic heroes ought to create. henry the fowler in "lohengrin," mark in "tristan und isolde," the unnumbered pharaoh in "aida," herod in "salome" and "herodiade," and the few other kings, if there are any more with whom the present generation of opera-goers have a personal acquaintance, so to speak, are more or less merely poetical creations whom we seldom if ever think of in connection with veritable history. even boris godounoff is to us more a picture out of a book, like the macbeth whom he so strongly resembles from a theatrical point of view, than the monarch who had a large part in the making of the russian people. the roman censorship prevented us long ago from making the acquaintance of the gustavus of sweden whom ankerstrom stabbed to death at a masked ball, by transmogrifying him into the absurdly impossible figure of a governor of boston; and the claudius of ambroise thomas's opera is as much a ghost as hamlet's father, while debussy's blind king is as much an abstraction as is melisande herself. operatic dukes we know in plenty, though most of them have come out of the pages of romance and are more or less acceptable according to the vocal ability of their representatives. when caruso sings "la donna e mobile" we care little for the profligacy of verdi's duke of mantua and do not inquire whether or not such an individual ever lived. moussorgsky's czar boris ought to interest us more, however. the great bell-tower in the kremlin which he built, and the great bell--a shattered monument of one of his futile ambitions--have been seen by thousands of travellers who never took the trouble to learn that the tyrant who had the bell cast laid a serfdom upon the russian people which endured down to our day. boris, by the way, picturesque and dramatic figure that he is as presented to us in history, never got upon the operatic stage until moussorgsky took him in hand. two hundred years ago a great german musician, mattheson, as much scholar as composer if not more, set him to music, but the opera was never performed. peter the great, who came a century after boris, lived a life more calculated to invite the attention of opera writers, but even he escaped the clutches of dramatic composers except lortzing, who took advantage of the romantic episode of peter's service as ship carpenter in holland to make him the hero of one of the most sparkling of german comic operas. lortzing had a successor in the irishman t. s. cooke, but his opera found its way into the limbo of forgotten things more than a generation ago, while lortzing's still lives on the stage of germany. peter deserved to be celebrated in music, for it was in his reign that polyphonic music, albeit of the italian order, was introduced into the russian church and modern instrumental music effected an entrance into his empire. but i doubt if peter was sincerely musical; in his youth he heard only music of the rudest kind. he was partial to the bagpipes and, like nero, played upon that instrument. to come back to bonaparte and music. "madame sans-gene" is an operatic version of the drama which sardou developed out of a little one-act play dealing with a partly fictitious, partly historical story in which napoleon, his marshal lefebvre, and a laundress were the principal figures. whether or not the great corsican could be justified as a character in a lyric drama was a mooted question when giordano conceived the idea of making an opera out of the play. it is said that verdi remarked something to the effect that the question depended upon what he would be called upon to sing, and how he would be expected to sing it. the problem was really not a very large or difficult one, for all great people are turned into marionettes when transformed into operatic heroes. in the palmy days of bel canto no one would have raised the question at all, for then the greatest characters in history moved about the stage in stately robes and sang conventional arias in the conventional manner. the change from old-fashioned opera to regenerated lyric drama might have simplified the problem for giordano, even if his librettist had not already done so by reducing napoleon to his lowest terms from a dramatic as well as historical point of view. the heroes of eighteenth-century opera were generally feeble-minded lovers and nothing more; giordano's napoleon is only a jealous husband who helps out in the denouement of a play which is concerned chiefly with other people. in turning sardou's dramatic personages into operatic puppets a great deal of bloodletting was necessary and a great deal of the characteristic charm of the comedy was lost, especially in the cases of madame sans-gene herself and napoleon's sister; but enough was left to make a practicable opera. there were the pictures of all the plebeians who became great folk later concerned in the historical incidents which lifted them up. there were also the contrasted pictures which resulted from the great transformation, and it was also the ingratiating incident of the devotion of lefebvre to the stout-hearted, honest little woman of the people who had to try to be a duchess. all this was fair operatic material, though music has a strange capacity for refining stage characters as well as for making them colorless. giordano could not do himself justice as a composer without refining the expression of caterina huebscher, and so his duchess of dantzic talks a musical language at least which sardou's washerwoman could not talk and remain within the dramatic verities. therefore we have "madame sans-gene" with a difference, but not one that gave any more offence than operatic treatment of other fine plays have accustomed us to. to dispose of the artistic merits of the opera as briefly as possible, it may be said that in more ways than one giordano has in this work harked back to "andrea chenier," the first of his operas which had a hearing in america. the parallel extends to some of the political elements of the book as well as its musical investiture with its echoes of the popular airs of the period of the french revolution. the style of writing is also there, though applied, possibly, with more mature and refined skill. i cannot say with as much ingenuousness and freshness of invention, however. its spirit in the first act, and largely in the second, is that of the opera bouffe, but there are many pages of "madame sans-gene" which i would gladly exchange for any one of the melodies of lecocq, let us say in "la fille de mme. angot." like all good french music which uses and imitates them, it is full of crisp rhythms largely developed from the old dances which, originally innocent, were degraded to base uses by the sans-culottes; and so there is an abundance of life and energy in the score though little of the distinction, elegance, and grace that have always been characteristic of french music, whether high-born or low. the best melody in the modern italian vein flows in the second act when the genuine affection and fidelity of caterina find expression and where a light touch is combined with considerable warmth of feeling and a delightful daintiness of orchestral color. much of this is out of harmony with the fundamental character of sardou's woman, but music cannot deny its nature. only a moussorgsky could make a drunken monk talk truthfully in music. if giordano's opera failed to make a profound impression on the new york public, it was not because that public had not had opportunity to learn the quality of his music. his "andrea chenier" had been produced at the academy of music as long before as november 13, 1896. with it the redoubtable colonel mapleson went down to his destruction in america. it was one of the many strange incidents in the career of mr. oscar hammerstein as i have related them in my book entitled "chapters of opera" [footnote: new york, henry holt & co.] that it should have been brought back by him twelve years later for a single performance at the manhattan opera house. in the season of 1916-1917 it was incorporated in the repertory of the boston-national opera company and carried to the principal cities of the country. on december 16, 1906, mr. heinrich conried thought that the peculiar charms of madame cavalieri, combined with the popularity of signor caruso, might give habitation to giordano's setting of an opera book made out of sardou's "fedora"; but it endured for only four performances in the season of 1906-1907 and three in the next, in which conried's career came to an end. in reviving "andrea chenier" mr. hammerstein may have had visions of future triumphs for its composer, for a few weeks before (on february 5, 1908) he had brought forward the same composer's "siberia," which gave some promise of life, though it died with the season that saw its birth. the critical mind seems disposed to look with kindness upon new works in proportion as they fall back in the corridors of memory; and so i am inclined to think that of the four operas by giordano which i have heard "andrea chenier" gives greatest promise of a long life. the attempt to put music to "fedora" seemed to me utterly futile. only those moments were musical in the accepted sense of the word when the action of the drama ceased, as in the case of the intermezzo, or when the old principles of operatic construction waked into life again as in the confession of the hero-lover. here, moreover, there comes into the score an element of novelty, for the confession is extorted from lorris while a virtuoso is entertaining a drawing-roomful of people with a set pianoforte solo. as for the rest of the opera, it seems sadly deficient in melody beautiful either in itself or as an expression of passion. "andrea chenier" has more to commend it. to start with, there is a good play back of it, though the verities of history were not permitted to hamper the imagination of signor illica, the author of the book. the hero of the opera is the patriotic poet who fell under the guillotine in 1794 at the age of thirty-two. the place which saint-beuve gave him in french letters is that of the greatest writer of classic verse after racine and boileau. the operatic story is all fiction, more so, indeed, than that of "madame sans-gene." as a matter of fact, the veritable chenier was thrown into prison on the accusation of having sheltered a political criminal, and was beheaded together with twenty-three others on a charge of having engaged in a conspiracy while in prison. in the opera he does not die for political reasons, though they are alleged as a pretext, but because he has crossed the love-path of a leader of the revolution. when giordano composed "siberia," he followed the example of mascagni and puccini (if he did not set the example for them) by seeking local color and melodic material in the folk-songs of the country in which his scene was laid. puccini went to japan for musical ideas and devices to trick out his "madama butterfly" as mascagni had done in "iris." giordano, illustrating a story of political oppression in "siberia," called in the aid of russian melodies. his exiles sing the heavy-hearted measures of the bargemen of the volga, "ay ouchnem," the forceful charm of which few russian composers have been able to resist. he introduced also strains of easter music from the greek church, the popular song known among the germans as "schone minka" and the "glory" song (slava) which moussorgsky had forged into a choral thunderbolt in his "boris godounoff." it is a stranger coincidence that the "slava" melody should have cropped up in the operas of giordano and moussorgsky than that the same revolutionary airs should pepper the pages of "madame sans-gene" and "andrea chenier." these operas are allied in subject and period and the same style of composition is followed in both. chenier goes to his death in the opera to the tune of the "marseillaise" and the men march past the windows of caterina huebscher's laundry singing the refrain of roget de lisle's hymn. but giordano does not make extensive use of the tune in "madame sans-gene." it appears literally at the place mentioned and surges up with fine effect in a speech in which the duchess of dantzic overwhelms the proud sisters of napoleon; but that is practically all. the case is different with two other revolutionary airs. the first crash of the orchestra launches us into "la carmagnole," whose melody provides the thematic orchestral substratum for nearly the entire first scene. it is an innocent enough tune, differing little from hundreds of french vaudeville melodies of its period, but giordano injects vitriol into its veins by his harmonies and orchestration. with all its innocence this was the tune which came from the raucous throats of politically crazed men and women while noble heads tumbled into the bloody sawdust, while the spoils of the churches were carried into the national convention in 1793, and to which "several members, quitting their curule chairs, took the hands of girls flaunting in priests' vestures" and danced a wild rout, as did other mad wretches when a dancer was worshipped as the goddess of reason in the cathedral of notre dame. caterina's account of the rude familiarity with which she is treated by the soldiery (i must assume a knowledge of sardou's play which the opera follows) is set to a melody of a russian folk-song cast in the treatment of which russian influences may also be felt; but with the first shouts of the mob attacking the tuileries in the distance the characteristic rhythmical motif of the "ca ira" is heard muttering in the basses. again a harmless tune which in its time was perverted to a horrible use; a lively little contradance which graced many a cotillion in its early days, but which was roared and howled by the mob as it carried the beauteous head of the lamballe through the streets of paris on a pike and thrust it almost into the face of marie antoinette. of such material and a pretty little dance ("la fricassee") is the music of the first act, punctuated by cannon shots, made. it is all rhythmically stirring, it flows spiritedly, energetically along with the current of the play, never retarding it for a moment, but, unhappily, never sweetening it with a grain of pretty sentiment or adorning it with a really graceful contour. there is some graciousness in the court scene, some archness and humor in the scene in which the duchess of dantzic submits to the adornment of her person, some dramatically strong declamation in the speeches of napoleon, some simulation of passion in the love passages of lefebvre and of neipperg; but as a rule the melodic flood never reaches high tide. chapter xvii two operas by wolf-ferrari when the operas of ermanno wolf-ferrari came to america (his beautiful setting of the "vita nuova" was already quite widely known at the time), it was thought singular and somewhat significant that though the operas had all been composed to italian texts they should have their first italian performances in this country. this was the case with "le donne curiose," heard at the metropolitan opera house, new york, on january 3, 1912; of "il segreto di susanna," which the chicago-philadelphia opera company brought to new york after giving it a hearing in its home cities, in february, 1912; of "i giojelli della madonna" first produced in berlin in december, 1911, and in chicago a few weeks later. a fourth opera, "l'amore medico," had its first representation at the metropolitan opera house, new york, on march 25, 1914. the circumstance to which i have alluded as worthy of comment was due, i fancy, more to the business methods of modern publishers than to a want of appreciation of the operas in italy, though [figure: a musical score excerpt. a page of the score of the german "donne curiose"] signor wolf-ferrari sought to meet the taste of his countrymen (assuming that the son of a german father and a venetian mother is to be set down as an italian) when he betrayed the true bent of his genius and sought to join the ranks of the italian veritists in his "giojelli della madonna." however, that is not the question i am desirous to discuss just now when the first impressions of "le donne curiose" come flocking back to my memory. the book is a paraphrase of goldoni's comedy of the same name, made (and very deftly made) for the composer by count luigi sugana. it turns on the curiosity of a group of women concerning the doings of their husbands and sweethearts at a club from which they are excluded. the action is merely a series of incidents in which the women (the wives by rifling the pockets of their husbands, the maidens by wheedling, cajoling, and playing upon the feelings of their sweethearts) obtain the keys of the club-room, and effect an entrance only to find that instead of gambling, harboring mistresses, seeking the philosopher's stone, or digging for treasure, as is variously suspected, the men are enjoying an innocent supper. in their eagerness to see all that is going on, the women betray their presence. then there follow scoldings, contrition, forgiveness, a graceful minuet, and the merriment runs out in a wild furlana. book and score of the opera hark back a century or more in their methods of expression. the incidents of the old comedy are as loosely strung together as those of "le nozze di figaro," and the parallel is carried further by the similarity between the instrumental apparatus of mozart and wolf-ferrari and the dependence of both on melody, rather than orchestral or harmonic device, as the life-blood of the music upon which the comedy floats. it is mozart's orchestra that the modern composer uses ("the only proper orchestra for comedy," as berlioz said), eschewing even those "epical instruments," the trombones. it would not do to push the parallel too far, though a keen listener might feel tempted also to see a point of semblance in the teutonism which tinctures the italian music of both men; a teutonism which adds an ingredient more to the taste of other peoples than that of the people whose language is employed. but while the italianism of mozart was wholly the product of the art-spirit of his time, the teutonism of wolf-ferrari is a heritage from his german father and its italianism partakes somewhat of the nature of a reversion to old ideals from which even his mother's countrymen have departed. there is an almost amusing illustration of this in the paraphrase of goldoni's comedy which the composer took as a libretto. the leporello of da ponte and mozart has his prototype in the arlecchino of the classic italian comedy, but he has had to submit to so great a metamorphosis as to make him scarcely recognizable. but in the modern "donne curiose" we have not only the old figure down to his conventional dress and antics, but also his companions pantaloon and columbine. all this, however, may be better enjoyed by those who observe them in the representation than those who will only read about them, no matter how deftly the analysis may be made. it is mozart's media and mozart's style which wolf-ferrari adopts, but there are traces also of the idioms of others who have been universal musicians rather than specifically italian. like nicolai's "o susse anna!" (shakespeare's "oh, sweet anne page"), wolf-ferrari's florindo breathes out his languishing "ah, rosaura!" and in the lively chatter of the women there is frequently more than a suggestion of the lively gossip of verdi's merry wives in his incomparable "falstaff." wolf-ferrari is neither a mozart nor a verdi, not even a nicolai, as a melodist, but he is worthy of being bracketed with them, because as frankly as they he has spoken the musical language which to him seemed a proper investiture of his comedy, and like them has made that language characteristic of the comedy's personages and illustrative of its incidents. he has been brave enough not to fear being called a reactionary, knowing that there is always progress in the successful pursuit of beauty. the advocates of opera sung in the language native to the hearers may find an eloquent argument in "le donne curiose," much of whose humor lies in the text and is lost to those who cannot understand it despite the obviousness of its farcical action. on the other hand, a feeling of gratitude must have been felt by many others that they were not compelled to hear the awkward commonplaces of the english translation of the libretto. the german version, in which the opera had its first hearing in munich six years before, is in a vastly different case--neither uncouth nor halting, even though it lacks the characteristic fluency essential to italian opera buffa; yet no more than did the speech of most of the singers at the metropolitan performance. the ripple and rattle of the italian parlando seem to be possible only to italian tongues. the mozartian type of music is illustrated not only in the character of many of its melodies, but also in the use of motivi in what may be called the dramatic portions--the fleet flood upon which the dialogue dances with a light buoyancy that is delightfully refreshing. these motivi are not used in the wagnerian manner, but as every change of situation or emotion is characterized in mozart's marvellous ensembles by the introduction of a new musical idea, so they are in his modern disciple's. all of them are finely characteristic, none more so than the comical cackle so often heard from the oboe in the scenes wherein the women gossip about the imaginary doings of the men--an intentional echo, it would almost seem, of the theme out of which rameau made his dainty harpsichord piece known as "la poule." the motto of the club, "bandie xe le done," is frequently proclaimed with more or less pomposity; florindo's "ah, rosaura," with its dramatic descent, lends sentimental feeling to the love music, and the sprightly rhythm which accompanies the pranks of colombina keeps much of the music bubbling with merriment. in the beginning of the third act, not only the instrumental introduction, but much of the delightful music which follows, is permeated with atmosphere and local color derived from a familiar venetian barcarolle ("la biondina in gondoleta"), but the musical loveliness reaches its climax in the sentimental scenes--a quartet, a solo by rosaura, and a duet, in which there breathes the sympathetic spirit of smetana as well as mozart. [footnote: the cast at the first performance at the metropolitan opera house was as follows:- ottavio.................................adamo dfdur beatrice........................... jeanne maubourg rosaura............................geraldine farrar florindo......................... hermann jadlowker pantalone....................... antonio pini-corso lelio............................... antonio scotti leandro................................ angelo bada colombina...............................bella alten eleonora................................rita fornia arlechino....................... andrea de segurola asdrubale........................... pietro audisio almoro.............................. lambert murphy alviso.......................... charles hargreaves lunardo....................... vincenzo reschiglian momolo............................... paolo ananian menego................................ giulio rossi un servitore....................... stefen buckreus conductor--arturo toscanini.] in "le donne curiose," the gondoliers sing their barcarolle and compel even the cynic of the drama to break out into an enthusiastic exclamation: "oh, beautiful venice!" the world has heard more of the natural beauties of naples than of the artificial ones of venice, but when naples is made the scene of a drama of any kind it seems that its attractions for librettist and composer lie in the vulgarity and vice, libertinism and lust, the wickedness and wantonness, of a portion of its people rather than in the loveliness of character which such a place might or ought to inspire. perhaps it was not altogether surprising that when wolf-ferrari turned from venice and "le donne curiose" to "i giojelli della madonna" with naples as a theatre for his drama he should not only change the style of his music, but also revert to the kind of tale which his predecessors in the field seem to have thought appropriate to the place which we have been told all of us should see once and die out of sheer ecstasy over its beauty. but why are only the slums of naples deemed appropriate for dramatic treatment? how many stories of neapolitan life have been told in operas since auber wrote his "la muette di portici" i do not know; doubtless many whose existence ended with the stagione for which they were composed. but it is a singular fact bearing on the present discussion that when the young "veritists" of italy broke loose after the success of mascagni's "cavalleria rusticana" there came almost a universal desire to rush to the neapolitan shambles for subjects. new york has been spared all of these operas which i have described in an earlier chapter of this book, except the delectable "a basso porto" which mr. savage's company gave to us in english sixteen years ago; but never since. whether or not wolf-ferrari got the subject of "i giojelli della madonna" from the sources drawn on by his predecessors, i do not know. i believe that, like leoncavallo, he has said that the story of his opera has a basis of fact. be this as it may, it is certain that the composer called on two versifiers to help him out in making the book of the opera and that the story in its essence is not far removed from that of the french opera "aphrodite," by baron erlanger. in that opera there is a rape of the adornments of a statue of venus; in wolf-ferrari's work of the jewels enriching an effigy of the virgin mary. the story is not as filthy as the other plots rehearsed elsewhere, but in it there is the same striving after sharp ("piquant," some will say) contrasts, the blending of things sacred and profane, the mixture of ecclesiastical music and dances, and--what is most significant--the generous use of the style of melody which came in with ponchielli and his pupils. in "i giojelli della madonna" a young woman discards the love of an honest-hearted man to throw herself, out of sheer wantonness, into the arms of a blackguard dandy. to win her heart through her love of personal adornment the man of faithful mind (the suggestion having come from his rival) does the desperate deed of stealing for her the jewels of the madonna. it is to be assumed that she rewards him for the sacrilegious act, but without turning away from the blackguard, to whom she grants a stolen interview during the time when her true love is committing the crime. but even the vulgar and wicked companions of the dandy, who is a leader among the camorristi, turn from her with horror when they discover the stolen jewels around her neck, and she gives herself to death in the sea. then the poor lover, placing the jewels on the altar, invokes forgiveness, and, seeing it in a ray of light which illumines them, thrusts a dagger into his heart and dies at the feet of the effigy of the goddess whom he had profaned. the story would not take long in the telling were it not tricked out with a multitude of incidents designed to illustrate the popular life of naples during a festival. such things are old, familiar, and unnecessary elements, in many cases not even understood by the audience. but with them signor wolf-ferrari manages to introduce most successfully the atmosphere which he preserves even throughout his tragical moments--the atmosphere of neapolitan life and feeling. the score is saturated with neapolitan folk-song. i say neapolitan rather than italian, because the mixed population of naples has introduced the elements which it would be rash to define as always italian, or even latin. while doing this the composer surrendered himself unreservedly and frankly to other influences. that is one of the things which make him admirable in the estimation of latter-day critics. in "le donne curiose" he is most lovingly frank in his companionship with mozart. in "ii segreto" there is a combination of all the styles that prevailed from mozart to donizetti. in "i giojelli" no attempt seems to have been made by him to avoid comparison with the composer who has made the most successful attempt at giving musical expression to a drama which fifty years ago the most farsighted of critics would have set down as too rapid of movement to admit of adequate musical expression? mascagni and his "cavalleria rusticana," of course. but i am tempted to say that the most marvellous faculty of wolf-ferrari is to do all these things without sacrifice of his individuality. he has gone further. in "la vita nuova" there is again an entirely different man. nothing in his operas seems half so daring as everything in this cantata. how he could produce a feeling of mediaevalism in the setting of dante's sonnets and yet make use of the most modern means of harmonization and orchestration is still a mystery to this reviewer. yet, having done it long ago, he takes up the modern style of italian melody and blends it with the old church song, so that while you are made to think one moment of mascagni, you are set back a couple of centuries by the cadences and harmonies of the hymns which find their way into the merrymakings of the festa. but everything appeals to the ear? nothing offends it, and for that, whatever our philosophical notions, we ought to be grateful to the melodiousness, the euphony, and the rich orchestration of the new opera. [the performances of "i giojelli della madonna" by the chicago-philadelphia opera company, as it was called in chicago, the philadelphia-chicago opera company, as it was called in philadelphia, were conducted by cleofonte campanini and the principal parts were in the hands of carolina white, louisa barat, amadeo bassi, and mario sammarco.] the html version of this text produced by bob frone can be found at <http://www.intac.com/~rfrone/operas/books/oper-books.htm> plain text adaption by andrew sly. a book of operas their histories, their plots, and their music by henry edward krehbiel to lugien wulsin an old friend "old friends are best."--selden. "i love everything that's old,--old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine."--goldsmith. "old wood to burn! old wine to drink! old friends to trust! old authors to read!"--melchior. contents chapter i "il barbiere di siviglia" first performance of italian opera in the united states--production of rossini's opera in rome, london, paris, and new york--thomas phillipps and his english version--miss leesugg and mrs. holman--emanuel garcia and his troupe--malibran--early operas in america--colman's "spanish barber"--other figaro operas--how rossini came to write "il barbiere" --the story of a fiasco--garcia and his spanish song--"segui, o caro" --giorgi-righetti--the plot of the opera--the overture--"ecco ridente in cielo"--"una voce poco fà,"--rossini and patti--the lesson scene and what singers have done with it--grisi, alboni, catalani, bosio, gassier, patti, sembrich, melba, and viardot--an echo of haydn. chapter ii "le nozze di figaro" beaumarchais and his figaro comedies--"le nozze" a sequel to "il barbiere"--mozart and rossini--their operas compared--opposition to beaumarchais's "marriage de figaro"--moral grossness of mozart's opera--a relic of feudalism--humor of the horns--a merry overture --the story of the opera--cherubino,--"non so più cosa son"-benucci and the air "non più andrai"--"voi che sapete"--a marvellous finale--the song to the zephyr--a spanish fandango--"deh vieni non tardar." chapter iii "die zauberflöte" the oldest german opera current in america--beethoven's appreciation of mozart's opera--its teutonism--otto jahn's estimate--papageno, the german punch--emanuel schikaneder--wieland and the original of the story of the opera--how "die zanberflöte" came to be written--the story of "lulu"--mozart and freemasonry--the overture to the opera-the fugue theme and a theme from a sonata by clementi--the opera's play--"o isis und osiris"--"hellish rage" and fiorituri--the song of the two men in armor--goethe and the libretto of "die zauberflöte"-how the opera should be viewed. chapter iv "don giovanni" the oldest italian operas in the american repertory--mozart as an influence--what great composers have said about "don giovanni,"-beethoven--rossini--gounod--wagner--history of the opera--da ponte's pilferings--bertati and gazzaniga's "convitato di pietra"--how the overture to "don giovanni" was written--first performances of the opera in prague, vienna, london, and new york--garcia and da ponte --malibran--english versions of the opera--the spanish tale of don juan tenorio--dramatic versions--the tragical note in the overture --the plot of the opera--gounod on the beautiful in mozart's music --leporello's catalogue--"batti, batti o bel masetto"--the three dances in the first finale--the last scene--mozart quotes from his contemporaries--the original close of the opera. chapter v "fidelio" an opera based on conjugal love--"fidelio," "orfeo," and "alceste"-beethoven a sincere moralist--technical history of "fidelio,"--the subject treated by paër and gaveaux--beethoven's commission--the first performance a failure--a revision by the composer's friends-the second trial--beethoven withdraws his opera--a second revision --the revival of 1814--success at last--first performances in london and new york--the opera enriched by a ballet--plot of "fidelio"-the first duet--the canon quartet--a dramatic trio--milder-hauptmann and the great scena--florestan's air--the trumpet call--the opera's four overtures--their history. chapter vi "faust" the love story in gounod's opera--ancient bondsmen of the devil-zoroaster, democritus, empedocles, apollonius, virgil, albertus magnus, merlin, paracelsus, theophilus of syracuse,--the myth-making capacity--bismarck and the needle-gun--printing, a black art--johann fust of mayence--the veritable faust--testimony of luther and melanchthon--the literary history of dr. faustus--goethe and his predecessors--faust's covenant with mephistopheles--dr. faustus and matrimony--the polish faust--the devil refuses to marry madame twardowska--history of gounod's opera--the first performance-popularity of the opera--first productions in london and new york-the story--marguerite and gretchen--the jewel song--the ballet. chapter vii "mefistofele" music in the mediaeval faust plays--early operas on the subject-meyerbeer and goethe's poem--composers of faust music--beethoven-boito's reverence for goethe's poem--his work as a poet--a man of mixed blood--"mefistofele" a fiasco in milan--the opera revised-boito's early ambitions--disconnected episodes--philosophy of the opera--its scope--use of a typical phrase--the plot--humors of the english translation--music of the prologue--the book of job--boito's metrical schemes--the poodle and the friar--a polish dance in the rhine country--gluck and vestris--the scene on the brocken--the classical sabbath--helen of troy--a union of classic and romantic art--first performance of boito's opera in america, (footnote). chapter viii "la damnation de faust" berlioz's dramatic legend--"a thing of shreds and patches"--turned into an opera by raoul gunsbourg--the composer's "scenes from faust" --history of the composition--the rakoczy march--concert performances in new york--scheme of the work--the dance of the sylphs and the aërial ballet--dance of the will-o'-the-wisps--the ride to hell. chapter ix "la traviata" familiarity with music and its effects--an experience of the author's--prelude to verdi's last act--expressiveness of some melodies--verdi, the dramatist--von bülow and mascagni--how "traviata" came to be written--piave, the librettist--composed simultaneously with "il trovatore,"--failure of "la traviata," --the causes--the style of the music--dr. basevi's view--changes in costuming--the opera succeeds--first performance in new york, --a criticism by w. h. fry--story of the opera--dumas's story and harles dickens--controversy as a help to popular success. chapter x "aïda" popular misconceptions concerning the origin of verdi's opera--the suez canal and cairo opera-house--a pageant opera--local color-the entombment scene--the commission for the opera--the plot and its author, mariette bey--his archaeological discoveries at memphis --camille du locle and antonio ghislanzoni--first performance of the opera--unpleasant experiences in paris--the plot--ancient memphis--oriental melodies and local color--an exotic scale--the antique trumpets and their march. chapter xi "der freischütz" the overture--the plot--a leitmotif before wagner--berlioz and agathe's air--the song of the bridesmaids--wagner and his dying stepfather--the teutonism of the opera--facts from a court record --folklore of the subject--holda, wotan, and the wild hint--how magical bullets may be obtained--wagner's description of the wolf's glen--romanticism and classicism--weber and theodor körner--german opera at dresden--composition of "der freischütz"--first performances in new york, (footnote). chapter xii "tannhäuser" wagner and greek ideals--methods of wagnerian study--the story of the opera--poetical and musical contents of the overture--the bacchanale--the tannhäuser legend--the historical tannhäuser--the contest of minstrels in the wartburg--mediaeval ballads--heroes and their charmers--classical and other parallels--caves of venus-the hörselberg in thuringia--dame holda--the tale of sir adelbert. chapter xiii "tristan und isolde" the old legend of tristram and iseult--its literary history--ancient elements--wagner's ethical changes--how the drama came to be written --frau wesendonck--wagner and dom pedro of brazil--first performances in munich and new york--the prelude--wagner's poetical exposition-the song of the sailor--a symbol of suffering--the death phrase--the shepherd's mournful melody--his merry tune--tristan's death. chapter xiv "parsifal" the story--the oracle--the musical symbol of parsifal--herzeleide-kundry--suffering and lamentation--the bells and march--the eucharistic hymn--the love-feast formula--faith--unveiling of the grail--klingsor's incantation--the flower maidens--the quest of the holy grail--personages and elements of the legend--ethical idea of wagner's drama--biblical and liturgical elements--wagner's aim--the knights templars--john the baptist, herodias, and the bloody head-relics of christ's sufferings--the holy grail at genoa--the sacred lances at nuremberg and rome--ancient and mediaeval parallels of personages, apparatuses, and scenes--wagner's philosophy--buddhism-first performances of "parsifal" in bayreuth and new york, (footnote). chapter xv "die meistersinger von nürnberg" "ridendo castigat mores"--wagner's adherence to classical ideals of tragedy and comedy--the subject of the satire in "die meistersinger" --wagenseil's book on nuremberg--plot of the comedy--the church of st. catherine in nuremberg--a relic of the mastersingers--mastersongs in the municipal library--wagner's chorus of mastersingers, (footnote) --a poem by sixtus beckmesser--the german drama in nuremberg--hans sachs's plays--his tannhäuser tragedy--"tristram and iseult"--"the wittenberg nightingale" and "wach' auf!"--wagner's quotation from an authentic mastersong melody--romanticism and classicism--the prelude to "die meistersinger." chapter xvi "lohengrin" wolfram von eschenbach's story of loherangrin--other sources of the lohengrin legend--"der jüngere titurel" and "le chevalier au cygne" --the plot of wagner's opera--a mixture of myths--relationship of the figaro operas--contradictions between "lohengrin" and "parsifal" --the forbidden question--wagner's love of theatrical effect--the finale of "tannhäuser,"--the law of taboo in "lohengrin"--jupiter and semele--cupid and psyche--the saga of skéaf--king henry, the fowler. chapter xvii "hänsel und gretel" wagner's influence and his successors--engelbert humperdinck--myths and fairy tales--origin of "hänsel und gretel"--first performances-an application of wagnerian principles--the prelude--the prayer theme --the counter-charm--theme of fulfilment--story of the opera--a relic of an old christmas song--theme of the witch--the theme of promise-"ring around a rosy"--the "knusperwalzer." chapter i "il barbiere di siviglia" the history of what is popularly called italian opera begins in the united states with a performance of rossini's lyrical comedy "il barbiere di siviglia"; it may, therefore, fittingly take the first place in these operatic studies. the place was the park theatre, then situated in chambers street, east of broadway, and the date november 29, 1825. it was not the first performance of italian opera music in america, however, nor yet of rossini's merry work. in the early years of the nineteenth century new york was almost as fully abreast of the times in the matter of dramatic entertainments as london. new works produced in the english capital were heard in new york as soon as the ships of that day could bring over the books and the actors. especially was this true of english ballad operas and english transcriptions, or adaptations, of french, german, and italian operas. new york was five months ahead of paris in making the acquaintance of the operatic version of beaumarchais's "barbier de séville." the first performance of rossini's opera took place in rome on february 5, 1816. london heard it in its original form at the king's theatre on march 10, 1818, with garcia, the first count almaviva, in that part. the opera "went off with unbounded applause," says parke (an oboe player, who has left us two volumes of entertaining and instructive memoirs), but it did not win the degree of favor enjoyed by the other operas of rossini then current on the english stage. it dropped out of the repertory of the king's theatre and was not revived until 1822--a year in which the popularity of rossini in the british metropolis may be measured by the fact that all but four of the operas brought forward that year were composed by him. the first parisian representation of the opera took place on october 26, 1819. garcia was again in the cast. by that time, in all likelihood, all of musical new york that could muster up a pucker was already whistling "largo al factotum" and the beginning of "una voce poco fà," for, on may 17, 1819, thomas phillipps had brought an english "barber of seville" forward at a benefit performance for himself at the same park theatre at which more than six years later the garcia company, the first italian opera troupe to visit the new world, performed it in italian on the date already mentioned. at mr. phillipps's performance the beneficiary sang the part of almaviva, and miss leesugg, who afterward became the wife of the comedian hackett, was the rosina. on november 21, 1821, there was another performance for mr. phillipps's benefit, and this time mrs. holman took the part of rosina. phillipps and holman--brave names these in the dramatic annals of new york and london a little less than a century ago! when will european writers on music begin to realize that musical culture in america is not just now in its beginnings? it was manuel garcia's troupe that first performed "il barbiere di siviglia" in new york, and four of the parts in the opera were played by members of his family. manuel, the father, was the count, as he had been at the premières in rome, london, and paris; manuel, son, was the figaro (he lived to read about eighty-one years of operatic enterprise in new york, and died at the age of 101 years in london in 1906); signora garcia, mère, was the berta, and rosina was sung and played by that "cunning pattern of excellent nature," as a writer of the day called her, signorina garcia, afterward the famous malibran. the other performers at this representation of the italian "barber" were signor rosich (dr. bartolo), signor angrisani (don basilio), and signor crivelli, the younger (fiorello). the opera was given twenty-three times in a season of seventy-nine nights, and the receipts ranged from $1843 on the opening night and $1834 on the closing, down to $356 on the twenty-ninth night. but neither phillipps nor garcia was the first to present an operatic version of beaumarchais's comedy to the american people. french operas by rousseau, monsigny, dalayrac, and grétry, which may be said to have composed the staple of the opera-houses of europe in the last decades of the eighteenth century, were known also in the contemporaneous theatres of charleston, baltimore, philadelphia, and new york. in 1794 the last three of these cities enjoyed "an opera in 3 acts," the text by colman, entitled, "the spanish barber; or, the futile precaution." nothing is said in the announcements of this opera touching the authorship of the music, but it seems to be an inevitable conclusion that it was paisiello's, composed for st. petersburg about 1780. there were german "barbers" in existence at the time composed by benda (friedrich ludwig), elsperger, and schulz, but they did not enjoy large popularity in their own country, and isouard's "barbier" was not yet written. paisiello's opera, on the contrary, was extremely popular, throughout europe. true, he called it "the barber of seville," not "the spanish barber," but colman's subtitle, "the futile precaution," came from the original french title. rossini also adopted it and purposely avoided the chief title set by beaumarchais and used by paisiello; but he was not long permitted to have his way. thereby hangs a tale of the composition and first failure of his opera which i must now relate. on december 26, 1815, the first day of the carnival season, rossini produced his opera, "torvaldo e dorliska," at the teatro argentina, in rome, and at the same time signed a contract with cesarini, the impresario of the theatre, to have the first act of a second opera ready on the twentieth day of the following january. for this opera rossini was to receive 400 roman scudi (the equivalent of about $400) after the first three performances, which he was to conduct seated at the pianoforte in the orchestra, as was then the custom. he seems to have agreed to take any libretto submitted by the impresario and approved by the public censor; but there are indications that sterbini, who was to write the libretto, had already suggested a remodelling of paisiello's "barber." in order to expedite the work of composition it was provided in the contract that rossini was to take lodgings with a singer named zamboni, to whom the honor fell of being the original of the town factotum in rossini's opera. some say that rossini completed the score in thirteen days; some in fifteen. castil-blaze says it was a month, but the truth is that the work consumed less than half that period. donizetti, asked if he believed that rossini had really written the score in thirteen days, is reported to have replied, no doubt with a malicious twinkle in his eyes: "it is very possible; he is so lazy." paisiello was still alive, and so was at least the memory of his opera, so rossini, as a precautionary measure, thought it wise to spike, if possible, the guns of an apprehended opposition. so he addressed a letter to the venerable composer, asking leave to make use of the subject. he got permission and then wrote a preface to his libretto (or had serbini write it for him), in which, while flattering his predecessor, he nevertheless contrived to indicate that he considered the opera of that venerable musician old-fashioned, undramatic, and outdated. "beaumarchais's comedy, entitled 'the barber of seville, or the useless precaution,'" he wrote, "is presented at rome in the form of a comic drama under the title of 'almaviva, ossia l'inutile precauzione,' in order that the public may be fully convinced of the sentiments of respect and veneration by which the author of the music of this drama is animated with regard to the celebrated paisiello, who has already treated the subject under its primitive title. himself invited to undertake this difficult task, the maestro gioachino rossini, in order to avoid the reproach of entering rashly into rivalry with the immortal author who preceded him, expressly required that 'the barber of seville' should be entirely versified anew, and also that new situations should be added for the musical pieces which, moreover, are required by the modern theatrical taste, entirely changed since the time when the renowned paisiello wrote his work." i have told the story of the fiasco made by rossini's opera on its first production at the argentine theatre on february 5, 1816, in an extended preface to the vocal score of "il barbiere," published in 1900 by g. schirmer, and a quotation from that preface will serve here quite as well as a paraphrase; so i quote (with an avowal of gratitude for the privilege to the publishers):-paisiello gave his consent to the use of the subject, believing that the opera of his young rival would assuredly fail. at the same time he wrote to a friend in rome, asking him to do all in his power to compass a fiasco for the opera. the young composer's enemies were not sluggish. all the whistlers of italy, says castil-blaze, seemed to have made a rendezvous at the teatro argentina on the night set down for the first production. their malicious intentions were helped along by accidents at the outset of the performance. details of the story have been preserved for us in an account written by signora giorgi-righetti, who sang the part of rosina on the memorable occasion. garcia had persuaded rossini to permit him to sing a spanish song to his own accompaniment on a guitar under rosina's balcony in the first act. it would provide the needed local color, he urged. when about to start his song, garcia found that he had forgotten to tune his guitar. he began to set the pegs in the face of the waiting public. a string broke, and a new one was drawn up amid the titters of the spectators. the song did not please the auditors, who mocked at the singer by humming spanish fiorituri after him. boisterous laughter broke out when figaro came on the stage also with a guitar, and "largo al factotum" was lost in the din. another howl of delighted derision went up when rosina's voice was heard singing within: "segui o caro, deh segui così" ("continue, my dear, continue thus"). the audience continued "thus." the representative of rosina was popular, but the fact that she was first heard in a trifling phrase instead of an aria caused disappointment. the duet, between almaviva and figaro, was sung amid hisses, shrieks, and shouts. the cavatina "una voce poco fà" got a triple round of applause, however, and rossini, interpreting the fact as a compliment to the personality of the singer rather than to the music, after bowing to the public, exclaimed: "oh natura!" "thank her," retorted giorgi-righetti; "but for her you would not have had occasion to rise from your choir." the turmoil began again with the next duet, and the finale was mere dumb show. when the curtain fell, rossini faced the mob, shrugged his shoulders, and clapped his hands to show his contempt. only the musicians and singers heard the second act, the din being incessant from beginning to end. rossini remained imperturbable, and when giorgi-rhigetti, garcia, and zamboni hastened to his lodgings to offer their condolences as soon as they could don street attire, they found him asleep. the next day he wrote the cavatina "ecco ridente in cielo" to take the place of garcia's unlucky spanish song, borrowing the air from his own "aureliano," composed two years before, into which it had been incorporated from "ciro," a still earlier work. when night came, he feigned illness so as to escape the task of conducting. by that time his enemies had worn themselves out. the music was heard amid loud plaudits, and in a week the opera had scored a tremendous success. and now for the dramatic and musical contents of "il barbiere." at the very outset rossini opens the door for us to take a glimpse at the changes in musical manner which were wrought by time. he had faulted paisiello's opera because in parts it had become antiquated, for which reason he had had new situations introduced to meet the "modern theatrical taste"; but he lived fifty years after "il barbiere" had conquered the world, and never took the trouble to write an overture for it, the one originally composed for the opera having been lost soon after the first production. the overture which leads us into the opera nowadays is all very well in its way and a striking example of how a piece of music may benefit from fortuitous circumstances. persons with fantastic imaginations have rhapsodized on its appositeness, and professed to hear in it the whispered plottings of the lovers and the merry raillery of rosina, contrasted with the futile ragings of her grouty guardian; but when rossini composed this piece of music, its mission was to introduce an adventure of the emperor aurelian in palmyra in the third century of the christian era. having served that purpose, it became the prelude to another opera which dealt with queen elizabeth of england, a monarch who reigned some twelve hundred years after aurelian. again, before the melody now known as that of almaviva's cavatina (which supplanted garcia's unlucky spanish song) had burst into the efflorescence which now distinguishes it, it came as a chorus from the mouths of cyrus and his persians in ancient babylon. truly, the verities of time and place sat lightly on the italian opera composers of a hundred years ago. but the serenade which follows the rising of the curtain preserves a custom more general at the time of beaumarchais than now, though it is not yet obsolete. dr. bartolo, who is guardian of the fascinating rosina, is in love with her, or at least wishes for reasons not entirely dissociated from her money bags to make her his wife, and therefore keeps her most of the time behind bolts and bars. the count almaviva, however, has seen her on a visit from his estates to seville, becomes enamoured of her, and she has felt her heart warmed toward him, though she is ignorant of his rank and knows him only under the name of lindoro. hoping that it may bring him an opportunity for a glance, mayhap a word with his inamorata, amaviva follows the advice given by sir proteus to thurio in "the two gentlemen of verona"; he visits his lady's chamber window, not at night, but at early dawn, with a "sweet concert," and to the instruments of fiorello's musicians tunes "a deploring dump." it is the cavatina "ecco ridente in cielo." the musicians, rewarded by almaviva beyond expectations, are profuse and long-winded in their expression of gratitude, and are gotten rid of with difficulty. the count has not yet had a glimpse of rosina, who is in the habit of breathing the morning air from the balcony of her prison house, and is about to despair when figaro, barber and seville's factotum, appears trolling a song in which he recites his accomplishments, the universality of his employments, and the great demand for his services. ("largo al factotum dello città.") the count recognizes him, tells of his vain vigils in front of rosina's balcony, and, so soon as he learns that figaro is a sort of man of all work to bartolo, employs him as his go-between. rosina now appears on the balcony. almaviva is about to engage her in conversation when bartolo appears and discovers a billet-doux which rosina had intended to drop into the hand of her lindoro. he demands to see it, but she explains that it is but a copy of the words of an aria from an opera entitled "the futile precaution," and drops it from the balcony, as if by accident. she sends bartolo to recover it, but almaviva, who had observed the device, secures it, and bartolo is told by his crafty ward that the wind must have carried it away. growing suspicious, he commands her into the house and goes away to hasten the preparations for his wedding, after giving orders that no one is to be admitted to the house save don basilio, rosina's singing-master, and bartolo's messenger and general mischief-maker. the letter which rosina had thus slyly conveyed to her unknown lover begged him to contrive means to let her know his name, condition, and intentions respecting herself. figaro, taking the case in hand at once, suggests that almaviva publish his answer in a ballad. this the count does ("se il mio nome saper"), protesting the honesty and ardor of his passion, but still concealing his name and station. he is delighted to hear his lady-love's voice bidding him to continue his song. (it is the phrase, "segui, o caro, deh segui così," which sounded so monstrously diverting at the first representation of the opera in rome.) after the second stanza rosina essays a longer response, but is interrupted by some of the inmates of the house. figaro now confides to the count a scheme by which he is to meet his fair enslaver face to face: he is to assume the rôle of a drunken soldier who has been billeted upon dr. bartolo, a plan that is favored by the fact that a company of soldiers has come to seville that very day which is under the command of the count's cousin. the plan is promptly put into execution. not long after, rosina enters dr. bartolo's library singing the famous cavatina, "una voce poco fà," in which she tells of her love for lindoro and proclaims her determination to have her own way in the matter of her heart, in spite of all that her tyrannical guardian or anybody else can do. this cavatina has been the show piece of hundreds of singers ever since it was written. signora giorgi-righetti, the first rosina, was a contralto, and sang the music in the key of e, in which it was written. when it became one of jenny lind's display airs, it was transposed to f and tricked out with a great abundance of fiorituri. adelina patti in her youth used so to overburden its already florid measures with ornament that the story goes that once when she sang it for rossini, the old master dryly remarked: "a very pretty air; who composed it?" figaro enters at the conclusion of rosina's song, and the two are about to exchange confidences when bartolo enters with basilio, who confides to the old doctor his suspicion that the unknown lover of rosina is the count almaviva, and suggests that the latter's presence in seville be made irksome by a few adroitly spread innuendoes against his character. how a calumny, ingeniously published, may grow from a whispered zephyr to a crashing, detonating tempest, basilio describes in the buffo air "la calunnia"--a marvellous example of the device of crescendo which in this form is one of rossini's inventions. bartolo prefers his own plan of compelling his ward to marry him at once. he goes with basilio to draw up a marriage agreement, and figaro, who has overheard their talk, acquaints rosina with its purport. he also tells her that she shall soon see her lover face to face if she will but send him a line by his hands. thus he secures a letter from her, but learns that the artful minx had written it before he entered. her ink-stained fingers, the disappearance of a sheet of paper from his writing desk, and the condition of his quill pen convince bartolo on his return that he is being deceived, and he resolves that henceforth his ward shall be more closely confined than ever. and so he informs her, while she mimics his angry gestures behind his back. in another moment there is a boisterous knocking and shouting at the door, and in comes almaviva, disguised as a cavalry soldier most obviously in his cups. he manages to make himself known to rosina, and exchanges letters with her under the very nose of her jailer, affects a fury toward dr. bartolo when the latter claims exemption from the billet, and escapes arrest only by secretly making himself known to the officer commanding the soldiers who had been drawn into the house by the disturbance. the sudden and inexplicable change of conduct on the part of the soldiers petrifies bartolo; he is literally "astonied," and figaro makes him the victim of several laughable pranks before he recovers his wits. dr. bartolo's suspicions have been aroused about the soldier, concerning whose identity he makes vain inquiries, but he does not hesitate to admit to his library a seeming music-master who announces himself as don alonzo, come to act as substitute for don basilio, who, he says, is ill. of course it is almaviva. soon the ill-natured guardian grows impatient of his garrulity, and almaviva, to allay his suspicions and gain a sight of his inamorata, gives him a letter written by rosina to lindoro, which he says he had found in the count's lodgings. if he can but see the lady, he hopes by means of the letter to convince her of lindoro's faithlessness. this device, though it disturbs its inventor, is successful, and bartolo brings in his ward to receive her music lesson. here, according to tradition, there stood in the original score a trio which was lost with the overture. very welcome has this loss appeared to the rosinas of a later day, for it has enabled them to introduce into the "lesson scene" music of their own choice, and, of course, such as showed their voices and art to the best advantage. very amusing have been the anachronisms which have resulted from these illustrations of artistic vanity, and diverting are the glimpses which they give of the tastes and sensibilities of great prime donne. grisi and alboni, stimulated by the example of catalani (though not in this opera), could think of nothing nobler than to display their skill by singing rode's air and variations, a violin piece. this grew hackneyed, but, nevertheless, survived till a comparatively late day. bosio, feeling that variations were necessary, threw rode's over in favor of those on "gia della mente involarmi"--a polka tune from alary's "a tre nozze." then mme. gassier ushered in the day of the vocal waltz--venzano's, of amiable memory. her followers have not yet died out, though patti substituted arditi's "il bacio" for venzano's; mme. sembrich, strauss's "voce di primavera," and mme. melba, arditi's "se saran rose." mme. viardot, with a finer sense of the fitness of things, but either forgetful or not apprehensive of the fate which befell her father at the first performance of the opera in rome, introduced a spanish song. mme. patti always kept a ready repertory for the scene, with a song in the vernacular of the people for whom she was singing to bring the enthusiasm to a climax and a finish: "home, sweet home" in new york and london, "solovei" in st. petersburg. usually she began with the bolero from "les vêpres siciliennes," or the shadow dance from "dinorah." mme. seinbrich, living in a period when the style of song of which she and mme. melba are still the brightest exemplars, is not as familiar as it used to be when they were children, also found it necessary to have an extended list of pieces ready at hand to satisfy the rapacious public. she was wont at first to sing proch's air and variations, but that always led to a demand for more, and whether she supplemented it with "ah! non giunge," from "la sonnambula," the bolero from "the sicilian vespers," "o luce di quest anima," from "linda," or the vocalized waltz by strauss, the applause always was riotous, and so remained until she sat down to the pianoforte and sang chopin's "maiden's wish," in polish, to her own accompaniment. as for mme. melba, not to be set in the shade simply because mme. sembrich is almost as good a pianist as she is a singer, she supplements arditi's waltz or massenet's "sevillana" with tosti's "mattinata," to which she also plays an exquisite accompaniment. but this is a long digression; i must back to my intriguing lovers, who have made good use of the lesson scene to repeat their protestations of affection and lay plots for attaining their happiness. in this they are helped by figaro, who comes to shave dr. bartolo in spite of his protests, and, contriving to get hold of the latter's keys, "conveys" the one which opens the balcony lock, and thus makes possible a plan for a midnight elopement. in the midst of the lesson the real basilio comes to meet his appointment, and there is a moment of confusion for the plotters, out of which figaro extricates them by persuading basilio that he is sick of a raging fever, and must go instantly home, almaviva adding a convincing argument in the shape of a generously lined purse. nevertheless, basilio afterwards betrays the count to bartolo, who commands him to bring a notary to the house that very night so that he may sign the marriage contract with rosina. in the midst of a tempest figaro and the count let themselves into the house at midnight to carry off rosina, but find her in a whimsy, her mind having been poisoned against her lover by bartolo with the aid of the unfortunate letter. out of this dilemma almaviva extricates himself by confessing his identity, and the pair are about to steal away when the discovery is made that the ladder to the balcony has been carried away. as they are tiptoeing toward the window, the three sing a trio in which there is such obvious use of a melodic phrase which belongs to haydn that every writer on "il barbiere" seems to have thought it his duty to point out an instance of "plagiarism" on the part of rossini. it is a trifling matter. the trio begins thus:-[musical excerpt--"ziti, ziti, piano, piano, non facciamo confusionne"] which is a slightly varied form of four measures from simon's song in the first part of "the seasons":-[musical excerpt--"with eagerness the husbandman his tilling work begins."] with these four measures the likeness begins and ends. a venial offence, if it be an offence at all. composers were not held to so strict and scrupulous an accountability touching melodic meum and tuum a century ago as they are now; yet there was then a thousand-fold more melodic inventiveness. another case of "conveyance" by rossini has also been pointed out; the air of the duenna in the third act beginning "il vecchiotto cerca moglie" is said to be that of a song which rossini heard a russian lady sing in rome. i have searched much in russian song literature and failed to find the alleged original. to finish the story: the notary summoned by bartolo arrives on the scene, but is persuaded by figaro to draw up an attestation of a marriage agreement between count almaviva and rosina, and bartolo, finding at the last that all his precautions have been in vain, comforted not a little by the gift of his ward's dower, which the count relinquishes, gives his blessing to the lovers. i have told the story of "il barbiere di siviglia" as it appears in the book. it has grown to be the custom to omit in performance several of the incidents which are essential to the development and understanding of the plot. some day--soon, it is to be hoped--managers, singers, and public will awake to a realization that, even in the old operas in which beautiful singing is supposed to be the be-all and end-all, the action ought to be kept coherent. in that happy day rossini's effervescent lyrical arrangement of beaumarchais's vivacious comedy will be restored to its rights. chapter ii "le nozze di figaro" beaumarchais wrote a trilogy of figaro comedies, and if the tastes and methods of a century or so ago had been like those of the present, we might have had also a trilogy of figaro operas--"le barbier de seville," "le mariage de figaro," and "la mère coupable." as it is, we have operatic versions of the first two of the comedies, mozart's "nozze di figaro" being a sequel to rossini's "il barbiere," its action beginning at a period not long after the precautions of dr. bartolo had been rendered inutile by figaro's cunning schemes and almaviva had installed rosina as his countess. "le nozze" was composed a whole generation before rossini's opera. mozart and his public could keep the sequence of incidents in view, however, from the fact that paisiello had acquainted them with the beginning of the story. paisiello's opera is dead, but rossini's is very much alive, and it might prove interesting, some day, to have the two living operas brought together in performance in order to note the effect produced upon each other by comparison of their scores. one effect, i fancy, would be to make the elder of the operas sound younger than its companion, because of the greater variety and freshness, as well as dramatic vigor, of its music. but though the names of many of the characters would be the same, we should scarcely recognize their musical physiognomies. we should find the sprightly rosina of "il barbiere" changed into a mature lady with a countenance sicklied o'er with the pale cast of a gentle melancholy; the count's tenor would, in the short interval, have changed into barytone; figaro's barytone into a bass, while the buffo-bass of don basilio would have reversed the process with age and gone upward into the tenor region. we should meet with some new characters, of which two at least would supply the element of dramatic freshness and vivacity which we should miss from the company of the first opera--susanna and cherubino. we should also, in all likelihood, be struck by the difference in the moral atmosphere of the two works. it took beaumarchais three years to secure a public performance of his "mariage de figaro" because of the opposition of the french court, with louis xvi at its head, to its too frank libertinism. this opposition spread also to other royal and imperial personages, who did not relish the manner in which the poet had castigated the nobility, exalted the intellectuality of menials, and satirized the social and political conditions which were generally prevalent a short time before the french revolution. neither of the operas, however, met the obstacles which blocked the progress of the comedies on which they are founded, because da ponte, who wrote the book for mozart, and sterbini, who was rossini's librettist, judiciously and deftly elided the objectionable political element. "le nozze" is by far the more ingeniously constructed play of the two (though a trifle too involved for popular comprehension in the original language), but "il barbiere" has the advantage of freedom from the moral grossness which pollutes its companion. for the unspoiled taste of the better class of opera patrons, there is a livelier as well as a lovelier charm in the story of almaviva's adventures while outwitting dr. bartolo and carrying off the winsome rosina to be his countess than in the depiction of his amatory intrigues after marriage. in fact, there is something especially repellent in the count's lustful pursuit of the bride of the man to whose intellectual resourcefulness he owed the successful outcome of his own wooing. it is, indeed, a fortunate thing for mozart's music that so few opera-goers understand italian nowadays. the play is a moral blister, and the less intelligible it is made by excisions in its dialogue, the better, in one respect, for the virtuous sensibilities of its auditors. one point which can be sacrificed without detriment to the music and at only a trifling cost to the comedy (even when it is looked upon from the viewpoint which prevailed in europe at the period of its creation) is that which beaumarchais relied on chiefly to add piquancy to the conduct of the count. almaviva, we are given to understand, on his marriage with rosina had voluntarily abandoned an ancient seignorial right, described by susanna as "certe mezz' ore che il diritto feudale," but is desirous of reviving the practice in the case of the countess's bewitching maid on the eve of her marriage to his valet. it is this discovery which induces figaro to invent his scheme for expediting the wedding, and lends a touch of humor to the scene in which figaro asks that he and his bride enjoy the first-fruits of the reform while the villagers lustily hymn the merits of their "virtuous" lord; but the too frank discussion of the subject with which the dialogue teems might easily be avoided. the opera, like all the old works of the lyrical stage, is in sad need of intelligent revision and thorough study, so that its dramatic as well as its musical beauties may be preserved. there is no lovelier merit in mozart's music than the depth and tenderness with which the honest love of susanna for figaro and the countess for her lord are published; and it is no demerit that the volatile passion of the adolescent cherubino and the frolicsome, scintillant, vivacious spirit of the plotters are also given voice. mozart's music could not be all that it is if it did not enter fully and unreservedly into the spirit of the comedy; it is what it is because whenever the opportunity presented itself, he raised it into the realm of the ideal. yet mozart was no puritan. he swam along gayly and contentedly on the careless current of life as it was lived in vienna and elsewhere in the closing decades of the eighteenth century, and was not averse, merely for the fun of the thing, to go even a step beyond his librettist when the chance offered. here is an instance in point: the plotters have been working a little at cross-purposes, each seeking his own advantages, and their plans are about to be put to the test when figaro temporarily loses confidence in the honesty of susanna. with his trust in her falls to the ground his faith in all woman-kind. he rails against the whole sex in the air, beginning: "aprite un po' quegl' occhi?" in the last act. enumerating the moral blemishes of women, he at length seems to be fairly choked by his own spleen, and bursts out at the end with "il resto nol dico, gia ognuno lo sa" ("the rest i'll not tell you--everybody knows it"). the orchestra stops, all but the horns, which with the phrase [musical excerpt] aided by a traditional gesture (the singer's forefingers pointing upward from his forehead), complete his meaning. it is a pity that the air is often omitted, for it is eloquent in the exposition of the spirit of the comedy. the merriest of opera overtures introduces "le nozze di figaro," and puts the listener at once into a frolicsome mood. it seems to be the most careless of little pieces, drawing none of its material from the music of the play, making light of some of the formulas which demanded respect at the time (there is no free fantasia), laughing and singing its innocent life out in less than five minutes as if it were breathing an atmosphere of pure oxygen. it romps; it does not reflect or feel. motion is its business, not emotion. it has no concern with the deep and gentle feelings of the play, but only with its frolic. the spirit of playful torment, the disposition of a pretty tease, speaks out of its second subject:-[musical excerpt] and one may, if one wishes, hear the voice of only half-serious admonition in the phrase of the basses, which the violins echo as if in mockery:-[musical excerpt] but, on the whole, the overture does not ask for analysis or interpretation; it is satisfied to express untrammelled joy in existence. the curtain is withdrawn, and we discover the lovers preparing for their wedding. figaro is taking the dimensions of a room, and the first motive of a duet illustrates his measured paces; susanna is trimming a hat, and her happiness and her complacent satisfaction with her handiwork are published in the second motive, whose innocent joy explodes in scintillant semi-quavers in the fiddles at the third measure. his labors ended, figaro joins susanna in her utterances of joy. but there is a fly in the ointment, why has figaro been so busily measuring the room? to test its fitness as their chamber, for the count has assigned it to them, though it is one of the best rooms in the palace. he points out its convenient location (duet: "se a caso madama"); so near the room of the countess that her maid can easily answer the "din din" of her bell, and near enough to the room of the count that his "don don" would never sound in vain should he wish to send his valet on an errand. altogether too convenient, explains susanna; some fine day the count's "don don" might mean a three-mile journey for the valet, and then the devil would fetch the dear count to her side in three paces. has he not been making love violently to her for a space, sending don basilio to give her singing lessons and to urge her to accept his suit? did figaro imagine it was because of his own pretty face that the count had promised her so handsome a dowry? figaro had pressed such a flattering unction to his soul, but now recalls, with not a little jealous perturbation, that the count had planned to take him with him to london, where he was to go on a mission of state: "he as ambassador, figaro as a courier, and susanna as ambassadress in secret. is that your game, my lord? then i'll set the pace for your dancing with my guitar" (cavatina: "se vuol ballare"). almaviva's obedient valet disappears, and presto! in his place we see our old friend, the cunning, resourceful barber and town factotum of the earlier days, who shall hatch out a plot to confound his master and shield his love from persecution. first of all he must hasten the wedding. he sets about this at once, but all unconscious of the fact that dr. bartolo has never forgiven nor forgotten the part he played in robbing him of his ward rosina. he comes now to let us know that he is seeking revenge against figaro and at the same time, as he hopes, rid himself of his old housekeeper, marcellina, to whom he is bound by an obligation that is becoming irksome. the old duenna has been casting amatory glances in figaro's direction, and has a hold on him in the shape of a written obligation to marry her in default of repayment of a sum of money borrowed in a time of need. she enlists bartolo as adviser, and he agrees to lay the matter before the count. somewhat early, but naturally enough in the case of the conceited dotard, he gloats over his vengeance, which seems as good as accomplished, and celebrates his triumph in an air ("la vendetta!"). as she is about to leave the room, marcellina meets susanna, and the two make a forced effort to conceal their mutual hatred and jealousy in an amusing duettino ("via resti servita, madama brillante!"), full of satirical compliments and curtsies. marcellina is bowed out of the room with extravagant politeness, and susanna turns her attention to her mistress's wardrobe, only to be interrupted by the entrance of cherubino, the count's page. though a mere stripling, cherubino is already a budding voluptuary, animated with a wish, something like that of byron's hero, that all woman-kind had but a single mouth and he the privilege of kissing it. he adores the countess; but not her alone. susanna has a ribbon in her hand with which, she tells him, she binds up her mistress's tresses at night. happy susanna! happy ribbon! cherubino seizes it, refuses to give it up, and offers in exchange his latest ballad. "what shall i do with the song?" asks susanna. "sing it to the countess! sing it yourself! sing it to barbarina, to marcellina, to all the ladies in the palace!" he tells susanna (air: "non so più cosa son") of the torments which he endures. the lad's mind is, indeed, in a parlous state; he feels his body alternately burning and freezing; the mere sight of a maiden sends the blood to his cheeks, and he needs must sigh whenever he hears her voice; sleeping and waking, by lakeside, in the shadow of the woods, on the mountain, by stream and fountain, his thoughts are only of love and its sweet pains. it is quite impossible to describe the eloquence with which mozart's music expresses the feverish unrest, the turmoil, and the longing which fill the lad's soul. otto jahn has attempted it, and i shall quote his effort:-the vibration of sentiment, never amounting to actual passion, the mingled anguish and delight of the longing which can never be satisfied, are expressed with a power of beauty raising them out of the domain of mere sensuality. very remarkable is the simplicity of the means by which this extraordinary effect is attained. a violin accompaniment passage, not unusual in itself, keeps up the restless movement; the harmonies make no striking progressions; strong emphasis and accents are sparingly used, and yet the soft flow of the music is made suggestive of the consuming glow of passion. the instrumentation is here of a very peculiar effect and quite a novel coloring; the stringed instruments are muted, and clarinets occur for the first time, and very prominently, both alone and in combination with the horns and bassoons. cherubino's philandering with susanna is interrupted by the count, who comes with protestations of love, which the page hears from a hiding-place behind a large arm-chair, where susanna, in her embarrassment, had hastily concealed him on the count's entrance. the count's philandering, in turn, is interrupted by basilio, whose voice is heard long enough before his entrance to permit the count also to seek a hiding-place. he, too, gets behind the chair, while cherubino, screened by susanna's skirts, ensconces himself in the seat, and finds cover under one of the countess's gowns which susanna hurriedly throws over him. don basilio comes in search of the count, but promptly begins his pleas in behalf of his master. receiving nothing but indignant rejoinders, he twits susanna with loving the lad, and more than intimates that cherubino is in love with the countess. why else does he devour her with his eyes when serving her at table? and had he not composed a canzonetta for her? far be it from him, however, to add a word to what "everybody says." "everybody says what?" demands the count, discovering himself. a trio follows ("cosa sento!") the count, though in a rage, preserves a dignified behavior and orders the instant dismissal of the page from the palace. susanna is overwhelmed with confusion, and plainly betrays her agitation. she swoons, and her companions are about to place her in the arm-chair when she realizes a danger and recovers consciousness. don basilio cringes before the count, but is maliciously delighted at the turn which affairs have taken. the count is stern. cherubino had once before incurred his displeasure by poaching in his preserves. he had visited barbarina, the pretty daughter of his gardener, and found the door bolted. the maid appeared confused, and he, seeking an explanation, drew the cover from the table and found the page hiding under. he illustrates his action by lifting the gown thrown over the chair, and there is the page again! this, then, is the reason of susanna's seeming prudery--the page, her lover! he accuses susanna, who asserts her innocence, and truthfully says that cherubino had come to ask her to procure the countess's intercession in his behalf, when his entrance had thrown them both into such confusion that cherubino had concealed himself. where? behind the arm-chair. but the count himself had hidden there. true, but a moment before the page had slipped around and into the chair. then he had heard all that the count had said to susanna? cherubino says he had tried his best not to overhear anything. figaro is sent for and enters with the villagers, who hymn the virtues of their lord. to the count's question as to the meaning of the demonstration, figaro explains that it is an expression of their gratitude for the count's surrender of seignorial rights, and that his subjects wish him to celebrate the occasion by bestowing the hand of susanna on figaro at once and himself placing the bridal veil upon her brow. the count sees through figaro's trick, but believing it will be frustrated by marcellina's appeal, he promises to honor the bride, as requested, in due season. cherubino has begged for the count's forgiveness, and susanna has urged his youth in extenuation of his fault. reminded that the lad knows of his pursuit of susanna, the count modifies his sentence of dismissal from his service to banishment to seville as an officer in his regiment. figaro playfully inducts him into the new existence. the air "non più andrai," in which this is done, is in vigorous march rhythm. benucci, the original figaro in vienna, had a superbly sonorous voice, and michael kelly, the english tenor (who sang the two rôles of don basilio and don curzio), tells us how thrillingly he sang the song at the first rehearsal with the full band. mozart was on the stage in a crimson pelisse and cocked hat trimmed with gold lace, giving the time to the orchestra. figaro gave the song with the greatest animation and power of voice. "i was standing close to mozart," says kelly, "who, sotto voce, was repeating: 'bravo, bravo, benucci!' and when benucci came to the fine passage, 'cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar,' which he gave out with stentorian lungs, the effect was electricity itself, for the whole of the performers on the stage, and those in the orchestra, as if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated: 'bravo, bravo, maestro! viva, viva, grande mozart!' those in the orchestra i thought would never have ceased applauding by beating the bows of their violins against the music desks. the little man acknowledged by repeated obeisances his thanks for the distinguished mark of enthusiastic applause bestowed upon him." this ends the first act. at the opening of the second the countess asks our sympathy because of the unhappiness caused by her errant husband. (cavatina: "porgi amor.") she prays the god of love to restore her to his affections. susanna entering, the countess asks her to continue her tale of the count's pursuit of her. there is nothing to add, says the maid; the count wooed as noblemen woo women of her class--with money. figaro appears to tell that the count is aiding marcellina in her scheme and of the trick which he has devised to circumvent him. he had sent basilio to his lordship with a letter warning him that the countess had made an appointment to meet a lover at the ball to be given in the evening. this would fan the fires of his jealousy and so enrage him that he would forget his designs against susanna until she was safely married, when he would discover that he had been outwitted. in the meantime, while he is reflecting on the fact that two could play at the game, susanna is to apprise the count that she will meet him in the garden in the evening. cherubino, whose departure to seville had been delayed for the purpose, is to meet the count disguised as susanna, and the countess, appearing on the scene, is to unmask him. the count is supposed to have gone a-hunting, and the plotters have two hours for preparation. figaro leaves them to find cherubino, that he may be put into petticoats. when the page comes, the countess first insists on hearing the song which he had given to susanna, and cherubino, stammering and blushing at first, sings it to susanna's guitar. (canzone: "voi che sapete.") again i call upon otto jahn for a description of the music. "cherubino is not here directly expressing his feelings; he is depicting them in a romance, and he is in the presence of the countess, toward whom he glances with all the bashfulness of boyish passion. the song is in ballad form, to suit the situation, the voice executing the clear, lovely melody, while the stringed instruments carry on a simple accompaniment pizzicato, to imitate the guitar: this delicate outline is, however, shaded and animated in a wonderful degree by solo wind instruments. without being absolutely necessary for the progress of the melodies and the completeness of the harmonies, they supply the delicate touches of detail, reading between the lines of the romance, as it were, what is passing in the heart of the singer. we know not whether to admire most the gracefulness of the melodies, the delicacy of the disposition of the parts, the charm of the tone coloring, or the tenderness of the expression--the whole is of entrancing beauty." susanna finds that she and cherubino are of the same height, and begins to array him in garments belonging to her, first locking the door against possible intruders. the countess views the adventure with some misgivings at first, but, after all, cherubino is a mere boy, and she rejoices him with approval of his songs, and smiles upon him till he is deliriously happy. basilio has given him his commission in the count's regiment, and the countess discovers that it lacks a seal to secure which would cause a longer and desired delay. while susanna is playing the rôle of dressing-maid to cherubino, and instructing him in a ladylike bearing, the count raps for admission to the room. figaro's decoy letter caused him uneasiness, and he had abandoned the hunt. cherubino hurries into the chamber, and the countess turns the key upon him before admitting his lordship, who enters in an ill-humor which is soon turned into jealous rage. cherubino has awkwardly overturned a chair in the chamber, and though the countess explains that susanna is within, she refuses to open the door, on the plea that her maid is making her toilet. the count goes for tools to break open the door, taking the countess with him. susanna, who has heard all from an alcove, hastens to cherubino's rescue, who escapes by leaping from the window of the countess's apartment into the garden below. susanna takes his place in the chamber. then begins the most marvellously ingenious and beautiful finale in the whole literature of opera. fast upon each other follow no fewer than eight independent pieces of music, each a perfect delineation of the quickly changing moods and situations of the comedy, yet each built up on the lines of musical symmetry, and developing a musical theme which, though it passes from mouth to mouth, appears each time to belong peculiarly to the person uttering it. the countess throws herself upon the mercy of the count, confesses that cherubino, suspiciously garbed, is in the chamber, but pleads for his life and protests her innocence of wrong. she gives the key to her enraged husband, who draws his sword, unlocks the door, and commands the page to stand forth. susanna confronts the pair with grave unconsciousness upon her features. the countess is no less amazed than her lord. the count goes into the chamber to search for the page, giving susanna a chance to explain, and the nimble-witted women are ready for him when he comes back confused, confounded, and ready to ask forgiveness of his wife, who becomes tearful and accusing, telling him at length that the story of the page's presence was all an invention to test him. but the letter giving word of the assignation? written by figaro. he then shall be punished. forgiveness is deserved only by those willing to forgive. all is well, and the countess gives her hand to be kissed by her lord. enters figaro with joyous music to announce that all's ready for the wedding; trumpets sounding, pipes tootling, peasants singing and dancing. the count throws a damper upon his exuberant spirits. how about that letter? in spite of the efforts of the countess and susanna to make him confess its authorship, figaro stoutly insists that he knows nothing of it. the count summons marcellina, but before she arrives, the drunken gardener antonio appears to tell the count that some one had leaped out of the salon window and damaged his plants and pots. confusion overwhelms the women. but figaro's wits are at work. he laughs loudly and accuses antonio of being too tipsy to know what had happened. the gardener sticks to his story and is about to describe the man who came like a bolt from the window, when figaro says it was he made the leap. he was waiting in the salon to see susanna, he explains, when he heard the count's footsteps, and, fearing to meet him because of the decoy letter, he had jumped from the window and got a sprained ankle, which he offers in evidence. the orchestra changes key and tempo, and begins a new inquisition with pitiless reiteration:-[musical excerpt] antonio produces cherubino's commission, "these, then, are your papers?" the count takes the commission, opens it, and the countess recognizes it. with whispers and signs the women let figaro know what it is, and he is ready with the explanation that the page had left the paper with him. why? it lacked--the women come again to his rescue--it lacked the seal. the count tears up the paper in his rage at being foiled again. but his allies are at hand, in the persons of marcellina, bartolo, and basilio, who appear with the accusing contract, signed by figaro. the count takes the case under advisement, and the act ends with figaro's enemies sure of triumph and his friends dismayed. the third act plays in a large hall of the palace decorated for the wedding. in a duet ("crudel! perche finora") the count renews his addresses to susanna. she, to help along the plot to unmask him, consents to meet him in the garden. a wonderful grace rests upon the music of the duet, which mozart's genius makes more illuminative than the words. is it susanna's native candor, or goodness, or mischievousness, or her embarrassment which prompts her to answer "yes" when "no" was expected and "no" when the count had already received an affirmative? we can think as we please; the musical effect is delicious. figaro's coming interrupts further conversation, and as susanna leaves the room with her, she drops a remark to figaro, which the count overhears: "hush! we have won our case without a lawyer." what does it mean? treachery, of course. possibly marcellina's silence has been purchased. but whence the money? the count's amour propre is deeply wounded at the thought that his menials should outwit him and he fail of his conquest. he swears that he will be avenged upon both. apparently he has not long to wait, for marcellina, don curzio, and bartolo enter, followed by figaro. don curzio announces the decision of the court in the duenna's suit against figaro. he must pay or marry, according to the bond. but figaro refuses to abide by the decision. he is a gentleman by birth, as proved by the jewels and costly clothing found upon him when he was recovered from some robbers who stole him when a babe, and he must have the consent of his parents. he has diligently sought them and will prove his identity by a mark upon his arm. "a spatula on the right elbow?" anxiously inquires marcellina. "yes." and now bartolo and the duenna, who a moment ago would fain have made him an oedipus, recognize in figaro their own son, born out of wedlock. he rushes to their arms and is found embracing his mother most tenderly by susanna, who comes with a purse to repay the loan. she flies into a passion and boxes figaro's ears before the situation is explained, and she is made as happy by the unexpected dénouement as the count and don curzio are miserable. bartolo resolves that there shall be a double wedding; he will do tardy justice to marcellina. now we see the countess again in her lamentable mood, mourning the loss of her husband's love. (aria: "dove sono.") susanna comes to tell of her appointment with the count. the place, "in the garden," seems to be lacking in clearness, and the countess proposes that it be made more definite and certain (as the lawyers say), by means of a letter which shall take the form of a "song to the zephyr." this is the occasion of the exquisite duet which was surely in the mind of the composer's father when, writing to his daughter from vienna after the third performance of the opera, he said: "one little duet had to be sung three times." was there ever such exquisite dictation and transcription? can any one say, after hearing this "canzonetta sull' aria," that it is unnatural to melodize conversation? with what gracious tact the orchestra gives time to susanna to set down the words of her mistress! how perfect is the musical reproduction of inquiry and repetition when a phrase escapes the memory of the writer! [musical excerpt--susanna: "sotto i pini?" conte: "sotto i pini del boschetto."] the letter is written, read over phrase by phrase, and sealed with a pin which the count is to return as proof that he has received the note. the wedding festivities begin with a presentation of flowers to the countess by the village maidens, among whom in disguise is the rogue cherubino--so fair in hat and gown that the countess singles him out of the throng to present his nosegay in person. antonio, who had suspected that he was still about the palace, exposes him to the count, who threatens the most rigorous punishment, but is obliged to grant barberina's petition that he give his consent to her marriage to the page. had he not often told her to ask him what she pleased, when kissing her in secret? under the circumstances he can only grant the little maid's wish. during the dance which follows (it is a spanish fandango which seems to have been popular in vienna at the time, for gluck had already made use of the same melody in his ballet "don juan"), susanna kneels before the count to have him place the wreath (or veil) upon her head, and slyly slips the "canzonetta sull' aria" into his hands. he pricks his finger with the pin, drops it, but, on reading the postscript, picks it up, so that he may return it to the writer as a sign of understanding. in the evening barberina, who has been commissioned to carry the pin to her cousin susanna, loses it again, and her lamentation "l'ho perdita," with its childish sobs while hunting it, is one of the little gems of the opera. from her figaro learns that the letter which he had seen the count read during the dance was from susanna, and becomes furiously jealous. in an air (which has already been described), he rails against man's credulity and woman's faithlessness. the time is come to unmask the count. the countess and susanna have exchanged dresses, and now come into the garden. left alone, susanna gives voice to her longing and love (for figaro, though the situation makes it seem to be for the count) in the air which has won great favor in the concert-room: "deh vieni non tardar." here some of otto jahn's words are again appropriate:-mozart was right to let the feelings of the loving maiden shine forth in all their depth and purity, for susanna has none but her figaro in her mind, and the sentiments she expresses are her true ones. figaro, in his hiding-place, listening and suspecting her of awaiting the count's arrival, throws a cross-light on the situation, which, however, only receives its full dramatic signification by reason of the truth of susanna's expression of feeling. susanna, without her sensual charm, is inconceivable, and a tinge of sensuality is an essential element of her nature; but mozart has transfigured it into a noble purity which may fitly be compared with the grandest achievements of greek sculpture. cherubino, watched from different places of concealment by the count, figaro, and susanna, appears, and, seeing the countess, whom he takes for susanna, confounds not her alone, but also the count and figaro, by his ardent addresses to her. he attempts to kiss her, but the count steps forward and interposes his cheek. the count attempts to box cherubino's ears, but figaro, slipping forward at the moment, receives the blow instead. confusion is at its height. the count makes love to his wife, thinking she is susanna, promises her a dowry, and places a ring on her finger. seeing torches approaching, they withdraw into deeper darkness. susanna shows herself, and figaro, who takes her for the countess, acquaints her of the count's doings which he has just witnessed. susanna betrays herself, and figaro resolves to punish her for her masquerading. he makes love to her with extravagant pathos until interrupted by a slap in the face. susanna's patience had become exhausted, and her temper got the better of her judgment. figaro laughs at her ill-humor and confesses his trick, but renews his sham love-making when he sees the count returning. the latter calls for lights, and seizes figaro and his retainers. in the presence of all he is put to shame by the disclosures of the personality of the countess and susanna. he falls on his knees, asks forgiveness, receives it, and all ends happily. chapter iii "die zauberflöte" mozart's "zauberflöte"--"the magic flute"--is the oldest german opera holding a place on the american stage, though not quite 118 years old; but so far as my memory and records go, it has had but four performances in the original tongue in new york in a whole generation. there have been a few representations in english within this time and a considerable number in italian, our operatic institutions being quick, as a rule, to put it upon the stage whenever they have at command a soprano leggiero with a voice of sufficient range and flexibility to meet the demands of the extraordinary music which mozart wrote for the queen of night to oblige his voluble-throated sister-in-law, mme. hofer, who was the original representative of that character. the same operatic conditions having prevailed in new york and london for many years, it is not strange that english-speaking people have come to associate "the magic flute" with the italian rather than the german repertory. yet we have the dictum of beethoven that it is mozart's greatest opera, because in it his genius showed itself in so large a variety of musical forms, ranging from ditties in the folk-song style to figurated chorale and fugue, and more particularly because in it mozart first disclosed himself as a german composer. by this beethoven did not mean that mozart had not written music before for a german libretto, but that he had never written german music before in an opera. the distinction is one more easily observed by germans and critical historians than by the ordinary frequenters of our opera-houses. "die zauberflöte" has a special charm for people of german blood, which is both admirable and amiable. its magnificent choruses are sung by men, and germany is the home of the männergesang; among the opera's songs are echoes of the volkslied--ditties which seem to have been caught up in the german nurseries or plucked off the lips of the itinerant german balladist; its emotional music is heartfelt, warm, ingenuous, and in form and spirit free from the artificiality of italian opera as it was in mozart's day and as it continued to be for a long time thereafter. it was this last virtue which gave the opera its largest importance in the eyes of otto jahn, mozart's biographer. in it, he said, for the first time all the resources of cultivated art were brought to bear with the freedom of genius upon a genuine german opera. in his italian operas, mozart had adopted the traditions of a long period of development, and by virtue of his original genius had brought them to a climax and a conclusion; but in "die zauberflöte" he "stepped across the threshold of the future and unlocked the sanctuary of national art for his countrymen." in this view every critical historian can concur, no matter what his tastes or where his home. but it is less easy for an english, french, or italian critic than a german to pardon the incongruities, incoherences, and silly buffooneries which mar the opera. some of the disturbing elements are dear to the teutonic heart. papageno, for instance, is but a slightly metamorphosed kasperl, a jack pudding (hanswurst) twice removed; and kasperl is as intimately bound up in the german nature as his cousin punch in the english. kasperl is, indeed, directly responsible for "die zauberflöte." at the end of the eighteenth century there was in vienna a singular individual named emmanuel schikaneder, a jack-of-all-trades so far as public amusements were concerned--musician, singer, actor, playwright, and manager. there can be no doubt but that he was a sad scalawag and ribald rogue, with as few moral scruples as ever burdened a purveyor of popular amusements. but he had some personal traits which endeared him to mozart, and a degree of intellectuality which won him a fairly respectable place among the writers for the stage at the turn of the century. moreover, when he had become prosperous enough to build a new theatre with the proceeds of "die zauberflöte," he was wise enough to give a generous commission, unhampered by his customary meddlesome restrictions, to beethoven; and discreet enough to approve of the highly virtuous book of "fidelio." at the beginning of the last decade of the eighteenth century, however, his theatre had fallen on evil days, and in dire straits he went to mozart, whose friendship he had enjoyed from the latter's salzburg days, and begged him to undertake the composition of an opera for which he had written the book, in conjunction with one of his actors and choristers, named gieseke (though this fact never received public acknowledgment at his hands). wieland's "oberon" had filled the popular mind with a great fondness for fantastic and oriental subjects, and a rival manager had been successful with musical pieces in which the principal character was the popular kasperl. casting about for an operatic subject which should appeal to the general liking for romanticism and buffoonery at once, schikaneder hit upon a tale called "lulu; oder, die zauberflöte," written by liebeskind, but published by wieland in a volume of orientalia entitled "dschinnistan." he had got pretty deep in his work when a rival manager brought out an adaptation of the same story, with music by wenzel müller. the farcical character of the piece is indicated by its title, which was "kasper, der fagottist; oder, die zauberzither"; but it made so striking a success that schikaneder feared to enter the lists against it with an opera drawn from the same source. he was either too lazy, too much in a hurry, or too indifferent to the principles of art to remodel the completed portion, but finished his book on lines far different from those originally contemplated. the transformation thus accomplished brought about all the blemishes of "die zauberflöte," but also gave occasion for the sublime music with which mozart transfigured some of the scenes. this will be understood better if an outline of liebeskind's tale is made to precede the story of the opera as it came from mozart's hand. a wicked magician, dilsenghuin, has robbed the "radiant fairy" perifirime of her daughter, sidi, and carried off a magic talisman. the magician keeps the damsel in confinement and persecutes her with amatory advances which she is able to resist through a power which is to support her so long as her heart is untouched by love. perifirime promises the hand of her daughter, whose father is the king of cashmere, to prince lulu, son of the king of chorassan, if he regain the stolen talisman for her. to do this, however, is given only to one who has never felt the divine passion. lulu undertakes the adventure, and as aids the fairy gives him a magic flute and a ring. the tone of the flute will win the hearts of all who hear it; by turning the ring, the wearer is enabled to assume any form desired at will; by throwing it away he may summon the fairy herself to his aid. the prince assumes the form of an old man, and, like orpheus, softens the nature of the wild beasts that he meets in the forest. he even melts the heart of the magician himself, who admits him to his castle. once he is within its walls, the inmates all yield to the charm of his magical music, not excepting the lovely prisoner. at a banquet he throws the magician and his companions into a deep sleep, and possesses himself of the talisman. it is a gold fire-steel, every spark struck from which becomes a powerful spirit whose service is at the command of the possessor. with the help of genii, struck from the magical implement, and the fairy whom he summons at the last, prince lulu overcomes all the obstacles placed in his way. discomfited, the magician flies away as an owl. perifirime destroys the castle and carries the lovers in a cloud chariot to her own palace. their royal fathers give their blessings, and prince lulu and princess sidi are joined in wedlock. following in a general way the lines of this story, but supplying the comic element by the creation of papageno (who is kasperl in a habiliment of feathers), schikaneder had already got his hero into the castle of the wicked magician in quest of the daughter of the queen of night (in whose character there was not yet a trace of maleficence), when the success of his rival's earlier presentation of the story gave him pause. now there came to him (or to his literary colleague) a conceit which fired the imagination of mozart and added an element to the play which was bound at once to dignify it and create a popular stir that might lead to a triumph. whence the suggestion came is not known, but its execution, so far as the libretto was concerned, was left to gieseke. under the emperor leopold ii the austrian government had adopted a reactionary policy toward the order of freemasons, which was suspected of making propaganda for liberal ideas in politics and religion. both schikaneder and mozart belonged to the order, mozart, indeed, being so enthusiastic a devotee that he once confessed to his father his gratitude to god that through freemasonry he had learned to look upon death as the gateway to true happiness. in continuing the book of the opera, schikaneder (or gieseke for him) abruptly transformed the wicked magician into a virtuous sage who had carried off the daughter of a wicked sorceress, the queen of night, to save the maiden from the baleful influence of her mother. instead of seeking to frustrate the efforts of the prince who comes to rescue her, the sage initiates him into the mysteries of isis, leads him into the paths of virtue and wisdom, tests him by trials, and rewards him at the last by blessing his union with the maiden. the trials of silence, secrecy, and hardihood in passing through the dread elements of fire and water were ancient literary materials; they may be found in the account of the initiation of a neophyte into the mysteries of isis in apuleius's "metamorphoses; or, the golden ass," a romance written in the second century. by placing the scene of the opera in egypt, the belief of freemasons that their order originated in that unspeakably ancient land was humored, while the use of some of its symbolism (such as the conflict between light and darkness) and the proclamation of what were believed to be some of its ethical principles could safely be relied upon to delight the knowing and irritate the curiosity of the uninitiated. the change also led to the shabby treatment which woman receives in the opera, while schikaneder's failure to rewrite the first part accounts for such inconsistencies as the genii who are sent to guide the prince appearing first in the service of the evil principle and afterward as agents of the good. the overture to "die zauberflöte," because of its firm establishment in our concert-rooms, is more widely known than the opera. two of its salient features have also made it the subject of large discussion among musical analysts; namely, the reiterated chords, three times three, which introduce the second part of the overture. {1} [musical excerpt] and the fugued allegro, constructed with a skill that will never cease to be a wonder to the knowing, built up on the following subject:-[musical excerpt] in the chords (which are heard again in the temple scene, at which the hero is admitted as a novice and permitted to begin his probation), the analysts who seek to find as much symbolism as possible in the opera, see an allusion to the signals given by knocking at the door of the lodge-room. some such purpose may been have in the mind of mozart when he chose the device, but it was not unique when he applied it. i have found it used in an almost identical manner in the overture to "günther von schwarzburg," by ignaz holzbauer, a german opera produced in mannheim fifteen years before "die zauberflöte" saw the light of the stage lamps. mozart knew holzbauer, who was a really great musician, and admired his music. connected with the fugue theme there is a more familiar story. in 1781 clementi, the great pianist and composer, visited vienna. he made the acquaintance of haydn, was introduced at court, and emperor joseph ii brought him and mozart together in a trial of skill at playing and improvising. among other things clementi played his own sonata in b-flat, the first movement of which begins thus:-[musical excerpt] the resemblance between this theme and mozart's fugal subject is too plain to need pointing out. such likenesses were more common in mozart's day than they were a century ago; they were more common in handel's day than in mozart's; they are almost as common in our day as they were in handel's, but now we explain them as being the products of "unconscious cerebration," whereas in the eighteenth century they were frank borrowings in which there was no moral obliquity; for originality then lay as much in treatment as in thematic invention, if not more. come we now to a description of the action of the opera. tamino,-strange to say, a "japanese" prince,--hunting far, very far, from home, is pursued, after his last arrow has been sped, by a great serpent. he flees, cries for help, and seeing himself already in the clutch of death, falls in a swoon. at the moment of his greatest danger three veiled ladies appear on the scene and melodiously and harmoniously unite in slaying the monster. they are smitten, in unison, with the beauty of the unconscious youth whom they have saved, and quarrel prettily among themselves for the privilege of remaining beside him while information of the incident is bearing to the queen of night, who lives hard by in a castle. no two being willing that the third shall stay, all three go to the queen, who is their mistress. tamino's consciousness returning, he discovers that the serpent has been slain, and hails papageno, who comes upon the scene, as his deliverer. papageno is a bird-catcher by trade and in the service of the queen of night--a happy-go-lucky, talkative fellow, whose thoughts do not go beyond creature comforts. he publishes his nature (and incidentally illustrates what has been said above about the naïve character of some of the music of the opera) by trolling a ditty with an opening strain as follows:-[musical excerpt] papageno has no scruples about accepting credit and gratitude for the deed performed by the ladies, and, though he is the veriest poltroon, he boasts inordinately about the gigantic strength which had enabled him to strangle the serpent. he is punished for his mendacity when the ladies return and place a padlock upon his mouth, closing his lips to the things of which he is most fond--speech and food. to tamino they give a miniature portrait, which excites him to rapturous song ("dies bildniss ist bezaubernd schön," or "oh! cara immagine," as the case may be). then he learns that the original of the portrait is pamina, daughter of the queen of night, stolen from her mother by a "wicked demon," sarastro. in the true spirit of knight-errantry he vows that he will restore the maid to her mother's arms. there is a burst of thunder, and the queen appears in such apparel and manner as the exchequer at the theatre and the ingenuity of the stage mechanic are able to provide. (when last i saw her her robe was black, bespangled with stars and glittering gems, and she rode upon the crescent moon.) she knows the merits and virtues of the youth, and promises that he shall have pamina to wife if he succeeds in his adventure. papageno is commanded to accompany him, and as aids the ladies give to tamino a magic flute, whose tones shall protect him from every danger, and to papageno a bell-chime of equal potency. (these talismans have hundreds of prototypes in the folk-lore of all peoples.) papageno is loath to accompany the prince, because the magician had once threatened to spit and roast him like the bird he resembled if ever he was caught in his domain, but the magical bells give him comfort and assurance. meanwhile the padlock has been removed from his lips, with admonitions not to lie more. in the quintet which accompanies these sayings and doings, there is exquisite music, which, it is said, mozart conceived while playing at billiards. finally the ladies announce that three boys, "young, beautiful, pure, and wise," shall guide the pair to the castle of sarastro. we are next in a room of the castle before the would-be rescuers arrive. pamina has tried to escape, and is put in chains by her keeper, the moor monostatos. she weeps because of her misery, and repulses the protestations of love with which her jailer plagues her. papageno enters the room, and he and the jailer run in opposite directions at sight of each other--papageno frightened by the complexion of the blackamoor, monostatos terror-stricken at the sight of a man in feathers. returning, papageno convinces himself of the identity of pamina with the daughter of the queen of night, tells her of tamino, who is coming for her with a heart full of love, and promptly they sing of the divine dignity of the marital state. it is the duet, "bei männern weiche liebe fühlen," or "là dove prende, amor ricetto," familiar to concert-rooms, and the melody to some hymnals. a story goes that mozart had to write this duet three or five times before it would pass muster in the censorious eyes of schikaneder. after the opera had made good its success, the duet as we have it to-day alternated at the performance with a more ornate version--in all likelihood one of the earlier forms in which mozart cast it. the three boys--genii they are, and if i were stage-manager they should fly like peter pan--lead tamino into a grove wherein stand three temples dedicated respectively to wisdom, nature, and reason. the precinct is sacred; the music tells us that--the halo streaming from sustained notes of flutes and clarinets, the muted trumpets, the solemn trombones in softest monotone, the placid undulations of the song sung by the violins, the muffled, admonitory beats of the kettledrums. the genii leave tamino after admonishing him to be "steadfast, patient, and silent." conscious of a noble purpose, the hero boldly approaches the temple of reason, but before he can enter its portals, is stopped by an imperative injunction from within: "back!" he essays the temple of nature, and is turned away again by the ominous word. out of the temple of wisdom steps an aged priest, from whom he learns that sarastro is master within, and that no one is privileged to enter whose heart, like his, harbors hatred and vengeful thoughts. tamino thinks sarastro fully deserving of hatred and revenge, and is informed that he had been deceived by a woman--one of the sex "that does little, chatters much." tamino asks if pamina lives, but the priest is bound by an oath to say nothing on that subject until "the hand of friendship shall lead him to an eternal union within the sanctuary." when shall night vanish and the light appear? oracular voices answer, "soon, youth, or never!" does pamina live? the voices: "pamina still lives!" thus comforted, he sings his happiness, filling the pauses in his song with interludes on the flute, bringing to his feet the wild beasts and forest creatures of all sorts. he hears papageno's syrinx, and at length finds the fowler with monostatos; but before their joy can have expression pamina and the slaves appear and capture them. papageno recollects him of his magic bells; he plays upon them, and the slaves, willy-nilly, dance themselves out of sight. scarcely are the lovers free when a solemn strain announces the approach of sarastro. he comes in a chariot drawn by lions and surrounded by a brave retinue. pamina kneels to him, confesses her attempt to escape, but explains that it was to free herself from the odious attentions of monostatos. the latter, asking his reward for having thwarted the plan of papageno, receives it from sarastro in the shape of a bastinado. pamina pleads for restoration to her mother, but the sage refuses to free her, saying that her mother is a haughty woman, adding the ungallant reflection that woman's heart should be directed by man lest she step outside her sphere. he commands that tamino and papageno be veiled and led into the temple of probation. the first act is ended. the initiation of tamino and papageno into the mysteries, their trials, failures, triumph, and reward, form the contents of the second act. at a conclave of the elect, sarastro announces that tamino stands at the door of the temple of wisdom, desirous to gaze upon the "great light" of the sanctuary. he prays isis and osiris to give strength to the neophytes:-[musical excerpt--"o isis und osiris schenket der weisheit geist dem neuen paar."] to the impressiveness of this prayer the orchestra contributes as potent a factor as the stately melody or the solemn harmonies. all the bright-voiced instruments are excluded, and the music assigned to three groups of sombre color, composed, respectively, (1) of divided violas and violoncellos; (2) of three trombones, and (3) of two basset horns and two bassoons. the assent of the sacerdotal assembly is indicated by the three trumpet blasts which have been described in connection with the overture, and tamino and papageno are admitted to the temple, instructed, and begin their probationary trials. true to the notion of the order, two priests warn the neophytes against the wiles of woman. papageno has little inclination to seek wisdom, but enters upon the trials in the hope of winning a wife who shall be like himself in appearance. in the first trial, which is that of silence, the value of the priestly warning just received is at once made apparent. tamino and papageno have scarcely been left alone, when the three female attendants of the queen of night appear and attempt to terrify them with tales of the false nature of the priests, whose recruits, say they, are carried to hell, body and breeches (literally "mit haut und haar," i.e. "with skin and hair"). papageno becomes terror-stricken and falls to the floor, when voices within proclaim that the sanctity of the temple has been profaned by woman's presence. the ladies flee. the scene changes. pamina is seen asleep in a bower of roses, silvered over by the light of the moon. monostatos, deploring the fact that love should be denied him because of his color, though enjoyed by everything else in nature, attempts to steal a kiss. a peal of thunder, and the queen of night rises from the ground. she importunes pamina to free herself and avenge her mother's wrongs by killing sarastro. to this end she hands her a dagger and pours out the "hellish rage" which "boils" in her heart in a flood of scintillant staceati in the tonal regions where few soprano voices move:-[musical excerpt] monostatos has overheard all. he wrenches the dagger from pamina, urges her again to accept his love, threatens her with death, and is about to put his threat into execution when sarastro enters, dismisses the slave, and announces that his revenge upon the queen of night shall lie in promoting the happiness of the daughter by securing her union with tamino. the probationary trials of tamino and papageno are continued. the two are led into a hall and admonished to remain silent till they hear a trumpet-call. papageno falls to chattering with an old woman, is terrified beyond measure by a thunder-clap, and recovers his composure only when the genii bring back the flute and bells and a table of food. tamino, however, remains steadfast, though pamina herself comes to him and pleads for a word of love. papageno boasts of his own hardihood, but stops to eat, though the trumpet has called. a lion appears; tamino plays his flute, and the beast returns to his cage. the youth is prepared for the final trial; he is to wander for a space through flood and flame, and pamina is brought to say her tearful farewells. the courage and will of the neophyte remain unshaken, though the maiden gives way to despair and seeks to take her own life. the genii stay her hand, and assure her that tamino shall be restored to her. two men in armor guard the gates of a subterranean cavern. they sing of the rewards to be won by him who shall walk the path of danger; water, fire, air, and earth shall purify him; and if he withstand death's terrors, heaven shall receive him and he be enlightened and fitted to consecrate himself wholly to the mysteries of isis:-[musical excerpt--"der, welcher wandert diese strasse voll beschwerde"] a marvellous piece of music is consorted with this oracular utterance. the words are set to an old german church melody--"ach gott, vom himmel sieh darein"--around which the orchestral instruments weave a contrapuntal web of wondrous beauty. at the gates pamina joins her lover and accompanies him on his journey, which is happily achieved with the help of the flute. meanwhile papageno is pardoned his loquacity, but told that he shall never feel the joy of the elect. he thinks he can make shift with a pretty wife instead. the old woman of the trial chamber appears and discloses herself as the charming, youthful papageno, but only for an instant. he calls after her in vain, and is about to hang himself when the genii remind him of his magic bells. he rings and sings; his feathered mate comes to him. monostatos aids the queen of night and her companions in an assault upon the sanctuary; but a storm confounds them, and sarastro blesses the union of tamino and pamina, amidst joyful hymning by the elect. an extraordinary hodgepodge, truly, yet, taken all in all, an effective stage piece. goethe was so impressed with the ingenuity shown by schikaneder in treating the device of contrast that he seriously contemplated writing a second part, the music of which was to be composed by wranitzky, who set gieseke's operatic version of "oberon." german critics and managers have deplored its absurdities and contradictions, but have found no way to obviate them which can be said to be generally acceptable. the buffooneries cannot be separated from the sublimities without disrupting the piece, nor can its doggerel be turned into dignified verse. it were best, i fancy, that managers should treat the opera, and audiences receive it, as a sort of christmas pantomime which mozart has glorified by his music. the tendency of german critics has been to view it with too much seriousness. it is difficult to avoid this while one is under the magic spell of its music, but the only way to become reconciled to it on reflection is to take it as the story of its creation shows that its creators intended it to be taken; namely, as a piece designed to suit the tastes of the uncultivated and careless masses. this will explain the singular sacrifice of principle which mozart made in permitting a mountebank like schikaneder to pass judgment on his music while he was composing it, to exact that one duet should be composed over five times before he would accept it, and even to suggest melodies for some of the numbers. jahn would have us believe that mozart was so concerned at the failure of the first act to win applause at the first performance that he came behind the scenes pale as death to receive comfort and encouragement from schikaneder; i prefer to believe another story, which is to the effect that mozart almost died with laughing when he found that the public went into ecstasies over his opera. certain it is that his pleasure in it was divided. schikaneder had told him that he might occasionally consult the taste of connoisseurs, and he did so, finding profound satisfaction in the music written for sarastro and the priests, and doubtless also in the fine ensembles; but the enthusiasm inspired by what he knew to be concessions to the vulgar only excited his hilarity. the beautiful in the score is amply explained by mozart's genius and his marvellous command of the technique of composition. the dignity of the simple idea of a celebration of the mysteries of isis would have been enough, without the composer's reverence for freemasonry and its principles, to inspire him for a great achievement when it came to providing a setting for the scenes in which the priests figure. the rest of the music he seems to have written with little regard to coherency or unity of character. his sister-in-law had a voice of extraordinary range and elasticity; hence the two display airs; papageno had to have music in keeping in his character, and mozart doubtless wrote it with as little serious thought as he did the "piece for an organ in a clock, in f minor, 4-4," and "andante to a waltz for a little organ," which can be found entered in his autograph catalogue for the last year of his life. in the overture, one of the finest of his instrumental compositions, he returned to a form that had not been in use since the time of hasse and graum; in the scene with the two men in armor he made use of a german chorale sung in octaves as a canto firmo, with counterpoint in the orchestra--a recondite idea which it is difficult to imagine him inventing for this opera. i fancy (not without evidence) that he made the number out of material found in his sketch-book. these things indicate that the depth which the critics with deep-diving and bottom-scraping proclivities affect to see in the work is rather the product of imagination than real. footnotes: {1} these chords, played by all the wind instruments of the band, are the chords of the introduction raised to a higher power. chapter iv "don giovanni" in the preceding chapter it was remarked that mozart's "zauberflöte" was the oldest german opera in the current american repertory. accepting the lists of the last two decades as a criterion, "don giovanni" is the oldest italian opera, save one. that one is "le nozze di figaro," and it may, therefore, be said that mozart's operas mark the beginning of the repertory as it exists at the present time in america. twenty-five years ago it was possible to hear a few performances of gluck's "orfeo" in english and italian, and its name has continued to figure occasionally ever since in the lists of works put forth by managers when inviting subscriptions for operatic seasons; but that fact can scarcely be said to have kept the opera in the repertory. our oldest italian opera is less than 125 years old, and "don giovanni" only 122--an inconsiderable age for a first-class work of art compared with its companion pieces in literature, painting, and sculpture, yet a highly respectable one for an opera. music has undergone a greater revolution within the last century than any other art in thrice the period, yet "don giovanni" is as much admired now as it was in the last decade of the eighteenth century, and, indeed, has less prejudice to contend with in the minds of musicians and critics than it had when it was in its infancy, and i confidently believe that to its score and that of "le nozze di figaro" opera writers will soon be turning to learn the methods of dramatic characterization. pure beauty lives in angelic wedlock with psychological expression in mozart's dramatic music, and these factors will act as powerful loadstones in bringing composers who are now laboriously and vainly seeking devices for characterization in tricks and devices based on arbitrary formulas back to the gospel of truth and beauty. wagner has had no successful imitator. his scheme of thematic identification and development, in its union of calculation, reflection, and musical inspiration, is beyond the capacities of those who have come after him. the bow of ulysses is still unbent; but he will be a great musician indeed who shall use the resources of the new art with such large ease, freedom, power, and effectiveness as mozart used those of the comparatively ingenuous art of his day. and yet the great opera composer who is to come in great likelihood will be a disciple of gluck, mozart, and the wagner who wrote "tristan und isolde" and "die meistersinger" rather than one of the tribe of debussy. the great opera composers of the nineteenth century were of one mind touching the greatness of "don giovanni." beethoven was horrified by its licentious libretto, but tradition says that he kept before him on his writing-table a transcript of the music for the trombones in the second finale of the opera. shortly after mme. viardot-garcia came into possession of the autograph score of the masterpiece, rossini called upon her and asked for the privilege of looking at it, adding, "i want to bow the knee before this sacred relic." after poring over a few pages, he placed his hands on the book and said, solemnly: "he is the greatest, the master of them all; the only composer who had as much science as he had genius, and as much genius as he had science." on another occasion he said to a questioner: "vous voulez connaître celui de mes ouvrages que j'aime le mieux; eh bien, c'est 'don giovanni.'" gounod celebrated the centenary of the opera by writing a commentary on it which he dedicated to young composers and artists called upon to take part in performances of the opera. in the preface of his book he characterizes it as "an unequalled and immortal masterpiece," the "apogee of the lyrical drama," a "wondrous example of truth, beauty of form, appropriateness of characterization, deep insight into the drama, purity of style, richness and restraint in instrumentation, charm and tenderness in the love passages, and power in pathos"--in one word, a "finished model of dramatic music." and then he added: "the score of 'don giovanni' has exercised the influence of a revelation upon the whole of my life; it has been and remains for me a kind of incarnation of dramatic and musical impeccability. i regard it as a work without blemish, of uninterrupted perfection, and this commentary is but the humble testimony of my veneration and gratitude for the genius to whom i owe the purest and most permanent joys of my life as a musician." in his "autobiographical sketch" wagner confesses that as a lad he cared only for "die zauberflöte," and that "don giovanni" was distasteful to him on account of the italian text, which seemed to him rubbish. but in "oper und drama" he says: "is it possible to find anything more perfect than every piece in 'don juan'? . . . oh, how doubly dear and above all honor is mozart to me that it was not possible for him to invent music for 'tito' like that of 'don giovanni,' for 'cosi fan tutte' like that of 'figaro'! how shamefully would it have desecrated music!" and again: "where else has music won so infinitely rich an individuality, been able to characterize so surely, so definitely, and in such exuberant plenitude, as here?" {1} mozart composed "don giovanni" for the italian opera at prague, which had been saved from ruin in the season 1786-1787 by the phenomenal success of "le nozze di figaro." he chose the subject and commissioned lorenzo da ponte, then official poet to the imperial theatres of austria, to write the book of words. in doing so, the latter made free use of a version of the same story made by an italian theatrical poet named bertati, and dr. chrysander (who in 1886 gave me a copy of this libretto, which mozart's biographer, otto jahn, had not succeeded in finding, despite diligent search) has pointed out that mozart also took as a model some of the music to which the composer gazzaniga had set it. the title of the opera by bertati and gazzaniga was "il convitato di pietra." it had been brought forward with great success in venice and won wide vogue in italy before mozart hit upon it. it lived many years after mozart brought out his opera, and, indeed, was performed in london twenty-three years before mozart's opera got a hearing. it is doubtful, however, if the london representation did justice to the work. da ponte was poet to the opera there when "il convitato" was chosen for performance, and it fell to him to prepare the book to suit the taste of the english people. he tried to persuade the management to give mozart's opera instead, and, failing in that, had the malicious satisfaction of helping to turn the work of bertati and gazzaniga into a sort of literary and musical pasticcio, inserting portions of his own paraphrase of bertati's book in place of the original scenes and preparing occasion for the insertion of musical pieces by sarti, frederici, and guglielmi. mozart wrote the music to "don giovanni" in the summer of 1787. judging by the circumstance that there is no entry in his autograph catalogue between june 24 and august 10 in that year, it would seem that he had devoted the intervening seven weeks chiefly, if not wholly, to the work. when he went to prague in september he carried the unfinished score with him, and worked on it there largely in the summer house of his friends, the duscheks, who lived in the suburbs of the city. under date of october 28 he entered the overture in his catalogue. as a matter of fact, it was not finished till the early morn of the next day, which was the day of the first production of the opera. thereby hangs the familiar tale of how it was composed. on the evening of the day before the performance, pen had not been touched to the overture. nevertheless, mozart sat with a group of merry friends until a late hour of the night. then he went to his hotel and prepared to work. on the table was a glass of punch, and his wife sat beside him--to keep him awake by telling him stories. in spite of all, sleep overcame him, and he was obliged to interrupt his work for several hours; yet at 7 o'clock in the morning the copyist was sent for and the overture was ready for him. the tardy work delayed the representation in the evening, and the orchestra had to play the overture at sight; but it was a capital band, and mozart, who conducted, complimented it before starting into the introduction to the first air. the performance was completely successful, and floated buoyantly on a tide of enthusiasm which set in when mozart entered the orchestra, and rose higher and higher as the music went on. on may 7, 1788, the opera was given in vienna, where at first it made a fiasco, though mozart had inserted new pieces and made other alterations to humor the singers and add to its attractiveness. london heard it first on april 12, 1817, at the king's theatre, whose finances, which were almost in an exhausted state, it restored to a flourishing condition. in the company which manuel garcia brought to new york in 1825 were carlo angrisani, who was the masetto of the first london representation, and domenico crivelli, son of the tenor gaetano crivelli, who had been the don ottavio. garcia was a tenor with a voice sufficiently deep to enable him to sing the barytone part of don giovanni in paris and at subsequent performances in london. it does not appear that he had contemplated a performance of the opera in new york, but here he met da ponte, who had been a resident of the city for twenty years and recently been appointed professor of italian literature at columbia college. da ponte, as may be imagined, lost no time in calling on garcia and setting on foot a scheme for bringing forward "my 'don giovanni,'" as he always called it. crivelli was a second-rate tenor, and could not be trusted with the part of don ottavio, and a frenchman named milon, whom i conclude to have been a violoncello player, afterward identified with the organization of the philharmonic society, was engaged for that part. a mme. barbieri was cast for the part of donna anna, mme. garcia for that of donna elvira, manuel garcia, jr. (who died in 1906 at the age of 101 years) for that of leporello, angrisani for his old rôle of masetto, and maria garcia, afterward the famous malibran, for that of zerlina. the first performance took place on may 23, 1826, in the park theatre, and the opera was given eleven times in the season. this success, coupled with the speedily acquired popularity of garcia's gifted daughter, was probably the reason why an english version of the opera which dominated the new york stage for nearly a quarter of a century soon appeared at the chatham theatre. in this version the part of the dissolute don was played by h. wallack, uncle of the lester wallack so long a theatrical favorite in the american metropolis. as malibran the signorina garcia took part in many of the english performances of the work, which kept the italian off the local stage till 1850, when it was revived by max maretzek at the astor place opera-house. i have intimated that bertati's opera-book was the prototype of da ponte's, but the story is centuries older than either. the spanish tale of don juan tenorio, who killed an enemy in a duel, insulted his memory by inviting his statue to dinner, and was sent to hell because of his refusal to repent him of his sins, was but a literary form of a legend of considerable antiquity. it seems likely that it was moulded into dramatic shape by monks in the middle ages; it certainly occupied industriously the minds of playwrights in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in spain, italy, germany, and england. the most eminent men who treated it at various times were the spaniard known as tirza di molina, the frenchman molière, the italian goldoni, and the englishman thomas shadwell, whose "libertine destroyed" was brought forward in 1676. before mozart, le tellier had used it for a french comic opera, righini and gazzaniga for italian operas, and gluck for a ballet. but we are concerned now only with the play as da ponte and mozart gave it to us. in the dramatic terminology of the eighteenth century "don giovanni" was a dramma giocoso; in the better sense of the phrase, a playful drama--a lyric comedy. da ponte conceived it as such, but mozart gave it so tragical a turn by the awful solemnity with which he infused the scene of the libertine's punishment that already in his day it was felt that the last scene as written and composed to suit the conventional type of a comic opera was an intolerable anticlimax. mozart sounds a deeply tragical note at the outset of his overture. the introduction is an andante, which he drew from the scene of the opera in which the ghostly statue of the murdered commandant appears to don giovanni while he is enjoying the pleasures of the table. two groups of solemn chords command attention and "establish at once the majestic and formidable authority of divine justice, the avenger of crime." {2} they are followed by a series of solemn progressions in stern, sinister, unyielding, merciless, implacable harmonies. they are like the colossal strides of approaching fate, and this awfulness is twice raised to a higher power, first by a searching, syncopated phrase in the violins which hovers loweringly over them, and next by a succession of afrighted minor scales ascending crescendo and descending piano, the change in dynamics beginning abruptly as the crest of each terrifying wave is reached. these wonderful scales begin thus:-[musical excerpt] in the last scene of the opera. they were an afterthought of the composer's. they did not appear in the original score of the scene, as the autograph shows, but were written in after the music had once been completed. they are crowded into the staves in tiny notes which sometimes extend from one measure into the next. this circumstance and the other, that they are all fairly written out in the autograph of the overture, indicate that they were conceived either at one of the rehearsals or while mozart was writing the overture. they could not have been suggested at the first performance, as jahn seems to imply. {3} the introduction is only thirty measures long, and the allegro which follows is made up of new material. i quote again from gounod: "but suddenly, and with feverish audacity, the allegro breaks out in the major key, an allegro full of passion and delirium, deaf to the warnings of heaven, regardless of remorse, enraptured of pleasure, madly inconstant and daring, rapid and impetuous as a torrent, flashing and swift as a sword, overleaping all obstacles, scaling balconies, and bewildering the alguazils." {4} from the tragic introduction through the impetuous main section we are led to a peaceful night scene in the garden before the house of donna anna. there leporello, the servant of don giovanni, is awaiting in discontented mood for the return of his master, who has entered the house in quest of amatory adventure. leporello is weary of the service in which he is engaged, and contrasts his state with that of the don. (air: "notte e giorno faticar.") he will throw off the yoke and be a gentleman himself. he has just inflated himself with pride at the thought, when he hears footsteps, and the poltroon in his nature asserts itself. he hides behind the shrubbery. don giovanni hurries from the house, concealing his features with his cloak and impeded by donna anna, who clings to him, trying to get a look into his face and calling for help. don giovanni commands silence and threatens. the commandant, donna anna's father, appears with drawn sword and challenges the intruder. don giovanni hesitates to draw against so old a man, but the commandant will not parley. they fight. at first the attacks and defences are deliberate (the music depicts it all with wonderful vividness), but at the last it is thrust and parry, thrust and parry, swiftly, mercilessly. the commandant is no match for his powerful young opponent, and falls, dying. a few broken ejaculations, and all is ended. the orchestra sings a slow descending chromatic phrase "as if exhausted by the blood which oozes from the wound," says gounod. how simple the means of expression! but let the modern composer, with all his apparatus of new harmonies and his multitude of instruments, point out a scene to match it in the entire domain of the lyric drama! don giovanni and his lumpish servant, who, with all his coward instincts, cannot help trying his wit at the outcome of the adventure, though his master is in little mood for sportiveness, steal away as they see lights and hear a commotion in the palace. donna anna comes back to the garden, bringing her affianced lover, don ottavio, whom she had called to the help of her father. she finds the commandant dead, and breaks into agonizing cries and tears. only an accompanied recitative, but every ejaculation a cry of nature! gounod is wrought up to an ecstasy by mozart's declamation and harmonies. he suspends his analysis to make this comment:-but that which one cannot too often remark nor too often endeavor to make understood, that which renders mozart an absolutely unique genius, is the constant and indissoluble union of beauty of form with truth of expression. by this truth he is human, by this beauty he is divine. by truth he teaches us, he moves us; we recognize each other in him, and we proclaim thereby that he indeed knows human nature thoroughly, not only in its different passions, but also in the varieties of form and character that those passions may assume. by beauty the real is transfigured, although at the same time it is left entirely recognizable; he elevates it by the magic of a superior language and transports it to that region of serenity and light which constitutes art, wherein intelligence repeats with a tranquillity of vision what the heart has experienced in the trouble of passion. now the union of truth with beauty is art itself. don ottavio attempts to console his love, but she is insane with grief and at first repulses him, then pours out her grief and calls upon him to avenge the death of her father. together they register a vow and call on heaven for retribution. it is morning. don giovanni and leporello are in the highway near seville. as usual, leporello is dissatisfied with his service and accuses the don with being a rascal. threats of punishment bring back his servile manner, and don giovanni is about to acquaint him of a new conquest, when a lady, donna elvira, comes upon the scene. she utters woful complaints of unhappiness and resentment against one who had won her love, then deceived and deserted her. (air: "ah! chi mi dice mai.") don giovanni ("aflame already," as leporello remarks) steps forward to console her. he salutes her with soft blandishment in his voice, but to his dismay discovers that she is a noble lady of burgos and one of the "thousand and three" spanish victims recorded in the list which leporello mockingly reads to her after don giovanni, having turned her over to his servant, for an explanation of his conduct in leaving burgos, has departed unperceived. leporello is worthy of his master in some things. in danger he is the veriest coward, and his teeth chatter like castanets; but confronted by a mere woman in distress he becomes voluble and spares her nothing in a description of the number of his master's amours, their place, the quality and station of his victims, and his methods of beguilement. the curious and also the emulous may be pleased to learn that the number is 2065, geographically distributed as follows: italy, 240; germany, 231; france, 100; turkey, 91; and spain, 1003. among them are ladies from the city and rustic damsels, countesses, baronesses, marchionesses, and princesses. if blond, he praises her dainty beauty; brunette, her constancy; pale, her sweetness. in cold weather his preferences go toward the buxom, in summer, svelte. even old ladies serve to swell his list. rich or poor, homely or beautiful, all's one to him so long as the being is inside a petticoat. "but why go on? lady, you know his ways." the air, "madamina," is a marvel of malicious humor and musical delineation. "e la grande maestoso"--the music rises and inflates itself most pompously; "la piccina"--it sinks in quick iteration lower and lower just as the italians in describing small things lower their hands toward the ground. the final words, "voi sapete, quel che fa," scarcely to be interpreted for polite readers, as given by bass singers who have preserved the italian traditions (with a final "hm" through the nose), go to the extreme of allowable suggestiveness, if not a trifle beyond. the insult throws elvira into a rage, and she resolves to forego her love and seek vengeance instead. don giovanni comes upon a party of rustics who are celebrating in advance the wedding of zerlina and masetto. the damsel is a somewhat vain, forward, capricious, flirtatious miss, and cannot long withstand such blandishments as the handsome nobleman bestows upon her. don giovanni sends the merrymakers to his palace for entertainment, cajoles and threatens masetto into leaving him alone with zerlina, and begins his courtship of her. (duet: "là ci darem la mano.") he has about succeeded in his conquest, when elvira intervenes, warns the maiden, leads her away, and, returning, finds donna anna and don ottavio in conversation with don giovanni, whose help in the discovery of the commandant's murderer they are soliciting. elvira breaks out with denunciations, and don giovanni, in a whisper to his companions, proclaims her mad, and leads her off. departing, he says a word of farewell, and from the tone of his voice donna anna recognizes her father's murderer. she tells her lover how the assassin stole into her room at night, attempted her dishonor, and slew her father. she demands his punishment at don ottavio's hands, and he, though doubting that a nobleman and a friend could be guilty of such crimes, yet resolves to find out the truth and deliver the guilty man to justice. the don commands a grand entertainment for zerlina's wedding party, for, though temporarily foiled, he has not given up the chase. masetto comes with pretty zerlina holding on to the sleeve of his coat. the boor is jealous, and zerlina knows well that he has cause. she protests, she cajoles; he is no match for her. she confesses to having been pleased at my lord's flattery, but he had not touched "even the tips of her fingers." if her fault deserves it, he may beat her if he wants to, but then let there be peace between them. the artful minx! her wheedling is irresistible. listen to it:-[musical excerpt--"batti, batti, o bel masetto"] the most insinuating of melodies floating over an obbligato of the solo violoncello "like a love charm," as gounod says. then the celebration of her victory when she captures one of his hands and knows that he is yielding:-[musical excerpt--"pace, pace o vita mia"] a new melody, blither, happier, but always the violoncello murmuring in blissful harmony with the seductive voice and rejoicing in the cunning witcheries which lull masetto's suspicions to sleep. now all go into don giovanni's palace, from which the sounds of dance music and revelry are floating out. donna elvira, donna anna, and don ottavio, who come to confront him who has wronged them all, are specially bidden, as was the custom, because they appeared in masks. within gayety is supreme. a royal host, this don giovanni! not only are there refreshments for all, but he has humored both classes of guests in the arrangement of the programme of dances. let there be a minuet, a country-dance, and an allemande, he had said to leporello in that dizzying song of instruction which whirls past our senses like a mad wind: "finch' han dal vino." no one so happy as mozart when it came to providing the music for these dances. would you connoisseurs in music like counterpoint? we shall give it you;--three dances shall proceed at once and together, despite their warring duple and triple rhythms:-[musical excerpts] louis viardot, who wrote a little book describing the autograph of "don giovanni," says that mozart wrote in the score where the three bands play thus simultaneously the word accordano as a direction to the stage musicians to imitate the action of tuning their instruments before falling in with their music. of this fact the reprint of the libretto as used at prague and vienna contains no mention, but a foot-note gives other stage directions which indicate how desirous mozart was that his ingenious and humorous conceit should not be overlooked. at the point where the minuet, which was the dance of people of quality, is played, he remarked, "don ottavio dances the minuet with donna anna"; at the contra-dance in 2-4 time, "don giovanni begins to dance a contra-dance with zerlina"; at the entrance of the waltz, "leporello dances a 'teitsch' with masetto." the proper execution of mozart's elaborate scheme puts the resources of an opera-house to a pretty severe test, but there is ample reward in the result. pity that, as a rule, so little intelligence is shown by the ballet master in arranging the dances! there is a special significance in mozart's direction that the cavalier humor the peasant girl by stepping a country-dance with her, which is all lost when he attempts to lead her into the aristocratic minuet, as is usually done. at the height of the festivities, don giovanni succeeds in leading zerlina into an inner room, from which comes a piercing shriek a moment later. anticipating trouble, leporello hastens to his master to warn him. don ottavio and his friends storm the door of the anteroom, out of which now comes don giovanni dragging leporello and uttering threats of punishment against him. the trick does not succeed. don ottavio removes his mask and draws his sword; donna anna and donna elvira confront the villain. the musicians, servants, and rustics run away in affright. for a moment don giovanni loses presence of mind, but, his wits and courage returning, he beats down the sword of don ottavio, and, with leporello, makes good his escape. the incidents of the second act move with less rapidity, and, until the fateful dénouement is reached, on a lower plane of interest than those of the first, which have been narrated. don giovanni turns his attentions to the handsome waiting-maid of donna elvira. to get the mistress out of the way he persuades leporello to exchange cloaks and hats with him and station himself before her balcony window, while he utters words of tenderness and feigned repentance. the lady listens and descends to the garden, where leporello receives her with effusive protestations; but don giovanni rudely disturbs them, and they run away. then the libertine, in the habit of his valet, serenades his new charmer. the song, "deh vieni alla finestra," is of melting tenderness and gallantry; words and music float graciously on the evening air in company with a delightfully piquant tune picked out on a mandolin. the maid is drawn to the window, and don giovanni is in full expectation of another triumph, when masetto confronts him with a rabble of peasants, all armed. they are in search of the miscreant who had attempted to outrage zerlina. don giovanni is protected by his disguise. he feigns willingness to help in the hunt, and rids himself of masetto's companions by sending them on a fool's errand to distant parts of the garden. then he cunningly possesses himself of masetto's weapons and belabors him stoutly with his own cudgel. he makes off, and zerlina, hearing masetto's cries, hurries in to heal his hurts with pretty endearments. (air: "vedrai carino.") most unaccountably, as it will seem to those who seek for consistency and reason in all parts of the play, all of its actors except don giovanni find themselves together in a courtyard (or room, according to the notions of the stage manager). leporello is trying to escape from elvira, who still thinks him don giovanni, and is first confronted by masetto and zerlina and then by ottavio and anna. he is still in his master's hat and cloak, and is taken vigorously to task, but discloses his identity when it becomes necessary in order to escape a beating. convinced at last that don giovanni is the murderer of the commandant, don ottavio commends his love to the care of her friends and goes to denounce the libertine to the officers of the law. the last scene is reached. don giovanni, seated at his table, eats, drinks, indulges in badinage with his servant, and listens to the music of his private band. the musicians play melodies from popular operas of the period in which mozart wrote--not spanish melodies of the unfixed time in which the veritable don juan may have lived:-[musical excerpts--from martin's "una cosa rara." from "fra i due litiganti" by sarti. from "nozze di figaro."] mozart feared anachronisms as little as shakespeare. his don giovanni was contemporary with himself and familiar with the repertory of the vienna opera. the autograph discloses that the ingenious conceit was wholly mozart's. it was he who wrote the words with which leporello greets the melodies from "una cosa rara," "i due litiganti," and "le nozze di figaro," and when leporello hailed the tune "non piu andrai" from the last opera with words "questo poi la conosco pur troppo" ("this we know but too well"), he doubtless scored a point with his first audience in prague which the german translator of the opera never dreamed of. even the german critics of to-day seem dense in their unwillingness to credit mozart with a purely amiable purpose in quoting the operas of his rivals, martin and sarti. the latter showed himself ungrateful for kindnesses received at mozart's hands by publicly denouncing an harmonic progression in one of the famous six quartets dedicated to haydn as a barbarism, but there was no ill-will in the use of the air from "i due litiganti" as supper music for the delectation of the don. mozart liked the melody, and had written variations on it for the pianoforte. the supper is interrupted by donna elvira, who comes to plead on her knees with don giovanni to change his mode of life. he mocks at her solicitude and invites her to sit with him at table. she leaves the room in despair, but sends back a piercing shriek from the corridor. leporello is sent out to report on the cause of the cry, and returns trembling as with an ague and mumbling that he has seen a ghost--a ghost of stone, whose footsteps, "ta, ta, ta," sounded like a mighty hammer on the floor. don giovanni himself goes to learn the cause of the disturbance, and leporello hides under the table. the intrepid don opens the door. there is a clap of thunder, and there enters the ghost of the commandant in the form of his statue as seen in the churchyard. the music which has been described in connection with the overture accompanies the conversation of the spectre and his amazed host. don giovanni's repeated offer of hospitality is rejected, but in turn he is asked if he will return the visit. he will. "your hand as a pledge," says the spectre. all unabashed, the doomed man places his hand in that of the statue, which closes upon it like a vise. then an awful fear shakes the body of don giovanni, and a cry of horror is forced out of his lips. "repent, while there is yet time," admonishes the visitor again and again, and still again. don giovanni remains unshaken in his wicked fortitude. at length he wrests his hand out of the stony grasp and at the moment hears his doom from the stony lips, "ah! the time for you is past!" darkness enwraps him; the earth trembles; supernatural voices proclaim his punishment in chorus; a pit opens before him, from which demons emerge and drag him down to hell. here the opera ends for us; but originally, after the catastrophe the persons of the play, all but the reprobate whom divine justice has visited, returned to the scene to hear a description of the awful happenings he had witnessed from the buffoon who had hidden under the table, to dispose their plans for the future (for ottavio and anna, marriage in a year; for masetto and zerlina, a wedding instanter; for elvira, a nunnery), and platitudinously to moralize that, the perfidious wretch having been carried to the realm of pluto and proserpine, naught remained to do save to sing the old song, "thus do the wicked find their end, dying as they had lived." footnotes: {1} see my preface to "don giovanni" in the schirmer collection of operas. {2} gounod. {3} "the life of mozart," by otto jahn, vol. iii, p. 169. {4} "mozart's don giovanni," by charles gounod, p. 3. chapter v "fidelio" it was the scalawag schikaneder who had put together the singular dramatic phantasmagoria known as mozart's "magic flute," and acted the part of the buffoon in it, who, having donned the garb of respectability, commissioned beethoven to compose the only opera which that supreme master gave to the world. the opera is "fidelio," and it occupies a unique place in operatic history not only because it is the only work of its kind by the greatest tone-poet that ever lived, but also because of its subject. the lyric drama has dealt with the universal passion ever since the art-form was invented, but "fidelio" is the only living opera which occurs to me now, except gluck's "orfeo" and "alceste," which hymns the pure love of married lovers. the bond between the story of alcestis, who goes down to death to save the life of admetus, and that of leonore, who ventures her life to save florestan, is closer than that of the orphic myth, for though the alloy only serves to heighten the sheen of eurydice's virtue, there is yet a grossness in the story of aristaeus's unlicensed passion which led to her death, that strongly differentiates it from the modern tale of wifely love and devotion. beethoven was no ascetic, but he was as sincere and severe a moralist in life as he was in art. in that most melancholy of human documents, written at heiligenstadt in october, 1802, commonly known as his will, he says to his brothers: "recommend to your children virtue; it alone can bring happiness, not money. i speak from experience. it was virtue which bore me up in time of trouble; to her, next to my art, i owe thanks for my not having laid violent hands on myself." that mozart had been able to compose music to such libretti as those of "don giovanni" and "così fan tutte" filed him with pained wonder. moreover, he had serious views of the dignity of music and of the uses to which it might be put in the drama, and more advanced notions than he has generally been credited with as to how music and the drama ought to be consorted. like all composers, he longed to write an opera, and it is not at all unlikely that, like mendelssohn after him, he was deterred by the general tendency of the opera books of his day. certain it is that though he received a commission for an opera early in the year 1803, it was not until an opera on the story which is also that of "fidelio" had been brought out at dresden that he made a definitive choice of a subject. the production which may have infuenced him was that of ferdinando paër's" leonora, ossia l'amore conjugale," which was brought forward at dresden, where its composer was conductor of the opera, on october 3, 1804. this opera was the immediate predecessor of beethoven's, but it also had a predecessor in a french opera, "léonore, ou l'amour conjugal," of which the music was composed by pierre gaveaux, a musician of small but graceful gifts, who had been a tenor singer before he became a composer. this opera had its first performance on february 19, 1798, and may also have been known to beethoven, or have been brought to his notice while he was casting about for a subject. at any rate, though it was known as early as june, 1803, that beethoven intended to compose an opera for the theater an der wien, and had taken lodgings with his brother caspar in the theatre building more than two months before, it was not until the winter of 1804 that the libretto of "fidelio" was placed in his hands. it was a german version of the french book by bouilly, which had been made by joseph sonnleithner, an intimate friend of schubert, founder of the gesellschaft der musikfreunde, who had recently been appointed secretary of the austrian court theatres as successor of kotzebue. beethoven had gone to live in the theatre building for the purpose of working on the opera for schikaneder, but early in 1804 the theater an der wien passed out of his hands into those of baron von braun. the intervening summer had been passed by the composer at baden and unter döbling in work upon the "eroica" symphony. the check upon the operatic project was but temporary. baron von braun took schikaneder into his service and renewed the contract with beethoven. this accomplished, the composer resumed his lodgings in the theatre and began energetically to work upon the opera. let two facts be instanced here to show how energetically and how painstakingly he labored. when he went into the country in the early summer, as was his custom, he carried with him 346 pages of sketches for the opera, sixteen staves on a page; and among these sketches were sixteen openings of florestan's great air, which may be said to mark the beginning of the dramatic action in the opera. for the rest of the history of the opera i shall draw upon the preface to "fidelio," which i wrote some years ago for the vocal score in the schirmer collection. the score was finished, including the orchestration, in the summer of 1805, and on beethoven's return to vienna, rehearsals were begun. it was the beginning of a series of trials which made the opera a child of sorrow to the composer. the style of the music was new to the singers, and they pronounced it unsingable. they begged him to make changes, but beethoven was adamant. the rehearsals became a grievous labor to all concerned. the production was set down for november 20, but when the momentous day came, it found vienna occupied by the french troops, bonaparte at schönbrunn and the capital deserted by the emperor, the nobility, and most of the wealthy patrons of art. the performance was a failure. besides the french occupation, two things were recognized as militating against the opera's success:--the music was not to the taste of the people, and the work was too long. repetitions followed on november 21 and 22, but the first verdict was upheld. beethoven's distress over the failure was scarcely greater than that of his friends, though he was, perhaps, less willing than they to recognize the causes that lay in the work itself. a meeting was promptly held in the house of prince lichnowsky and the opera taken in hand for revision. number by number it was played on the pianoforte, sung, discussed. beethoven opposed vehemently nearly every suggestion made by his well-meaning friends to remedy the defects of the book and score, but yielded at last and consented to the sacrifice of some of the music and a remodelling of the book for the sake of condensation, this part of the task being intrusted to stephan von breuning, who undertook to reduce the original three acts to two. {1} when once beethoven had been brought to give his consent to the proposed changes, he accepted the result with the greatest good humor; it should be noted, however, that when the opera was put upon the stage again, on march 29, 1806, he was so dilatory with his musical corrections that there was time for only one rehearsal with orchestra. in the curtailed form "fidelio" (as the opera was called, though beethoven had fought strenuously from the beginning for the retention of the original title, "leonore") made a distinctly better impression than it had four months before, and this grew deeper with the subsequent repetitions; but beethoven quarrelled with baron von braun, and the opera was withdrawn. an attempt was made to secure a production in berlin, but it failed, and the fate of "fidelio" seemed to be sealed. it was left to slumber for more than seven years; then, in the spring of 1814, it was taken up again. naturally, another revision was the first thing thought of, but this time the work was intrusted to a more practised writer than beethoven's childhood friend. georg friedrich treitschke was manager and librettist for baron von braun, and he became beethoven's collaborator. the revision of the book was completed by march, 1814, and beethoven wrote to treitschke: "i have read your revision of the opera with great satisfaction. it has decided me to rebuild the desolate ruins of an ancient fortress." treitschke rewrote much of the libretto, and beethoven made considerable changes in the music, restoring some of the pages that had been elided at the first overhauling. in its new form "fidelio" was produced at the theater am kärnthnerthor on may 23, 1814. it was a successful reawakening. on july 18 the opera had a performance for beethoven's benefit; moscheles made a pianoforte score under the direction of the composer, who dedicated it to his august pupil, the archduke rudolph, and it was published in august by artaria. the history of "fidelio," interesting as it is, need not be pursued here further than to chronicle its first performances in the english and american metropoles. london heard it first from chelard's german company at the king's theatre on may 18, 1832. it was first given in english at covent garden on june 12, 1835, with malibran as leonore, and in italian at her majesty's on may 20, 1851, when the dialogue was sung in recitative written by balfe. there has scarcely ever been a german opera company in new york whose repertory did not include "fidelio," but the only performances for many years after it came were in english. a company of singers brought from england by miss inverarity to the park theatre produced it first on september 19, 1839. the parts were distributed as follows: leonore, mrs. martyn (miss inverarity); marcellina, miss poole; florestan, mr. manvers; pizarro, mr. giubilei; and rocco, mr. martyn. the opera was performed every night for a fortnight. such a thing would be impossible now, but lest some one be tempted to rail against the decadent taste of to-day, let it quickly be recorded that somewhere in the opera--i hope not in the dungeon scene--mme. giubilei danced a pas de deux with paul taglioni. beethoven composed four overtures for "fidelio," but a description of them will best follow comment on the drama and its music. some two years before the incident which marks the beginning of the action, don pizarro, governor of a state prison in spain, not far from seville, has secretly seized florestan, a political opponent, whose fearless honesty threatened to frustrate his wicked designs, and immured him in a subterranean cell in the prison. his presence there is known only to pizarro and the jailer rocco, who, however, knows neither the name nor the rank of the man whom, under strict command, he keeps in fetters and chained to a stone in the dimly lighted dungeon, which he alone is permitted to visit. florestan's wife, leonore, suspecting the truth, has disguised herself in man's attire and, under the name of fidelio, secured employment in the prison. to win the confidence of rocco, she has displayed so much zeal and industry in his interests that the old man, whose one weakness is a too great love of money, gives the supposed youth a full measure of admiration and affection. fidelio's beauty and gentleness have worked havoc with the heart of marcellina, the jailer's pretty daughter, who is disposed to cast off jaquino, the turnkey, upon whose suit she had smiled till her love for fidelio came between. rocco looks with auspicious eye upon the prospect of having so industrious and thrifty a son-in-law as fidelio promises to be to comfort his old age. the action now begins in the courtyard of the prison, where, before the jailer's lodge, marcellina is performing her household duties--ironing the linen, to be specific. jaquino, who has been watching for an opportunity to speak to her alone (no doubt alarmed at the new posture which his love affair is assuming), resolves to ask her to marry him. the duet, quite in the mozartian vein, breathes simplicity throughout; plain people, with plain manners, these, who express simple thoughts in simple language. jaquino begins eagerly:-[musical excerpt--"jetzt, schätzchen, jetzt sind wir allein, wir könnon vertraulich nun plaudern."] but marcellina affects to be annoyed and urges him to come to the point at once. quite delicious is the manner in which beethoven delineates jaquino's timid hesitation:-[musical excerpt--"ich--ich habe"] jaquino's wooing is interrupted by a knocking at the door (realistically reproduced in the music) [musical excerpt] and when he goes to open the wicket, marcellina expresses no sympathy for his sufferings, but ecstatically proclaims her love for fidelio as the reason why she must needs say nay. and this she does, not amiably or sympathetically, but pettishly and with an impatient reiteration of "no, no, no, no!" in which the bassoon drolly supports her. a second knocking at the door, then a third, and finally she is relieved of her tormentor by rocco, who calls him out into the garden. left alone, marcellina sings her longing for fidelio and pictures the domestic bliss which shall follow her union with him. rocco and jaquino enter, and close after them leonore, wearied by the weight of some chains which she had carried to the smith for repairs. she renders an account for purchases of supplies, and her thrift rejoices the heart of rocco, who praises her zeal in his behalf and promises her a reward. her reply, that she does not do her duty merely for the sake of wage, he interprets as an allusion to love for his daughter. the four now give expression to their thoughts and emotions. marcellina indulges her day-dream of love; leonore reflects upon the dangerous position in which her disguise has placed her; jaquino observes with trepidation the disposition of rocco to bring about a marriage between his daughter and fidelio. varied and contrasting emotions, these, yet beethoven has cast their expression in the mould of a canon built on the following melody, which is sung in turn by each of the four personages:-[musical excerpt] from a strictly musical point of view the fundamental mood of the four personages has thus the same expression, and this beethoven justifies by making the original utterance profoundly contemplative, not only by the beautiful subject of the canon, but by the exalted instrumental introduction--one of those uplifting, spiritualized slow movements which are typical of the composer. this feeling he enhances by his orchestration--violas and violoncellos divided, and basses--in a way copying the solemn color with more simple means which mozart uses in his invocation of the egyptian deities in "the magic flute." having thus established this fundamental mood, he gives liberty of individual utterance in the counterpoint melodies with which each personage embroiders the original theme when sung by the others. neither rocco nor marcellina seems to think it necessary to consult leonore in the matter, taking her acquiescence for granted. between themselves they arrange that the wedding shall take place when next pizarro makes his monthly visit to seville to give an account of his stewardship, and the jailer admonishes the youthful pair to put money in their purses in a song of little distinction, but containing some delineative music in the orchestra suggesting the rolling and jingling of coins. having been made seemingly to agree to the way of the maid and her father, leonore seeks now to turn it to the advantage of her mission. she asks and obtains the jailer's permission to visit with him the cells in which political prisoners are kept--all but one, in which is confined one who is either a great criminal or a man with powerful enemies ("much the same thing," comments rocco). of him even the jailer knows nothing, having resolutely declined to hear his story. however, his sufferings cannot last much longer, for by pizarro's orders his rations are being reduced daily; he has been all but deprived of light, and even the straw which had served as a couch has been taken from him. and how long has he been imprisoned? over two years. "two years! "leonore almost loses control of her feelings. now she urges that she must help the jailer wait upon him. "i have strength and courage." the old man is won over. he will ask the governor for permission to take fidelio with him to the secret cells, for he is growing old, and death will soon claim him. the dramatic nerve has been touched with the first allusion to the mysterious the matter, taking her acquiescence for granted. between themselves they arrange that the wedding shall take place when next pizarro makes his monthly visit to seville to give an account of his stewardship, and the jailer admonishes the youthful pair to put money in their purses in a song of little distinction, but containing some delineative music in the orchestra suggesting the rolling and jingling of coins. having been made seemingly to agree to the way of the maid and her father, leonore seeks now to turn it to the advantage of her mission. she asks and obtains the jailer's permission to visit with him the cells in which political prisoners are kept--all but one, in which is confined one who is either a great criminal or a man with powerful enemies ("much the same thing," comments rocco). of him even the jailer knows nothing, having resolutely declined to hear his story. however, his sufferings cannot last much longer, for by pizarro's orders his rations are being reduced daily; he has been all but deprived of light, and even the straw which had served as a couch has been taken from him. and how long has he been imprisoned? over two years. "two years!" leonore almost loses control of her feelings. now she urges that she must help the jailer wait upon him. "i have strength and courage." the old man is won over. he will ask the governor for permission to take fidelio with him to the secret cells, for he is growing old, and death will soon claim him. the dramatic nerve has been touched with the first allusion to the mysterious prisoner who is being slowly tortured to death, and it is thrilling to note how beethoven's genius (so often said to be purely epical) responds. in the trio which follows, the dialogue which has been outlined first intones a motif which speaks merely of complacency:-[musical excerpt--"gut, söhnchen, gut hab' immer"] no sooner does it reach the lips of leonore, however, than it becomes the utterance of proud resolve:-[musical excerpt--"ich habe muth!"] and out of it grows a hymn of heroic daring. marcellina's utterances are all concerned with herself, with an admixture of solicitude for her father, whose lugubrious reflections on his own impending dissolution are gloomily echoed in the music:-[musical excerpt--"ich bin ja bald des grabes beute"] a march accompanies the entrance of pizarro. {2} pizarro receives his despatches from rocco, and from one of the letters learns that the minister of justice, having been informed that several victims of arbitrary power are confined in the prisons of which he is governor, is about to set out upon a tour of inspection. such a visit might disclose the wrong done to florestan, who is the minister's friend and believed by him to be dead, and pizarro resolves to shield himself against the consequences of such a discovery by compassing his death. he publishes his resolution in a furious air, "ha! welch' ein augenblick!" in which he gloats over the culmination of his revenge upon his ancient enemy. it is a terrible outpouring of bloodthirsty rage, and i have yet to hear the singer who can cope with its awful accents. here, surely, beethoven asks more of the human voice than it is capable of giving. quick action is necessary. the officer of the guard is ordered to post a trumpeter in the watch-tower, with instructions to give a signal the moment a carriage with outriders is seen approaching from seville. rocco is summoned, and pizarro, praising his courage and fidelity to duty, gives him a purse as earnest of riches which are to follow obedience. the old man is ready enough until he learns that what is expected of him is [musical excerpt--"morden!"] whereupon he revolts, nor is he moved by pizarro's argument that the deed is demanded by the welfare of the state. foiled in his plan of hiring an assassin, pizarro announces that he will deal the blow himself, and commands that a disused cistern be opened to receive the corpse of his victim. the duet which is concerned with these transactions is full of striking effects. the orchestra accompanies rocco's description of the victim as "one who scarcely lives, but seems to float like a shadow" with chords which spread a cold, cadaverous sheen over the words, while the declamation of "a blow!--and he is dumb," makes illustrative pantomime unnecessary. leonore has overheard all, and rushes forward on the departure of the men to express her horror at the wicked plot, and proclaim her trust in the guidance and help of love as well as her courageous resolve to follow its impulses and achieve the rescue of the doomed man. the scene and air in which she does this ("abscheulicher! wo eilst du hin?") is now a favorite concert-piece of all dramatic singers; but when it was written its difficulties seemed appalling to fräulein milder (afterward the famous frau milder-hauptmann), who was the original leonore. a few years before haydn had said to her, "my dear child, you have a voice as big as a house," and a few years later she made some of her finest successes with the part; but in the rehearsals she quarrelled violently with beethoven because of the unsingableness of passages in the adagio, of which, no doubt, this was one:-[musical excerpt--"sie wird's erreichen"] and when called upon, in 1814, to re-create the part which had been written expressly for her, she refused until beethoven had consented to modify it. everything is marvellous in the scena--the mild glow of orchestral color delineating the bow of promise in the recitative, the heart-searching, transfigurating, prayerful loveliness of the slow melody, the obbligato horn parts, the sweep of the final allegro, all stand apart in operatic literature. at leonore's request, and presuming upon the request which pizarro had made of him, rocco permits the prisoners whose cells are above ground to enjoy the light and air of the garden, defending his action later, when taken to task by pizarro, on the plea that he was obeying established custom in allowing the prisoners a bit of liberty on the name-day of the king. in an undertone he begs his master to save his anger for the man who is doomed to die. meanwhile leonore convinces herself that her husband is not among the prisoners who are enjoying the brief respite, and is overjoyed to learn that she is to accompany rocco that very day to the mysterious subterranean dungeon. with the return of the prisoners to their cells, the first act ends. an instrumental introduction ushers in the second act. it is a musical delineation of florestan's surroundings, sufferings, and mental anguish. the darkness is rent by shrieks of pain; harsh, hollow, and threatening sound the throbs of the kettle-drums. the parting of the curtain discloses the prisoner chained to his rocky couch. he declaims against the gloom, the silence, the deathly void surrounding him, but comforts himself with the thought that his sufferings are but the undeserved punishment inflicted by an enemy for righteous duty done. the melody of the slow part of his air, which begins thus, [musical excerpt--"in des lebens frühlingstaten ist das glück von mir gefloh'n."] will find mention again when the overtures come under discussion. his sufferings have overheated his fancy, and, borne upon cool and roseate breezes, he sees a vision of his wife, leonore, come to comfort and rescue him. his exaltation reaches a frenzy which leaves him sunk in exhaustion on his couch. rocco and leonore come to dig his grave. melodramatic music accompanies their preparation, and their conversation while at work forms a duet. sustained trombone tones spread a portentous atmosphere, and a contra-bassoon adds weight and solemnity to the motif which describes the labor of digging:-[musical excerpt] they have stopped to rest and refresh themselves, when florestan becomes conscious and addresses rocco. leonore recognizes his voice as that of her husband, and when he pleads for a drink of water, she gives him, with rocco's permission, the wine left in her pitcher, then a bit of bread. a world of pathos informs his song of gratitude. pizarro comes to commit the murder, but first he commands that the boy be sent away, and confesses his purpose to make way with both fidelio and rocco when once the deed is done. he cannot resist the temptation to disclose his identity to florestan, who, though released from the stone, is still fettered. the latter confronts death calmly, but as pizarro is about to plunge the dagger into his breast, leonore (who had concealed herself in the darkness) throws herself as a protecting shield before him. pizarro, taken aback for a moment, now attempts to thrust leonore aside, but is again made to pause by her cry, "first kill his wife!" consternation and amazement seize all and speak out of their ejaculations. determined to kill both husband and wife, pizarro rushes forward again, only to see a pistol thrust into his face, hear a shriek, "another word, and you are dead!" and immediately after the trumpet signal which, by his own command, announces the coming of the minister of justice:-[musical excerpt] pizarro is escorted out of the dungeon by rocco and attendants with torches, and the reunited lovers are left to themselves and their frenetic rejoicings. surrounded by his guard, the populace attracted by his coming, and the prisoners into whose condition he had come to inquire, don fernando metes out punishment to the wicked pizarro, welcomes his old friend back to liberty and honor, and bids leonore remove his fetters as the only person worthy of such a task. the populace hymn wifely love and fidelity. mention has been made of the fact that beethoven wrote four overtures for his opera. three of these are known as overtures "leonore no. 1," "leonore no. 2," and "leonore no. 3"--"leonore" being the title by which the opera was known at the unfortunate first performance. the composer was never contented with the change to "fidelio" which was made, because of the identity of the story with the "leonore" operas, of gaveaux and paër. much confusion has existed in the books (and still exists, for that matter) touching the order in which the four overtures were composed. the early biographers were mistaken on that point, and the blunder was perpetuated by the numbering when the scores were published. the true "leonore no. 1," is the overture known in the concert-room, where it is occasionally heard, as "leonore no. 2." this was the original overture to the opera, and was performed at the three representations in 1805. the overture called "leonore no. 3" was the result of the revision undertaken by beethoven and his friends after the failure. in may, 1807, the german opera at prague was established and "fidelio" selected as one of the works to be given. evidently beethoven was dissatisfied both with the original overture and its revision, for he wrote a new one, in which he retained the theme from florestan's air, but none of the other themes used in nos. 2 and 3. the performances at prague did not take place, and nobody knows what became of the autograph score of the overture. when beethoven's effects were sold at auction after his death, tobias haslinger bought a parcel of dances and other things in manuscript. among them were a score and parts of an overture in c, not in beethoven's handwriting, but containing corrections made by him. it bore no date, and on a violin part beethoven had written first "overtura, violino imo." later he had added words in red crayon to make it read, "overtura in c, charakteristische overture, violino imo." on february 7, 1828, the composition was played at a concert in vienna, but notwithstanding the reminiscence of florestan's air, it does not seem to have been associated with the opera, either by haslinger or the critics. before 1832, when haslinger published the overture as op. 138, however, it had been identified, and, not unnaturally, the conclusion was jumped at that it was the original overture. that known as "leonore no. 2" having been withdrawn for revision by beethoven himself, was not heard of till 1840, when it was performed at a gewandhaus concert in leipsic. for the revival of the opera in 1814 beethoven composed the overture in e major, now called the "fidelio" overture, and generally played as an introduction to the opera, the much greater "leonore no. 3" being played either between the acts, or, as by mahler in new york and vienna, between the two scenes of the second act, where it may be said it distinctly has the effect of an anticlimax. the thematic material of the "leonore" overtures nos. 2 and 3 being practically the same, careless listeners may easily confound one with the other. nevertheless, the differences between the two works are many and great, and a deep insight into the workings of beethoven's mind would be vouchsafed students if they were brought into juxtaposition in the concert-room. the reason commonly given for the revision of no. 2 (the real no. 1) is that at the performance it was found that some of the passages for wind instruments troubled the players; but among the changes made by beethoven, all of which tend to heighten the intensity of the overture which presents the drama in nuce may be mentioned the elision of a recurrence to material drawn from his principal theme between the two trumpet-calls, and the abridgment of the development or free fantasia portion. finally, it may be stated that though the "fidelio" overture was written for the revival of 1814, it was not heard at the first performance in that year. it was not ready, and the overture to "the ruins of athens" was played in its stead. footnotes: {1} as the opera is performed nowadays it is in three acts, but this division is the work of stage managers or directors who treat each of the three scenes as an act. at the metropolitan opera house, in new york, mr. mahler introduced a division of the first scene into two for what can be said to be merely picturesque effect, since the division is not demanded by the dramatic situation. {2} in mr. mahler's arrangement this march becomes entr'acte music to permit of a change of scene from the interior of the jailer's lodge to the courtyard of the prison prescribed in the book. chapter vi "faust" mm. michel carré and jules barbier, who made the book for gounod's opera "faust," went for their subject to goethe's dramatic poem. out of that great work, which had occupied the mind of the german poet for an ordinary lifetime, the french librettists extracted the romance which sufficed them--the story of gretchen's love for the rejuvenated philosopher, her seduction and death. this romance is wholly the creation of goethe; it has no place in any of the old legends which are at the bottom of the history of dr. faust, or faustus. those legends deal with the doings of a magician who has sold his soul to the devil for the accomplishment of some end on which his ambition is set. there are many such legends in mediaeval literature, and their fundamental thought is older than christianity. in a sense, the idea is a product of ignorance and superstition combined. in all ages men whose learning and achievements were beyond the comprehension of simple folk were thought to have derived their powers from the practice of necromancy. the list is a long one, and includes some of the great names of antiquity. the imagination of the middle ages made bondsmen of the infernal powers out of such men as zoroaster, democritus, empedocles, apollonius, virgil, albertus magnus, merlin, and paracelsus. in the sixth century theophilus of syracuse was said to have sold himself to the devil and to have been saved from damnation only by the miraculous intervention of the virgin mary, who visited hell and bore away the damnable compact. so far as his bond was concerned, theophilus was said to have had eight successors among the popes of rome. architects of cathedrals and engineers of bridges were wont, if we believe popular tales, to barter their souls in order to realize their great conceptions. how do such notions get into the minds of the people? i attempted not an answer but an explanation in a preface to gounod's opera published by schirmer some years ago, which is serving me a good turn now. for the incomprehensible the supernatural is the only accounting. these things are products of man's myth-making capacity and desire. with the advancement of knowledge this capacity and desire become atrophied, but spring into life again in the presence of a popular stimulant. the superstitious peasantry of bavaria beheld a man in league with the devil in the engineer who ran the first locomotive engine through that country, more recently, i am told, the same people conceived the notion that the prussian needle-gun, which had wrought destruction among their soldiery a the war of 1866, was an infernal machine for which bismarck had given the immortal part of himself. when printing was invented, it was looked upon in a double sense as a black art, and it was long and widely believed that johann fust, or faust, of mayence, the partner of gutenberg, was the original dr. johann faustus (the prototype of goethe's faust), who practised magic toward the end of the fifteenth and at the beginning of the sixteenth century, made a compact with mephistopheles, performed many miraculous feats, and died horribly at the last. but fust, or faust, was a rich and reputable merchant of mayence who provided capital to promote the art of gutenberg and schöffer, and mr. h. sutherland edwards, who gossips pleasantly and at great length about the faust legends in volume i of his book, "the lyrical drama," indulges a rather wild fancy when he considers it probable that he was the father of the real mediaeval in carnation of the ancient superstition. the real faust had been a poor lad, but money inherited from a rich uncle enabled him to attend lectures at the university of cracow, where he seems to have devoted himself with particular assiduity to the study of magic, which had at that period a respectable place in the curriculum. having obtained his doctorial hat, he travelled through europe practising necromancy and acquiring a thoroughly bad reputation. to the fact that this man actually lived, and lived such a life as has been described, we have the testimony of a physician, philip begardi; a theologian, johann gast, and no less a witness than philip melanchthon, the reformer. martin luther refers to faust in his "table talk" as a man lost beyond all hope of redemption; melanchthon, who says that he talked with him, adds: "this sorcerer faust, an abominable beast, a common sewer of many devils (turpissima bestia et cloaca multorum diabolorum), boasted that he had enabled the imperial armies to win their victories in italy." the literary history of faust is much too long to be even outlined here; a few points must suffice us. in a book published in frankfort in 1587 by a german writer named spiess, the legend received its first printed form. an english ballad on the subject appeared within a year. in 1590 there came a translation of the entire story, which was the source from which marlowe drew his "tragical history of the life and death of dr. faustus," brought forward on the stage in 1593 and printed in 1604. new versions of the legend followed each other rapidly, and faust became a favorite character with playwrights, romancers, and poets. toward the end of the eighteenth century, when goethe conceived the idea of utilizing the subject for publishing his comprehensive philosophy of human life, it seems to have held possession of a large portion of literary germany. all together, it was in the mind of the great poet from his adolescence till his death; but while he was working on his original plan, literary versions of the legend were published by twenty-eight german authors, including lessing, whose manuscript, unhappily, was lost. goethe had known the legend from childhood, when he had seen puppet-plays based on it--these plays being the vulgar progeny of marlowe's powerful tragedy, which is still an ornament of english literature. music was a part of these puppet-plays. in the first one that fell into my hands i find the influence of opera manifest in recitatives and airs put into the mouth of mephistopheles, and comic songs sung by kasperle, the punch of the german marionette fraternity. the love tale which furnished forth the entire opera book of mm. carré and barbier is, as i have said, wholly the invention of goethe. there is the shadowy form of a maiden in some of the versions of the legend, but not a hint of the romantic sentiment so powerfully and pathetically set forth by the poet. nor did the passion either for good or evil play a part in the agreement between faust and the devil. that agreement covered five points only: faust pledged himself to deny god, hate the human race, despise the clergy, never set foot in a church, and never get married. so far from being a love episode in the story, when faustus, in the old book by spiess, once expressed a wish to abrogate the last condition, mephistopheles refused him permission on the ground that marriage is something pleasing to god, and for that reason in contravention of the contract. "hast thou," quoth mephistopheles, "sworn thyself an enemy to god and to all creatures? to this i answer thee, thou canst not marry; thou canst not serve two masters, god and thy prince. for wedlock is a chief institution ordained of god, and that thou hast promised to defy as we do all, and that thou hast not only done, but, moreover, thou hast confirmed it with thy blood. persuade thyself that what thou hast done in contempt of wedlock, it is all to thine own delight. therefore, faustus, look well about thee and bethink thyself better, and i wish thee to change thy mind, for if thou keep not what thou hast promised in thy writing, we will tear thee in pieces, like the dust under thy feet. therefore, sweet faustus, think with what unquiet life, anger, strife, and debate thou shalt live in when thou takest a wife. therefore, change thy mind." faustus abandons his purpose for the time being, but within two hours summons his spirit again and demands his consent to marriage; whereupon up there comes a whirlwind, which fills the house with fire and smoke and hurls faustus about until he is unable to stir hand or foot. also there appears an ugly devil, so dreadful and monstrous to behold that faustus dares not look upon him. this devil is in a mood for jesting. "how likest thou thy wedding?" he asks of faustus, who promises not to mention marriage more, and is well content when mephistopheles engages to bring him any woman, dead or alive, whom he may desire to possess. it is in obedience to this promise that helen of troy is brought back from the world of shades to be faustus's paramour. by her he has a son, whom he calls justus faustus, but in the end, when faustus loses his life, mother and child vanish. goethe uses the scene of the amour between faust and the ancient beauty in the second part of his poem as does boito in his "mefistofele," charging it with the beautiful symbolism which was in the german poet's mind. in the polish tale of pan twardowsky, built on the lines of the old legend, there is a more amusing fling at marriage. in return for the help which he is to receive, the polish wizard has the privilege of demanding three duties of the devil. after enjoying to the full the benefits conferred by two, he commands the devil to marry mme. twardowska. this is more than the devil had bargained for, or is willing to perform. he refuses; the contract is broken, and twardowsky is saved. the story may have inspired thackeray's amusing tale in "the paris sketch-book," entitled "the painter's bargain." for the facts in the story of the composition and production of gounod's opera, we have the authority of the composer in his autobiography. in 1856 he made the acquaintance of jules barbier and michel carré, and asked them to collaborate with him in an opera. they assenting, he proposed goethe's "faust" as a subject, and it met with their approval. together they went to see m. carvalho, who was then director of the théâtre lyrique. he, too, liked the idea of the opera, and the librettists went to work. the composer had written nearly half of the score, when m. carvaiho brought the disconcerting intelligence that a grand melodrama treating the subject was in preparation at the théâtre de la porte saint-martin. carvalho said that it would be impossible to get the opera ready before the appearance of the melodrama, and unwise to enter into competition with a theatre the luxury of whose stage mounting would have attracted all paris before the opera could be produced. carvalho therefore advised a change of subject, which was such a blow to gounod that he was incapable of applying himself to work for a week. finally, carvalho came to the rescue with a request for a lyric comedy based on one of molière's plays. gounod chose "le médecin malgré lui," and the opera had its production at the théâtre lyrique on the anniversary of molière's birth, january 15, 1858. the melodrama at the porte saint-martin turned out to be a failure in spite of its beautiful pictures, and carvalho recurred to the opera, which had been laid aside, and gounod had it ready by july. he read it to the director in the greenroom of the theatre in that month, and mme. carvalho, wife of the director, who was present, was so deeply impressed with the rôle of marguerite that m. carvalho asked the composer's permission to assign it to her. "this was agreed upon," says gounod, "and the future proved the choice to be a veritable inspiration." rehearsals began in september, 1858, and soon developed difficulties. gounod had set his heart upon a handsome young tenor named guardi for the titular rôle, but he was found to be unequal to its demands. this caused such embarrassment that, it is said, gounod, who had a pretty voice and was rather fond of showing it, seriously pondered the feasibility of singing it himself. he does not tell us this in his autobiography, but neither does he tell us that he had chosen mme. ugalde for the part of marguerite, and that he yielded to m. carvalho in giving it to the director's wife because mme. ugalde had quarrelled with him (as prima donnas will), about massé's opera, "la fée carabosse," which preceded "faust" at the lyrique. the difficulty about the tenor rôle was overcome by the enlistment of m. barbot, an artist who had been a companion of carvalho's when he sang small parts at the opéra comique. he was now far past his prime, and a pensioned teacher at the conservatoire, but gounod bears witness that he "showed himself a great musician in the part of faust." of belanqué, who created the part of méphistophélès, gounod says that "he was an intelligent comedian whose play, physique, and voice lent themselves wonderfully to this fantastic and satanic personage." as for mme. carvalho, it was the opinion of the composer that, though her masterly qualities of execution and style had already placed her in the front rank of contemporary singers, no rôle, till marguerite fell to her lot, had afforded her opportunity to show in such measure "the superior phases of her talent, so sure, so refined, so steady, so tranquil--its lyric and pathetic qualities." it was a distinguished audience that listened to the first performance of "faust" on march 19, 1859. auber, berlioz, reyer, jules janin, perrin, émile ollivier, and many other men who had made their mark in literature, art, or politics sat in the boxes, and full as many more of equal distinction in the stalls. among these latter were delacroix, vernet, eugène giraud, pasdeloup, scudo, heugel, and jules lévy. the criticism of the journals which followed was, as usual, a blending of censure and praise. berlioz was favorably inclined toward the work, and, with real discrimination, put his finger on the monologue at the close of the third act ("il m'aime! quel trouble en mon coeur") as the best thing in the score. scudo gave expression to what was long the burden of the critical song in germany; namely, the failure of the authors to grasp the large conception of goethe's poem; but, with true gallic inconsistency, he set down the soldiers' chorus as a masterpiece. the garden scene, with its sublimated mood, its ecstasy of feeling, does not seem to have moved him; he thought the third act monotonous and too long. there was no demand for the score on the part of the french publishers, but at length choudens was persuaded to adventure 10,000 francs, one-half of an inheritance, in it. he was at that time an éditeur on a small scale, as well as a postal official, and the venture put him on the road to fortune. for the english rights gounod is said to have received only forty pounds sterling, and this only after the energetic championship of chorley, who made the english translation. the opera was given thirty-seven times at the théâtre lyrique. ten years after its first performance it was revised to fit the schemes of the grand opéra, and brought forward under the new auspices on march 3, 1869. mlle. christine nilsson was the new marguerite. no opera has since equalled the popularity of "faust" in paris. twenty-eight years after its first performance, gounod was privileged to join his friends in a celebration of its 500th representation. that was in 1887. eight years after, the 1000 mark was reached, and the 1250th parisian representation took place in 1902. two years before "faust" reached london, it was given in germany, where it still enjoys great popularity, though it is called "margarethe," in deference to the manes of goethe. within a few weeks in 1863 the opera had possession of two rival establishments in london. at her majesty's theatre it was given for the first time on june 11, and at the royal italian opera on july 2. on january 23, 1864, it was brought forward in mr. chorley's english version at her majesty's. the first american representation took place at the academy of music, new york, on november 25, 1863, the parts being distributed as follows: margherita, miss clara louise kellogg; siebel, miss henrietta sulzer; martha, miss fanny stockton; faust, francesco mazzoleni; mephistopheles, hanibal biachi; valentine, g. yppolito; wagner, d. coletti. it was sung in italian, won immediate popularity, and made money for max maretzek, who was at once the manager and the conductor of the company. forty years before an english version of goethe's tragedy (the first part, of course) had been produced at the bowery theatre, with the younger wallack as faust and charles hill as mephistopheles. the opera begins, like goethe's dramatic poem, after the prologue, with the scene in faust's study. the aged philosopher has grown weary of fruitless inquiry into the mystery of nature and its creator, and longs for death. he has just passed a night in study, and as the morning breaks he salutes it as his last on earth and pledges it in a cup of poison. as he is about to put the cup to his lips, the song of a company of maidens floats in at the window. it tells of the joy of living and loving and the beauty of nature and its inspirations. faust's hand trembles, strangely, unaccountably; again he lifts the cup, but only to pause again to listen to a song sung by a company of reapers repairing to the fields, chanting their gratitude to god for the loveliness surrounding them, and invoking his blessing. the sounds madden the despairing philosopher. what would prayer avail him? would it bring back youth and love and faith? no. accursed, therefore, be all things good--earth's pleasures, riches, allurements of every sort; the dreams of love; the wild joy of combat; happiness itself; science, religion, prayers, belief; above all, a curse upon the patience with which he had so long endured! he summons satan to his aid. méphistophélès answers the call, in the garb of a cavalier. his tone and bearing irritate faust, who bids him begone. the fiend would know his will, his desires. gold, glory, power?--all shall be his for the asking. but these things are not the heart's desire of faust. he craves youthfulness, with its desires and delights, its passions and puissance. méphistophélès promises all, and, when he hesitates, inflames his ardor with a vision of the lovely marguerite seated at her spinning-wheel. eagerly faust signs the compact--the devil will serve faust here, but below the relations shall be reversed. faust drinks a pledge to the vision, which fades away. in a twinkling the life-weary sage is transformed into a young man, full of eager and impatient strength. méphistophélès loses no time in launching faust upon his career of adventures. first, he leads him to a fair in a mediaeval town. students are there who sing the pleasures of drinking; soldiers, too, bent on conquest--of maidens or fortresses, all's one to them; old burghers, who find delight in creature comforts; maids and matrons, flirtatious and envious. all join in the merriest of musical hubbubs. valentin, a soldier who is about to go to the wars, commends his sister marguerite to the care of siebel, a gentle youth who loves her. wagner, a student, begins a song, but is interrupted by méphistophélès, who has entered the circle of merry-makers with faust, and who now volunteers to sing a better song than the one just begun. he sings of the calf of gold ("le veau d'or est toujours debout"), and the crowd delightedly shouts the refrain. the singer accepts a cup of wine, but, finding it not at all to his taste, he causes vintages to the taste of every one to flow from the cask which serves as a tavern sign. he offers the company a toast, "to marguerite!" and when valentin attempts to resent the insult to his sister with his sword, it breaks in his hand as he tries to penetrate a magic circle which méphistophélès draws around himself. the men now suspect the true character of their singular visitor, and turn the cruciform hilts of their swords against him, to his intense discomfort. with the return of the women the merrymaking is resumed. all join in a dance, tripping it gayly to one waltz sung by the spectators and another which rises simultaneously from the instruments. marguerite crosses the market-place on her way home from church. faust offers her his arm, but she declines his escort--not quite so rudely as goethe's gretchen does in the corresponding situation. faust becomes more than ever enamoured of the maiden, whom he had seen in the vision conjured up in the philosopher's study. méphistophélès is a bit amused at faust's first attempt at wooing, and undertakes to point the way for him. he leads him into the garden surrounding the cottage in which marguerite dwells. siebel had just been there and had plucked a nosegay for the maiden of his heart, first dipping his fingers in holy water, to protect them from the curse which méphistophélès had pronounced against them while parading as a fortune-teller at the fair. faust is lost in admiration at sight of the humble abode of loveliness and innocence, and lauds it in a romance ("salut! demeure chaste et pure"), but is taken aside by méphistophélès, who gives warning of the approach of marguerite, and places a casket of jewels beside the modest bouquet left by siebel. marguerite, seated at her spinning-wheel, alternately sings a stanza of a ballad ("il était un roi de thule") and speaks her amazed curiosity concerning the handsome stranger who had addressed her in the marketplace. she finds the jewels, ornaments herself with them, carolling her delight the while, and admiring the regal appearance which the gems lend her. here i should like to be pardoned a brief digression. years ago, while the german critics were resenting the spoliation of the masterpiece of their greatest poet by the french librettists, they fell upon this so-called jewel song ("air des bijoux," the french call it), and condemned its brilliant and ingratiating waltz measures as being out of keeping with the character of gretchen. in this they forgot that marguerite and gretchen are very different characters indeed. there is much of the tender grace of the unfortunate german maiden in the creation of the french authors, but none of her simple, almost rude, rusticity. as created by, let me say, mme. carvalho and perpetuated by christine nilsson and the painter ary scheffer, marguerite is a good deal of a grande dame, and against the german critics it might appositely be pleaded that there are more traces of childish ingenuousness in her rejoicing over the casket of jewels than in any of her other utterances. the episode is poetically justified, of course, by the eighth scene of goethe's drama, and there was not wanting one german writer who boldly came to the defence of marguerite on the ground that she moved on a higher moral plane than gretchen. the french librettists, while they emptied the character of much of its poetical contents, nevertheless made it in a sense more gentle, and gounod refined it still more by breathing an ecstasy into all of its music. goethe's gretchen, though she rejects faust's first advances curtly enough to be called impolite, nevertheless ardently returns faust's kiss on her first meeting with him in the garden, and already at the second (presumably) offers to leave her window open, and accepts the sleeping potion for her mother. it is a sudden, uncontrollable rush of passion to which marguerite succumbs. gretchen remains in simple amaze that such a fine gentleman as faust should find anything to admire in her, even after she has received and returned his first kiss; but marguerite is exalted, transfigured by the new feelings surging within her. il m'aime! quel trouble en mon coeur! l'oiseau chante! le vent murmure! toutes les voix de la nature semblent me répéter en choeur: il t'aime! i resume the story. martha, the neighborhood gossip, comes to encourage marguerite in a belief which she scarcely dares cherish, that the jewels had been left for her by some noble admirer, and her innocent pleasure is interrupted by the entrance of faust and méphistophélès. the latter draws martha away, and faust wooes the maiden with successful ardor. they have indulged in their first embrace, and said their farewells till to-morrow: faust is about to depart, when méphistophélès detains him and points to marguerite, who is burdening the perfumed air with her new ecstasy. he rushes to her, and, with a cry of delight, she falls into his arms. goethe's scene at the fountain becomes, in the hands of the french librettists, a scene in the chamber of marguerite. the deceived maiden is cast down by the jeers and mockings of her erstwhile companions, and comforted by siebel. it is now generally omitted. marguerite has become the talk of the town, and evil reports reach the ear of her brother valentin on his return from the wars with the victorious soldiery. valentin confronts faust and méphistophélès while the latter is singing a ribald serenade at marguerite's door. the men fight, and, through the machinations of méphistophélès, valentin is mortally wounded. he dies denouncing the conduct of marguerite, and cursing her for having brought death upon him. marguerite seeks consolation in religious worship; but the fiend is at her elbow even in the holy fane, and his taunts and the accusing chant of a choir of demons interrupt her prayers. the devil reveals himself in his proper (or improper) person at the end, and marguerite falls in a swoon. the walpurgis night scene of goethe furnished the suggestion for the ballet which fills the first three scenes of the fifth act, and which was added to the opera when it was remodelled for the grand opéra in 1869. the scene holds its place in paris, but is seldom performed elsewhere. a wild scene in the harz mountains gives way to an enchanted hail in which are seen the most famous courtesans of ancient history--phryne, laïs, aspasia, cleopatra, and helen of troy. the apparition of marguerite appears to faust, a red line encircling her neck, like the mark of a headsman's axe. we reach the end. the distraught maiden has slain her child, and now lies in prison upon her pallet of straw, awaiting death. faust enters and tries to persuade her to fly with him. her poor mind is all awry and occupies itself only with the scenes of her first meeting and the love-making in the garden. she turns with horror from her lover when she sees his companion, and in an agony of supplication, which rises higher and higher with each reiteration, she implores heaven for pardon. she sinks lifeless to the floor. méphistophélès pronounces her damned, but a voice from on high proclaims her saved. celestial voices chant the easter hymn, "christ is risen!" while a band of angels bear her soul heavenward. chapter vii "mefistofele" there is no reason to question gounod's statement that it was he who conceived the idea of writing a faust opera in collaboration with mm. barbier and carré. there was nothing novel in the notion. music was an integral part of the old puppet-plays which dealt with the legend of dr. faustus, and goethe's tragedy calls for musical aid imperatively. a musical pantomime, "harlequin faustus," was performed in london as early as 1715, and there were faust operas long before even the first part of goethe's poem was printed, which was a hundred and one years ago. a composer named phanty brought out an opera entitled "dr. faust's zaubergürtel" in 1790; c. hanke used the same material and title at flushing in 1794, and ignaz walter produced a "faust" in hanover in 1797. goethe's first part had been five years in print when spohr composed his "faust," but it is based not on the great german poet's version of the legend, but on the old sources. this opera has still life, though it is fitful and feeble, in germany, and was produced in london by a german company in 1840 and by an italian in 1852, when the composer conducted it; but i have never heard of a representation in america. between spohr's "faust," written in 1813 and performed in 1818, and boito's "mefistofele," produced in 1868, many french, german, english, italian, russian, and polish faust operas have come into existence, lived their little lives, and died. rietz produced a german "faust," founded on goethe, at düsseldorf, in 1836; lindpainter in berlin, in 1854; henry rowley bishop's english "faustus" was heard in london, in 1827; french versions were mlle. angélique bertin's "faust" (paris, 1831), and m. de pellaert's (brussels, 1834); italian versions were "fausta," by donizetti (mme. pasta and signor donzelli sang in it in naples in 1832), "fausto," by gordigiano (florence, 1837), and "il fausto arrivo," by raimondi (naples, 1837); the polish faust, twardowsky, is the hero of a russian opera by verstowsky (moscow, 1831), and of a polish opera by j. von zaitz (agram, 1880). how often the subject has served for operettas, cantatas, overtures, symphonies, etc., need not be discussed here. berlioz's "dramatic legend," entitled "la damnation de faust," tricked out with stage pictures by raoul gunsbourg, was performed as an opera at monte carlo in 1903, and in new york at the metropolitan and manhattan opera-houses in the seasons 1906-1907 and 1907-1908, respectively; but the experiment was unsuccessful, both artistically and financially. i have said that there is no reason to question gounod's statement that it was he who conceived the idea of writing the opera whose popularity is without parallel in the musical history of the faust legend; but, if i could do so without reflecting upon his character, i should like to believe a story which says that it was barbier who proposed the subject to gounod after meyerbeer, to whom he first suggested it, had declined the collaboration. i should like to believe this, because it is highly honorable to meyerbeer's artistic character, which has been much maligned by critics and historians of music since wagner set an example in that direction. "'faust,'" meyerbeer is reported to have replied to barbier's invitation, "is the ark of the covenant, a sanctuary not to be approached with profane music." for the composer who did not hesitate to make an opera out of the massacre of st. bartholomew, this answer is more than creditable. the germans, who have either felt or affected great indignation at the want of reverence for their great poet shown by the authors of "faust" and "mignon," ought to admire meyerbeer in a special degree for the moral loftiness of his determination and the dignified beauty of its expression. composers like kreutzer, reissiger, pierson, lassen, and prince radziwill have written incidental music for goethe's tragedy without reflecting that possibly they were profaning the sanctuary; but meyerbeer, compared with whom they were pygmies, withheld his hand, and thereby brought himself into sympathetic association with the only musician that ever lived who was completely equipped for so magnificent a task. that musician was beethoven, to whom rochlitz bore a commission for music to "faust" from breitkopf and härtel in 1822. the titan read the proposition and cried out: "ha! that would be a piece of work! something might come of that!" but declined the task because he had the choral symphony and other large plans on his mind. boito is not a beethoven nor yet a meyerbeer; but, though he did what neither of them would venture upon when he wrote a faust opera, he did it with complete and lovely reverence for the creation of the german poet. it is likely that had he had less reverence for his model and more of the stagecraft of his french predecessors his opera would have had a quicker and greater success than fell to its lot. of necessity it has suffered by comparison with the opera of barbier, carré, and gounod, though it was far from boito's intentions that it should ever be subjected to such a comparison. boito is rather more poet and dramatist than he is musician. he made the book not only of "mefistofele," but also of "otello" and "falstaff," which verdi composed, "la gioconda," for which ponchielli wrote the music, and "ero e leandro," which he turned over to bottesini, who set it with no success, and to mancinelli, who set it with little. one of the musical pieces which the poet composed for this last opera found its way into "mefistofele," for which work "ero e leandro" seems to have been abandoned. he also translated wagner's "tristan und isolde" into italian. being a poet in the first instance, and having the blood of the northern barbarians as well as the southern romans in his veins, he was unwilling to treat goethe's tragedy as the frenchman had treated it. the tearful tale of the love of the rejuvenated philosopher, and the village maiden, with its woful outcome, did not suffice him. though he called his opera "mefistofele," not "faust," he drew its scenes, of which only two have to do with marguerite (or gretchen), from both parts of goethe's allegorical and philosophical phantasmagoria. because he did this, he failed from one point of view. attempting too much, he accomplished too little. his opera is not a well-knit and consistently developed drama, but a series of episodes, which do not hold together and have significance only for those who know goethe's dramatic poem in its entirety. it is very likely that, as originally produced, "mefistofele" was not such a thing of shreds and patches as it now is. no doubt, it held together better in 1868, when it was ridiculed, whistled, howled, and hissed off the stage of the teatro la scala, than it did when it won the admiration of the italians in bologna twelve years later. in the interval it had been subjected to a revision, and, the first version never having been printed, the critical fraternity became exceedingly voluble after the success in bologna, one of the debated questions being whether boito had bettered his work by his voluminous excisions, interpolations, and changes (faust, now a tenor, was originally a barytone), or had weakly surrendered his better judgment to the taste of the hoi polloi, for the sake of a popular success. it was pretty fighting ground; it is yet, and will remain such so long as the means of comparison remain hidden and sentimental hero-worship is fed by the notion that boito has refused to permit the opera or operas which he has written since to be either published or performed because the world once refused to recognize his genius. this notion, equally convenient to an indolent man or a colossal egoist--i do not believe that boito is either--has been nurtured by many pretty stories; but, unhappily, we have had nothing to help us to form an opinion of boito as a creative artist since "mefistofele" appeared, except the opera books written for verdi and ponchielli and the libretto of "ero e leandro." boito's father was an italian, his mother a pole. from either one or both he might have inherited the intensity of expression which marks his works, both poetical and musical; but the tendency to philosophical contemplation which characterizes "mefistofele," even in the stunted form in which it is now presented, is surely the fruit of his maternal heritage and his studies in germany. after completing the routine of the conservatory in milan, he spent a great deal of time in paris and the larger german cities, engrossed quite as much in the study of literature as of music. had he followed his inclinations and the advice of victor hugo, who gave him a letter of introduction to émile de girardin, he would have become a journalist in paris instead of the composer of "mefistofele" and the poet of "otello," "falstaff," "la gioconda," and "ero e leandro." but girardin was too much occupied with his own affairs to attend to him when boito presented himself, and after waiting wearily, vainly, and long, he went to poland, where, for want of something else to do, he sketched the opera "mefistofele," which made its memorable fiasco at milan in march, 1868. to show that it is impossible to think of "mefistofele" except as a series of disconnected episodes, it suffices to point out that its prologue, epilogue, and four acts embrace a fantastic parody or perversion of goethe's prologue in heaven, a fragment of his easter scene, a smaller fragment of the scene in faust's study, a bit of the garden scene, the scene of the witches' gathering on the brocken, the prison scene, the classical sabbath in which faust is discovered in an amour with helen of troy, and the death and salvation of faust as an old man. can any one who knows that music, even of the modern dramatic type, in which strictly musical forms have given way to as persistent an onward flow as the text itself, must of necessity act as a clog on dramatic action, imagine that such a number and variety of scenes could be combined into a logical, consistent whole, compassed by four hours in performance? certainly not. but boito is not content to emulate goethe in his effort to carry his listeners "from heaven through the earth to hell"; he must needs ask them to follow him in his exposition of goethe's philosophy and symbolism. of course, that is impossible during a stage representation, and therefore he exposes the workings of his mind in an essay and notes to his score. from these we may learn, among other things, that the poet-composer conceives faust as the type of man athirst for knowledge, of whom solomon was the biblical prototype, prometheus the mythological, manfred and don quixote the predecessors in modern literature. also that mephistopheles is as inexhaustible as a type of evil as faust is as a type of virtue, and therefore that this picturesque stage devil, with all his conventionality, is akin to the serpent which tempted eve, the thersites of homer, and--mirabile dictu!--the falstaff of shakespeare! the device with which boito tried to link the scenes of his opera together is musical as well as philosophical. in the book which barbier and carré wrote for gounod, faust sells his soul to the devil for a period of sensual pleasure of indefinite duration, and, so far as the hero is concerned, the story is left unfinished. all that has been accomplished is the physical ruin of marguerite. méphistophélès exults for a moment in contemplation of the destruction, also, of the immortal part of her, but the angelic choir proclaims her salvation. faust departs hurriedly with méphistophélès, but whether to his death or in search of new adventures, we do not know. the germans are, therefore, not so wrong, after all, in calling the opera after the name of the heroine instead of that of the hero. in boito's book the love story is but an incident. faust's compact with mefistofele, as in goethe's dramatic poem, is the outcome of a wager between mefistofele and god, under the terms of which the spirit of evil is to be permitted to seduce faust from righteousness, if he can. faust's demand of mefistofele is rest from his unquiet, inquisitive mind; a solution of the dark problem of his own existence and that of the world; finally, one moment of which he can say, "stay, for thou art lovely! "the amour with margherita does not accomplish this, and so boito follows goethe into the conclusion of the second part of his drama, and shows faust, at the end, an old man about to die. he recalls the loves of margherita and helen, but they were insufficient to give him the desired moment of happiness. he sees a vision of a people governed by him and made happy by wise laws of his creation. he goes into an ecstasy. mefistofele summons sirens to tempt him; and spreads his cloak for another flight. but the chant of celestial beings falls into faust's ear, and he speaks the words which terminate the compact. he dies. mefistofele attempts to seize upon him, but is driven back by a shower of roses dropped by cherubim. the celestial choir chants redeeming love. thus much for the dramatic exposition. boito's musical exposition rests on the employment of typical phrases, not in the manner of wagner, indeed, but with the fundamental purpose of wagner. a theme:-[musical excerpt] which begins the prologue, ends the epilogue. the reader may label it as he pleases. its significance is obvious from the circumstances of its employment. it rings out fortissimo when the mystic chorus, which stands for the divine voice, puts the question, "knowest thou faust?" an angelic ascription of praise to the creator of the universe and to divine love is the first vocal utterance and the last. in his notes boito observes: "goethe was a great admirer of form, and his poem ends as it begins,--the first and last words of 'faust' are uttered in heaven." then he quotes a remark from blaze de bury's essay on goethe, which is apropos, though not strictly accurate: "the glorious motive which the immortal phalanxes sing in the introduction to the first part of 'faust' recurs at the close, garbed with harmonies and mystical clouds. in this goethe has acted like the musicians,--like mozart, who recurs in the finale of 'don giovanni' to the imposing phrase of the overture." m. de bury refers, of course, to the supernatural music, which serves as an introduction to the overture to "don giovanni," and accompanies the visitation of the ghostly statue and the death of the libertine. but this is not the end of mozart's opera as he wrote it, as readers of this book have been told. this prologue of "mefistofele" plays in heaven. "in the heavens," says theodore marzials, the english translator of boito's opera, out of deference to the religious sensibilities of the english people, to spare which he also changes "god" into "sprites," "spirits," "powers of good," and "angels." the effect is vastly diverting, especially when boito's paraphrase of goethe's von zeit zu zeit seh' ich den alten gern und hüte mich mit ihm zu brechen. es ist gar hübsch von einem grossen herrn, so menschlich mit dem teufel selbst zu sprechen. {1} is turned into: "now and again 'tis really pleasant thus to chat with the angels, and i'll take good care not to quarrel with them. 'tis beautiful to hear good and evil speak together with such humanity." the picture disclosed by the opening of the curtain is a mass of clouds, with mefistofele, like a dark blot, standing on a corner of his cloak in the shadow. the denizens of the celestial regions are heard but never seen. a trumpet sounds the fundamental theme, which is repeated in full harmony after instruments of gentler voice have sung a hymn-like phrase, as follows:-[musical excerpt] it is the first period of the "salve regina" sung by earthly penitents in the finale of the prologue. the canticle is chanted through, its periods separated by reiterations of the fundamental theme. a double chorus acclaims the lord of angels and saints. a plan, evidently derived from the symphonic form, underlies the prologue as a whole. prelude and chorus are rounded out by the significant trumpet phrase. one movement is completed. there follows a second movement, an instrumental scherzo, with a first section beginning thus:-[musical excerpt] and a trio. over this music mefistofele carries on converse with god. he begs to disagree with the sentiments of the angelic hymn. wandering about the earth, he had observed man and found him in all things contemptible, especially in his vanity begotten by what he called "reason"; he, the miserable little cricket, vaingloriously jumping out of the grass in an effort to poke his nose among the stars, then falling back to chirp, had almost taken away from the devil all desire to tempt him to evil doings. "knowest thou faust?" asks the divine voice; and mefistofele tells of the philosopher's insatiable thirst for wisdom. then he offers the wager. the scene, though brief, follows goethe as closely as goethe follows the author of the book of job:-now, there was a day when the sons of god came to present themselves before the lord, and satan came also among them. and the lord said unto satan, whence comest thou? then satan answered the lord and said, from going to and fro in the earth and from walking up and down in it. and the lord said unto satan, hast thou considered my servant job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth god and escheweth evil? then satan answered the lord, and said, doth job fear god for nought? . . . and the lord said unto satan, behold, all that he hath is in thy power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand. so satan went forth from the presence of the lord. boito treats the interview in what he calls a dramatic interlude, which gives way to the third movement, a vocal scherzo, starting off with a chorus of cherubim, who sing in fugacious thirds and droning dactyls:-[musical excerpt--"siam nimbi volanti dai limbi, nei santi"] it is well to note particularly boito's metrical device. he seemingly counted much on the effect of incessantly reiterated dactyls. not only do his cherubim adhere to the form without deviation, but helen and pantalis use it also in the scene imitated from goethe's classical walpurgis night,--use it for an especial purpose, as we shall see presently. rapid syllabication is also a characteristic of the song of the witches in the scene on the brocken; but the witches sing in octaves and fifths except when they kneel to do homage to mefistofele; then their chant sounds like the responses to john of leyden's prayer by the mutinous soldiers brought to their knees in "le prophète." not at all ineptly, mefistofele, who does not admire the cherubs, likens their monotonous cantillation to the hum of bees. a fourth movement consists of a concluding psalmody, in which the cherubs twitter, earthly penitents supplicate the virgin, and the combined choirs, celestial and terrestrial, hymn the creator. the tragedy now begins. boito changes the order of the scenes which he borrows from goethe, presenting first the merrymaking of the populace outside the walls of frankfort-on-the-main, and then the interview between faust and mefistofele, in which, as in the opening scene of gounod's opera, the infernal compact is agreed upon. there is some mediaeval pageantry in the first scene,--a cavalcade headed by the elector, and including dignitaries, pages, falconers, the court fool, and ladies of the court. students, townspeople, huntsmen, lads, and lasses pursue their pleasures, and up and down, through the motley groups, there wanders a gray friar, whose strange conduct repels some of the people, and whose pious garb attracts others. faust and wagner, his pupil, come upon the scene, conversing seriously, and stop to comment on the actions of the friar, who is approaching them, supposedly in narrowing circles. wagner sees nothing in him except a mendicant friar, but faust calls attention to the fact that to his eye, flames blaze up from his footprints. this friar is the "poodle" of goethe's poem, and mefistofele in disguise. it is thus that the devil presented himself to faustus in the old versions of the legend, and as a friar he is a more practicable dramatic figure than he would have been as a dog; but it cannot but provoke a smile from those familiar with goethe's poem to hear (as we do in the opera a few moments later) the familiar lines:- das also war des pudels kern! ein fahrender scolast? turned into: "this, then, was the kernel of the friar! a cavalier?" the music of the score is characterized by frequent changes from triple to double time, as illustrated in the opening measures: [musical excerpt] the rhythmical energy and propulsiveness thus imparted to the music of the merrymaking is heightened by the dance. peasants rush upon the scene with shouts of "juhé!" and make preparations to trip it while singing what, at first, promises to be a waltz-song:-[musical excerpt] the dance, however, is not a waltz, but an obertass--the most popular of the rustic dances of poland. why should boito have made his rhinelanders dance a step which is characteristically that of the poles? sticklers for historical verity could easily convict him of a most unpardonable anachronism, if they were so disposed, by pointing out that even if german peasants were in the habit of dancing the obertass now (which they are not), they could not have done it in the sixteenth century, which is the period of the drama, for the sufficient reason that the polish dance was not introduced in north germany till near the middle of the eighteenth century. but we need not inquire too curiously into details like this when it comes to so arbitrary an art-form as the opera. yet boito was his own poet, master of the situation so far as all parts of his work were concerned, and might have consulted historical accuracy in a department in which gluck once found that he was the slave of his ballet master. gluck refused to introduce a chaconne into "iphigénie en aulide." "a chaconne?" cried the composer. "when did the greeks ever dance a chaconne?" "didn't they?" replied vestris; "then so much the worse for the greeks!" a quarrel ensued, and gluck, becoming incensed, withdrew his opera and would have left paris had not marie antoinette come to the rescue. but vestris got his chaconne. in all likelihood boito put the obertass into "mefistofele" because he knew that musically and as a spectacle the polish dance would be particularly effective in the joyous hurly-burly of the scene. a secondary meaning of the polish word is said to be "confusion," and boito doubtless had this in mind when he made his peasants sing with an orderly disorder which is delightful:- tutti vanno alla rinfusa sulla musica confusa, or, as one english translation has it:- all is going to dire confusion with the music in collusion. [musical excerpt--"juhé, juhé! tutti vanno alla rinfusa"] perhaps, too, boito had inherited a love for the vigorous dance from his polish mother. night falls, and faust is returned to his laboratory. the gray friar has followed him (like goethe's poodle) and slips into an alcove unobserved. the philosopher turns to the bible, which lies upon a lectern, and falls into a meditation, which is interrupted by a shriek. he turns and sees the friar standing motionless and wordless before him. he conjures the apparition with the seal of solomon, and the friar, doffing cowl and gown, steps forward as a cavalier (an itinerant scholar in goethe). he introduces himself as a part of the power that, always thinking evil, as persistently accomplishes good--the spirit of negation. the speech ("son lo spirito che nega sempre") is one of the striking numbers of boito's score, and the grim humor of its "no! "seems to have inspired the similar effect in falstaff's discourse on honor in verdi's opera. the pair quickly come to an understanding on the terms already set forth. act ii carries us first into the garden of dame martha, where we find margherita strolling arm in arm with faust, and martha with mefistofele. the gossip is trying to seduce the devil into an avowal of love; margherita and faust are discussing their first meeting and the passion which they already feel for each other. boito's margherita has more of goethe's gretchen than gounod's marguerite. like the former, she wonders what a cavalier can find to admire in her simple self, and protests in embarrassment when faust (or enrico, as he calls himself) kisses her rough hand. like goethe's maiden, too, she is concerned about the religious beliefs of her lover, and boito's faust answers, like goethe's faust, that a sincere man dares protest neither belief nor unbelief in god. nature, love, mystery, life, god--all are one, all to be experienced, not labelled with a name. then he turns the talk on herself and her domestic surroundings, and presses the sleeping potion for her mother upon her. the scene ends with the four people scurrying about in a double chase among the flowers, for which boito found exquisitely dainty music. there is a change from the pretty garden of the first scene, with its idyllic music, to the gathering place of witches and warlocks, high up in the brocken, in the second. we witness the vile orgies of the bestial crew into whose circles faust is introduced, and see how mefistofele is acclaimed king and receives the homage. here boito borrows a poetical conceit from goethe's scene in the witches' kitchen, and makes it a vehicle for a further exposition of the character and philosophy of the devil. mefistofele has seated himself upon a rocky throne and been vested with the robe and symbols of state by the witches. now they bring to him a crystal globe, which he takes and discourses upon to the following effect (the translation is theodore t. barker's):- lo, here is the world! a bright sphere rising, setting, whirling, glancing, round the sun in circles dancing; trembling, toiling, yielding, spoiling, want and plenty by turn enfold it- this world, behold it! on its surface, by time abraded, dwelleth a vile race, defiled, degraded; abject, haughty, cunning, naughty, carrying war and desolation from the top to the foundation of creation. for them satan has no being; they scorn with laughter a hell hereafter, and heavenly glory as idle story. powers eternal! i'll join their laugh infernal thinking o'er their deeds diurnal. ha! ha! behold the world! he dashes the globe to pieces on the ground and thereby sets the witches to dancing. to the antics of the vile crew faust gives no heed; his eyes are fixed upon a vision of margherita, her feet in fetters, her body emaciated, and a crimson line encircling her throat. his love has come under the headsman's axe! in the ride to hell, which concludes berlioz's "damnation de faust," the infernal horsemen are greeted with shouts in a language which the mystical swedenborg says is the speech of the lower regions. boito also uses an infernal vocabulary. his witches screech "saboé har sabbah!" on the authority of le loyer's "les spectres." from the bestiality of the brocken we are plunged at the beginning of the third act into the pathos of margherita's death. the episode follows the lines laid down by barbier and carré in their paraphrase of goethe, except that for the sake of the beautiful music of the duet (which boito borrowed from his unfinished "ero e leandro"), we learn that margherita had drowned her child. faust urges her to fly, but her poor mind is all awry. she recalls the scene of their first meeting and of the love-making in dame martha's garden, and the earlier music returns, as it does in gounod's score, and as it was bound to do. at the end she draws back in horror from faust, after uttering a prayer above the music of the celestial choir, just as the executioner appears. mefistofele pronounces her damned, but voices from on high proclaim her salvation. the story of faust and margherita is ended, but, in pursuance of his larger plan, already outlined here, boito makes use of two scenes from the second part of goethe's drama to fill a fourth act and epilogue. they tell of the adventure of faust with helen of troy, and of his death and the demon's defeat. the "night of the classical sabbath" serves a dramatic purpose even less than the scene on the brocken, but as an intermezzo it has many elements of beauty, and its scheme is profoundly poetical. unfortunately we can only attain to a knowledge of the mission of the scene in the study with goethe's poem in hand and commentaries and boito's prefatory notes within reach. the picture is full of serene loveliness. we are on the shore of peneus, in the vale of tempe. the moon at its zenith sheds its light over the thicket of laurel and oleanders, and floods a doric temple on the left. helen of troy and pantalis, surrounded by a group of sirens, praise the beauty of nature in an exquisite duet, which flows on as placidly as the burnished stream. faust lies sleeping upon a flowery bank, and in his dreams calls upon helen in the intervals of her song. helen and pantalis depart, and faust is ushered in by mefistofele. he is clad in his proper mediaeval garb, in strong contrast to the classic robes of the denizens of the valley in thessaly. mefistofele suggests to faust that they now separate; the land of antique fable has no charm for him. faust is breathing in the idiom of helen's song like a delicate perfume which inspires him with love; mefistofele longs for the strong, resinous odors of the harz mountains, where dominion over the northern hags belongs to him. faust is already gone, and he is about to depart when there approaches a band of choretids. with gentle grace they move through a grecian dance, and mefistofele retires in disgust. helen returns profoundly disquieted by a vision of the destruction of troy, of which she was the cause. the choretids seek to calm her in vain, but the tortures of conscience cease when she sees faust before her. he kneels and praises her beauty, and she confesses herself enamoured of his speech, in which sound answers sound like a soft echo. "what," she asks, "must i do to learn so sweet and gentle an idiom?" "love me, as i love you," replies faust, in effect, as they disappear through the bowers. now let us turn to goethe, his commentators, and boito's explanatory notes to learn the deeper significance of the episode, which, with all its gracious charm, must still appear dramatically impertinent and disturbing. rhyme was unknown to the greeks, the music of whose verse came from syllabic quantity. helen and her companions sing in classic strain, as witness the opening duet:- la luna immobile innonda l'etere d'un raggio pallido. callido balsamo stillan le ramora dai cespi roridi; doridi e silfidi, cigni e nereidi vagan sul l'alighi. faust addresses helen in rhyme, the discovery of the romantic poets:- forma ideal purissima della bellezza eterna! un uom ti si prosterna innamorato al suolo volgi ver me la cruna di tua pupilla bruna, vaga come la luna, ardente come il sole. "here," says boito, "is a myth both beautiful and deep. helen and faust represent classic and romantic art gloriously wedded, greek beauty and germanic beauty gleaming under the same aureole, glorified in one embrace, and generating an ideal poesy, eclectic, new, and powerful." the contents of the last act, which shows us faust's death and salvation, have been set forth in the explanation of boito's philosophical purpose. an expository note may, however, profitably be added in the poet-composer's own words: "goethe places around faust at the beginning of the scene four ghostly figures, who utter strange and obscure words. what goethe has placed on the stage we place in the orchestra, submitting sounds instead of words, in order to render more incorporeal and impalpable the hallucinations that trouble faust on the brink of death." the ghostly figures referred to by boito are the four "gray women" of goethe--want, guilt, care, and necessity. boito thinks like a symphonist, and his purpose is profoundly poetical, but its appreciation asks more than the ordinary opera-goer is willing or able to give. {2} footnotes: {1} i like, at times, to hear the ancient's word, and have a care to be most civil: it's really kind of such a noble lord so humnanly to gossip with the devil. --bayard taylor's translation. {2} "mefistofele" had its first performance in new york at the academy of music on november 24, 1880. mlle. valleria was the margherita and elena, miss annie louise cary the marta and pantalis, signor campanini faust, and signor novara mefistofele. signor arditi conducted. the first representation of the opera at the metropolitan opera-house took place on december 5, 1883, when, with one exception, the cast was the same as at the first performance in london, at her majesty's theatre, on july 6, 1880--namely, nilsson as margherita and elena, trebelli as marta and pantalis, campanini as faust and mirabella as mefistofele. (in london nannetti enacted the demon.) cleofonte campanini, then maestro di cembalo at the metropolitan opera-house, conducted the performance. chapter viii "la damnation de faust" in an operatic form berlioz's "damnation de faust" had its first representation in new york at the metropolitan opera-house on december 7, 1906. despite its high imagination, its melodic charm, its vivid and varied colors, its frequent flights toward ideal realms, its accents of passion, its splendid picturesqueness, it presented itself as a "thing of shreds and patches." it was, indeed, conceived as such, and though berlioz tried by various devices to give it entity, he failed. when he gave it to the world, he called it a "dramatic legend," a term which may mean much or little as one chooses to consider it; but i can recall no word of his which indicates that he ever thought that it was fit for the stage. it was raoul gunsbourg, director of the opera at monte carlo, who, in 1903, conceived the notion of a theatrical representation of the legend and tricked it out with pictures and a few attempts at action. most of these attempts are futile and work injury to the music, as will presently appear, but in a few instances they were successful, indeed very successful. of course, if berlioz had wanted to make an opera out of goethe's drama, he could have done so. he would then have anticipated gounod and boito and, possibly, have achieved one of those popular successes for which he hungered. but he was in his soul a poet, in his heart a symphonist, and intellectually (as many futile efforts proved) incapable of producing a piece for the boards. when the faust subject first seized upon his imagination, he knew it only in a prose translation of goethe's poem made by gerald de nerval. in his "memoirs" he tells us how it fascinated him. he carried it about with him, reading it incessantly and eagerly at dinner, in the streets, in the theatre. in the prose translation there were a few fragments of songs. these he set to music and published under the title "huit scènes de faust," at his own expense. marx, the berlin critic, saw the music and wrote the composer a letter full of encouragement. but berlioz soon saw grave defects in his work and withdrew it from circulation, destroying all the copies which he could lay hands on. what was good in it, however, he laid away for future use. the opportunity came twenty years later, when he was fired anew with a desire to write music for goethe's poem. though he had planned the work before starting out on his memorable artistic travels, he seems to have found inspiration in the circumstance that he was amongst a people who were more appreciative of his genius than his own countrymen, and whose language was that employed by the poet. not more than one-sixth of his "eight scenes" had consisted of settings of the translations of m. de nerval. a few scenes had been prepared by m. gaudonnière from notes provided by the composer. the rest of the book berlioz wrote himself, now paraphrasing the original poet, now going to him only for a suggestion. as was the case with wagner, words and music frequently presented themselves to him simultaneously. travelling from town to town, conducting rehearsals and concerts, he wrote whenever and wherever he could--one number in an inn at passau, the elbe scene and the dance of the sylphs at vienna, the peasants' song by gaslight in a shop one night when he had lost his way in pesth, the angels' chorus in marguerite's apotheosis at prague (getting up in the middle of the night to write it down), the song of the students, "jam nox stellata velamina pandit" (of which the words are also berlioz's), at breslau. he finished the work in rouen and paris, at home, at his café, in the gardens of the tuilleries, even on a stone in the boulevard du temple. while in vienna he made an orchestral transcription of the famous rakoczy march (in one night, he says, though this is scarcely credible, since the time would hardly suffice to write down the notes alone). the march made an extraordinary stir at the concert in pesth when he produced it, and this led him to incorporate it, with an introduction, into his legend--a proceeding which he justified as a piece of poetical license; he thought that he was entitled to put his hero in any part of the world and in any situation that he pleased. this incident serves to indicate how lightly all dramatic fetters sat upon berlioz while "la damnation" was in his mind, and how little it occurred to him that any one would ever make the attempt to place his scenes upon the stage. in the case of the hungarian march, this has been done only at the sacrifice of berlioz's poetical conceit to which the introductory text and music were fitted; but of this more presently. as berlioz constructed the "dramatic legend," it belonged to no musical category. it was neither a symphony with vocal parts like his "roméo et juliette" (which has symphonic elements in some of its sections), nor a cantata, nor an oratorio. it is possible that this fact was long an obstacle to its production. even in new york where, on its introduction, it created the profoundest sensation ever witnessed in a local concert-room, it was performed fourteen times with the choral parts sung by the oratorio society before that organization admitted it into its lists. and now to tell how the work was fitted to the uses of the lyric theatre. nothing can be plainer to persons familiar with the work in its original form than that no amount of ingenuity can ever give the scenes of the "dramatic legend" continuity or coherency. boito, in his opera, was unwilling to content himself with the episode of the amour between faust and marguerite; he wanted to bring out the fundamental ethical idea of the poet, and he went so far as to attempt the prologue in heaven, the classical sabbath, and the death of faust with the contest for his soul. berlioz had no scruples of any kind. he chose his scenes from goethe's poem, changed them at will, and interpolated an incident simply to account for the hungarian march. connection with each other the scenes have not, and some of the best music belongs wholly in the realm of the ideal. at the outset berlioz conceived faust alone on a vast field in hungary in spring. he comments on the beauties of nature and praises the benison of solitude. his ruminations are interrupted by a dance of peasants and the passage of an army to the music of the rakoczy march. this scene m. gunsbourg changes to a picture of a mediaeval interior in which faust soliloquizes, and a view through the window of a castle with a sally-port. under the windows the peasants dance, and out of the huge gateway come the soldiery and march off to battle. at the climax of the music which drove the people of pesth wild at its first performance, so that berlioz confessed that he himself shuddered and felt the hair bristling on his head--when in a long crescendo fugued fragments of the march theme keep reappearing, interrupted by drum-beats like distant cannonading, gunsbourg's battalions halt, and there is a solemn benediction of the standards. then, to the peroration, the soldiers run, not as if eager to get into battle, but as if in inglorious retreat. the second scene reproduces the corresponding incident in gounod's opera--faust in his study, life-weary and despondent. he is about to drink a cup of poison when the rear wall of the study rolls up and discloses the interior of a church with a kneeling congregation which chants the easter canticle, "christ is risen!" here is one of the fine choral numbers of the work for which concert, not operatic, conditions are essential. the next scene, however, is of the opera operatic, and from that point of view the most perfect in the work. it discloses the revel of students, citizens, and soldiers in auerbach's cellar. brander sings the song of the rat which by good living had developed a paunch "like dr. luther's," but died of poison laid by the cook. the drinkers shout a boisterous refrain after each stanza, and supplement the last with a mock-solemn "requiescat in pace, amen." the phrase suggests new merriment to brander, who calls for a fugue on the "amen," and the roisterers improvise one on the theme of the rat song, which calls out hearty commendation from méphistophélès, and a reward in the shape of the song of the flea--a delightful piece of grotesquerie with its accompaniment suggestive of the skipping of the pestiferous little insect which is the subject of the song. the next scene is the triumph of m. gunsbourg, though for it he is indebted to miss loie fuller and the inventor of the aerial ballet. in the conceit of berlioz, faust lies asleep on the bushy banks of the elbe. méphistophélès summons gnomes and sylphs to fill his mind with lovely fancies. they do their work so well as to entrance, not only faust, but all who hear their strains, the instrumental ballet is a fairy waltz, a filmy musical fabric, seemingly woven of moonbeams and dewy cobwebs, over a pedal-point on the muted violoncellos, ending with drum taps and harmonics from the harp--one of the daintiest and most original orchestral effects imaginable. so dainty is the device, indeed, that one would think that nothing could come between it and the ears of the transported listeners without ruining the ethereal creation. but m. gunsbourg's fancy has accomplished the miraculous. out of the river bank he constructs a floral bower rich as the magical garden of klingsor. sylphs circle around the sleeper and throw themselves into graceful attitudes while the song is sounding. then to the music of the elfin waltz, others enter who have, seemingly, cast off the gross weight which holds mortals in contact with the earth. with robes a-flutter like wings, they dart upwards and remain suspended in mid-air at will or float in and out of the transporting picture. to faust is also presented a vision of marguerite. the next five scenes in berlioz's score are connected by m. gunsbourg and forced to act in sequence for the sake of the stage set, in which a picture of marguerite's chamber is presented in the conventional fashion made necessary by the exigency of showing an exterior and interior at the same time, as in the last act of "rigoletto." for a reason at which i cannot even guess, m. gunsbourg goes farther and transforms the chamber of marguerite into a sort of semi-enclosed arbor, and places a lantern in her hand instead of the lamp, so that she may enter in safety from the street. in this street there walk soldiers, followed by students, singing their songs. through them faust finds his way and into the trellised enclosure. the strains of the songs are heard at the last blended in a single harmony. marguerite enters through the street with her lantern and sings the romance of the king of thule, which berlioz calls a chanson gothique, one of the most original of his creations and, like the song in the next scene, "l'amour l'ardente flamme," which takes the place of goethe's "meine ruh' ist hin," is steeped in a mood of mystical tenderness quite beyond description. méphistophétès summons will-o'-the-wisps to aid in the bewilderment of the troubled mind of marguerite. here realism sadly disturbs the scene as berlioz asks that the fancy shall create it. the customary dancing lights of the stage are supplemented with electrical effects which are beautiful, if not new. they do not mar if they do not help the grotesque minuet. but when m. gunsbourg materializes the ghostly flames and presents them as a mob of hopping figures, he throws douches of cold water on the imagination of the listeners. later he spoils enjoyment of the music utterly by making it the accompaniment of some utterly irrelevant pantomime by marguerite, who goes into the street and is seen writhing between the conflicting emotions of love and duty, symbolized by a vision of faust and the glowing of a cross on the façade of a church. to learn the meaning of this, one must go to the libretto, where he may read that it is all a dream dreamed by marguerite after she had fallen asleep in her arm-chair. but we see her awake, not asleep, and it is all foolish and disturbing stuff put in to fill time and connect two of berlioz's scenes. marguerite returns to the room which she had left only in her dream, faust discovers himself, and there follows the inevitable love-duet which méphistophétès changes into a trio when he enters to urge faust to depart. meanwhile, marguerite's neighbors gather in the street and warn dame martha of the misdeeds of marguerite. the next scene seems to have been devised only to give an environment to berlioz's paraphrase of goethe's immortal song at the spinning-wheel. from the distance is heard the fading song of the students and the last echo of drums and trumpets sounding the retreat. marguerite rushes to the window, and, overcome, rather unaccountably, with remorse and grief, falls in a swoon. the last scene. a mountain gorge, a rock in the foreground surmounted by a cross. faust's soliloquy, "nature, immense, impénétrable et fière," was inspired by goethe's exalted invocation to nature. faust signs the compact, méphistophétès summons the infernal steeds, vortex and giaour, and the ride to hell begins. women and children at the foot of the cross supplicate the prayers of mary, magdalen, and margaret. the cross disappears in a fearful crash of sound, the supplicants flee, and a moving panorama shows the visions which are supposed to meet the gaze of the riders--birds of night, dangling skeletons, a hideous and bestial phantasmagoria at the end of which faust is delivered to the flames. the picture changes, and above the roofs of the sleeping town appears a vision of angels welcoming marguerite. chapter ix "la traviata" in music the saying that "familiarity breeds contempt," is true only of compositions of a low order. in the case of compositions of the highest order, familiarity generally breeds ever growing admiration. in this category new compositions are slowly received; they make their way to popular appreciation only by repeated performances. it is true that the people like best the songs as well as the symphonies which they know best; but even this rule has its exceptions. it is possible to grow indifferent to even high excellence because of constant association with it. especially is this true when the form--that is, the manner of expression--has grown antiquated; then, not expecting to find the kind of quality to which our tastes are inclined, we do not look for it, and though it may be present, it frequently passes unnoticed. the meritorious old is, therefore, just as much subject to non-appreciation as the meritorious new. let me cite an instance. once upon a time duty called me to the two opera-houses of new york on the same evening. at the first i listened to some of the hot-blooded music of an italian composer of the so-called school of verismo. thence i went to the second. verdi's "traviata" was performing. i entered the room just as the orchestra began the prelude to the last act. as one can see without observing, so one can hear without listening--a wise provision which nature has made for the critic, and a kind one; i had heard that music so often during a generation of time devoted to musical journalism that i had long since quit listening to it. but now my jaded faculties were arrested by a new quality in the prelude. i had always admired the composer of "rigoletto," "il trovatore," and "traviata," and i loved and revered the author of "aïda," "otello," and "falstaff." i had toddled along breathlessly in the trail made by his seven-league boots during the last thirty-five years of his career; but as i listened i found myself wondering that i had not noticed before that his modernity had begun before i had commenced to realize even what maternity meant--more than half a century ago, for "la traviata" was composed in 1853. the quivering atmosphere of violetta's sick-room seemed almost visible as the pathetic bit of hymnlike music rose upward from the divided viols of the orchestra like a cloud of incense which gathered itself together and floated along with the pathetic song of the solo violin. the work of palliating the character of the courtesan had begun, and on it went with each recurrence of the sad, sweet phrase as it punctuated the conversation between violetta and her maid, until memory of her moral grossness was swallowed up in pity for her suffering. conventional song-forms returned when poet and composer gave voice to the dying woman's lament for the happiness that was past and her agony of fear when she felt the touch of death's icy hand; but where is melody more truthfully eloquent than in "addio, del passato," and "gran dio! morir so giovane"? is it within the power of instruments, no matter how great their number, or harmony with all the poignancy which it has acquired through the ingenious use of dissonance, or of broken phrase floating on an instrumental flood, to be more dramatically expressive than are these songs? yet they are, in a way, uncompromisingly formal, architectural, strophic, and conventionally verdian in their repetition of rhythmical motives and their melodic formularies. this introduction to the third act recalls the introduction to the first, which also begins with the hymnlike phrase, and sets the key-note of pathos which is sounded at every dramatic climax, though pages of hurdy-gurdy tune and unmeaning music intervene. recall "ah, fors' è lui che l'anima," with its passionate second section, "a quell' amor," and that most moving song of resignation, "dite all' giovine." these things outweigh a thousand times the glittering tinsel of the opera and give "traviata" a merited place, not only beside the later creations of the composer, but among those latter-day works which we call lyric dramas to distinguish them from those which we still call operas, with commiserating emphasis on the word. that evening i realized the appositeness of dr. von bülow's remark to mascagni when the world seemed inclined to hail that young man as the continuator of verdi's operatic evangel: "i have found your successor in your predecessor, verdi," but it did not seem necessary to think of "otello" and "falstaff" in connection with the utterance; "la traviata" alone justifies it. also it was made plain what verdi meant, when after the first performance of his opera, and its monumental fiasco, he reproached his singers with want of understanding of his music. the story of that fiasco and the origin of the opera deserve a place here. "la traviata," as all the world knows, is based upon the book and drama, "la dame aux camélias," by the younger dumas, known to americans and englishmen as "camille." the original book appeared in 1848, the play in 1852. verdi witnessed a performance of the play when it was new. he was writing "il trovatore" at the time, but the drama took so strong a hold upon him that he made up his mind at once to turn it into an opera. as was his custom, he drafted a plan of the work, and this he sent to piave, who for a long time had been his librettist in ordinary. francesco maria piave was little more than a hack-writer of verse, but he knew how to put verdi's ideas into practicable shape, and he deserves to be remembered with kindly interest as the great composer's collaborator in the creation of "i due foscari," "ernani," "macbetto," "il corsaro," "stiffclio," "simon boccanegra," "aroldo" (a version of "stiffelio"), and "la forza del destino." his artistic relations with verdi lasted from 1844 to 1862, but the friendship of the men endured till the distressful end of piave's life, which came in 1876. he was born three years earlier than verdi (in 1810), in durano, of which town his father had been the last podesta under the venetian republic. he went mad some years before he died, and thenceforward lived off verdi's bounty, the warm-hearted composer not only giving him a pension, but also caring for his daughter after his death. in 1853 verdi's creative genius was at flood-tide. four months was the time which he usually devoted to the composition of an opera, but he wrote "la traviata" within four weeks, and much of the music was composed concurrently with that of "il trovatore." this is proved by the autograph, owned by his publishers, the ricordis, and there is evidence of the association in fraternity of phrase in some of the uninteresting pages of the score. (see "morrò! la mia memoria" for instance, and the dance measures with their trills.) "il trovatore" was produced at rome on january 19, 1853, and "la traviata" on march 6 of the same year at the fenice theatre in venice. "il trovatore" was stupendously successful; "la traviata" made a woful failure. verdi seems to have been fully cognizant of the causes which worked together to produce the fiasco, though he was disinclined at the time to discuss them. immediately after the first representation he wrote to muzio: "'la traviata' last night a failure. was the fault mine or the singers'? time will tell." to vincenzo luccardi, sculptor, professor at the academy of san luca in rome, one of his most intimate friends, he wrote after, the second performance: "the success was a fiasco--a complete fiasco! i do not know whose fault it was; it is best not to talk about it. i shall tell you nothing about the music, and permit me to say nothing about the performers." plainly, he did not hold the singers guiltless. varesi, the barytone, who was intrusted with the part of the elder germont, had been disaffected, because he thought it beneath his dignity. nevertheless, he went to the composer and offered his condolences at the fiasco. verdi wanted none of his sympathy. "condole with yourself and your companions who have not understood my music," was his somewhat ungracious rejoinder. no doubt the singers felt some embarrassment in the presence of music which to them seemed new and strange in a degree which we cannot appreciate now. abramo basevi, an italian critic, who wrote a book of studies on verdi's operas, following the fashion set by lenz in his book on beethoven, divides the operas which he had written up to the critic's time into examples of three styles, the early operas marking his first manner and "luisa miller" the beginning of his second. in "la traviata" he says verdi discovered a third manner, resembling in some things the style of french oéera comique. "this style of music," he says, "although it has not been tried on the stage in italy, is, however, not unknown in private circles. in these latter years we have seen luigi gordigiani and fabio campana making themselves known principally in this style of music, called da camera. verdi, with his 'traviata,' has transported this chamber-music on to the stage, to which the subject he has chosen still lends itself, and with happy success. we meet with more simplicity in this work than in the others of the same composer, especially as regards the orchestra, where the quartet of stringed instruments is almost always predominant; the parlanti occupy a great part of the score; we meet with several of those airs which repeat under the form of verses; and, finally, the principal vocal subjects are for the most part developed in short binary and ternary movements, and have not, in general, the extension which the italian style demands." campana and gordigiani were prolific composers of romanzas and canzonettas of a popular type. their works are drawing-room music, very innocuous, very sentimental, very insignificant, and very far from the conception of chamber-music generally prevalent now. how they could have been thought to have influenced so virile a composer as verdi, it is difficult to see. but musical critics enjoy a wide latitude of observation. in all likelihood there was nothing more in dr. basevi's mind than the strophic structure of "di provenza," the song style of some of the other arias to which attention has been called and the circumstance that these, the most striking numbers in the score, mark the points of deepest feeling. in this respect, indeed, there is some relationship between "la traviata" and "der freischütz"--though this is an observation which will probably appear as far-fetched to some of my critics as dr. basevi's does to me. there were other reasons of a more obvious and external nature for the failure of "la traviata" on its first production. lodovico graziani, the tenor, who filled the rôle of alfredo, was hoarse, and could not do justice to the music; signora salvini-donatelli, the violetta of the occasion, was afflicted with an amplitude of person which destroyed the illusion of the death scene and turned its pathos into absurdity. the spectacle of a lady of mature years and more than generous integumental upholstery dying of consumption was more than the venetian sense of humor could endure with equanimity. the opera ended with shrieks of laughter instead of the lachrymal flood which the music and the dramatic situation called for. this spirit of irreverence had been promoted, moreover, by the fact that the people of the play wore conventional modern clothes. the lure of realism was not strong in the lyric theatres half a century ago, when laces and frills, top-boots and plumed hats, helped to confine the fancy to the realm of idealism in which it was believed opera ought to move. the first result of the fiasco was a revision of the costumes and stage furniture, by which simple expedient mr. dumas's marguerite gauthier was changed from a courtesan of the time of louis philippe to one of the period of louis xiv. it is an amusing illustration of how the whirligig of time brings its revenges that the spirit of verismo, masquerading as a desire for historical accuracy, has restored the period of the dumas book,--that is, restored it in name, but not in fact,--with the result, in new york and london at least, of making the dress of the opera more absurd than ever. violetta, exercising the right which was conquered by the prima donna generations ago, appears always garbed in the very latest style, whether she be wearing one of her two ball dresses or her simple afternoon gown. for aught that i know, the latest fad in woman's dress may also be hidden in the dainty folds of the robe de chambre in which she dies. the elder germont has for two years appeared before the new york public as a well-to-do country gentleman of provence might have appeared sixty years ago, but his son has thrown all sartorial scruples to the wind, and wears the white waistcoat and swallowtail of to-day. the venetians were allowed a year to get over the effects of the first representations of "la traviata," and then the opera was brought forward again with the new costumes. now it succeeded and set out upon the conquest of the world. it reached london on may 24, st. petersburg on november 1, new york on december 3, and paris on december 6--all in the same year, 1856. the first violetta in new york was mme. anna la grange, the first alfredo signor brignoli, and the first germont père signor amodio. there had been a destructive competition between max maretzek's italian company at the academy of music and a german company at niblo's garden. the regular italian season had come to an end with a quarrel between maretzek and the directors of the academy. the troupe prepared to embark for havana, but before doing so gave a brief season under the style of the la grange opera company, and brought forward the new opera on december 3, three days before the parisians were privileged to hear it. the musical critic of the tribune at the time was mr. w. h. fry, who was not only a writer on political and musical subjects, but a composer, who wrote an opera, "leonora," in which mme. la grange sang at the academy about a year and a half later. his review of the first performance of "la traviata," which appeared in the tribune of december 5, 1856, is worth reading for more reasons than one:-the plot of "la traviata" we have already given to our readers. it is simply "camille." the first scene affords us some waltzing music, appropriate in its place, on which a (musical) dialogue takes place. the waltz is not specially good, nor is there any masterly outworking of detail. a fair drinking song is afforded, which pleased, but was not encored. a pretty duet by mme. de la grange and signor brignoli may be noticed also in this act; and the final air, by madame de la grange, "ah! fors' e lui che l'anima," contained a brilliant, florid close which brought down the house, and the curtain had to be reraised to admit of a repetition. act ii admits of more intensified music than act i. a brief air by alfred (brignoli) is followed by an air by germont (amodio), and by a duet, violetta (la grange) and germont. the duet is well worked up and is rousing, passionate music. verdi's mastery of dramatic accent--of the modern school of declamation--is here evident. some dramatic work, the orchestra leading, follows--bringing an air by germont, "di provenza il mar." this is a 2-4 travesty of a waltz known as weber's last waltz (which, however, weber never wrote); and is too uniform in the length of its notes to have dramatic breadth or eloquence. a good hit is the sudden exit of alfred thereupon, not stopping to make an andiamo duet as is so often done. the next scene introduces us to a masquerade where are choruses of quasi-gypsies, matadors, and picadors,--sufficiently characteristic. the scene after the card-playing, which is so fine in the play, is inefficient in music. act iii in the book (though it was made act iv on this occasion by subdividing the second) reveals the sick-room of traviata. a sweet air, minor and major by turns, with some hautboy wailing, paints the sufferer's sorrows. a duet by the lovers, "parigi, o cara," is especially original in its peroration. the closing trio has due culmination and anguish, though we would have preferred a quiet ending to a hectic shriek and a doubly loud force in the orchestra. goldsmith's rule in "the vicar" for criticising a painting was always to say that "the picture would have been better if the painter had taken more pains." perhaps the same might be said about "la traviata"; but whether it would have pleased the public more is another question. some of the airs certainly would bear substitution by others in the author's happier vein. the opera was well received. three times the singers were called before the curtain. the piece was well put on the stage. madame la grange never looked so well. her toilet was charming. the principal incidents of dumas's play are reproduced with general fidelity in the opera. in the first act there are scenes of gayety in the house of violetta--dancing, feasting, and love-making. among the devotees of the courtesan is alfredo germont, a young man of respectable provençal family. he joins in the merriment, singing a drinking song with violetta, but his devotion to her is unlike that of his companions. he loves her sincerely, passionately, and his protestations awaken in her sensations never felt before. for a moment, she indulges in a day-dream of honest affection, but banishes it with the reflection that the only life for which she is fitted is one devoted to the pleasures of the moment, the mad revels rounding out each day, and asking no care of the moment. but at the last the voice of alfredo floats in at the window, burdening the air and her heart with an echo of the longing to which she had given expression in her brief moment of thoughtfulness. she yields to alfredo's solicitations and a strangely new emotion, and abandons her dissolute life to live with him alone. in the second act the pair are found housed in a country villa not far from paris. from the maid alfredo learns that violetta has sold her property in the city--house, horses, carriages, and all--in order to meet the expenses of the rural establishment. conscience-smitten, he hurries to paris to prevent the sacrifice, but in his absence violetta is called upon to make a much greater. giorgio germont, the father of her lover, visits her, and, by appealing to her love for his son and picturing the ruin which is threatening him and the barrier which his illicit association with her is placing in the way of the happy marriage of his sister, persuades her to give him up. she abandons home and lover, and returns to her old life in the gay city, making a favored companion of the baron duphol. in paris, at a masked ball in the house of flora, one of her associates, alfredo finds her again, overwhelms her with reproaches, and ends a scene of excitement by denouncing her publicly and throwing his gambling gains at her feet. baron duphol challenges alfredo to fight a duel. the baron is wounded. the elder germont sends intelligence of alfredo's safety to violetta, and informs her that he has told his son of the great sacrifice which she had made for love of him. violetta dies in the arms of her lover, who had hurried to her on learning the truth, only to find her suffering the last agonies of disease. in the preface to his novel, dumas says that the principal incidents of the story are true. it has also been said that dickens was familiar with them, and at one time purposed to make a novel on the subject; but this statement scarcely seems credible. such a novel would have been un-english in spirit and not at all in harmony with the ideals of the author of "david copperfield" and "dombey and son." play and opera at the time of their first production raised questions of taste and morals which have remained open ever since. whether the anathema periodically pronounced against them by private and official censorship helps or hinders the growth of such works in popularity, there is no need of discussing here. there can scarcely be a doubt, however, but that many theatrical managers of to-day would hail with pleasure and expectation of profit such a controversy over one of their new productions as greeted "la traviata" in london. the lord chamberlain had refused to sanction the english adaptations of "la dame aux camélias," and when the opera was brought forward (performance being allowed because it was sung in a foreign language), pulpit and press thundered in denunciation of it. mr. lumley, the manager of her majesty's theatre, came to the defence of the work in a letter to the times, but it was more his purpose to encourage popular excitement and irritate curiosity than to shield the opera from condemnation. he had every reason to be satisfied with the outcome. "la traviata" had made a complete fiasco, on its production in italy, where no one dreamed of objecting to the subject-matter of its story; in london there was a loud outcry against the "foul and hideous horrors of the book," and the critics found little to praise in the music; yet the opera scored a tremendous popular success, and helped to rescue her majesty's from impending ruin. chapter x "aida" two erroneous impressions concerning verdi's "aïda" may as well as not be corrected at the beginning of a study of that opera: it was not written to celebrate the completion of the suez canal, nor to open the italian opera-house at cairo, though the completion of the canal and the inauguration of the theatre were practically contemporaneous with the conception of the plan which gave the world one of verdi's finest and also most popular operas. it is more difficult to recall a season in any of the great lyric theatres of the world within the last thirty-five years in which "aïda" was not given than to enumerate a score of productions with particularly fine singers and imposing mise en scène. with it verdi ought to have won a large measure of gratitude from singers and impresarios as well as the fortune which it brought him; for though, like all really fine works, it rewards effort and money bestowed upon it with corresponding and proportionate generosity, it does not depend for its effectiveness on extraordinary vocal outfit or scenic apparel. fairly well sung and acted and respectably dressed, it always wins the sympathies and warms the enthusiasm of an audience the world over. it is seldom thought of as a conventional opera, and yet it is full of conventionalities which do not obtrude themselves simply because there is so much that is individual about its music and its pictures--particularly its pictures. save for the features of its score which differentiate it from the music of verdi's other operas and the works of his predecessors and contemporaries, "aïda" is a companion of all the operas for which meyerbeer set a model when he wrote his works for the académie nationale in paris--the great pageant operas like "le prophète," "lohengrin," and goldmark's "queen of sheba." with the last it shares one element which brings it into relationship also with a number of much younger and less significant works--operas like mascagni's "iris," puccini's "madama butterfly," and giordano's "siberia." in the score of "aïda" there is a slight infusion of that local color which is lavishly employed in decorating its externals. the pomp and pageantry of the drama are egyptian and ancient; the play's natural and artificial environment is egyptian and ancient; two bits of its music are oriental, possibly egyptian, and not impossibly ancient. but in everything else "aïda" is an italian opera. the story plays in ancient egypt, and its inventor was an archaeologist deeply versed in egyptian antiquities, but i have yet to hear that mariette bey, who wrote the scenario of the drama, ever claimed an historical foundation for it or pretended that anything in its story was characteristically egyptian. circumstances wholly fortuitous give a strong tinge of antiquity and nationalism to the last scene; but, if the ancient egyptians were more addicted than any other people to burying malefactors alive, the fact is not of record; and the picture as we have it in the opera was not conceived by mariette bey, but by verdi while working hand in hand with the original author of the libretto, which, though designed for an italian performance, was first written in french prose. the italian theatre in cairo was built by the khedive, ismaïl pacha, and opened in november, 1869. it is extremely likely that the thought of the advantage which would accrue to the house, could it be opened with a new piece by the greatest of living italian opera composers, had entered the mind of the khedive or his advisers; but it does not seem to have occurred to them in time to insure such a work for the opening. nevertheless, long before the inauguration of the theatre a letter was sent to verdi asking him if he would write an opera on an egyptian subject, and if so, on what terms. the opportunity was a rare one, and appealed to the composer, who had written "les vêpres siciliennes" and "don carlos" for paris, "la forza del destino" for st. petersburg, and had not honored an italian stage with a new work for ten years. but the suggestion that he state his terms embarrassed him. so he wrote to his friend muzio and asked him what to do. muzio had acquired much more worldly wisdom than ever came to the share of the great genius, and he replied sententiously: "demand 4000 pounds sterling for your score. if they ask you to go and mount the piece and direct the rehearsals, fix the sum at 6000 pounds." verdi followed his friend's advice, and the khedive accepted the terms. at first the opera people in cairo thought they wanted only the score which carried with it the right of performance, but soon they concluded that they wanted also the presence of the composer, and made him, in vain, munificent offers of money, distinctions, and titles. his real reason for not going to prepare the opera and direct the first performance was a dread of the voyage. to a friend he wrote that he feared that if he went to cairo they would make a mummy of him. under the terms of the agreement the khedive sent him 50,000 francs at once, and deposited the balance of 50,000 francs in a bank, to be paid over to the composer on delivery of the score. the story of "aïda" came from mariette bey, who was then director of the egyptian museum at boulak. auguste édouard mariette was a frenchman who, while an attaché of the louvre, in 1850, had gone on a scientific expedition to egypt for the french government and had discovered the temple of serapis at memphis. it was an "enormous structure of granite and alabaster, containing within its enclosure the sarcophagi of the bulls of apis, from the nineteenth dynasty to the time of the roman supremacy." after his return to paris, he was appointed in 1855 assistant conservator of the egyptian museum in the louvre, and after some further years of service, he went to egypt again, where he received the title of bey and an appointment as director of the museum at boulak. bayard taylor visited him in 1851 and 1874, and wrote an account of his explorations and the marvellous collection of antiquities which he had in his care. mariette wrote the plot of "aïda," which was sent to verdi, and at once excited his liveliest interest. camille du locle, who had had a hand in making the books of "les vêpres siciliennes" and "don carlos" (and who is also the librettist of reyer's "salammbô"), went to verdi's home in italy, and under the eye of the composer wrote out the drama in french prose. it was he who gave the world the information that the idea of the double scene in the last act was conceived by verdi, who, he says, "took a large share in the work." the drama, thus completed, was translated into italian verse by antonio ghislanzoni, who, at the time, was editor of the gazetta musicale, a journal published in milan. in his early life ghislanzoni was a barytone singer. he was a devoted friend and admirer of verdi's, to whom he paid a glowing tribute in his book entitled "reminiscenze artistiche." he died some fifteen or sixteen years ago, and some of his last verses were translations of tennyson's poems. the khedive expected to hear his opera by the end of 1870, but there came an extraordinary disturbance of the plan, the cause being nothing less than the war between france and germany. the scenery and costumes, which had been made after designs by french artists, were shut up in paris. at length, on december 24, 1871, the opera had its first performance at cairo. considering the sensation which the work created, it seems strange that it remained the exclusive possession of cairo and a few italian cities so long as it did, but a personal equation stood in the way of a performance at the grand opéra, where it properly belonged. the conduct of the conductor and musicians at the production of "les vêpres siciliennes" had angered verdi; and when m. halanzier, the director of the académie nationale, asked for the opera in 1873, his request was refused. thus it happened that the théâtre italien secured the right of first performance in paris. it was brought out there on april 22, 1876, and had sixty-eight representations within three years. the original king in the french performance was édouard de reszke. it was not until march 22, 1880, that "aïda" reached the grand opéra. m. vaucorbeil, the successor of halanzier, visited verdi at his home and succeeded in persuading him not only to give the performing rights to the national institution, but also to assist in its production. maurel was the amonasro of the occasion. the composer was greatly fêted, and at a dinner given in his honor by president grévy was made a grand officer of the national order of the legion of honor. the opening scene of the opera is laid at memphis, a fact which justifies the utmost grandeur in the stage furniture, and is explained by mariette's interest in that place. it was he who helped moderns to realize the ancient magnificence of the city described by diodorus. it was the first capital of the united kingdom of upper and lower egypt, the chief seat of religion and learning, the site of the temples of ptah, isis, serapis, phra, and the sacred bull apis. mariette here, on his first visit to egypt, unearthed an entire avenue of sphinxes leading to the serapeum, over four thousand statues, reliefs, and inscriptions, eight gigantic sculptures, and many other evidences of a supremely great city. he chose his scenes with a view to an exhibition of the ancient grandeur. in a hall of the royal palace, flanked by a colonnade with statues and flowering shrubs, and commanding a view of the city's palaces and temples and the pyramids, radames, an egyptian soldier, and ramfis, a high priest, discuss a report that the ethiopians are in revolt in the valley of the nile, and that thebes is threatened. the high priest has consulted isis, and the goddess has designated who shall be the leader of egypt's army against the rebels. an inspiring thought comes into the mind of radames. what if he should be the leader singled out to crush the rebellion, and be received in triumph on his return? a consummation devoutly to be wished, not for his own glory alone, but for the sake of his love, aïda, whose beauty he sings in a romance ("celeste aïda") of exquisite loveliness and exaltation. amneris, the daughter of the king of egypt (mariette gives him no name, and so avoids possible historical complications), enters. she is in love with radames, and eager to know what it is that has so illumined his visage with joy. he tells her of his ambition, but hesitates when she asks him if no gentler dream had tenanted his heart. aïda approaches, and the perturbation of her lover is observed by amneris, who affects love for her slave (for such aïda is), welcomes her as a sister, and bids her tell the cause of her grief. aïda is the daughter of ethiopia's king; but she would have the princess believe that her tears are caused by anxiety for egypt's safety. the king appears with ramfis and a royal retinue, and learns from a messenger that the ethiopians have invaded egypt and, under their king, amonasro, are marching on thebes. the king announces that isis has chosen radames to be the leader of egypt's hosts. amneris places the royal banner in his eager hand, and to the sounds of a patriotic march he is led away to the temple of ptah (the egyptian vulcan), there to receive his consecrated armor and arms. "return a victor!" shout the hosts, and aïda, carried away by her love, joins in the cry; but, left alone, she reproaches herself for impiousness in uttering words which imply a wish for the destruction of her country, her father, and her kinsmen. (scena: "ritorna vincitor.") yet could she wish for the defeat and the death of the man she loves? she prays the gods to pity her sufferings ("numi, pieta"). before a colossal figure of the god in the temple of ptah, while the sacred fires rise upward from the tripods, and priestesses move through the figures of the sacred dance or chant a hymn to the creator, preserver, giver, of life and light, the consecrated sword is placed in the hands of radames. it is in this scene that the local color is not confined to externals alone, but infuses the music as well. very skilfully verdi makes use of two melodies which are saturated with the languorous spirit of the east. the first is the invocation of ptah, chanted by an invisible priestess to the accompaniment of a harp:-[musical excerpt--"possente, possente ftha, del mondo spirito animator ah! noi t'in vo chiamo."] the second is the melody of the sacred dance:-[musical excerpt] the tunes are said to be veritable oriental strains which some antiquary (perhaps mariette himself) put into the hands of verdi. the fact that their characteristic elements were nowhere else employed by the composer, though he had numerous opportunities for doing so, would seem to indicate that verdi was chary about venturing far into the territory of musical nationalism. perhaps he felt that his powers were limited in this direction, or that he might better trust to native expression of the mood into which the book had wrought him. the limitation of local color in his music is not mentioned as a defect in the opera, for it is replaced at the supreme moments, especially that at the opening of the third act, with qualities far more entrancing than were likely to have come from the use of popular idioms. yet, the two oriental melodies having been mentioned, it is well to look at their structure to discover the source of their singular charm. there is no mystery as to the cause in the minds of students of folk-song. the tunes are evolved from a scale so prevalent among peoples of eastern origin that it has come to be called the oriental scale. its distinguishing characteristic is an interval, which contains three semitones:-[musical excerpt] the interval occurring twice in this scale is enclosed in brackets. its characteristic effect is most obvious when the scale is played downward. a beautiful instance of its artistic use is in rubinstein's song "der asra." the ancient synagogal songs of the jews are full of it, and it is one of the distinguishing marks of the folk-songs of hungary (the other being rhythmical), as witness the "rakoczy march." in some of the eastern songs it occurs once, in some twice (as in the case of the melodies printed above), and there are instances of a triple use in the folk-songs of the modern greeks. act ii. news of the success of the egyptian expedition against the ethiopians has reached amneris, whose slaves attire her for the scene of radames's triumph. the slaves sing of egypt's victory and of love, the princess of her longing, and moorish slaves dance before her to dispel her melancholy. aïda comes, weighed down by grief. amneris lavishes words of sympathy upon her, and succeeds in making her betray her love for radames by saying that he had been killed in battle. then she confesses the falsehood and proclaims her own passion and purpose to crush her rival, who shall appear at the triumph of radames as her slave. aïda's pride rebels for the moment, and she almost betrays her own exalted station as the daughter of a king. as a slave she accompanies the princess to the entrance gate of thebes, where the king, the priests, and a vast concourse of people are to welcome radames and witness his triumphal entry. radames, with his troops and a horde of ethiopian prisoners, comes into the city in a gorgeous pageant. the procession is headed by two groups of trumpeters, who play a march melody, the stirring effect of which is greatly enhanced by the characteristic tone quality of the long, straight instruments which they use:-[musical excerpt] a word about these trumpets. in shape, they recall antique instruments, and the brilliancy of their tone is due partly to the calibre of their straight tubes and partly to the fact that nearly all the tones used are open--that is, natural harmonics of the fundamental tones of the tubes. there is an anachronism in the circumstance that they are provided with valves (which were not invented until some thousands of years after the period of the drama), but only one of the valves is used. the first trumpets are in the key of a-flat and the second b-natural, a peculiarly stirring effect being produced by the sudden shifting of the key of the march when the second group of trumpeters enters on the scene. the king greets radames with an embrace, bids him receive the wreath of victory from the hands of his daughter and ask whatever boon he will as a reward for his services. he asks, first, that the prisoners be brought before the king. among them aïda recognizes her father, who is disguised as an officer of the ethiopian army. the two are in each other's arms in a moment, but only long enough for amonasro to caution his daughter not to betray him. he bravely confesses that he had fought for king and country, and pleads for clemency for the prisoners. they join in the petition, as does aïda, and though the priests warn and protest, radames asks the boon of their lives and freedom, and the king grants it. also, without the asking, he bestows the hand of his daughter upon the victorious general, who receives the undesired honor with consternation. transporting beauty rests upon the scene which opens the third act. the moon shines brightly on the rippling surface of the nile and illumines a temple of isis, perched amongst the tropical foliage which crowns a rocky height. the silvery sheen is spread also over the music, which arises from the orchestra like a light mist burdened with sweet odors. amneris enters the temple to ask the blessing of the goddess upon her marriage, and the pious canticle of the servitors within floats out on the windless air. a tone of tender pathos breathes through the music which comes with aïda, who is to hold secret converse with her lover. will he come? and if so, will he speak a cruel farewell and doom her to death within the waters of the river? a vision of her native land, its azure skies, verdant vales, perfumed breezes, rises before her. shall she never see them more? her father comes upon her. he knows of her passion for radames, but also of her love for home and kindred. he puts added hues into the picture with which her heavy fancy had dallied, and then beclouds it all with an account of homes and temples profaned, maidens ravished, grandsires, mothers, children, slain by the oppressor. will she aid in the deliverance? she can by learning from her lover by which path the egyptians will against the ethiopians, who are still in the field, though their king is taken. that she will not do. but amonasro breaks down her resolution. hers will be the responsibility for torrents of blood, the destruction of cities, the devastation of her country. no longer his daughter she, but a slave of the pharaohs! her lover comes. she affects to repulse him because of his betrothal to amneris, but he protests his fidelity and discloses his plan. the ethiopians are in revolt again. again he will defeat them, and, returning again in triumph, he will tell the king of his love for her and thereafter live in the walks of peace. but aïda tells him that the vengeance of amneris will pursue her, and urges him to fly with her. reluctantly he consents, and she, with apparent innocence, asks by which path they shall escape the soldiery. through the gorge of napata; 'twill be unpeopled till to-morrow, for it has been chosen as the route by which the egyptian advance shall be made. exulting, amonasro rushes from his place of concealment. at the gorge of napata will he place his troops--he the king of ethiopia! radames has betrayed his country. amneris comes out of the temple, and amonasro is about to poignard her when radames throws himself between. to the high priest, ramfis, he yields himself and his sword. amonasro drags aïda away with him. we reach the last act of the drama. radames is to be tried for treason in having betrayed a secret of war to his country's enemy. amneris fain would save him were he to renounce aïda and accept her love. she offers on such terms to intercede for him with her father, the king. from her radames learns that aïda escaped the guards who slew her father. he is resolute to die rather than prove faithless to her, and is led away to the subterranean trial chamber. amneris, crouched without, hears the accusing voices of the priests and the awful silence which follows each accusation; for radames refuses to answer the charges. the priests pronounce sentence:--burial alive! amneris hurls curses after them, but they depart, muttering, "death to the traitor!" radames is immured in a vault beneath the temple of vulcan, whose sacred priestesses move in solemn steps above, while he gropes in the darkness below. never again shall light greet his eyes, nor sight of aïda. a groan. a phantom rises before him, and aïda is at his side. she had foreseen the doom of her lover, and entered the tomb before him to die in his arms. together they say their farewell to the vale of tears, and their streaming eyes have a prevision of heaven. above in the temple a figure, shrouded in black, kneels upon the stone which seals the vault and implores isis to cease her resentment and give her adored one peace. it is amneris. chapter xi "der freischutz" a description of carl maria von weber's opera, "der freischütz," ought to begin with a study of the overture, since that marvellous composition has lived on and on in the concert-rooms of the world without loss of popularity for nearly a century, while the opera which it introduces has periodically come and gone according to popular whim or the artistic convictions or caprices of managers in all the countries which cultivate opera, except germany. why germany forms an exception to the rule will find an explanation when the character of the opera and its history come under investigation. the overture, notwithstanding its extraordinary charm, is only an exalted example of the pot-pourri class of introductions (though in the classic sonata form), which composers were in the habit of writing when this opera came into existence, and which is still imitated in an ignoble way by composers of ephemeral operettas. it is constructed on a conventional model, and its thematic material is drawn from the music of the opera; but, like the prelude to wagner's lyric comedy, "die meistersinger von nürnberg," it presents the contents of the play in the form of what many years after its composition came to be called a symphonic poem, and illustrates the ideal which was in gluck's mind when, in the preface to "alceste," he said, "i imagined that the overture ought to prepare the audience for the action of the piece, and serve as a kind of argument to it." the atmosphere of the opera is that which pervades the sylvan life of germany--its actualities and its mysteries, the two elements having equal potency. into the peacefulness of the woods the french horns ("forest horns," the germans call them) usher us at once with the hymn which they sing after a few introductory measures. [musical excerpt] but no sooner do we yield to the caress of this mood than there enters the supernatural element which invests the tragical portion of the story. ominous drum beats under a dissonant tremolo of the strings and deep tones of the clarinets, a plangent declamatory phrase of the violoncellos:-[musical excerpt] tell us of the emotions of the hero when he feels himself deserted by heaven; the agitated principal subject of the main body of the overture (molto vivace):-[musical excerpt] proclaims his terror at the thought that he has fallen into the power of the evil one, while the jubilant second theme:-[musical excerpt] gives voice to the happiness of the heroine and the triumph of love and virtue which is the outcome of the drama. the first glimpse of the opera reveals an open space in a forest and in it an inn and a target-shooting range. max, a young assistant to the chief forester of a bohemian principality, is seated at a table with a mug of beer before him, his face and attitude the picture of despondency. hard by, huntsmen and others are grouped around kilian, a young peasant who fires the last shot in a contest of marksmanship as the scene is disclosed. he hits off the last remaining star on the target, and is noisily acclaimed as schützenkönig (king of the marksmen), and celebrated in a lusty song by the spectators, who decorate the victor, and forming a procession bearing the trophies of the match, march around the glade. as they pass max they point their fingers and jeer at him. kilian joins in the sport until max's fuming ill-humor can brook the humiliation no longer; he leaps up, seizes the lapel of kilian's coat, and draws his hunting-knife. a deadly quarrel seems imminent, but is averted by the coming of cuno, chief forester, and caspar, who, like max, is one of his assistants. to the reproaches of cuno, who sees the mob surging around max, kilian explains that there was no ill-will in the mockery of him, the crowd only following an old custom which permitted the people to make sport of a contestant who failed to hit the target, and thus forfeited the right to make trial for the kingship. cuno is amazed that a mere peasant should have defeated one of his foresters, and that one the affianced lover of his daughter, agathe, and who, as his son-in-law, would inherit his office, provided he could prove his fitness for it by a trial shot on the wedding day. that day had been set for the morrow. how the custom of thus providing for the successorship originated, cuno now relates in answer to the questions of one of the party. his great-grandfather, also bearer of the name cuno, had been one of the rangers of the prince who ruled the dominion in his day. once upon a time, in the course of a hunt, the dogs started a stag who bounded toward the party with a man tied to his back. it was thus that poachers were sometimes punished. the prince's pity was stirred, and he promised that whoever should shoot the stag without harming the man should receive the office of chief forester, to be hereditary in the family, and the tenancy of a hunting lodge near by. cuno, moved more by pity than hope of reward, attempted the feat and succeeded. the prince kept his promise, but on a suggestion that the old hunter may have used a charmed bullet, he made the hereditary succession contingent upon the success of a trial shot. before telling the tale, cuno had warned max to have a care, for should he fail in the trial shot on the morrow, his consent to the marriage between him and agathe would be withdrawn. max had suspected that his ill luck for a month past, during which time he had brought home not a single trophy of bird or beast, was due to some malign influence, the cause of which he was unable to fathom. he sings of the prowess and joys that once were his (aria: "durch die wälder, durch die auen"), but falls into a moody dread at the thought that heaven has forsaken him and given him over to the powers of darkness. it is here that the sinister music, mentioned in the outline of the overture, enters the drama. it accompanies the appearance of samiel (the wild huntsman, or black hunter,--in short, the devil), and we have thus in von weber's opera a pre-wagnerian example of the leitmotif of the wagnerian commentators. caspar returns to the scene, which all the other personages have left to join in a dance, and finds his associate in the depths of despair. he plies max with wine, and, affecting sympathy with him in his misfortunes, gradually insinuates that there is a means of insuring success on the morrow. max remains sceptical until caspar hands him his rifle and bids him shoot at an eagle flying overhead. the bird is plainly out of rifle range, a mere black dot against the twilight sky; but max, scarcely aiming, touches the trigger and an eagle of gigantic size comes hurtling through the air and falls at his feet. max is convinced that there is a sure way to win his bride on the morrow. he asks caspar if he has more bullets like the one just spent. no; that was the hunter's last; but more might be obtained, provided the effort be made that very night. the moment was propitious. it was the second of three days in which the sun was in the constellation of the archer; at midnight there would occur an eclipse of the moon. what a fortunate coincidence that all the omens should be fair at so momentous a juncture of max's affairs! the fear of losing his bride overcomes max's scruples; he agrees to meet the tempter in the wolf's glen, a spot of evil repute, at midnight, and at least witness the casting of more of the charmed bullets. at the moment when max's shot brought down the eagle, a portrait of the original cuno fell from the wall of the cottage occupied by his descendant; and when the second act begins, we see aennchen, a cousin of agathe's, putting it back in its place. aennchen is inclined to be playful and roguish, and serves as a pretty foil to the sentimental agathe. she playfully scolds the nail which she is hammering into the wall again for so rudely dropping the old ranger to the floor, and seeks to dispel the melancholy which has obsessed her cousin by singing songs about the bad companionship of the blues and the humors of courtship. she succeeds, in a measure, and agathe confesses that she had felt a premonition of danger ever since a pious hermit, to whom she had gone for counsel in the course of the day, had warned her of the imminency of a calamity which he could not describe. the prediction seemed to have been fulfilled in the falling of the picture, which had slightly hurt her, but might easily have killed her. aennchen urges her to go to bed, but she refuses, saying she shall not retire for sleep until max has come. agathe sings the scena which has clung to our concert-rooms as persistently as the overture. the slow portion of the aria ("leise, leise, fromme weise"), like the horn music at the beginning of the overture, has found its way into the protestant hymn-books of england and america, and its allegro furnishes forth the jubilant music of the instrumental introduction to the opera. berlioz in his book "a travers chants" writes in a fine burst of enthusiasm of this scena: "it is impossible for any listener to fail to hear the sighs of the orchestra during the prayer of the virtuous maiden who awaits the coming of her affianced lover; or the strange hum in which the alert ear imagines it hears the rustling of the tree-tops. it even seems as if the darkness grew deeper and colder at that magical modulation to c major. what a sympathetic shudder comes over one at the cry: ''tis he! 'tis he!' no, no. it must be confessed, there is no other aria as beautiful as this. no master, whether german, italian, or french, was ever able to delineate, as is done here in a single scene, holy prayer, melancholy, disquiet, pensiveness, the slumber of nature, the mysterious harmony of the starry skies, the torture of expectation, hope, uncertainty, joy, frenzy, delight, love delirious! and what an orchestra to accompany these noble song melodies! what inventiveness! what ingenious discoveries! what treasures of sudden inspiration! these flutes in the depths; this quartet of violins; these passages in sixths between violas and 'cellos; this crescendo bursting into refulgence at the close; these pauses during which the passions seem to be gathering themselves together in order to launch their forces anew with greater vehemence! no, this piece has not its fellow! here is an art that is divine! this is poetry; this is love itself!" max comes at last, but he is preoccupied, and his words and acts do little to reassure agathe. she wants to know what luck he had at the shooting-match, and he replies that he did not participate in the target-shooting, but had nevertheless been marvellously lucky, pointing to the eagle's feather in his hat as proof. at the same moment he notices the blood upon his sweetheart's hair, and her explanation of the falling of the portrait of her ancestor just as the clock struck seven greatly disturbs him. agathe, too, lapses into gloomy brooding; she has fears for the morrow, and the thought of the monstrous eagle terrifies her. and now max, scarcely come, announces that he must go; he had shot, he says, a stag deep in the woods near the wolf's glen, indeed, and must bring it in lest the peasants steal it. in a trio aennchen recalls the uncanny nature of the spot, agathe warns against the sin of tempting providence and begs him to stay; but max protests his fearlessness and the call of duty, and hurries away to meet caspar, at the appointed time in the appointed place. we see him again in the wolf's glen, but caspar is there before him. the glen lies deep in the mountains. a cascade tumbles down the side of a mighty crag on the one hand; on the other sits a monstrous owl on the branch of a blasted tree, blinking evilly. a path leads steeply down to a great cave. the moon throws a lurid light on the scene and shows us caspar in his shirt-sleeves preparing for his infernal work. he arranges black stones in a circle around a skull. his tools lie beside him: a ladle, bullet-mould, and eagle's-wing fan. the high voices of an invisible chorus utter the cry of the owl, which the orchestra mixes with gruesome sounds, while bass voices monotonously chant:- poisoned dew the moon hath shed, spider's web is dyed with red; ere to-morrow's sun hath died death will wed another bride. ere the moon her course has run deeds of darkness will be done. {1} on the last stroke of a distant bell which rings midnight, caspar thrusts his hunting-knife into the skull, raises it on high, turns around three times, and summons his familiar:- by th' enchanter's skull, oh, hear, samiel, samiel, appear! the demon answers in person, and the reason of caspar's temptation of max is made plain. he has sold himself to the devil for the charmed bullets, the last of which had brought down the eagle, and the time for the delivery of his soul is to come on the morrow. he asks a respite on the promise to deliver another victim into the demon's hands,--his companion max. what, asks the black huntsman, is the proffered victim's desire? the magical bullets. sechse treffen, sieben äffen! warns samiel, and caspar suggests that the seventh bullet be directed to the heart of the bride; her death would drive both lover and father to despair. but samiel says that as yet he has no power over the maiden; he will claim his victim on the morrow, max or him who is already his bondsman. caspar prepares for the moulding. the skull disappears, and in its place rises a small furnace in which fagots are aglow. ghostly birds, perched on the trees round about in the unhallowed spot, fan the fire with their wings. max appears on a crag on one side of the glen and gazes down. the sights and sounds below affright him; but he summons up his courage and descends part way. suddenly his steps are arrested by a vision of his dead mother, who appears on the opposite side of the gulch and raises her hand warningly. caspar mutters a prayer for help to the fiend and bids max look again. now the figure is that of agathe, who seems about to throw herself into the mountain torrent. the sight nerves him and he hurries down. the moon enters into an eclipse, and caspar begins his infernal work after cautioning max not to enter the circle nor utter a word, no matter what he sees or who comes to join them. into the melting-pot caspar now puts the ingredients of the charm: some lead, bits of broken glass from a church window, a bit of mercury, three bullets that have already hit their mark, the right eye of a lapwing, the left of a lynx; then speaks the conjuration formula:- thou who roamst at midnight hour, samiel, samiel, thy pow'r! spirit dread, be near this night and complete the mystic rite. by the shade of murderer's dead, do thou bless the charmed lead. seven the number we revere; samiel, samiel, appear! the contents of the ladle commence to hiss and burn with a greenish flame; a cloud obscures the moon wholly, and the scene is lighted only by the fire under the melting-pot, the owl's eyes, and the phosphorescent glow of the decaying oaks. as he casts the bullets, caspar calls out their number, which the echoes repeat. strange phenomena accompany each moulding; night-birds come flying from the dark woods and gather around the fire; a black boar crashes through the bushes and rushes through the glen; a hurricane hurtles through the trees, breaking their tops and scattering the sparks from the furnace; four fiery wheels roll by; the wild hunt dashes through the air; thunder, lightning, and hail fill the air, flames dart from the earth, and meteors fall from the sky; at the last the black hunter himself appears and grasps at max's hand; the forester crosses himself and falls to the earth, where caspar already lies stretched out unconscious. samiel disappears, and the tempest abates. max raises himself convulsively and finds his companion still lying on the ground face downward. at the beginning of the third act the wedding day has dawned. it finds agathe kneeling in prayer robed for the wedding. she sings a cavatina ("und ob die wolken sie verhülle") which proclaims her trust in providence. aennchen twits her for having wept; but "bride's tears and morning rain--neither does for long remain." agathe has been tortured by a dream, and aennehen volunteers to interpret it. the bride had dreamt that she had been transformed into a white dove and was flying from tree to tree when max discharged his gun at her. she fell stricken, but immediately afterward was her own proper self again and saw a monstrous black bird of prey wallowing in its blood. aennchen explains all as reflexes of the incidents of the previous night--the work on the white bridal dress, the terrible black feather on max's hat; and merrily tells a ghostly tale of a nocturnal visitor to her sainted aunt which turned out to be the watch-dog. enter the bridesmaids with their song:-[musical excerpt--"wir winden dir den jungfernkranz mit veilchenblauer seide"] nearly three generations of germans have sung this song; it has accompanied them literally from the cradle to the grave. when ludwig geyer, richard wagner's stepfather, lay dying, the lad, then seven years old, was told to play the little piece in a room adjoining the sick chamber. the dying man had been concerned about the future of his stepson. he listened. "what if he should have talent for music?" long years after the mother told this story, and the son, when he became famous as a composer, repeated it in one of his autobiographical writings, and told with what awe his childish eyes had looked on the composer as he passed by the door on the way to and from the theatre. evil omens pursue agathe even on her bridal morn. the bridesmaids are still singing to her when aennchen brings a box which she thinks contains the bridal wreath. all fall back in dismay when out comes a funeral wreath of black. even aennchen's high spirits are checked for a moment; but she finds an explanation. old cuno has tumbled from the wall a second time; but she herself assumes the blame: the nail was rusty and she not an adept with the hammer. the action now hastens to its close. prince ottokar, with his retainers, is present at the festival at which max is to justify cuno's choice of him as a son-in-law. the choice meets with the prince's approval. the moment approaches for the trial shot, and max stands looking at the last of his charmed bullets, which seems to weigh with ominous heaviness in his hand. he had taken four of the seven and caspar three. of the four he had spent three in unnecessary shots; but he hopes that caspar has kept his. of course caspar has done nothing of the kind. it is suggested that max shoot at once, not awaiting the arrival of his betrothed, lest the sight of her make him nervous. the prince points to a white dove as the mark, and max lifts his gun. at the moment agathe rushes forward, crying, "do not shoot; i am the dove!" the bird flies toward a tree which caspar, impatient for the coming of his purposed victim, had climbed. max follows it with his gun and pulls the trigger. agathe and caspar both fall to the ground. the holy man of the woods raises agathe, who is unhurt; but caspar dies with curses for everything upon his lips. the devil has cared for his own and claimed his forfeit. ottokar orders his corpse thrown amongst the carrion in the wolf's glen and turns to max for an explanation. he confesses his wrong and is ordered out of the prince's dominion; but on the intercession of cuno, agathe, and the hermit the sentence is commuted to a year of probation, at the end of which time he shall marry his love. but the traditional trial shot is abolished. * * * though there are a dozen different points of view from which weber's opera "der freischütz" is of fascinating interest, it is almost impossible for any one except a german to understand fully what the opera means now to the people from whose loins the composer sprung, and quite impossible to realize what it meant to them at the time of its production. "der freischütz" is spoken of in all the handbooks as a "national" opera. there are others to which the term might correctly and appropriately be applied--german, french, italian, bohemian, hungarian, russian; but there never was an opera, and there is no likelihood that there ever will be one, so intimately bound up with the loves, feelings, sentiments, emotions, superstitions, social customs, and racial characteristics of a people as this is with the loves, feelings, sentiments, emotions, superstitions, social customs, and racial characteristics of the germans. in all its elements as well as in its history it is inextricably intertwined with the fibres of german nationality. it could not have been written at another time than it was; it could not have been written by any other composer living at that time; it could not have been conceived by any artist not saturated with germanism. it is possible to argue one's self into a belief of these things, but only the german can feel them. yet there is no investigator of comparative mythology and religion who ought not to go to the story of the opera to find an illustration of one of the pervasive laws of his science; there is no folklorist who ought not to be drawn to its subject; no student of politics and sociology who cannot find valuable teachings in its history; no critic who can afford to ignore its significance in connection with the evolution of musical styles and schools; no biographer who can fail to observe the kinship which the opera establishes between the first operatic romanticist and him who brought the romantic movement to its culmination; that is, between carl maria von weber and richard wagner. it is even a fair subject for the study of the scientific psychologist, for, though the story of the opera is generally supposed to be a fanciful structure reared on a legendary foundation, it was a veritable happening which gave it currency a century ago and brought it to the notice of the composer; and this happening may have an explanation in some of the psychical phenomena to which modern science is again directing attention, such as hypnotism, animal magnetism, and the like. i am here not at all fanciful. some thirty years ago i came across a pamphlet published by dr. j. g. th. grässe, a saxon court councillor, in which he traced the origin of the story at the base of "der freischütz" to a confession made in open court in a bohemian town in 1710. grässe found the story in a book entitled "monathliche unterredungen aus dem reich der geister," published in leipsic in 1730, the author of which stated that he had drawn the following statement of facts from judicial records: in 1710 in a town in bohemia, george schmid, a clerk, eighteen years old, who was a passionate lover of target-shooting, was persuaded by a hunter to join in an enterprise for moulding charmed bullets on july 30, the same being st. abdon's day. the hunter promised to aid the young man in casting sixty-three bullets, of which sixty were to hit infallibly and three to miss just as certainly. the two men provided themselves with coals, moulds, etc., and betook themselves at nightfall to a cross-roads. there the hunter drew a circle with his knife and placed mysterious characters, the meaning of which his companion did not know, around the edge. this done, he told the clerk to step within the ring, take off his clothing, and make denial of god and the holy trinity. the bullets, said the hunter, must all be cast between eleven o'clock and midnight, or the clerk would fall into the clutches of the devil. at eleven o'clock the dead coals began to glow of their own accord, and the two men began the moulding, although all manner of ghostly apparitions tried to hinder them. at last there came a horseman in black, who demanded the bullets which had been cast. the hunter refused to yield them up, and in revenge the horseman threw something into the fire which sent out so noisome an odor that the two venturesome men fell half dead within the circle. the hunter escaped, and, as it turned out subsequently, betook himself to the salzkammergut, near salzburg; but the clerk was found lying at the crossroads and carried into town. there he made a complete confession in court, and because he had had intercourse with the evil one, doubtless, was condemned to be burned to death. in consideration of his youth, however, the sentence was commuted to imprisonment at hard labor for six years. in the legend of the wild huntsman, who under the name of samiel purchases the souls of men with his magic bullets, the folklorist and student of the evolution of religions sees one of many evidences of ancient mythology perverted to bring it into the service of christianity. originally the wild huntsman was odin (or wotan). the missionaries to the germans, finding it difficult to root out belief in the ancient deities, gave their attributes to saints in a few cases, but for the greater part transformed them into creatures of evil. it was thus that frau holle (or holda) became a wicked venus, as we shall see in the next chapter. the little spotted beetle which english and american children call ladybug or lady-bird (that is, the bug or bird of our lady), the germans marienkäferchen, and the french la bête du bon dieu, was sacred to holda; and though the name of the virgin mary was bestowed upon it in the long ago, it still remains a love oracle, as the little ones know who bid it- fly to the east, and fly to the west, and fly to the one that i love best! it was the noise of wotan's hunting train which the ancient germans heard when the storms of winter howled and whistled through the deep woods of the northland; but in time it came to be the noise of the wild hunt. in thuringia the rout headed by frau holda and the wild huntsman issues in the yuletide from the cave in the horselberg, which is the scene of tannhäuser's adventure with venus in wagner's opera, and holda is the mother of many of the uncanny creatures which strike terror to the souls of the unlucky huntsmen who chance to espy them. from the story drawn from the records of the bohemian law court, it is plain that to make a compact with the wild huntsman was a much more gruesome and ceremonious proceeding than that which took place between faust and the evil one in the operas of gounod and boito. in both these instances a scratch of the pen sufficed, and the deliberations which preceded the agreement were conducted in a decorous and businesslike manner. but to invoke samiel and obtain his gifts was a body, mind, and nerve-racking business. in some particulars the details differed a little from those testified to by the bohemian clerk. in the first place, the devil's customer had to repair to a crossroads of a friday between midnight and one o'clock when the moon was in an eclipse and the sun in sagittarius. if in such a place and at such a time he drew a circle around himself with his hunting-spear and called "samiel!" three times, that worthy would appear, and a bargain might be driven with him for his wares, which consisted of seven magical bullets ("free bullets," they were called), which were then cast under the eye of the evil one and received his "blessing." the course of six of them rested with the "free shooter," but the seventh belonged to samiel, who might direct it wheresoever he wished. the price of these bullets was the soul of the man who moulded them, at the end of three years; but it was the privilege of the bondsman to purchase a respite before the expiration of the period by delivering another soul into the clutches of the demon. weber used all these details in his opera, and added to them the fantastic terrors of the wild hunt and the wolf's glen. of this favored abode of the evil one, wagner gave a vivid description in an essay on "der freischütz" which he wrote for the gazette musicale in may, 1841, when the opera was preparing, under the hand of berlioz, for representation at the grand opéra in paris. wagner's purpose in writing the essay was to acquaint the parisians with the contents and spirit of the piece, make them understand its naïve teutonism, and also to save it from the maltreatment and mutilation which he knew it would have to suffer if it were to be made to conform to the conventions of the académie. he wanted to preserve the spoken dialogue and keep out the regulation ballet, for the sake of which he had to make changes in his "tannhäuser" twenty years later. he failed in both efforts, and afterward wrote an account of the performance for a german newspaper, which is one of the best specimens of the feuilleton style which his sojourn in paris provoked. there was no need of telling his countrymen what the wolf's glen was, for it had been the most familiar of all scenes in the lyric theatres of germany for a score of years, but for the parisians he pictured the place in which weber's hero meets samiel very graphically indeed:-"in the heart of the bohemian forest, old as the world, lies the wolf's glen. its legend lingered till the thirty years' war, which destroyed the last traces of german grandeur; but now, like many another boding memory, it has died out from the folk. even at that time most men only knew the gulch by hearsay. they would relate how some gamekeeper, straying on indeterminable paths through wild, untrodden thickets, scarce knowing how, had come to the brink of the wolf's gulch. returning, he had told of gruesome sights he had there seen, at which the hearer crossed himself and prayed the saints to shield him from ever wandering to that region. even on his approach the keeper had heard an eerie sound; though the wind was still, a muffled moaning filled the branches of the ancient pines, which bowed their dark heads to and fro unbidden. arrived at the verge, he had looked down into an abyss whose depths his eye could never plumb. jagged reefs of rock stood high in shape of human limbs and terribly distorted faces. beside them heaps of pitch-black stones in form of giant toads and lizards; they moved and crept and rolled in heavy ragged masses; but under them the ground could no more be distinguished. from thence foul vapors rose incessantly and spread a pestilential stench around. here and there they would divide and range themselves in ranks that took the form of human beings with faces all convulsed. upon a rotting tree-trunk in the midst of all these horrors sat an enormous owl, torpid in its daytime roost; behind it a frowning cavern, guarded by two monsters direly blent of snake and toad and lizard. these, with all the other seeming life the chasm harbored, lay in deathlike slumber, and any movement visible was that of one plunged in deep dreams; so that the forester had dismal fears of what this odious crew might wake into at midnight. "but still more horrible than what he saw, was what he heard. a storm that stirred nothing, and whose gusts he himself could not feel, howled over the glen, paused suddenly, as if listening to itself, and then broke out again with added fury. atrocious cries thronged from the pit; then a flock of countless birds of prey ascended from its bowels, spread like a pitch-black pall across the gulf, and fell back again into night. the screeches sounded to the huntsman like the groans of souls condemned, and tore his heart with anguish never felt before. never had he heard such cries, compared to which the croak of ravens was as the song of nightingales. and now again deep silence; all motion ceased; only in the depths there seemed a sluggish writhing, and the owl flapped its wings as though in a dream. the most undaunted huntsman, the best acquainted with the wood's nocturnal terrors, fled like a timid roe in speechless agony, and, heedless where his footsteps bore him, ran breathless to the nearest hut, the nearest cabin, to meet some human soul to whom to tell his horrible adventure, yet ne'er could find words in which to frame it." {2} so much for the folklore and mythology of "der freischütz," the element which makes it not only a national but also the chiefest of romantic operas. we are grown careless in our use of musical terms, or else it would not be necessary to devote words to an explanation of what is meant by romantic in this case. we hear a great deal about romanticism as contradistinguished from classicism, but it is seldom that we have the line of demarcation between the two tendencies or schools drawn for us. classical composers, i am inclined to think, are composers of the first rank who have developed music to its highest perfection on its formal side in obedience to long and widely accepted laws, preferring aesthetic beauty over emotional content, or, at any rate, refusing to sacrifice form to characteristic expression. romantic composers would then be those who have sought their ideals in other directions and striven to give them expression irrespective of the restrictions and limitations of form--composers who, in short, prefer content to manner. in the sense of these definitions, weber's opera is a classic work, for in it the old forms which wagner's influence destroyed are preserved. nevertheless, "der freischütz" is romantic in a very particular sense, and it is in this romanticism that its political significance to which i have referred lies. it is romantic in subject and the source of its inspiration. this source is the same to which the creators of the romantic school of literature went for its subjects--the fantastical stories of chivalry and knighthood, of which the principal elements were the marvellous and supernatural. the literary romanticists did a great deal to encourage patriotism among the germans in the beginning of the nineteenth century by disclosing to the german people the wealth of their legendary lore and the beauty of their folk-songs. the circumstances which established the artistic kinship between von weber and wagner, to which i have alluded, was a direct fruit of this patriotism. in 1813 von weber went to prague to organize a german opera. a part of the following summer he spent in berlin. prussia was leading europe in the effort to throw off the yoke of bonaparte, and the youths of the prussian capital, especially the students, were drunken with the wine of körner's "lyre and sword." while returning to prague von weber stopped for a while at the castle gräfen-tonna, where he composed some of körner's poems, among them "lützow's wilde jagd" and the "schwertlied." these songs were soon in everybody's mouth and acted like sparks flung into the powder-magazine of national feeling. naturally they reacted upon the composer himself, and under their influence and the spirit which they did so much to foster weber's germanism developed from an emotion into a religion. he worked with redoubled zeal in behalf of german opera at prague, and when he was called to be court music director in dresden in 1817, he entered upon his duties as if consecrated to a holy task. he had found the conditions more favorable to german opera in the bohemian capital than in the saxon. in prague he had sloth and indifference to overcome; in dresden the obstacles were hatred of prussia, the tastes of a court and people long accustomed to italian traditions, and the intrigues of his colleagues in the italian opera and the church. what i wrote some eighteen years ago {3} of weber's labors in dresden may serve again to make plain how the militant germanism of the composer achieved its great triumph. the italian régime was maintained in dresden through the efforts of the conductor of the italian opera, morlacchi; the concert master, poledro; the church composer, schubert, and count von einsiedel, cabinet minister. the efforts of these men placed innumerable obstacles in weber's path, and their influence heaped humiliations upon him. confidence alone in the ultimate success of his efforts to regenerate the lyric drama sustained him in his trials. against the merely sensuous charm of suave melody and lovely singing he opposed truthfulness of feeling and conscientious endeavor for the attainment of a perfect ensemble. here his powers of organization, trained by his experiences in prague, his perfect knowledge of the stage, imbibed with his mother's milk, and his unquenchable zeal, gave him amazing puissance. thoroughness was his watchword. he put aside the old custom of conducting while seated at the pianoforte, and appeared before his players with a bâton. he was an inspiration, not a figurehead. his mind and his emotions dominated theirs, and were published in the performance. he raised the standard of the chorus, stimulated the actors, inspected the stage furnishings and costumes, and stamped harmony of feeling, harmony of understanding, and harmony of effort upon the first work undertaken--a performance of méhul's "joseph in egypt." nor did he confine his educational efforts to the people of the theatre. he continued in dresden the plan first put into practice by him in prague of printing articles about new operas in the newspapers to stimulate public appreciation of their characteristics and beauties. for a while the work of organization checked his creative energies, but when his duties touching new music for court or church functions gave him the opportunity, he wrote with undiminished energy. in 1810 apel's "gespensterbuch" had fallen into his hands and he had marked the story of "der freischütz" for treatment. his mind reverted to it again in the spring of 1817. friedrich kind agreed to write the book, and placed it complete in his hands on march 1, nine days after he had undertaken the commission. weber's enthusiasm was great, but circumstances prevented him from devoting much time to the composition of the opera. he wrote the first of its music in july, 1817, but did not complete it till may 13, 1820. it was in his mind during all this period, however, and would doubtless have been finished much earlier had he received an order to write an opera from the saxon court. in this expectation he was disappointed, and the honor of having encouraged the production of the most national opera ever written went to berlin, where the patriotism which had been warmed by weber's setting of körner's songs was still ablaze, and where count brühl's plans were discussing to bring him to the prussian capital as capellmeister. the opera was given on june 18, 1821, under circumstances that produced intense excitement in the minds of weber's friends. the sympathies of the musical areopagus of berlin were not with weber or his work--neither before nor after the first performance; but weber spoke to the popular heart, and its quick, responsive throb lifted him at once to the crest of the wave which soon deluged all germany. the overture had to be repeated to still the applause that followed its first performance, and when the curtain fell on the last scene, a new chapter in german art had been opened. {4} footnotes: {1} natalia macfarren's translation. {2} "richard wagner's prose works," translated by william ashton ellis, vol. vii, p. 169. {3} "famous composers and their works," vol. i, p. 396. {4} as i write it is nearly eighty-five years since "der freischütz" was first heard in new york. the place was the park theatre and the date march 2, 1825. the opera was only four years old at the time, and, in conformity with the custom of the period, the representation, which was in english, no doubt was a very different affair from that to which the public has become accustomed since. but it is interesting to know that there is at least one opera in the metropolitan list which antedates the first italian performance ever given in america. even at that early day the scene in the wolf's glen created a sensation. the world over "der freischütz" is looked upon as peculiarly the property of the germans, but a german performance of it was not heard in new york till 1856, when the opera was brought out under the direction of carl bergmann, at the old broadway theatre. chapter xii "tannhauser" nothing could have demonstrated more perfectly the righteousness of wagner's claim to the title of poet than his acceptance of the greek theory that a people's legends and myths are the fittest subjects for dramatic treatment, unless it be the manner in which he has reshaped his material in order to infuse it with that deep ethical principle to which reference has several times been made. in "the flying dutchman," "the nibelung's ring," and "tannhäuser" the idea is practically his creation. in the last of these dramas it is evolved out of the simple episode in the parent-legend of the death of lisaura, whose heart broke when her knight went to kiss the queen of love and beauty. the dissolute knight of the old story wagner in turn metamorphoses into a type of manhood "in its passionate desires and ideal aspirations"--the faust of goethe. all the magnificent energy of our ideal man is brought forward in the poet's conception, but it is an energy which is shattered in its fluctuation between sensual delights and ideal aspirations, respectively typified in the venus and elizabeth of the play. here is the contradiction against which he was shattered as the heroes of greek tragedy were shattered on the rock of implacable fate. but the transcendent beauty of the modern drama is lent by the ethical idea of salvation through the love of pure woman--a salvation touching which no one can be in doubt when tannhäuser sinks lifeless beside the bier of the atoning saint, and venus's cries of woe are swallowed up by the pious canticle of the returning pilgrims. {1} it will be necessary in the expositions of the lyric dramas of wagner, which i shall attempt in these chapters, to choose only such material as will serve directly to help to an understanding of them as they move by the senses in the theatre, leaving the reader to consult the commentaries, which are plentiful, for deeper study of the composer's methods and philosophical purposes. such study is not to be despised; but, unless it be wisely conducted, it is likely to be a hindrance rather than a help to enjoyment. it is a too common error of musical amateurs to devote their attention to the forms and names of the phrases out of which wagner constructs his musical fabric, especially that of his later dramas. this tendency has been humored, even in the case of the earlier operas, by pedants, who have given names to the themes which the composer used, though he had not yet begun to apply the system of symbolization which marks his works beginning with "tristan und isolde." it has been done with "tannhäuser," though it is, to all intents and purposes, an opera of the conventional type, and not what is called a "music-drama." the reminiscent use of themes is much older than wagner. it is well to familiarize one's self with the characteristic elements of a score, but, as i have urged in the book quoted above, if we confine our study of wagner to the forms of the musical motives and the names which have arbitrarily been given to them, we shall at the last have enriched our minds with a thematic catalogue, and nothing else. it is better to know nothing about these names, and content ourselves with simple, sensuous enjoyment, than to spend our time at the theatre answering the baldest of all the riddles of wagner's orchestra: "what am i playing now?" in the studies of wagner's works i shall point to some of the most significant phrases in the music in connection with significant occurrences in the play, but i shall seldom, if ever, analyze the motival construction in the style of the wolzogen handbooks. * * * there are texts in the prefatory excerpt for a discussion of "tannhäuser" from all the points of view which might make such a discussion interesting and profitable. there is no doubt in my mind that it is the poet-composer's noblest tragedy and, from a literary point of view, his most artistic. it is laid out on such a broad, simple, and symmetrical plan that its dramatic contents can be set forth in a few paragraphs, and we can easily forego a detailed description of its scenes. a knightly minstrel, who has taken part in one of the tournaments of song which tradition says used to be held at the court of the landgrave of thuringia in the early part of the thirteenth century, has, by his song and bearing, won the heart of elizabeth, niece of the landgrave. unmindful of his great good fortune, he has found his way to the court held by the goddess of love within the hollow of the hörselberg, which lies across the valley and over against the wartburg. dame venus herself becomes enamoured of the knight, who calls himself tannhäuser, and for a year and a day he remains at her side and in her arms. at length, mind and senses surfeited, a longing seizes him for the world which he has abandoned, for the refreshing sights and sounds of earth, and even for its pains. dame venus seeks to detain him, but he is resolute to leave her and her realm. like a true knight, however, he promises to sing her praises wherever he may go; but when she offers to welcome him again if he should weary and sicken of the world and seek redemption from its hypocrisies, he replies that for him redemption rests only in the virgin mary. the invocation breaks the bonds of enchantment which have held him. the scenes of allurement which have so long surrounded him melt away, and he finds himself in an attitude of prayer in a blooming valley below the wartburg. it is spring, and a shepherd lad, seated on a rock, trolls a lay to spring's goddess. a troop of pilgrims passing by on their way to rome suggest by their canticle the need of absolution from the burden of sin which rests upon him, but before he can join them, the landgrave and a hunting party come upon him. he is recognized by his erstwhile companions in song, and consents to return to the castle on being told by one of the minstrels, wolfram von esehenbach, that his song had vanquished not only them, but the heart of the saintly elizabeth as well. in the wartburg tannhäuser meets the maiden whose heart he has won just after she has apostrophized the walls which had echoed his voice; and from him she learns the meaning of the strange emotion which fills her in his presence. again minstrels gather before a company of great nobles for a contest in the hall of song. love is to be the theme, and the hand of elizabeth the reward of the victor. spiritual love is hymned by tannhäuser's companions. wolfram von eschenbach likens it to a pure fountain from which only high and sacred feelings can flow. tannhäuser questions the right of those who have not experienced the passion as he has felt it to define the nature of love. goaded by the taunts and threats of rude biterolf, he bursts forth in a praise of venus. the assembly is in commotion. swords are drawn. sacrilege must be punished. death confronts the impiously daring minstrel. but elizabeth, whose heart has been mortally pierced by his words, interposes to save him. she has been stricken, but what is that to his danger of everlasting damnation? would they rob his soul of its eternal welfare? the knight, indifferent to a score of swords, is crushed by such unselfish devotion, and humbly accepts the landgrave's clemency, which spares his life that he may join a younger band of pilgrims and seek absolution at rome. he goes to the holy city, mortifying his flesh at every step, and humbles himself in self-abasement and accusation before the pope; but only to hear from the hard lips of the keeper of the keys that for such sin as his there is as little hope of deliverance as for the rebudding of the papal staff. the elder pilgrims return in the fall of the year, and elizabeth eagerly seeks among them for the face of the knight whose soul and body she had tried to save. he is not among them. gently she puts aside the proffered help of wolfram, whose unselfish love is ever with her, climbs the hill to the castle, and dies. famished and footsore, tannhäuser staggers after the band of pilgrims who have returned to their homes with sins forgiven. his greeting of wolfram is harsh, but the good minstrel's sympathy constrains him to tell the story of his vain pilgrimage. salvation forfeited, naught is left for him but to seek surcease of suffering in the arms of venus. again he sees her grotto streaming with roseate light and hears her alluring voice. he rushes forward toward the scene of enchantment, but wolfram utters again the name of her who is now pleading for him before the judgment seat, of god himself; and he reels back. a funeral cortège descends from the castle. with an agonized cry: "holy elizabeth, pray for me!" tannhäuser sinks lifeless beside the bier just as the band of younger pilgrims comes from rome bearing the crozier of the pope clothed in fresh verdure. they hymn the miracle of redemption. * * * wagner has himself told us what fancies he is willing shall flit through the minds of listeners to the overture to his opera. it was performed at a concert under his direction while he was a political refugee at zurich, and for the programme of the concert he wrote a synopsis of its musical and poetical contents which i shall give here in the translation made by william ashton ellis, but with the beginnings of the themes which are referred to reproduced in musical notes:-to begin with, the orchestra leads before us the pilgrims' chant alone:-[musical excerpt] it draws near, then swells into a mighty outpour and passes, finally, away. evenfall; last echo of the chant. as night breaks, magic sights and sounds appear, the whirlings of a fearsomely voluptuous dance are seen:-[musical excerpt] these are the venusberg's seductive spells that show themselves at dead of night to those whose breasts are fired by daring of the senses. attracted by the tempting show, a shapely human form draws nigh; 'tis tannhäuser, love's minstrel. he sounds his jubilant song of love [musical excerpt] in joyous challenge, as though to force the wanton witchery to do his bidding. wild cries of riot answer him; the rosy cloud grows denser round him; entrancing perfumes hem him in and steal away his senses. in the most seductive of half-lights his wonder-seeing eye beholds a female form indicible; he hears a voice that sweetly murmurs out the siren call, which promises contentment of the darer's wildest wishes:-[musical excerpt] venus herself it is, this woman who appears to him. then the heart and senses burn within him; a fierce, devouring passion fires the blood in all his veins; with irresistible constraint it thrusts him nearer; before the goddess's self he steps with that canticle of love triumphant, and now he sings it in ecstatic praise of her. as though at wizard spell of his, the wonders of the venusberg unroll their brightest fill before him; tumultuous shouts and savage cries of joy mount up on every hand; in drunken glee bacchantes drive their raging dance and drag tanhäuser to the warm caresses of love's goddess, who throws her glowing arms around the mortal, drowned with bliss, and bears him where no step dare tread, to the realm of being-no-more. a scurry, like the sound of the wild hunt, and speedily the storm is laid. merely a wanton whir still pulses in the breeze, a wave of weird voluptuousness, like the sensuous breath of unblest love, still soughs above the spot where impious charms had shed their raptures and over which the night now broods once more. but dawn begins to break; already from afar is heard again the pilgrims' chant. as this chant draws closer and closer, as the day drives farther back the night, that whir and soughing of the air--which had erewhile sounded like the eerie cry of souls condemned--now rises to ever gladder waves, so that when the sun ascends at last in splendor and the pilgrims' chant proclaims in ecstasy to all the world, to all that live and move thereon, salvation won, this wave itself swells out the tidings of sublimest joy. 'tis the carol of the venusberg itself redeemed from curse of impiousness, this cry we hear amid the hymn of god. so wells and leaps each pulse of life in chorus of redemption, and both dissevered elements, both soul and senses, god and nature, unite in the atoning kiss of hallowed love. this description of the poetical contents of the overture to "tannhäuser" applies to the ordinary form of the introduction to the opera which was used (and still is in many cases) until wagner revised the opera for performance in paris in 1861. the traditions of french opera called for a ballet in the third act. wagner was willing to yield to the desire for a ballet, but he could not place it where the habits of the opera-going public demanded it. instead, he remodelled the overture and, sacrificing the coda which brought back a return of the canticle of the pilgrims, he lengthened the middle portion to fit an extended choreographic scene, and with it led into the opera without a break. the neglect to provide a ballet in the usual place led to a tremendous disturbance in which the jockey club took the lead. wagner's purpose in the extended portion of the overture now called the "bacchanale" may be read in his stage-directions for the scene. the scene represents the interior of the venusberg (hörselberg), in the neighborhood of eisenach. a large cave seems to extend to an invisible distance at a turn to the right. from a cleft through which the pale light of day penetrates, a green waterfall tumbles foaming over rocks the entire length of the cave. from the basin which receives the water, a brook flows toward the background, where it spreads out into a lake, in which naiads are seen bathing and on the banks of which sirens are reclining. on both sides of the grotto are rocky projections of irregular form, overgrown with singular, coral-like trophical plants. before an opening extending upward on the left, from which a rosy twilight enters, venus lies upon a rich couch; before her, his head upon her lap, his harp by his side, half kneeling, reclines tannhäuser. surrounding the couch in fascinating embrace are the three graces; beside and behind the couch innumerable sleeping amorettes, in attitudes of wild disorder, like children who had fallen asleep wearied with the exertions of a struggle. the entire foreground is illumined by a magical, ruddy light shining upward from below, through which the emerald green of the waterfall, with its white foam, penetrates. the distant background, with the shores of the lake, seems transfigured by a sort of moonlight. when the curtain rises, youths, reclining on the rocky projections, answering the beckonings of the nymphs, hurry down to them; beside the basin of the waterfall the nymphs have begun the dance designed to lure the youths to them. they pair off; flight and chase enliven the dance. from the distant background a procession of bacchantes approach, rushing through the rows of the loving couples and stimulating them to wilder pleasures. with gestures of enthusiastic intoxication they tempt the lovers to growing recklessness. satyrs and fauns have appeared from the cleft of the rocks and, dancing the while, force their way between the bacchantes and lovers, increasing the disorder by chasing the nymphs. the tumult reaches its height, whereupon the graces rise in horror and seek to put a stop to the wild conduct of the dancing rout and drive the mad roisterers from the scene. fearful that they themselves might be drawn into the whirlpool, they turn to the sleeping amorettes and drive them aloft. they flutter about, then gather into ranks on high, filling the upper spaces of the cave, whence they send down a hail of arrows upon the wild revellers. these, wounded by the arrows, filled with a mighty love-longing, cease their dance and sink down exhausted. the graces capture the wounded and seek, while separating the intoxicated ones into pairs, to scatter them in the background. then, still pursued by the flying amorettes, the bacchantes, fauns, satyrs, nymphs, and youths depart in various directions. a rosy mist, growing more and more dense, sinks down, hiding first the amorettes and then the entire background, so that finally only venus, tannhäuser, and the graces remain visible. the graces now turn their faces to the foreground; gracefully intertwined, they approach venus, seemingly informing her of the victory they have won over the mad passions of her subjects. the dense mist in the background is dissipated, and a tableau, a cloud picture, shows the rape of europa, who, sitting on the back of a bull decorated with flowers and led by tritons and nereids, sails across the blue lake. song of the sirens:-[musical excerpt] the rosy mist shuts down, the picture disappears, and the graces suggest by an ingratiating dance the secret significance that it was an achievement of love. again the mists move about. in the pale moonlight leda is discovered reclining by the side of the forest lake; the swan swims toward her and caressingly lays his head upon her breast. gradually this picture also disappears and, the mist blown away, discloses the grotto deserted and silent. the graces courtesy mischievously to venus and slowly leave the grotto of love. deepest silence. (the duet between venus and tannhäuser begins.) the work which wagner accomplished in behalf of the legend of tannhäuser is fairly comparable with the tales which have been woven around the figure of king arthur. the stories of the knights of the round table are in the mouths of all english-speaking peoples because of the "idylls of the king"; the legend of tannhäuser was saved from becoming the exclusive property of german literary students by wagner's opera. like many folk-tales, the story touches historical circumstance in part, and for the rest reaches far into the shadowy realm of legendary lore. the historical element is compassed by the fact that the principal human characters involved in it once had existence. there was a landgrave hermann of thuringia whose court was held in the wartburg--that noble castle which in a later century gave shelter to martin luther while he endowed the german people with a reformed religion, their version of the bible and a literary language. the minstrel knights, which in the opera meet in a contest of song, also belong to history. wolfram von eschenbach wrote the version of the quest of the holy grail which inspired wagner's "parsifal" and which is morally the most exalted epical form which that legend ever received. his companions also existed. tannhäuser is not an invention, though it is to wagner alone that we owe his association with the famous contest of minstrelsy which is the middle picture in wagner's drama. of the veritable tannhäuser, we know extremely little. he was a knight and minstrel at the court of duke frederick ii of austria in the first decades of the thirteenth century, who, it is said, led a dissolute life, squandered his fortune, and wrecked his health, but did timely penance at the end and failed not of the consolations of holy church. after he had lost his estate near vienna he found protection with otto ii of bavaria, who was stadtholder of austria from a.d. 1246 till his death in 1253. he sang the praises of otto's son-in-law, conrad iv, who was father of conradin, the last heir of the hohenstaufens. tannhäuser was therefore a ghibelline, as was plainly the folk-poet who made him the hero of the ballad which tells of his adventure with venus. tannhäuser's extant poems, when not in praise of princes, are gay in character, with the exception of a penitential hymn--a circumstance which may have had some weight with the ballad-makers. there is a picture labelled with his name in a famous collection of minnesongs called the manessian manuscript, which shows him with the crusaders' cross upon his cloak. this may be looked upon as evidence that he took part in one of the crusades, probably that of a.d. 1228. there is no evidence that the contest of minstrelsy at the wartburg ever took place. it seems to have been an invention of mediaeval poets. the manessian manuscript is embellished with a picture of the principal personages connected with the story. they are landgrave hermann, the landgravine sophia, wolfram von eschenbach, reinmar der alte, heinrich von rispach, biterolf, heinrich von ofterdingen, and klingesor. the subject discussed by the minstrels was scholastic, and ofterdingen, to save his life, sought help of klingesor, who was a magician and the reputed nephew of virgilius of naples; and the landgravine threw her cloak around him when he was hardest pressed. this incident, its ethical significance marvellously enhanced, is the culmination of wagner's second act. instead of the historical sophia, however, we have in the opera hermann's niece, elizabeth, a creation of the poet's, though modelled apparently after the sainted elizabeth of hungary, who, however, had scarcely opened her eyes upon the world in the wartburg at the date ascribed to the contest, i.e. a.d. 1206. wagner has given the rôle played by heinrich von ofterdingen (also effterdingen) to tannhäuser apparently on the strength of an essay which appeared about the time that he took up the study of the mediaeval legends of germany, which identified the two men. ofterdingen himself is now thought to be a creation of some poet's fancy; but the large part devoted to his adventure in the old poem which tells of the contest of minstrelsy led the mediaeval poets to attribute many great literary deeds to him, one of them nothing less than the authorship of the "nibelungenlied." wagner seems to have been under the impression that there was an old book of folk-tales (a so-called volksbuch) devoted to the story of tannhäuser and his adventure with dame venus. this is a mistake. the legend came down to modern times by way of popular ballads. one of these, which was printed by uhland, consists largely of the dialogue between tannhäuser and his enslaver, as does also the carnival play which hans sachs wrote on the subject. the writer of the ballad was so energetic an enemy of the papal power that he condemns urban iv to eternal torment because of his severe judgment of the penitent sinner:- do was er widrumb in den berg und het sein lieb erkoren, des muoss der vierde babst urban auch ewig sein verloren. a ballad which was sung in one swiss district as late as the third decade of the nineteenth century gives the story of the knight and his temptress in fuller detail, though it knows as little of the episode of elizabeth's love as it does of the tournament of song. in this ballad tannhäuser (or "tanhuser") is a goodly knight who goes out into the forest to seek adventures, or "see wonders." he finds a party of maidens engaged in a bewildering dance, and tarries to enjoy the spectacle. frau frene, or, as we would write it now, freya (the norse venus whose memory we perpetuate in our friday), seeks to persuade him to remain with her, promising to give him her youngest daughter to wife. the knight remains, but will not mate with the maiden, for he has seen the devil lurking in her brown eyes and learned that once in her toils he will be lost forever. lying under frau frene's fig tree, at length, he dreams that he must quit his sinful life. he tears himself loose from the enchantment and journeys to rome, where he falls at the feet of the pope and asks absolution. the pope holds in his hand a staff so dry that it has split. "your sins are as little likely to be forgiven as this staff is to green," is his harsh judgment. tannhäuser kneels before the altar, extends his arms, and asks mercy of christ; then leaves the church in despair and is lost to view. on the third day after this the pope's staff is found to be covered with fresh leaves. he sends out messengers to find tannhäuser, but he has returned to frau frene. then comes the moral of the tale expressed with a naïve forcefulness to which a translation cannot do justice:- drum soil kein pfaff, kein kardinal, kein sünder nie verdammen; der sünder mag sein so gross er will, kann gottes gnad erlangen. two other sources supplied wagner with material for as many effective scenes in his drama. from e. t. a. hofmann's "der kampf der sänger" he got the second scene of the first act, the hunt and the gathering in the valley below wartburg; from ludwig tieck's "der getreue eckhart und der tannhäuser" the narrative of the minstrel's pilgrimage to rome. students of comparative mythology and folklore will have no difficulty in seeing in the legend of tannhäuser one of the many tales of the association during a period of enchantment of men and elves. parallels between the theatre and apparatus of these tales extend back into remote antiquity. the grotto of venus, in which tannhäuser steeps himself with sensuality, is but a german variant of the garden of delight, in which the heroes of antiquity met their fair enslavers. it is ogygia, the delightful island, where ulysses met calypso. it is that avalon in which king arthur was healed of his wounds by his fairy sister morgain. the crozier which bursts into green in token of tannhäuser's forgiveness has prototypes in the lances which, when planted in the ground by charlemagne's warriors, were transformed overnight into a leafy forest; in the javelins of polydore, of which virgil tells us in the "aeneid"; in the staff of st. christopher, which grew into a tree after he had carried the christ child across the river; in the staff which put on leaves in the hands of joseph, wherefore the virgin mary gave him her hand in marriage; in the rod of aaron, which, when laid up among others in the tabernacle, "brought forth buds and bloomed blossoms and yielded almonds." there are many parallels in classic story and folklore of the incident of tannhäuser's sojourn with venus. i mention but a few. there are the episodes of ulysses and calypso, ulysses and circe, numa and egeria, rinaldo and armida, prince ahmed and peri banou. less familiar are the folk-tales which mr. baring-gould has collected of helgi's life with the troll ingibjorg, a norse story; of james soideman of serraade, "who was kept by the spirits in a mountain during the space of seven years, and at length came out, but lived afterwards in great distress and fear lest they should again take him away"; of the young swede lured away by an elfin woman from the side of his bride into a mountain, where he abode with the siren forty years and thought it but an hour. there are many caves of venus in europe, but none around which there clusters such a wealth of legend as around the grotto in the hörselberg. nineteen years ago the writer of this book visited the scene and explored the cave. he found it a decidedly commonplace hole in the ground, but was richly rewarded by the results of the literary explorations to which the visit led him. before christianity came to reconstruct the folk-tales of the thuringian peasants, the hörselberg was the home of dame holda, or holle, and the horde of weird creatures which used to go tearing through the german forests on a wild rout in the yuletide. dame holle, like many another character in teutonic mythology, was a benignant creature, whose blessing brought forth fruitfulness to fields and vineyards, before the christian priests metamorphosed her into a thing wholly of evil. she was the mother of all the fays and fairies that followed in the train of the wild huntsman, and though she appeared at times as a seductive siren and tempted men to their destruction, she appeared oftener as an old woman who rewarded acts of kindness with endless generosity. it was she who had in keeping the souls of unborn children, and babes who died before they could be christened were carried by her to the jordan and baptized in its waters. even after priestly sermons had transformed her into a beauteous she-devil, she still kept up her residence in the cave, which now, in turn, took on a new character. venturesome persons who got near its mouth, either purposely or by accident, told of strange noises which issued from it, like the rushing of many waters or the voice of a subterranean storm. the priests supplied explanation and etymology to fit the new state of things. the noise was the lamentation of souls in the fires of purgatory, to which place of torment the cave was an opening. this was said to account for the old german name of the mountain--"hör-seel-berg"--that is, "hear-souls-mountain." to this latin writers added another, viz. "mons horrisonus"--"the mountain of horrible sounds." the forbidding appearance of the exterior--in which some fantastic writers avowed they saw a resemblance to a coffin--was no check on the fancy of the mediaeval storyteller, however, who pictured the interior of the mountain as a marvellous palace, and filled it with glittering jewels and treasures incalculable. the story of tannhäuser's sojourn within this magical cavern is only one of many, nor do they all end like that of the minstrel knight. undeterred by the awful tales told by monks and priests, poets and romancers sang the glories and the pleasures of the cave as well as its gruesome punishments. from them we know many things concerning the appearance of the interior, the cave's inhabitants, and their merrymakings. i cannot resist the temptation to retell one of these old tales. adelbert, knight of thuringia, was one of those who experienced the delights of the cave of venus, yet, unlike tannhäuser in the original legend, was saved at the last. he met faithful eckhart at the mouth of the cave, who warned him not to enter, but entrancing music sounded within and he was powerless to resist. he entered. three maidens came forward to meet him. they were airily clad, flowers were twisted in their brown locks, and they waved branches before them as they smiled and beckoned and sang a song of spring's awakening. what could sir adelbert do but follow when they glanced coyly over their white shoulders and led the way through a narrow passage into a garden surrounded with rose-bushes in bloom, and filled with golden-haired maidens, lovelier than the flowers, who wandered about hand in hand and sang with sirens' voices? in the middle of the rose-hedged garden stood a red gate, which bore in bold letters this legend:-here dame venus holds court the gate-keeper was the fairest of the maidens, and her fingers were busy weaving a garland of roses, but she stopped her work long enough to smile a welcome to sir adelbert. he thanked her gallantly and queried: was the pretty sight a may day celebration? replied the winsome gate-keeper: "here dame' venus holds court in honor of the noble knight sir tannhäuser"; and she opened the gate and adelbert entered. within he beheld a gay tent pitched in a grove of flowering shrubs, and out of it emerged a beauteous creature and advanced toward him. her robe was rose color, adorned with strings of pearls and festooned with fragrant blossoms. a crown which glistened with gems rested lightly on her head. in her right hand--a dainty hand--she carried a tiny kerchief of filmy white stuff embroidered with gold, and in her left a lute. she sate herself down on a golden chair, bent her head over her left shoulder. a dreamy, tender light came into her eyes, and her rosy fingers sought the strings of her lute--strings of gold. would she sing? just then one of the maidens approached her, lisped musically into her ear, and pointed to the approaching knight. almost imperceptibly, but oh, so graciously, the lips of the vision moved. as if in obedience to a command, the maiden approached, and said in rhythmical cadence: "greetings, sir knight, from dame venus, who sends you message that all who love gaming and fair women are welcome at her court." she gave him her hand to escort him, and when the knight pressed her fingers in gratitude he felt a gentle pressure in return. the knight approached the dazzling queen of the palace and fell upon his knee; but she gave him her hand and she bade him arise, which he did after he had kissed her fingers. and she called to a maiden, who fetched a golden horn filled to the brim with wine and handed it to the knight. "empty the goblet, like a true knight, to the health of all fair women who love and are beloved," said the queen. sir adelbert smiled obedience: "to love, fair lady," he said and drank the wine at a draught. and thus he became a captive and a slave. long did he sojourn within the magic realm, in loving dalliance with venus and her maidens, until one day a hermit entered the cave in the absence of the queen and bore him back to the outer world, where penance and deeds of piety restored him to moral health and saved him from the fate of tannhäuser. footnotes: {1} "studies in the wagnerian drama," by h. e. krehbiel, pp. 35, 36. chapter xiii "tristan und isolde" a vassal is sent to woo a beauteous princess for his lord. while he is bringing her home the two, by accident, drink a love potion, and ever thereafter their hearts are fettered together. in the midday of delirious joy, in the midnight of deepest woe, their thoughts are only of each other, for each other. meanwhile the princess has become the vassal's queen. then the wicked love of the pair is discovered, and the knight is obliged to seek safety in a foreign land. there (strange note this to our ears) he marries another princess whose name is like that of his love, save for the addition with the white hand; but when wounded unto death he sends across the water for her who is still his true love, that she come and be his healer. the ship which is sent to bring her is to bear white sails on its return if successful in the mission; black, if not. day after day the knight waits for the coming of his love while the lamp of his life burns lower and lower. at length the sails of the ship appear on the distant horizon. the knight is now himself too weak to look. "white or black?" he asks of his wife. "black," replies she, jealousy prompting the falsehood; and the knight's heart-strings snap in twain just as his love steps over the threshold of his chamber. oh, the pity of it! for with the lady is her lord, who, having learned the story of the fateful potion, has come to unite the lovers. then the queen, too, dies, and the remorseful king buries the lovers in a common grave, from whose caressing sod spring a rose-bush and a vine and intertwine so curiously that none may separate them. {1} upon the ancient legend which has thus been outlined wagner reared his great tragedy entitled "tristan und isolde." whence the story came nobody can tell. it is a part of the great treasure preserved from remotest antiquity by itinerant singers and story-tellers, and committed to writing by poets of the middle ages. the first of these, so far as unquestioned evidence goes, were french trouvères. from them the tale passed into the hands of the german minnesinger. the greatest of these who treated it was gottfried von strasburg (circa a.d. 1210), who, however, left the tale unfinished. his continuators were ulrich von türnheim and heinrich von freiberg, whose denouement (not, however, original with them) was followed by hermann kurtz when he published a version of gottfried's poem in modern german in 1844. this, unquestionably, was the version which fell into wagner's hands when, in the dresden period (1843-1849) he devoted himself assiduously to the study of teutonic legend and mythology. in english the romance has an equally honorable literary record. in 1804 sir walter scott edited a metrical version which he fondly believed to be the work of the somewhat mythical thomas the rhymer and to afford evidence that the oldest literary form of the legend was british. the adventures of tristram of lyonesse (who is the tristan of wagner's tragedy) form a large portion of sir thomas malory's thrice glorious "morte d'arthur." of modern poets tennyson, matthew arnold, and swinburne have sung the passion of the ill-starred lovers. elements of the legend can be traced back to the ancient literatures of the aryan peoples. the courtship by proxy has a prototype in norse mythology in skirnir's wooing of gerd for van frey. the incident of the sails belongs to greek story--the legend of aegeus and theseus; the magic potion may be found in ancient persian romance; the interlocked rose-tree and vine over the grave of the lovers is an example of those floral auguries and testimonies which i have mentioned in connection with the legend of tannhäuser and the blossoming staff: in token of their innocence flowers spring miraculously from the graves of persons wrongly done to death. a legend which lives to be retold often is like a mirror which reflects not only the original picture, but also the social and moral surroundings of different relators. so this ancient tale has been varied by the poets who have told it; and of these variants the most significant are those made by wagner. if the ethical scheme of the poet-composer is to be observed, the chief of these must be kept in mind. in the poems of gottfried, arnold, and swinburne the love potion is drunk accidentally and the passion which leads to the destruction of the lovers is a thing for which they are in nowise responsible. wagner puts antecedent and conscious guilt at the door of both of his heroic characters; they love each other before the dreadful drinking and do not pay the deference to the passion which in the highest conception it demands. tristan is carried away by love of power and glory before man and isolde is at heart a murderer and suicide. the potion is less the creator of an uncontrollable passion than it is an agency which makes the lovers forget honor, duty, and respect for the laws of society. tennyson omits all mention of the potion and permits us to imagine tristram and iseult as a couple of ordinary sinners. swinburne and arnold follow the old story touching the hero's life in brittany with the second iseult (she of the white hand); but while swinburne preserves her a "maiden wife," arnold gives her a family of children. wagner ennobles his hero by omitting the second isolde, thus bringing the story into greater sympathy with modern ideas of love and exalting the passion of the lovers. the purpose to write a tristan drama was in wagner's mind three years before he began its execution. while living in zurich, in 1854, he had advanced as far as the second act of his "siegfried" when, in a moment of discouragement, he wrote to liszt: "as i have never in my life enjoyed the true felicity of love, i shall erect to this most beautiful of my dreams" (i.e. the drama on which he was working) "a monument in which, from beginning to end, this love shall find fullest gratification. i have sketched in my head a 'tristan und isolde,' the simplest of musical conceptions, but full-blooded; with the 'black flag' which waves at the end i shall then cover myself--to die." three years later he took up the project, but under an inspiration vastly different from that notified to liszt. the tragedy was not to be a monument to a mere dream of felicity or to his artistic despair, but a tribute to a consuming passion for mathilde wesendonck, wife of a benefactor who had given him an idyllic home at triebschen, on the shore of lake lucerne. mme. wesendonck was the author of the two poems "im treibhaus" and "träume," which, with three others from the same pen, wagner set to music. the first four were published in the winter of 1857-1858; the last, "im treibhaus," on may 1, 1858. the musical theme of "träume" was the germ of the love-music in the second act of "tristan und isolde"; out of "im treibhaus" grew some of the introduction to the third act. the tragedy was outlined in prose in august, 1857, and the versification was finished by september 18. the music was complete by july 16, 1859. wagner gave the pencil sketches of the score to mme. wesendonck, who piously went over them with ink so that they might be preserved for posterity. in 1857 wagner had been eight years an exile from his native land. years had passed since he began work on "der ring des nibelungen," and there seemed to him little prospect of that work receiving either publication or performance. in may of that year he received an invitation from dom pedro, emperor of brazil, to write an opera for rio de janeiro and direct its production. two and a half years before he had seriously considered the project of coming to america for a concert tour; so the invitation did not strike him as so strange and extraordinary as it might have appeared to a musician of less worldly wisdom. it is not likely that he took it seriously into consideration, but at any rate it turned his thoughts again to the opera which he had mentioned to liszt. with it he saw an opportunity for again establishing a connection with the theatre. dom pedro wanted, of course, an italian opera. wagner's plan contemplated the writing of "tristan und isolde" in german, its translation into italian, the dedication of its score to the emperor of brazil, with the privilege of its performance there and a utilization of the opportunity, if possible, to secure a production beforehand of "tannhäuser." meanwhile, he would have the drama produced in its original tongue at strasburg, then a french city conveniently near the german border, with albert niemann in the titular rôle and an orchestra from karlsruhe, or some other german city which had an opera-house. he communicated the plan to liszt, who approved of the project heartily, though he was greatly amazed at the intelligence which he had from another source that wagner intended to write the music with an eye to a performance in italian. "how in the name of all the gods are you going to make of it an opera for italian singers, as b. tells me you are? well, since the incredible and impossible have become your elements, perhaps you will achieve this, too," liszt wrote to him, and promised to go to strasburg with a wagnerian coterie to act as a guard of honor for the composer. nothing came of either plan. inspired by his love for mathilde wesendonck, wagner wrote the opera and succeeded in selling the score to breitkopf & härtel for the equivalent of $800. then began the hunt for a theatre in which to give the first representation. eduard devrient urged karlsruhe, where he was director, but wagner wanted to supervise the production, and this was impossible in a theatre of germany so long as the decree of banishment for participation in the saxon rebellion hung over his head. the grand duke of baden appealed to the king of saxony to recall the decree, but in vain. wagner went to paris and brussels, but had to content himself with giving concerts. weimar, prague, and hanover were considered in order, and at length wagner turned to vienna. there the opera was accepted for representation at the court opera, but after fifty-four rehearsals between november, 1862, and march, 1863, it was abandoned as "impossible." the next year saw the turning-point in wagner's career. ludwig of bavaria invited him to come to munich, the political ban was removed, and "tristan und isolde" had its first performance, to the joy of the composer and a host of his friends, on june 10, 1865, at the royal court theatre of the bavarian capital, under the direction of hans von bölow. the rôles of tristan and isolde were in the hands of ludwig schnorr von carolsfeld and his wife. albert niemann was prevented by the failure of the strasburg plan from being the first representative of the hero, but to him fell the honor of setting the model for all american representations. the first performance in the united states took place in the metropolitan opera-house on december 1, 1886, under the direction of anton seidl. the cast was as follows: isolde, lilli lehmann; brangäne, marianne brandt; tristan, albert niemann; kurwenal, adolf robinson; könig marke, emil fischer; melot, rudolph von milde; ein hirt, otto kemlitz; ein steuermann, emil saenger; ein seemann, max alvary. two circumstances bid us look a little carefully into the instrumental prelude with which wagner has prefaced his drama. one is that it has taken so prominent a place in the concert-room that even those whose love for pure music has made them indifferent to the mixed art-form called the opera ought to desire acquaintance with its poetical and musical contents; the other is that the prelude, like the overture to "fidelio" known as "leonore no. 3," presents the spiritual progress of the tragedy from beginning to end to the quickened heart and mind of the listener freed from all material integument. to do this it makes use of the themes which are most significant in the development of the psychology of the drama, which is far and away its most important element, for the pictures are not many, and the visible action is slight. listening to the music without thought of the drama, and, therefore, with no purpose of associating it with the specific conceptions which later have exposition in the text, we can hear in this prelude an expression of an ardent longing, a consuming hunger, which doth make the meat it feeds on, a desire that cannot be quenched, yet will not despair. then, at the lowest ebb of the sweet agony, an ecstasy of hope, a wildly blissful contemplation of a promise of reward. if i depart here for a brief space from my announced purpose not to analyze the music in the manner of the wagnerian commentators, it will be only because the themes of the prelude are the most pregnant of those employed in the working out of the drama, because their specific significance in the purpose of the composer is plainly set forth by their association with scenes and words, and because they are most admirably fitted by structure and emotional content to express the things attributed to them. the most important of the themes is that with which the prelude begins:-[musical excerpt] note that it is two-voiced and that one voice ascends chromatically (that is, in half steps), and the other descends in the same manner. in the aspiring voice there is an expression of longing; in the descending, of suffering and dejection. we therefore may look upon it as a symbol of the lovers and their passion in a dual aspect. after an exposition of this theme there enters another:-[musical excerpt] followed immediately by:-[musical excerpt] in the play the first of these two is associated with the character of the hero; the second with the glance which tristan cast upon isolde when she was about to kill him--the glance which inspired the love of the princess. two modifications of the principal theme provide nearly all the rest of the material used in the building up of the prelude. the first is a diminution of the motif compassed by the second and third measures, which by reiteration develops the climax of the piece:-[musical excerpt] the second is a harmonized inversion of the same short figure, preceded by a jubilantly ascending scale:-[musical excerpt] this is the expression of the ecstasy of hope, the wildly blissful contemplation of a promise of reward of which i have spoken. wagner tells us what the thing hoped for, the joy contemplated in expectation, is, not only in the drama, but also in an exposition of the contents of the prelude made for concert purposes. he deserves that it shall be known, and i reproduce it in the translation of william ashton ellis. after rehearsing the legend down to the drinking of the fateful philtre, he says:-the musician who chose this theme for the prelude to his love drama, as he felt that he was now in the boundless realm of the very element of music, could only have one care: how he should set bounds to his fancy, for the exhaustion of the theme was impossible. thus he took, once for all, this insatiable desire. in long-drawn accents it surges up, from its first timid confession, its softest attraction, through sobbing sighs, hope and pain, laments and wishes, delight and torment, up to the mightiest onslaught, the most powerful endeavor to find the breach which shall open to the heart the path to the ocean of the endless joy of love. in vain! its power spent, the heart sinks back to thirst with desire, with desire unfulfilled, as each fruition only brings forth seeds of fresh desire, till, at last, in the depths of its exhaustion, the starting eye sees the glimmering of the highest bliss of attainment. it is the ecstasy of dying, of the surrender of being, of the final redemption into that wondrous realm from which we wander farthest when we strive to take it by force. shall we call this death? is it not rather the wonder world of night, out of which, so says the story, the ivy and the vine sprang forth in tight embrace o'er the tomb of tristan and isolde? if we place ourselves in spirit among the personages of wagner's play, we shall find ourselves at the parting of the curtain which hangs between the real and the mimic world, on board a mediaeval ship, within a few hours' sail of cornwall, whither tristan is bearing isolde to be the wife of his king marke. the cheery song of a sailor who, unseen, at the masthead, sings to the winds which are blowing him away from his wild irish sweetheart, floats down to us. it has a refreshing and buoyant lilt, this song, with something of the sea breeze in it, and yet something, as it is sung, which emphasizes the loneliness of the singer:-[musical excerpt--"frisch weht der wind der heimat zu: mein irisch kind, wo weilest du?"] an innocent song, the strain of which, more decorous than any modern chantey, inspires the sailors as they pull at the ropes, and gives voice to the delights of the peaceful voyage:-[musical excerpt] yet it stirs up a tempest in the soul of isolde. she is the daughter of an irish queen, a sorceress, and she now deplores the degeneracy of her race and its former potency. once her ancestors could command wind and wave, but now they can brew only balsamic potions. wildly she invokes the elements to dash the ship to pieces, and when her maid, brangäne, seeks to know the cause of her tumultuous disquiet, she tells the story of her love for tristan and of its disgraceful requital. he had come to ireland's queen to be healed of a wound received in battle. he had killed his enemy, and that enemy was morold, isolde's betrothed. the princess, ignorant of that fact,--ignorant, too, of his name, for he had called himself tantris,--had herself nursed him back almost to health, when one day she found that a splinter of steel, taken from the head of morold, where he had received the adolorous stroke, fitted into a nick in the sword of the wounded knight. at her mercy lay the slayer of her affianced husband. she raised the sword to take revenge, when his look fell upon her. in a twinkling her heart was empty of hate and filled instead with love. now, instead of requiting her love, tristan is taking her to cornwall to deliver her to a loveless marriage to cornwall's "weary king." it will be well to note in this narrative how the description of tristan's sufferings are set to a descending chromatic passage, like the second voice of the principal theme already described:-[musical excerpt--"von einem kahn, der klein und arm"] the thought of her humiliation maddens the high-spirited woman, and she sends her maid, brangäne, to summon the knight into her presence. the knight parleys diplomatically with the messenger. duty keeps him at the helm, but once in port he will suffer no one but himself to escort the exalted lady into the presence of the king. at the last the maid is forced to deliver the command in the imperious words used by her mistress. this touches the pride of tristan's squire, kurwenal, who asks permission to frame an answer, and, receiving it, shouts a ballad of his master's method of paying tribute to ireland with the head of his enemy; for the battle between tristan and morold had grown out of the effort made by the latter to collect tribute-money from england. it is a stiff stave, rugged, forceful, and direct, in which the spirit of the political ballad of all times is capitally preserved. isolde resolves to wipe out what she conceives to be her disgrace by slaying tristan and herself. brangäne tries to persuade her that the crown of cornwall will bring her honor, and when isolde answers that it would be intolerable to live in the presence of tristan and not have his love, she hints that her mother had not sent her into a strange land without providing for all contingencies. isolde understands the allusion to her mother's magical lore, and commands that a casket be brought to her. brangäne obeys with alacrity and exhibits its contents: lotions for wounds, antidotes for poisons, and, best of all,--she holds a phial aloft. isolde will not have it so; she herself had marked the phial whose contents were to remedy her ills. "the death draught!" exclaims brangäne, and immediately the "yo, heave ho!" of the sailors is heard and the shout of "land!" throughout this scene a significant phrase is heard--the symbol of death:-[musical excerpt] also the symbol of fate--a downward leap of a seventh, as in the last two notes of the brief figure illustrative of the glance which had inspired isolde's fatal love. at sight of land tristan leaves the helm and presents himself before isolde. she upbraids him for having avoided her during the voyage; he replies that he had obeyed the commands of honor and custom. she reminds him that a debt of blood is due her--he owes her revenge for the death of morold. tristan offers her his sword and his breast; but she declines to kill the best of all marke's knights, and offers to drink with him a cup of forgiveness. he divines her purpose and takes the cup from her hand and gives this pledge: fidelity to his honor, defiance to anguish. to his heart's illusion, his scarcely apprehended dream, will he drink the draught which shall bring oblivion. before he has emptied the cup, isolde snatches it from his hands and drains it to the bottom. thus they meet their doom, which is not death and surcease of sorrow, as both had believed, but life and misery; for brangäne, who had been commanded to pour the poison in the cup, had followed an amiable prompting and presented the love-potion instead. a moment of bewilderment, and the fated ones are in each other's arms, pouring out an ecstasy of passion. then her maids robe isolde to receive the king, who is coming on board the ship to greet his bride. in the introduction to the second act, based upon this restless phrase,-[musical excerpt] we have a picture of the longing and impatience of the lovers before a meeting. when the curtains part, we discover a garden before the chamber of isolde, who is now cornwall's queen. it is a lovely night in summer. a torch burns in a ring beside the door opening into the chamber at the top of a stone staircase. the king has gone a-hunting, and the tones of the hunting-horns, dying away in the distance, blend entrancingly with an instrumental song from the orchestra which seems a musical sublimation of night and nature in their tenderest moods. isolde appears with brangäne and pleads with her to extinguish the torch and thus give the appointed signal to tristan, who is waiting in concealment. but brangäne suspects treachery on the part of melot, a knight who is jealous of tristan and himself enamoured of isolde. it was he who had planned the nocturnal hunt. she warns her mistress, and begs her to wait. beauty rests upon the scene like a benediction. to isolde the horns are but the rustling of the forest leaves as they are caressed by the wind, or the purling and laughing of the brook. longing has eaten up all patience, all discretion, all fear. in spite of brangäne's pleadings she extinguishes the torch, and with wildly waving scarf beckons on her hurrying lover. beneath the foliage they sing their love through all the gamut of hope and despair, of bliss and wretchedness. the duet consists largely of detached ejaculations and verbal plays, each paraphrasing or varying or giving a new turn to the outpouring of the other, the whole permeated with the symbolism of pessimistic philosophy in which night, death, and oblivion are glorified, and day, life, and memory contemned. in this dialogue lies the key to the philosophy which wagner has proclaimed in the tragedy. in wagner's exposition of the prelude we saw that he wishes us to observe "the one glimmering of the highest bliss of attainment" in the "surrender of being," the "final redemption into that wondrous realm from which we wander farthest when we try to take it by force." for this realm he chooses death and night as symbols, but what he means to imply is the nirvana of buddhistic philosophy, the final deliverance of the soul from transmigration. such love as that of tristan and isolde presented itself to wagner as ceaseless struggle and endless contradiction, and for this problem nirvana alone offers a happy outcome; it means quietude and identity. in vain does brangäne sing her song of warning from the tower; the lovers have been transported beyond all realization of their surroundings; they sing on, dream on in each other's arms, until at the moment of supremest ecstasy there comes a rude interruption. kurwenal dashes in with a sword and a shout: "save thyself, tristan!" the king, melot, and courtiers at his heels. day, symbol of all that is fatal to their love, has dawned. tristan is silent, though marke bewails the treachery of his nephew and his friend. from the words of the heart-torn king we learn that he had been forced into the marriage with isolde by the disturbed state of his kingdom, and had not consented to it until tristan, whose purpose it was thus to quiet the jealous anger of the barons, had threatened to depart from cornwall unless the king revoked his purpose to make him his successor, and took unto himself a wife. tristan's answer to the sorrowful upbraidings of his royal uncle is to obtain a promise from isolde to follow him into the "wondrous realm of night." then, seeing that marke does not wield the sword of retribution, he makes a feint of attacking melot, but permits the treacherous knight to reach him with his sword. he falls wounded unto death. the last act has been reached. the dignified, reserved knight of the first act, the impassioned lover of the second, is now a dream-haunted, longing, despairing, dying man, lying under a lime tree in the yard of his ancestral castle in brittany, wasting his last bit of strength in feverish fancies and ardent yearnings touching isolde. kurwenal has sent for her. will she come? a shepherd tells of vain watches for the sight of a sail by playing a mournful melody on his pipe:-[musical excerpt] oh, the heart-hunger of the hero! the longing! will she never come? the fever is consuming him, and his heated brain breeds fancies which one moment lift him above all memories of pain and the next bring him to the verge of madness. cooling breezes waft him again toward ireland, whose princess healed the wound struck by morold, then ripped it up again with the avenging sword with its telltale nick. from her hands he took the drink whose poison sears his heart. accursed the cup and accursed the hand that brewed it! will the shepherd never change his doleful strain? ah, isolde, how beautiful you are! the ship, the ship! it must be in sight. kurwenal, have you no eyes? isolde's ship! a merry tune bursts from the shepherd's pipe:-[musical excerpt] it is the ship! what flag flies at the peak? the flag of "all's well!" now the ship disappears behind a cliff. there the breakers are treacherous. who is at the helm? friend or foe? melot's accomplice? are you, too, a traitor, kurwenal? tristan's strength is unequal to the excitement of the moment. his mind becomes dazed. he hears isolde's voice, and his wandering fancy transforms it into the torch whose extinction once summoned him to her side: "do i hear the light?" he staggers to his feet and tears the bandages from his wound. "ha! my blood! flow merrily now! she who opened the wound is here to heal it!" life endures but for one embrace, one glance, one word: "isolde!" while isolde lies mortally stricken upon tristan's corpse, marke and his train arrive upon a second ship. brangäne has told the secret of the love-draught, and the king has come to unite the lovers. but his purpose is not known, and faithful kurwenal receives his death-blow while trying to hold the castle against marke's men. he dies at tristan's side. isolde, unconscious of all these happenings, sings out her broken heart, and expires. and ere her ear might hear, her heart had heard, nor sought she sign for witness of the word; but came and stood above him, newly dead, and felt his death upon her: and her head bowed, as to reach the spring that slakes all drouth; and their four lips became one silent mouth. {2} footnotes: {1} "studies in the wagnerian drama," by h. e. krehbiel. {2} swinburne, "tristram of lyonesse." chapter xiv "parsifal" a lad, hotfoot in pursuit of a wild swan which one of his arrows has pierced, finds himself in a forest glade on the side of a mountain. there he meets a body of knights and esquires in attendance on a king who is suffering from a wound. the knights are a body of men whose mission it is to succor suffering innocence wherever they may find it. they dwell in a magnificent castle on the summit of the mountain, within whose walls they assemble every day to contemplate and adore a miraculous vessel from which they obtain both physical and spiritual sustenance. in order to enjoy the benefits which flow from this talisman, they are required to preserve their bodies in ascetic purity. their king has fallen from this estate and been grievously wounded in an encounter with a magician, who, having failed in his ambition to enter the order of knighthood, had built a castle over against that of the king, where, by practice of the black art and with the help of sirens and a sorceress, he seeks the ruin of the pure and celestial soldiery. in his hands is a lance which once belonged to the knights, but which he had wrested from their king and with which he had given the dolorous stroke from which the king is suffering. the healing of the king can be wrought only by a touch of the lance which struck the wound; and this lance can be regained only by one able to withstand the sensual temptations with which the evil-minded sorcerer has surrounded himself in his magical castle. an oracle, that had spoken from a vision, which one day shone about the talisman, had said that this deliverer fool, an innocent simpleton, pity had made knowing:-[musical excerpt--"durch mitleid wissend, der reine thor, harre sein' den ich erkor." the oracle] for this hero king and knights are waiting and longing, since neither lotions nor baths nor ointments can bring relief, though they be of the rarest potency and brought from all the ends of the earth. the lad who thus finds himself in this worshipful but woful company is himself of noble and knightly lineage. this we learn from the recital of his history, but also from the bright, incisive, militant, chivalresque music associated with him:-[musical excerpt--the symbol of parsifal] but he has been reared in a wilderness, far from courts and the institutions of chivalry and in ignorance of the world lying beyond his forest boundaries. his father died before he was born, and his mother withheld from him all knowledge of knighthood, hoping thus to keep him for herself. one day, however, he saw a cavalcade of horsemen in brilliant trappings. the spectacle stirred the chivalric spirit slumbering within him; he deserted his mother, followed after the knights, and set out in quest of adventure. the mother died:-[musical excerpt--the symbol of herzeleide] in the domain whither his quarry had led the lad, all animals were held sacred. a knight (gurnemanz) rebukes him for his misdeed in shooting the swan, and rue leads him to break his bow and arrows. from a strange creature (kundry),-[musical excerpt--the penitent kundry] in the service of the knights, he learns of the death of his mother, who had perished for love of him and grief over his desertion. he is questioned about himself, but is singularly ignorant of everything, even of his own name. hoping that the lad may prove to be the guileless fool to whom knowledge was to come through pity, the knight escorts him to the temple, which is the sanctuary of the talisman whose adoration is the daily occupation of the brotherhood. they walk out of the forest and find themselves in a rocky defile of the mountain. a natural gateway opens in the face of a cliff, through which they pass, and are lost to sight for a space. then they are seen ascending a sloping passage, and little by little the rocks lose their ruggedness and begin to take on rude architectural contours. they are walking to music which, while merely suggesting their progress and the changing natural scene in the main, ever and anon breaks into an expression of the most poignant and lacerating suffering and lamentation:-[musical excerpt--suffering and lamentation] soon the pealing of bells is heard:-[musical excerpt] and the tones blend synchronously and harmonously with the music of their march:-[musical excerpt--fundamental phrase of the march] at last they arrive in a mighty byzantine hail, which loses itself upward in a lofty, vaulted dome, from which light streams downward and illumines the interior. under the dome, within a colonnade, are two tables, each a segment of a circle. into the hall there come in procession knights wearing red mantles on which the image of a white dove is embroidered. they chant a pious hymn as they take their places at the refectory tables:-[musical excerpt--"zum letzten liebesmahle gerüstet tag für tag." the eucharistic hymn] the king, whom the lad had seen in the glade, is borne in on a litter, before him a veiled shrine containing the mystical cup which is the object of the ceremonious worship. it is the duty of the king to unveil the talisman and hold it up to the adoration of the knights. he is conveyed to a raised couch and the shrine is placed before him. his sufferings of mind and body are so poignant that he would liever die than perform his office; but the voice of his father (titurel), who had built the sanctuary, established the order of knighthood, and now lives on in his grave sustained by the sight of the talisman, admonishes the king of his duty. at length he consents to perform the function imposed upon him by his office. he raises himself painfully upon his couch. the attendants remove the covering from the shrine and disclose an antique crystal vessel which they reverently place before the lamentable king. boys' voices come wafted down from the highest height of the dome, singing a formula of consecration: "take ye my body, take my blood in token of our love":-[musical excerpt--the love-feast formula] a dazzling ray of light flashes down from above and falls into the cup, which now glows with a reddish purple lustre and sheds a soft radiance around. the knights have sunk upon their knees. the king lifts the luminous chalice, moves it gently from side to side, and thus blesses the bread and wine provided for the refection of the knights. meanwhile, celestial voices proclaim the words of the oracle to musical strains that are pregnant with mysterious suggestion. another choir sturdily, firmly, ecstatically hymns the power of faith:-[musical excerpt--the symbol of faith] and, at the end, an impressive antiphon, starting with the knights, ascends higher and higher, and, calling in gradually the voices of invisible singers in the middle height, becomes metamorphosed into an angelic canticle as it takes its flight to the summit. it is the voice of aspiration, the musical symbol of the talisman which directs the thoughts and desires of its worshippers ever upward:-[musical excerpt--the symbol of the holy grail] the lad disappoints his guide. he understands nothing of the solemn happenings which he has witnessed, nor does he ask their meaning, though his own heart had been lacerated with pain at sight of the king's sufferings. he is driven from the sanctuary with contumely. he wanders forth in quest of further adventures and enters the magical garden surrounding the castle of the sorcerer. a number of knights who are sent against him he puts to rout. now the magician summons lovely women, clad in the habiliments of flowers, to seduce him with their charms:-[musical excerpt--klingsor's incantation] they sing and play about him with winsome wheedlings and cajoleries, with insinuating blandishments and dainty flatteries, with pretty petulancies and delectable quarrellings:-[musical excerpt--"komm, komm, holder knabe," the seductive song of the flower maidens] but they fail of their purpose, as does also an unwilling siren whom the magician invokes with powerful conjurations. it is kundry, who is half magdalen, half wicked sorceress, a messenger in the service of the pious knights, and as such hideous of aspect; a tool in the hands of the magician, and as such supernaturally beautiful. it was to her charms that the suffering king had yielded. to win the youth she tells him the story of his mother's death and gives to him her last message and--a kiss! at the touch of her impure lips a flood of passion, hitherto unfelt, pours through the veins of the lad, and in its surge comes understanding of the suffering and woe which he had witnessed in the castle on the mountain. also a sense of his own remissness. compassionate pity brings enlightenment; and he thrusts back the woman who is seeking to destroy him. finding that the wiles of his tool have availed him naught, the wicked magician himself appears to give battle, for he, too, knows the oracle and fears the coming of the king's deliverer and the loss of the weapon which he hopes will yet enable him to achieve the mystical talisman. he hurls the lance at the youth, but it remains suspended in midair. the lad seizes it, makes the sign of the cross, speaks some words of exorcism, and garden, castle, damsels--all the works of enchantment disappear. now the young hero is conscious of a mission. he must find again the abode of the knights and their ailing king, and bring to them surcease of suffering. after long and grievous wanderings he is again directed to the castle. grief and despair have overwhelmed the knights, whose king, unable longer to endure the torture in which he has lived, has definitively refused to perform his holy office. in consequence, his father, no longer the recipient of supernatural sustenance, has died, and the king longs to follow him. the hero touches the wound in the side of the king with the sacred spear, ends his dolors, and is hailed as king in his place. the temptress, who has followed him as a penitent, freed from a curse which had rested upon her for ages, goes to a blissful and eternal rest. * * * such is the story of wagner's "parsifal." it is the purpose of this book to help the musical layman who loves lyric drama to enjoyment. criticism might do this, but a purpose of simple exposition has already been proclaimed, and shall be adhered to lest some reader think that he is being led too far afield. in this case the exposition shall take the form of a marshalling of the elements of the story in two aspects--religious and legendary. careful readers of english literature will have had no difficulty in recognizing in it a story of the quest of the holy grail. tennyson will have taught them that the hero is that sir percivale whom arthur and his knighthood called the pure; that the talismanic vessel is the cup itself from which our lord drank at the last sad supper with his own; that the lance which struck and healed the grievous wound in the side of the king is the spear with which the side of the christ was pierced on calvary. it is also obvious that the king, whose name is amfortas, that is, "the powerless one," is a symbol of humanity suffering from the wounds of slavery to desire; that the heroic act of parsifal, as wagner calls him, which brings release to the king and his knights, is renunciation of desire, prompted by pity, compassion, fellow-suffering; and that this gentle emotion it was that had inspired knowledge simultaneously of a great need and a means of deliverance. the ethical idea of the drama, as i set forth in a book entitled "studies in the wagnerian drama" many years ago, is that it is the enlightenment which comes through pity which brings salvation. the allusion is to the redemption of mankind by the sufferings and compassionate death of christ; and that stupendous tragedy is the prefiguration of the mimic drama which wagner has constructed. the spectacle to which he invites us, and with which he hoped to impress us and move us to an acceptance of the lesson underlying his play, is the adoration of the holy grail, cast in the form of a mimicry of the last supper, bedizened with some of the glittering pageantry of mediaeval knighthood and romance. in the minds of many persons it is a profanation to make a stage spectacle out of religious things; and it has been urged that "parsifal" is not only religious but specifically christian; not only christian but filled with parodies of elements which are partly liturgical, partly biblical. in narrating the incidents of the play i have purposely avoided all allusions to the things which have been matters of controversy. it is possible to look upon "parsifal" as a sort of glorified fairy tale, and to this end i purpose to subject its elements to inquiry, and shall therefore go a bit more into detail. throughout the play parsifal is referred to as a redeemer, and in the third act scenes in which he plays as the central figure are borrowed from the life of christ. kundry, the sorceress, who attempts his destruction at one time and is in the service of the knights of the grail at another, anoints his feet and dries them with her hair, as the magdalen did the feet of christ in the house of simon the pharisee. parsifal baptizes kundry and admonishes her to believe in the redeemer:- die taufe nimm und glaub' an den erlöser! kundry weeps. unto the woman who was a sinner and wept at his feet christ said: "thy sins are forgiven. . . . thy faith hath saved thee. go in peace." at the elevation of the grail by parsifal after the healing of amfortas a dove descends from the dome and hovers over the new king's head. what saith the scripture? "and jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water; and lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the spirit of god descending like a dove, and lighting upon him." (st. matthew iii. 16.) it would be idle to argue that these things are not biblical, though the reported allusions to parsifal as a redeemer do not of necessity belong in the category. we shall see presently that the drama is permeated with buddhism, and there were a multitude of redeemers and saviours in india besides the buddha. let us look at the liturgical elements. the holy grail is a chalice. it is brought into the temple in solemn procession in a veiled shrine and deposited on a table. thus, also, the chalice, within its pall, is brought in at the sacrament of the mass and placed on the altar before the celebrant. in the drama boys' voices sing in the invisible heights:- nehmet hin mein blut um unserer liebe willen! nehmet hin meinem leib auf dass ihr mein gedenkt! is there a purposed resemblance here to the words of consecration in the mass? accipite, et manducate ex hoc omnes. hoc est enim corpus meum. accipite, et bibite ex eo omnes. hic est enim calix sanguinis mei! in a moment made wonderfully impressive by wagner's music, while amfortas bends over the grail and the knights are on their knees, a ray of light illumines the cup and it glows red. amfortas lifts it high, gently sways it from side to side, and blesses the bread and wine which youthful servitors have placed beside each knight on the table. in the book of the play, as the hall gradually grows light the cups before the knights appear filled with red wine, and beside each lies a small loaf of bread. now the celestial choristers sing: "the wine and bread of the last supper, once the lord of the grail, through pity's love-power, changed into the blood which he shed, into the body which he offered. to-day the redeemer whom ye laud changes the blood and body of the sacrificial offering into the wine poured out for you, and the bread that you eat!" and the knights respond antiphonally: "take of the bread; bravely change it anew into strength and power. faithful unto death, staunch in effort to do the works of the lord. take of the blood; change it anew to life's fiery flood. gladly in communion, faithful as brothers, to fight with blessed courage." are these words, or are they not, a paraphrase of those which in the canon of the mass follow the first and second ablutions of the celebrant: quod ore sumpsimus domine, etc., and: corpus tuum, domine, etc.? he would be but little critical who would deny it. nevertheless, it does not necessarily follow that wagner wished only to parody the eucharistic rite. he wanted to create a ceremonial which should be beautiful, solemn, and moving; which should be an appropriate accompaniment to the adoration of a mystical relic; which should, in a large sense, be neither catholic, protestant, nor buddhistic; which should symbolize a conception of atonement older than christianity, older than buddhism, older than all records of the human imagination. of this more anon. as was his custom, wagner drew from whatever source seemed to him good and fruitful; and though he doubtless thought himself at liberty to receive suggestions from the roman catholic ritual, as well as the german lutheran, it is even possible that he had also before his mind scenes from christian masonry. this possibility was once suggested by mr. f. c. burnand, who took the idea from the last scene of the first act only, and does not seem to have known how many connections the grail legend had with mediaeval freemasonry or templarism. there are more elements associated with the old knights templars and their rites in wagner's drama than i am able to discuss. to do so i should have to be an initiate and have more space at my disposal than i have here. i can only make a few suggestions: in the old welsh tale of peredur, which is a tale of the quest of a magical talisman, the substitute for the grail is a dish containing a bloody head. that head in time, as the legend passed through the imaginations of poets and romances, became the head of john the baptist, and there was a belief in the middle ages that the knights templars worshipped a bloody head. the head of john the baptist enters dimly into wagner's drama in the conceit that kundry is a reincarnation of herodias, who is doomed to make atonement, not for having danced the head off the prophet's shoulders, but for having reviled christ as he was staggering up calvary under the load of the cross. but this is pursuing speculations into regions that are shadowy and vague. let it suffice for this branch of our study that mr. burnand has given expression to the theory that the scene of the adoration of the grail and the love feast may also have a relationship with the ceremony of installation in the masonic orders of chivalry, in which a cup of brotherly love is presented to the grand commander, who drinks and asks the sir knights to pledge him in the cup "in commemoration of the last supper of our grand heavenly captain, with his twelve disciples, whom he commanded thus to remember him." here, says mr. burnand, there is no pretence to sacrifice. participation in the wine is a symbol of a particular and peculiarly close intercommunion of brotherhood. to get the least offence from "parsifal" it ought to be accepted in the spirit of the time in which christian symbolism was grafted on the old tales of the quest of a talisman which lie at the bottom of it. the time was the last quarter of the twelfth century and the first quarter of the thirteenth. it is the period of the third and fourth crusades. relic worship was at its height. less than a hundred years before (in 1101) the genoese crusaders had brought back from the holy land as a part of the spoils of caesarea, which they were helpful in capturing under baldwin, a three-cornered dish, which was said to be the veritable dish used at the last supper of christ and his apostles. the belief that it was cut out of a solid emerald drew bonaparte's attention to it, and he carried it away to paris in 1806 and had it examined. it proved to be nothing but glass, and he graciously gave it back to genoa in 1814. there it still reposes in the church of st. john, but it is no longer an object of worship, though it might fairly excite a feeling of veneration. for 372 years nuremberg possessed what the devout believed to be the lance of longinus, with which the side of christ was opened. the relic, like most objects of its kind (the holy coat, for instance), had a rival which, after inspiring victory at the siege of antioch, found its way to paris with the most sacred relics, for which louis ix built the lovely sainte chapelle; now it is in the basilica of the vatican, at rome. the nuremberg relic, however, enjoyed the advantage of historical priority. it is doubly interesting, or rather was so, because it was one of wagner's historical characters who added it to the imperial treasure of the holy roman empire. this was none other than henry the fowler, the king who is righteous in judgment and tuneful of speech in the opera "lohengrin." henry, so runs the story, wrested the lance from the burgundian king, rudolph iii, some time about a.d. 929. after many vicissitudes the relic was given for safe keeping to the imperial city of nuremberg, in 1424, by the emperor sigismund. it was placed in a casket, which was fastened with heavy chains to the walls of the spitalkirche. there it remained until 1796. one may read about the ceremonies attending its annual exposition, along with other relics, in the old history of nuremberg, by wagenseil, which was the source of wagner's knowledge of the mastersingers. the disruption of the holy roman empire caused a scattering of the jewels and relics in the imperial treasury, and the present whereabouts of this sacred lance is unknown. the casket and chains, however, are preserved in the germanic museum at nuremberg to this day, and there have been seen, doubtless, by many who are reading these lines. there is nothing in "parsifal," neither personage nor incident nor thing, no principle of conduct, which did not live in legendary tales and philosophical systems long before christianity existed as a universal religion. the hero in his first estate was born, bred, went out in search of adventure, rescued the suffering, and righted wrong, just as krishna, perseus, theseus, oedipus, romulus, remus, siegfried, and wolf-dietrich did before him. he is an aryan legendary and mythical hero-type that has existed for ages. the talismanic cup and spear are equally ancient; they have figured in legend from time immemorial. the incidents of their quest, the agonies wrought by their sight, their mission as inviters of sympathetic interest, and the failure of a hero to achieve a work of succor because of failure to show pity, are all elements in keltic quester and quest stories, which antedate christianity. kundry, the loathly damsel and siren, has her prototypes in classic fable and romantic tale. read the old english ballad of "the marriage of sir gawain." so has the magic castle of klingsor, surrounded by its beautiful garden. it is all the things which i enumerated in the chapter devoted to "tannhäuser." it is also the underworld, where prevails the law of taboo--"thou must," or "thou shalt not;" whither psyche went on her errand for venus and came back scot-free; where peritheus and theseus remained grown to a rocky seat till hercules came to release them with mighty wrench and a loss of their bodily integrity. the sacred lance which shines red with blood after it has by its touch healed the wound of amfortas is the bleeding spear which was a symbol of righteous vengeance unperformed in the old bardic day of britain; it became the lance of longinus which pierced the side of christ when christian symbolism was applied to the ancient arthurian legends; and you may read in malory's "morte d'arthur" how a dolorous stroke dealt with it by balin opened a wound in the side of king pellam from which he suffered many years, till galahad healed him in the quest of the sangreal by touching the wound with the blood which flowed from the spear. these are the folklore elements in wagner's "parsifal." it is plain that they might have been wrought into a drama substantially like that which was the poet-composer's last gift to art without loss of either dignity or beauty. then his drama would have been like a glorified fairy play, imposing and of gracious loveliness, and there would have been nothing to quarrel about. but wagner was a philosopher of a sort, and a sincere believer in the idea that the theatre might be made to occupy the same place in the modern world that it did in the classic. it was to replace the church and teach by direct preachments as well as allegory the philosophical notions which he thought essential to the salvation of humanity. for the chief of these he went to that system of philosophy which rests on the idea that the world is to be redeemed by negation of the will to live, the conquering of all desire--that the highest happiness is the achievement of nirvana, nothingness. this conception finds its highest expression in the quietism and indifferentism of the old brahmanic religion (if such it can be called), in which holiness was to be obtained by speculative contemplation, which seems to me the quintessence of selfishness. in the reformed brahmanism called buddhism, there appeared along with the old principle of self-erasure a compassionate sympathy for others. asceticism was not put aside, but regulated and ordered, wrought into a communal system. it was purged of some of its selfishness by appreciation of the loveliness of compassionate love as exemplified in the life of çakya-muni and those labors which made him one of the many redeemers and saviours of which hindu literature is full. something of this was evidently in the mind of wagner as long ago as 1857, when, working on "tristan und isolde," he for a while harbored the idea of bringing parzival (as he would have called him then) into the presence of the dying tristan to comfort him with a sermon on the happiness of renunciation. long before wagner had sketched a tragedy entitled "jesus of nazareth," the hero of which was to be a human philosopher who preached the saving grace of love and sought to redeem his time and people from the domination of conventional law, the offspring of selfishness. his philosophy was socialism imbued by love. before wagner finished "tristan und isolde" he had outlined a hindu play in which hero and heroine were to accept the doctrines of the buddha, take the vow of chastity, renounce the union toward which love impelled them, and enter into the holy community. blending these two schemes, wagner created "parsifal." for this drama he could draw the principle of compassionate pity and fellow-suffering from the stories of both çakya-muni and jesus of nazareth. but for the sake of a spectacle, i think, he accepted the christian doctrine of the atonement with all its mystical elements; for they alone put the necessary symbolical significance into the principal apparatus of the play--the holy grail and the sacred lance. {1} footnotes: {1} "parsifal" was performed for the first time at the wagner festival theatre in bayreuth on july 28, 1882. the prescription that it should belong exclusively to bayreuth was respected till december 24, 1903, when heinrich conried, taking advantage of the circumstance that there was no copyright on the stage representation of the work in america, brought it out with sensational success at the metropolitan opera-house in new york. the principal artists concerned in this and subsequent performances were milka ternina (kundry), alois burgstaller (paraifal), anton van rooy (amfortas), robert blass (gurnemanz), otto görlitz (klingsor) and louise homer (a voice). chapter xv "die meistersinger von nürnberg" the best definition of the true purpose of comedy which i know is that it is to "chastise manners with a smile" (ridendo castigat mores); and it has no better exemplification in the literature of opera than wagner's "die meistersinger von nürnberg." wagner's mind dwelt much on greek things, and as he followed a classical principle in choosing mythological and legendary subjects for his tragedies, so also he followed classical precedent in drawing the line between tragedy and comedy. "tannhäuser," "tristan und isolde," "der ring des nibelungen," "parsifal," and, in a lesser degree, "lohengrin," are examples of the old tragedy type. to them the restrictions of time and space do not apply. they deal with large passions, and their heroes are gods or godlike men who are shattered against the rock of immutable law--the "fate" of the ancient tragedians. his only significant essay in the field of comedy was made in "die meistersinger," and this is as faithful to the old conception of comedy as the dramas mentioned are to that of tragedy. it deals with the manners, vices, and follies of the common people; and, therefore, it has local environment and illustrates a period in history. it was conceived as a satyr-play following a tragedy ("tannhäuser"), and though there can be no doubt that it was designed to teach a lesson in art, it nevertheless aims primarily to amuse, and only secondarily to instruct and correct. moreover, even the most cutting of its satirical lashes are administered with a smile. as a picture of the social life of a quaint german city three and a half centuries ago, its vividness and truthfulness are beyond all praise; it is worthy to stand beside the best dramas of the world, and has no equal in operatic literature. the food for its satire, too, is most admirably chosen, for no feature of the social life of that place and period is more amiably absurd than the efforts of the handicraftsmen and tradespeople, with their prosaic surroundings, to keep alive by dint of pedantic formularies the spirit of minstrelsy, which had a natural stimulus in the chivalric life of the troubadours and minnesingers of whom the mastersingers thought themselves the direct and legitimate successors. in its delineation of the pompous doings of the mastersingers, wagner is true to the letter. he has vitalized the dry record to be found in old wagenseil's book on nuremberg, {1} and intensified the vivid description of a mastersingers' meeting which the curious may read in august hagen's novel "norica." his studies have been marvellously exact and careful, and he has put wagenseil's book under literal and liberal contribution, as will appear after a while. now it seems best to tell the story of the comedy before discussing it further. veit pogner, a rich silversmith, desiring to honor the craft of the mastersingers, to whose guild he belongs, offers his daughter eva in marriage to the successful competitor at the annual meeting of the mastersingers on the feast of st. john. eva is in love (she declares it in the impetuous manner peculiar to wagner's heroines) with walther von stolzing, a young franconian knight; and the knight with her. after a flirtation in church during divine service, walther meets her before she leaves the building, and asks if she be betrothed. she answers in the affirmative, but it is to the unknown victor at the contest of singing on the morrow. he resolves to enter the guild so as to be qualified for the competition. a trial of candidates takes place in the church of st. catherine in the afternoon, and walther, knowing nothing of the rules of the mastersingers, some of which have hurriedly been outlined to him by david, a youngster who is an apprentice at shoemaking and also songmaking, fails, though hans sachs, a master in both crafts, recognizes evidences of genius in the knight's song, and espouses his cause as against beckmesser, the town clerk, who aims at acquiring pogner's fortune by winning his daughter. the young people, in despair at walther's failure, are about to elope when they are prevented by the arrival on the scene of beckmesser. it is night, and he wishes to serenade eva; sachs sits cobbling at his bench, while eva's nurse, magdalena, disguised, sits at a window to hear the serenade in her mistress's stead. sachs interrupts the serenader, who is an ill-natured clown, by lustily shouting a song in which he seeks also to give warning of knowledge of her intentions to eva, whose departure with the knight had been interrupted by the cobbler when he came out of his shop to work in the cool of the evening; but he finally agrees to listen to beckmesser on condition that he be permitted to mark each error in the composition by striking his lap-stone. the humorous consequences can be imagined. beckmesser becomes enraged at sachs, sings more and more falsely, until sachs is occupied in beating a veritable tattoo on his lap-stone. to add to beckmesser's discomfiture, david, sachs's apprentice and magdalena's sweetheart, thinking the serenade intended for his love, begins to belabor the singer with a chub; neighbors join in the brawl, which proceeds right merrily until interrupted by the horn of a night watchman. the dignity and vigor of wagner's poetical fancy are attested by the marvellous chose of the act. the tremendous hubbub of the street brawl is at its height and the business of the act is at an end. the coming of the watchman, who has evidently been aroused by the noise, is foretold by his horn. the crowd is seized with a panic. all the brawlers disappear behind doors. the sleepy watchman stares about him in amazement, rubs his eyes, sings the monotonous chant which publishes the hour of the night, continues on his round, and the moon shines on a quiet street in nuremberg as the curtain falls. in the third act walther, who had been taken into his house by sachs and spent the night there, sings a recital of a dream; and sachs, struck by its beauty, transcribes it, punctuating it with bits of comments and advice. beckmesser, entering sachs's shop when the cobbler-poet is out for a moment, finds the song, concludes that it is sachs's own composition, and appropriates it. sachs, discovering the theft, gives the song to beckmesser, who secures a promise from sachs not to betray him, and resolves to sing it at the competition. the festival is celebrated in a meadow on the banks of the pegnitz river, between fürth and nuremberg. it begins with a gathering of all the guilds of nuremberg, each division in the procession entering to characteristic music--a real masterpiece, whether viewed as spectacle, poetry, or music. the competition begins, and beckmesser makes a monstrously stupid parody of walther's song. he is hooted at and ridiculed, and, becoming enraged, charges the authorship of the song on sachs, who coolly retorts that it is a good song when correctly sung. to prove his words he calls on walther to sing it. the knight complies, the mastersingers are delighted, and pogner rewards the singer with eva's hand. sachs, at the request of the presiding officer of the guild, also offers him the medal as the insignia of membership in the guild of mastersingers. walther's experience with the pedantry which had condemned him the day before, when he had sung as impulse, love, and youthful ardor had prompted, leads him to decline the distinction; but the old poet discourses on the respect due to the masters and their, work as the guaranty of the permanence of german art, and persuades him to enter the guild of mastersingers. "die meistersinger" is photographic in many of its scenes, personages, and incidents; but so far as the stage pictures which we are accustomed to see in the opera-houses of new york and the european capitals are concerned, this statement must be taken with a great deal of allowance, owing to the fact that opera directors, stage managers, scene painters, and costumers are blithely indifferent to the verities of history. i have never seen a mimic reproduction of the church of st. catherine on any stage; yet the church stands to-day with its walls intact as they were at the time in which the comedy is supposed to play. this time is fixed by the fact that its principal character, hans sachs, is represented as a widower who might himself be a suitor for eva's hand. now the veritable sachs was a widower in the summer of the year 1560. i visited nuremberg in 1886 in search of relics of the mastersingers and had no little difficulty in finding the church. it had not been put to its original purposes for more than a hundred years, and there seemed to be but few people in nuremberg who knew of its existence. it has been many things since it became secularized: a painter's academy, drawing-school, military hospital, warehouse, concert-hall, and, no doubt, a score of other things. when i found it with the aid of the police it was the paint-shop and scenic storeroom of the municipal theatre. it is a small building, utterly unpretentious of exterior and interior, innocent of architectural beauty, hidden away in the middle of a block of lowly buildings used as dwellings, carpenter shops, and the like. that wagner never visited it is plain from the fact that though he makes it the scene of one act of his comedy (as he had to do to be historically accurate), his stage directions could not possibly be accommodated to its architecture. in 1891 mr. louis loeb, the american artist, whose early death in the summer of 1909 is widely mourned, visited the spot and made drawings for me of the exterior and interior of the church as it looked then. the church was built in the last half decade of the thirteenth century, and on its water-stained walls, when i visited it, there were still to be seen faint traces of the frescoes which once adorned it and were painted in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries; but they were ruined beyond hope of restoration. in the germanic museum i found a wooden tablet dating back to 1581, painted by one franz hein. it preserves portraits of four distinguished members of the mastersingers' guild. there is a middle panel occupied by two pictures, the upper showing king david, the patron saint of the guild, so forgetful of chronology as to be praying before a crucifix, the lower a meeting of the mastersingers. over the heads of the assemblage is a representative of the medallion with which the victor in a contest used to be decorated, as we see in the last scene of wagner's comedy. one of these decorations was given to the guild by sachs and was in use for a whole century. at the end of that time it had become so worn that wagenseil replaced it with another. church and tablet are the only relics of the mastersingers left in nuremberg which may be called personal. i had expected to find autobiographic manuscripts of sachs, but in this was disappointed. there is a volume of mastersongs in the poet-cobbler's handwriting in the royal library of berlin, and one of these is the composition of the veritable sixtus beckmesser; but most of the sachs manuscripts are in zwickau. in the bibliotheca norica williana, incorporated with the municipal library of nuremberg, there are several volumes of mastersingers' songs purchased from an old mastersinger some 135 years ago, and from these the students may learn the structure and spirit of the mastersongs of the period of the opera as well as earlier and later periods, though he will find all the instruction he needs in any dozen or twenty of the 4275 mastersongs written by hans sachs. the manuscript books known serve to prove one thing which needed not to have called up a doubt. in them are poems from all of the mastersingers who make up the meeting which condemns walther in st. catherine's church. wagner has adhered to the record. {2} the most interesting of sixtus beckmesser's compositions is "a new year's song," preserved in the handwriting of sachs in the royal library at berlin. this i have translated in order to show the form of the old mastersongs as described by the apprentice, david, in wagner's comedy, and also to prove (so far as a somewhat free translation can) that the veritable beckmesser was not the stupid dunce that wagner, for purposes of his own, and tempted, doubtless, by the humor which he found in the name, represented him to be. in fact, i am strongly tempted to believe that with the exception of sachs himself, beckmesser was the best of the mastersingers of the nuremberg school:- a new year's song by sixtus beckmesser (first "stoll") joy christian thoughts employ this day doth say the book of old that we should hold the faith foretold; for naught doth doubt afford. the patriarchs with one accord lived hoping that the lord would rout the wicked horde. thus saith the word to all believers given. (second "stoll") god council held, triune, when soon the boon the son foresaw: fulfilled the law that we might draw salvation's prize. god then an angel sent cross moor and fen, ('twas gabriel, heaven's denizen,) to mary, purest maid 'mongst men. he greeted her with blessings sent from heaven. (the "abgesang") thus spake the angel graciously: "the lord with thee, thou blessed she; the lord's voice saith, which breathes thy breath, that men have earned eternal death. faith saves alone from sin's subjection; for while weak eve god's anger waked, 'twas, ave, thine the blest election to give the world peace and protection, most blessed gift to mortals ever given!" in nuremberg the veritable hans sachs wrote plays on tännhauser, tristan, and siegfried between three and four hundred years before the poet-composer who put the old cobbler-poet into his comedy. very naïve and very archaic indeed are hans sachs's dramas compared with wagner's; but it is, perhaps, not an exaggeration to say that sachs was as influential a factor in the dramatic life of his time as wagner in ours. he was among the earliest of the german poets who took up the miracle plays and mysteries after they had been abandoned by the church and developed them on the lines which ran out into the classic german drama. his immediate predecessors were the writers of the so-called "fastnacht" (mardi-gras) plays, who flourished in nuremberg in the fifteenth century. out of these plays german comedy arose, and among those who rocked its cradle was another of the mastersingers who plays a part in wagner's opera,--hans folz. it was doubtless largely due to the influence of hans sachs that the guild of mastersingers built the first german theatre in nuremberg in 1550. before then plays with religious subjects were performed in st. catherine's church, as we have seen, the meeting place of the guild. secular plays were represented in private houses. hans sachs wrote no less than 208 dramas, which he divided into "carnival plays," "plays," "comedies," and "tragedies." he dropped the first designation in his later years, but his first dramatic effort was a fastnachtspiel, and treated the subject of tannhäuser and venus. it bears the date february 21, 1517, and was therefore written 296 years before wagner was born. of what is now dramatic form and structure, there is not a sign in this play. it is merely a dialogue between venus and various persons who stand for as many classes of society. the title is: "das hoffgesindt veneris," or, as it might be rendered in english, "the court of venus." the characters are a herald, faithful eckhardt, danheuser (sic), dame venus, a knight, physician, citizen, peasant, soldier, gambler, drunkard, maid, and wife. the knight, citizen, and the others appear in turn before venus and express contempt for her powers,--the knight because of his bravery, the physician because of his learning, the maid because of her virtue, the wife because of her honor. faithful eckhardt, a character that figures in many thuringian legends, especially in tales of the wild hunt, warns each person in turn to beware of venus. the latter listens to each boast and lets loose an arrow. each boaster succumbs with a short lamentation. when the play opens, danheuser is already a prisoner of the goddess. after all the rest have fallen victims, he begs for his release, and they join in his petition. venus rejects the prayer, speaks in praise of her powers, and calls on a piper for music. a general dance follows, whereupon the company go with the enchantress into the venusberg. the last speech of venus ends with the line:-so says hans sachs of nuremberg. there is but a single scene in "the court of venus." in other plays written in after years, no matter how often the action demanded it, there is neither change of scenes nor division into acts; and the personages, whether biblical or classical, talk in the manner of the simple folk of the sixteenth century. sachs's tragedy, "von der strengen lieb' herrn tristrant mit der schönen königin isalden" ("of the strong love of lord tristram and the beautiful queen iseult"), contains seven acts, as is specified in the continuation of the title "und hat sieben akte." it was written thirty-six years later than the carnival play and three years after the establishment of a theatre in nuremberg by the mastersingers. each act ends with a triple rhyme. though sachs uses stage directions somewhat freely compared with the other dramatists of the period, the personages all speak in the same manner, and time and space are annihilated in the action most bewilderingly. thus, no sooner does herr tristrant volunteer to meet morhold der held to settle the question of "curnewelshland's" tribute to "irland" than the two are at it hammer and tongs on an island in the ocean. all the other incidents of the old legends follow as fast as they are mentioned. tristrant saves his head in ireland when discovered as the slayer of morhold by ridding the country of a dragon, and is repeatedly convicted of treachery and taken back into confidence by könig marx, as one may read in sir thomas malory's "morte d'arthur." sachs follows an old conclusion of the story and gives tristrant a second iseult to wife, and she tells the lie about the sails. the first iseult dies of a broken heart at the sight of her lover's bier, and the herald in a speech draws the moral of the tale:- aus dem so lass dich treulich warnen, o mensch, vor solcher liebe garnen, und spar dein lieb' bis in die eh', dann hab' ein lieb' und keine meh. diesselb' lieb' ist mit gott und ehren, die welt damit fruchtbar zu mehren. dazu giebt gott selbst allewegen sein' gnad' gedeihen und milden segen. dass stete lieb' und treu' aufwachs' im ehlich'n stand', das wünscht hans sachs. one of the most thrilling scenes in "die meistersinger" is the greeting of hans sachs by the populace when the hero enters with the mastersingers' guild at the festival of st. john (the chorus, "wach' auf! es nahet gen den tag"). here there is another illustration of wagner's adherence to the verities of history, or rather, of his employment of them. the words of the uplifting choral song are not wagner's, but were written by the old cobbler-poet himself. wagner's stage people apply them to their idol, but sachs uttered them in praise of martin luther; they form the beginning of his poem entitled "the wittenberg nightingale," which was printed in 1523. to the old history of nuremberg written by wagenseil, wagner went for other things besides the theatre and personages of his play. from it he got the rules which governed the meeting of the mastersingers, like that which follows the religious service in the church of st. catherine in the first act, and the singular names of the melodies to which, according to david, the candidates for mastersingers' honors were in the habit of improvising their songs. in one instance he made a draft on an authentic mastersinger melody. the march which is used throughout the comedy to symbolize the guild begins as follows:-[musical excerpt] here we have an exact quotation from the beginning of the first gesetz in the "long tone" of heinrich müglin, which was a tune that every candidate for membership in the guild had to be able to sing. the old song is given in full in wagenseil's book, and on the next page i have reproduced a portion of this song in fac-simile, so that my readers can observe the accuracy of wagner's quotation and form an idea of the nature of the poetic frenzy which used to fill the mastersingers, as well as enjoy the ornamental passages (called "blumen" in the old regulations) and compare them with the fiorituri of beckmesser's serenade. there is no doubt in my mind but that wagner's purpose in "die meistersinger" was to celebrate the triumph of the natural, poetical impulse, stimulated by healthy emotion and communion with nature, over pedantry and hide-bound conservatism. in the larger study of the opera made in another place, i have attempted to show that the contest is in reality the one which is always waging between the principles of romanticism and classicism, a contest which is essentially friendly and necessary to progress. the hero of the comedy is not walther, but sachs, who represents in himself both principles, who stands between the combatants and checks the extravagances of both parties. {3} like beethoven in his "leonore" overtures written for the opera "fidelio," wagner constructs the symphonic introduction to his comedy so as to indicate the elements of his dramatic story, their progress in the development of the play, and, finally, the outcome. the melodies are of two sorts conforming to the two parties into which the personages of the play can be divided; and, like those parties, the melodies are broadly distinguished by external physiognomy and emotional essence. most easily recognized are the two broad march tunes typical of the mastersingers and their pageantry. one of them has already been presented. like its companion,-[musical excerpt] which opens the prelude, it is a strong, simple melody, made on the intervals of the diatonic scale, square-cut in rhythm, firm and dignified, and, like the mastersingers, complacent and a trifle pompous in stride. the three melodies which are presented in opposition to the spirit represented by the mastersingers and their typical music, are disclosed by a study of the comedy to be associated with the passion of the young lovers, walther and eva. they differ in every respect--melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic,--from those which stand for the old guildsmen and their rule-of-thumb notions. they are chromatic, as see this:-[musical excerpt] and this (which is the melody which in a broadened form becomes that of walther's prize song):-[musical excerpt] and this, which is peculiarly the symbol of youthful ardor:-[musical excerpt] their rhythms are less regular and more eager (note the influence of syncopation upon them); they are harmonized with greater warmth and infused with greater passion. in the development of the prelude these melodies are presented at first consecutively, then as in conflict (first one, then another pushing forward for expression), finally in harmonious and contented union. the middle part of the prelude, in which the opening march tune is heard in short, quick notes (in diminution, as the theoreticians say) maybe looked upon as caricaturing the mastersingers, not in their fair estate, but as they are satirized in the comedy in the person of beckmesser. footnotes: {1} "joh. christophori wagenseilii de sacri rom. imperii libera civitate noribergensi commentatio. accedit, de germaniae phonascorum von der meister-singer origine, praestantia, utilitate, et institutis, sermone vernaculo liber. altdorf noricorum typis impensisque jodoci wilhelmi kohlesii. cid icd xcvii." {2} i quote from wagenseil's book--he is writing about the history of the mastersingers: "nach der stadt mäyntz, hat in den stätten nürnberg und strassburg / die meister-singer-kunst sonderlich floriret / wie dann auchxii. alte nürnbergische meister annoch im beruff sind; so mit namen geheissen / 1. veit pogner. 2. cuntz vogelgesang. 3. hermann ortel. 4. conrad nachtigal. 5. fritz zorn. 6. sixtus beckmesser. 7. fritz kohtner. 8. niclaus vogel. 9. augustin moser. 10. hannss schwartz. 11. ulrich eisslinger. 12. hannss foltz." {3} "in the musical contest it is only the perverted idea of classicism which is treated with contumely and routed; the glorification of the triumph of romanticism is found in the stupendously pompous and brilliant setting given to the mastersingers' music at the end. you see already in this prelude that wagner is a true comedian. he administers chastisement with a smile and chooses for its subject only things which are temporary aberrations from the good. what is strong, and true, and pure, and wholesome in the art of the mastersingers he permits to pass through his satirical fires unscathed. classicism, in its original sense as the conservator of that which is highest and best in art, he leaves unharmed, presenting her after her trial, as tennyson presents his princess at the close of his corrective poem, when "all her falser self slipt from her like a robe, and left her woman, lovelier in her mood than in her mould that other, when she came from barren deeps to conquer all with love." --"studies in the wagnerian drama," by h. e. krehbiel, p. 95. chapter xvi "lohengrin" in the last hundred lines of the last book of his epic poem to which wagner went for the fundamental incidents, not principles, of his "parsifal," wolfram von eschenbach tells the story of one of the grail king's sons whom he calls loherangrin. this son was a lad when parzival (thus wolfram spells the name) became king of the holy grail and the knights who were in its service. when he had grown to manhood, there lived in brabant a queen who was equally gifted in beauty, wealth, and gentleness. many princes sought her hand in marriage, but she refused them all, and waited for the coming of one whom god had disclosed to her in a vision. one day a knight of great beauty and nobley, as sir thomas mallory would have said, came to antwerp in a boat drawn by a swan. to him the queen at once gave greeting as lord of her dominions; but in the presence of the assembled folk he said to her: "if i am to become ruler of this land, know that it will be at great sacrifice to myself. should you nevertheless wish me to remain with you, you must never ask who i am; otherwise i must leave you forever." the queen made solemn protestation that she would never do aught against his will. then her marriage with the stranger knight was celebrated, and they abode together long in happiness and honor. but at the last the queen was led to put the fatal question. then the swan appeared with the boat, and loherangrin, for it was he, was drawn back to montsalvat, whence he had come. but to those whom he left behind he gave his sword, horn, and ring. there are other mediaeval poems which deal with the story of lohengrin, more, indeed, than can or need be discussed here. some, however, deserve consideration because they supply elements which wagner used in his opera but did not find in wolfram's poem. wagner went, very naturally, to a poem of the thirteenth century, entitled "lohengrin," for the majority of the incidents of the drama. thence he may have drawn the motive for the curiosity of elsa touching the personality of her husband. of course, it lies in human nature, as stories which are hundreds if not thousands of years older attest; but i am trying, as i have been in preceding chapters in this book, to account for the presence of certain important elements in wagner's opera, and so this poem must also be considered. in it lohengrin rescues elsa, the duchess of brabant, from the false accusations of telramund, the knight having been summoned from montsalvat (or "monsalväsch," to be accurate) by the ringing of a bell which elsa had taken from a falcon's leg. the knight marries her, but first exacts a promise that she will never seek of him knowledge of his race or country. after the happy domestic life of the pair has been described, it is told how lohengrin overthrew the duke of cleves at a tournament in cologne and broke his arm. the duchess of cleves felt humiliated at the overthrow of her husband by a knight of whom nothing was known, and wickedly insinuated that it was a pity that so puissant a jouster should not be of noble birth, thereby instilling a fatal curiosity into the mind of the lady of brabant, which led to questions which lohengrin answered before the emperor's court and then disappeared from view. from "der jüngere titurel," another mediaeval poem, came the suggestion that the mysterious knight's prowess was due to sorcery and might be set at naught if his bodily integrity were destroyed even in the slightest degree. in the french tale of "le chevalier au cygne," as told in the "chansons de geste," you may read the story of helyas, who was one of seven children of king oriant and queen beatrix, who were born with silver chains around their necks. the chains being removed with evil purpose, the children turned into swans and flew away--all but one, helyas, who was absent at the time. but helyas got possession of all the chains but one, which had been wrought into a cup, and one day, when he heard the sound of wings, and six swans let themselves down into the water, he threw the chains around their necks, and they at once assumed the forms of his brothers. also how, one day, helyas, from the window of his palace, saw a swan drawing a boat, and how he donned his armor, took a golden horn, and was drawn away to nimwegen, where emperor otto was holding court. there he found that the count of blankenbourg had accused his sister-in-law, the duchess of bouillon, of having poisoned her husband, and had laid claim to the duchy. there was to be a trial by ordeal of battle, and while the duchess waited for the coming of a champion, lo! there was the sound of a horn, and helyas came down the river in a boat drawn by a swan, undertook the cause of the innocent lady, slew her accuser, and married her daughter. for long she was a good and faithful wife, and bore him a child who became the mother of godfrey de bouillon, baldwin de sebourg, and eustace de boulogne. but one day she asked of her lord his name and race. then he bade her repair to nimwegen, and commending her and her daughter to the care of the emperor, he departed thence in a swan-drawn boat and was never seen more. here we have the essentials of the story which wagner wrought into his opera "lohengrin" only a few details need be added to make the plot complete. the meeting of lohengrin and elsa takes place on the banks of the river scheldt in brabant. the king has come to ask the help of the brabantians against the huns, who are invading germany. he finds brabant in a disturbed state. the throne is vacant; count frederick of telramund, who has his eyes upon it, had offered his hand in marriage to elsa, who, with her brother, gottfried, had been left in his care on the death of their father, but had met with a refusal. he had then married ortrud, a frisian princess. she is the last of a royal line, but a pagan, and practises sorcery. to promote the ambition of herself and her husband, she has changed gottfried into a swan by throwing a magical chain about his neck, and persuaded telramund to accuse elsa of having murdered the boy in the hope of enjoying the throne together with a secret lover. the king summons elsa to answer the charge and decrees trial by ordeal of battle. commanded to name her champion, she tells of a knight seen in a dream: upon him alone will she rely. not until the second call of the herald has gone out and elsa has fallen to her knees in prayer does the champion appear. he is a knight in shining white armor who comes in a boat drawn by a swan. he accepts the gage of battle, after asking elsa whether or not she wants him to be her husband if victorious in the combat, and exacting a promise never to ask of him whence he came or what his name or race. he overcomes telramund, but gives him his life; the king, however, banishes the false accuser and sets the stranger over the people of brabant with the title of protector. telramund is overwhelmed by his misfortunes, but ortrud urges him to make another trial to regain what he has lost. the knight, she says, had won by witchcraft, and if but the smallest joint of his body could be taken from him, he would be impotent. together they instil disquiet and suspicion into the mind of elsa as she is about to enter the minster to be married. after the wedding guests have departed, her newly found happiness is disturbed by doubt, and a painful curiosity manifests itself in her speech. lohengrin admonishes, reproves, and warns in words of tenderest love. he had given up greater glories than his new life had to offer out of love for her. a horrible fear seizes her: he who had so mysteriously come would as mysteriously depart. cost what it may, she must know who he is. she asks the question, but before he can reply telramund rushes into the room with drawn weapon. elsa has but time to hand lohengrin his sword, with which he stretches the would-be assassin dead on the chamber floor. then he commands that the body be carried before the king, whither he also directs her maids to escort his wife. there is another conclave of king and nobles. lohengrin asks if he had acted within his right in slaying telramund, and his deed is approved by all. then he gives public answer to elsa's question: in distant lands, where ye can never enter, a castle stands and montsalvat its name; a radiant temple rises from its center more glorious far than aught of earthly fame. and there a vessel of most wondrous splendor, a shrine, most holy, guarded well doth rest, to which but mortals purest service render- 'twas brought to earth by hosts of angels blest! once every year a dove from heaven descendeth to strengthen then its wondrous powers anew: 'tis called the grail--and purest faith it lendeth to those good knights who are its chosen few. to serve the grail whoe'er is once elected receives from it a supernatural might; from baneful harm and fraud is he protected, away from him flees death and gloom of night! yea, whom by it to distant lands is bidden as champion to some virtuous cause maintain, well knows its powers are from him never hidden, if, as its knight, he unrevealed remain. such wondrous nature is the grail's great blessing, reveal'd must then the knight from mortals flee: let not rest in your hearts a doubt oppressing,- if known to you he saileth o'er the sea. now list what he to you in troth declareth: the grail obeying here to you i came. my father parzival, a crown he weareth, his knight am i and lohengrin my name! {1} a prohibition which rests upon all who are served by a knight of the grail having been violated, he must depart from thence; but before going he gives his sword, horn, and ring to elsa, and tells her that had he been permitted to live but one year at her side, her brother would have returned in conduct of the grail. the swan appears to convey him back to his resplendent home. ortrud recognizes the chain around its neck and gloats over her triumph; but lohengrin hears her shout. he sinks on his knees in silent prayer. as he rises, a white dove floats downward toward the boat. lohengrin detaches the chain from the neck of the swan. the bird disappears, and in its place stands gottfried, released from the spell put upon him by the sorceress. the dove draws the boat with its celestial passenger away, and elsa sinks lifeless into the arms of her brother. in this story of lohengrin there is an admixture of several elements which once had no association. it is the story of an adventure of a knight of the holy grail; also a story involving the old principle of taboo; and one of many stories of the transformation of a human being into a swan, or a swan into a human being. this swan myth is one of the most widely spread of all transformation tales; it may even be found in the folk-stories of the american indians. to discuss this feature would carry one too far afield, and i have a different purpose in view. * * * the two figaro operas, the discussion of which opened this book, were composed by different men, and a generation of time separated their production. the opera which deals with the second chapter of the adventures of seville's factotum was composed first, and is the greater work of the two; yet we have seen how pleasantly they can be associated with each other, and, no doubt, many who admire them have felt with me the wish that some musician with sufficient skill and the needful reverence would try the experiment of remodelling the two and knitting their bonds closer by giving identity of voice to the personages who figure in both. the wagnerian list presents something like a parallel, and it would be a pleasant thing if two of the modern poet-composer's dramas which have community of subject could be brought into similar association, so that one might be performed as a sequel to the other. the operas are "lohengrin" and "parsifal." a generation also lies between them, and they ought to bear a relationship to each other something like that existing between "le nozze di figaro" and "il barbiere di siviglia." indeed, the bond ought to be closer, for one man wrote books and music as well of the grail dramas, whereas different librettists and different composers created the figaro comedies. but it will never be possible to bring wagner's most popular opera and his "stage-consecrating play" into logical union, notwithstanding that both deal with the legend of the holy grail and that the hero of one proclaims himself to be the son of the hero of the other. wagner cast a loving glance at the older child of his brain when he quoted some of the "swan music" of "lohengrin "in "parsifal"; but he built an insurmountable wall between them when he forsook the sane and simple ideas which inspired him in writing "lohengrin" for the complicated fabric of mediaeval christianity and buddhism which he strove to set forth in "parsifal." in 1847 wagner was willing to look at the hero of the quest of the holy grail whom we call percival through the eyes of his later guide, wolfram von eschenbach. to wolfram parzival was a married man; more than that--a married lover, clinging with devotion to the memory of the wife from whose arms he had torn himself to undertake the quest, and losing himself in tender brooding for days when the sight of blood-spots on the snow suggested to his fancy the red and white of fair konwiramur's cheeks. thirty years later wagner could only conceive of his grail hero as a celibate and an ascetic. lohengrin glories in the fact that he is the son of him who wears the crown of the grail; but parsifal disowns his son. this is one instance of the incoherency of the two grail dramas. there is another, and by this second departure from the old legends which furnished forth his subject, wagner made "lohengrin" and "parsifal" forever irreconcilable. the whole fabric of the older opera rests on the forbidden question:- nie solist du mich befragen, noch wissen's sorge tragen, woher ich kam der fahrt, noch wie mein nam' und art. {2} so impressed was wagner with the significance of this dramatic motive sixty years ago, that he gave it a musical setting which still stands as the finest of all his many illustrations of the principle of fundamental or typical phrases in dramatic music:-[musical excerpt--"nie sollst du mich befragen"] and no wonder. no matter where he turned in his studies of the grail legend, he was confronted by the fact that it was by asking a question that the seeker after the grail was to release the ailing king, whom he found in the castle in which the talismans were preserved, from his sufferings. in the welsh tale of peredur and the french romances the question went only to the meaning of the talismans; but this did not suffice wolfram von eschenbach, who in many ways raised the ethical standard of the grail legend. he changed the question so as to make it a sign of affectionate and compassionate interest on the part of the questioner; it was no longer, "what mean the bloody head and the bleeding lance?" but "what ails thee, uncle?" wagner was fond, a little overfond, indeed, of appealing to the public over the heads of the critics, of going to the jury rather than the judge, when asking for appreciation of his dramas; but nothing is plainer to the close student than that he was never wholly willing to credit the public with possession of that high imaginativeness to which his dramas more than those of any other composer make appeal. his first conception of the finale of "tannhäuser," for instance, was beautiful, poetical, and reasonable; for the sake of a spectacle he reconstructed it after the original production and plunged it into indefensible confusion and absurdity. a desire to abstain as much as possible from criticism (that not being the purpose of this book) led me to avoid mention of this circumstance in the exposition of "tannhäuser"; but i find that i must now set it forth, though briefly. in the original form of the opera there was no funeral procession and no death of the hero beside the bier of the atoning saint. the scene between tannhäuser and wolfram was interrupted by the tolling of a bell in the castle to indicate the death of elizabeth and the appearance of a glow of rose-colored light across the valley to suggest the presence of venus. by bringing the corpse of elizabeth on the stage so that tannhäuser might die by its side, wagner was guilty of worse than an anachronism. the time which elapses in the drama between elizabeth's departure from the scene and her return as a corpse is just as long as the song which wolfram sings in which he apostrophizes her as his "holder abendstern"--just as long and not a moment longer. there is no question here of poetical license, for wolfram sings the apostrophe after her retreating figure, and the last chord of his postlude is interrupted by tannhäuser's words, "ich hörte harfenschlag!" yet we are asked to assume that in the brief interim elizabeth has ascended the mountain to the wartburg, died, been prepared for burial, and brought back to the valley as the central object of a stately funeral. it would have been much wiser to have left the death of elizabeth to the imagination of the public than to have made the scene ridiculous. but wagner was afraid to do that, lest his purpose be overlooked. he was a master of theatrical craft, and though he could write a tragedy like "tristan und isolde," with little regard for external action, he was quite unwilling to miss so effective a theatrical effect as the death of tannhäuser beside elizabeth's bier. after all, he did not trust the public, whose judgment he affected to place above that of his critics, and for this reason, while he was willing to call up memories of his earlier opera by quoting some of its music in "parsifal," he ignored the question which plays so important a rôle in "lohengrin," and made the healing of amfortas depend upon a touch of the talismanic spear--a device which came into the grail story from pagan sources, as i have already pointed out. now, why was the questioning of lohengrin forbidden? wolfram von eschenbach tells us, and his explanation sufficed wagner when he made his first studies of the grail legends as a preparation for "lohengrin." it was the holy grail itself which pronounced the taboo. an inscription appeared on the talisman one day commanding that whenever a knight of the grail went into foreign lands to assume rule over a people, he was to admonish them not to question him concerning his name and race; should the question be put, he was to leave them at once. and the reason? weil der gute amfortas so lang in bittern schmerzen lag, und ihn die frage lange mied, ist ihnen alles fragen leid; all des grales dienstgesellen wollen sich nicht mehr fragen lassen. the same explanation is made in the mediaeval poem "lohengrin." we are not called upon to admire the logic of wolfram and the knights of the grail, but nothing could be plainer than this: the sufferings of amfortas having been wofully prolonged by parzival's failure to ask the healing question, the knights of the grail were thereafter required by their oracular guide to prohibit all questioning of themselves under penalty of forfeiture of their puissant help. when wagner wrote his last drama, he was presented with a dilemma: should he remain consistent and adhere to the question as a dramatic motive, or dare the charge of inconsistency for the sake of that bit of spectacular apparatus, the sacred lance? he chose inconsistency and the show, and emphasized the element of relic worship to such a degree as to make his drama foreign to the intellectual and religious habits of the time in which he wrote. but this did not disturb him; for he knew that beauty addresses itself to the emotions rather than the intellect, and that his philosophical message of the redeeming power of loving comnpassion would find entrance to the hearts of the people over all the obstacles that reason might interpose. yet he destroyed all the poetical bonds which ought or might have existed between "parsifal" and "lohengrin." it was wagner who created the contradiction which puts his operas in opposition by his substitution of the sacred lance as a dramatic motive for the question. but poets had long before taken the privilege of juggling with two elements of ancient myths and folk-tales which are blended in the story of lohengrin. originally there was no relationship between the knight of the holy grail and the swan knight, and there is no telling when the fusion of the tales was made. but the element of the forbidden question is of unspeakable antiquity and survives in the law of taboo which exists among savages to-day. when wagner discussed his opera in his "communication to my friends" he pointed out the resemblance between the story of lohengrin and the myth of zeus and semele. its philosophical essence he proclaimed to be humanity's feeling of the necessity of love. elsa was "the woman who drew lohengrin from the sunny heights to the depths of earth's warm heart. . . . thus yearned he for woman--for the human heart. and thus did he step down from out his loneliness of sterile bliss when he heard this woman's cry for succor, this heart cry from humanity below." this is all very well, and it would be churlish to say that it is not beautifully reflected in wagner's drama; but it does not explain the need of the prohibition. a woman who loves must have unquestioning faith in her husband--that is all. but there are two ancient myths which show that the taboo was conceived as a necessary ingredient of the association of divine men with human women. let both be recalled, for both have plainly gone over into the mediaeval story. the first is the one to which wagner made allusion: jupiter has given his love to semele. wickedly prompted by the jealous juno, semele asks her august lover to grant her a wish. he promises that she shall have her desire, and confirms his words with the irrevocable oath, swearing by the stygian flood. semele asks him then to appear to her in all his celestial splendor. the god would have stopped her when he realized her purpose, but it was too late. sorrowfully he returned to the celestial abode and fearfully he put on his lesser panoply. arrayed in this he entered the chamber of semele, but though he had left behind him the greater splendors, the immortal radiance consumed her to ashes. that is one story; the other is the beautiful fable, freighted with ethical symbolism, which apulcius gave to literature in the second century of the christian era, though, no doubt, his exquisite story is only the elaboration of a much older conceit. psyche, the daughter of a king, arouses the envy of venus because of her beauty, and the goddess's anger because of the feeling which that beauty inspires among men. she resolves to punish her presumptuous mortal rival, and sends cupid as her messenger of vengeance. but the god of love falls himself a victim to the maiden's charms. the spell which he puts upon her he cannot wholly dissipate. hosts of admirers still follow psyche, but no worthy man offers her marriage. her parents consult the oracle of apollo, who tells him that she is doomed to become the wife of a monster who lives upon a high mountain. the maiden sees in this a punishment meted out by venus and offers herself as a propitiatory sacrifice. left alone by parents and friends, she climbs the rocky steeps and falls asleep in the wilderness. thither come the zephyrs and carry her to a beautiful garden, where unseen hands serve her sumptuously in a magnificent palace and the voices of invisible singers ravish her cars with music. every night she is visited by a mysterious being who lavishes loving gifts upon her, but forbids her to look upon his face, and disappears before dawn. psyche's sisters, envious of her good fortune and great happiness, fill her mind with wicked doubt and distrust. a fatal curiosity seizes upon her, and one night she uncovers her lamp to look upon the form of her doting companion. instead of the monster spoken of by the oracle, she sees the loveliest of the immortals. it is cupid who lies sleeping before her, with snowy wings folded, and golden ringlets clustering about his shoulders. anxious for a closer view, psyche leans over him, but a drop of hot oil falls from the lamp upon his shining skin. the god awakes, and without a word flies out of the window. palace and garden disappear, and psyche is left alone to suffer the consequences of her foolish curiosity. after wandering long in search of the lost one, she wins the sympathy of ceres, who advises her to seek out venus and offer reparation. she becomes the slave of the goddess, who imposes cruel tasks upon her. but at length cupid can no longer endure to be separated from her, and goes to jupiter, who intercedes with venus and wins her forgiveness for psyche. then the supreme god gives her immortality, and she becomes forever the wife of cupid. there are two other points, one legendary, one historical, which ought to be mentioned for the sake of those who like to know the sources of stories like that of lohengrin. the ancient angles had a saga which told of the arrival in their country of a boat, evidently sailless, oarless, and rudderless, containing only a child surrounded by arms and treasure. they brought him up and called him skéaf (from which word our "sheaf"), because he lay upon a bundle of grain. he became king of the people, and, when he felt death upon him, commanded to be carried back to the shore where he had been found. there lay the boat in which he had come, and when his dead body was placed in it, it moved away of its own accord. from him descended a race of kings. here, i am inclined to see a survival of the story of danaë and her child perseus found floating on the sea in a chest, as sung by simonides. the historical element in "lohengrin" is compassed by the figure of the king, who metes out justice melodiously in the opening and closing scenes. it is king henry i of germany, called the fowler, who reigned from a.d. 918 to 936. he was a wise, brave, and righteous king, who fought the savage huns, and for his sake the management of the festival performances at bayreuth, in 1894, introduced costumes of the tenth century. footnotes: {1} john p. jackson's translation. {2} in mr. john p. jackson's translation:- ne'er with thy fears shalt task me, nor questions idly ask me: the land and from whence i came, nor yet my race and name. chapter xvii "hänsel und gretel" in many respects "hänsel und gretel" is the most interesting opera composed since "parsifal," and, by being an exception, proves the rule to which i directed some remarks in the chapter on "don giovanni." for a quarter of a century the minds of musical critics and historians have been occupied at intervals with the question whether or not progress in operatic composition is possible on the lines laid down by wagner. of his influence upon all the works composed within a period twice as long there never was a doubt; but this influence manifested itself for the greater part in modifications of old methods rather than the invention of new. in germany attempts have been made over and over again to follow wagner's system, but though a few operas thus produced have had a temporary success, in the end it has been found that the experiments have all ended in failures. it was but natural that the fact should provoke discussion. if no one could write successfully in wagner's manner, was there a future for the lyric drama outside of a return to the style which he had striven to overthrow? if there was no such future, was the fact not proof of the failure of the wagnerian movement as a creative force? the question was frequently answered in a spirit antagonistic to wagner; but many of the answers were overhasty and short-sighted. it needed only that one should come who had thoroughly assimilated wagner's methods and had the genius to apply them in a spirit of individuality, to demonstrate that it was possible to continue the production of lyric dramas without returning to the hackneyed manner of the opposing school. the composer who did this was engelbert humperdinck, and it is particularly noteworthy that his demonstration acquired its most convincing force from the circumstance that instead of seeking his material in the myths of antiquity, as wagner did, he found them in the nursery. while emphasizing this fact, however, it is well not to forget that in turning to the literature of folklore for an operatic subject humperdinck was only carrying out one of the principles for which wagner contended. the mährchen of a people are quite as much a reflex of their intellectual, moral, and emotional life as their heroic legends and myths. in fact, they are frequently only the fragments of stories which, when they were created, were embodiments of the most profound and impressive religious conceptions of which the people were capable. the degeneration of the sun god of our teutonic forefathers into the hans of grimm's tale, who could not learn to shiver and shake, through the sinfiotle of the "volsunga saga" and the siegfried of the "nibelungenlied," is so obvious that it needs no commentary. neither should the translation of brynhild into dornröschen, the sleeping beauty of our children's tales. the progress illustrated in these examples is that from myth to mährchen, and humperdinck in writing his fairy opera, or nursery opera if you will, paid tribute to german nationality in the same coin that wagner did when he created his "ring of the nibelung." everything about "hänsel und gretel" is charming to those who can feel their hearts warm toward the family life and folklore of germany, of which we are, or ought to be, inheritors. the opera originated, like thackeray's delightful fireside pantomime for great and small children, "the rose and the ring." the composer has a sister, frau adelheid wette, wife of a physician in cologne. she, without any particular thought of literary activity, had been in the habit of writing little plays for production within the family circle. for these plays her brother provided the music. in this way grew the first dramatic version of the story of hänsel and gretel, which, everybody who has had a german nurse or has read grimm's fairy tales knows, tells the adventures of two children, a brother and sister, who, driven into the woods, fell into the toils of the crust witch (knusperhexe), who enticed little boys and girls into her house, built of gingerbread and sweetmeats, and there ate them up. the original performers of the principal characters in the play were the daughters of frau wette. charmed with the effect of the fanciful little comedy, herr humperdinck suggested its expansion into a piece of theatrical dimensions; and the opera was the result. it was brought forward for the first time in public on december 23, 1893, in weimar, and created so profound an impression that it speedily took possession of all the principal theatres of germany, crossed the channel into england, made its way into holland, belgium, and italy, and reached america within two years. its first performance in new york was in an english version at daly's theatre on october 8, 1895. there were drawbacks in the representation which prevented a success, but after it had been incorporated in the german repertory of the metropolitan opera-house in the season of 1895-1896 it became as much of a permanency as any opera in the list. humperdinck has built up the musical structure of "hänsel und gretel" in the wagnerian manner, but has done it with so much fluency and deftness that a musical layman might listen to it from beginning to end without suspecting the fact, save from the occasional employment of what may be called wagnerian idioms. the little work is replete with melodies which, though original, bear a strong family resemblance to two little songs which the children sing at the beginning of the first and second acts, and which are veritable nursery songs in germany. these ditties and the principal melodies consorted with them contribute characteristic motifs out of which the orchestral part is constructed; and these motifs are developed in accordance with an interrelated scheme every bit as logical and consistent as the scheme at the bottom of "tristan und isolde." as in that stupendous musical tragedy, the orchestra takes the part played by the chorus in greek tragedy, so in "hänsel und gretel" it unfolds the thoughts, motives, and purposes of the personages of the play and lays bare the simple mysteries of the plot and counterplot. the careless happiness of the children, the apprehension of the parents, promise and fulfilment, enchantment and disenchantment--all these things are expounded by the orchestra in a fine flood of music, highly ingenious in contrapuntal texture, rich in instrumental color, full of rhythmical life, on the surface of which the idyllic play floats buoyantly, like a water-lily which starts and slides upon the level in little puffs of wind, tho' anchored to the bottom. it is necessary, because the music is so beautiful and also because the piece, like the "leonore" overtures of beethoven and the "meistersinger" prelude of wagner (of which, indeed, it is a pretty frank imitation) is a sort of epitome of the play, to spend some time with the prelude to "hänsel und gretel." after i have done this i shall say what i have to say about the typical phrases of the score as they are reached, and shall leave to the reader the agreeable labor of discovering the logical scheme underlying their introduction and development. the prelude is built out of a few themes which are associated with some of the most significant elements of the play. not one of them is a personal label, as is widely, but erroneously, supposed to be the case in wagner's dramas. they stand for dramatic ideas and agencies, and when these are passed in review, as it is purposed shall be done presently, it will be found that not the sinister but the amiable features of the story have been chosen for celebration in the overture. here, too, in what may be called the ethical meaning of the prelude, humperdinck has followed the example of wagner in the prelude to his comedy. simply for the sake of identification hereafter names will be attached to the themes out of which the prelude is constructed and which come from the chief melodic factors of the opera. the most important of these is the melody sung by the horns at the beginning:-[musical excerpt] let it be called the "prayer theme," for the melody is that of the prayer which the little ones utter before laying themselves down to sleep in the wood. the melody seems to be associated throughout the opera with the idea of divine guardianship, and is first heard in the first scene, when hänsel, having complained of hunger, gretel gently chides him and holds out comfort in the words (here i use the english version of the opera):- when past bearing is our grief god, the lord, will send relief. humperdinck's splendid contrapuntal skill shows itself in a most varied use of this theme. once in the prelude it appears in three different forms simultaneously, and in an augmented shape it forms the substratum of the prelude, while other themes are cunningly woven above it. the second theme is an exceedingly bright and energetic little phrase with which the rapid portion of the prelude begins. it shall be called the "counter-charm" theme, because it is the melodic phrase which serves as a formula with which the spell which the witch puts upon her victims is released by her as well as by the children who overhear it. when it occurs in the play it has this form:-[musical excerpt--"hocus pocus elder bush!"] words and music come from the mouth of gretel when she releases hänsel from the spell in the third act, and from that of hänsel when he performs the same office for the gingerbread children. after two phrases of minor significance there comes the "theme of fulfilment," so called because of its association with the answer to the prayer for protection in the woods. thus it forms part of the dawn music at the beginning of the third act when the children are awakened by the dewman. it makes up the original part of the song of this dawn fairy and is the melody to which hänsel and gretel sing their explanation to the wondering gingerbread children:- the angels whispered in dreams to us in silent night what this happy day has brought to light. [musical excerpt] there is a fourth theme, the "theme of rejoicing" which is the inspiration of the dance which the gingerbread children execute around hänsel and gretel to celebrate their release from the enchantment put upon them by the wicked witch. at the parting of the curtain we see the interior of the hut of a poor broom-maker. specimens of his handiwork hang upon the walls. a tiny window beside the door in the background, shows a glimpse of the forest beyond. hänsel and gretel are at work, he making brooms, she knitting. gretel sings an old german folk-song, beginning thus:-[musical excerpt--"suse liebe suse was raschelt im stroh?"] all the melodies in this act have a strong family resemblance, but this song, a cradle song of the long ago, is the only one not composed by humperdinck. miss constance bache has failed, in her english translation, to reproduce the quaint sentiment of the old song, which calls attention to the fact that all geese are shoeless. it is not for want of leather,--the shoemaker has that in plenty,--but he has no lasts, and so the poor things must needs go barefoot. the song invites a curious historical note. "suse" and "sause" were common expressions in the cradle songs which used to be sung to the christ-child in the german churches at christmas when the decadent nativity plays (now dwarfed to a mere tableau of the manger, the holy parents, and the adoring shepherds and magi) were still cultivated. from the old custom termed kindeiwiegen, which remained in the german protestant church centuries after the reformation, luther borrowed the refrain, "susaninne" for one of his christmas chorales. the beginning of the little song which gretel sings used to be "sause liebe ninne," which, of course, is luther's "susaninne." the song dominates the whole of the first act. out of portions of its melody grows a large part of the instrumental accompaniment to the melodious recitative in which the dialogue is carried on. through expressive changes, not only in this act, but later also, it provides a medium for much dramatic expression. a little motif with which the orchestra introduces it develops into a song, with which hänsel greets his sister's announcement that a neighbor has sent in some milk, and when gretel, as soon as she does, attempts to teach hänsel how to dance, the delightful little polka tune which the two sing is almost a twin brother to the cradle song. it is the gift of milk which directly brings the sinister element into the play. the mother comes home weary, hungry, and out of humor. she finds that the children have neglected their work, and while attempting to punish them she overturns the milk jug. it is the last straw, and, with threats of a terrible beating if they do not bring home a heaping basket of berries for supper, she drives the little ones out into the forest. exhausted, she falls asleep beside the hearth. from the distance comes the voice of the broom-maker trolling a song which is now merry, now sad. he enters his hut in great good humor, however, for he has sold all his wares and comes with his basket loaded with good things to eat and no inconsiderable quantity of kümmel in his stomach. till now, save for the few moments which followed the entrance of the mother, the music has echoed nothing but childish joy. all this is changed, however, when the father, inquiring after his children, learns that they have gone into the woods. he tells his wife the legend of the witch of the ilsenstein and her dreadful practices, while the orchestra builds up a gruesome picture out of fragments from the innocent song which had opened the act. fearful for the fate of her children, the mother dashes into the forest, followed by the broom-maker. a musical delineation of a witch's ride separates the first and second acts. it is a garishly colored composition beginning with a pompous proclamation of the "theme of the witch":-[musical excerpt] this is interwoven with echoes from the song of the broom-maker, and, as might be expected, a great deal of chromatic material, such as seems indispensable in musical pictures of the supernatural. towards the close the weird elements gradually disappear and give way to a peaceful forest mood, pervaded by a long-drawn melody from the trumpet, accompanied by sounds suggestive of the murmuring of trees. the parting of the curtain discovers a scene in the depths of the woods. gretel sits under a large tree weaving a garland of flowers. hänsel is picking strawberries. the sun is setting. gretel sings another folk-song, the meaning of which is lost to those who are unfamiliar with the song in the original. it is a riddle of the german nursery: "a little man stands in the forest, silent and alone, wearing a purplish red mantle. he stands on one leg, and wears a little black cap. who is the little man?" answer:--the hagebutte; i.e. the rose apple, fruit of the rose tree. after the witch's ride, nothing could be more effective in restoring the ingenuous mood essential to the play than this song, which is as graceful and pretty in melody as it is arch in sentiment. with the dialogue which follows, a variation of the closing cadence of the song is sweetly blended by the orchestra. hänsel crowns gretel queen of the woods with the floral wreath, and is doing mock reverence to her when a cuckoo calls from a distance. the children mimic the cry, then playfully twit the bird with allusions to its bad practice of eating the eggs of other birds and neglecting its own offspring. then they play at cuckoo, eating the strawberries in lieu of eggs, until the basket is empty. they remember the threat of their mother, and want to fill the basket again, but darkness is settling around them. they lose their way, and their agitated fancy sees spectres and goblins all around them. hänsel tries to reassure his sister by hallooing, and scores of voices send back echoes, while the cuckoo continues its lonely cry. gretel is overcome by fear for a moment, and hänsel, too, succumbs to fright when he sees a figure approaching through the mist. but it is not a goblin, as the children think--only the sandman, a little gray, stoop-shouldered old man, carrying a bag. he smiles reassuringly and sings a song of his love for children, while he sprinkles sleep-sand in the eyes of the pair. the second part of his song introduces another significant phrase into the score; it is the "theme of promise," to which the sleep fairy sings the assurance that the angels give protection and send sweet dreams to good children while they are asleep:-[musical excerpt] "sandman has been here," says hänsel, sleepily; "let us say our evening blessing." they kneel and repeat the prayer to the melody which has been called the "prayer theme," then go to sleep in each other's arms. all has been dark. now a bright light pierces the mist, which gathers itself into a cloud that gradually takes the shape of a staircase reaching apparently from heaven to earth. the orchestra plays a beautiful and extended piece of music, of which the principal melodic material is derived from the themes of "prayer" and "promise," while seven pairs of angels descend the cloud-stairs and group themselves about the little sleepers, and a golden host extends upward to the celestial abode. by this time the scene is filled with a glory of light, and the curtain closes. the greater part of the dramatic story is told in, the third act. the opening of the curtain is preceded by a brief instrumental number, the principal elements of which are a new theme:-[musical excerpt] and the "theme of fulfilment." the significance of the latter in this place is obvious: the promised benison to the children has been received. the former theme is a pretty illustration of what has already been said of humperdinck's consistent devotion to the folk-song spirit in his choice of melodies. the phrase has an interrogatory turn and is, in fact, the melody of the mysterious question which comes from the house of the witch a few minutes later, when the children help themselves to some of the toothsome material out of which the magic structure is built:-[musical excerpt--"nibble, nibble, mouskin, who's nibbling at my housekin?"] simple as this little phrase is, it is yet a draught from a song-game that comes nigh to being universal. no phrase is more prevalent among nursery songs than that made up of the first six notes. the original german song itself has come down to american and english children, and enthusiastic folklorists see in it a relic of the ancient tree worship and an invocation of frau holda, the goddess of love and spring of our teutonic ancestors. it is the first phrase of the german, "ringel, ringel, reihe," which our children know as "ring around a rosy." it was an amiable conceit of the composer's to put such a tune into the mouth of the witch at a moment of terror in the play. by it he publishes his intention not to be too utterly gruesome in his treatment of the hag. this intention, moreover, he fulfils in the succeeding scene. the witch appears weird and wicked enough in appearance, in her discordant laugh, and the instrumental delineation of her, but when she sings to the children, she is almost ingratiating. of course, she is seeking to lure them to a horrible fate, but though she does not deceive them for even a moment, her musical manner is much like theirs, except when she is whirling through the air on a broomstick. when the curtain opens on the third act the scene is the same as at the close of the second, except that morning is breaking and the background is filled with mist, which is slowly dissipated during the song of the dewman (dawn fairy), who sprinkles dew on the sleeping children as he sings. the beginning of his song is like that of the sandman, but its second part consists of the melody of "fulfilment" instead of that of "promise." gretel is the first to awake, and she wakes hänsel by imitating the song of the lark. he springs up with the cry of chanticleer, and lark's trill and cock's crow are mingled in a most winsome duet, which runs out into a description of the dream. they look about them to point out the spot where the angels had been. by this time the last veil of mist has withdrawn from the background, and in the place of the forest of firs the gingerbread house stands glistening with barley sugar in the sunshine. to the left is the witch's oven, to the right a cage, all inside a fence of gingerbread children. a duet of admiration and amazement follows in a new, undulatory melody. hänsel wants to enter the house, but gretel holds him back. finally they decide to venture so far as to nibble a bit. hänsel stealthily breaks a piece of gingerbread off the corner, and at once the voice of the witch is heard in the phrase already quoted:- nibble, nibble, mousekin, who's nibbling at my housekin? after a moment of alarm gretel picks up a bit of the gingerbread which had fallen from hänsel's hand at the sound of the witch's voice, and the duet of enjoyment is resumed in a higher key. then a second piece of gingerbread is stolen and munched, and the weird voice is heard again; but this time without alarm. the witch stealthily approaches and throws a noose about hänsel's neck. they have fallen into her clutches, and in a luring song she tells of the sweetmeats which she keeps in the house for children of whom she is fond. hänsel and gretel are not won over, however, by her blandishments, and try to run away. the witch extends her magic wand and chants the charm which deprives her victims of the power of motion, beginning:-[musical excerpt--"hocus pocus witches' charm"] this phrase stands in the score as the antithesis of the "counter-charm" mentioned in the analysis of the prelude. it illustrates an ingenious constructive device. desiring to send gretel on an errand a moment later, the witch disenchants her with the formula, hocus, pocus, elderbush, already described as the first theme of the allegro in the prelude. it is an inversion of the theme of enchantment, a proceeding analogous to reversing the rod, or spelling the charm backward. wagner makes use of the same device in "götterdämmerung" when he symbolizes the end of things by inverting the symbol of the original elements in "das rheingold." the witch now discloses her true character, and in the exuberance of her demoniac glee indulges in a ride on a broom, first repeating some jargon in imitation of the cabalistic formulas common to mediaeval necromancy. frau wette's lines are partly a copy of the witch's multiplication table in goethe's "faust." the play hurries to its catastrophe. gretel gives hänsel power of motion by repeating the "counter-charm," which she has overheard from the witch, and the children push the hag into her own oven while she is heating it to roast hänsel. the two then break into a jubilant waltz, which the composer designates the knusperwalzer, i.e. the "crust waltz." a frightful explosion destroys the witch's oven, and with the crash the gingerbread covering falls from the children, who formed the fence around the house. they are unable to move, being still partly under a spell, but when hänsel repeats the "counter-charm," they crowd around their deliverers and sing their gratitude. the parents of hänsel and gretel, who have been hunting them, appear on the scene. out of the ruins of the oven the happy children drag the figure of the witch baked into a monstrous gingerbread, and dance around it hand in hand. at the last all join in a swelling utterance of the "prayer theme" to the words, "when need is greatest god is nearest." gutenberg online disributed proofreading team the standard operas their plots, their music, and their composers a handbook by george p. upton twelfth edition chicago: a. c. mcclurg and company 1897 preface. the object of the compiler of this handbook is to present to the reader a brief but comprehensive sketch of each of the operas contained in the modern repertory which are likely to be given during regular seasons. to this end he has consulted the best authorities, adding to the material thus collected his own observations, and in each case presented a necessarily brief sketch of the composer, the story of each opera, the general character of the music, its prominent scenes and numbers,--the latter in the text most familiar to opera-goers,--the date of first performances, with a statement of the original cast wherever it has been possible to obtain it, and such historical information concerning the opera and its composition as will be of interest to the reader. the work has been prepared for the general public rather than for musicians; and with this purpose in view, technicalities have been avoided as far as possible, the aim being to give musically uneducated lovers of opera a clear understanding of the works they are likely to hear, and thus heighten their enjoyment. in a word, the operas are described rather than criticised, and the work is presented with as much thoroughness as seemed possible considering the necessarily brief space allotted to each. in the preparation of the handbook, the compiler acknowledges his indebtedness to grove's excellent "dictionary of music" for dates and other statistical information; and he has also made free use of standard musical works in his library for historical events connected with the performance and composition of the operas. it only remains to submit this work to opera-goers with the hope that it may add to their enjoyment and prove a valuable addition to their libraries.--g.p.u. chicago, august, 1885. contents. auber fra diavolo masaniello the crown diamonds balfe the bohemian girl the rose of castile beethoven fidelio bellini norma la sonnambula i puritani bizet carmen boieldieu la dame blanche boito mephistopheles delibes lakme donizetti the daughter of the regiment la favorita don pasquale lucia di lammermoor l'elisir d'amore lucrezia borgia flotow martha stradella gluck orpheus goetz the taming of the shrew goldmark the queen of sheba merlin gounod faust romeo and juliet mireille halevy the jewess humperdinck hansel and gretel leoncavallo i pagliacci mascagni cavalleria rusticana meyerbeer the huguenots the star of the north robert the devil dinorah the prophet the african mozart the marriage of figaro don giovanni the magic flute rossini the barber of seville semiramide william tell rubinstein nero thomas mignon verdi ernani rigoletto la traviata il trovatore the masked ball aida othello falstaff wagner rienzi the flying dutchman tannhäuser lohengrin tristan und isolde the mastersingers the ring of the nibelung das rheingold die walküre siegfried die götterdämmerung parsifal wallace maritana weber der freischütz oberon euryanthe appendix index auber. daniel françois esprit auber, one of the most prominent representatives of the opera comique, was born at caen, in normandy, jan. 29, 1784. he first attracted attention in the musical world by his songs and ballads, written when a mere boy. young as he was, they were great favorites in french and english drawing-rooms, and their success diverted him from his commercial intentions to that profession in which he was destined to achieve such popularity. his début was made as an instrumental composer in his twentieth year, but before he had reached his thirtieth he was engrossed with operatic composition. his first two works were unsuccessful; but the third, "la bergère châtelaine," proved the stepping-stone to a career of remarkable popularity, during which he produced a large number of dramatic works, which not only secured for him the enthusiastic admiration of the parisians, with whom he was always a favorite, but also carried his name and fame throughout the world, and obtained for him marks of high distinction from royalty, such as the office of director of the conservatoire from louis philippe, and that of imperial maître de chapelle from louis napoleon. he died may 13, 1871, amid the fearful scenes of the paris commune. his best-known operas are: "masaniello" (1828); "fra diavolo" (1830); "the bronze horse" (1835); "the black domino" (1837); "the crown diamonds" (1841); and "zerline" (1851),--the last-named written for the great contralto, mme. alboni. of these, "fra diavolo," "masaniello," and "the crown diamonds" are as fresh as ever in their french and italian settings, though their finest successes in this country have been made in their english dress. fra diavolo. "fra diavolo," opera comique, in three acts, words by scribe, was first produced at the opera comique, paris, jan. 28, 1830; in english, at drury lane, london, nov. 3, 1831; in italian, at the lyceum, london, july 9, 1857, for which occasion the spoken dialogue was converted into accompanied recitative. the composer himself also, in fitting it for the italian stage, made some changes in the concerted music and added several morceaux. the original italian cast was as follows:- zerlina mme. bosio. lady allcash mlle. marai. fra diavolo sig. gardini. lord allcash sig. ronconi. beppo sig. tagliafico. giacomo sig. zelger. the original of the story of fra diavolo is to be found in lesueur's opera, "la caverne," afterwards arranged as a spectacular piece and produced in paris in 1808 by cuvellier and franconi, and again in vienna in 1822 as a spectacle-pantomime, under the title of "the robber of the abruzzi." in scribe's adaptation the bandit, fra diavolo, encounters an english nobleman and his pretty and susceptible wife, lord and lady allcash, at the inn of terracina, kept by matteo, whose daughter zerlina is loved by lorenzo, a young soldier, on the eve of starting to capture fra diavolo when the action of the opera begins. in the first scene the english couple enter in great alarm, having narrowly escaped the robbery of all their valuables by fra diavolo's band. the bandit himself, who has followed them on their journey in the disguise of a marquis, and has been particularly attentive to the lady, enters the inn just as lord allcash has been reproving his wife for her familiarity with a stranger. a quarrel ensues in a duet of a very humorous character ("i don't object"). upon the entrance of fra diavolo, a quintet ("oh, rapture unbounded!") ensues, which is one of the most effective and admirably harmonized ensembles auber has ever written. fra diavolo learns the trick by which they saved the most of their valuables, and, enraged at the failure of his band, lays his own plan to secure them. in an interview with zerlina, she, mistaking him for the marquis, tells him the story of fra diavolo in a romanza ("on yonder rock reclining"), which is so fresh, vigorous, and full of color, that it has become a favorite the world over. to further his schemes, fra diavolo makes love to lady allcash and sings an exquisitely graceful barcarole to her ("the gondolier, fond passion's slave"), accompanying himself on the mandolin. lord allcash interrupts the song, and the trio, "bravi, bravi," occurs, which leads up to the finale of the act. fra diavolo eludes the carbineers, who have returned, and they resume their search for him, leaving him unmolested to perfect his plans for the robbery. the second act introduces zerlina in her chamber about to retire. she first lights lord and lady allcash to their room, a running conversation occurring between them in a trio ("let us, i pray, good wife, to rest"), which by many good critics has been considered as the best number in the work. before zerlina returns to her chamber, fra diavolo and his companions, beppo and giacomo, conceal themselves in a closet, and, somewhat in violation of dramatic consistency, fra diavolo sings the beautiful serenade, "young agnes," which had been agreed upon as a signal to his comrades that the coast was clear. zerlina enters, and after a pretty cavatina ("'tis to-morrow") and a prayer, charming for its simplicity ("oh, holy virgin"), retires to rest. the robbers in attempting to cross her room partially arouse her. one of them rushes to the bed to stab her, but falls back awe-stricken as she murmurs her prayer and sinks to rest again. the trio which marks this scene, sung pianissimo, is quaint and simple and yet very dramatic. the noise of the carbineers returning outside interrupts the plan of the robbers. they conceal themselves in the closet again. zerlina rises and dresses herself. lord and lady allcash rush in _en deshabille_ to find out the cause of the uproar. lorenzo enters to greet zerlina, when a sudden noise in the closet disturbs the company. fra diavolo, knowing he will be detected, boldly steps out into the room and declares that he is there to keep an appointment with zerlina. lorenzo challenges him, and he promises to give him satisfaction in the morning, and coolly effects his escape. one of his comrades, however, is captured, and to secure his own liberty agrees to betray his chief. the third act introduces fra diavolo once more among his native mountains, and there is the real breath and vigor of the mountain air in his opening song ("proudly and wide my standard flies"), and rollicking freedom in the rondeau which follows it ("then since life glides so fast away"). he exults in his liberty, and gleefully looks forward to a meeting with lord and lady allcash, which he anticipates will redound to his personal profit. his exultation is interrupted by the entrance of the villagers arrayed in festival attire in honor of the approaching wedding ceremonies, singing a bright pastoral chorus ("oh, holy virgin! bright and fair"). the finale of the act is occupied with the development of the scheme between lorenzo, beppo, and giacomo, to ensnare fra diavolo and compass his death; and with the final tragedy, in which fra diavolo meets his doom at the hands of the carbineers, but not before he has declared zerlina's innocence. this finale is strong and very dramatic, and yet at the same time simple, natural, and unstudied. the opera itself is a universal favorite, not alone for its naturalness and quiet grace, but for its bright and even boisterous humor, which is sustained by the typical english tourist, who was for the first time introduced in opera by scribe. the text is full of spirit and gayety, and these qualities are admirably reflected in the sparkling music of auber. not one of the books which the versatile scribe has supplied for the opera is more replete with incident or brighter in humor. how well it was adapted for musical treatment is shown by the fact that "fra diavolo" made auber's reputation at the opera comique. masaniello. "masaniello," or "la muette de portici," a lyric opera in five acts, words by scribe and delavigne, was first produced in paris, feb. 29, 1828; in english, at london, may 4, 1829; and in italian, at london, march 15, 1849. the original cast included mme. damoreau-cinti as elvira, mlle. noblet as fenella, and m. massol as pietro. in the italian version, sig. mario, mme. dorus-gras, and mlle. leroux, a famous mime and dancer, took the principal parts; while in its english dress, braham created one of the greatest successes on record, and established it as the favorite opera of auber among englishmen. the scene of the opera is laid near naples. the first act opens upon the festivities attending the nuptials of alphonso, son of the duke of arcos, and the princess elvira. after a chorus of rejoicing, the latter enters and sings a brilliant cavatina ("o, bel momento") expressive of her happiness. in the fourth scene the festivities are interrupted by the appearance of fenella, the dumb girl, who implores the princess to save her from selva, one of the duke's officers, who is seeking to return her to prison, from which she has escaped, and where she has been confined at the orders of some unknown cavalier who has been persecuting her. the part of fenella is of course expressed by pantomime throughout. the remainder of the act is intensely dramatic. elvira promises to protect fenella, and then, after some spirited choruses by the soldiers, enters the chapel with alphonso. during the ceremony fenella discovers that he is her betrayer. she attempts to go in, but is prevented by the soldiers. on the return of the newly wedded pair fenella meets elvira and denounces her husband, and the scene ends with a genuine italian finale of excitement. the second act opens on the sea-shore, and shows the fishermen busy with their nets and boats. masaniello, brother of fenella, enters, brooding upon the wrongs of the people, and is implored by the fishermen to cheer them with a song. he replies with the barcarole, "piu bello sorse il giorno,"--a lovely melody, which has been the delight of all tenors. his friend pietro enters and they join in a duet ("sara il morir") of a most vigorous and impassioned character, expressive of masaniello's grief for his sister and their mutual resolution to strike a blow for freedom. at the conclusion of the duet he beholds fenella about to throw herself into the sea. he calls to her and she rushes into his arms and describes to him the story of her wrongs. he vows revenge, and in a magnificent, martial finale, which must have been inspired by the revolutionary feeling with which the whole atmosphere was charged at the time auber wrote (1828), incites the fishermen and people to rise in revolt against their tyrannical oppressors. in the third act, after a passionate aria ("il pianto rasciuga") by elvira, we are introduced to the market-place, crowded with market-girls and fishermen disposing of their fruits and fish. after a lively chorus, a fascinating and genuine neapolitan tarantelle is danced. the merry scene speedily changes to one of turmoil and distress. selva attempts to arrest fenella, but the fishermen rescue her and masaniello gives the signal for the general uprising. before the combat begins, all kneel and sing the celebrated prayer, "nume del ciel," taken from one of auber's early masses, and one of his most inspired efforts. the fourth act opens in masaniello's cottage. he deplores the coming horrors of the day in a grand aria ("dio! di me disponesti") which is very dramatic in its quality. fenella enters, and after describing the tumult in the city sinks exhausted with fatigue. as she falls asleep he sings a slumber song ("scendi, o sonno dal ciel"), a most exquisite melody, universally known as "l'air du sommeil." it is sung by the best artists mezzo voce throughout, and when treated in this manner never fails to impress the hearer with its tenderness and beauty. at its close pietro enters and once more rouses masaniello to revenge by informing him that alphonso has escaped. after they leave the cottage, the latter and elvira enter and implore protection. fenella is moved to mercy, and a concerted number follows in which masaniello promises safety and is denounced by pietro for his weakness. in the finale, the magistrates and citizens enter, bearing the keys of the town and the royal insignia, and declare masaniello king in a chorus of a very inspiriting and brilliant character. the last act is very powerful, both dramatically and musically. it opens in the grounds of the viceroy's palace, and vesuvius is seen in the distance, its smoke portending an eruption. pietro and companions enter with wine-cups in their hands, as from a banquet, and the former sings a barcarole ("ve' come il vento irato"). at its close other fishermen enter and excitedly announce that troops are moving against the people, that vesuvius is about to burst into flame, and that masaniello, their leader, has lost his reason. this is confirmed by the appearance of the hero in disordered attire, singing music through which are filtered fragments of the fishermen's songs as they rise in his disturbed brain. this scene, the third in the act, is one not only of great power but of exquisite grace and tenderness, and requires an artist of the highest rank for its proper presentation. fenella rouses him from his dejection, and he once more turns and plunges into the fight, only to be killed by his own comrades. on learning of her brother's death she unites the hands of alphonso and elvira, and then in despair throws herself into the burning lava of vesuvius. "masaniello" made auber's fame at the grand opera, as "fra diavolo" made it at the opera comique. it has no points in common with that or any other of his works. it is serious throughout, and full of power, impetuosity, and broad dramatic treatment. even richard wagner has conceded its vigor, bold effects, and original harmonies. its melodies are spontaneous, its instrumentation full of color, and its stirring incidents are always vigorously handled. in comparison with his other works it seems like an inspiration. it is full of the revolutionary spirit, and its performance in brussels in 1830 was the cause of the riots that drove the dutch out of belgium. the crown diamonds. "the crown diamonds" ("les diamans de la couronne"), opera comique, in three acts, words by scribe and st. george, one of the most charming of auber's light operas, was first produced in paris in 1841, but its reputation has been made on the english stage. it was first performed in london, at the princess theatre, may 2, 1844, with mme. anna thillon, a charming singer and most fascinating woman, as catarina; but its success was made at drury lane in 1854 by louisa pyne and harrison, who took the parts of catarina and don henrique. the other rôles, count de campo mayor, don sebastian, rebolledo, and diana, were filled by mr. horncastle, mr. reeves, mr. borrani, and miss pyne, sister of the preceding, and with this cast the opera ran a hundred nights. the story of the opera is laid in portugal, time, 1777. the opening scene discloses the ruins of a castle in the mountains, near the monastery of st. huberto, where don henrique, nephew of the count de campo mayor, minister of police at coimbra, overtaken by a storm, seeks shelter. at the time of his misfortune he is on his way to take part in the approaching coronation, and also to sign a marriage contract with his cousin diana, daughter of the minister of police. he solaces himself with a song ("roll on, roll on"), during which he hears the blows of hammers in a distant cavern, and on looking round discovers rebolledo, the chief of the coiners, and two of his comrades, with his trunk in their possession, the contents of which they proceed to examine. don henrique conceals himself while rebolledo is singing a rollicking muleteer's song ("o'er mountain steep, through valley roaming"). at its conclusion rebolledo, about to summon the other coiners to their secret work, discovers don henrique, and thinking him a spy rushes upon him. he is saved by the sudden entrance of catarina, the leader of the gang, who tells the story of her life in a concerted number that reminds one very strikingly of the bandit song in "fra diavolo." after examining don henrique, and, to his surprise, showing an intimate acquaintance with his projects, she returns him his property, and allows him to depart on condition that he shall not speak of what he has seen for a year. he consents; and then follows another of the concerted numbers in which this opera abounds, and in which occurs a charming rondo ("the young pedrillo"), accompanied by a weird, clanging chorus. before he can effect his departure the gang find that they are surrounded by troops led by don sebastian, a friend of don henrique. the coiners, in company with the latter, however, make their escape in the disguise of monks on their way to the neighboring monastery, singing a lugubrious chorus ("unto the hermit of the chapel"), while catarina and rebolledo elude the soldiers by taking a subterranean passage, carrying with them a casket containing some mysterious jewels. the second act opens in the château de coimbra, and discovers the count, don henrique, don sebastian, and diana. the first scene reveals to us that don henrique is in love with the mysterious catarina, and that diana is in love with don sebastian. in a sportive mood diana requests don henrique to sing with her, and chooses a nocturne called "the brigand," which closes in gay bolero time ("in the deep ravine of the forest"). as they are singing it, don sebastian announces that a carriage has been overturned and its occupants desire shelter. as the duet proceeds, catarina and rebolledo enter, and a very flurried quintet ("oh, surprise unexpected!") occurs, leading up to an ensemble full of humor, with a repetition of the brigand song, this time by catarina and diana, and closing with a bravura aria sung by catarina ("love! at once i break thy fetters"). catarina and rebolledo accept the proffered hospitality, but the latter quietly makes his exit when diana begins to read an account of a robbery which contains a description of himself and his companion. catarina remains, however, in spite of don henrique's warning that she is in the house of the minister of police. in a moment of passion he declares his love for her and begs her to fly with him. she declines his proffer, but gives him a ring as a souvenir. a pretty little duet ("if i could but courage feel") ensues between diana and don henrique, in which she gently taunts him with his inattention to her and his sudden interest in the handsome stranger. at this juncture the count enters in wild excitement over the announcement that the crown jewels have been stolen. don henrique's ring is recognized as one of them, and in the excitement which ensues, catarina finds herself in danger of discovery, from which she is rescued by diana, who promises don henrique she will send her away in the count's carriage if he will agree to refuse to sign the marriage contract. he consents, and she departs upon her errand. at this point in the scene don henrique sings the beautiful ballad, "oh, whisper what thou feelest!" originally written for mr. harrison. this song leads up to a stirring finale, in which don henrique refuses to sign the contract and catarina makes her escape. the last act opens in the anteroom of the royal palace at lisbon, where diana is waiting for an audience with the queen. she sings another interpolated air, originally written for louisa pyne ("when doubt the tortured frame is rending"), and at its close the count, don henrique, and don sebastian enter. while they are conversing, rebolledo appears, announced as the count fuentes, and a quintet occurs, very slightly constructed, but full of humor. an usher interrupts it by announcing the queen will have a private audience with the count fuentes. while awaiting her, the latter, in a monologue, lets us into the secret that the real crown jewels have been pledged for the national debt, and that he has been employed to make duplicates of them to be worn on state occasions until the real ones can be redeemed. the queen enters, and expresses her satisfaction with the work, and promotes him to the position of minister of secret police. on his departure she sings a charming cavatina ("love, dwell with me"), and at its close count de campo mayor enters with the decision of the council that she shall wed the prince of spain. she returns answer that she shall make her own choice. the count seeks to argue with her, when she threatens to confiscate his estate for allowing the crown jewels to be stolen, and commands him to arrest his daughter and nephew for harboring the thieves. diana suddenly enters, and an amusing trio ensues, the queen standing with her back to diana lest she may be discovered. the latter fails to recognize her as catarina, and implores pardon for assisting in her escape. the situation is still further complicated by the appearance of don henrique, who has no difficulty in recognizing catarina. bewildered at her presence in the queen's apartments, he declares to diana that he will seize her and fly to some distant land. his rash resolution, however, is thwarted by his arrest, on the authority of the queen, for treason. a martial finale introduces us to the queen in state. don henrique rushes forward to implore mercy for catarina. the queen reveals herself at last, and announces to her people that she has chosen don henrique, who has loved her for herself, for her husband and their king. and thus closes one of the most sparkling, melodious, and humorous of auber's works. what the concerted numbers lack in solidity of construction is compensated for by their grace and sweetness. balfe. michael william balfe was born at dublin, ireland, may 15, 1808. of all the english opera-composers, his career was the most versatile, as his success, for a time at least, was the most remarkable. at seven years of age he scored a polacca of his own for a band. in his eighth year he appeared as a violinist, and in his tenth was composing ballads. at sixteen he was playing in the drury lane orchestra, and about this time began taking lessons in composition. in 1825, aided by the generosity of a patron, he went to italy, where for three years he studied singing and counterpoint. in his twentieth year he met rossini, who offered him an engagement as first barytone at the italian opera in paris. he made his début with success in 1828, and at the close of his engagement returned to italy, where he appeared again on the stage. about this time (1829-1830) he began writing italian operas, and before he left italy had produced three which met with considerable success. in 1835 he returned to england; and it was in this year that his first english opera, the "siege of rochelle," was produced. it was played continuously at drury lane for over three months. in 1836 appeared his "maid of artois;" in 1837, "catharine grey" and "joan of arc;" and in 1838, "falstaff." during these years he was still singing in concerts and opera, and in 1840 appeared as manager of the lyceum. his finest works were produced after this date,--"the bohemian girl" in 1843; "the enchantress" in 1844; "the rose of castile," "la zingara," and "satanella" in 1858, and "the puritan's daughter" in 1861. his last opera was "the knight of the leopard," known in italian as "il talismano," which has also been produced in english as "the talisman." he married mlle. rosen, a german singer, whom he met in italy in 1835; and his daughter victoire, who subsequently married sir john crampton, and afterwards the duc de frias, also appeared as a singer in 1856. balfe died oct. 20, 1870, upon his own estate in hertfordshire. the analysis of his three operas which are best known--"the bohemian girl," "rose of castile," and "puritan's daughter"--will contain sufficient reference to his ability as a composer. the bohemian girl. "the bohemian girl," grand opera in three acts, words by bunn, adapted from st. george's ballet of "the gypsy," which appeared at the paris grand opera in 1839,--itself taken from a romance by cervantes,--was first produced in london, nov. 27, 1843, at drury lane, with the following cast:- arline miss romer. thaddeus mr. harrison. gypsy queen miss betts. devilshoof mr. stretton. count arnheim mr. borrani. florestein mr. durnset. the fame of "the bohemian girl" was not confined to england. it was translated into various european languages, and was one of the few english operas which secured a favorable hearing even in critical germany. in its italian form it was produced at drury lane as "la zingara," feb. 6, 1858, with mlle. piccolomini as arline; and also had the honor of being selected for the state performance connected with the marriage of the princess royal. the french version, under the name of "la bohémienne," for which balfe added several numbers, besides enlarging it to five acts, was produced at the théâtre lyrique, paris, in december, 1869, and gained for him the cross of the legion of honor. the scene of the opera is laid in austria, and the first act introduces us to the château and grounds of count arnheim, governor of presburg, whose retainers are preparing for the chase. after a short chorus the count enters with his little daughter arline and his nephew florestein. the count sings a short solo ("a soldier's life"), and as the choral response by his retainers and hunters dies away and they leave the scene, thaddeus, a polish exile and fugitive, rushes in excitedly, seeking to escape the austrian soldiers. his opening number is a very pathetic song ("'tis sad to leave your fatherland"). at the end of the song a troop of gypsies enter, headed by devilshoof, singing a blithe chorus ("in the gypsy's life you may read"). he hears thaddeus's story and induces him to join them. before the animated strains fairly cease, florestein and some of the hunters dash across the grounds in quest of arline, who has been attacked by a stag. thaddeus, seizing a rifle, joins them, and rescues the child by killing the animal. the count overwhelms him with gratitude, and urges him to join in the coming festivities. he consents, and at the banquet produces a commotion by refusing to drink the health of the emperor. the soldiers are about to rush upon him, when devilshoof interferes. the gypsy is arrested for his temerity, and taken into the castle. thaddeus departs and the festivities are resumed, but are speedily interrupted again by the escape of devilshoof, who takes arline with him. the finale of the act is very stirring, and contains one number, a prayer ("thou who in might supreme"), which is extremely effective. twelve years elapse between the first and second acts, and during this time count arnheim has received no tidings of arline, and has given her up as lost forever. the act opens in the gypsy camp in the suburbs of presburg. arline is seen asleep in the tent of the queen, with thaddeus watching her. after a quaint little chorus ("silence, silence, the lady moon") sung by the gypsies, they depart in quest of plunder, headed by devilshoof, and soon find their victim in the person of the foppish and half-drunken florestein, who is returning from a revel. he is speedily relieved of his jewelry, among which is a medallion, which is carried off by devilshoof. as the gypsies disappear, arline wakes and relates her dream to thaddeus in a joyous song ("i dreamed i dwelt in marble halls"), which has become one of the world's favorites. at the close of the ballad thaddeus tells her the meaning of the scar upon her arm, and reveals himself as her rescuer, but does not disclose to her the mystery of her birth. the musical dialogue, with its ensemble, "the secret of her birth," will never lose its charm. thaddeus declares his love for her just as the queen, who is also in love with thaddeus, enters. arline also confesses her love for thaddeus, and, according to the customs of the tribe, the queen unites them, at the same time vowing vengeance against the pair. the scene now changes to a street in the city. a great fair is in progress, and the gypsies, as usual, resort to it. arline enters at their head, joyously singing, to the accompaniment of the rattling castanets, "come with the gypsy bride;" her companions, blithely tripping along, responding with the chorus, "in the gypsy's life you may read." they disappear down the street and reappear in the public plaza. arline, the queen, devilshoof, and thaddeus sing an unaccompanied quartet ("from the valleys and hills"), a number which for grace and flowing harmony deserves a place in any opera. as they mingle among the people an altercation occurs between arline and florestein, who has attempted to insult her. the queen recognizes florestein as the owner of the medallion, and for her courage in resenting the insult maliciously presents arline with it. shortly afterwards he observes the medallion on arline's neck, and has her arrested for theft. the next scene opens in the hall of justice. count arnheim enters with a sad countenance, and as he observes arline's portrait, gives vent to his sorrow in that well-known melancholy reverie, "the heart bowed down," which has become famous the world over. arline is brought before him for trial. as it progresses he observes the scar upon her arm and asks its cause. she tells the story which thaddeus had told her, and this solves the mystery. the count recognizes his daughter, and the act closes with a beautiful ensemble ("praised be the will of heaven"). the last act opens in the salon of count arnheim. arline is restored to her old position, but her love for thaddeus remains. he finds an opportunity to have a meeting with her, through the cunning of devilshoof, who accompanies him. he once more tells his love in that tender and impassioned song, "when other lips and other hearts," and she promises to be faithful to him. as the sound of approaching steps is heard, thaddeus and his companion conceal themselves. a large company enter, and arline is presented to them. during the ceremony a closely veiled woman appears, and when questioned discovers herself as the gypsy queen. she reveals the hiding-place of her companions, and thaddeus is dragged forth and ordered to leave the house. arline declares her love for him, and her intention to go with him. she implores her father to relent. thaddeus avows his noble descent, and boasts his ancestry and deeds in battle in that stirring martial song, "when the fair land of poland." the count finally yields and gives his daughter to thaddeus. the queen, filled with rage and despair, induces one of the tribe to fire at him as he is embracing arline; but by a timely movement of devilshoof the bullet intended for thaddeus pierces the breast of the queen. as the curtain falls, the old song of the gypsies is heard again as they disappear in the distance with devilshoof at their head. many of the operas of balfe, like other ballad operas, have become unfashionable; but it is doubtful whether "the bohemian girl" will ever lose its attraction for those who delight in song-melody, charming orchestration, and sparkling, animated choruses. it leaped into popularity at a bound, and its pretty melodies are still as fresh as when they were first sung. the rose of castile. "the rose of castile," comic opera in three acts, words by harris and falconer, adapted from adolphe adam's "muletier de tolède," was first produced at the lyceum theatre, london, oct. 29, 1857, with the following cast:- elvira miss louisa pyne. manuel w.h. harrison. carmen miss susan pyne. don pedro mr. weiss. don sallust mr. st. albyn. don florio mr. honey. the scene of the opera is laid in spain. elvira, the rose of castile, queen of leon, has just ascended the throne, and her hand has been demanded by the king of castile for his brother, don sebastian the infant. having learned that the latter is about to enter her dominions disguised as a muleteer, the better to satisfy his curiosity about her, she adopts the same expedient, and sets out to intercept him, disguised as a peasant girl, taking with her one of her attendants. the first act opens upon a rural scene in front of a posada, where the peasants are dancing and singing a lively chorus ("list to the gay castanet"). elvira and carmen, her attendant, enter upon the scene, and are asked to join in the dance, but instead, elvira delights them with a song, a vocal scherzo ("yes, i'll obey you"). the innkeeper is rude to them, but they are protected from his coarseness by manuel, the muleteer, who suddenly appears and sings a rollicking song ("i am a simple muleteer") to the accompaniment of a tambourine and the snappings of his whip. a dialogue duet follows, in which she accepts his protection and escort. she has already recognized the infant, and he has fulfilled the motive of the story by falling in love with her. at this point the three conspirators, don pedro, don sallust, and don florio, enter, the first of whom has designs on the throne. they indulge in a buffo trio, which develops into a spirited bacchanal ("wine, wine, the magician thou art!"). observing elvira's likeness to the queen, they persuade her to personate her majesty. she consents with feigned reluctance, and after accepting their escort in place of manuel's, being sure that he will follow, she sings a quaint rondo ("oh, were i the queen of spain!"), and the act closes with a concerted number accompanying their departure. the second act opens in the throne-room of the palace, and is introduced by a very expressive conspirators' chorus ("the queen in the palace"); after which don pedro enters and gives expression to the uncertainty of his schemes in a ballad ("though fortune darkly o'er me frowns") which reminds one very forcibly of "the heart bowed down," in "the bohemian girl." the queen, who has eluded the surveillance of the conspirators, makes her appearance, surrounded by her attendants, and sings that exquisite ballad, "the convent cell" ("of girlhood's happy days i dream"), one of the most beautiful songs ever written by any composer, and certainly balfe's most popular inspiration. at the close of the ballad manuel appears, and is granted an audience, in which he informs her of the meeting with the peasant girl and boy, and declares his belief that they were the queen and carmen. she ridicules the statement, and a very funny trio buffo ensues ("i'm not the queen, ha, ha!"). he then informs her of the conspirators' plot to imprison her, but she thwarts it by inducing a silly and pompous old duchess to assume the rôle of queen for the day, and ride to the palace closely veiled in the royal carriage. the plot succeeds, and the duchess is seized and conveyed to a convent. in the next scene there is another spirited buffo number, in which don pedro and don florio are mourning over the loss of their peasant girl, when, greatly to their relief, she enters again, singing a very quaint and characteristic scena ("i'm but a simple peasant maid"), which rouses the suspicions of the conspirators. they are all the more perplexed when the queen announces herself, and declares her intention of marrying the muleteer. the last act opens with a song by carmen ("though love's the greatest plague in life"), which falls far below the excellence of the other songs in the work. it is followed by a buffo duet between carmen and florio, who agree to marry. the queen and ladies enter, and the former sings a bravura air ("oh, joyous, happy day!"), which was intended by the composer to show miss pyne's vocal ability. at this point a message is brought her from don sebastian, announcing his marriage. enraged at the discovery that the muleteer is not don sebastian, she severely upbraids him, and he replies in another exquisite ballad ("'twas rank and fame that tempted thee"). at its close she once more declares she will be true to the muleteer. don pedro is delighted at the apparent success of his scheme, as he believes he can force her to abdicate if she marries a muleteer, and gives vent to his joy in a martial song ("hark! hark! methinks i hear"). the last scene is in the throne-room, where manuel announces he is king of castile, and mounts the throne singing a stirring song closely resembling, in its style, the "fair land of poland," in "the bohemian girl." elvira expresses her delight in a bravura air ("oh, no! by fortune blessed"), and the curtain falls. the story of the opera is very complicated, and sometimes tiresome; but the music is well sustained throughout, especially the buffo numbers, while some of the ballads are among the best ever written by an english composer. beethoven. ludwig von beethoven, the greatest of composers, was born dec. 17, 1770, at bonn, germany, his father being a court singer in the chapel of the elector of cologne. he studied in vienna with haydn, with whom he did not always agree, however, and afterwards with albrechtsberger. his first symphony appeared in 1801, his earlier symphonies, in what is called his first period, being written in the mozart style. his only opera, "fidelio," for which he wrote four overtures, was first brought out in vienna in 1805; his oratorio, "christ on the mount of olives," in 1812; and his colossal ninth symphony, with its choral setting of schiller's "ode to joy," in 1824. in addition to his symphonies, his opera, oratorios, and masses, and the immortal group of sonatas for the piano, which were almost revelations in music, he developed chamber music to an extent far beyond that reached by his predecessors, haydn and mozart. his symphonies exhibit surprising power, and a marvellous comprehension of the deeper feelings in life and the influences of nature, both human and physical. he wrote with the deepest earnestness, alike in the passion and the calm of his music, and he invested it also with a genial humor as well as with the highest expression of pathos. his works are epic in character. he was the great tone-poet of music. his subjects were always lofty and dignified, and to their treatment he brought not only a profound knowledge of musical technicality, but intense sympathy with the innermost feelings of human nature, for he was a humanitarian in the broadest sense. by the common consent of the musical world he stands at the head of all composers, and has always been their guide and inspiration. he died march 26, 1827, in the midst of a raging thunder storm, one of his latest utterances being a recognition of the "divine spark" in schubert's music. fidelio. "fidelio, oder die eheliche liebe" ("fidelio, or conjugal love"), grand opera in two acts, words by sonnleithner, translated freely from bouilly's "léonore, ou l'amour conjugal," was first produced at the theatre an der wien, vienna, nov. 20, 1805, the work at that time being in three acts. a translation of the original programme of that performance, with the exception of the usual price of admissions, is appended:- imperial and royal theatre an der wien. new opera. to-day, wednesday, 20 november, 1805, at the imperial and royal theatre an der wien, will be given for the first time. fidelio; or, conjugal love. opera in three acts, translated freely from the french text by joseph sonnleithner. the music is by ludwig von beethoven. _dramatis personae_. _don fernando_, minister herr weinkoff. _don pizarro_, governor of a state prison herr meier. _florestan_, prisoner herr demmer. _leonora_, his wife, under the name of _fidelio_ fräulein milder. _rocco_, chief jailer herr rothe. _marcellina_, his daughter fräulein müller. _jaquino_, turnkey herr cache. _captain of the guard_ herr meister. _prisoners, guards, people_. the action passes in a state prison in spain, a few leagues from seville. the piece can be procured at the box-office for fifteen kreutzers. during this first season the opera was performed three times and then withdrawn. breuning reduced it to two acts, and two or three of the musical numbers were sacrificed, and in this form it was played twice at the imperial private theatre and again withdrawn. on these occasions it had been given under beethoven's favorite title, "leonore." in 1814 treitschke revised it, and it was produced at the kärnthnerthor theatre, vienna, may 23, of that year, as "fidelio," which title it has ever since retained. its first performance in paris was at the théâtre lyrique, may 5, 1860; in london, at the king's theatre, may 18, 1832; and in english at covent garden, june 12, 1835, with malibran in the title-rôle. beethoven wrote four overtures for this great work. the first was composed in 1805, the second in 1806, the third in 1807, and the fourth in 1814. it is curious that there has always been a confusion in their numbering, and the error remains to this day. what is called no. 1 is in reality no. 3, and was composed for a performance of the opera at prague, the previous overture having been too difficult for the strings. the splendid "leonora," no. 3, is in reality no. 2, and the no. 2 is no. 1. the fourth, or the "fidelio" overture, contains a new set of themes, but the "leonora" is the grandest of them all. the entire action of the opera transpires in a spanish prison, of which don pizarro is governor and rocco the jailer. the porter of the prison is jacquino, who is in love with marcellina, daughter of rocco, and she in turn is in love with fidelio, rocco's assistant, who has assumed male disguise the better to assist her in her plans for the rescue of her husband, florestan, a spanish nobleman. the latter, who is the victim of don pizarro's hatred because he had thwarted some of his evil designs, has been imprisoned by him unknown to the world, and is slowly starving to death. leonora, his wife, who in some way has discovered that her husband is in the prison, has obtained employment of rocco, disguised as the young man fidelio. the opera opens with a charming, playful love-scene between jacquino and marcellina, whom the former is teasing to marry him. she puts him off, and as he sorrowfully departs, sings the hope aria, "die hoffnung," a fresh, smoothly flowing melody, in which she pictures the delight of a life with fidelio. at its close rocco enters with the despondent jacquino, shortly followed by fidelio, who is very much fatigued. the love-episode is brought out in the famous canon quartet, "mir ist so wunderbar," one of the most beautiful and restful numbers in the opera. rocco promises marcellina's hand to fidelio as the reward of her fidelity, but in the characteristic and sonorous gold song, "hat man nicht auch geld daneben," reminds them that money as well as love is necessary to housekeeping. in the next scene, while don pizarro is giving instructions to rocco, a packet of letters is delivered to him, one of which informs him that don fernando is coming the next day to inspect the prison, as he has been informed that it contains several victims of arbitrary power. he at once determines that florestan shall die, and gives vent to his wrath in a furious dramatic aria ("ha! welch ein augenblick!"). he attempts to bribe rocco to aid him. the jailer at first refuses, but subsequently, after a stormy duet, consents to dig the grave. fidelio has overheard the scheme, and, as they disappear, rushes forward and sings the great aria, "abscheulicher!" one of the grandest and most impassioned illustrations of dramatic intensity in the whole realm of music. the recitative expresses intense horror at the intended murder, then subsides into piteous sorrow, and at last breaks out into the glorious adagio, "komm hoffnung," in which she sings of the immortal power of love. the last scene of the act introduces the strong chorus of the prisoners as they come out in the yard for air and sunlight, after which rocco relates to fidelio his interview with don pizarro. the latter orders the jailer to return the prisoners to their dungeons and go on with the digging of the grave, and the act closes. the second act opens in florestan's dungeon. the prisoner sings an intensely mournful aria ("in des lebens frühlingstagen"), which has a rapturous finale ("und spür' ich nicht linde"), as he sees his wife in a vision. rocco and fidelio enter and begin digging the grave, to the accompaniment of sepulchral music. she discovers that florestan has sunk back exhausted, and as she restores him recognizes her husband. don pizarro enters, and after ordering fidelio away, who meanwhile conceals herself, attempts to stab florestan. fidelio, who has been closely watching him, springs forward with a shriek, and interposes herself between him and her husband. he once more advances to carry out his purpose, when fidelio draws a pistol and defies him. as she does so, the sound of a trumpet is heard outside announcing the arrival of don fernando. don pizarro rushes out in despair, and florestan and leonora, no longer fidelio, join in a duet ("o namenlose freude") which is the very ecstasy of happiness. in the last scene don fernando sets the prisoners free in the name of the king, and among them florestan. pizarro is revealed in his true character, and is led away to punishment. the happy pair are reunited, and marcellina, to jacquino's delight, consents to marry him. the act closes with a general song of jubilee. as a drama and as an opera "fidelio" stands almost alone in its perfect purity, in the moral grandeur of its subject, and in the resplendent ideality of its music. bellini. vincenzo bellini was born nov. 3, 1802, at catania, sicily, and came of musical parentage. by the generosity of a patron he was sent to naples, and studied at the conservatory under zingarelli. his first opera was "adelson e salvino," and its remarkable merit secured him a commission from the manager, barbaja, for an opera for san carlo. the result was his first important work, "bianca e fernando," written in 1826. its success was moderate; but he was so encouraged that he at once went to milan and wrote "il pirata," the tenor part for rubini. its success was extraordinary, and the managers of la scala commissioned him for another work. in 1828 "la straniera" appeared, quickly followed by "zaira" (1829), which failed at parma, and "i capuletti ed i montecchi," a version of "romeo and juliet," which made a great success at venice in 1830. a year later he composed "la sonnambula," unquestionably his best work, for la scala, and it speedily made the tour of europe, and gained for him an extended reputation. a year after its appearance he astonished the musical world with "norma," written, like "sonnambula," for mme. pasta. these are his greatest works. "norma" was followed by "beatrice di tenda," and this by "i puritani," his last opera, written in paris for the four great artists, grisi, rubini, tamburini, and lablache. bellini died sept. 23, 1835, in the twenty-ninth year of his age, preserving his musical enthusiasm to the very last. he was a close follower of rossini, and studied his music diligently, and though without a very profound knowledge of harmony or orchestration, succeeded in producing at least three works, "norma," "sonnambula," and "i puritani," which were the delight of the opera-goers of his day, and still freshly hold the stage. norma. "norma," a serious opera in two acts, words by romani, was first produced during the season of lent, 1832, at milan, with the principal parts cast as follows:- norma mme. pasta. adalgisa mme. grisi. pollione sig. donzelli. it was first heard in london in 1833, and in paris in 1855, and planché's english version of it was produced at drury lane in 1837. the scene of the opera is laid among the druids, in gaul, after its occupation by the roman legions. in the first scene the druids enter with oroveso, their priest, to the impressive strains of a religious march which is almost as familiar as a household word. the priest announces that norma, the high priestess, will come and cut the sacred branch and give the signal for the expulsion of the romans. the next scene introduces pollione, the roman proconsul, to whom norma, in defiance of her faith and traditions, has bound herself in secret marriage, and by whom she has had two children. in a charmingly melodious scena ("meco all' altar di venere") he reveals his faithlessness and guilty love for adalgisa, a young virgin of the temple, who has consented to abandon her religion and fly with him to rome. in the fourth scene norma enters attended by her priestesses, and denounces the druids for their warlike disposition, declaring that the time has not yet come for shaking off the yoke of rome, and that when it does she will give the signal from the altar of the druids. after cutting the sacred mistletoe, she comes forward and invokes peace from the moon in that exquisite prayer, "casta diva," which electrified the world with its beauty and tenderness, and still holds its place in popular favor, not alone by the grace of its embellishments, but by the pathos of its melody. it is followed by another cavatina of almost equal beauty and tenderness ("ah! bello a me ritorna"). in the next scene adalgisa, retiring from the sacred rites, sings of her love for pollione, and as she closes is met by the proconsul, who once more urges her to fly to rome with him. the duet between them is one of great power and beauty, and contains a strikingly passionate number for the tenor ("va, crudele"). oppressed by her conscience, she reveals her fatal promise to norma, and implores absolution from her vows. norma yields to her entreaties, but when she inquires the name and country of her lover, and adalgisa points to pollione as he enters norma's sanctuary, all the priestess's love turns to wrath. in this scene the duet, "perdoni e ti compiango," is one of exceeding loveliness and peculiarly melodious tenderness. the act closes with a terzetto of great power ("o! di qual sei tu"), in which both the priestess and adalgisa furiously denounce the faithless pollione. in the midst of their imprecations the sound of the sacred shield is heard calling norma to the rites. the second act opens in norma's dwelling, and discovers her children asleep on a couch. norma enters with the purpose of killing them, but the maternal instinct overcomes her vengeful thought that they are pollione's children. adalgisa appears, and norma announces her intention to place her children in the virgin's hands, and send her and them to pollione while she expiates her offence on the funeral pyre. adalgisa pleads with her not to abandon pollione, who will return to her repentant; and the most effective number in the opera ensues,--the grand duet containing two of bellini's most beautiful inspirations, the "deh! con te li prendi," and the familiar "mira, o norma," whose strains have gone round the world and awakened universal delight. pollione, maddened by his passion for adalgisa, impiously attempts to tear her from the altar in the temple of irminsul, whereupon norma enters the temple and strikes the sacred shield, summoning the druids. they meet, and she declares the meaning of the signal is war, slaughter, and destruction. she chants a magnificent hymn ("guerra, guerra"), which is full of the very fury of battle. pollione, who has been intercepted in the temple, is brought before her. love is still stronger than resentment with her. in a very dramatic scena ("in mia mano alfin tu sei") she informs him he is in her power, but she will let him escape if he will renounce adalgisa and leave the country. he declares death would be preferable; whereupon she threatens to denounce adalgisa. pity overcomes anger, however. she snatches the sacred wreath from her brow and declares herself the guilty one. too late pollione discovers the worth of the woman he has abandoned, and a beautiful duet ("qual cor tradisti") forms the closing number. she ascends the funeral pyre with pollione, and in its flames they are purged of earthly crime. it is a memorable fact in the history of this opera, that on its first performance it was coldly received, and the italian critics declared it had no vitality; though no opera was ever written in which such intense dramatic effect has been produced with simple melodic force, and no italian opera score to-day is more living or more likely to last than that of norma. la sonnambula. "la sonnambula," an opera in two acts, words by romani, was first produced in milan, march 6, 1831, with the following cast:- amina mme. pasta. elvino sig. rubini. rodolfo sig. mariano. lisa mme. toccani. it was brought out in the same year in paris and london, and two years after in english, with malibran as amina. the subject of the story was taken from a vaudeville and ballet by scribe. the scene is laid in switzerland. amina, an orphan, the ward of teresa, the miller's wife, is about to marry elvino, a well-to-do landholder of the village. lisa, mistress of the inn, is also in love with elvino, and jealous of her rival. alessio, a peasant lad, is also in love with the landlady. such is the state of affairs on the day before the wedding. rodolfo, the young lord of the village, next appears upon the scene. he has arrived incognito for the purpose of looking up his estates, and stops at lisa's inn, where he meets amina. he gives her many pretty compliments, much to the dissatisfaction of the half-jealous elvino, who is inclined to quarrel with the disturber of his peace of mind. amina, who is subject to fits of somnambulism, has been mistaken for a ghost by the peasants, and they warn rodolfo that the village is haunted. the information, however, does not disturb him, and he quietly retires to his chamber. the officious lisa also enters, and a playful scene of flirtation ensues, during which amina enters the room, walking in her sleep. lisa seeks shelter in a closet. rodolfo, to escape from the embarrassment of the situation, leaves the apartment, and amina reclines upon the bed as if it were her own. the malicious lisa hurries from the room to inform elvino of what she has seen, and thoughtlessly leaves her handkerchief. elvino rushes to the spot with other villagers, and finding amina, as lisa had described, declares that she is guilty, and leaves her. awakened by the noise, the unfortunate girl, realizing the situation, sorrowfully throws herself into teresa's arms. the villagers implore rodolfo to acquit amina of any blame, and he stoutly protests her innocence; but it is of no avail in satisfying elvino, who straightway offers his hand to lisa. in the last act amina is seen stepping from the window of the mill in her sleep. she crosses a frail bridge which yields beneath her weight and threatens to precipitate her upon the wheel below; but she passes it in safety, descends to the ground, and walks into her lover's arms amid the jubilant songs of the villagers. elvino is convinced of her innocence, and they are wedded at once, while the discovery of lisa's handkerchief in rodolfo's room pronounces her the faithless one. such is the simple little pastoral story to which bellini has set some of his most beautiful melodies, the most striking of which are the aria, "sovra il sen," in the third scene of the first act, where amina declares her happiness to teresa; the beautiful aria for barytone in the sixth scene, "vi ravviso," descriptive of rodolfo's delight in revisiting the scenes of his youth; the playful duet between amina and elvino, "mai piu dubbi!" in which she rebukes him for his jealousy; the humorous and very characteristic chorus of the villagers in the tenth scene, "osservate, l'uscio è aperto," as they tiptoe into rodolfo's apartment; the duet, "o mio dolor," in the next scene, in which amina asserts her innocence; the aria for tenor in the third scene of the second act, "tutto e sciolto," in which elvino bemoans his sad lot; and that joyous ecstatic outburst of birdlike melody, "ah! non giunge," which closes the opera. in fact, "sonnambula" is so replete with melodies of the purest and tenderest kind, that it is difficult to specify particular ones. it is exquisitely idyllic throughout, and the music is as quiet, peaceful, simple, and tender as the charming pastoral scenes it illustrates. i puritani. "i puritani di scozia," an opera in two acts, words by count pepoli, was first produced at the théâtre italien, paris, jan. 25, 1835, and in london in the following may, under the title of "i puritani ed i cavalieri." the original cast was as follows:- elvira mme. grisi. arturo sig. rubini. ricardo sig. tamburini. giorgio sig. lablache. this cast was one of unexampled strength, and was long known in europe as the puritani quartet. the story of the opera is laid in england, during the war between charles ii. and his parliament, and the first scene opens in plymouth, then held by the parliamentary forces. the fortress is commanded by lord walton, whose daughter, elvira, is in love with lord arthur talbot, a young cavalier in the king's service. her hand had previously been promised to sir richard forth, of the parliamentary army; but to the great delight of the maiden, sir george walton, brother of the commander, brings her the news that her father has relented, and that arthur will be admitted into the fortress that the nuptials may be celebrated. henrietta, widow of charles i., is at this time a prisoner in the fortress, under sentence of death passed by parliament. arthur discovers her situation, and by concealing her in elvira's bridal veil seeks to effect her escape. on their way out he encounters his rival; but the latter, discovering that the veiled lady is not elvira, allows them to pass. the escape is soon discovered, and elvira, thinking her lover has abandoned her, loses her reason. arthur is proscribed by the parliament and sentenced to death; but sir richard, moved by the appeals of sir george walton, who hopes to restore his niece to reason, promises to use his influence with parliament to save arthur's life should he be captured unarmed. arthur meanwhile manages to have an interview with elvira; and the latter, though still suffering from her mental malady, listens joyfully to his explanation of his sudden flight. their interview is disturbed by a party of puritans who enter and arrest him. he is condemned to die on the spot; but before the sentence can be carried out, a messenger appears with news of the king's defeat and the pardon of arthur. the joyful tidings restore elvira to reason, and the lovers are united. the libretto of "i puritani" is one of the poorest ever furnished to bellini, but the music is some of his best. it is replete with melodies, which are not only fascinating in their original setting, but have long been favorites on the concert-stage. the opera is usually performed in three acts, but was written in two. the prominent numbers of the first act are the pathetic cavatina for ricardo, "ah! per sempre io ti perdei," in which he mourns the loss of elvira; a lovely romanza for tenor ("a te o cara"); a brilliant polacca ("son vergin vezzosa") for elvira, which is one of the delights of all artists; and a concerted finale, brimming over with melody and closing with the stirring anathema chorus, "non casa, non spiaggia." the first grand number in the second act is elvira's mad song, "qui la voce," in which are brought out not only that rare gift for expressing pathos in melody for which bellini is so famous, but the sweetest of themes and most graceful of embellishments. the remaining numbers are elvira's appeal to her lover ("vien, diletto"), the magnificent duet for basses ("suoni la tromba"), known as the "liberty duet," which in sonorousness, majesty, and dramatic intensity hardly has an equal in the whole range of italian opera; a tender and plaintive romanza for tenor ("a una fonte aflitto e solo"); a passionate duet for arthur and elvira ("star teco ognor"); and an adagio, sung by arthur in the finale ("ella è tremante"). bizet. georges bizet was born at paris, oct. 25, 1838, and in an artistic atmosphere, as his father, an excellent teacher, was married to a sister of mme. delsarte, a talented pianist, and his uncle, a musician, was the founder of the famous delsarte system. he studied successively with marmontel and benoist, and subsequently took lessons in composition from halevy, whose daughter he afterwards married. his first work was an operetta of not much consequence, "docteur miracle," written in 1857, and in the same year he took the grand prix de rome. on his return from italy he composed "vasco de gama" and "les pecheurs de perles," neither of which met with much success. in 1867 "la jolie fille de perth" appeared, and in 1872, "djamileh." during the intervals of these larger works he wrote the patrie overture and the interludes to "l'arlesienne," a very poetical score which theodore thomas introduced to this country, and both works were received with enthusiasm. at last he was to appreciate and enjoy a real dramatic success, though it was his last work. "carmen" appeared in 1875, and achieved a magnificent success at the opera comique. it was brought out in march, and in the following june he died of acute heart-disease. he was a very promising composer, and specially excelled in orchestration. during his last few years he was a close student of wagner, whose influence is apparent in this last work of his life. carmen. "carmen," an opera in four acts, words by meilhac and halevy, adapted from prosper merimée's romance of "carmen," was first produced at the opera comique, paris, march 3, 1875, with mme. galli-marie in the title-rôle and mlle. chapuy as michaela. the scene is laid in seville, time 1820. the first act opens in the public square, filled with a troop of soldiers under command of don josé, and loungers who are waiting the approach of the pretty girls who work in the cigar-factory near by, and prettiest and most heartless of them all, carmen. before they appear, michaela, a village girl, enters the square, bearing a message to don josé from his mother, but not finding him departs. the cigar-girls at last pass by on their way to work, and with them carmen, who observes don josé sitting in an indifferent manner and throws him the rose she wears in her bosom. as they disappear, michaela returns and delivers her message. the sight of the gentle girl and the thought of home dispel don josé's sudden passion for carmen. he is about to throw away her rose, when a sudden disturbance is heard in the factory. it is found that carmen has quarrelled with one of the girls and wounded her. she is arrested, and to prevent further mischief her arms are pinioned. she so bewitches the lieutenant, however, that he connives at her escape and succeeds in effecting it, while she is led away to prison by the soldiers. in the second act carmen has returned to her wandering gypsy life, and we find her with her companions in the cabaret of lillas-pastia, singing and dancing. among the new arrivals is escamillo, the victorious bull-fighter of grenada, with whom carmen is at once fascinated. when the inn is closed, escamillo and the soldiers depart, but carmen waits with two of the gypsies, who are smugglers, for the arrival of don josé. they persuade her to induce him to join their band, and when the lieutenant, wild with passion for her, enters the apartment, she prevails upon him to remain in spite of the trumpet-call which summons him to duty. an officer appears and orders him out. he refuses to go, and when the officer attempts to use force carmen summons the gypsies. he is soon overpowered, and don josé escapes to the mountains. the third act opens in the haunt of the smugglers, a wild, rocky, cavernous place. don josé and carmen, who is growing very indifferent to him, are there. as the contrabandists finish their work and gradually leave the scene, escamillo, who has been following carmen, appears. his presence and his declarations as well arouse the jealousy of don josé. they rush at each other for mortal combat, but the smugglers separate them. escamillo bides his time, invites them to the approaching bullfight at seville, and departs. while don josé is upbraiding carmen, the faithful michaela, who has been guided to the spot, begs him to accompany her, as his mother is dying. duty prevails, and he follows her as escamillo's taunting song is heard dying away in the distance. in the last act the drama hurries on to the tragic dénouement. it is a gala-day in seville, for escamillo is to fight. carmen is there in his company, though her gypsy friends have warned her don josé is searching for her. amid great pomp escamillo enters the arena, and carmen is about to follow, when don josé appears and stops her. he appeals to her and tries to awaken the old love. she will not listen, and at last in a fit of wild rage hurls the ring he had given her at his feet. the shouts of the people in the arena announce another victory for escamillo. she cries out with joy. don josé springs at her like a tiger, and stabs her just as escamillo emerges from the contest. carmen is the largest and best-considered of all bizet's works, and one of the best in the modern french repertory. the overture is short but very brilliant. after some characteristic choruses by the street lads, soldiers, and cigar-girls, carmen sings the havanaise ("amor, misterioso angelo"), a quaint song in waltz time, the melody being that of an old spanish song by tradier, called "el aveglito." a serious duet between michaela and don josé ("mia madre io la rivedo") follows, which is very tender in its character. the next striking number is the dance tempo, "presso il bastion de seviglia," a seguidilla sung by carmen while bewitching don josé. in the finale, as she escapes, the havanaise, which is the carmen motive, is heard again. the second-act music is peculiarly spanish in color, particularly that for the ballet. the opening song of the gypsies in the cabaret, to the accompaniment of the castanets ("vezzi e anella scintillar"), is bewitching in its rhythm, and is followed in the next scene by a stirring and very picturesque aria ("toreador attento"), in which escamillo describes the bull-fight. a beautifully written quintet ("abbiamo in vista"), and a strongly dramatic duet, beginning with another fascinating dance tempo ("voglio danzar pel tuo piacer"), and including a beautiful pathetic melody for don josé ("il fior che avevi"), closes the music of the act. the third act contains two very striking numbers, the terzetto of the card-players in the smugglers' haunt ("mischiam! alziam!"), and michaela's aria ("io dico no, non son paurosa"), the most effective and beautiful number in the whole work, and the one which shows most clearly the effect of wagner's influence upon the composer. in the finale of the act the toreador's song is again heard as he disappears in the distance after the quarrel with don josé. the last act is a hurly-burly of the bull-fight, the toreador's taking march, the stormy duet between don josé and carmen, and the tragic dénouement in which the carmen motive is repeated. the color of the whole work is spanish, and the dance tempo is freely used and beautifully worked up with bizet's ingenious and scholarly instrumentation. except in the third act, however, the vocal parts are inferior to the orchestral treatment. boieldieu. françois adrien boieldieu was born dec. 16, 1775, at rouen, france. little is known of his earlier life, except that he studied for a time with broche, the cathedral organist. his first opera, "la fille coupable," appeared in 1793, and was performed at rouen with some success. in 1795 a second opera, "rosalie et myrza," was performed in the same city; after which he went to paris, where he became acquainted with many prominent musicians, among them cherubini. his first paris opera was the "famille suisse" (1797), which had a successful run. several other operas followed, besides some excellent pieces of chamber music which secured him the professorship of the piano in the conservatory. he also took lessons at this time of cherubini in counterpoint, and in 1803 brought out a very successful work, "ma tante aurore." we next hear of him in st. petersburg, as conductor of the imperial opera, where he composed many operas and vaudevilles. he spent eight years in russia, returning to paris in 1811. the next year one of his best operas, "jean de paris," was produced with extraordinary success. though he subsequently wrote many operas, fourteen years elapsed before his next great work, "la dame blanche," appeared. its success was unprecedented. all europe was delighted with it, and it is as fresh to-day as when it was first produced. the remainder of boieldieu's life was sad, owing to operatic failures, pecuniary troubles, and declining health. he died at jarcy, near paris, oct. 8, 1834. la dame blance. "la dame blanche," opera comique in three acts, words by scribe, adapted from walter scott's novels, "the monastery" and "guy mannering," was first produced at the opera comique, dec. 10, 1825, and was first performed in english under the title of "the white maid," at covent garden, london, jan. 2, 1827. the scene of the opera is laid in scotland. the laird of avenel, a zealous partisan of the stuarts, was proscribed after the battle of culloden, and upon the eve of going into exile intrusts gaveston, his steward, with the care of the castle, and of a considerable treasure which is concealed in a statue called the white lady. the traditions affirmed that this lady was the protectress of the avenels. all the clan were believers in the story, and the villagers declared they had often seen her in the neighborhood. gaveston, however, does not share their superstition nor believe in the legend, and some time after the departure of the laird he announces the sale of the castle, hoping to obtain it at a low rate because the villagers will not dare to bid for it through fear of the white lady. the steward is led to do this because he has heard the laird is dead, and knows there is no heir to the property. anna, an orphan girl, who had been befriended by the laird, determines to frustrate gaveston's designs, and appears in the village disguised as the white lady. she also writes to dickson, a farmer, who is indebted to her, to meet her at midnight in the castle of avenel. he is too superstitious to go, and george brown, a young lieutenant who is sharing his hospitality, volunteers in his stead. he encounters the white lady, and learns from her he will shortly meet a young lady who has saved his life by her careful nursing after a battle,--anna meanwhile recognizing george as the person she had saved. when the day of sale comes, dickson is empowered by the farmers to purchase the castle, so that it may not fall into gaveston's hands. george and anna are there; and the former, though he has not a shilling, buys it under instructions from anna. when the time comes for payment, anna produces the treasure which had been concealed in the statue, and, still in the disguise of the white lady, discovers to him the secret of his birth during the exile of his parents. gaveston approaches the spectre and tears off her veil, revealing anna, his ward. moved by the zeal and fidelity of his father's protégée, george offers her his hand, which, after some maidenly scruples, she accepts. the opera is full of beautiful songs, many of them scotch in character. in the first act the opening song of george ("ah, what pleasure a soldier to be!") is very poetical in its sentiment. it also contains the characteristic ballad of the white lady, with choral responses ("where yon trees your eye discovers"), and an exquisitely graceful trio in the finale ("heavens! what do i hear?"). the second act opens with a very plaintive romanza ("poor margaret, spin away!"), sung by margaret, anna's old nurse, at her spinning-wheel, as she thinks of the absent laird, followed in the fifth scene by a beautiful cavatina for tenor ("come, o gentle lady"). in the seventh scene is a charming duet ("from these halls"), and the act closes with an ensemble for seven voices and chorus, which has hardly been excelled in ingenuity of treatment. the third act opens with a charmingly sentimental aria for anna ("with what delight i behold"), followed in the third scene by a stirring chorus of mountaineers, leading up to "the lay ever sung by the clan of avenel,"--the familiar old ballad, "robin adair," which loses a little of its local color under french treatment, but gains an added grace. it is stated on good authority that two of boieldieu's pupils, adolph adam and labarre, assisted him in the work, and that the lovely overture was written in one evening,--boieldieu taking the andante and the two others the remaining movements. though a little old-fashioned in some of its phrasing, the opera still retains its freshness and beautiful sentiment. its popularity is best evinced by the fact that up to june, 1875, it had been given 1340 times at the theatre where it was first produced. boito. arrigo boito was born in 1840, and received his musical education in the conservatory at milan, where he studied for nine years. in 1866 he became a musical critic for several italian papers, and about the same time wrote several poems of more than ordinary merit. both in literature and music his taste was diversified; and he combined the two talents in a remarkable degree in his opera of "mephistopheles," the only work by which he is known to the musical world at large. he studied goethe profoundly; and the notes which he has appended to the score show a most intimate knowledge of the faust legend. his text is in one sense polyglot, as he has made use of portions of marlowe's "doctor faustus," as well as excerpts from blaze de bury, lenau, widmann, and others who have treated the legend. he studied wagner's music also very closely, and to such purpose that after the first performance of this opera at la scala, in 1868, the critics called him the italian wagner, and, in common with the public, condemned both him and his work. after wagner's "lohengrin" had been produced in italy and met with success, boito saw his opportunity to once more bring out his work. it was performed at bologna in 1875, and met with an enthusiastic success. its introduction to this country is largely due to mme. christine nilsson, though mme. marie roze was the first artist to appear in it here. mephistopheles. "mephistopheles," grand opera in a prologue, four acts, and epilogue, words by the composer, was first performed at la scala, milan, in 1868. the "prologue in the heavens" contains five numbers, a prelude, and chorus of the mystic choir; instrumental scherzo, preluding the appearance of mephistopheles; dramatic interlude, in which he engages to entrap faust; a vocal scherzo by the chorus of cherubim; and the final psalmody by the penitents on earth and chorus of spirits. the prologue corresponds to goethe's prologue in the heavens, the heavenly choirs being heard in the background of clouds, accompanied by weird trumpet-peals and flourishes in the orchestra, and closes with a finale of magnificent power. the first act opens in the city of frankfort, amid the noise of the crowd and the clanging of holiday bells. groups of students, burghers, huntsmen, and peasants sing snatches of chorus. a cavalcade escorting the elector passes. faust and wagner enter, and retire as the peasants begin to sing and dance a merry waltz rhythm ("juhé! juhé!"). as it dies away they reappear, faust being continually followed by a gray friar,--mephistopheles in disguise,--whose identity is disclosed by a motive from the prologue. faust shudders at his presence, but wagner laughs away his fears, and the scene then suddenly changes to faust's laboratory, whither he has been followed by the gray friar, who conceals himself in an alcove. faust sings a beautiful aria ("dai campi, dai prati"), and then, placing the bible on a lectern, begins to read. the sight of the book brings mephistopheles out with a shriek; and, questioned by faust, he reveals his true self in a massive and sonorous aria ("son lo spirito"). he throws off his disguise, and appears in the garb of a knight, offering to serve faust on earth if he will serve the powers of darkness in hell. the compact is made, as in the first act of gounod's "faust;" and the curtain falls as faust is about to be whisked away in mephistopheles's cloak. the second act opens in the garden, with faust (under the name of henry), marguerite, mephistopheles, and martha, marguerite's mother, strolling in couples. the music, which is of a very sensuous character, is descriptive of the love-making between faust and marguerite, and the sarcastic passion of mephistopheles for martha. it is mostly in duet form, and closes with a quartet allegretto ("addio, fuggo"), which is very characteristic. the scene then suddenly changes to the celebration of the witches' sabbath on the summits of the brocken, where, amid wild witch choruses, mighty dissonances, and weird incantation music, faust is shown a vision of the sorrow of marguerite. it would be impossible to select special numbers from this closely interwoven music, excepting perhaps the song ("ecco il mondo") which mephistopheles sings when the witches, after their incantation, present him with a globe of glass which he likens to the earth. the third act opens in a prison, where marguerite is awaiting the penalty for murdering her babe. the action is very similar to that of the last act of gounod's "faust." her opening aria ("l' altra notte a fondo al maro") is full of sad longings for the child and insane moanings for mercy. faust appeals to her to fly with him, and they join in a duet of extraordinary sensuous beauty blended with pathos ("lontano, lontano"). mephistopheles urges faust away as the day dawns, and pronounces her doom as she falls and dies, while the angelic chorus resounding in the orchestra announces her salvation. in the fourth act a most abrupt change is made, both in a dramatic and musical sense. the scene changes to the "night of the classical sabbath" on the banks of the peneus, amid temples, statues, flowers, and all the loveliness of nature in greece. the music also changes into the pure, sensuous italian style. faust, still with mephistopheles, pays court to helen of troy, who is accompanied by pantalis. the opening duet for the latter ("la luna immobile") is one of exceeding grace and loveliness, and will always be the most popular number in the work. with the exception of a powerfully dramatic scena, in which helen describes the horrors of the destruction of troy, the music is devoted to the love-making between helen and faust, and bears no relation in form to the rest of the music of the work, being essentially italian in its smooth, flowing, melodious character. at the close of the classical sabbath another abrupt change is made, to the death-scene of faust, contained in an epilogue. it opens in his laboratory, where he is reflecting upon the events of his unsatisfactory life, and contemplating a happier existence in heaven. mephistopheles is still by his side as the tempter, offers him his cloak, and urges him to fly again. the heavenly trumpets which rang through the prologue are again heard, and the celestial choirs are singing. enraged, mephistopheles summons the sirens, who lure faust with all their charms. faust seizes the sacred volume, and declares that he relies upon its word for salvation. he prays for help against the demon. his prayer is answered; and as he dies a shower of roses falls upon his body. the tempter disappears, and the finale of the prologue, repeated, announces faust has died in salvation. the opera as a whole is episodical in its dramatic construction, and the music is a mixture of two styles,--the wagnerian and the conventional italian; but its orchestration is very bold and independent in character, and the voice-parts are very striking in their adaptation to the dramatic requirements. delibes. leo delibes, the french composer, was born at st. germain du val in 1836, and was graduated at the paris conservatory, where he reached high distinction. his first work, written in 1855, was an operetta entitled "deux sous de carbon;" but he did not make his mark until his "maitre griffard" was produced at the theatre lyrique in 1857. in 1865 he was appointed chorus-master at the opera, and there his real career began. his first great triumph was in ballet-music, which has ever since been his specialty. his first ballet, "la source," was produced at the opera, nov. 12, 1865, and delighted all paris. it was followed by a divertisement for the revival of adam's "corsaire" (1867), the ballet "coppelia" (1870), a three-act opera "le roi l'a dit" (1873), and the exquisite ballet in three acts and five tableaux, "sylvia" (1876), with which theodore thomas has made american audiences familiar. his opera "lakme" was written in 1879. lakme. the romantic opera, "lakme," written in 1879, was first performed in this country by the american opera company in 1886, mme. l'allemand taking the title-rôle. the principal characters are lakme, daughter of nilakantha, an indian priest, gerald and frederick, officers of the british army, ellen and rose, daughters of the viceroy, and mrs. benson, governess. the scene is laid in india. nilakantha cherishes a fond hatred of all foreigners. the two english officers, gerald and frederick, accompanied by a bevy of ladies, intrude upon his sacred grounds. they stroll about and gradually retire, but gerald remains to sketch some jewels, which lakme has left upon a shrine while she goes flower-gathering with her slave mallika, evidently also to await developments when she returns. lakme soon comes sailing in on her boat, and there is a desperate case of love at first sight. their demonstrations of affection are soon interrupted by the appearance of the priest, whose anger gerald escapes by fleeing, under cover of a convenient thunder-storm. in the next act lakme and her father appear in the public market-place, disguised as penitents. he compels his daughter to sing, hoping that her face and voice will induce her lover to disclose himself. the ruse proves successful. nilakantha waits his opportunity, and stealing upon his enemy stabs him in the back and makes good his escape. in the third act we find gerald in a delightful jungle, where lakme has in some manner managed to conceal him, and where she is carefully nursing him with the hope of permanently retaining his love. she saves his life; but just at this juncture, and while she is absent to obtain a draught of the water which, according to the indian legend, will make earthly love eternal, gerald hears the music of his regiment, and frederick appears and urges him back to duty. his allegiance to his queen, and possibly the remembrance of his engagement to a young english girl, prove stronger than his love for lakme. the latter returns, discovers his faithlessness, gathers some poisonous flowers, whose juices she drinks, and dies in gerald's arms just as the furious father appears. as one victim is sufficient to appease the anger of nilakantha's gods, gerald is allowed to go unharmed. the first act opens with a chorus of hindoos, oriental in its character, followed by a duet between lakme and her father; the scene closing with a sacred chant. the hindoos gone, there is a charming oriental duet ("'neath yon dome where jasmines with the roses are blooming") between lakme and her slave, which is one of the gems of the opera. the english then appear and have a long, talky scene, relieved by a pretty song for frederick ("i would not give a judgment so absurd"), and another for gerald ("cheating fancy coming to mislead me"). as lakme enters, gerald conceals himself. she lays her flowers at the base of the shrine and sings a restless love-song ("why love i thus to stray?"). gerald discovers himself, and after a colloquy sings his ardent love-song ("the god of truth so glowing"), and the act closes with nilakantha's threats. the second act opens in the market square, lively with the choruses of hindoos, chinamen, fruit-venders, and sailors, and later on with the adventures of the english party in the crowd. nilakantha appears and addresses his daughter in a very pathetic aria ("lakme, thy soft looks are over-clouded"). soon follows lakme's bell-song ("where strays the hindoo maiden?"), a brilliant and highly embellished aria with tinkling accompaniment, which will always be a favorite. the recognition follows; and the remaining numbers of importance are an impassioned song by gerald ("ah! then 't is slumbering love"), with a mysterious response by lakme ("in the forest near at hand"). a ballet, followed by the stabbing of gerald, closes the act. in the third act the action hastens to the tragic denouement. it opens with a beautiful crooning song by lakme ("'neath the dome of moon and star") as she watches her sleeping lover. the remaining numbers of interest are gerald's song ("tho' speechless i, my heart remembers"), followed by a pretty three-part chorus in the distance and lakme's dying measures, "to me the fairest dream thou 'st given," and "farewell, the dream is over." though the opera is monotonous from sameness of color and lack of dramatic interest, there are many numbers which leave a charming impression by their grace, refinement, and genuine poetical effect. donizetti. gaetano donizetti was born at bergamo, italy, sept. 25, 1798. he studied music both at bologna and naples, and then entered the army rather than subject himself to the caprice of his father, who was determined that he should devote himself to church music. while his regiment was at naples he wrote his first opera, "enrico di borgogna" (1818), which was soon followed by a second, "il falegname de livonia." the success of the latter was so great that it not only freed him from military service but gained him the honor of being crowned. the first opera which spread his reputation through europe was "anna bolena," produced at milan in 1830, and written for pasta and rubini. two years afterwards, "l' elisir d' amore" appeared, which he is said to have written in fifteen days. he wrote with great facility. "il furioso," "parisina," "torquato tasso," "lucrezia borgia," and "gemma di vergi" rapidly followed one another. in 1835 he brought out "marino faliero," but its success was small. ample compensation was made, however, when in the same year "lucia" appeared and was received with acclamations of delight. he was invited to paris as the successor of rossini, and wrote his "marino faliero" for the theatre des italiens. in 1840 he revisited paris and produced "il poliuto," "la fille du regiment," and "la favorita." leaving paris he visited rome, milan, and vienna, bringing out "linda di chamouni" in the latter city. returning to paris again, he produced "don pasquale" at the théâtre des italiens and "don sebastien" at the académie, the latter proving a failure. his last opera, "catarina comaro," was brought out at naples in 1844. this work also was a failure. it was evident that his capacity for work was over. he grew sad and melancholy, and during the last three years of his life was attacked by fits of abstraction which gradually intensified and ended in insanity and physical paralysis. he died at bergamo, april 8, 1848. the daughter of the regiment. "the daughter of the regiment" ("la fille du regiment") opera comique in two acts, words by bayard and st. georges, was first produced at the opera comique, paris, feb. 11, 1840, with mme. anna thillon in the rôle of marie. its first performance in english was at the surrey theatre, london, dec. 21, 1847, under the title of "the daughter of the regiment," in which form it is best known in this country. in 1847 it was performed as an italian opera in london, with added recitatives, and with jenny lind in the leading part. the music of the opera is light and sparkling, the principal interest centring in the charming nature of the story and its humorous situations, which afford capital opportunities for comedy acting. the scene is laid in the tyrol during its occupation by the french. marie, the heroine, and the vivandière of the twenty-first regiment of napoleon's army, was adopted as the daughter of the regiment, because she was found on the field, after a battle, by sergeant sulpice. on her person was affixed a letter written by her father to the marchioness of berkenfeld, which has been carefully preserved by the sergeant. at the beginning of the opera the little waif has grown into a sprightly young woman, full of mischief and spirit, as is shown by her opening song ("the camp was my birthplace"), in which she tells the story of her life, and by the duet with sulpice, known the world over as "the rataplan," which is of a very animated, stirring, and martial character, to the accompaniment of rattling drums and sonorous brasses. she is the special admiration of tony, a tyrolean peasant, who has saved her from falling over a precipice. the soldiers of the regiment are profuse in their gratitude to her deliverer, and celebrate her rescue with ample potations, during which marie sings the song of the regiment ("all men confess it"). poor tony, however, who was found strolling in the camp, is placed under arrest as a spy, though he succeeds in obtaining an interview with marie and declares his love for her. the declaration is followed by a charming duet ("no longer can i doubt it"). tony manages to clear up his record, and the soldiers decide that he may have marie's hand if he will consent to join them. he blithely accepts the condition and dons the french cockade. everything seems auspicious, when suddenly the marchioness of berkenfeld appears and dashes tony's hopes to the ground. the sergeant, as in honor bound, delivers the letter he has been preserving. after reading it she claims marie as her niece, and demands that the regiment shall give up its daughter, while tony is incontinently dismissed as an unsuitable person to be connected in any capacity with her noble family. marie sings a touching adieu to her comrades ("farewell, a long farewell"), and the act closes with smothered imprecations on the marchioness by the soldiers, and protestations of undying love by tony. the second act opens in the castle of berkenfeld, where marie is duly installed, though she does not take very kindly to her change of surroundings. the old sergeant is with her. grand company is expected, and the marchioness desires marie to rehearse a romance ("the light of early days was breaking"), which she is to sing to them. before she finishes it she and the sergeant break out into the rollicking rataplan and go through with the military evolutions, to the horror of the marchioness. while regret for the absent tony keeps her in a sad mood, she is suddenly cheered up by the sound of drums and fifes, announcing the approach of soldiers. they are the gallant twenty-first, with tony, now a colonel, at their head. he applies once more for marie's hand. the soldiers also put in a spirited choral appeal ("we have come, our child to free"). the marchioness again refuses. tony proposes an elopement, to which marie, in resentment at her aunt's cruelty, consents. to thwart their plans, the marchioness reveals to marie that early in life she had been secretly married to an officer of lower family position than her own, and that this officer was marie's father. unable to dispute the wishes of her mother, she renounces tony in an agony of grief. at last marie's sorrow arouses old associations in the mind of the marchioness, and she consents to the union of tony and marie. while the music of the opera is light, it is none the less very attractive, and the work is nearly always popular when performed by good artists, owing to the comedy strength of the three leading parts, marie, tony, and the sergeant. the rôle of the heroine, small as it is, has always been a favorite one with such great artists as jenny lind, patti, sontag, and albani, while in this country miss kellogg and mrs. richings-bernard made great successes in the part. the latter singer, indeed, and her father, whose personation of the sergeant was very remarkable, were among the first to perform the work in the united states. la favorita. "la favorita," an opera in four acts, words by royer and waëtz, the subject taken from the french drama, "le comte de commingues," was first produced at the académie, paris, dec. 2, 1840, with mme. stolz as leonora, duprez as fernando, and baroelhst as balthasar. its success in england, where it was first produced feb. 16, 1847, was made by grisi and mario. the scene of the opera is laid in spain, and the first act opens in the convent of st. james, of compostella, where the young novice, fernando, is about to take monastic vows. before the rites take place he is seized with a sudden passion for leonora, a beautiful maiden who has been worshipping in the cloisters. he confesses his love to balthasar, the superior, who orders him to leave the convent and go out into the world. leonora, meanwhile, is beloved by alphonso, king of castile, who has provided her a secret retreat on the island of st. leon. though threatened by the pontiff with excommunication, he has resolved to repudiate his queen, in order that he may carry out his intention of marrying the beautiful leonora. to her asylum a bevy of maidens conducts fernando. he declares his passion for her and finds it reciprocated. he urges her to fly with him, but she declares it impossible, and giving him a commission in the army signed by the king, urges him to go to the wars and win honors for her sake. in the second act balthasar, in the name of the pontiff, visits their retreat and pronounces the papal anathema upon the guilty pair. the same curse is threatened to all the attendants unless leonora is driven from the king, and the act closes with their vengeful menaces. in the third act fernando returns victorious from the war with the moors. already beginning to fear the result of the papal malediction, and having learned of leonora's passion for the victor, alphonso heaps rewards upon him, even to the extent of giving him leonora's hand. fernando, who is ignorant of her past relations to the king, eagerly accepts the proffer; but leonora, in despair, sends her attendant, inez, to inform him of the real nature of the situation and implore his forgiveness. the king intercepts her, and the marriage takes place at once, fernando not discovering leonora's shame until it is revealed by the courtiers, who avoid him. he flies from the world to the convent once more for shelter and consolation, followed by leonora, who dies in his arms after she has obtained forgiveness. the music of the work is very dramatic in its character, some of the finales being the strongest donizetti has written. in the first act there is a beautifully melodious aria ("una vergine"), in which fernando describes to balthasar the vision of leonora which had appeared to him at his orisons, and a very tender duet ("deh, vanne! deh, parti") between fernando and leonora, in which they sorrowfully part from each other. in the second act the king has a very passionate aria, where he curses his courtiers for leaguing against him at rome, followed by a very dramatic duet with leonora ("ah! l'alto ardor"). the third act contains the beautiful aria, "o mio fernando!" which is a favorite with all contraltos. it is remarkable for its warmth and richness, as well as its dramatic spirit, and the act closes with a concerted finale of splendid power, in which fernando breaks his sword, and once more balthasar anathematizes the king. the fourth act is the most beautiful of all in its music and the most powerful in dramatic effect. the chorus of monks in the first scene ("scaviam l'asilo") is remarkable for its religious character and solemnity. in the third scene occurs one of the tenderest and loveliest romanzas ever written ("spirto gentil"), which donizetti transferred to this work from his opera, "le duc d'albe," which had not been performed, and the libretto of which was originally written by scribe for rossini. the closing duet between fernando and leonora is full of pathos and beauty, and forms a fitting close to an act which, in one sense at least, is an inspiration, as the whole act was composed in four hours,--a proof of the marvellous ease and facility with which donizetti wrote. don pasquale. "don pasquale," an opera buffa in three acts, was first produced at the théâtre des italiens in paris, jan. 4, 1843, with the following extraordinary cast: norina mme. grisi. ernesto sig. mario. dr. malatesta sig. tamburini. don pasquale sig. lablache. the scene of this brilliant and gay little opera is laid in rome. don pasquale is in a rage with ernesto, his nephew, because he will not marry to suit him. dr. malatesta, his friend and physician, who is also very much attached to the nephew, contrives a plot in the latter's interest. he visits the don, and urges him to marry a lady, pretending that she is his sister, though in reality she is norina, with whom ernesto is in love. he then calls upon norina, and lets her into the secret of the plot, and instructs her how to play her part. she is to consent to the marriage contract, and then so harass the don that he will not only be glad to get rid of her, but will give his consent to her marriage with ernesto. the second act opens in don pasquale's house, where ernesto is bewailing his fate. the don enters, magnificently dressed, and ready for the marriage. norina appears with malatesta, and feigns reluctance to enter into the contract; but when the notary arrives she consents to sign. no sooner, however, has she signed it than she drops her assumed modesty. ernesto, who is present, is bewildered at the condition of affairs, but is kept quiet by a sign from the doctor. norina refuses all the don's amatory demonstrations, and declares ernesto shall be her escort. she summons the servants, and lays out a scheme of housekeeping so extravagant that the don is enraged, and declares he will not pay the bills. she insists he shall, for she is now master of the house. in the third act we find norina entertaining milliners and modistes. don pasquale enters, and learning that she is going to the theatre forbids it, which leads to a quarrel, during which norina boxes his ears. as she leaves the room she drops a letter, the reading of which adds the pangs of jealousy to his other troubles. the doctor at this juncture happens in and condoles with him. the don insists that norina shall quit his house at once. in the next scene he taxes her with having a lover concealed in the house, and orders her to leave. the doctor counsels him to let his nephew marry norina; and in the course of explanations the don discovers that the doctor's sister and norina are one and the same person, and that the marriage was a sham. he is only too glad of an escape to quarrel with the doctor for his plot, and the young couple are speedily united, and have the old man's blessing. the charm of the opera lies in its comic situations, and the gay, bright music with which they are illustrated. it is replete with humor and spirit, and flows along in such a bright stream that it is almost impossible to cull out special numbers, though it contains two duets and a quartet which are of more than ordinary beauty, and the exquisite serenade in the last act, "com'e gentil," which has been heard on almost every concert-stage of the world, and still holds its place in universal popular esteem. for brilliant gayety it stands in the front rank of all comic operas, though donizetti was but three weeks in writing it. it is said that when it was in rehearsal its fate was uncertain. the orchestra and singers received it very coldly; but when the rehearsal was over, donizetti merely shrugged his shoulders and remarked to his friend, m. dormoy, the publisher: "let them alone; they know nothing about it. i know what is the matter with 'don pasquale.' come with me." they went to the composer's house. rummaging among a pile of manuscripts, donizetti pulled out a song. "this is what 'don pasquale' wants," he said. "take it to mario and tell him to learn it at once." mario obeyed, and when the opera was performed sang it to the accompaniment of a tambourine, which lablache played behind the scenes. the opera was a success at once, and no song has ever been more popular. in strange contrast with the gay humor of "don pasquale," it may be stated that in the same year donizetti wrote the mournful "don sebastian," which has been described as "a funeral in five acts." crowest, in his "anecdotes," declares that the serenade is suggestive of highland music, and that many of his other operas are scottish in color. he accounts for this upon the theory that the composer was of scotch descent, his grandfather having been a native of perthshire, by the name of izett, and that his father, who married an italian lady, was donald izett. the change from donald izett to donizetti was an easy one. the story, however, is of doubtful authenticity. lucia di lammermoor. "lucia di lammermoor," an opera in three acts, words by cammarano, was first produced at naples in 1835, with mme. persiani and sig. duprez, for whom the work was written, in the principal rôles of lucia and edgardo. its first presentation at paris was aug. 10, 1839; in london, april 5, 1838; and in english, at the princess theatre, london, jan. 19, 1843. the subject of the opera is taken from sir walter scott's novel, "the bride of lammermoor," and the scene is laid in scotland, time, about 1669. sir henry ashton, of lammermoor, brother of lucy, the heroine, has arranged a marriage between her and lord arthur bucklaw, in order to recover the fortune which he has dissipated, and to save himself from political peril he has incurred by his participation in movements against the reigning dynasty. sir edgar ravenswood, with whom he is at enmity, is deeply attached to lucy, who reciprocates his love, and on the eve of his departure on an embassy to france pledges herself to him. during his absence edgar's letters are intercepted by her brother, who hints to her of his infidelity, and finally shows her a forged paper which she accepts as the proof that he is untrue. overcome with grief at her lover's supposed unfaithfulness, and yielding to the pressure of her brother's necessities, she at last consents to her union with lord arthur. the marriage contract is signed with great ceremony, and just as she has placed her name to the fatal paper, edgar suddenly appears. learning from lucy what she has done, he tramples the contract under foot, hurls an imprecation upon the house of lammermoor, and bursts out of the room in a terrible rage. sir henry follows him, and a fierce quarrel ensues, which ends in a challenge. meanwhile, at night, after the newly wedded couple have retired, a noise is heard in their apartment. the attendants rush in and find lord arthur dying from wounds inflicted by lucy, whose grief has made her insane. when she returns to reason, the thought of what she has done and the horror of her situation overcome her, and shortly death puts an end to her wretchedness. ignorant of her fate, edgar goes to the churchyard of ravenswood, which has been selected as the rendezvous for the duel with sir henry. while impatiently waiting his appearance, the bell of the castle tolls, and some of the attendants accosting him bring the news of her death. the despairing lover kills himself among the graves of his ancestors, and the sombre story ends. the popular verdict has stamped "lucia" as donizetti's masterpiece, and if the consensus of musicians could be obtained, it would unquestionably confirm the verdict. it contains incomparably the grandest of his arias for tenor, the tomb song in the last act, and one of the finest dramatic concerted numbers, the sextet in the second act, that can be found in any italian opera. like the quartet in "rigoletto," it stands out in such bold relief, and is so thoroughly original and spontaneous, that it may be classed as an inspiration. the music throughout is of the most sombre character. it does not contain a joyous phrase. and yet it can never be charged with monotony. every aria, though its tone is serious and more often melancholy, has its own characteristics, and the climaxes are worked up with great power. in the first act, for instance, the contrasts are very marked between henry's aria ("cruda, funesta smania"), the chorus of hunters ("come vinti da stanchezza"), henry's second aria ("la pietade in suo favore"), in which he threatens vengeance upon edgar, the dramatic and beautifully written arias for lucy, "regnava nel silenzio" and "quando rapita in estasi," and the passionate farewell duet between lucy and edgar, which is the very ecstasy of commingled love and sorrow. the second act contains a powerful duet ("le tradirmi tu potrai") between lucy and henry; but the musical interest of the act centres in the great sextet, "chi mi frena," which ensues when edgar makes his unexpected appearance upon the scene of the marriage contract. for beauty, power, richness of melody and dramatic expression, few concerted numbers by any composer can rival it. the last act also contains two numbers which are always the delight of great artists,--the mad song of lucy, "oh, gioja che si senti," and the magnificent tomb scena, "tomba degl'avi miei," which affords even the most accomplished tenor ample scope for his highest powers. l'elisir d'amore. "l'elisir d'amore," an opera buffa in two acts, words by romani, was first produced in milan, in 1832, and in english, at drury lane, in 1839, as "the love spell." the heroine of this graceful little opera is adina, a capricious country girl, who is loved by nemorino, a young farmer, whose uncle lies at the point of death, and by belcore, a sergeant, whose troops are billeted upon the neighboring village. while adina keeps both these suitors in suspense, dr. dulcamara, a travelling quack, arrives at the village in great state to vend his nostrums. nemorino applies to him for a bottle of the elixir of love,--with the magical properties of which he has become acquainted in a romance adina has been reading that very morning. the mountebank, of course, has no such liquid, but he passes off on the simple peasant a bottle of wine, and assures him that if he drinks of it he can command the love of any one on the morrow. to thoroughly test its efficacy, nemorino drinks the whole of it. when he encounters adina he is half tipsy, and accosts her in such disrespectful style that she becomes enraged, and determines to give her hand to the sergeant, and promises to marry him in a week. meanwhile an order comes for the departure of the sergeant's detachment, and he begs her to marry him the same day. she gives her consent, and the second act opens with the assembling of the villagers to witness the signing of the marriage contract. while the sergeant, adina, and the notary have retired to sign and witness the contract, nemorino enters in despair, and finding dulcamara enjoying a repast, he implores him to give him some charm that will make adina love him at once. having no money, the quack refuses to assist him, and nemorino is again plunged into despair. at this juncture the sergeant enters, not in the best of humor, for adina has declined to sign the contract until evening. discovering that nemorino wants money, he urges him to enlist. the bonus of twenty crowns is a temptation. nemorino enlists, takes the money, hurries to the quack, and obtains a second bottle of the elixir, which is much more powerful than the first. in the next scene the girls of the village have discovered that nemorino's uncle has died and left him all the property, though nemorino himself has not heard of it. they crowd about him, trying to attract his attention with their charms and blandishments. he attributes his sudden popularity to the effects of the elixir, and even the quack is somewhat bewildered at the remarkable change. nemorino now determines to pay adina off in kind, and at last rouses her jealousy. meanwhile dulcamara acquaints her with the effects of the elixir and advises her to try some of it, and during the interview inadvertently informs her of nemorino's attachment for her. struck with his devotion, she repays the sergeant herself, announces her change of mind, and bestows her hand upon the faithful nemorino. like "don pasquale," the opera is exceedingly graceful in its construction, and very bright and gay in its musical effects, particularly in the duets, of which there are two,--one between dulcamara and nemorino in the first act ("obbligato, ah! si obbligato"), and one between dulcamara and adina in the second act ("quanto amore! ed io spietata"), which are charming in their spirit and humor. there is also an admirable buffo song in the first act, beginning with the recitative, "udite, udite, o rustici," in which the doctor describes his wares to the rustics, and a beautiful romanza in the second act for tenor ("una furtiva lagrima"), which is of world-wide popularity, and bears the same relation to the general setting of the work that the serenade does to "don pasquale." lucrezia borgia. "lucrezia borgia," an opera in three acts, words by romani, was first produced at la scala, milan, in 1834. the subject was taken from victor hugo's tragedy of the same name, and its text was freely adapted by romani. when it was produced in paris, in 1840, victor hugo took steps to suppress any further representations. the libretto was then rewritten, under the title of "la rinegata," the italian characters were changed to turks, and in this mutilated form the performances were resumed. it was in this opera that signor mario made his english début, in 1839, with great success. its first presentation in english was at london, dec. 30, 1843. the history of lucrezia borgia, daughter of rodrigo borgia, afterwards pope alexander vi., and sister of cæsar borgia, is too well known to need recapitulation. it is necessary to the comprehension of the story of the opera, however, to state that she had an illegitimate son, named genarro, who was left when an infant with a fisherman, but who subsequently entered the venetian army and rose to an eminent rank. the opera opens with a brilliant festival in the gardens of the barberigo palace, which is attended by genarro, orsini, and others, all of them cordial haters of the detestable borgias. while they are telling tales of lucrezia's cruel deeds, genarro lies down and goes to sleep, and orsini in a spirited aria ("nelle fatal di rimini") relates to his companions the story of genarro's gallantry at the battle of rimini. as they leave, lucrezia approaches, masked, in a gondola, and is received by gubetta, with whom she has come to venice on some secret errand. she discovers genarro asleep, and expresses her delight at his beauty, and at the same time her maternal love, in a brilliant aria ("com'e bello"). as she kisses his hand he wakes, and in the duet which follows tells her the story of his early life in an exquisite romanza ("di pescatore ignobile"), which is one of the most familiar numbers in italian opera. he begs her to reveal her name, but she refuses. as he continues to implore her, his friends return and denounce her to genarro as the hated borgia, in a concerted number ("chi siam noi sol chiarirla") of great dramatic power, which closes the first act. the second act opens in the public square of ferrara, with the palace of the borgias on the right. the duke alphonso, lucrezia's husband, who has been observant of lucrezia's attachment to genarro, vows vengeance in a passionate aria ("vieni la mia vendetta"). in the next scene genarro, who has been taunted by his friends with being a victim of lucrezia's fascinations, recklessly rushes up to the palace door and strikes off the first letter of her name with his dagger. when lucrezia discovers the insult, she demands of the duke that the guilty person shall be arrested and condemned to death. the duke has already seized genarro, and agrees to carry out his wife's demands. when the prisoner is brought before them for judgment, she is horror-stricken to find he is her son. she implores his life, but the infuriated duke retaliates upon her with the declaration that she is his paramour. the duet between them ("o! a te bada"), in which lucrezia passes from humble entreaties to rage and menace, is a fine instance of donizetti's dramatic power. the duke, however, is resolute in his determination, and will only allow her to choose the mode of genarro's death. she selects the borgia wine, which is poisoned. genarro is called in, and after a trio ("le ti tradisce"), which is one of the strongest numbers in the opera, he is given the fatal draught under the pretence of a farewell greeting from the duke, who then leaves mother and son together. she gives him an antidote, and he is thus saved from the fate which the duke had intended for him. the last act opens at a banquet in the palace of the princess negroni, which is attended by genarro and his friends, lucrezia, meanwhile, supposing that he has gone to venice. during the repast she has managed to poison their wine. in the midst of the gay revel orsini sings the popular drinking-song, "il segreto per esser felici," which is now familiar the world over. the festivities are interrupted, however, by the appearance of lucrezia, who reveals herself with the taunting declaration: "yes, i am borgia. a mournful dance ye gave me in venice, and i return ye a supper in ferrara." she then announces that they are poisoned. the music is changed with great skill from the wild revelry of drinking-songs to the sombre strains of approaching death. five coffins are shown them, when genarro suddenly reveals himself to lucrezia and asks for the sixth. the horror-stricken woman again perceives that her son has been poisoned by her own hand. as his companions leave the apartment she implores genarro to take the antidote once more, and at last reveals herself as his mother. he steadily refuses to save himself, however, since his companions have to die, and expires in her arms just as the duke and his followers enter. she discloses genarro's relationship, and then dies with the despairing cry on her lips that heaven has pronounced its final judgment upon her. among all of donizetti's operas, not one, unless it be "lucia," is more popular than "lucrezia borgia," which may be attributed to the fact that while the story itself is one of fascinating dramatic interest, the musical numbers are simple, beautiful, and effective. flotow. friedrich von flotow was born april 27, 1812, in the duchy of mecklenberg-schwerin, and in 1827 went to paris, where he studied music under reicha. his first work was "stradella," a mere sketch in its original form, which was brought out at the palais royal in 1837; but his first public success was made in 1839, with his opera, "le naufrage de la méduse," which had a run, and was afterwards produced in germany under the title of "die matrosen." "l'esclave de camoens" appeared in paris in 1843; "stradella," rewritten as an opera, in hamburg (1844); "l'âme en peine," in paris (1846); "martha," in vienna (1847). the works of his later period, which never equalled his earlier ones in popularity, were "die grossfürstin" (1850); "indra" (1853); "rubezahl" (1854); "hilda" (1855); "der müller von meran" (1856); "la veuve grapin" (1859); "l'ombre" (1869); "naïda" (1873); "il flor d'harlem" (1876); and "enchanteresse" (1878). of these later works, "l'ombre" was the most successful, and was received with favor in france, italy, spain, and england, in which latter country it was performed under the title of "the phantom." in 1856 he received the appointment of intendant of the theatre of the grand duke of mecklenberg, and he entered upon his duties with high hopes of making the theatre exercise the same influence upon music in germany as the weimar stage; but court intrigues and rivalries of artists so disgusted him that he resigned in 1863 and went to paris, and a few years later to vienna, where he took up his abode. outside of a few of his operas his works are little known, though he composed a "fackeltanz," some incidental music to the "winter's tale" of shakspeare, and several overtures, songs, and chamber-pieces. an interesting episode in his career occurred in 1838, when he brought out an opera in three acts, the "duc de guise," at the théâtre de la renaissance, the libretto based upon dumas's "henri iii." the performance was organized by the princess czartoryska, for the benefit of the poles. mme. de lagrange made her début in a leading part, and the parts of the choristers were filled by duchesses and princesses of the faubourg st. germain, upon whose persons two million dollars worth of diamonds were blazing,--sufficient evidence that the performance was brilliant in at least one sense. he died at wiesbaden, jan. 24, 1883. martha. "martha," an opera in three acts, libretto by st. georges, translated into german by friedrich, was first produced at vienna, nov. 25, 1847, with mlle. anna zerr in the title-rôle, herr ander as lionel, and carl formes as plunkett. it was first produced in english and italian at london in 1858, and in french at paris in 1865. the history of its origin is interesting. m. de st. georges, at the request of the manager of the paris grand opera, wrote in 1842 the libretto to a ballet entitled "lady henrietta, or the servant of greenwich," the subject being suggested to him by the adventures of two ladies of his acquaintance who had mingled with servants at a fair. the music was confided to three composers. the first act was given to herr von flotow, the second to herr burgmuller, and the third to m. deldeves. the ballet had such a remarkable success, and flotow was so delighted with the plot, that he entreated st. georges to rewrite it for an opera. the latter consented, and the result of their collaboration was the appearance of one of the most popular operas which has ever been placed upon the stage. the scene of the opera is laid at richmond, england, and the time is during the reign of queen anne, though the italian version places it in the fifteenth century, and the french in the nineteenth. lady henrietta, an attendant upon the queen, tired of the amusements of court life, contrives a plan to visit the servants' fair at richmond disguised as a servant-girl, and accompanied by nancy, her maid, and sir tristan, her somewhat aged cousin, who is also her devoted admirer. in the first three scenes their plans are laid much to the disgust of sir tristan, who is to pass as john, while his fair cousin masquerades as martha. the duet between the ladies ("of the knights so brave and charming"), and the trio with tristan, are in dance time, and full of animation. the fourth scene opens in the market-place at richmond, where the people are gathering to the fair. thither also resort plunkett, a farmer, and lionel, his brother by adoption, whose parentage is unknown, and who has no souvenir of his father except a ring which has been left for him, with instructions to present it to the queen if he ever finds himself in trouble. lionel tells his story in an aria ("lost, proscribed, an humble stranger") which is universally popular, and the melody of which has been set to various words. they have come to the fair to procure help for their farm. while the sheriff, according to law, is binding the girls for a year's service, plunkett and lionel meet martha and nancy, and are so delighted with their appearance that they tender them the customary bonus, or "earnest-money," which secures them. too late for escape, they find that they are actually engaged, and they are obliged to drive away with the young farmers, leaving sir tristan in despair. the second act opens in the farm-house, where the four have arrived. the farmers inquire their names, and seek to find out what they can do, testing them first at the spinning-wheel. the spinning quartet ("when the foot the wheel turns lightly") is very gay and full of humor, and is one of the most delightful concerted numbers in the opera. the brothers soon find that their new servants are useless, but they are so pleased with them that they decide to keep them. at last nancy, in a pet, kicks her wheel over and runs off, followed by plunkett. lionel, left alone with martha, grows very tender to the new servant, and at last finds himself violently in love. he snatches a rose from her bosom, and refuses to return it unless she will consent to sing. she replies with the familiar ballad, "'tis the last rose of summer," which flotow has interpolated in this scene, and in the performance of which he makes a charming effect by introducing the tenor in the close. her singing only makes him the more desperately enamoured, and he asks her to be his wife on the spot, only to find himself the victim of martha's sport, although his devotion and sincerity have made a deep impression upon her. plunkett and nancy at last return, and another charming quartet follows ("midnight sounds"), better known as the "good night quartet." the two brothers retire, but martha and nancy, aided by tristan, who has followed them and discovered their whereabouts, make good their escape. the next scene opens in the woods, where several farmers are drinking and carousing, among them plunkett, who sings a rollicking drinking-song ("i want to ask you"). their sport is interrupted by a hunting-party, composed of the queen and her court ladies. plunkett and lionel recognize their fugitive servants among them, though the ladies disclaim all knowledge of them. plunkett attempts to seize nancy, but the huntresses attack him and chase him away, leaving lionel and lady henrietta together again. the scene contains two of the most beautiful numbers in the opera,--the tenor solo, "like a dream bright and fair" ("m' appari" in the italian version), and a romance for soprano ("here in deepest forest shadows"); and the act closes with a beautiful concerted finale, quintet and chorus, which is worked up with great power. in this finale the despairing lionel bethinks him of his ring. he gives it to plunkett, desiring him to present it to the queen. by means of the jewel it is discovered that he is the only son of the late earl of derby, and she orders his estates, of which he has been unjustly deprived, to be restored to him. the last act is not important in a musical sense, for the climax is attained in the previous finale. the dramatic dénouement is soon reached, and the lady henrietta, who has for some time been seriously in love with lionel, is at last united to him; and it is almost needless to add that the fortunes of plunkett and nancy are also joined. the charm of "martha" is its liveliness in action and tunefulness in music. though not a great opera from a musical point of view, it is one of the most popular in the modern repertory, and though few others have been performed so many times, it still retains that popularity. its melodies, though sung in every country of the civilized world by amateurs and professional artists, have not yet lost their charms. stradella. "stradella," a romantic opera in three acts, was first written as a lyric drama and produced at the palais royal theatre, paris, in 1837, and was subsequently rewritten in its present form under the title of "alessandro stradella" and produced at hamburg, dec. 30, 1844. the english version, which was somewhat altered by bunn, was produced in london, june 6, 1846. the story follows the historic narrative of stradella, the italian musician, except in the dénouement. stradella woos and wins leonora, the fair ward of bassi, a rich venetian nobleman, with whom the latter is himself in love. they fly to rome and are married. bassi hires two bravoes, barbarino and malvolio, to follow them and kill stradella. they track him to his house, and while the bridal party are absent enter and conceal themselves, bassi being with them. upon this occasion, however, they do not wait to accomplish their purpose. subsequently they gain admission again in the guise of pilgrims, and are hospitably received by stradella. in the next scene stradella, leonora, and the two bravoes are together in the same apartment, singing the praises of their native italy. during their laudations the chorus of a band of pilgrims on their way to the shrine of the virgin is heard, and leonora and stradella go out to greet them. the bravoes have been so moved by stradella's singing that they hesitate in their purpose. bassi enters and upbraids them, and finally, by the proffer of a still larger sum, induces them to consent to carry out his design. they conceal themselves. stradella returns and rehearses a hymn to the virgin which he is to sing at the festivities on the morrow. its exquisite beauty touches them so deeply that they rush out of their hiding-place, and falling at his feet confess the object of their visit and implore his forgiveness. leonora enters, and is astonished to find her guardian present. explanations follow, a reconciliation is effected, and the lovers are happy. the dénouement differs from the historical story, which, according to bonnet, bourdelot, and others, ends with the death of the lovers at genoa, at the hands of the hired assassins. the opera is one of the most charming of flotow's works for its apt union of very melodious music with dramatic interest. its most beautiful numbers are stradella's serenade ("horch, liebchen, horch!"), the following nocturne ("durch die thäler, über hügel"), the brilliant and animated carnival chorus ("freudesausen, jubelbrausen") of the masqueraders who assist in the elopement, in the first act; the aria of leonora in her bridal chamber ("seid meiner wonne"), the rollicking drinking-song of the two bravoes ("'raus mit dem nass aus dem fass") and the bandit ballad ("tief in den abruzzen ") sung by stradella, in the second act; an exquisite terzetto ("sag doch an, freund barbarino") sung by bassi and the two bravoes when they hesitate to perform their work, and stradella's lovely hymn to the virgin ("jungfrau maria! himmlisch verklärte"), in the last act. gluck. christoph willibald gluck, one of the most eminent of german operatic composers, was born at weidenwang in the upper palatinate, july 2, 1714. he began his musical studies in a bohemian jesuits' school at the age of twelve. in his eighteenth year he went to prague, where he continued his education with czernhorsky. four years later he was fortunate enough to secure prince melzi for a patron, who sent him to milan, where he completed his studies with sammartini. from 1741 to 1745 he produced numerous operas, which were well received, and in the latter year visited london, where he brought out several works, among them "la caduta de' giganti." his english experience was far from satisfactory, and he soon returned to germany, stopping at paris on the way, where rameau's operas had a strong influence upon him. from 1746 to 1762 he wrote a large number of operas, with varying success so far as performance was concerned, but with great and lasting benefit to his style and fame, as was shown when his "orpheus" was first produced, oct. 5, 1762. its success determined him at once to acquaint the musical world with his purpose to reform the opera by making it dramatically musical instead of purely lyric, thus paving the way for the great innovator of baireuth. "alceste," produced in 1767, was the first embodiment of these ideas. strong criticism greeted it, to which he replied with "iphigénie en aulide," written in 1772, and performed for the first time in paris two years later, under the auspices of marie antoinette, who had once been his pupil. it was followed by "orpheus and eurydice," adapted from his earlier work of the same name, which met with brilliant success. in 1777 he brought out "armide." it aroused an unprecedented excitement. piccini was at that time in paris. he was the representative of the old italian school. his partisans gathered about him, and a furious war was waged between the gluckists and piccinists for three or four years; the combatants displaying a bitterness of criticism and invective even worse than that which wagner brought down upon his devoted head. when gluck brought out his great work, "iphigénie en tauride," in 1779, however, the piccinists quitted the field and acknowledged the reformer's superiority. "echo et narcisse" was written in the same year, but "iphigénie en tauride" was his last great work. he retired shortly afterwards to vienna, where he died nov. 15, 1787. orpheus. "orpheus," the libretto by the italian poet calzabigi, was first produced at vienna, oct. 5, 1762, and for the first time outlined the new ideas which gluck had advanced for the reform of the lyric stage. twelve years later the composer revised the work. several new numbers were added, its acts were extended to three, and the principal rôle was rewritten for a high tenor in place of the alto, to whom it had been originally assigned. in this form it was brought out at the paris académie, aug. 2, 1774. in 1859 it was revived in paris, for which occasion berlioz restored the original alto part for mme. viardot-garcia. with its performances in this country by the american opera troupe during the season of 1885-86, under the direction of mr. theodore thomas, our readers are already familiar. the three soloists during that season were helene hastreiter, emma juch, and minnie dilthey. the story, except in its denouement, closely follows the antique legend. after performing the funeral rites of eurydice, orpheus resolves to seek for her in the world of shades, having received permission from zeus upon condition that he will not look upon her until they have safely returned. orpheus descends to hades; and though his way is barred by phantoms, his pleading appeals and the tender tones of his harp induce them to make way for him. he finds eurydice in the elysian fields, and taking her by the hand leads her on to the upper world. in a fatal moment he yields to her desire to see him, and she sinks back lifeless. love, however, comes to the rescue, and full of compassion restores her. thus the happy lovers are reunited; and the opera closes without the tragic denouement of the old myth. in the american performances the opera was divided into four acts, which is the order we shall follow. the short overture is characterized by a grandeur and solemnity that well befit the pathetic story. the curtain rises upon a grotto containing the tomb of eurydice, against which orpheus mournfully leans, while upon its steps youths and maidens are strewing flowers as they chant the sombre song, "ah! in our still and mournful meadow." the sad wail of orpheus upon the single word "eurydice" is heard through its strains, which continually increase in solemnity. at last, as if too much to bear, orpheus interrupts their threnody with the words, "the sounds of your lament increase my bitter anguish." the chorus in reply resumes its melancholy tribute to eurydice and then retires, leaving orpheus alone, who in a monologue full of pathos and sorrow ("my eurydice! my eurydice! lost forever"), sings his grief and implores the gods to restore his loved one. in answer to his prayer, amor, god of love, appears and announces that the gods have been moved to compassion; and if his song and lyre can appease the phantoms, death shall give back eurydice upon the conditions already named. the act closes with the joyful song of orpheus: "will pitying heaven with wondrous favor restore mine own?" the second act opens in the abysses of the underworld. flames shoot up amid great masses of rock and from yawning caverns, throwing their lurid glare upon the phantoms, who writhing in furious indignation demand in wild and threatening chorus, as the tones of orpheus's lyre are heard, "who through this awful place, thinking alive to pass, rashly dares venture here?" madly they call upon cerberus "to kill thy new prey here." the barking of the triple-headed monster is heard in the tones of the orchestra. they surround orpheus as he approaches, and with renewed clamor continue this thrilling chorus. in the midst of its cruel intensity is heard the appealing voice of orpheus ("in pity be moved by my grief"). with overwhelming wrath comes the reiterated monosyllable, "no," from the furies,--one of the most daring and powerful effects ever made in dramatic music,--followed by another appalling chorus, as they announce to him, "these are the depths of hell, where the avengers dwell." at last they are touched by the charm of his music and the sorrow of his story; and as their fury dies away, the song of orpheus grows more exultant as he contemplates the reunion with eurydice. the gates of the lower world are opened, and in the third act orpheus enters elysium. the scene begins with a tender, lovely song by eurydice and her companions ("in this tranquil and lovely abode of the blest"), the melody taken by the flute with string accompaniment. all is bright and cheerful and in striking contrast with the gloom and terror of the stygian scene we have just left. after a short recitative ("how mild a day, without a noon"), orpheus seeks her. she is brought to him by a crowd of shadows; and breaking out in joyful song he takes her by the hand and turns his face to the upper world. the fourth act is almost entirely an impassioned duet between orpheus and eurydice. he releases her hand for fear that he may turn and look upon her. eurydice chides him ("am i changed or grown old that thou wilt not behold me?"). in vain he urges her to follow him. she upbraids him for his coldness, and demands one glance as a test of his love. he still refuses, and then she sorrowfully bids him farewell. at last, overcome with weariness and sorrow, he gazes upon her; and at that instant she falls lifeless. then orpheus breaks out in that immortal song, the _che faro senza eurydice_ ("i have lost my eurydice"), the beauty and pathos of which neither time nor change of musical custom can ever mar. he is about to take his life with his sword; but amor suddenly appears upon the scene, stays his hand, and tells him the gods are moved by his sufferings. he restores eurydice to life, and the opera closes with a beautiful terzetto in love's temple. the denouement is followed by ballet music. goetz. hermann goetz, to whose life attaches a mournful interest, was born at koenigsberg, dec. 17, 1840. he had no regular instruction in music until his seventeenth year. at that period he began his studies with köhler, and then passed successively under the tuition of stern, ulrich, and von bülow. at the age of twenty-three he obtained a position as organist at winterthur, and also taught at zurich. it was during this time that he composed his opera, "the taming of the shrew," meanwhile supporting himself as he best could, sometimes struggling with actual poverty. for years he attempted to secure a hearing for his opera; but it was not until 1874 that its great merit was recognized, for in that year it was produced at mannheim with instant success. its fame travelled all over germany. it was performed in vienna in 1875, and the same year in leipsic and berlin, and reached london in 1878. it was not heard in this country until the season of 1885-86, when it was produced by the american opera company. the composer did not live long enough, however, to enjoy the fruits of his work, as he died in 1876. he also left behind him an unfinished score of a second opera, "francesca di rimini," which was completed by his friend franke at his request, but proved a failure. his other works include a symphony in f, a suite for orchestra, and many chamber compositions. the taming of the shrew. "the taming of the shrew," as related in the sketch of the composer's life, was written about the year 1863, and first produced at mannheim in 1872. its first performance in this country was in january, 1886, when the cast was as follows:- katharine pauline l'allemand. bianca kate bensberg. petruchio william h. lee. baptista w.h. hamilton. lucentio w.h. fessenden. hortensio alonzo stoddard. a tailor john howson. the libretto is freely adapted from shakspeare's comedy by joseph victor widmann. the plot is very simple. baptista, a rich paduan gentleman, has two daughters,--katharine, the shrew, and bianca, of sweet and lovable disposition. both hortensio and lucentio are in love with bianca; but the obdurate father will not listen to either until katharine shall have been married. in this apparently hopeless situation a gleam of comfort appears, in the suit which the rich gallant petruchio, of verona, pays to katharine, in disgust with the sycophants who have been manifesting such deference to his wealth. the remainder of the story is occupied with the details of the various processes by which he breaks and tames the shrew, and the ingenious ruse by which lucentio gains the hand of the lovely bianca. the curtain rises upon a night scene in padua, with lucentio before bianca's house singing a melodious serenade. its strains are interrupted, however, by a hurly-burly in the house, caused by the shrew's demonstrations. the tumult is transferred to the street, and gives occasion for a very vigorous ensemble. when the crowd disperses, lucentio resumes his serenade, bianca appears upon the balcony, and the two join in a very pleasing duet. this number is also interrupted by hortensio, at the head of a band of street musicians, who has also come to serenade his mistress. the encounter of the two lovers brings on a quarrel, which is averted, however, by the interposition of baptista. a duet follows between them, at the close of which lucentio retires. petruchio now appears upon the scene, and learns from hortensio of katharine's vixenish disposition, which determines him to woo her. with a stirring song ("she is a wife for such a man created"), the act comes to an end. the second act opens in a chamber in baptista's house, where katharine is berating bianca for accepting serenades from suitors, and abuses her even to blows. the scene closes with a vigorous song for katharine ("i'll give myself to no one"), which is greeted with cynical applause by petruchio, baptista, lucentio, and hortensio, who enter, the last two disguised as teachers. in the next scene, petruchio and katharine alone, we have the turbulent wooing, which is accompanied throughout by characteristic music. as the others return petruchio announces his success in the song, "all is well," the theme of which is taken by the quintet, closing the act. the third is the most interesting act of the three. it opens on the day selected for the wedding of katharine and petruchio, in baptista's garden; the first number being a charming quintet for katharine, bianca, lucentio, hortensio, and baptista. the guests are present, but petruchio is not there. an explanation is made, followed by a chorus as the guests leave; and then bianca is free to take her lessons, in one of which lucentio makes his avowal of love to her. the arrangement of the two lessons is both unique and skilful. lucentio turns the familiar opening lines of the æneid, "arma virumque cano," etc., into a love-song by declarations interposed between them; while hortensio explains the mysteries of the scale to her, each line of his love-song beginning with one of its letters. it is soon found, however, that lucentio is the accepted lover. baptista now enters and announces petruchio's return, which leads to a charming quartet. the finale of the opera, which is very spirited, includes the preparations for the marriage-feast, the wedding, and the scene in which petruchio abruptly forces his bride to leave with him for his country house. goldmark. karl goldmark was born at keszthely, hungary, may 18, 1832. he first studied with the violinist jansa at vienna, and in his fifteenth year entered the conservatory in that city. little is known of the events of his early life. indeed, his success in his profession is generally credited more to his native ability and industry than to the influence of teachers or schools. he began composition at an early period, and produced his works in concerts with much success under the encouragement of hellmesberger and others, who recognized his ability before he had made any impression out of vienna. four of his compositions during the past fifteen years, the "sakuntala" overture, the operas "the queen of sheba" and "merlin," and "die iändliche hochzeit" (the country wedding) symphony have made a permanent reputation for him. the overture and operas have been performed several times in this country. besides these he has written several pieces of chamber music. the queen of sheba. "the queen of sheba" was first produced in vienna, march 10, 1875, and was first heard in this country at new york, dec. 2, 1885, when the cast was as follows:- king solomon herr robinson. high-priest herr fischer. sulamith fraülein lehmann. assad herr stritt. baal hanan herr alexi. queen of sheba frau kramer-weidl. astaroth fraülein brandt. the libretto by mosenthal is one of rare excellence in its skilful treatment of situations and arrangement of scenes with the view to spectacular and dramatic effect. the biblical story has but little to do with the action of the opera beyond the mere fact of the famous visit of the queen of sheba to solomon. the stirring episodes during the journey and the visit spring from the librettist's imagination. the story in substance is as follows:-king solomon, learning of the queen's intention to visit him, sends his favorite courtier assad to escort her. while she waits outside the gates of jerusalem, assad announces her arrival to the king and sulamith, the daughter of the high-priest, to whom the courtier is affianced. observing his disturbed looks, the king, after dismissing his attendants, inquires the cause. assad replies that on their journey through the forest he had encountered a nymph bathing whose beauty had so impressed him as to banish even the thoughts of his affianced. the wise solomon counsels him to marry sulamith at once. meanwhile the queen comes into the king's presence, and as she lifts her veil reveals the unknown fair one. she affects ignorance of assad's passion; but when she learns that he is to wed sulamith love for him springs up in her own breast. upon the day of the wedding ceremony assad, carried away by his longing for the queen, declares her to be his divinity, and is condemned to death for profaning the temple. both the queen and sulamith appeal to the king for mercy. he consents at last to save his life, but banishes him to the desert. the queen seeks him there, and makes an avowal of her love; but assad repulses her. as sulamith comes upon the scene a simoom sweeps across the desert. they perish in each other's arms; while in a mirage the queen and her attendants are seen journeying to their home. the first act opens in the great hall of solomon's palace with a brilliant, joyous chorus ("open the halls, adorn the portals") in praise of the king's glory. after the entrance of the high-priest, sulamith sings a fascinating bridal song ("my own assad returns"), richly oriental both in music and sentiment, dreamy and luxurious in its tone, and yet full of joyous expectation, with characteristic choral refrain and dainty accompaniment. the fourth and fifth scenes are full of agitation and unrest, and lead up to assad's explanation of his perturbed condition ("at lebanon's foot i met arabia's queen"), a monologue aria of rich glowing color and reaching a fine dramatic climax as it progresses from its sensuous opening to the passionate intensity of its finale. it is followed by the entrance of the queen, accompanied by a brilliant march and a jubilant chorus ("to the sun of the south our welcome we bring") and a stirring concerted number, describing the recognition of the queen by assad; after which the chorus resumes its jubilant strain, bringing the act to a close. the second act opens in the gardens of the palace and discloses the queen, who gives expression to her love for assad and her hatred of sulamith in an impassioned aria ("let me from the festal splendor"). in the second scene astaroth, her slave, appears and lures assad by a weird strain, which is one of the most effective passages in the opera ("as the heron calls in the reeds"). after a short arioso by assad ("magical sounds, intoxicating fragrance"), a passionate duet with the queen follows, interrupted by the call of the temple-guard to prayer. the scene changes to the interior of the sanctuary with its religious service; and with it the music changes also to solemn hebrew melodies with the accompaniment of the sacred instruments, leading up to the stirring finale in which assad declares his passion for the queen, amid choruses of execration by the people. the third act opens in the banquet-hall upon a scene of festivity introduced by the graceful bee dance of the almas. it is followed by the powerful appeal of the queen for assad's life, rising to an intensely dramatic pitch as she warns the king of the revenge of her armed hosts ("when sheba's iron lances splinter and zion's throne in ruins falls"). in sad contrast comes the mournful chant which accompanies sulamith as she passes to the vestal's home ("the hour that robbed me of him"), and ends in her despairing cry rising above the chorus of attendants as solomon also refuses her petition. the last act passes in the desert. assad beneath a solitary palm-tree laments the destiny which pursues him ("whither shall i wend my weary steps?"). in the next scene the queen appears, and an agitated duet follows, ending with her repulse. assad in despair calls upon death to relieve him. the sky darkens. clouds of sand envelop the fugitive. the palm bends before the blast as the simoom sweeps by. the storm at last subsides. the sky grows brighter; and the queen and her attendants, with their elephants and camels, appear in a mirage journeying eastward as sulamith and her lover expire in each other's arms. as their duet dies away, the chorus of maidens brings the act to a close with a few strains from the love-song in the first act. merlin. the opera of "merlin" was first performed at vienna, nov. 17, 1886, and was heard for the first time in this country at new york, jan. 3, 1887, under the direction of mr. walter damrosch, with the following cast:- king arthur herr robinson. modred herr kemlitz. lancelot herr bursch. gawein herr heinrich. glendower herr von milde. merlin herr alvary. viviane fraülein lehmann. bedwyr herr sieglitz. the fay morgana fraülein brandt. the demon herr fischer. the libretto of the opera is by siegfried lipiner. the scene is laid in wales, and the hero, merlin, is familiar as one of the knights of king arthur's round-table. the story is as follows:-the devil, ambitious to banish all good from the world, unites himself to a virgin in order that he may beget a child who shall aid him in his fell purpose. the child is merlin, who partakes of the mother's goodness, and instead of aiding his father, seeks to thwart his design. the devil thereupon consults the fay morgana, who tells him that merlin will lose his power if he falls in love. in the opening scene king arthur sends lancelot to merlin for aid, who promises him victory and achieves it by the assistance of his familiar, a demon, who is in league with the devil. tired of his service to merlin, the demon contrives to have him meet the beautiful viviane, with whom he falls in love. the second act transpires in merlin's enchanted garden, and reveals his growing passion, and at the same time his waning power of magic; for when once more arthur summons his aid he attempts to tear himself away from her only to realize his weakness. she seeks to detain him by throwing a magic veil over him which has been given her by the demon; in an instant the scene changes, and merlin appears confined to a rock by fiery chains, while the demon mocks him from a neighboring eminence, and viviane gives way to anguish. in the last act viviane is told by the fay morgana that merlin's release can only be secured by woman's self-sacrifice. once more an appeal for help comes to him from arthur, and he promises his soul to the demon in exchange for his freedom. his chains fall off. he rushes into the battle and secures the victory, but is fatally wounded. the demon claims him; but viviane, remembering the words of the fay morgana, stabs herself and thus balks him of his expectant prey. like wagner's operas, "merlin" has its motives, the principal ones being that of the demon, or the evil principle, and two love motives. in its general treatment it is also wagnerish. the first scene opens with the spirited message of lancelot to glendower, beseeching merlin's aid for the hard-pressed arthur. it is followed by the strains of merlin's harp in the castle and his assurance of victory, and these in turn by very descriptive incantation music summoning the demon and the supernatural agencies which will compass the defeat of arthur's enemies. then comes the interview between the demon and the fay morgana, in which he learns the secret of merlin's weakness. in the next scene arthur returns from his victory over the saxons to the tempo of a stirring march, and accompanied by the joyous choruses of women. a vigorous episode, in which bedwyr, one of arthur's knights, is charged with treachery, is followed by merlin's chant of victory with chorus accompaniment. as its strains die away a distant horn announces viviane, who makes her appearance singing a breezy hunting song with her maidens, leading up to a spirited septet. then follows the baffled attempt of viviane to crown merlin, the scene closing with a repetition of the chant of victory and the choruses of jubilation. the second act opens in the enchanted gardens of merlin; and the first scene reveals a conspiracy to seize the crown during arthur's absence and proclaim modred king, and the farewell of arthur and his suite to merlin. the magic-veil scene follows with its fascinating dance tempos, and leads with its graceful measures up to the passionate love-scene between merlin and viviane, which is harshly broken in upon by the clash of arms between modred and his perfidious companions and the faithful friends of arthur. a dramatic scene of great energy follows, in which viviane at last throws the magic veil around merlin with the transforming results already told. the last act opens with viviane's mournful lament for the wretched fate which she has brought down upon her lover, and the announcement of the means by which he may be released made to her in slumber by the fay morgana. her maidens seek to rouse her with choral appeals, in which are heard phrases of her hunting song. meanwhile mocking spirits appear about merlin and taunt him in characteristic music. then follows the compact with the demon, which releases him. he rushes into the battle accompanied by an exultant song from viviane; but soon the funeral march, as his followers bear him from the field, tells the mournful story of his fate. a very dramatic ensemble contains the deed of self-sacrifice, by which viviane ends her life to redeem merlin from the demon, and with this powerful effect the opera closes. gounod. charles françois gounod was born, in paris, june 17, 1818. he studied music in the conservatory, under the direction of halevy, lesueur, and paer, and in 1839 obtained the first prize, and, under the usual regulations, went to italy. while at rome he devoted himself largely to religious music. on his return to paris he became organist of the missions étrangères, and for a time seriously thought of taking orders. in 1851, however, he brought out his first opera, "sappho," which met with success. at this point his active career began. in 1852 he became conductor of the orphéon, and wrote the choruses for ponsard's tragedy of "ulysse." the year 1854 brought a five-act opera, "la nonne sanglante," founded on a legend in lewis's "monk." in 1858 he made his first essay in opera comique, and produced "le médecin malgré lui," which met with remarkable success. the next year "faust" was performed, and placed him in the front rank of living composers. "philémon et baucis" appeared in 1860, and "la reine de saba," which was afterwards performed in english as "irene," in 1862. in 1863 he brought out the pretty pastoral opera "mireille." this was succeeded in 1866 by "la colombe," known in english as "the pet dove," and in 1867 by "roméo et juliette." in 1877 he produced "cinq mars," and in 1878 his last opera, "polyeucte." he has also written much church music, the more important works being the "messe solenelle," a "stabat mater," the oratorio "tobie," a "de profundis," an "ave verum," and many single hymns and songs, among which "nazareth" is universally popular. his list of compositions for orchestra is also very large, and includes such popular pieces as the "saltarello," "funeral march of a marionette," and the meditation, based on bach's first prelude, which is accompanied by a soprano solo. he was elected a member of the institut de france in 1866. faust. "faust," a grand opera in five acts, words by barbier and carré, founded upon goethe's tragedy, was first produced at the théâtre lyrique, paris, march 19, 1859, with the following cast of the principal parts:- marguerite mme. miolan-carvalho. siebel mlle. faivre. faust m. barbot. valentin m. regnal. mephistopheles m. balanqué. martha mme. duclos. the opera was first produced in london as "faust," june 11, 1863; in english, jan. 23, 1864; and in germany as "margarethe." the story of the opera follows goethe's tragedy very closely, and is confined to the first part. it may be briefly told. faust, an aged german student, satiated with human knowledge and despairing of his ability to unravel the secrets of nature, summons the evil spirit mephistopheles to his assistance, and contracts to give him his soul in exchange for a restoration to youth. mephistopheles effects the transformation, and reveals to him the vision of marguerite, a beautiful village maiden, with whom faust at once falls in love. they set out upon their travels and encounter her at the kermesse. she has been left by her brother valentin, a soldier, in care of dame martha, who proves herself a careless guardian. their first meeting is a casual one; but subsequently he finds her in her garden, and with the help of the subtle mephistopheles succeeds in engaging the young girl's affection. her simple lover, siebel, is discarded, and his nosegay is thrown away at sight of the jewels with which faust tempts her. when valentin returns from the wars he learns of her temptation and subsequent ruin. he challenges the seducer, and in the encounter is slain by the intervention of mephistopheles. overcome by the horror of her situation, marguerite becomes insane, and in her frenzy kills her child. she is thrown into prison, where faust and mephistopheles find her. faust urges her to fly with them, but she refuses, and places her reliance for salvation upon earnest prayer, and sorrow for the wrong she has done. pleading for forgiveness, she expires; and as mephistopheles exults at the catastrophe he has wrought, angels appear amid the music of the celestial choirs and bear the sufferer to heaven. the first act is in the nature of a prelude, and opens with a long soliloquy ("interrogo invano") by faust, in which he laments the unsatisfactoriness of life. it is interwoven with delightful snatches of chorus heard behind the scenes, a duet with mephistopheles ("ma il ciel"), and the delicate music accompanying the vision of marguerite. the second act is contained in a single setting, the kermesse, in which the chorus plays an important part. in the first scene the choruses of students, soldiers, old men, girls, and matrons are quaintly contrasted, and are full of animation and characteristic color. in the second, valentin sings a tender song ("o santa medaglia") to a medallion of his sister which he wears as a charm. it is followed by a grim and weird drinking-song ("dio dell' or"), sung by mephistopheles. the latter then strikes fire from the fountain into his cup, and proposes the health of marguerite. valentin springs forward to resent the insult, only to find his sword broken in his hands. the students and soldiers recognize the spirit of evil, and overcome him by presenting the hilts of their swords in the form of a cross, the scene being accompanied by one of the most effective choruses in the work ("tu puvi la spada"). the tempter gone, the scene resumes its gayety, and the act closes with one of the most animated and delightful of waltz tempos ("come la brezza"). the third act is the garden scene, full of fascinating detail, and breathes the very spirit of poetry and music combined in a picture of love which has never been excelled in tenderness and beauty on the operatic stage. its principal numbers are a short and simple but very beautiful ballad for siebel ("la parlate d'amor"); a passionate aria for tenor ("salve dimora casta e pura"), in which faust greets marguerite's dwelling; a double number, which is superb in its contrasts,--the folk-song, "c'era un re di thule," a plaintive little ballad sung at the spinning-wheel by marguerite, and the bravura jewel-song, "ah! e' strano poter," which is the very essence of delicacy and almost-childish glee; the quartet commencing, "v'appogiato al bracchio mio," which is of striking interest by the independent manner in which the two pairs of voices are treated and combined in the close; and the closing duet ("sempre amar") between faust and marguerite, which is replete with tenderness and passion, and closes in strains of almost ecstatic rapture, the fatal end of which is foreshadowed by the mocking laugh of mephistopheles breaking in upon its lingering cadences. the fourth act is known as the cathedral act, and established gounod's reputation as a writer of serious music. it opens with a scena for marguerite, who has been taunted by the girls at the fountain ("nascose eran là le crudeli "), in which she laments her sad fate. the scene abruptly changes to the square in front of the cathedral, where the soldiers, valentin among them, are returning, to the jubilant though somewhat commonplace strains of the march, "deponiam il branda." as the soldiers retire and valentin goes in quest of marguerite, faust and mephistopheles appear before the house, and the latter sings a grotesque and literally infernal serenade ("tu, che fai l' addormentata"). valentin appears and a quarrel ensues, leading up to a spirited trio. valentin is slain, and with his dying breath pronounces a malediction ("margherita! maledetta") upon his sister. the scene changes to the church, and in wonderful combination we hear the appeals of marguerite for mercy, the taunting voice of the tempter, and the monkish chanting of the "dies irae" mingled with the solemn strains of the organ. the last act is usually presented in a single scene, the prison, but it contains five changes. after a weird prelude, the walpurgis revel begins, in which short, strange phrases are heard from unseen singers. the night scene changes to a hall of pagan enchantment, and again to the brocken, where the apparition of marguerite is seen. the orgy is resumed, when suddenly by another transformation we are taken to the prison where marguerite is awaiting death. it is unnecessary to give its details. the scene takes the form of a terzetto, which is worked up with constantly increasing power to a climax of passionate energy, and at last dies away as marguerite expires. it stands almost alone among effects of this kind in opera. the curtain falls upon a celestial chorus of apotheosis, the vision of the angels, and mephistopheles cowering in terror before the heavenly messengers. romeo and juliet. "roméo et juliette," a grand opera in five acts, words by barbier and carré, the subject taken from shakspeare's tragedy of the same name, was first produced at the théâtre lyrique, paris, april 27, 1867, with mme. miolan-carvalho in the rôle of juliet. the story as told by the french dramatists in the main follows shakspeare's tragedy very closely in its construction as well as in its dialogue. it is only necessary, therefore, to sketch its outlines. the first act opens with the festival at the house of capulet. juliet and romeo meet there and fall in love, notwithstanding her betrothal to paris. the hot-blooded tybalt seeks to provoke a quarrel with romeo, but is restrained by capulet himself, and the act comes to a close with a resumption of the merry festivities. in the second act we have the balcony scene, quite literally taken from shakspeare, with an episode, however, in the form of a temporary interruption by gregory and retainers, whose appearance is rather absurd than otherwise. the third act is constructed in two scenes. the first is in the friar's cell, where the secret marriage of the lovers takes place. in the second, we are introduced to a new character, invented by the librettist,--stephano, romeo's page, whose pranks while in search of his master provoke a general quarrel, in which mercutio is slain by tybalt, who in turn is killed by romeo. when capulet arrives upon the scene he condemns romeo to banishment, who vows, however, that he will see juliet again at all hazards. the fourth act is also made up of two scenes. the first is in juliet's chamber, and is devoted to a duet between the two lovers. romeo departs at dawn, and capulet appears with friar laurence and announces his determination that the marriage with paris shall be celebrated at once. juliet implores the friar's help, and he gives her the potion. the next scene is devoted to the wedding festivity, in the midst of which juliet falls insensible from the effects of the sleeping-draught. the last act transpires in the tomb of the capulets, where romeo arrives, and believing his mistress dead takes poison. juliet, reviving from the effects of the potion, and finding him dying, stabs herself with a dagger, and expires in his arms. while many numbers are greatly admired, the opera as a whole has never been successful. had not "faust," which it often recalls, preceded it, its fate might have been different. still, it contains many strong passages and much beautiful writing. the favorite numbers are the waltz arietta, very much in the manner of the well-known "il bacio," at the capulet festival, the queen mab song, by mercutio ("mab, regina di menzogne"), and the duet between romeo and juliet ("di grazia, t' arresta ancor!"), in the first act; the love music in the balcony scene of the second act, which inevitably recalls the garden music in "faust;" an impressive solo for friar laurence ("al vostro amor cocente"), followed by a vigorous trio and quartet, the music of which is massive and ecclesiastical in character, and the page's song ("ah! col nibbio micidale"), in the third act; the duet of parting between romeo and juliet, "tu dei partir ohime!" the quartet, "non temero mio ben," between juliet, the nurse, friar laurence, and capulet, and the dramatic solo for the friar, "bevi allor questo filtro," as he gives the potion to juliet, in the fourth act; and the elaborate orchestral prelude to the tomb scene in the last act. mireille. "mireille," a pastoral opera in three acts, words by m. carré, the subject taken from "mireio," a provençal poem by mistral, was first produced at the théâtre lyrique, paris, march 19, 1864, with the following cast:- mireille mme. miolan-carvalho tavena | mme. faure-lefebvre. andreluno | vincenzina mlle. leroux. vincenzo m. ismiel. urias m. petit. raimondo m. morini. in december, 1864, the opera was reduced to three acts, in which form it is still given. in this abridged shape, and with the addition of the waltz now placed in the finale, it was brought out in london with titiens, giuglini, santley, and trebelli in the cast. in english it is always given under the title of "mirella." the first scene opens in a mulberry grove, where mireille is rallied by the village girls upon her attachment to vincenzo, the basket-maker, and is also warned by tavena, the fortune-teller, against yielding to her love, as she foresees that her father, raimondo, will never consent to the union. in the next scene she meets vincenzo, and the warning of tavena is soon forgotten. the lovers renew their pledges, and agree to meet at the chapel of the virgin if their plans are thwarted. the second act introduces us to a merrymaking at arles, where mireille is informed by tavena that vincenzo has a rival in urias, a wild herdsman, who has openly declared his love for her, and asked her hand of her father. mireille repulses him when he brings the father's consent. ambrogio, vincenzo's father, accompanied by his daughter, vincenzina, also waits upon raimondo and intercedes in his son's behalf, but is sternly refused. mireille, who has overheard the interview, declares to her father her irrevocable attachment for vincenzo. her declaration throws him into such a rage that he is about to strike her, but she disarms his anger by appealing to the memory of her mother. the last act opens on a barren, sunburnt plain. andreluno appears, singing a pastoral song to the accompaniment of his bagpipe, followed by mireille, who is toiling across the hot sands to meet her lover at the chapel of the virgin. she is met by tavena, who assures her that vincenzo will keep his appointment, and then returns to arles to plead with the father in mireille's behalf. the poor girl toils on through the heat, and at last arrives nearly prostrated by sunstroke. vincenzo soon appears, and is shortly followed by raimondo, who, seeing the sad condition of his daughter, is moved to pity and gives his consent to the union of the lovers. the sudden joyful change of affairs restores her wandering senses and the happy pair are united. the music is in no sense dramatic, but lyric and pastoral throughout, and is specially marked by the beautiful french chansons with which it abounds. the first act opens with a delightful pastoral chorus of the maidens under the mulberry-trees ("facciam carole, o giovinette"), which is very fresh and graceful. the second begins with an equally delightful chorus and farandole ("la farandola tutti consola"), followed by the beautiful provençal folk-song, "dolce una brezza, intorno olezza," which is full of local color. tavena sings a quaint fortune-teller's roundelay ("la stagione arriva"), and in the next scene mireille has a number of rare beauty ("ah! piu non temo fato "), in which she declares her unalterable attachment to vincenzo. the finale of this act, with its strong aria ("qui mi prostro innanzi ate"), is very spirited, and in fact may be considered the only dramatic episode in the whole work. the third act opens with the quaint little song of andreluno, the shepherd boy ("l'alba tranquilla"), with oboe accompaniment. it also contains a plaintive song for tenor ("ah! se de preghi miei"), and closes with a waltz song ("o d'amor messagera"), which is fairly gorgeous in bravura effects, and hanslick says was a concession to miolan-carvalho, like the jewel song in "faust" and the waltz song in "romeo and juliet." in the original libretto the song had its place in the first act, and indeed numerous changes have been made in the libretto since the opera first appeared; as in the original, mireille dies in the arms of her lover, and urias, vincenzo's rival, is drowned in the rhone. when it first appeared, however, great objection was made to several of the situations, and the libretto was declared fantastic and uninteresting; hence the changes. as a lyric drama, delightfully picturing the quaintness and simplicity of provincial life, not alone in the tunefulness of the music, but also in its pastoral naïveté and what may be termed its folk-characteristics, it will hold a high place upon the stage as long as young and fresh voices can be found to sing it. halevy. jacques françois fromenthal elias halevy was born at paris, may 27, 1799, of israelitish parents, whose name was originally levy. he entered the conservatory in 1809, and in 1819 obtained the grand prize for his cantata of "hermione." after his arrival in italy he wrote several minor pieces, but his music did not attract public attention until his return to paris, when his three-act opera, "clari," brought out dec. 9, 1828, with malibran in the principal rôle, made a success. "le dilettante d'avignon" (a satire on italian librettos), "manon lescaut" (a ballet in three acts), "la langue musicàle," "la tentation," and "les souvenirs" rapidly followed "clari," with alternating successes and failures. in 1835 his great work, "la juive," appeared, and in the same year, "l'éclair," one of his most charming operas, written without chorus for two tenors and two sopranos. it was considered at the time a marvellous feat that he should have produced two such opposite works in the same year, and great hopes were entertained that he would surpass them. these hopes failed, however. he subsequently wrote over twenty operas, among them "guido et ginevra" (1838); "charles vi." (1842); "la reine de chypre" (1842); "les mousquetaires de la reine" (1846); "le val d'andorre" (1848); "la tempête" (1853): "le juif errant" (1855), and others; but "la juive" and "l'éclair" remained his masterpieces, and procured him admission into the institute. he was also a professor in the conservatory, and among his pupils were gounod, massé, bazin, duvernoy, bizet, and others. he enjoyed many honors, and died march 17, 1862. a de profundis was sung on the occasion of his funeral, written by four of his pupils, mm. gounod, massé, bazin, and cohen. as a composer he was influenced largely by meyerbeer, and is remarkable rather for his large dramatic effects than for his melody. the jewess "la juive," a grand opera in five acts, words by scribe, originally written for rossini and rejected in favor of "william tell," was produced for the first time at the académie, paris, feb. 23, 1835, with the following cast of the principal parts:- rachel mlle. cornelia falcon. eudoxia mme. dorus-gras. eleazar m. nourrit. cardinal m. levasseur. it was first produced in england in french, july 29, 1846, and in italian under the title of "la ebrea," july 25, 1850. in this country it is most familiar in the german version. the scene of the opera is laid in constance, time, 1414. leopold, a prince of the empire, returning from the wars, is enamoured of rachel, a beautiful jewess, daughter of eleazar the goldsmith. the better to carry out his plans, he calls himself samuel, and pretends to be a jewish painter. circumstances, however, dispel the illusion, and rachel learns that he is no other than leopold, husband of the princess eudoxia. overcome with indignation at the discovery of his perfidy, she publicly denounces his crime, and the cardinal excommunicates leopold, and pronounces his malediction on rachel and her father. rachel, eleazar, and leopold are thrown into prison to await the execution of the sentence of death. during their imprisonment eudoxia intercedes with rachel to save leopold's life, and at last, moved by the grief of the rightful wife, she publicly recants her statement. leopold is banished, but rachel and her father are again condemned to death for conspiring against the life of a christian. eleazar determines to be revenged in the moment of death upon the cardinal, who has sentenced them, and who is at the head of a church which he hates; and just before they are thrown into a caldron of fire, reveals to the spectators that rachel is not his own, but an adopted daughter, saved from the ruins of the cardinal's burning palace, and that she is his child. the opera of "the jewess" is pre-eminently spectacular, and its music is dramatic and declamatory rather than melodious. the prominent numbers of the first act are the solemn declaration of the cardinal ("wenn ew'ger hass"), in which he replies to eleazar's hatred of the christian; the romance sung by leopold ("fern vom liebchen weilen"), which is in the nature of a serenade to rachel; the drinking-song of the people at the fountain, which is flowing wine ("eilt herbei"); and the splendid chorus and march ("leht, es nahet sich der zug") which preludes the imposing pageantry music of the emperor's arrival, closing with the triumphant te deum to organ accompaniment and the greeting to the emperor, "hosanna, unser kaiser hoch." the second act opens with the celebration of the passover in eleazar's house, and introduces a very solemn and impressive prayer ("allmächt'ger blicke gnädig"). in the next scene there is a passionate ensemble and duet for eudoxia and leopold ("ich will ihn seh'n"), which is followed by a second spirited duet between rachel and leopold ("als mein herz"); an intensely dramatic aria ("ach! vater! halt ein!"), in which she claims her share of leopold's guilt; and the final grand trio of anathema pronounced by eleazar. the third act is principally devoted to the festivities of the royal pageants, and closes with the anathema of the cardinal ("ihr, die ihr gottes zorn"), which is a concerted number of magnificent power and spirited dramatic effect. the fourth act contains a grand duet between eleazar and the cardinal ("hört ich recht?"), and closes with one of the most powerful scenas ever written for tenor ("das todesurtheil sprich"), in which eleazar welcomes death and hurls defiance at the christians. the last act is occupied with the tragic dénouement, which affords splendid opportunities for action, and is accompanied by very dramatic music to the close, often rising to real sublimity. in the pageantry of the stage, in the expression of high and passionate sentiment, in elaborateness of treatment, and in broad and powerful dramatic effect, "the jewess" is one of the strongest operas in the modern repertory. humperdinck. engelbert humperdinck, the latest star in the german musical firmament, was born, sept. 1, 1854, at siegburg on the rhine, and received his earliest musical training at the cologne conservatory. he made such rapid progress in his studies, showing special proficiency in composition, that he carried off in succession the three prizes of the mozart, mendelssohn, and meyerbeer stipends. these enabled him to continue his lessons at munich, and afterwards in italy. while in naples, in 1880, he attracted the attention of richard wagner as a rising genius, and two years later had the honor of an invitation to go to venice as his guest, upon the occasion of the performance of wagner's only symphony. in 1885 he went to barcelona, spain, where he taught composition, and was the director of a quartette at the royal conservatory for two years. in 1887 he returned to cologne, and since 1890 has been identified with a conservatory at frankfort-on-the-main. in addition to the opera "hansel and gretel," which has given him a world-wide fame, he produced, a few years ago, a chorus ballad, "das glück von edenhall," and a cantata, "die wallfahrt nach kevelaar," based upon heine's poem, and scored for soloists, chorus, and orchestra. he has also written several songs and piano pieces, and, it is now reported, is engaged upon a dramatic composition called "the royal children." he is regarded in germany as the one composer who gives promise of continuing and developing the scheme of the music-drama as it was propounded by wagner. hansel and gretel. "hansel and gretel," a fairy opera in three acts, words by adelheid wette, was first produced in germany in 1894. in january, 1895, it was performed in london by the royal carl rosa opera company, rendered into english by constance bache; and in the fall of the same year it had its first representation in new york, at daly's theatre, with the following cast:- peter, a broom-maker mr. jacques bars. gertrude, his wife miss alice gordon. the witch miss louise meisslinger. hansel miss marie elba. gretel miss jeanne douste. sandman, the sleep fairy miss cecile brani. dewman, the dawn fairy miss edith johnston. the story is taken from one of grimm's well-known fairy tales, and the text was written by the composer's sister, adelheid wette. it was frau wette's intention to arrange the story in dramatic form for the amusement of her children, her brother lending his co-operation by writing a few little melodies, of a simple nature, to accompany the performance. when he had read it, however, the story took his fancy, and its dramatic possibilities so appealed to him that he determined to give it an operatic setting with full orchestral score, and thus placed it in the higher sphere of world performance by an art which not alone reveals the highest type of genial german sentimentality, but, curiously enough, applied to this simple little story of angels, witches, and the two babes in the woods the same musical methods which wagner has employed in telling the stories of gods and demigods. perhaps its highest praise was sounded by siegfried wagner, son of richard wagner, who declared that "hansel and gretel" was the most important german opera since "parsifal," notwithstanding its childishness and simplicity. after a beautifully instrumented prelude, which has already become a favorite concert piece, the curtain rises upon the home of peter, the broom-maker. the parents are away seeking for food, and hansel and gretel have been left in the cottage with instructions to knit and make brooms. there is a charming dialogue between the two children, beginning with a doleful lament over their poverty, and ending with an outburst of childish hilarity in song and dancing,--a veritable romp in music,--which is suddenly interrupted by the return of gertrude, the mother, empty-handed, who chides them for their behavior, and in her anger upsets a jug of milk which was the only hope of supper in the house. with an energetic outburst of recitative she sends them into the forest, telling them not to return until they have filled their basket with strawberries. after lamenting her loss, and mourning over her many troubles, she falls asleep, but is awakened by the return of peter, who has been more fortunate, and has brought home some provisions. a rollicking scene ensues, but suddenly he misses the children, and breaks out in a fit of rage when he is informed that they have gone into the forest. to the accompaniment of most gruesome and characteristic music he tells his wife of the witch who haunts the woods, and who, living in a honey-cake house, entices little children to it, bakes them into gingerbread in her oven, and then devours them. the second act, "in the forest," is preluded by a characteristic instrumental number, "the witches' ride." the children are discovered near the ilsenstein, among the fir-trees, making garlands, listening to the cuckoos, and mocking them in a beautiful duet with echo accompaniment. at last, however, they realize that they are lost; and in the midst of their fear, which is intensified by strange sights and sounds, the sandman, or sleep fairy, approaches them, strews sand in their eyes, and sings them to sleep with a most delicious lullaby, after they have recited their prayer, "when at night i go to sleep, fourteen angels watch do keep." as they sleep the mist rolls away, the forest background disappears, and the fourteen angels come down a sort of jacob's ladder and surround the children, while other angels perform a stately dance, grouping themselves in picturesque tableau as the curtain falls. the third act is entitled "the witch's house." the children are still sleeping, but the angels have vanished. the dawn-fairy steps forward and shakes dewdrops from a bluebell over them, accompanying the action with a delightful song, "i'm up with early dawning." gretel is the first to wake, and rouses hansel by tickling him with a leaf, at the same time singing a veritable tickling melody, and then telling him what she has seen in her dream. in place of the fir-trees they discover the witch's house at the ilsenstein, with an oven on one side and on the other a cage, both joined to the house by a curious fence of gingerbread figures. the house itself is constructed of sweets and creams. attracted by its delicious fragrance and toothsomeness, the hungry children break off a piece and are nibbling at it, when the old witch within surprises and captures them. after a series of incantations, and much riding upon her broomstick, which are vividly portrayed in the music, she prepares to cook gretel in the oven; but while looking into it the children deftly tumble her into the fire. the witch waltz, danced by the children and full of joyous abandon, follows. to a most vivid accompaniment, hansel rushes into the house and throws fruit, nuts, and sweetmeats into gretel's apron. meanwhile the oven falls into bits, and a crowd of children swarms around them, released from their gingerbread disguises, and sing a swelling chorus of gratitude as two of the boys drag the witch from the ruins of the oven in the form of a big gingerbread-cake. the father and mother appear. their long quest is ended. the family join in singing a pious little hymn, "when past bearing is our grief, god the lord will send relief;" and the children dance joyously around the reunited group. the story is only a little child's tale, but it is wedded to music of the highest order. the union has been made so deftly, the motives are so charming and take their places so skilfully, and the music is so scholarly and characteristic throughout, that no one has yet considered this union as incongruous. in this respect "hansel and gretel" is a distinct creation in the operatic world. leoncavallo. ruggiero leoncavallo, a promising representative of the young italian school, was born in naples, march 8, 1858. he first studied with siri, and afterwards learned harmony and the piano from simonetti. while a student at the naples conservatory he was advised by rossi, one of his teachers, to devote himself to opera. in pursuance of this counsel, he went to bologna, and there wrote his first opera, "tommaso chatterton," which still remains in manuscript and unperformed. then followed a series of "wander years," during which he visited many european countries, giving lessons in singing and upon the piano, and meeting with varying fortunes. in all these years, however, he cherished the plan of producing a trilogy in the wagnerian manner with a groundwork from florentine history. in a letter he says: "i subdivided the historical periods in the following way: first part, 'i medici,' from the accession of sextus iv. to the pazzi conspiracy; second part, 'savonorola,' from the investiture of fra benedetto to the death of savonorola; third part, 'cesare borgia,' from the death of the duke of candia to that of alexander vi." the first part was completed and performed in milan in november, 1893, and was a failure, notwithstanding its effective instrumentation. it was not so, however, with the little two-act opera "i pagliacci," which was produced may 21, 1892, at milan, and met with an instantaneous and enthusiastic success. his next work was a chorus with orchestral accompaniment, the text based upon balzac's rhapsodical and highly wrought "seraphita," which was performed at milan in 1894. it has been recently reported that the emperor of germany has given him a commission to produce an opera upon a national subject, "roland of berlin." of his works, "i pagliacci" is the only one known in the united states. it has met with great favor here, and has become standard in the italian repertory. i pagliacci. "i pagliacci," an italian opera in two acts, words by the composer, ruggiero leoncavallo, was first performed at milan, may 21, 1892, and was introduced in this country in the spring of 1894, mme. arnoldson, mme. calvé, and signors ancona, gromzeski, guetary, and de lucia taking the principal parts. the scene is laid in calabria during the feast of the assumption. the pagliacci are a troupe of itinerant mountebanks, the characters being nedda, the columbine, who is wife of canio, or punchinello, master of the troupe; tonio, the clown; beppe, the harlequin; and silvio, a villager. the first act opens with the picturesque arrival of the troupe in the village, and the preparations for a performance in the rustic theatre, with which the peasants are overjoyed. the tragic element of the composition is apparent at once, and the action moves swiftly on to the fearful dénouement. tonio, the clown, is in love with nedda, and before the performance makes advances to her, which she resents by slashing him across the face with beppe's riding-whip. he rushes off vowing revenge, and upon his return overhears nedda declaring her passion for silvio, a young peasant, and arranging to elope with him. tonio thereupon seeks canio, and tells him of his wife's infidelity. canio hurries to the spot, encounters nedda; but silvio has fled, and she refuses to give his name. he attempts to stab her, but is prevented by beppe, and the act closes with the final preparation for the show, the grief-stricken husband donning the motley in gloomy and foreboding silence. the second act opens with tonio beating the big drum, and the people crowding to the show, among them silvio, who manages to make an appointment with nedda while she is collecting the money. the curtain of the little theatre rises, disclosing a small room barely furnished. the play to be performed is almost an identical picture of the real situation in the unfortunate little troupe. columbine, who is to poison her husband, punchinello, is entertaining her lover, harlequin, while taddeo, the clown, watches for punchinello's return. when canio finally appears the mimic tragedy becomes one in reality. inflamed with passion, he rushes upon nedda, and demands the name of her lover. she still refuses to tell. he draws his dagger. nedda, conscious of her danger, calls upon silvio in the audience to save her; but it is too late. her husband kills her, and silvio, who rushes upon the stage, is killed with the same dagger. with a wild cry full of hate, jealousy, and despair, the unfortunate canio tells the audience "la commedia è finita" ("the comedy is finished"). the curtain falls upon the tragedy, and the excited audience disperses. the story is peculiarly italian in its motive, though the composer has been charged with taking it from "la femme de tabarin," by the french novelist, catulle mendès. be this as it may, leoncavallo's version has the merit of brevity, conciseness, ingenuity, and swift action, closing in a dénouement of great tragic power and capable, in the hands of a good actor, of being made very effective. the composer has not alone been charged with borrowing the story, but also with plagiarizing the music. so far as the accusation of plagiarism is concerned, however, it hardly involves anything more serious than those curious resemblances which are so often found in musical compositions. as a whole, the opera is melodious, forceful, full of snap and go, and intensely dramatic, and is without a dull moment from the prologue ("si può? signore") sung before the curtain by tonio to that last despairing outcry of canio ("la commedia è finita"), upon which the curtain falls. the prominent numbers are the prologue already referred to; nedda's beautiful cavatina in the second scene ("o, che volo d'angello"); her duet with silvio in the third scene ("e allor perchè"); the passionate declamation of canio at the close of the first act ("recitur! mentre preso dal delirio"); the serenade of beppe in the second act ("o colombino, il tenero"); and the graceful dance-music which plays so singular a part in this fierce struggle of the passions, which forms the motive of the closing scenes. mascagni. pietro mascagni, who leaped into fame at a single bound, was born at leghorn, dec. 7, 1863. his father was a baker, and had planned for his son a career in the legal profession; but, as often happens, fate ordered otherwise. his tastes were distinctly musical, and his determination to study music was encouraged by signor bianchi, a singing teacher, who recognized his talent. for a time he took lessons, unknown to his father, of soffredini, but when it was discovered he was ordered to abandon music and devote himself to the law. at this juncture his uncle stefano came to his rescue, took him to his house, provided him with a piano, and also with the means to pursue his studies. recognizing the uselessness of further objections, the father at last withdrew them, and left his son free to follow his own pleasure. he progressed so rapidly under soffredini that he was soon engaged in composition, his first works being a symphony in c minor and a "kyrie," which were performed in 1879. in 1881 he composed a cantata, "in filanda," and a setting of schiller's hymn, "an die freude," both of which had successful public performances. the former attracted the attention of a rich nobleman who furnished young mascagni with the means to attend the milan conservatory. after studying there a short time, he suddenly left milan with an operatic troupe, and visited various italian cities, a pilgrimage which was of great value to him, as it made him acquainted with the resources of an orchestra and the details of conducting. the troupe, however, met with hard fortunes, and was soon disbanded, throwing mascagni upon the world. for a few years he made a precarious living in obscure towns, by teaching, and had at last reached desperate extremities when one day he read in a newspaper that sonzogno, the music publisher, had offered prizes for the three best one act operas, to be performed in rome. he at once entered into the competition, and produced "cavalleria rusticana." it took the first prize. it did more than this for the impecunious composer. when performed, it made a success of enthusiasm. he was called twenty times before the curtain. honors and decorations were showered upon him. he was everywhere greeted with serenades and ovations. every opera-house in europe clamored for the new work. in a day he had risen from utter obscurity and become world-famous. his sudden popularity, however, had a pernicious effect, as it induced him to rush out more operas without giving sufficient time to their preparation. "l'amico fritz," based upon the well-known erckmann-chatrian story, and "i rantzau" quickly followed "cavalleria rusticana," but did not meet with its success. last year however he produced two operas at milan, "guglielmo ratcliff" and "silvano," which proved successful. whether "cavalleria rusticana" is to remain as his only hold upon popular favor, the future alone can tell; but that he has talent of the highest order, and that he has produced an opera whose reception has been almost unparalleled in the world of music cannot be questioned. cavalleria rusticana. "cavalleria rusticana," an opera in one act, words by signori targioni-tozzetti and menasci, music by pietro mascagni, was written in 1890, and was first performed at the costanzi theatre in rome, may 20, of that year, with gemma bellinconi and roberto stagno in the two principal rôles. it had its first american production in philadelphia, sept. 9, 1891, with mme. kronold as _santuzza_, miss campbell as _lola_, guille as _turridu_, del puente as _alfio_, and jeannie teal as _lucia_. the story upon which the text of "cavalleria rusticana" is based is taken from a sicilian tale by giovanni verga. it is peculiarly italian in its motive, running a swift, sure gamut of love, flirtation, jealousy, and death,--a melodrama of a passionate and tragic sort, amid somewhat squalid environments, that particularly lends itself to music of mascagni's forceful sort. the overture graphically presents the main themes of the opera, and these themes illustrate a very simple but strong story. turridu, a young sicilian peasant, arrived home from army service, finds that his old love, lola, during his absence has married alfio, a carter. to console himself he makes love to santuzza, who returns his passion with ardor. the inconstant turridu, however, soon tires of her and makes fresh advances to lola, who, inspired by her jealousy of santuzza, and her natural coquetry, smiles upon him again. the latter seeks to reclaim him, and, when she is rudely repulsed, tells the story of lola's perfidy to alfio, who challenges turridu and kills him. during the overture turridu sings a charming siciliana ("o lola c'hai di latti"), and the curtain rises, disclosing a sicilian village with a church decorated for easter service. as the sacristan opens its doors, the villagers appear and sing a hymn to the madonna. a hurried duet follows, in which santuzza reveals to mother lucia her grief at the perfidy of turridu. her discourse is interrupted by the entrance of alfio, singing a rollicking whip-song ("il cavallo scalpita") with accompaniment of male chorus. the scene then develops into a trio, closing with a hymn ("inneggiamo, il signor"), sung by the people in the square, and led by santuzza herself, and blending with the "regina coeli," performed by the choir inside the church with organ accompaniment, the number finally working up into a tremendous climax in genuine italian style. in the next scene santuzza tells her sad story to lucia, turridu's mother, in a romanza of great power ("voi lo sapete"), closing with an outburst of the highest significance as she appeals to lucia to pray for her. in the next scene turridu enters. santuzza upbraids him, and a passionate duet follows in which santuzza's suspicions are more than confirmed by his avowal of his passion for lola. the duet is interrupted by a song of the latter, heard in the distance with harp accompaniment ("fior di giaggiolo"). as she approaches the pair the song grows livelier, and at its close she banters poor santuzza with biting sarcasms, and assails turridu with all the arts of coquetry. she passes into the church, confident that the infatuated turridu will follow her. an impassioned duo of great power follows, in which santuzza pleads with him to love her, but all in vain. he rushes into the church. she attempts to follow him, but falls upon the steps just as alfio comes up. to him she relates the story of her troubles, and of turridu's baseness. alfio promises to revenge her, and another powerful duet follows. as they leave the stage, there is a sudden and most unexpected change in the character of the music and the motive of the drama. in the place of struggle, contesting passions, and manifestations of rage, hate, and jealousy ensues an intermezzo for orchestra, with an accompaniment of harps and organ, of the utmost simplicity and sweetness, breathing something like a sacred calm, and turning the thoughts away from all this human turmoil into conditions of peace and rest. it has not only become one of the most favorite numbers in the concert repertory, but is ground out from every barrel-organ the world over, and yet it has retained its hold upon popular admiration. at its close the turmoil begins again and the action hastens to the tragic dénouement. the people come out of the church singing a glad chorus which is followed by a drinking song ("viva il vino"), sung by turridu, and joined in by lola and chorus. in the midst of the hilarity alfio appears. turridu invites him to join them and drink; but he refuses, and the quarrel begins. lola and the frightened women withdraw. turridu bites alfio's right ear,--a sicilian form of challenge. the scene closes with the death of the former at alfio's hands, and santuzza is avenged; but the fickle lola has gone her way bent upon other conquests. meyerbeer. giacomo meyerbeer, the eldest son of herz beer, was born in berlin, sept. 5, 1794. he was named jacob meyer beer, but afterwards called himself giacomo meyerbeer. his early studies were pursued with the pianist lanska, and bernard anselm weber, chief of the berlin orchestra. at fifteen he became the pupil of vogler in darmstadt, with whom he displayed such talent in composition that he was named composer to the court by the grand duke. at eighteen his first dramatic work, "the daughter of jephtha," was performed at munich. he then began the world for himself, and made his début in vienna as a pianist with great success. his first opera, "the two caliphs," met with complete failure, as it was not written in the italian form. he at once transformed his style and brought out "romilda e costanza," a serio-comic opera, with great success, at padua. in 1820, "emma di resburgo" appeared at venice, and from this period his star was in the ascendant. "the gate of brandeburg," "margharita d' anjou," "esule di granata," and "almanzar" followed in quick succession, and were well received, though with nothing like the furor which "il crociato in egitto" created in venice in 1824. his next great work, "robert le diable," was produced in paris, nov. 21, 1831, the unparalleled success of which carried its fame to every part of the civilized world. in 1836 "the huguenots," unquestionably his masterpiece, was brought out, and it still holds its place as one of the grandest dramatic works the world has ever seen. in 1838 scribe furnished him the libretto of "l'africaine," but before the music was finished he had changed the text so much that scribe withdrew it altogether. he was consoled, however, by meyerbeer's taking from him the libretto of "le prophete," this opera being finished in 1843. during the following year he wrote several miscellaneous pieces besides the three-act german opera, "ein feldlager in schlesien," in which jenny lind made her berlin début. in 1846 he composed the overture and incidental music to his brother's drama of "struensee," and in 1847 he not only prepared the way for wagner's "flying dutchman" in paris, but personally produced "rienzi,"--services which wagner poorly requited. in 1849 "le prophete" was given in paris; in 1854, "l'etoile du nord;" and in 1859, "dinorah;" but none of them reached the fame of "the huguenots." in 1860 he wrote two cantatas and commenced a musical drama called "goethe's jugendzeit," which was never finished. in 1862 and 1863 he worked upon "l'africaine," and at last brought it forward as far as a rehearsal; but he died april 23, 1863, and it was not performed until two years after his death. the huguenots. "les huguenots," a grand opera in five acts, words by scribe and deschamps, was first produced at the académie, paris, feb. 29, 1836, with the following cast of the principal parts:- valentin mlle. falcon. marguerite de valois mme. dorus-gras. urbain mlle. flecheux. count de st. bris m. lerda. count de nevers m. derivis. raoul de nangis m. nourrit. marcel m. levasseur. at its first production in london in italian, as "gli ugonotti," july 20, 1848, the cast was even more remarkable than that above. meyerbeer specially adapted the opera for the performance, transposed the part of the page, which was written for a soprano, and expressly composed a cavatina to be sung by mme. alboni, in the scene of the château and gardens of chenonceaux, forming the second act of the original work, but now given as the second scene of the first act in the italian version. the cast was as follows:- valentin mme. pauline viardot. marguerite de valois mme. castellan. urbain mlle. alboni. count de st. bris sig. tamburini. count de nevers sig. tagliafico. raoul de nangis sig. mario. marcel sig. marini. the action of the opera passes in 1572, the first and second acts in touraine, and the remainder in paris. the first act opens on a scene of revelry in the salon of count de nevers, where a number of noblemen, among them raoul de nangis, a protestant, accompanied by his faithful old huguenot servant, marcel, are present, telling stories of their exploits in love. marguerite de valois, the betrothed of henry iv., for the sake of reconciling the dispute between the two religious sects, sends her page to de nevers's salon and invites raoul to her château. when he arrives, marguerite informs him of her purpose to give him in marriage to a catholic lady, daughter of the count de st. bris. raoul at first consents; but when valentin is introduced to him and he discovers her to be a lady whom he had once rescued from insult and who had visited de nevers in his salon, he rejects the proposition, believing that her affections have been bestowed upon another, and that his enemies are seeking to entrap him. st. bris challenges raoul for the affront, but the queen disarms the angry combatants. valentin is now urged to marry count de nevers, and begs that she may pass the day in prayer in the chapel. meanwhile count de st. bris, who has been challenged by raoul, forms a plot for his assassination, which is overheard by valentin from within the chapel. she communicates the plot to marcel, who lies in wait with a party of huguenots in the vicinity of the duel, and comes to raoul's rescue when danger threatens him. a general combat is about to ensue, but it is suppressed by marguerite, who suddenly appears upon the scene. raoul thus discovers that he owes his life to valentin, and that her visit to de nevers was to induce him to sever the relations between them, as she was in love with raoul. the announcement comes too late, for the marriage festivities have already begun. raoul visits her for the last time. their interview is disturbed by the approach of de nevers, st. bris, and other catholic noblemen, who meet to arrange the details of the plot conceived by catherine de médicis for the slaughter of the huguenots on st. bartholomew's eve. valentin hurriedly conceals raoul behind the tapestries, where he overhears their plans and witnesses the conjuration and the blessing of the swords, as well as the refusal of the chivalrous de nevers to engage in murder. after the conspirators have departed, raoul and valentin have a long and affecting interview, in which he hesitates between love and honor, valentin striving to detain him lest he may be included in the general massacre. honor at last prevails, and he joins his friends just before the work of slaughter begins. he rushes to the festivities which are about to be given in honor of the marriage of marguerite with the king of navarre, and warns the huguenots of their danger. he then makes his way to a chapel where many of them are gathered for refuge. he finds marcel, who has been wounded, and who brings him the tidings of the death of de nevers. the faithful valentin joins them to share their fate. amid the horrors of the massacre marcel blesses and unites them. they enter the church and all perish together. the first act opens with the brilliant chorus of the revellers ("piacer della mensa"), which is full of courtly grace. raoul tells the story of the unknown fair one he has encountered, in the romanza, "piu bianca del velo." when marcel is called upon, he hurriedly chants the hymn, "o tu che ognor," set to the martin luther air, "ein feste burg," and heightened by a stirring accompaniment, and then bursts out into a graphic song ("finita è pe' frati"), emphasized with the piff-paff of bullets and full of martial fervor. in delightful contrast with the fierce huguenot song comes the lively and graceful romanza of urbain ("nobil donna e tanto onesta"), followed by a delightful septet. the scene now changes, and with it the music. we are in the queen's gardens at chenonceaux. every number, the queen's solo ("a questa voce sola"), the delicate "bathers' chorus," as it is called ("audiam, regina, in questo amene sponde"), the brilliant and graceful allegretto sung by urbain ("no, no, no, no"), the duet between the queen and raoul, based upon one of the most flowing of melodies, and the spirited and effective finale in which the nobles take the oath of allegiance ("per la fè, per l'onore"),--each and every one of these is colored with consummate skill, while all are invested with chivalrous refinement and stately grace. the second act opens with a beautiful choral embroidery in which different choruses, most striking in contrast, are interwoven with masterly skill. it is a picture, in music, of the old paris. the citizens rejoice over their day's work done. the huguenots shout their lusty rataplan, while the papist maidens sing their solemn litany ("ave maria") on their way to chapel; and as they disappear, the quaint tones of the curfew chant are heard, and night and rest settle down upon the city. it is a striking introduction to what follows,--the exquisite duet between marcel and valentin, the great septet of the duel scene, beginning, "de dritti miei ho l'alma accesa," with the tremendous double chorus which follows as the two bands rush upon the scene. as if for relief from the storm of this scene, the act closes with brilliant pageant music as de nevers approaches to escort valentin to her bridal. the third act is the climax of the work, and stands almost unrivalled in the field of dramatic music, for the manner in which horror and passion are illustrated. after a dark and despairing aria by valentin ("eccomi sola ormai"), and a brief duet with raoul, the conspirators enter. the great trio, closing with the conjuration, "quel dio," the awful and stately chant of the monks in the blessing of the unsheathed daggers ("sia gloria eterna e onore"), and the thrilling unisons of the chorus ("d'un sacro zel l'ardore"), which fairly glow with energy, fierceness, and religious fury,--these numbers of themselves might have made an act; but meyerbeer does not pause here. he closes with a duet between raoul and valentin which does not suffer in comparison with the tremendous combinations which have preceded it. it is filled with the alternations of despair and love, of grief and ecstasy. in its movement it is the very whirlwind of passion. higher form dramatic music can hardly reach. in the italian version the performance usually closes at this point; but there is still another striking and powerful scene, that in which raoul and valentin are united by the dying marcel. then the three join in a sublime trio, and for the last time chant together the old lutheran psalm, and await their fate amid the triumphant harpings that sound from the orchestra and the hosanna they sing to its accompaniment. the star of the north. "l'étoile du nord," an opera in three acts, words by scribe, was first performed at the opera comique, paris, feb. 16, 1854, and in italian as "la stella del nord" at covent garden, london, july 19, 1855. in english it has been produced under the title of "the star of the north." the opera contains several numbers from the composer's earlier work, "feldlager in schlesien," which was written for the opening of the berlin opera-house, in memory of frederick the great, and was subsequently (feb. 17, 1847) performed with great success in vienna, jenny lind taking the rôle of vielka. the "feldlager," however, has never been given out of germany. the action of the opera transpires in wyborg, on the gulf of finland, in the first act, at a camp of the russians in the second, and at the palace of the czar peter in the third. in the first, peter, who is working at wyborg, disguised as a carpenter, makes the acquaintance of danilowitz, a pastry-cook, and catharine, a cantiniere, whose brother george is about to marry prascovia. catharine brings about this marriage; and not only that, but saves the little village from an invasion by a strolling horde of tartars, upon whose superstition she practises successfully, and so conducts herself in general that peter falls in love with her, and they are betrothed, though she is not aware of the real person who is her suitor. meanwhile the conscription takes place, and to save her newly wedded brother she volunteers for fifteen days in his place, disguising herself as a soldier. in the next act we find catharine going her rounds as a sentinel in the russian camp on the finnish frontier. peter and danilowitz are also there, and are having a roistering time in their tent, drinking and making love to a couple of girls. hearing peter's voice she recognizes it, and curiosity leads her to peep into the tent. she is shocked at what she beholds, neglects her duty, and is found by the corporal in this insubordinate condition. he remonstrates with her, and she answers with a slap on his ears, for which she incurs the penalties of disobedience to orders as well as insulting behavior to her superior officer. peter at last is roused from his drunkenness by the news of an insurrection among his own soldiers and the approach of the enemy. he rushes out and promises to give peter into their hands if they will obey and follow _him_. at last, struck with his bearing and authority, they demand to know who he is, whereupon he declares himself the czar. the mutiny is at once quelled. they submit, and offer their lives as warrant for their loyalty. the last act opens in the czar's palace, where his old companion, danilowitz, has been installed in high favor. catharine, however, has disappeared. george and prascovia arrive from finland, but they know nothing of her. the faithful danilowitz finds her, but she has lost her reason. her friends try to restore it by surrounding her with recollections of home, and peter at last succeeds by playing upon his flute the airs he used to play to her in finland. her senses come back, and thus all ends happily; for catharine and peter are at last united amid the acclamations of the people. in the first act the character of peter is well expressed in the surly, growling bass of his soliloquy ("vedra, vedra"). it is followed by a characteristic drinking-chorus ("alla finlanda, beviam"), a wild, barbaric rhythm in the minor, which passes into a prayer as they invoke the protection of heaven upon charles xii. in the eighth scene occur the couplets of gritzensko as he sings the wild song of the kalmucks. in charming contrast, in the next scene, catharine sings the gypsy rondo, which jenny lind made so famous ("wlastla la santa"), which is characterized by graceful coquetry; and this in turn is followed by a striking duet between catharine and peter, in which the individual characteristics of the two are brought out in genuine wagnerian style. in the thirteenth scene occurs the bridal song of prascovia ("al suono dell'ora"), with choral accompaniment, of a delicate and coquettish cast, leading up to the finale, beginning with the soldiers' chorus ("onor che a gloria"), with an accompaniment of drums and fifes, again passing to a pathetic prayer ("veglia dal ciel su lor") sung by catharine amid the ringing of bells as the bridal wreath is placed upon prascovia's head, and closing with a florid barcarole ("vascel che lasci") as she sails away. the second act opens with ballet music, full of eastern color, and then ensues one of those choral combinations, like that in the second act of "the huguenots," in which meyerbeer so much delighted,--a cavalry chorus ("bel cavalier del cuor d'acciar"), followed by the grenadier's song, accompanied by chorus ("granadier di russia esperti"), the chorus taking up the "tr-r-r-um" refrain in imitation of the drum. in the eighth scene we have the orgy in the tent in the form of a very spirited dramatic trio, in which peter sings a blithe drinking-song ("vedi al par del rubino"); this in turn resolving into a quintet ("vezzose vivandiere"), and again into a sextet, as ismailoff enters with a letter for the czar. the finale is a superb military picture, made up of the imposing oath of death to the tyrant, the stirring dessauer march, the cavalry fanfare, and the grenadiers' march, interwoven with the chorus of women as they cheer on the marching soldiers. the third act opens with a romanza ("dal cor per iscacciare"), very tender and beautiful, in which the rugged czar shows us the sentimental side of his character. in the third scene occurs a long buffo trio between peter, gritzensko, and danilowitz, which is full of humor. in the finale we have catharine in the mad scene, singing the scena, "l'aurora alfin succede," with bits of the old music running through the accompaniment; and in the final scene, as her reason returns, breaking out in the florid bravura, "non s'ode alcun," accompanied by the first and second flutes, which is a triumph of virtuosity for the voice. this number was taken from "the camp in silesia," and was given by jenny lind with immense success, not only in the latter work, but upon the concert stage. the opera as a whole abounds in humor, its music is fresh and brilliant, and its military character makes it specially attractive. robert the devil "robert le diable," a grand opera in five acts, words by scribe and delavigne, was first produced at the académie, paris, nov. 21, 1831, with the following cast:- alice mlle. dorus. isabelle mme. cinti-damoreau. the abbess sigr. taglioni. robert m. nourrit. bertram m. levasseur. raimbaut m. lafont. in the following year two versions in english, both of them imperfect, were brought out by the rival theatres, covent garden and drury lane. on the 20th of february it appeared at drury lane under the title of "the demon; or, the mystic branch," and at covent garden the next evening as "the fiend father, or robert normandy." drury lane had twenty-four hours the start of its rival, but in neither case were the representations anything but poor imitations of the original. on the 11th of the following june the french version was produced at the king's theatre, london, with the same cast as in paris, except that the part of alice was taken by mme. de meric, and that of the abbess by the danseuse mlle. heberlé. on the 4th of may, 1847, the first italian version was produced at her majesty's theatre, with jenny lind and staudigl in the cast. gruneisen, the author of a brief memoir of meyerbeer, who was present, says: "the night was rendered memorable, not only by the massacre attending the general execution, but also by the début of mlle. lind in this country, who appeared as alice. with the exception of the débutante, such a disgraceful exhibition was never before witnessed on the operatic stage. mendelssohn was sitting in the stalls, and at the end of the third act, unable to bear any longer the executive infliction, he left the theatre." the libretto of "robert the devil" is absurd in its conceptions and sensational in its treatment of the story, notwithstanding that it came from such famous dramatists as scribe and delavigne; and it would have been still worse had it not been for meyerbeer. scribe, it is said, wished to introduce a bevy of sea-nymphs, carrying golden oars, as the tempters of robert; but the composer would not have them, and insisted upon the famous scene of the nuns, as it now stands, though these were afterwards made the butt of almost endless ridicule. mendelssohn himself, who was in paris at this time, writes: "i cannot imagine how any music could be composed on such a cold, formal extravaganza as this." the story runs as follows: the scene is laid in sicily, where robert, duke of normandy, who by his daring and gallantries had earned the sobriquet of "the devil," banished by his own subjects, has arrived to attend a tournament given by the duke of messina. in the opening scene, while he is carousing with his knights, the minstrel raimbaut sings a song descriptive of the misdeeds of robert. the latter is about to revenge himself on the minstrel, when alice, his foster-sister and the betrothed of raimbaut, appears and pleads with him to give up his wicked courses, and resist the spirit of evil which is striving to get the mastery of him. robert then confides to alice his hopeless passion for isabella, daughter of the duke. while they are conversing, bertram, "the unknown," enters, and alice shrinks back affrighted, fancying she sees in him the evil spirit who is luring robert on to ruin. after she leaves, bertram entices him to the gaming-table, from which he rises a beggar,--and worse than this, he still further prejudices his cause with isabella by failing to attend the tournament, thus forfeiting his knightly honor. the second act opens upon an orgy of the evil spirits in the cavern of st. irene. bertram is present, and makes a compact with them to loose robert from his influence if he does not yield to his desires at once. alice, who has an appointment with the minstrel in the cavern, overhears the compact, and determines to save him. robert soon appears, mourning over his losses and dishonor; but bertram promises to restore everything if he will visit the ruined abbey of st. rosalie, and carry away a mystic branch which has the power of conferring wealth, happiness, and immortality. he consents; and in the next scene bertram pronounces the incantation which calls up the buried nuns. dazed with their ghostly fascinations, robert seizes the branch and flies. his first use of it is to enter the apartments of isabella, unseen by her or her attendants, all of whom become immovable in the presence of the mystic talisman. he declares his intention of carrying her away; but moved by her entreaties he breaks the branch, which destroys the charm. in the last act bertram is at his side again, trying to induce him to sign the fatal compact. the strains of sacred music which he hears, and the recollections of his mother, restrain him. in desperation bertram announces himself as his fiend-father. he is about to yield, when alice appears and reads to him his mother's warning against the fiend's temptation. as he still hesitates, the clock strikes, and the spell is over. bertram disappears, and the scene changes to the cathedral, where isabella in her wedding robes awaits the saved robert. from the musical point of view "robert le diable" is interesting, as it marks the beginning of a new school of grand opera. with this work, meyerbeer abandoned the school of rossini and took an independent course. he cut loose from the conventional classic forms and gave the world dramatic music, melodies of extraordinary dramatic force, brilliant orchestration, stately pageants, and theatrical effects. "robert le diable" was the first of the subsequent great works from his pen which still further emphasized his new and independent departure. it is only necessary to call attention to a few prominent numbers, for this opera has not as many instances of these characteristics as those which followed and which are elsewhere described. the first act contains the opening bacchanalian chorus ("versiamo a tazza plena"), which is very brilliant in character; the minstrel's song in the same scene ("regnava un tempo in normandia"), with choral accompaniment; and a very tender aria for alice ("vanne, disse, al figlio mio"), in which she delivers his mother's message to robert. the second act opens with a spirited duet between bertram and raimbaut, leading up to a powerful and characteristic chorus of the evil spirits ("demoni fatali"). an aria for alice ("nel lasciar in normandia"), a duet between bertram and alice ("trionfo bramato"), and an intensely dramatic trio between bertram, alice, and robert ("lo sguardo immobile"), prepare the way for the great scena of the nuns, known as "la temptation," in which meyerbeer illustrates the fantastic and oftentimes ludicrous scene with music which is the very essence of diabolism, and in its way as unique as the incantation music in "der freischutz." the third act contains two great arias. the first ("invano il fato"), sung at the opening of the act by isabella, and the second the world-famous aria "roberto, o tu che adoro," better known by the french words ("robert! toi que j'aime"). the closing act is specially remarkable for the great terzetto in its finale, which is one of the most effective numbers meyerbeer has written. the judgment of hanslick, the great viennese critic, upon this work is interesting in this connection. he compares it with "william tell" and "masaniello," and finds that in musical richness and blended effects it is superior to either, but that a single act of either of the works mentioned contains more artistic truth and ideal form than "robert le diable,"--a judgment which is largely based upon the libretto itself, which he condemns without stint. dinorah "dinorah," an opera in three acts, founded upon a breton idyl, words by barbiere and carré, was first produced at the opera comique, paris, april 4, 1859, under the title of "le pardon de ploermel." it contains but three principal characters, and these were cast as follows: dinorah, mme. cabel; corentin, m. sainte-foy; and höel, m. faure. on the 26th of july, 1859, meyerbeer conducted the work himself at covent garden, london, with mme. miolan-carvalho as dinorah, and it was also produced in the same year in english by the pyne-harrison troupe. the first representative of dinorah in this country was mlle. cordier. the scene of the opera is laid in brittany, and when the first act opens, the following events are supposed to have transpired. on one of the days set apart by the villagers of ploermel for a pilgrimage to the shrine of the virgin, höel, the goatherd, and dinorah, his affianced, set out to receive a nuptial benediction. the festivity is interrupted by a thunder-storm, during which les herbiers, the dwelling-place of dinorah, is destroyed by lightning. dinorah is in despair. höel determines to make good the loss, and upon the advice of tonick, an old wizard, resolves to go in quest of a treasure which is under the care of the korigans, a supernatural folk belonging to brittany. in order to wrest it from them, however, it is necessary for höel to quit the country and spend a year in solitude in a desolate region. he bravely starts off, and dinorah, thinking he has abandoned her, loses her wits, and constantly wanders about the woods with her goat, seeking him. meanwhile the year expires and höel returns, convinced that he has the secret for securing the treasure. the overture to the work is unique among operatic overtures, as it has a chorus behind the curtain interwoven with it. it is a picture of the opera itself, and contains a will-o'-the-wisp passage, a rustic song with accompaniment of goat-bells, a storm, and in the midst of the storm a chant to the virgin, sung by the unseen chorus, and then a pilgrimage march, the whole being in the nature of a retrospect. the curtain rises upon a rustic chorus, after which dinorah appears, seeking her goat, and sings a slumber-song ("si, carina, caprettina") which is very graceful, and concludes with phrases in imitation of birds. in the next scene, corentin, the bagpiper, who has been away three months, and is nearly dead with terror of goblins and fairies, returns to his cottage, and to reassure himself sings a very quaint and original song ("sto in casa alfine"), to the accompaniment of his pipe. dinorah suddenly appears and enters the cottage, and much to his alarm keeps him playing and singing, which leads to a very animated vocal contest between her and the bagpiper. it is abruptly terminated, however, by the arrival of höel. dinorah makes her escape by a window, and höel relates to corentin the story of the korigans' treasure. as the first person who touches it will die, he determines that corentin shall be his messenger, and to rouse his courage sends for wine. while corentin is absent, höel sings an aria ("se per prender") which has always been a favorite with barytones. after corentin returns, the tinkling of the goat's bell is heard. dinorah appears in the distance, and a charming trio closes the act, to the accompaniment of the whistling wind and booming thunder on the contra basses and drums of the orchestra. the second act opens with a drinking-song by wood-cutters, and as they withdraw, dinorah enters, seeking höel. she sings a tender lament, which, as the moonlight falls about her, develops into the famous "shadow song," a polka mazurka, which she sings and dances to her shadow. the aria, "ombra leggier," is fairly lavish in its texture of vocal embroidery, and has always been a favorite number on the concert stage. the next scene changes to the val maudit (the cursed vale), a rocky, cavernous spot, through which rushes a raging torrent bridged by a fallen tree. höel and corentin appear in quest of the treasure, and the latter gives expression to his terror in a very characteristic manner, with the assistance of the orchestra. dinorah is heard singing the legend of the treasure ("chi primo al tesor"), from which corentin learns that whoever touches it first will die. he refuses to go on, and a spirited duet ensues between them, which is interrupted by the entrance of dinorah and her goat. höel, fancying it is a spirit sent to keep him back, sings a very beautiful aria ("le crede il padre"). the act closes with the fall of dinorah, who attempts to cross the bridge, into the torrent, and her rescue by höel, to the accompaniment of a storm set to music. the scene, though melodramatic, is very strong in its musical effects. the last act opens with a scene in striking contrast, introduced with a quintet of horns, followed by a hunter's solo, a reaper's solo, a duet for shepherds; and a quartet in the finale. höel arrives, bearing the rescued dinorah, and sings to her an exquisite romance ("sei vendicata assai"). the magic of his singing and her bath in the torrent restore her wandering senses. höel persuades her that all which has transpired has been a dream. the old song of the pardon of ploermel comes to her, and as she tries to recall it the chorus takes it up ("santa maria! nostra donna") as it was heard in the overture. a procession is seen in the distance, and amid some exquisite pageant music höel and dinorah wend their way to the chapel, where the nuptial rites are supposed to be performed. the prophet. "le prophète," an opera in five acts, words by scribe, was first produced in paris, april 16, 1849, with mme. viardot-garcia as fides, and m. roger as john of leyden. "the prophet" was long and carefully elaborated by its composer. thirteen years intervened between it and its predecessor, "the huguenots;" but in spite of its elaboration it can only be said to excel the latter in pageantry and spectacular effect, while its musical text is more declamatory than melodious, as compared with "the huguenots." in this sense it was disappointing when first produced. the period of the opera is 1534. the first act transpires in dordrecht and leyden, in holland, and the other three in munster, germany. the text closely follows the historical narrative of the period when munster was occupied by john of leyden and his fanatics, who, after he had been crowned by them as emperor of germany, was driven out by the bishop of the diocese. the first act opens in the suburbs of dordrecht, near the meuse, with the château of count oberthal, lord of the domain, in the distance. after a very fresh and vigorous chorus of peasants, bertha, a vassal of the count, betrothed to john of leyden, enters and sings a cavatina ("il cor nel sento"), in which she gives expression to emotions of delight at her approaching union. as she cannot go to leyden, where the marriage is to take place, without the count's consent, fides, the mother of john, joins her to make the request. in the mean time the three anabaptists, zacarie, gione, and mathisen, leaders of the revolt in westphalia, arrive on their mission of raising an insurrection in holland, and in a sombre trio of a religious but stirring character ("o libertade") incite the peasants to rise against their rulers. they make an assault upon the castle of count oberthal, who speedily repels them, and turns the tide of popular feeling against the anabaptists, by recognizing gione as a former servant who had been discharged from his service for dishonesty. fides and bertha then join in a romanza ("della mora un giorno"), imploring his permission for the marriage of bertha and john. the count, however, struck with her beauty, not only refuses, but claims her for himself, and seizes both her and fides, and the act closes with a repetition of the warning chant of the anabaptists. the second act opens in the hostelry of john of leyden, and is introduced with a waltz and drinking-chorus, in the midst of which the anabaptists arrive and are struck with his resemblance to a portrait of david in the munster cathedral. from a very descriptive and highly wrought scena ("sotto le vasti arcati") sung by him they also learn that he is given to visions and religious meditations. they assure him that he shall be a ruler; but in a beautiful romanza ("un impero piu soave") he replies that his love for bertha is his only sovereignty. just as they depart, bertha, who has escaped, rushes in and claims his protection. he conceals her; but has hardly done so when the count enters with his soldiers, bringing fides as a prisoner, and threatens to kill her unless bertha is given up. he hesitates; but at last, to save his mother's life, delivers bertha to her pursuers. mother and son are left alone, and she seeks to console him. in this scene occurs one of the most dramatic and intense of meyerbeer's arias ("o figlio mio, che diro"), known more popularly by its french words, beginning, "ah! mon fils." it has enjoyed a world-wide popularity, and still holds its place in all its original freshness and vigor. fides hardly disappears before the ominous chant of the anabaptists is heard again. he does not need much persuasion now. they make their compact in a quartet of magnificent power, which closes the act; and some of john's garments are left behind stained with blood, that his mother may believe he has been killed. the third act opens in the anabaptists' camp in a westphalian forest, a frozen lake near them, and munster, which they are besieging, in the distance. in the second scene zacarie sings a stirring pasan of victory ("in coppia son"), followed by the beautiful ballet music of the skaters as they come bringing provisions to the troops. count oberthal meanwhile has been taken prisoner and brought into camp. a buffo trio between himself and his captors follows, in which gione penetrates his disguise and recognizes him. they are about to fall upon him; but john, learning from him that bertha is still alive and in munster, saves his life. he immediately resolves to take the place by assault, rouses his followers with religious chants of a martial character, and the act concludes with the march on the city. the fourth act opens in the city itself after its capture. a mendicant appears in the public square begging for bread. it is fides; and in a plaintively declamatory aria of striking power ("pieta! pieta!") she implores alms. she meets with bertha disguised as a pilgrim, and bent upon the destruction of the prophet, who, she believes, has been the cause of john's death. the next scene opens in the cathedral, where the coronation of the prophet is to take place; and among all meyerbeer's pageants none are more imposing than this, with its accompaniment of pealing bells, religious chants, the strains of the organ, and the stately rhythms of the great coronation march. it is a splendid prelude to the dramatic scene which follows. in the midst of the gorgeous spectacle, the voice of fides is heard claiming the prophet as her son. john boldly disavows her, and tells his followers to kill him if she does not confirm the disavowal. the feelings of the mother predominate, and she declares that she is mistaken. the multitude proclaim it a miracle, and fides is removed as a prisoner. the dramatic situation in this finale is one of great strength, and its musical treatment has hardly been excelled. the last act opens with a trio by the anabaptist leaders, who, learning that the enemy is approaching in force, determine to save themselves by betraying john. in the third scene fides in prison, learning that john is coming to see her, invokes the punishment of heaven upon him in the passionate aria, "spirto superno." a duet ("tu che del cielo") of great power follows, in which fides convinces him of the errors of his course. as they are about to leave, bertha enters, bent upon the destruction of the palace, and in the trio which ensues learns that john and the prophet are one. she stabs herself, and dying in the arms of fides curses him. the last scene opens in a banqueting-hall of the palace, where john is revelling, with the anabaptists around him. he sings a bacchanalian song of a wild description ("beviam e intorno"), and, as it closes, the bishop of munster, the elector, count oberthal, and the three anabaptists who have betrayed him, enter the apartment. the revenge which john has planned is now consummated. an explosion is heard. flames break out on all sides. fides rushes in and forgives her son, and the prophet, his mother, and his enemies perish together. although "the prophet" did not meet with the popularity of some of his other operas, it contains some of the most vigorous and dramatic music meyerbeer has written,--notably the arias of zacarie and fides, the skating-ballet, the coronation march, and the drinking-song. as a pageant, "the prophet" has never been surpassed. the african. "l'africaine," a grand opera in five acts, words by scribe, was first produced at the académie, paris, april 28, 1865, with the following cast:- selika mme. marie saxe. inez mlle. marie batteo. vasco di gama m. naudin. nelusko m. faure. don pedro m. belval. high priest m. obin. the libretto of the opera was first given to meyerbeer by scribe in 1838; but such were the alterations demanded by the composer, that at last scribe withdrew it altogether, although the music was already set. in 1852 he furnished a revised libretto, and the music was revised to suit it. the work was not finished until 1860, and owing to the difficulty of filling the cast satisfactorily, was not brought to rehearsal until the fall of 1863. while still correcting and improving it, meyerbeer died, and it was not produced until two years later. shortly after the paris performance it was brought out in london, with mlle. lucca in the part of selika. mme. zucchi was one of the earliest representatives of the slave in this country. the scene of the opera is laid in portugal and africa, and the first act opens in the council chamber of the king of the former country. inez, his daughter, is mourning the long absence of her betrothed, vasco di gama the explorer. her father, wishing to marry her to don pedro, the president of the council, tries to persuade her that vasco has perished by shipwreck; but the refutation of the story comes in the sudden appearance of vasco himself, who is summoned before the council and narrates to them his discovery of a strange land, producing two of the natives, selika and nelusko, as confirmations of his announcement. don pedro incites the inquisitors to deny the truth of the story, at which vasco breaks out in such a furious rage against them that he is arrested and thrown into a dungeon. the second act opens in the prison, where selika is watching the slumbering vasco. as he wakens she declares her love for him, and at the same time saves him from the dagger of the jealous nelusko. she also indicates to him the course he should have taken to discover the island of which he is in quest. to save her lover, inez consents to wed don pedro; and the latter, to cheat vasco of his fame, takes command of the expedition under the pilotage of nelusko, and sets sail for the new land. the indian, thirsting for vengeance, directs the vessel out of her course towards a reef; but vasco, who has followed in another vessel, arrives in time to warn don pedro of his danger. he disregards the warning, distrusts his motives, and orders him to be shot; but before the sentence can be carried out, the vessel strikes and is boarded by the savages, who slaughter the commander and most of his men. the fourth act opens on the island which selika pointed out on the map, and of which she is queen. to save him from her subjects, she declares herself his spouse; but as the marriage rite is about to be celebrated, vasco hears the voice of inez in the distance, deserts selika, and flies to her. in the last act, as the vessel sails away bearing vasco and inez back to portugal, selika throws herself down under the poisonous manchineel-tree and kills herself with its fatal flowers; expiring in the arms of nelusko, who shares the same fate. the first act opens with a very sweet but sombre ballad sung by inez ("del tago sponde addio"), which recalls the english song, "isle of beauty, fare thee well," and is followed by a bold and flowing terzetto. the third scene opens with a noble and stately chorus ("tu che la terra adora") sung by the basses in unison, opening the council before which vasco appears; and the act closes with an anathema hurled at him ("ribelle, insolente"),--a splendid ensemble, pronounced in its rhythm and majestic in the sweep of its passionate music. the second act opens with the quaint slumber-song ("in grembo a me") which selika sings to vasco in prison. it is oriental in color, and is broken here and there by a barcarole which vasco murmurs in his sleep. in striking contrast with its dreamy, quiet flow, it leads up to a passionate aria ("tranquillo e già") based upon a strong and fiery motive. in the next scene follows an aria of equal vigor sung by nelusko ("figlia dei re"), in which his devotion to selika changing to his hatred of vasco is characterized by a grand crescendo. the act closes with a vigorous sextet, the motive of which is strangely similar to the old song, "the minstrel boy." the third act contains a very impressive number, nelusko's invocation of adamastor ("adamastor, re dell' onde profondo"), but is mainly devoted to the ship scene, which, though grotesque from the dramatic point of view, is accompanied by music of a powerful and realistic description, written with all the vividness and force meyerbeer always displays in his melodramatic ensembles. the fourth act contains the most beautiful music of the opera,--vasco's opening aria, "o paradiso," an exquisite melody set to an equally exquisite accompaniment; the ensemble in the fourth scene, in which selika protects vasco and nelusko swears vengeance ("al mio penar de fine"); the grand duet between vasco and selika ("dove son"), which has often been compared to the duet in the fourth act of "the huguenots," though it has not the passionate intensity of the scene between raoul and valentin; and the graceful choruses of the indian maidens and inez's attendants which close the act. the last act contains two scenes,--the first in selika's gardens, where there is a long and spirited duet between inez and selika. the second, known as "la scene du mancenillier," has a symphonic prelude in the form of a funeral march, based upon a fascinating melody, which is beyond question the finest of meyerbeer's orchestral numbers in any of his works. from this point the story hastens to its tragic dénouement; and nearly the entire scene is occupied with selika's dying song, which opens with a majestic apostrophe to the sea ("da qui io vedo il mar"), then turns to sadness as she sings to the fatal tree ("o tempio sontuoso"), and at the close develops into a passionate outcry of joy ("o douce extase"). though the plot of "l'africaine" is often absurd, many of its incidents preposterous, and some of its characters unattractive, the opera is full of effective situations, and repeatedly illustrates meyerbeer's powers of realization and his knowledge of effects. mozart. johann chrysostomus wolfgang amadeus mozart was born at salzburg, jan. 27, 1756. with this wonderful child music was a divine gift, for his first work, a minuet and trio for piano, was written in his fifth year. he began to study with his father when but three years of age, and at once gave signs of extraordinary promise. his sister was also very talented; and in 1762 the father determined to travel with his prodigies. they were absent a year, the most of that time being spent at munich, vienna, and presburg, where they created a furor by their performances. a longer journey was then resolved upon. the principal german cities, brussels, paris, london, the hague, amsterdam, and the larger towns of switzerland were visited in succession, and everywhere the children were greeted with enthusiasm, particularly when they played before the french and english courts. they returned to salzburg in 1766, already famous all over europe; and during the next two years mozart composed many minor works. in 1768 he was again in vienna, where he produced his little operetta, "bastien und bastienne," and in the same year the archbishop of salzburg made him his concertmeister. the next year he went to italy, where he both studied and composed, and was received with extraordinary honors. in 1771 he brought out his opera, "mitridate, rè di ponto," at milan, with great success. the next year he produced "lucio silla," also in milan, and during the next four years composed a great number of symphonies and other instrumental works. the mass of music which he composed up to his twenty-first year is simply bewildering. in 1781 he brought out "idomeneo" at munich, which left no doubt as to his position as a dramatic composer. in 1782 his "entfuhrung aus dem serail" was produced at vienna by the emperor's command. his next great opera was "le nozze di figaro," which was performed in 1786, and made all vienna go wild. "don giovanni" followed it the next year, and was received with equal enthusiasm. in 1789 he composed the famous "requiem;" and the same year the "zauberflöte," his last great opera, appeared, and made a success even greater than its two great predecessors. two years later, dec. 5, 1791, mozart died in poverty, and amid the saddest of surroundings. one of the world's greatest geniuses was carried to his last resting-place unaccompanied by friends, and was buried in the common pauper's grave. god endowed him with a wonderful genius, which the world of his time could not recognize. the marriage of figaro. "le nozze di figaro," in the german version, "die hochzeit des figaro," an opera buffa in four acts, the words by lorenzo da ponte, after beaumarchais's comedy, "le mariage de figaro," was first produced at the national theatre, vienna, may 1, 1786, with the following cast:- countess almaviva signora storace. susanna signora laschi. cherubino signora mandini. marcellina signora bussani. barbarina signora gottlieb. count almaviva signor mandini. figaro signor benucci. bartolo signor occheley. basilio signor bussani. it was first brought out in paris in 1793, with beaumarchais's spoken dialogue, in five acts, as "le mariage de figaro," and in 1858 at the théâtre lyrique in the same city, in four acts, as "les noces de figaro," with text by barbiere and carré. the late mme. parepa-rosa introduced it in this country in its english form with great success. at the time the libretto was written, beaumarchais's satirical comedy, "le mariage de figaro," had been performed all over europe, and had attracted great attention. it had been prohibited in paris, and had caused great commotion in vienna. mozart's notice was thus drawn to it, and he suggested it to da ponte for a libretto, and the emperor joseph subsequently commissioned the composer to set it to music, though he had already composed a portion of it. the entire opera was written during the month of april, and the wonderful finale to the second act occupied him for two nights and a day. when it came to a performance, its success was remarkable. kelly, who was present, says, in his reminiscences: "never was there a greater triumph than mozart enjoyed with his 'figaro.' the house was crowded to overflowing, and almost everything encored, so that the opera lasted nearly double the usual time; and yet at its close the public were unwearied in clapping their hands and shouting for mozart." popular as it was, it was soon laid aside in vienna through the influence of the italian faction headed by salieri, one of mozart's rivals. the story of the opera is laid in spain. count almaviva, who had won his beautiful countess with the aid of figaro, the barber of seville, becomes enamoured of her maid susanna, and at the same time, by the collusion of the two, in order to punish him, is made jealous by the attentions paid to the countess by cherubino, the page. meanwhile figaro, to whom susanna is betrothed, becomes jealous of the count for his gallantry to her. out of these cross-relations arise several humorous surprises. besides these characters there are two others who have been disappointed in love,--bartolo, who has been rejected by susanna, and marcellina, whose affection for figaro has not been requited. the count seeks to get rid of cherubino by ordering him off to the wars, but he is saved by susanna, who disguises him in female attire. the countess, susanna, figaro, and cherubino then conspire to punish the count for his infidelity. the latter suddenly appears at his wife's door, and finding it locked demands an entrance. cherubino, alarmed, hides himself in a closet and bars the door. the count is admitted, and finding the countess in confusion insists upon searching the closet. he goes out to find some means of breaking in the door, and cherubino improves the opportunity to jump out of the window, while susanna takes his place and confronts the puzzled count. antonio, the gardener, comes in and complains that some one has jumped from the window and broken his flower-pots. figaro at once asserts that he did it. a ludicrous side plot unfolds at this point. marcellina appears with a contract of marriage signed by figaro, bringing bartolo as a witness. the count decides that figaro must fulfil his contract, but the latter escapes by showing that he is the son of marcellina, and that bartolo is his father. meanwhile the main plot is developed in another conspiracy to punish the count. susanna contrives a rendezvous with the count at night in the garden, having previously arranged with the countess that she should disguise herself as the maid, the latter also assuming the part of the countess, and arrive in time to surprise the two. the page also puts in an appearance, and gets his ears boxed for his attentions to the disguised countess. figaro, who has been informed that susanna and the count are to meet in the garden, comes on the scene, and in revenge makes a passionate declaration of love to the supposed countess, upon which the count, who is growing more and more bewildered, orders lights and makes his supposed wife unveil. the real wife does the same. covered with confusion, he implores pardon of the countess, which is readily given. the two are reconciled, and figaro and susanna are united. the whole opera is such a combination of playfulness and grace that it is a somewhat ungracious task to refer to particular numbers. in these regards it is the most mozartean of all the composer's operas. the first act opens with a sparkling duet between figaro and susanna, in which she informs him of the count's gallantries. as she leaves, figaro, to the accompaniment of his guitar, sings a rollicking song ("se vuol ballare, signor contino"), in which he intimates that if the count wishes to dance he will play for him in a style he little expects. in the second scene bartolo enters, full of his plans for vengeance, which he narrates in a grim and grotesque song ("la vendetta"). the fourth scene closes with an exquisite aria by cherubino ("non so piu cosa son"). after an exceedingly humorous trio ("cosa sento? tosto andate") for the count, basilio and susanna, and a bright, gleeful chorus ("giovanni lieti"), figaro closes the act with the celebrated aria, "non piu andrai." of the singing of this great song at the first rehearsal of the opera kelly says in his reminiscences: "i remember mozart well at the first general rehearsal, in a red furred coat and a gallooned hat, standing on the stage and giving the tempi. benucci sang figaro's aria, 'non piu andrai,' with the utmost vivacity and the full strength of his voice. i stood close beside mozart, who exclaimed, _sotto voce_, 'brava! brava! benucci!' and when that fine passage came, 'cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar,' which benucci gave in a stentorian voice, the effect was quite electrical, both on the singers on the stage and the musicians in the orchestra. quite transported with delight, they all called out, 'brava! brava, maestro! viva! viva! viva il grande mozart!' in the orchestra the applause seemed to have no end, while the violin-players rapped their bows on their desks. the little maestro expressed his gratitude for the enthusiasm, testified in so unusual a manner, by repeatedly bowing." the second act is the masterpiece of the opera, and contains in itself music enough to have made any composer immortal. it opens with a serious aria by the countess ("porgi amor") followed by cherubino's well-known romanza ("voi che sapete,") one of the sweetest and most effective songs ever written for contralto, and this in turn by susanna's coquettish song, "venite, inginocchiatevi," as she disguises cherubino. a spirited trio and duet lead up to the great finale, begun by the count, ("esci omai, garzon mal nato"). upon this finale mozart seems to have lavished the riches of his musical genius with the most elaborate detail and in bewildering profusion. it begins with a duet between the count and countess, then with the entrance of susanna changes to a trio, and as figaro and antonio enter, develops into a quintet. in the close, an independent figure is added by the entrance of marcellina, barbarina, and basilio, and as antonio exits, this trio is set against the quartet with independent themes and tempi. the third act opens with a duet ("crudel, perche finora") for the count and countess, followed by a very dramatic scena for the count, beginning with the recitative, "hai già vinta la causa?" which in turn leads up to a lively and spirited sextet ("riconosci in questo amplesso"). the two numbers which follow the sextet are recognized universally as two of the sweetest and most melodious ever written,--the exquisite aria, "dove sono," for the countess, and the "zephyr duet," as it is popularly known ("canzonetta su l'aria. che soave zeffiretto"), which stands unsurpassed for elegance, grace, and melodious beauty. the remaining numbers of prominent interest are a long and very versatile buffo aria for tenor ("in quegli anni"), sung by basilio, figaro's stirring march number ("ecco la marcia"), and a lovely song for susanna ("deh, vieni, non tardar"). the opera is full of life and human interest. its wonderful cheerfulness and vital sympathy appeal to every listener, and its bright, free, joyous tone from beginning to end is no less fascinating than the exquisite melodies with which mozart has so richly adorned it. like "don giovanni" and the "magic flute," the best test of the work is, that it is rounding its first century as fresh and bright and popular as ever. don giovanni. "don giovanni," an opera buffa in two acts, words by da ponte, was first produced at prague, oct. 29, 1787. the full title of the work is "il dissoluto punito, ossia il don giovanni," and the subject was taken from a spanish tale by tirso de molina, called "el combidado de piedra." the original cast of the opera was as follows:- donna anna signora teresa saporitti. donna elvira signora micelli. zerlina signora bondini. don ottavio signor baglioni. don giovanni signor luigi bassi. leporello signor felice ponziani. masetto and don pedro signor lolli. the success of the "marriage of figaro" prepared the way for "don giovanni." mozart wrote the opera in prague, and completed it, except the overture, oct. 28, 1787, about six weeks after he arrived in the city. the first performance took place the next evening. the overture was written during the night, the copyist received the score at seven o'clock in the morning, and it was played at eight in the evening. he had only a week for stage rehearsals, and yet the opera created a furor. as an instance of his extraordinary memory, it is said that the drum and trumpet parts to the finale of the second act were written without the score, from memory. when he brought the parts into the orchestra, he remarked, "pray, gentlemen, be particularly attentive at this place," pointing to one, "as i believe that there are four bars either too few or too many." his remark was proved true. it is also said that in the original scores the brass instruments frequently have no place, as he wrote the parts continually on separate bits of paper, trusting to his memory for the score. the next year (1788) the opera was brought out in vienna, and for this production he wrote four new numbers,--a recitative and aria for donna elvira ("in quali excessi, o numi"); an aria for masetto ("ho capito, signor, si"); a short aria for don ottavio ("dalla sua pace"); and a duet for zerlina and leporello ("per queste tue manine"). the scene of the opera is laid in spain. don giovanni, a licentious nobleman, becomes enamoured of donna anna, the daughter of the commandant of seville, who is betrothed to don ottavio. he gains admission to her apartments at night, and attempts to carry her away; but her cries bring her father to her rescue. he attacks don giovanni, and in the encounter is slain. the libertine, however, in company with his rascally servant, leporello, makes good his escape. while the precious pair are consulting about some new amour, donna elvira, one of his victims, appears and taxes him with his cruelty; but he flies from her, leaving her with leporello, who horrifies her with an appalling list of his master's conquests in various countries. don giovanni next attempts the ruin of zerlina, a peasant girl, upon the very eve of her marriage with her lover, masetto. donna elvira, however, appears and thwarts his purposes, and also discovers him to donna anna as the murderer of her father, whereupon she binds her lover, don ottavio, to avenge his death. don giovanni does not abandon his purpose, however. he gives a fête, and once more seeks to accomplish zerlina's ruin, but is again thwarted by her three friends. the second act opens in a public square of seville at night. don giovanni and leporello appear before the house of donna elvira, where zerlina is concealed. leporello, disguised in his master's cloak, and assuming his voice, lures donna elvira out, and feigning repentance for his conduct induces her to leave with him. don giovanni then proceeds to enter the house and seize zerlina; but before he can accomplish his purpose, masetto and his friends appear, and supposing it is leporello before them, demand to know where his master is, as they are bent upon killing him. don giovanni easily disposes of masetto, and then rejoins his servant near the equestrian statue, which has been erected to the memory of the murdered don pedro. to their astonishment the statue speaks, and warns the libertine he will die before the morrow. don giovanni laughs at the prophecy, and invites the statue to a banquet to be given the next day at his house. while the guests are assembled at the feast, an ominous knock is heard at the door and the statue unceremoniously enters. all except leporello and don giovanni fly from the room in terror. the doomed man orders an extra plate, but the statue extends its hand and invites him to sup with it. he takes the marble hand, and its cold fingers clutch him in a firm grasp. thrice the statue urges him to repent, and as many times he refuses; whereupon, as it disappears, demons rise, seize don giovanni, and carry him to the infernal regions. musically considered, "don giovanni" is regarded as mozart's greatest opera, though it lacks the bright joyousness of the "marriage of figaro," and its human interest. its melodies are more pronounced, and have entered more freely into general use, however, than those of the former. repulsive as the story is, some of the melodies which illustrate it have been impressed into the service of the church. the first act is introduced with a humorous aria by leporello ("notte e giorno faticar"), in which he complains of his treatment by his master. after the murder of don pedro, in the second scene, occurs a trio between donna elvira, don giovanni, and leporello, the leading motive of which is a beautiful aria sung by donna elvira ("ah! chi mi dici mai"). the scene closes with the great buffo aria of leporello ("madamina il catalogo") popularly known as the "catalogue song," which is full of broad humor, though its subject is far from possessing that quality. in the third scene occur the lovely duet for don giovanni and zerlina ("la ci darem, la mano"), two arias of great dramatic intensity for donna elvira ("mi tradi") and donna anna ("or sai chi l'onore"), and don giovanni's dashing song, "finchè dal vino," the music of which is in admirable keeping with the reckless nature of the libertine himself. the last scene is a treasure-house of music, containing the exquisitely coquettish aria, "batti, batti," which zerlina sings to the jealous masetto, and the beautiful trio of donna anna, donna elvira, and don ottavio, known as the mask trio, set off against the quaint minuet music of the fête and the hurly-burly which accompanies the discovery of don giovanni's black designs. the second act opens with a humorous duet between master and servant ("eh, via, buffone"), followed by the trio, "ah! taci, inquisto care," as elvira appears at her window. after she leaves with leporello, don giovanni sings a serenade ("deh? vieni all finestra") to zerlina, which is interrupted by the appearance of masetto and his friends. zerlina is summoned to the scene by the cries of masetto after don giovanni has beaten him, and sings to him for his consolation the beautiful aria, "vedrai carino," which has more than once been set to sacred words, and has become familiar as a church tune, notwithstanding the unsanctity of its original setting. the second scene opens with a strong sextet ("sola, sola, in bujo loco"), followed by the ludicrously solemn appeal of leporello, "ah! pieta, signori miei," and that aria beloved of all tenors, "il mio tesoro." the finale is occupied with the scenes at the statue and at the banquet, a short scene between donna anna and don ottavio intervening, in which she sings the aria, "non mi dir." the statue music throughout is of a sepulchral character, gradually developing into strains almost as cold and ominous as the marble of the commandant himself, and yet not without an element of the grotesque as it portrays the terror of leporello. it is said that in revenge at his italian rivals, mozart introduced an aria from martin's "cosa rara," arranged for wind instruments, and also a favorite aria of sarti's, to be played at the banquet when the hungry leporello beholds his master at the table and watches for some of the choice morsels, and parodied them in an amusing manner. he never could retain an enmity very long, however, and so at the end of the banquet he parodied one of his own arias, the famous "non piu andrai," by giving it a comical turn to suit leporello's situation. the criticism of one of the best biographers of mozart upon this opera is worth repeating in this connection: "whether we regard the mixture of passions in its concerted music, the profound expression of melancholy, the variety of its situations, the beauty of its accompaniment, or the grandeur of its heightening and protracted scene of terror--the finale of the second act,--'don giovanni' stands alone in dramatic eminence." the magic flute. "die zauberflöte," an opera in two acts, words by emanuel schickaneder, was first produced at vienna, sept. 30, 1791, with the following cast: queen of night mme. hofer. pamina mlle. gottlieb. papagena mme. gorl. tamino herr schack. monostatos herr gorl. sarastro herr schickaneder, sr. papageno herr schickaneder, jr. the "magic flute" was the last great work of the composer, and followed the "cosi fan tutte," which was given in january, 1791. in 1780 mozart had made the acquaintance of schickaneder at salzburg. he was a reckless, dissipated theatre manager, and at the time of the composition of the "magic flute" was running a small theatre in vienna. the competition of the larger theatres had nearly beggared him, and in the midst of his perplexities he applied to mozart to write him an opera, and intimated that he had discovered an admirable subject for a fairy composition. mozart at first objected; but schickaneder, like himself, was a freemason; he had been his companion in dissipation, and exercised a great influence over him. mozart at last consented. a compact was made, and schickaneder set to work on the libretto. as he was a popular buffoon, he invented the part of papageno, the bird-catcher, for himself, and arranged that it should be dressed in a costume of feathers. it is a trivial part, but schickaneder intended to tickle the fancy of the public, and succeeded. the first act was finished, when it was found that the same subject had been chosen by a rival theatre, the leopold stadt, which speedily announced the opera of "kaspar der fagottist, oder die zauber-zither," by a popular composer, wenzel müller. the piece had a successful run, and in order to prevent a duplication, schickaneder reversed the point of his story, and changed the evil magician, who stole the daughter of the queen of night, into a great philosopher and friend of man. it is owing to this change that we have the magnificent character of sarastro, with its impressive music. the scene of the opera is laid in egypt. sarastro, the high-priest of isis, has induced pamina to leave her mother, astrifiamenti, the queen of night, who represents the spirit of evil, and come to his temple, where she may be trained in the ways of virtue and wisdom. at the opening of the opera the dark queen is trying to discover some plan of recovering her daughter and punishing sarastro. in the first act appears tamino, an egyptian prince, who has lost his way, and is attacked by a huge serpent, from which he is rescued by the three attendants of the queen. the latter accosts him, tells him her daughter's story, and demands that, as the cost of his deliverance, he shall rescue her. he consents. she gives him a magic flute, and with his companion papageno, a rollicking bird-catcher, who is also presented with a magical chime of bells, they set out for sarastro's temple. papageno arrives there first, and in time to rescue pamina from the persecutions of monostatos, a slave, who flies when he beholds papageno in his feather costume, fancying him the devil. they seek to make their escape, but are intercepted. tamino also is caught, and all are brought before sarastro. the prince consents to become a novitiate in the sacred rites, and to go through the various stages of probation and purification, and pamina again returns to her duties. they remain faithful to their vows, and the last ordeal, that of passing through a burning lake up to the altar of the temple, is triumphantly accomplished. the queen of night, however, does not abandon her scheme of revenge. she appears to pamina in her sleep, gives her a dagger, and swears that unless she murders sarastro she will cast her off forever. pamina pays no heed to her oath, but goes on with her sacred duties, trusting to sarastro's promise that if she endures all the ordeals she will be forever happy. in the closing scene, monostatos, who has been inflamed against sarastro by the queen, seeks to kill him, but is vanquished by the might of the priest's presence alone. the night of the ordeals is over. at a sign from sarastro, the, full sunlight pours in upon them. the evil spirits all vanish, and tamino and pamina are united amid the triumphant choruses of the priests and attendants, as the reward of their fidelity. in the opening scene, after the encounter of tamino with the serpent, papageno has a light and catching song ("der vogelfänger bin ich ja"), which, like all of papageno's music, was specially written for schickaneder, and has been classed under the head of the "viennese ditties." melodious as mozart always is, these songs must be regarded as concessions to the buffoon who sang them. papageno's song is followed by another in a serious strain ("dies bildniss ist bezaubernd schön") sung by tamino. in the sixth scene occurs the first aria for the queen of night ("o zittre nicht, mein lieber sohn"), which, like its companion to be mentioned later, is a remarkable exercise in vocal power, range, and gymnastics, written for an exceptional voice. the next scene, known as the padlock quintet, is very simple and flowing in style, and will always be popular for its humorous and melodious character. in the eleventh scene occurs the familiar duet between pamina and papageno, "bei männern, welche liebe füllen," which has done good service for the church, and will be recognized in the english hymn version, "serene i laid me down." it leads up to the finale, beginning, "zum ziehle führt dich diese bahn," and containing a graceful melody for tamino ("o dass ich doch im stande wäre"), and another of the viennese tunes, "könnte jeder brave mann,"--a duet for papageno and pamina, with chorus. the second act opens with a stately march and chorus by the priests, leading up to sarastro's first great aria ("o isis und osiris"), a superb invocation in broad, flowing harmony, and the scene closes with a strong duet by two priests ("bewahret euch vor weibertücken.") the third scene is a quintet for papageno, tamino, and the queen's three attendants ("wie ihr an diesem shreckensort?"), and is followed by a sentimental aria by monostatos ("alles fühlt der liebe freuden"). in the next scene occurs the second and greatest aria of the queen of night ("der hölle rache kocht"), which was specially written to show off the bravura ability of the creator of the part, and has been the despair of nearly all sopranos since her time. in striking contrast with it comes the majestic aria for sarastro in the next scene ("in diesen heil'gen hallen"), familiarly known on the concert-stage by its english title, "in these sacred halls," the successful performance of which may well be the height of any basso's ambition. in the twelfth scene there is a terzetto by the three boys ("seid uns zum zweitenmal"), and in the next scene a long and florid aria for pamina ("ach! ich fühl's es ist verschwunden"), full of plaintive chords and very sombre in color. the sixteenth scene contains another stately chorus of priests ("o isis und osiris"), based upon a broad and massive harmony, which is followed by a terzetto between sarastro, pamina, and tamino ("soll ich dich, theurer nicht mehr sehen?"). once more a concession to the buffoon occurs in a melody "ein mädchen oder weibchen," which would be commonplace but for mozart's treatment of the simple air. the finale begins with another terzetto for the three boys ("bald prangt, den morgen zu verkünden"). it may be termed a finale of surprises, as it contains two numbers which are as far apart in character as the poles,--the first, an old choral melody ("der, welcher wandelt diese strasse"), the original being, "christ, our lord, to jordan came," set to an accompaniment, strengthened by the trombones and other wind instruments; and the second, a nonsense duet ("pa-pa-papageno") for papageno and papagena, which would close the opera in a burst of childish hilarity but for the solemn concluding chorus of the priests ("heil sei euch geweithen"). the great charm of the opera is its originality, and the wonderful freshness and fruitfulness of the composer in giving independent and characteristic melodies to every character, as well as the marvellous combination of technicality with absolute melody. beethoven said of it that this was mozart's one german opera in right of the style and solidity of its music. jahn, in his criticism, says: "'the zauberflöte' has a special and most important position among mozart's operas. the whole musical conception is pure german, and here for the first time german opera makes free and skilful use of all the elements of finished art." rossini. gioachini antonio rossini was born at pesaro, italy, feb. 29, 1792. his early lessons in music were taken with tesei, and as a lad he also appeared upon the stage as a singer. in 1807 he was admitted to the class of padre mattei at the bologna conservatory, where he took a prize for a cantata at the end of his first year. at the beginning of his career in italy he was commissioned to write an opera for venice. it was "la cambiale di matrimonio," an opera buffa in one act, and was produced in 1810. during the next three years he wrote several works for venice and milan, which were successful, but none of them created such a furor as "tancredi." this was followed by "l' italiana in algeri," "aureliano in palmira," and "il turco in italia." in 1815 appeared "the barber of seville." strange as it may seem, it was at first condemned, not on its merits, but because the composer had trenched, as it was supposed, upon the ground already occupied by the favorite paisiello, though he applied to the latter before writing it, and received his assurances that he had no objection to his use of the same subject. "otello" followed the "barber" at naples in 1816, and "cenerentola" in 1817, and both were extraordinarily successful. the "gazza ladra" was produced at milan in 1817, and was followed by "armida" at naples in the same year. his next great work was the oratorio, "moses in egypt," which is also given as opera. the "donna del lago," based upon walter scott's "lady of the lake," was produced at naples in 1819. the same year he opened the carnival in milan with "bianca e faliero," and before its close he produced "maometto secondo" at naples. during the next two or three years his muse was very prolific, and in 1823 appeared another of his great works, "semiramide," which made a furor at venice. that year he went to london and gave concerts, in which he sang, and thence to paris, which now became his home. his greatest work for paris was "william tell," which was produced in 1829, and it was also his last, though by an arrangement with the government of charles x. it was to be the first of a series of five. the revolution of 1830 destroyed his plans. in 1836 he heard meyerbeer's "huguenots," and resolved to write no more. four years before this he had written the "stabat mater," but it was not produced complete until 1842. from this time on he lived at his villa at passy the life of a voluptuary and died there nov. 13, 1868. the catalogue of his works is immense, including fifty operas alone, of which in a necessarily brief sketch it has been possible to mention only those best known. the barber of seville. "il barbiere di siviglia," an opera buffa in two acts, words by sterbini, founded on beaumarchais's comedy, was first produced at the argentina theatre, rome, feb. 5, 1816, with the following cast:- rosina mme. giorgi righetti. bertao mlle. rossi. figaro sig. luigi zamboni. count almaviva sig. garcia. bartolo sig. botticelli. basilio sig. vittarelli. the story of the writing of "the barber of seville" is of more than ordinary interest. rossini had engaged to write two operas for the roman carnival of 1816. the first was brought out dec. 26, 1815, and the same day he bound himself to furnish the second by jan. 20, 1816, with no knowledge of what the libretto would be. sterbini furnished him with the story of the "barber" by piecemeal, and as fast as the verses were given him he wrote the music. the whole work was finished in less than three weeks. its original title was "almaviva, ossia l'inutile precauzione," to distinguish it from paisiello's "barber of seville." the original overture was lost in some manner, and that of "aureliano" substituted. in the scene beneath rosina's balcony garcia introduced a spanish air of his own; but it failed, and before the second performance rossini wrote the beautiful cavatina, "ecco ridente il cielo" in its place, the melody borrowed from the opening chorus of his "aureliano," and that in turn from his "ciro in babilonia." the subject of the effective trio, "zitti, zitti," was taken from haydn's "seasons," and the aria sung by the duenna berta ("il vechiotto cerca moglie"), from a russian melody he had heard a lady sing in rome and introduced for her sake. for the music-lesson scene rossini wrote a trio which has been lost; and thus an opportunity has been given rosinas to interpolate what they please. the scene of the opera is laid at seville, spain. count almaviva has fallen in love with rosina, the ward of dr. bartolo, with whom she resides, and who wishes to marry her himself. after serenading his mistress, who knows him only by the name of count lindoro, he prevails upon figaro, the factotum of the place, to bring about an interview with her. in spite of her guardian's watchfulness, as well as that of don basilio, her music-teacher, who is helping bartolo in his schemes, she informs the count by letter that she returns his passion. with figaro's help he succeeds in gaining admission to the house disguised as a drunken dragoon, but this stratagem is foiled by the entrance of the guard, who arrest him. a second time he secures admission, disguised as a music-teacher, and pretending that he has been sent by don basilio, who is ill, to take his place. to get into bartolo's confidence he produces rosina's letter to himself, and promises to persuade her that the letter has been given him by a mistress of the count, and thus break off the connection between the two. by this means he secures the desired interview, and an elopement and private marriage are planned. in the midst of the arrangements, however, don basilio puts in an appearance, and the disconcerted lover makes good his escape. meanwhile bartolo, who has rosina's letter, succeeds in arousing the jealousy of his ward with it, who thereupon discloses the proposed elopement and promises to marry her guardian. at the time set for the elopement the count and figaro appear. a reconciliation is easily effected, a notary is at hand, and they are married just as bartolo makes his appearance with officers to arrest the count. mutual explanations occur, however, and all ends happily. the first act opens after a short chorus, with the serenade, "ecco ridente in cielo," the most beautiful song in the opera. it begins with a sweet and expressive largo and concludes with a florid allegro, and is followed by a chorus in which the serenaders are dismissed. in the second scene figaro enters, and after some brief recitatives sings the celebrated buffo aria, "largo al factotum," in which he gives an account of his numerous avocations. the aria is full of life and gayety, and wonderfully adapted to the style of the mercurial figaro. a light and lively duet between figaro and the count, closing with the sprightly melody, "ah! che d'amore," leads up to the chamber aria of rosina, so well known on the concert-stage, "una voce poco fa," which is not only very expressive and of great compass, but is remarkably rich in ornamentation. a short dialogue in recitative then occurs between bartolo and basilio, in which they plot to circumvent rosina by calumny, which gives occasion for the calumny aria, as it is generally known ("la calunnia"), a very sonorous bass solo, sung by basilio. another dialogue follows between figaro and rosina, leading to the florid duet, "e il maestro io faccio." a third dialogue follows between rosina and bartolo, ending in a bass aria ("non piu tacete"), very similar in its general style to the calumny song, but usually omitted in performances. in the tenth scene the count arrives disguised as the drunken soldier, and the finale begins. it is composed of three scenes very ingeniously arranged, and full of glittering dialogue and very melodious passages. the second act opens with a soliloquy by bartolo ("ma redi il mio destino"), in which he gives vent to his suspicions. it is interrupted at last by a duet with the count, in which the two characters are strikingly set off by the music. the music-lesson scene follows, in which the artist personating rosina is given an opportunity for interpolation. in the next scene occurs a dialogue quintet, which is followed by a long aria ("sempre gridi") by the duenna bertha, called by the italians the "aria de sorbetto," because the people used to eat ices while it was sung; reminding one of the great aria from "tancredi," "di tanti palpiti," which they called the "aria dei rizzi," because rossini composed it while cooking his rice. in the eighth scene, after a long recitative, an instrumental prelude occurs, representing a stormy night, followed by a recitative in which the count reveals himself, leading up to a florid trio, and this in turn to the elegant terzetto, "zitti, zitti." a bravura and finale of light and graceful melody close the opera. semiramide "semiramide" a lyric tragedy in two acts, words by gaetano rossi, the subject taken from voltaire's "semiramis," was first produced at the fenice, venice, feb. 3, 1823, with the following cast:- semiramide mme. rossini-colbran. arsaces mme. mariani. idreno mr. sinclair. assur sig. galli. oroe sig. mariani. on the 9th of july it was produced in french at the académie, paris, as "semiramis," with carlotta marchisio as semiramide, barbara, her sister, as arsaces, and m. obin as assur. at rossini's request m. carafa arranged the recitatives and wrote the ballet music. "semiramide" was the last opera rossini wrote for italy; and so far did he depart from the conventional italian style, that he was charged with imitating the german. it was probably for this reason that the opera when first performed did not meet with a kindly reception from the venetians. although he was occupied six months in negotiating for his stipulated price (one thousand dollars), he wrote the opera in three weeks. of its first performance, a correspondent of the "harmonicon," who was present, writes: "the first act, which lasted two hours and fifteen minutes, was received very coldly, with the exception of one passage in the overture, which overture, however, was unconscionably long. the second act, which lasted two hours and a half, began to please in an air of mariani, but the applause was rather directed to this favorite singer. after this a duet between her and colbran, together with an air of galli, and particularly a terzetto between him and the two ladies, were well received. rossini was also called for at the end of the second act. it is all over with madame, his own wife" (mme. colbran), who took the title-rôle. the scene of the opera is laid in babylon, and the story briefly told is as follows: ninus, the king of babylon, has been murdered by his queen, semiramis, aided by assur, a prince enamoured of her and aspiring to the throne. one of the queen's warriors, arsaces, supposed to be of scythian origin, but in reality her own son, returns from a foreign expedition and is loaded with honors for the victory he has won. semiramis, ignorant of his parentage, has a secret passion for him, he in the mean time being devoted to azema, one of the princesses royal. as all gather together in the temple to swear allegiance to the queen, the gates of ninus's tomb suddenly open, and his ghost appears and announces that arsaces will be the successor to the crown. at midnight semiramis, assur, and arsaces meet at the tomb, and by mistake assur stabs her instead of arsaces, who in turn kills assur, and, all obstacles being removed, is united to azema and ascends the throne. an introductory chorus of babylonians and a terzetto by idreno, assur, and oroe open the opera and lead up to the first appearance of semiramis, which is followed by a very dramatic quartet ("di tanti regi"). in the fourth scene arsaces has a very brilliant aria ("o! come da quel di"), which also did service in one or two of rossini's other operas, and is followed by a very animated duet ("bella imago degli dei") between himself and assur. the eighth scene is introduced by a graceful female chorus which leads to semiramis's brilliant and well-known aria, "bel raggio." in the tenth scene occurs an elegant duet ("serbami agnor si fido"), followed in the next scene by a stately priests' march and chorus ("ergi omai la fronte altera"), set to ecclesiastical harmony and accompanied by full military band as well as orchestra, this being the first instance where a military band was used in italian opera. it leads to the finale, where semiramis on her throne announces to her people her choice for their future king. the oath of allegiance follows in an impressive quartet with chorus ("giuro al numi"), and a defiant aria by the queen leads to the sudden appearance of the ghost of ninus, accompanied by characteristic music repeated in quintet with chorus. as the ghost speaks, the statue scene in don giovanni is inevitably recalled, especially in some phrases which are literally copied. the second act opens with a vindictively passionate duet ("assur, icenni mici") between assur and semiramis, closing with a fierce outburst of hatred ("la forza primiera"). the scene is a very long and spirited one, and is followed by a second chorus of priests, leading to a great aria with chorus ("ah! tu gelar mi fai") for arsaces. in the fifth scene occurs a long duet between arsaces and semiramis, the second part of which ("giorno d'orrore") is the strongest number in the opera. though intensely passionate in its tone, the music is smooth and flowing and very florid for both voices. the seventh scene is composed of a scena, aria and chorus, followed by still another chorus in the mausoleum. semiramis sings a prayer of great pathos and beauty ("ah mio pregar"). a terzetto ("l'usato ardir"), which like the mausoleum chorus is based upon an aria from mozart's "cosi fan tutti," closes the opera. "the harmonicon," to which reference has already been made, in an analysis of the work, has the following apt criticism: "it has been said, and truly, that 'semiramide' is composed in the german style, but it is the german style exaggerated. rossini is become a convert to this school, and his conversion does his judgment credit, though like all proselytes he passes into extremes. not satisfied with discarding the meagre accompaniments of the italian composers, he even goes far beyond the tramontane masters in the multitude and use of instruments, and frequently smothers his concerted pieces and choruses by the overwhelming weight of his orchestra." but what would the "harmonicon" have said, had it had wagner's instrumentation before it? william tell "william tell," an opera in three acts, words by étienne jouy and hippolyte bis, the subject taken from schiller's drama of the same name, was first produced at the académie, paris, aug. 3, 1829, with the following cast:- mathilde mme. damoreau-cinti. jemmy mme. dabodie. hedwig mlle. mori. arnold m. nourrit. walter m. levasseur. tell m. dabodie. ruodi m. dupont. rodolphe m. massol. gessler m. prévost. leutold m. prévôt. rossini wrote for paris only two new operas, "le comte ory" and "william tell,"--the latter his masterpiece in the serious style. the libretto was first prepared by m. jouy, but it was so bad that m. bis was called in, and to him is due the whole of the second act. even after the two authors had changed and revised it, rossini had to alter it in many places. when it was first performed the weakness of the drama was at once recognized, though its music was warmly welcomed, especially by the critical. it was represented fifty-six times in its original form, and was then cut down to three acts, the original third act being omitted and the fourth and fifth condensed into one. for three years after this time the second act was alone performed in paris; but when m. duprez made his début in the part of arnold, a fresh enthusiasm was aroused, and there was a genuine tell revival. the scene of the opera is laid in switzerland, period the thirteenth century, and the action closely follows the historical narrative. the disaffection which has arisen among the swiss, owing to the tyranny of gessler, suddenly comes to a climax when one of gessler's followers attempts an outrage upon the only daughter of the herdsman leutold, and meets his death at the hands of the indignant father. leutold seeks protection at the hands of tell, who, in the face of the herdsman's pursuers, succeeds in placing him beyond the reach of danger, and this circumstance arouses the wrath of gessler. melchtal, the village patriarch, is accused by him of inciting the people to insubordination, and is put to death. meanwhile arnold, his son, is enamoured of mathilde, gessler's daughter, and hesitates between love and duty when he is called upon to avenge his father's death. at last duty prevails, and he joins his comrades when the men of the three cantons, who are loyal to tell, meet and swear death to the tyrant. in the last act occurs the famous archery scene. to discover the leading offenders gessler erects a pole in the square of altorf, upon which he places his hat and commands the people to do homage to it. tell refuses, and as a punishment is ordered to shoot an apple from his son's head. he successfully accomplishes the feat, but as he is about to retire gessler observes a second arrow concealed in his garments, and inquires the reason for it, when tell boldly replies it was intended for him in case the first had killed his son. gessler throws him into prison, whereupon mathilde abandons her father and determines to help in the rescue of tell and his son. her lover, arnold, meanwhile, raises a band of brave followers and accomplishes the rescue himself. after slaying the tyrant and freeing his country tell returns to his family, and arnold and mathilde are united. the overture to "william tell," with its alpine repose, its great storm-picture, the stirring "ranz des vaches," and the trumpet-call to freedom, is one of the most perfect and beautiful ever written, and is so familiar that it does not need analysis. the first act opens with a delightfully fresh alpine chorus ("e il ciel sereno"), which is followed by a pastoral quartet between a fisherman, tell, hedwig, and jemmy. arnold enters, and a long duet, one of rossini's finest inspirations, follows between arnold and tell. the duet is interrupted by the entrance of several of the peasants escorting two brides and bridegrooms, which is the signal for a most graceful chorus and dance ("cinto il crine"). leutold then appears, seeking tell's protection, and a very dramatic finale begins, closing with the arrest of melchtal, which leads to an ensemble of great power. the second act opens with a double chorus of huntsmen and shepherds ("qual silvestre metro intorne"), which is followed by a scena preluding a charming romanza ("selva opaco") sung by mathilde. its mild, quiet beauty is in strange contrast with the remainder of this great act. it is followed by a passionate duet with arnold, a second and still more passionate duet between tell and walter, which leads to the magnificent trio of the oath ("la gloria inflammi"), and this in turn is followed by the splendid scene of the gathering of the cantons. for melodic and harmonic beauty combined, the spirited treatment of masses, and charm and variety of color, this great scene stands almost alone. the last act opens with a duet between mathilde and arnold, which is followed in the next scene by a march and chorus as the multitude gathers in the square of altorf, closing with a lovely tyrolean chorus sung by the sopranos and accompanied with the dance. the dramatic scene of the archery follows, and then arnold has a very passionate aria ("o muto asil"). some very vivid storm-music preluding the last scene, and the final hymn of freedom ("i boschi, i monti") close an opera which is unquestionably rossini's masterpiece, and in which his musical ability reached its highest expression. "manly, earnest, and mighty," hanslick calls it; and the same authority claims that the first and second acts belong to the most beautiful achievements of the modern opera. rubinstein. anton gregor rubinstein was born nov. 30, 1829, at weghwotynez in russia. his mother gave him lessons at the age of four, with the result that by the time he was six she was unable to teach him anything more. he then studied the piano with alexander villoing, a pupil of john field. in 1840 he entered the paris conservatory, where he attracted the attention of liszt, chopin, and thalberg. he remained in that city eighteen months, and then made some professional tours, in which he met with extraordinary success. in 1844 his parents removed to berlin, and he was placed under dehn, the famous contrapuntist, to study composition. from 1846 to 1848 he taught music in pressburg and vienna, and then went back to russia. for eight years he studied and wrote in st. petersburg, and at the end of that time had accumulated a mass of manuscripts destined to make his name famous all over europe, while his reputation as a skilful pianist was already world-wide. he visited england again in 1857, and the next year returned home and settled in st. petersburg, about which time he was made imperial concert director, with a life-pension. at this period in his career he devoted himself to the cause of music in russia. his first great work was the foundation of the conservatory in the above city in 1862, of which he remained principal until 1867. he also founded the russian musical society in 1861, and in 1869 was decorated by the czar. in 1870 he directed the philharmonic and choral societies of vienna, and shortly afterwards made another tour, during which, in 1872, he came to this country with the eminent violinist, wieniawsky, as will be well remembered. his greatest works are the "ocean symphony," "dramatic symphony," and a character sketch for grand orchestra called "ivan the terrible;" his operas, "children of the heath," "feramors," "nero," "the maccabees," "dimitri donskoi," and the "demon;" the oratorios "paradise lost," and "tower of babel," and a long and splendid catalogue of chamber, salon, and concert music, besides some beautiful songs, which are great favorites in the concert-room. nero. the opera of "nero," the libretto by jules barbier, was first produced in hamburg in 1879,--though it was originally intended for the french stage,--and in this country, march 14, 1887, at new york, by the american opera company, under the direction of mr. theodore thomas, with the following cast:- nero mr. candidus. julius vindex mr. ludwig. tigellinus mr. stoddard. balbillus mr. whitney. saccus mr. fessenden. sevirus mr. hamilton. terpander mr. lee. poppoea sabina miss bertha pierson. epicharis miss cornelia van zanten. chrysa miss emma juch. agrippina miss agnes sterling. lupus miss pauline l'allemand. the first act opens in the house of epicharis, a courtesan, which is a rendezvous for the dissolute roman nobles. the guests assembled sing a chorus in praise of the establishment, followed by a scene in which vindex, the prince of aquitania, saccus the poet, terpander the citharist, and others conspire against nero. suddenly chrysa, daughter of epicharis, who is ignorant of her mother's real character and dwells apart from her, rushes in and implores the protection of vindex from a crowd of revellers who have pursued her. a very spirited duet follows in which the prince promises her his assistance. upon hearing the shouts of her pursuers he conceals her just in time to escape the masked band, headed by nero himself, which bursts into the apartment. the tyrant demands the girl; and as he throws off his mask the guests stand amazed. saccus at last breaks the spell by the suggestion that nero shall marry the girl. when she is led out, and vindex discovers that epicharis is her mother, he no longer espouses her cause. then follows the music of the mock marriage, interspersed with dance strains and sardonic choruses by the courtesans and their associates, at last rising to a wild bacchanalian frenzy, in the midst of which vindex breaks out in a spirited song, with harp accompaniment, and finally hurls invectives at nero, as chrysa, who has drunk a narcotic at her mother's order, falls senseless. the latter declares she has been poisoned, and the act closes with a scene of great power in which vindex is hurried away as nero's prisoner. the second act opens in the dwelling of poppoea, nero's mistress, whose attendants are trying to console her. she has heard of nero's new infatuation; but her apprehensions are relieved when balbillus, the astrologer, enters and not only announces that chrysa is dead, but tells the equally grateful news that octavia, nero's wife, has been condemned to die. nero himself now appears upon the scene, and a duet follows in which poppoea reproaches him for his fickleness and he seeks to console her with flattery. at its close the death of octavia is announced, and poppoea is appeased by the prospect of sharing the throne. meanwhile chrysa has fallen into the custody of agrippina, nero's mother, who keeps close charge of her to further her own ambitions. during the interview between the tyrant and his mistress, epicharis rushes in and implores nero to give up chrysa, which leads to a powerful ensemble. learning that chrysa is still alive he leaves the apartment to find her. the second scene is brilliantly spectacular. nero and his mother appear in front of the temple, followed by a long procession to the music of a brilliant march. they enter the temple. after a short episode, in which poppoea informs epicharis of the refuge chrysa has found, the ballet is given in the open square, with its fascinating dances of warriors, bacchantes, jugglers and buffoons, and their mimic combats, the music of which is very familiar from its frequent performance in our concert-rooms. nero then appears and announces his divinity in a finale, which is rich with scenic, spectacular, and choral effects, accompanied by full military band and orchestra. the third act opens in chrysa's new asylum of refuge. the persecuted girl sings a beautiful prayer, at the close of which vindex joins her in a love-duet, which will always remain as one of the most refined and noble products of rubinstein's skill in harmony. the next number is one of almost equal beauty,--a duet for chrysa and epicharis, the motive of which is a cradle song. its soothing tones are interrupted by the appearance of nero, followed by poppoea and saccus, the last-named announcing to the tyrant that rome is in flames, which leads up to a vigorous trio. the concluding scene is full of characteristic music. it shows us nero watching the fire from his tower, while he sings a hymn ("o ilion") to the accompaniment of his lyre; the death of chrysa, who proclaims herself a christian and is killed by the infuriated populace; and the fate of epicharis, who is crushed beneath a falling house as she mourns for her daughter. the fourth act furnishes a dramatic denouement to the mournful story. the tyrant, wild with rage and frenzy, appears in the tomb of augustus, where the shades of his murdered victims terrify him. saccus enters and tells him of the revolt of his army and the danger which threatens him. he rushes out again and kills himself on the highway of the campagna, just as vindex at the head of his legions comes up with him. as he expires a cross appears in the sky and a chant is heard, herald of the coming christianity. thomas. charles ambroise thomas was born at metz, aug. 5, 1811, and entered the paris conservatory in 1828, where he carried off the grand prize in 1832, which entitled him to go to italy. during his italian residence he wrote a cantata, "hermann und ketty," and several instrumental works. his first work at the opera comique was the one-act opera, "la double echelle," produced in 1837 with success. he then brought out several ballets at the académie, but returned to the opera comique again, where, between 1840 and 1866, he composed thirteen operas, the most successful of which were "le songe d'une nuit d'été" (1850), "raymond" (1851), "psyche" (1857), and "mignon" (1866). during this period he also wrote a large number of cantatas, choruses, part-songs, and instrumental works. his next great work was "hamlet," first produced march 9, 1868, the success of which gained him the position of director of the conservatory in 1871. since that time he has written only the opera "françoise de rimini," performed april 14, 1882. in 1880 he was made a member of the legion of honor. in common with gounod he now shares the honor of being one of the few french writers who hold a high rank among modern composers. mignon "mignon," an opera comique in three acts, words by barbier and carré, the subject taken from goethe's "wilhelm meister," was first produced at the opera comique, paris, nov. 17, 1866, with the following cast:- mignon mme. galli-marié. wilhelm meister m. achard. laertes m. conders. lotario m. bataille. filina mme. cabel. the scene of the first two acts is laid in germany, and of the third in italy. mignon, the heroine, in her childhood was stolen by gypsies. she is of noble birth. the mother died shortly after her bereavement, and the father, disguised as the harper lotario, has wandered for years in quest of his daughter. the opera opens in the yard of a german inn, where a troupe of actors, among them filina and laertes, are resting, on their way to the castle of a neighboring prince, where they are to give a performance. a strolling gypsy band arrives about the same time, and stops to give an entertainment to the guests. mignon, who is with the band, is ordered to perform the egg dance, but, worn out with fatigue and abusive treatment, refuses. giarno, the leader, rushes at her, but the old harper interposes in her behalf. giarno then turns upon lotario, when the wandering student, wilhelm meister, suddenly appears and rescues both mignon and the harper. to save her from any further persecution he engages her as his page, and follows on in the suite of filina, for whom he conceives a violent and sudden passion. touched by his kind attentions to her, mignon falls in love with wilhelm, who, ignorant of his page's affection, becomes more and more a prey to the fascinations of filina. at last the troupe arrives at the castle, wilhelm and mignon with them. wilhelm enters with the others, leaving mignon to await him outside. maddened with jealousy, she attempts to throw herself into a lake near by, but is restrained by the notes of lotario's harp. she rushes to him for counsel and protection, and in her despair invokes vengeance upon all in the castle. as the entertainment closes, filina and her troupe emerge, joyful over their great success. she sends mignon back for some flowers she has left, when suddenly flames appear in the windows. maddened by his own grief and mignon's troubles lotario has fired the castle. wilhelm rushes into the burning building and brings out the unconscious mignon in his arms. the last act opens in lotario's home in italy, whither mignon has been taken, followed by wilhelm, who has discovered her devoted attachment to him, and has freed himself from the fascinations of filina. through the medium of a long-concealed casket containing a girdle which mignon had worn in her childhood, also by a prayer which she repeats, and the picture of her mother, lotario is at last convinced that she is his daughter, and gives his blessing to her union with wilhelm. the overture recites the leading motives of the work. the first act opens with a fresh and melodious chorus of the townspeople over their beer in the inn yard ("su borghesi e magnati"). during their singing a characteristic march is heard, and the gypsy band enters. the scene is a charming one, the little ballet being made still more picturesque by the fresh chorus and a song of filina's in waltz time. the scene of the encounter with giarno and mignon's rescue follows, and leads up to a very spirited quintet, which is followed by a graceful trio between wilhelm, filina, and laertes, the actor. in the next scene wilhelm questions mignon as to her history, and at the end of their pathetic duet, when he says, "were i to break thy chains and set thee free, to what beloved spot wouldst thou take thy way?" she replies in the beautiful romanza, "non conosci il bel suol," more familiarly known in goethe's own words, "kennst du das land,"--a song full of tender beauty and rare expression, and one of the most delightful inspirations of any composer. it is said that much of its charm comes from the composer's study of ary scheffer's picture of mignon. be this as it may, he has caught the inner sense of the poem, and expressed it in exquisite tones. it is followed almost immediately by a duet between mignon and lotario ("leggiadre rondinelle") of almost equal beauty, known as the swallow duet. after a somewhat uninteresting scene between laertes, filina, and frederick, who is also in love with filina, the finale begins with the departure of the actors to fulfil their engagement, in which filina, in a graceful aria ("grazie al gentil signor"), invites wilhelm to be of the number. the second act opens in filina's boudoir, where she is at her toilet, arraying herself for her part as titania in the forthcoming performance of the "midsummer night's dream" at the castle. as wilhelm and mignon enter the apartment, a very dramatic conversation ensues between them in the form of a terzetto ("ohimè quell' acre riso"). mignon is in despair at the attention wilhelm pays filina, and the latter adds to her pangs by singing with him a gay coquettish aria ("gai complimenti"). as they leave the room mignon goes to the mirror and begins adorning herself as filina had done, hoping thereby to attract wilhelm, singing meanwhile a characteristic song ("conosco un zingarello") with a peculiar refrain, which the composer himself calls the "styrienne." it is one of the most popular numbers in the opera, and when first sung in paris made a furor. at the end of the scene mignon goes into a cabinet to procure one of filina's dresses, and the lovelorn frederick enters and sings his only number in the opera, a bewitching rondo gavotte ("filina nelle sale"). wilhelm enters, and a quarrel between the jealous pair is prevented by the sudden appearance of mignon in filina's finery. she rushes between them, frederick makes his exit in a fume, and wilhelm announces to mignon his intention to leave her, in the aria, "addio, mignon, fa core," one of the most pathetic songs in the modern opera. in the next scene she tears off her finery and rushes out expressing her hatred of filina. the scene now changes to the park surrounding the castle where the entertainment is going on. mignon hears the laughter and clapping of hands, and overcome with despair attempts to throw herself into the lake, but is restrained by lotario, and a beautiful duet ensues between them ("sofferto hai tu?"). in the next scene filina, the actors, and their train of followers emerge from the castle, and in the midst of their joy she sings the polacca, "ah! per stassera," which is a perfect _feu de joie_ of sparkling music, closing with a brilliant cadenza. the finale, which is very dramatic, describes the burning of the castle and the rescue of mignon. the last act is more dramatic than musical, though it contains a few delightful numbers, among them the chorus barcarole in the first scene, "orsu, sciogliam le vela," a song by wilhelm ("ah! non credea"), and the love duet, "ah! son felice," between wilhelm and mignon, in which is heard again the cadenza of filina's polacca. "mignon" has always been a success, and will unquestionably always keep its place on the stage,--longer even than the composer's more ambitious works, "hamlet" and "françoise de rimini," by virtue of its picturesqueness and poetic grace, as well as by the freshness, warmth, and richness of its melodies. in this country opera-goers will long remember "mignon" by the great successes made by miss kellogg as filina, and by mme. lucca and mme. nilsson in the title-rôle. verdi. giuseppi verdi was born at roncale, italy, oct. 9, 1813. he displayed his musical talent at a very early age; indeed, in his tenth year he was appointed organist in his native town. he then studied for a time at busseto, and afterwards, by the help of a patron, m. barezzi, went to milan. curiously enough he was refused a scholarship on the ground that he displayed no aptitude for music. nothing daunted, he studied privately with the composer lavigne, and five years afterwards commenced his career as an operatic writer. his first opera, "oberto," was given at la scala, milan, with indifferent success. he was not fairly recognized until his opera "i lombardi" was performed. in 1844 "ernani" was received with great enthusiasm. "attila" (1846) was his next great triumph; and then followed in rapid succession a large number of operas, among them: "i masnadieri" (1847), written for the english stage, with jenny lind, lablache, and gardoni in the cast; "luisa miller" (1849); "stifellio" (1851); "rigoletto" (1851); "il trovatore," rome (1853); "la traviata," venice (1853); "i vespri siciliani," paris (1855); "simon boccanegra," venice (1857); "un ballo in maschera," rome (1858); "la forza del destino," st. petersburg (1862); "don carlos," paris (1867), and "aida," his last opera, cairo (1871). since that time verdi has produced nothing but a pater noster and an ave maria (1880), and the "requiem," composed in memory of the patriot manzoni, and produced at milan in 1874, on the occasion of the anniversary of his death. it has been reported that he is at work upon a new opera, "othello," the words by arrigo boito, the composer of "mephistopheles;" but nothing more than the report has been heard from it during the past three or four years. the great melodist now spends a very quiet life as a country gentleman upon his estates near busseto. ernani. "ernani," a tragic opera in four acts, words by f.m. piave, the subject taken from victor hugo's tragedy of "hernani," was first produced at venice, march 9, 1844. the earlier performances of the opera gave the composer much trouble. before the first production the police interfered, refusing to allow the representation of a conspiracy on the stage, so that many parts of the libretto, as well as much of the music, had to be changed. the blowing of don silva's horn in the last act was also objected to by one count mocenigo, upon the singular ground that it was disgraceful. the count, however, was silenced more easily than the police. the chorus "si ridesti il leon di castiglia" also aroused a political manifestation by the venetians. the opera was given in paris, jan. 6, 1846, and there it encountered the hostility of victor hugo, who demanded that the libretto should be changed. to accommodate the irate poet, the words were altered, the characters were changed to italians, and the new title of "ii proscritto" was given to the work. the action of the opera takes place in arragon, spain, and the period is 1519. elvira, a noble spanish lady, betrothed to the grandee don gomez de silva, is in love with the bandit ernani, who forms a plan to carry her off. while receiving the congratulations of her friends upon her approaching marriage with silva, don carlos, the king of spain, enters her apartment, declares his passion for her, and tries to force her from the castle. she cries for help, and ernani comes to her rescue and defies the king. the situation is still further complicated by the sudden arrival of silva, who declares he will avenge the insult. finding, however, that it is the king whom he has challenged, he sues for pardon. in the second act, as the nuptials are about to be solemnized, ernani enters, disguised as a pilgrim, and believing elvira false to him, throws off his disguise and demands to be given up to the king, which silva refuses, as he cannot betray a guest. discovering, however, that elvira and ernani are attached to each other, he determines on vengeance. the king eventually carries off elvira as a hostage of the faith of silva, whereupon the latter challenges ernani. the bandit refuses to fight with him, informs him that the king is also his rival, and asks to share in his vengeance, promising in turn to give up his life when silva calls for it, and presenting him with a horn which he is to sound whenever he wishes to have the promise kept. in the third act, the king, aware that the conspirators are to meet in the catacombs of aquisgrana, conceals himself there, and when the assassins meet to decide who shall kill him, he suddenly appears among them and condemns the nobles to be sent to the block. ernani, who is a duke, under the ban of the king of castile, demands the right to join them, but the king magnanimously pardons the conspirators and consents to the union of ernani and elvira. upon the very eve of their happiness, and in the midst of their festivities, the fatal horn is heard, and true to his promise ernani parts from elvira and kills himself. the first act opens with a spirited chorus of banditti and mountaineers ("allegri, beviami") as they are drinking and gambling in their mountain retreat. ernani appears upon a neighboring height and announces himself in a despondent aria ("come rugiada al cespite"). a brief snatch of chorus intervenes, when he breaks out in a second and more passionate strain ("dell' esilio nel dolore"), in which he sings of his love for elvira. the third scene opens in elvira's apartments, and is introduced with one of the most beautiful of verdi's arias, "ernani, involami," with which all concert-goers have become acquainted by its frequent repetition. a graceful chorus of her ladies bearing gifts leads to a second and more florid number ("tutto sprezzo che d' ernani"). don carlos enters, and in the seventh scene has an aria ("bella come un primo amore") in which he declares his passion for elvira, leading up to a very dramatic duet between them ("fiero sangue d' aragona"). this is followed in turn by a trio between the two and ernani. the finale commences with an impressive and sonorous bass solo ("infelice! e tuo credevi") by silva, and closes with a septet and chorus of great power. the second act, like the first, opens with a chorus, this time, however, of mixed voices, the power of which is amplified by a military band on the stage. after three scenes of dramatic dialogue, an impassioned duet ("ah! morir potessi adesso!") occurs between ernani and elvira, followed by a second, of great dramatic intensity, in the seventh scene ("la vendetta piu tremenda"). the finale begins with a spirited appeal by silva and ernani for vengeance against the king ("in arcione, cavalieri") which is met by a stirring response from their followers ("pronti vedi li tuoi cavalieri"), sung by full male chorus and closing the act. the third act is devoted to the conspiracy, and in the second scene don carlos has a very impressive and at times thrilling soliloquy ("gran dio! costo sui sepolcrali marmi"). the conspiracy then begins with very characteristic accompaniments, closing with the chorus in full harmony ("si ridesti il leon di castiglia"), which at the performance of the work in venice roused such a fury among the venetians. the finale commences with the appearance of don carlos among the conspirators, and closes with the great sextet and chorus, "o sommo carlo." opening with a barytone solo, it is gradually worked up in a crescendo of great power and thrilling effect. the number is very familiar from its english setting under the title, "crowned with the tempest." the fourth act rapidly hurries to the tragic close, and is less interesting from a musical point of view, as the climax was reached in the finale of the third. the principal numbers are the chorus of masks in the first scene ("o come felici"), accompanied by military band, and the great duet between elvira and ernani ("cessaro i suoni"), which passes from rapturous ecstasy to the despair of fate ("per noi d' amore il talamo") as the horn of silva is heard, reminding ernani of his promise. though one of the earliest of verdi's works, "ernani" is one of his strongest in dramatic intensity, in the brilliancy and power of its concerted finales, and in the beauty of its great chorus effects. rigoletto. "rigoletto," an opera in three acts, words by piave, the subject taken from victor hugo's tragedy, "le roi s'amuse," was first produced at venice, march 11, 1851. the part of gilda has always been a favorite one with great artists, among whom nantier-didiée, bosio, and miolan-carvalho played the rôle with extraordinary success. in the london season of 1860 mario and ronconi in the respective parts of the duke and rigoletto, it is said, gave dramatic portraitures which were among the most consummate achievements of the lyric stage. the records of its first production, like those of "ernani," are of unusual interest. verdi himself suggested victor hugo's tragedy to piave for a libretto, and he soon prepared one, changing the original title, however, to "la maledizione." warned by the political events of 1848, the police flatly refused to allow the representation of a king on the stage in such situations as those given to francis i. in the original tragedy. the composer and the manager of the theatre begged in vain that the libretto should be accepted, but the authorities were obstinate. at last a way was found out of the difficulty by the chief of police himself, who was a great lover of art. he suggested to the librettist that the king should be changed to a duke of mantua, and the title of the work to "rigoletto," the name of the buffoon who figures in the place of the original triboulet. verdi accepted the alterations, and had an opera ready in forty days which by nearly all critics is considered his musical masterpiece, notwithstanding the revolting character of the story. the scene of the opera is laid in mantua. rigoletto, the privileged buffoon of the duke, who also plays the part of pander in all his licentious schemes, among numerous other misdeeds has assisted his master in the seduction of the wife of count ceprano and the daughter of count monterone. the latter appears before the duke and rigoletto, and demands reparation for the dishonor put upon his house, only to find himself arrested by order of the duke, and taunted in the most insolent manner by the buffoon, upon whom he invokes the vengeance of heaven. even the courtiers themselves are enraged at rigoletto's taunts, and determine to assist in monterone's revenge by stealing gilda, the jester's daughter, whom they suppose to be his mistress. closely as she had been concealed, she had not escaped the observation of the duke, who in the guise of a poor student wins her affections and discovers her dwelling-place. pretending that it is count ceprano's wife whom they are about to abduct, they even make rigoletto assist in the plot and help convey his own daughter to the duke's apartments. in his blind fury when he discovers the trick that has been played upon him, he hires sparafucile, a professional assassin, to kill the duke. the bravo allures the duke to his house, intending to carry out his agreement; but his sister, magdalena, is so fascinated with the handsome stranger, that she determines to save him. sparafucile at first will not listen to her, but finally promises if any one else comes to the house before the time agreed upon for the murder he shall be the victim. rigoletto meanwhile disguises his daughter in male attire in order that she may escape to verona; but before she sets out he takes her to the vicinity of sparafucile's house, that she may witness the perfidy of the duke. while outside, she overhears the quarrel between sparafucile and magdalena, and learns his intention to murder the duke, who is even then sleeping in the house. with a woman's devotion she springs forward to save the duke's life, knocks at the door, and demands admittance. sparafucile opens it, and as she enters stabs her. he then thrusts her body into a sack, and delivers it to her father as the body of the man whom he had agreed to slay. rigoletto, gloating over his revenge, is about to throw the sack into the river near by, when he suddenly hears the voice of the duke. he tears open the sack to see whose body it contains, and by the glare of the lightning is horrified to find that it is his own daughter, and realizes that the malediction of monterone has been accomplished. she expires in his arms, blessing her lover and father, while he sinks to the ground overwhelmed with the fulfilment of the terrible curse. the first act opens in the ball-room of the ducal palace. after a brief dialogue between the duke and one of his courtiers, the former vaunts his own fickleness in one of the most graceful and charming arias in the whole opera ("questa o quella"). some spirited dramatic scenes follow, which introduce the malediction of monterone and the compact between rigoletto and sparafucile, and lead up to a scena of great power ("io la lingua, egli ha il pugnali"), in which the buffoon vents his furious rage against the courtiers. a tender duet between rigoletto and gilda follows, and a second duet in the next scene between gilda and the duke ("addio, speranza ed anima"), which for natural grace, passionate intensity, and fervid expression is one of verdi's finest numbers. as the duke leaves, gilda, following him with her eyes, breaks out in the passionate love-song, "caro nome," which is not alone remarkable for its delicacy and richness of melody, but also for the brilliancy of its bravura, calling for rare range and flexibility of voice. the act closes with the abduction, and gives an opportunity for a delightful male chorus ("zitti, zitti") sung pianissimo. the second act also opens in the palace, with an aria by the duke ("parmi veder le lagrime"), in which he laments the loss of gilda. another fine chorus ("scorrendo uniti remota via") follows, from which he learns that gilda is already in the palace. in the fourth scene rigoletto has another grand scena ("cortigiani vil razza dannata"), which is intensely dramatic, expressing in its musical alternations the whole gamut of emotions, from the fury of despair to the most exquisite tenderness of appeal as he pleads with the courtiers to tell him where his daughter is. in the next scene he discovers her, and the act closes with a duet between them ("tutte le feste al tempio"), which, after a strain of most impassioned tenderness, is interrupted by the passage of the guards conveying monterone to prison, and then closes with a furious outburst of passion from rigoletto. with the exception of two numbers, the last act depends for its effect upon the dramatic situations and the great power of the terrible denouement; but these two numbers are among the finest verdi has ever given to the world. the first is the tenor solo sung in sparafucile's house in the second scene by the duke,--"la donna e mobile," an aria of extreme elegance and graceful abandon, which is heard again in the last scene, its lightly tripping measures contrasting strangely with the savage glee of rigoletto, so soon to change to wails of despair as he realizes the full force of the malediction. the second is the great quartet in the third scene between the duke, gilda, magdalena, and rigoletto ("bella figlia dell' amore"), which stands out as an inspiration in comparison with the rest of the opera, fine as its music is. the story itself is almost too repulsive for stage representation; but in beauty, freshness, originality, and dramatic expression the music of "rigoletto" is verdi's best; and in all this music the quartet is the masterpiece. la traviata. "la traviata," an opera in three acts, words by piave, is founded upon dumas's "dame aux camelias," familiar to the english stage as "camille." the original play is supposed to represent phases of modern french life; but the italian libretto changes the period to the year 1700, in the days of louis xiv.; and there are also some material changes of characters,--marguerite gauthier of the original appearing as violetta valery, and olympia as flora belvoix, at whose house the ball scene takes place. the opera was first produced at venice, march 6, 1853, with the following cast of the principal parts:- violetta mme. donatelli. alfredo m. graziani. germont m. varesi. the opera at its first production was a complete failure, though this was due more to the singers than to the music. it is said that when the doctor announced in the third act that mme. donatelli, who impersonated the consumptive heroine, and who was one of the stoutest ladies ever seen on the stage, had but a few days to live, the whole audience broke out into roars of laughter. time has brought its consolations to the composer, however, for "traviata" is now one of the most popular operas in the modern repertory. when it was first produced in paris, oct. 27, 1864, christine nilsson made her début in it. in london, the charming little singer mme. piccolomini made her début in the same opera, may 24, 1856. adelina patti, since that time, has not only made violetta the strongest character in her repertory, but is without question the most finished representative of the fragile heroine the stage has seen. the story as told by the librettist simply resolves itself into three principal scenes,--the supper at violetta's house, where she makes the acquaintance of alfred, and the rupture between them occasioned by the arrival of alfred's father; the ball at the house of flora; and the death scene and reconciliation, linked together by recitative, so that the dramatic unity of the original is lost to a certain extent. the first act opens with a gay party in violetta's house. among the crowd about her is alfred germont, a young man from provence, who is passionately in love with her. the sincerity of his passion finally influences her to turn aside from her life of voluptuous pleasure and to cherish a similar sentiment for him. in the next act we find her living in seclusion with her lover in a country-house in the environs of paris, to support which she has sold her property in the city. when alfred discovers this he refuses to be the recipient of her bounty, and sets out for paris to recover the property. during his absence his father, who has discovered his retreat, visits violetta, and pleads with her to forsake alfred, not only on his own account, but to save his family from disgrace. touched by the father's grief, she consents, and secretly returns to paris, where she once more resumes her old life. at a ball given by flora belvoix, one of violetta's associates, alfred meets her again, overwhelms her with reproaches, and insults her by flinging her miniature at her feet in presence of the whole company. stung by her degradation, violetta goes home to die, and too late alfred learns the real sacrifice she has made. he hastens to comfort her, but she dies forgiving and blessing him. after a short prelude the first act opens with a vivacious chorus of the guests at violetta's supper, leading to a drinking-song ("libiamo, libiamo") in waltz time, sung first by alfred and then by violetta, the chorus echoing each couplet with very pretty effect. after a long dialogue between the two, closing with chorus, violetta has a grand scena which is always a favorite show-piece with concert artists. it begins with an andante movement ("ah! fors e lui"), expressive of the suddenly awakened love which she feels for alfred, with a refrain of half a dozen measures in the finale which might be called the violetta motive, and then suddenly develops into a brisk and sparkling allegro ("sempre libera") full of the most florid and brilliant ornamentation, in which she again resolves to shut out every feeling of love and plunge into the whirl of dissipation. this number, unlike most of verdi's finales which are concerted, closes the act. the second act opens in the country-house with an effective tenor aria ("de' miei bollenti") sung by alfred. in the next scene germont enters, and after a brief dialogue with violetta sings a short cantabile ("pura siccome un angelo"), leading to a duet ("dite alia giovine") with violetta which is full of tenderness. in the interview which immediately follows between germont and alfred, the father appeals to his son with memories of home in an andante ("di provenza il mar") which in form and simplicity and simple pathos of expression might almost be called a ballad. it is always a favorite, and is usually considered the best number in the opera, notwithstanding its simple melody. the next scene changes to the ball-room of flora, and is introduced with a peculiar chorus effect. a masked chorus of gypsies, accompanying their measures with tambourines, is followed by a second chorus of matadors, also in mask, who accent the time with the pikes they carry, the double number ending with a gay bolero. the act closes with a long duet between violetta and alfred, developing in the finale, by the entrance of germont, to a very strong and dramatic trio. the third act opens in violetta's chamber with a reminiscence of the introduction. as she contemplates her changed appearance in the mirror, she bids a sad farewell to her dreams of happiness in the aria, "addio! del passato," in harsh contrast with which is heard a bacchanalian chorus behind the scenes ("largo al quadrupede"). in the next scene occurs the passionate duet with alfred, "parigi, o cara," which is a close copy of the final duet in "trovatore" between manrico and azucena. it is followed by the aria, "ah! gran dio," for violetta, which leads to the concluding quintet and death scene. il trovatore. "ii trovatore," an opera in four acts, words by cammarano, was first produced in rome, jan. 19, 1853. in 1857 it was brought out in paris as "le trouvere," and in london, 1856, in english, as "the gypsy's vengeance." it was produced in rome in the same year with "la traviata," but unlike the latter, it was greeted at once with an enthusiastic welcome; and it has held the stage ever since as one of the most popular operas in the modern repertory. in this regard, indeed, it shares with "martha" and "faust" the highest place in popular admiration. the opera opens with a midnight scene at the palace of aliaferia, where the old servitor, ferrando, relates to his associates the story of the fate of garzia, brother of the count di luna, in whose service they are employed. while in their cradles, garzia was bewitched by an old gypsy, and day by day pined away. the gypsy was burned at the stake for sorcery; and in revenge azucena, her daughter, stole the sickly child. at the opening of the opera his fate has not been discovered. as the servitor closes his narrative and he and his companions depart, the count di luna enters and lingers by the apartment of the duchess leonora, with whom he is in love. hearing his voice, leonora comes into the garden, supposing it is manrico the troubadour, whom she had crowned victor at a recent tournament, and of whom she had become violently enamoured. as she greets the count, manrico appears upon the scene and charges her with infidelity. recognizing her error, she flies to manrico for protection. the count challenges him to combat, and as they prepare to fight she falls to the ground insensible. in the second act we are introduced to a gypsy camp, where azucena relates to manrico, who has been wounded in the duel with the count, the same story which ferrando had told his friends, with the addition that when she saw her mother burning she caught up the count's child, intending to throw it into the flames, but by a mistake sacrificed her own infant. as the story concludes, a messenger arrives, summoning manrico to the defence of the castle of castellar, and at the same time informing him that leonora, supposing him dead, has gone to a convent. he arrives at the convent in time to rescue her before she takes her vows, and bears her to castellar, which is at once besieged by the count's forces. the third act opens in the camp of the count, where azucena, arrested as a spy, is dragged in. she calls upon manrico for help. the mention of his rival's name only adds fuel to the count's wrath, and he orders the gypsy to be burned in sight of the castle. ferrando has already recognized her as the supposed murderer of the count's brother, and her filial call to manrico also reveals to him that she is his mother. he makes a desperate effort to rescue her, but is defeated, taken prisoner, and thrown into a dungeon with azucena. leonora vainly appeals to the count to spare manrico, and at last offers him her hand if he will save his life. he consents, and leonora hastens to the prison to convey the tidings, having previously taken poison, preferring to die rather than fulfil her hateful compact. manrico refuses his liberty, and as leonora falls in a dying condition the count enters and orders manrico to be put to death at once. he is dragged away to execution, but as the count triumphantly forces azucena to a window and shows her the tragic scene, she reveals her secret, and informing the horror-stricken count that he has murdered his own brother, falls lifeless to the ground. the first act opens with a ballad in mazurka time ("abbietta zingara"), in which ferrando relates the story of the gypsy, leading up to a scena for leonora, which is treated in verdi's favorite style. it begins with an andante ("tacea la notte placida"), a brief dialogue with her attendant inez intervening, and then develops into an allegro ("di tale amor") which is a brilliant bit of bravura. a brief snatch of fascinating melody behind the scenes ("deserto sulla terra") introduces manrico, and the act closes with a trio ("di geloso amor sprezzato"), which as an expression of combined grief, fear, and hate, is one of the most dramatic and intense of all verdi's finales. the second act opens with the anvil chorus in the camp of the gypsies ("la zingarella"), the measures accented with hammers upon the anvils. this number is so familiar that it does not need further reference. as its strains die away in the distance, azucena breaks out into an aria of intense energy, with very expressive accompaniment ("stride le vampa"), in which she tells the fearful story of the burning of her mother. a very dramatic dialogue with manrico ensues, closing with a spirited aria for tenor ("mai reggendo") and duet ("sino all' elsa"). the scene is interrupted by the notes of a horn announcing the arrival of a messenger. the second scene is introduced by a flowing, broad, and beautifully sustained aria for the count ("il balen del suo"), and, like leonora's numbers in the garden scene, again develops from a slow movement to a rapid and spirited march tempo ("per me ora fatale"), the act closing with a powerful concerted effect of quartet and chorus. the third act is introduced with a very free and animated soldiers' chorus. azucena is dragged in and sings a plaintive lament for manrico ("giorni poveri"). two duets follow, between azucena and the count, and manrico and leonora,--the second worked up with beautiful effect by the blending of the organ in the convent chapel. the act closes with the spirited aria, "di quella pira," for manrico,--a number which has always been the delight of great dramatic tenors, not alone for its fine melody, but for its opportunity of showing the voice and using the exceptional high c which is introduced in the finale of the aria. the last act is replete with beautiful melodies following each other in quick succession. it opens with a very florid aria for leonora ("d' amor sull' ali rosee"), leading to the exquisite scene of the miserere, "ah che la morte,"--a number which has never yet failed to charm and arouse audiences with the beauty and richness of its musical effect. as the count enters, leonora has another powerful aria ("mira di acerbe"), which in the next scene is followed by the familiar duet between azucena and manrico, "si la stanchezza," upon which verdi lavished his musical skill with charming effect. the last scene closes with the tragedy. the whole opera is liberally enriched with melodies, and is dramatic throughout; but the last act is the crown of the work, and may successfully challenge comparison, for beauty, variety, and dramatic effect, with any other opera in the purely italian school. il ballo in maschera. "il ballo in maschera," an opera in three acts, but usually performed in four, words by m. somma, was first produced in rome, feb. 17, 1859. in preparing his work for the stage, verdi encountered numerous obstacles. the librettist used the same subject which m. scribe had adopted for auber's opera, "gustavus iii.," and the opera was at first called by the same name,--"gustavo iii." it was intended for production at the san carlo, naples, during the carnival of 1858; but while the rehearsals were proceeding, orsini made his memorable attempt to kill napoleon iii., and the authorities at once forbade a performance of the work, as it contained a conspiracy scene. the composer was ordered to set different words to his music, but he peremptorily refused; whereupon the manager brought suit against him, claiming forty thousand dollars damages. the disappointment nearly incited a revolution in naples. crowds gathered in the streets shouting, "viva verdi," implying at the same time, by the use of the letters in verdi's name, the sentiment, "viva vittorio emmanuele re di italia." a way out of his difficulties, however, was finally suggested by the impresario at rome, who arranged with the censorship to have the work brought out at the teatro apollo as "un ballo in maschera." the scene was changed to boston, massachusetts, and the time laid in the colonial period, notwithstanding the anachronism that masked balls were unknown at that time in new england history. the swedish king appeared as ricardo, count of warwick and governor of boston, and his attendants as royalists and puritans, among them two negroes, sam and tom, who are very prominent among the conspirators. in this form, the romans having no objection to the assassination of an english governor, the opera was produced with great success. the first act opens in the house of the governor, where a large party, among them a group of conspirators, is assembled. during the meeting a petition is presented for the banishment of ulrico, a negro sorcerer. urged by curiosity, the governor, disguised as a sailor and accompanied by some of his friends, pays the old witch a visit. meanwhile another visit has been planned. amelia, the wife of the governor's secretary, meets the witch at night in quest of a remedy for her passion for richard, who of course has also been fascinated by her. they arrive about the same time, and he overhears the witch telling her to go to a lonely spot, where she will find an herb potent enough to cure her of her evil desires. the governor follows her, and during their interview the secretary hurriedly rushes upon the scene to notify him that conspirators are on his track. he throws a veil over amelia's face and orders reinhart, the secretary, to conduct her to a place of safety without seeking to know who she is. he consents, and the governor conceals himself in the forest. the conspirators meanwhile meet the pair, and in the confusion amelia drops her veil, thus revealing herself to reinhart. furious at the governor's perfidy, he joins the conspirators. in the denouement the secretary stabs his master at a masquerade, and the latter while dying attests the purity of amelia, and magnanimously gives his secretary a commission appointing him to a high position in england. after a brief prelude, the first act opens with a double chorus, in which the attitude of the friends of the governor and the conspirators against him is strongly contrasted. in the next scene richard and his page, oscar, enter; and after a short dialogue richard sings a very graceful romanza ("la rivedra nell' estasi"), which in the next scene is followed by a spirited aria for reinhart ("di speranze e glorie piena"). in the fourth scene oscar has a very pretty song ("volta la terrea"), in which he defends ulrica against the accusations of the judge, leading up to a very effective quintet and chorus which has a flavor of the opera bouffe style. in grim contrast with it comes the witch music in the next scene ("re del abisso"), set to a weird accompaniment. as the various parties arrive, a somewhat talky trio ensues between amelia, ulrica, and richard, followed in the next scene by a lovely barcarole ("di' tu se fedele") sung by richard, leading to a beautifully written concerted finale full of sharp dramatic contrasts. the second act opens upon a moonlight scene on the spot where murderers are punished; and amelia, searching for the magic herb, sings a long dramatic aria ("ma dall arido") consisting of abrupt and broken measures, the orchestra filling the gaps with characteristic accompaniment. richard appears upon the scene, and the passionate love-duet follows, "m'ami, m'ami." the interview is ended by the sudden appearance of reinhart, who warns the governor of his danger, the scene taking the form of a spirited trio ("odi tu come"). a buffo trio closes the act, sam and tom supplying the humorous element with their laughing refrain. the last act opens in reinhart's house with a passionate scene between the secretary and his wife, containing two strong numbers, a minor andante ("morro, ma prima in grazia") for amelia, and an aria for reinhart ("o dolcezzo perdute"), which for originality and true artistic power is worthy of being classed as an inspiration. the conspiracy music then begins, and leads to the ball scene, which is most brilliantly worked up with orchestra, military band, and stringed quartet behind the scenes supplying the dance-music, and the accompaniment to the tragical conspiracy, in the midst of which, like a bright sunbeam, comes the page's bewitching song, "saper vorreste." the opera closes with the death of richard, set to a very dramatic accompaniment. "the masked ball" was the last work verdi wrote for the italian stage, and though uneven in its general effect, it contains some of his most original and striking numbers,--particularly those allotted to the page and reinhart. in the intensity of the music and the strength of the situations it is superior even to "trovatore," as the composer makes his effects more legitimately. aida. "aida," an opera in four acts, was first produced at cairo, egypt, dec. 27, 1871, and was written upon a commission from the khedive of that country. the subject of the opera was taken from a sketch, originally written in prose, by the director of the museum at boulak, which was afterwards rendered into french verse by m. camille de locle, and translated thence into italian for verdi by sig. a. ghizlandoni. it is the last opera verdi has composed, and is notable for his departure from the conventional italian forms and the partial surrender he has made to the constantly increasing influence of the so-called music of the future. the subject is entirely egyptian, and the music is full of oriental color. the action of the opera passes in memphis and thebes, and the period is in the time of the pharaohs. aida, the heroine, is a slave, daughter of amonasro, the king of ethiopia, and at the opening of the opera is in captivity among the egyptians. a secret attachment exists between herself and rhadames, a young egyptian warrior, who is also loved by amneris, daughter of the sovereign of egypt. the latter suspects that she has a rival, but does not discover her until rhadames returns victorious from an expedition against the rebellious amonasro, who is brought back a prisoner. the second act opens with a scene between amneris and aida, in which the princess wrests the secret from the slave by pretending that rhadames has been killed; and the truth is still further revealed when rhadames pleads with the king to spare the lives of the captives. the latter agrees to release all but aida and amonasro, bestows the hand of amneris upon the unwilling conqueror, and the act closes amid general jubilation. acting upon amonasro's admonitions, aida influences rhadames to fly from egypt and espouse the cause of her father. the lovers are overheard by amneris and ramfis, the high priest. the princess, with all the fury of a woman scorned, denounces rhadames as a traitor. he is tried for treason and condemned to be buried alive in the vaults under the temple of the god phtah. pardon is offered him if he will accept the hand of amneris, but he refuses and descends to the tomb, where he finds aida awaiting him. the stones are sealed above them and the lovers are united in death, while amneris, heart-broken over the tragedy her jealousy has caused, kneels in prayer before their sepulchre. after a short prelude, consisting of a beautiful pianissimo movement, mainly for the violins, and very wagnerish in its general style, the first act opens in a hall of the king's palace at memphis. a short dialogue between rhadames and the priest ramfis leads to a delicious romanza ("celeste aida") which is entirely fresh and original, recalling nothing that appears in any of verdi's previous works. it is followed by a strong declamatory duet between rhadames and amneris, which upon the appearance of aida develops to a trio ("vieni, o diletta"). in the next scene the king and his retinue of ministers, priests, and warriors enter, and a majestic ensemble occurs, beginning with a martial chorus ("su! del nilo") in response to the appeal of the priests. as the war chorus dies away and the retinue disappears, aida has a scena of great power. it begins with a lament for her country ("ritorna vincitor"), in passionate declamatory phrases, clearly showing the influence of wagner; but in its smooth, flowing cantabile in the finale, "numi pieta," verdi returns to the italian style again. the final scene is full of oriental color and barbaric richness of display. the consecrated arms are delivered to rhadames. the priestesses behind the scene to the accompaniment of harps, and the priests in front with sonorous chant, invoke the aid of the god phtah, while other priestesses execute the sacred dance. an impressive duet between ramfis and rhadames closes the act. in this finale, verdi has utilized two native egyptian themes,--the melody sung by the priestesses with the harps, and the dance-melody given out by the flutes. the second act opens with a female chorus by the slave girls, the rhythm of which is in keeping with the oriental scene, followed by an impassioned duet between amneris and aida ("alla pompa che si appresta"), through which are heard the martial strains of the returning conqueror. the second scene opens the way for another ensemble, which with its massive choruses, and its stirring march and ballet, heralding the victory of rhadames, is one of the most picturesque stage scenes the opera has ever furnished. a solemn, plaintive strain runs through the general jubilation in the appeal of amonasro ("questo assisa ch' io vesto") to the king for mercy to the captives. the finale begins with the remonstrances of the priests and people against the appeals of amonasro and rhadames, and closes with an intensely dramatic concerted number,--a quintet set off against the successive choruses of the priests, prisoners, and people ("gloria all' egitto"). the third act, like the first, after a brief dialogue, opens with a lovely romanza ("o cieli azzuri") sung by aida, and the remainder of the act is devoted to two duets,--the first between amonasro and aida, and the second between rhadames and aida. each is very dramatic in style and passionate in declamation, while they are revelations in the direction of combining the poetic and musical elements, when compared with any of the duets in verdi's previous operas. in the last act the first scene contains another impressive duet between rhadames and amneris ("chi ti salva, o sciagurato"), ending with the despairing song of amneris, "ohime! morir mi sento." in the last scene the stage is divided into two parts. the upper represents the temple of vulcan, or phtah, crowded with priests and priestesses, chanting as the stone is closed over the subterranean entrance, while below, in the tomb, aida and rhadames sing their dying duet ("o terra, addio"), its strains blending with the jubilation of the priests and the measures of the priestesses' sacred dance. "aida" is the last and unquestionably the greatest, if not the most popular, of verdi's works. it marks a long step from the style of his other operas towards the production of dramatic effect by legitimate musical means, and shows the strong influence wagner has had upon him. since this work was produced, no other for the stage has come from his pen. should he break his long silence, some new work may show that he has gone still farther in the new path. if the time for rest has come, however, to the aged composer, "aida" will remain his masterpiece among musicians and connoisseurs, though "trovatore" will be best loved by the people. othello. othello has formed the subject of the following compositions: "otello," opera in 3 acts, text by berio, music by rossini (1816); "othelleri," parody by müller, vienna (1828); othello, overture by krug (1883); "un othello," operetta, by legoux, paris (1863); and "othello," opera in 4 acts, text by boito, music by verdi (1886). "othello," the last of the long and brilliant series of verdi's operas, was completed in 1886, and first produced at the la scala theatre, milan, feb. 5, 1887, with remarkable success, signora pantaleoni, signors maurel and tamagno taking the three leading rôles. the libretto was prepared by the accomplished italian scholar and musician, arrigo boito, and closely follows the story of the shakspearian tragedy. the curtain rises upon a scene in cyprus. a storm is raging, and a crowd, among them iago, cassio, and roderigo, watch the angry sea, speculating upon the fate of othello's vessel, which finally arrives safely in port amid much rejoicing. after returning the welcomes of his friends he enters the castle with cassio and montano. the conspiracy at once begins by the disclosure of iago to roderigo of the means by which cassio's ruin may be compassed. then follows the quarrel, which is interrupted by the appearance of othello, who deprives cassio of his office. a love-scene ensues between desdemona and the moor; but in the next act the malignity of iago has already begun to take effect, and the seeds of jealousy are sown in othello's breast. his suspicions are freshly aroused when desdemona intercedes in cassio's behalf, and are changed to conviction by the handkerchief episode and iago's artful insinuation that cassio mutters the name of desdemona in his sleep; at which the enraged moor clutches him by the throat and hurls him to the ground. in the third act iago continues his diabolical purpose, at last so inflaming othello's mind that he denounces desdemona for her perfidy. the act concludes with the audience to the venetian embassy, during which he becomes enraged, strikes desdemona, and falls in convulsions. the last act transpires in her chamber, and follows shakspeare in all the details of the smothering of desdemona and the death of othello. there is no overture proper to the opera. after a few vigorous bars of prelude, the scene opens with a tempestuous and very striking description of a sea-storm by the orchestra, with the choruses of sailors and cypriots rising above it and expressing alternate hope and terror. after a short recitative the storm dies away, and the choral phrases of rejoicing end in a pianissimo effect. a hurried recitative passage between iago and roderigo introduces a drinking scene in which iago sings a very original and expressive brindisi with rollicking responses by the chorus. the quarrel follows with a vigorous and agitated accompaniment, and the act comes to a close with a beautiful love-duet between othello and desdemona. the second act opens with recitative which reveals all of iago's malignity, and is followed by his monologue, in which he sings a mock credo which is satanic in utterance. it is accompanied with tremendous outbursts of trumpets, and leads up to a furious declamatory duet with othello. the next number brings a grateful change. it is a graceful mandolinata, sung by children's voices and accompanied by mandolins and guitars, followed by a charming chorus of mariners, who bring shells and corals to desdemona. the intercession episode ensues, leading to a grand dramatic quartet for desdemona, emilia, iago, and othello. the latter then sings a pathetic but stirring melody with trumpet accompaniment, the farewell to war, and the act closes with a tumultuous duet between himself and iago. the third act opens with a very expressive duet for othello and desdemona, in which the growing wrath of the former and the sweet and touching unconsciousness of the other are happily contrasted. a sad monologue by othello prepares the way for the coming outbreak. the handkerchief trio follows, in which the malignity of iago, the indignation of othello, and the inability of cassio to understand the fell purpose of iago are brought out with great force. at its close a fanfare of trumpets announces the venetian embassy, and the finale begins with much brilliancy. then follows the scene in which othello smites down desdemona. she supplicates for mercy in an aria of tender beauty, which leads up to a strong sextet. all the guests depart but iago; and as othello, overcome with his emotions, swoons away, the curtain falls upon iago's contemptuous utterance, "there lies the lion of venice." the fourth act is full of musical beauty. after an orchestral introduction in which the horn has a very effective solo, the curtain rises and the action transpires in desdemona's chamber. the scene opens with a touching recitative between desdemona and emilia. while the former prepares herself for slumber she sings the "willow song," an unaffected melody as simple and characteristic as a folk-song. emilia retires, and by a natural transition desdemona sings an "ave maria," which is as simple and beautiful in its way as the "willow song." she retires to her couch, and in the silence othello steals in, dagger in hand, the contra-basses giving out a sombre and deep-toned accompaniment which is startling in its effect. he kisses her, the motive from the love-duet appearing in the orchestra; then, after a hurried dialogue, stifles her. he then kills himself, his last words being a repetition of those in the duet, while the strings tenderly give out the melody again. falstaff. "falstaff," an opera in three acts, words by arrigo boito, was first performed march 12, 1893, at the teatro alla scala, milan, with the following cast of characters:- mistress ford signora zilli nannetta madame stehle fenton m. garbin dr. caius signor paroli pistola signor arimondi mistress page signora guerrini mistress quickly signora pasqua ford signor pini-corsi bardolfo signor pelagalli-rossetti falstaff m. maurel the libretto, which is mainly based upon "the merry wives of windsor," also makes some contributions upon "henry iv.," particularly in the introduction of the monologue upon honor, and illustrates boito's skill in adaptation as well as his remarkable powers in condensation. in the arrangement of the comedy the five acts are reduced to three. the characters shallow, slender, william, page, sir hugh evans, simple, and rugby are eliminated, leaving falstaff, fenton, ford, dr. caius, bardolph, pistol, mistress ford, mistress page, anne, dame quickly and three minor characters as the _dramatis personæ_, though anne appears as nannetta and is the daughter of ford instead of page. the first act opens with a scene at the garter inn, disclosing an interview between falstaff and dr. caius, who is complaining of the ill treatment he has received from the fat knight and his followers, but without obtaining any satisfaction. after his departure, falstaff seeks to induce bardolph and pistol to carry his love-letters to mistresses ford and page; but they refuse, upon the ground that their honor would be assailed, which gives occasion for the introduction of the monologue from "henry iv." the letters are finally intrusted to a page, and the remainder of the act is devoted to the plots of the women to circumvent him, with an incidental revelation of the loves of fenton and nannetta, or anne page. in the second act, we have falstaff's visit to mistress ford, as planned by the merry wives, the comical episode of his concealment in the buck-basket, and his dumping into the thames. in the last act, undaunted by his buck-basket experiences, falstaff accepts a fresh invitation to meet mistress ford in windsor park. in this episode occurs the fairy masquerade at herne's oak, in the midst of which he is set upon and beaten, ending in his complete discomfiture. then all is explained to him; nannetta is betrothed to fenton; and all ends merry as a marriage bell. there is no overture. after four bars of prelude the curtain rises, and the composer introduces dr. caius with the single exclamation, "falstaff," and the latter's reply, "ho! there," which are emblematic of the declamatory character of the whole opera; for although many delightful bits of melody are scattered through it, the instrumentation really tells the story, as in the wagner music-drama, though in this latest work of the veteran composer there is less of the wagnerian idea than in his "aida." the first scene is mainly humorous dialogue, but there are two notable exceptions,--the genuine lyrical music of falstaff's song ("'tis she with eyes like stars"), and the honor monologue, a superb piece of recitative with a characteristic accompaniment in which the clarinets and bassoons fairly talk, as they give the negative to the knight's sarcastic questions. the most attractive numbers of the second scene are mistress ford's reading of falstaff's letter, which is exquisitely lyrical, a quartet, a capella, for the four women ("he'll surely come courting"), followed by a contrasting male quartet ("he's a foul, a ribald thief"), the act closing with the two quartets offsetting each other, and enclosing an admirable solo for fenton. the second act opens with the interview between dame quickly and falstaff, in which the instrumentation runs the whole gamut of ironical humor. then follows the scene between ford and falstaff, in which the very clink of the money, and falstaff's huge chuckles, are deliberately set forth in the orchestra with a realism which is the very height of the ridiculous, the scene closing with an expressive declamation by ford ("do i dream? or, is it reality?"). the second scene of the act is mainly devoted to the ludicrous incident of the buck-basket, which is accompanied by most remarkable instrumentation; but there are one or more captivating episodes; such as dame quickly's description of her visit ("'twas at the garter inn") and falstaff's charming song ("once i was page to the duke of norfolk"). the third act opens in the inn of the garter, and discloses falstaff soliloquizing upon his late disagreeable experiences:- "ho! landlord! ungrateful world, wicked world, guilty world! landlord! a glass of hot sherry. go, go thy way, john falstaff, with thee will cease the type of honesty, virtue, and might." as the fat knight soliloquizes and drinks his sack the orchestra takes part in a trill given out by piccolo, and gradually taken by one instrument after the other, until the whole orchestra is in a hearty laugh and shaking with string, brass, and wood wind glee. then enters dame quickly, mischief-maker, and sets the trap at herne's oak in windsor forest, into which falstaff readily falls. the closing scene is rich with humor. it opens with a delightful love-song by fenton ("from those sweet lips a song of love arises"). the conspirators enter one after the other, and at last falstaff, disguised as the sable hunter. the elves are summoned, and glide about to the delicious fairy music accompanying nannetta's beautiful song ("while we dance in the moonlight"). from this point the action hastens to the happy dénouement, and the work concludes with a fugue which is imbued with the very spirit of humor and yet is strictly constructed. while the vocal parts are extraordinary in their declamatory significance, the strength of the opera lies in the instrumentation, and its charm in the delicious fun and merriment which pervades it all and is aptly expressed in the closing lines:- "all in this world is jesting. man is born to be jolly, e'en from grief some happiness wresting sure proof against melancholy." wagner. richard wagner, who has been somewhat ironically called the musician of the future, and whose music has been relegated to posterity by a considerable number of his contemporaries, was born at leipsic, may 22, 1813. after his preliminary studies in dresden and leipsic, he took his first lessons in music from cantor weinlig. in 1836 he was appointed musical director in the theatre at magdeburg, and later occupied the same position at königsberg. thence he went to riga, where he began his opera "rienzi." he then went to paris by sea, was nearly shipwrecked on his way thither, and landed without money or friends. after two years of hard struggling he returned to germany. his shipwreck and forlorn condition inspired the theme of "the flying dutchman," and while on his way to dresden he passed near the castle of wartburg, in the valley of thuringia, whose legends inspired his well-known opera of "tannhäuser." he next removed to zurich, and about this time appeared "lohengrin," one of his most favorite operas. "tristan and isolde" was produced in 1856, and his comic opera, "die meistersinger von nürnberg," three years later. in 1864 he received the patronage of king louis of bavaria, which enabled him to complete and perform his great work, "der ring der nibelungen." he laid the foundation of the new theatre at baireuth in 1872, and in 1875 the work was produced, and created a profound sensation all over the musical world. "parsifal," his last opera, was first performed in 1882. his works have aroused great opposition, especially among conservative musicians, for the reason that he has set at defiance the conventional operatic forms, and in carrying out his theory of making the musical and dramatic elements of equal importance, and employing the former as the language of the latter in natural ways, has made musical declamation take the place of set melody, and swept away the customary arias, duets, quartets, and concerted numbers of the italian school, to suit the dramatic exigencies of the situations. besides his musical compositions, he enjoys almost equal fame as a litterateur, having written not only his own librettos, but four important works,--"art and the revolution," "the art work of the future," "opera and drama," and "judaism in music." his music has made steady progress through the efforts of such advocates as liszt, von bülow, and richter in germany, pasdeloup in france, hueffer in england, and theodore thomas in the united states. in 1870 he married frau cosima von bülow, the daughter of liszt,--an event which provoked almost as much comment in social circles as his operas have in musical. he died during a visit to venice, feb. 13, 1883. rienzi. "rienzi der letzte der tribunen," a tragic opera in five acts, words by the composer, the subject taken from bulwer's novel, "the last of the tribunes," was first produced at dresden, oct. 20, 1842, with herr tichatscheck, mme. schröder-devrient, and mlle. wiest in the principal rôles. it was designed and partly completed during wagner's stay in riga as orchestra leader. in his autobiography the composer says that he first read the story at dresden in 1837, and was greatly impressed with its adaptability for opera. he began it in the fall of the same year at riga, and says: "i had composed two numbers of it, when i found, to my annoyance, that i was again fairly on the way to the composition of music à la adam. i put the work aside in disgust." later he projected the scheme of a great tragic opera in five acts, and began upon it with fresh enthusiasm in the fall of 1838. by the spring of 1839 the first two acts were completed. at that time his engagement at riga terminated, and he set out for paris. he soon found that it would be hopeless for him to bring out the opera in that city, notwithstanding meyerbeer had promised to assist him. he offered it to the grand opera and to the renaissance, but neither would accept it. nothing daunted, he resumed work upon it, intending it for dresden. in october, 1842, it was at last produced in that city, and met with such success that it secured him the position of capellmeister at the dresden opera-house. the action of the opera passes at rome, towards the middle of the fourteenth century. the first act opens at night, in a street near the church of st. john lateran, and discovers orsini, a roman patrician, accompanied by a crowd of nobles, attempting to abduct irene, the sister of rienzi, a papal notary. the plot is interrupted by the entrance of colonna, the patrician leader of another faction, who demands the girl. a quarrel ensues. adriano, the son of colonna, who is in love with irene, suddenly appears and rushes to her defence. gradually other patricians and plebeians are attracted by the tumult, among the latter, rienzi. when he becomes aware of the insult offered his sister, he takes counsel with the cardinal raimondo, and they agree to rouse the people in resistance to the outrages of the nobles. adriano is placed in an embarrassing position,--his relationship to the colonnas urging him to join the nobles, and his love for irene impelling him with still stronger force to make common cause with the people. he finally decides to follow rienzi, just as the trumpets are heard calling the people to arms and rienzi clad in full armor makes his appearance to lead them. the struggle is a short one. the nobles are overcome, and in the second act they appear at the capitol to acknowledge their submission to rienzi: but adriano, who has been among them, warns rienzi that they have plotted to kill him. festal dances, processions, and gladiatorial combats follow, in the midst of which orsini rushes at rienzi and strikes at him with his dagger. rienzi is saved by a steel breastplate under his robes. the nobles are at once seized and condemned to death. adriano pleads with rienzi to spare his father, and moved by his eloquence he renews the offer of pardon if they will swear submission. they take the oath only to violate it. the people rise and demand their extermination. rienzi once more draws the sword, and adriano in vain appeals to him to avert the slaughter. he is again successful, and on his return announces to adriano that the colonnas and orsinis are no more. the latter warns him of coming revenge, and the act closes with the coronation of rienzi. the fourth act opens at night near the church. the popular tide has now turned against rienzi, upon the report that he is in league with the german emperor to restore the pontiff. a festive cortége approaches, escorting him to the church. the nobles bar his way, but disperse at his command; whereupon adriano rushes at him with drawn dagger, but the blow is averted as he hears the chant of malediction in the church, and sees its dignitaries placing the ban of excommunication against rienzi upon its doors. he hurries to irene, warns her that her brother's life is no longer safe, and urges her to fly with him. she repulses him, and seeks her brother, to share his dangers or die with him. she finds him at prayer in the capitol. he counsels her to accept the offer of adriano and save herself, but she repeats her determination to die with him. the sounds of the approaching crowd are heard outside. rienzi makes a last appeal to them from the balcony, but the infuriated people will not listen. they set fire to the capitol with their torches, and stone rienzi and irene through the windows. as the flames spread from room to room and adriano beholds them enveloping the devoted pair, he throws away his sword, rushes into the burning building, and perishes with them. the overture of "rienzi" is in the accepted form, for the opera was written before wagner had made his new departure in music, and takes its principal themes, notably rienzi's prayer for the people and the finale to the first act, from the body of the work. the general style of the whole work is vigorous and tumultuous. the first act opens with a hurly-burly of tumult between the contending factions and the people. the first scene contains a vigorous aria for the hero ("wohl an so mög es sein"), which leads up to a fiery terzetto ("adriano du? wie ein colonna!") between rienzi, irene, and adriano, followed by an intensely passionate scene ("er geht und lässt dich meinem schutz") between the last two. the finale is a tumultuous mass of sound, through which are heard the tones of trumpets and cries of the people. it opens with a massive double chorus ("gegrüsst, gegrüsst"), shouted by the people on the one side and the monks in the lateran on the other, accompanied by an andante movement on the organ. it is interrupted for a brief space by the ringing appeal of rienzi "erstehe, hohe roma, neu," and then closes with an energetic andante, a quartet joining the choruses. this finale is clearly italian in form, and much to wagner's subsequent disgust was described by hanslick as a mixture of donizetti and meyerbeer, and a clear presage of the coming verdi. the second act opens with a stately march, introducing the messengers of peace, who join in a chorus of greeting, followed by a second chorus of senators and the tender of submission made by the nobles. a terzetto between adriano, orsini, and colonna, set off against a chorus of the nobles, leads up to the finale. it opens with a joyful chorus ("erschallet feier klänge"), followed by rapid dialogue between orsini and colonna on the one hand and adriano and rienzi on the other. a long and elaborate ballet intervenes, divided into several numbers,--an introduction, pyrrhic dance, combat of roman gladiators and cavaliers, and the dance of the apotheosis, in which the goddess of peace is transformed to the goddess, protector of rome. the scene abruptly changes, and the act closes with a great ensemble in which the defiance of the conspirators, the tolling of bells, the chants of the monks, and the ferocious outcries of the people shouting for revenge are mingled in strong contrasts. the third act is full of tumult. after a brief prelude, amid the ringing of bells and cries of alarm, the people gather and denounce the treachery of the nobles, leading up to a spirited call to arms by rienzi ("ihr römer, auf"). the people respond in furious chorus, and as the sound of the bells and battle-cries dies away adriano enters. his scene opens with a prayer ("gerechter gott") for the aversion of carnage, which changes to an agitated allegro ("wo war ich?") as he hears the great bell of the capitol tolling the signal for slaughter. the finale begins with a massive march, as the bells and sounds of alarm are heard approaching again, and bands of citizens, priests and monks, the high clergy, senators and nobles, pass and repass in quick succession, at last followed by rienzi, which is the signal for the great battle-hymn, "santo spirito cavaliere," which is to be sung with great fire and energy, accompanied by great and small bells ringing behind the scenes, the clash of swords upon shields, and full power of chorus and orchestra. a dialogue follows between adriano and rienzi, and then the various bands disappear singing the ritornelle of the hymn. a great duet ("lebwohl, irene") ensues between adriano and irene, which in its general outlines reminds one of the duet between raoul and valentin in "the huguenots." at its conclusion, after a prayer by the chorus of women, the battle hymn is heard again in the distance, gradually approaching, and the act closes with a jubilee chorus ("auf! im triumpf zum capitol"), welcoming the return of the conquerors. the fourth act is short, its principal numbers being the introduction, terzetto and chorus ("wer war's der euch hierher beschied?"), and the finale, beginning with a somewhat sombre march of the cortége accompanying rienzi to the church, leading to the details of the conspiracy scene, and closing with the malediction of the monks, "vae, vae tibi maledicto." the last act opens with an impressive prayer by rienzi ("allmacht'ger vater"), which leads to a tender duet ("verlässt die kirche mich") as irene enters, closing with a passionate aria by rienzi ("ich liebte glühend"). the duet is then resumed, and leads to a second and intensely passionate duet ("du hier irene!") between adriano and irene. the finale is brief, but full of energy, and is principally choral. the dénouement hurries, and the tragedy is reached amid a tumultuous outburst of voices and instruments. unlike wagner's other operas, in "rienzi" set melody dominates, and the orchestra, as in the italian school, furnishes the accompaniments. we have the regular overture, aria, duet, trio, and concerted finale; but after "rienzi" we shall observe a change, at last becoming so radical that the composer himself threw aside his first opera as unworthy of performance. the flying dutchman. "der fliegende holländer," a romantic opera in three acts, words by the composer, the subject taken from heinrich heine's version of the legend, was first produced at dresden, jan. 2, 1843, with mme. schröder-devrient and herr wechter in the two principal rôles. it was also produced in london in 1870 at drury lane as "l'ollandose dannato," by signor arditi, with mlle. di murska, signors foli, perotti, and rinaldini, and mr. santley in the leading parts; in 1876, by carl rosa as "the flying dutchman," an english version; and again in 1877 as "il vascello fantasma." in this country the opera was introduced in its english form by miss clara louise kellogg. wagner conceived the idea of writing "the flying dutchman" during the storm which overtook him on his voyage from riga to paris. he says in his autobiography: "'the flying dutchman,' whose intimate acquaintance i had made at sea, continually enchained my fancy. i had become acquainted, too, with heinrich heine's peculiar treatment of the legend in one portion of his 'salon.' especially the treatment of the delivery of this ahasuerus of the ocean (taken by heine from a dutch drama of the same title) gave me everything ready to use the legend as the libretto of an opera. i came to an understanding about it with heine himself, drew up the scheme, and gave it to m. léon pillet [manager of the grand opera], with the proposition that he should have a french libretto made from it for me." subsequently m. pillet purchased the libretto direct from wagner, who consented to the transaction, as he saw no opportunity of producing the opera in paris. it was then set by dietsch as "le vaisseau fantôme," and brought out in paris in 1842. in the mean time, not discouraged by his bad fortune, wagner set to work, wrote the german verse, and completed the opera in seven weeks for dresden, where it was finally performed, as already stated. unlike "rienzi," it met with failure both in dresden and berlin; but its merits were recognized by spohr, who encouraged him to persevere in the course he had marked out. the plot of the opera is very simple. a norwegian vessel, commanded by daland, compelled by stress of weather, enters a port not far from her destination. at the same time a mysterious vessel, with red sails and black hull, commanded by the wandering flying dutchman, who is destined to sail the seas without rest until he finds a maiden who will be faithful until death, puts into the same port. the two captains meet, and daland invites the stranger to his home. the two at last progress so rapidly in mutual favor that a marriage is agreed upon between the stranger and senta, daland's daughter. the latter is a dreamy, imaginative girl, who, though she has an accepted lover, eric, is so fascinated with the legend of the stranger that she becomes convinced she is destined to save him from perdition. when he arrives with her father she recognizes him at once, and vows eternal constancy to him. in the last act, however, eric appears and reproaches senta with her faithlessness. the stranger overhears them, and concludes that as she has been recreant to her former lover, so too she will be untrue to him. he decides to leave her; for if he should remain, her penalty would be eternal death. as his mysterious vessel sails away senta rushes to a cliff, and crying out that her life will be the price of his release, hurls herself into the sea, vowing to be constant to him even in death. the phantom vessel sinks, the sea grows calm, and in the distance the two figures are seen rising in the sunlight never to be parted. the overture characterizes the persons and situations of the drama, and introduces the motives which wagner ever after used so freely,--among them the curse resting upon the dutchman, the restless motion of the sea, the message of the angel of mercy personified in senta, the personification of the dutchman, and the song of daland's crew. the first act opens with an introduction representing a storm, and a characteristic sailors' chorus, followed by an exquisite love-song for tenor ("mit gewitter und sturm"), and a grand scena of the dutchman ("die frist ist um"), which lead up to a melodious duet between the dutchman and daland. the act closes with the sailors' chorus as the two vessels sail away. after a brief instrumental prelude, the second act opens in daland's home, where the melancholy senta sits surrounded by her companions, who are spinning. to the whirring accompaniment of the violins they sing a very realistic spinning song ("summ' und brumm du gutes mädchen"), interrupted at intervals by the laughter of the girls as they rally senta upon her melancholy looks. senta replies with a weird and exquisitely melodious ballad ("johohae! träfft ihr das schiff im meere an"), in which she tells the story of the flying dutchman, and anticipates her own destiny. the song is full of intense feelings and is characterized by a motive which frequently recurs in the opera, and is the key to the whole work. a duet follows between eric and senta, the melodious character of which shows that wagner was not yet entirely freed from italian influences. a short duet ensues between senta and her father, and then the dutchman appears. as they stand and gaze at each other for a long time, the orchestra meanwhile supplying the supposed emotions of each, we have a clew to the method wagner was afterwards to employ so successfully. a duet between senta and the dutchman ("wie aus der ferne") and a terzetto with daland close the act. the third act opens with another sailors' chorus ("steuermann, lass' die wacht"), and a brisk dialogue between them and the women who are bringing them provisions. the latter also hail the crew of the dutchman's vessel, but get no reply until the wind suddenly rises, when they man the vessel and sing the refrain with which the dutchman is continually identified. a double chorus of the two crews follows. senta then appears accompanied by eric, who seeks to restrain her from following the stranger in a very dramatic duet ("was muss ich hören?"). the finale is made up of sailors' and female choruses, and a trio between senta, daland, and the dutchman, which are woven together with consummate skill, and make a very effective termination to the weird story. there are no points in common between "the flying dutchman" and "rienzi," except that in the former wagner had not yet clearly freed himself from conventional melody. it is interesting as marking his first step towards the music of the future in his use of motives, his wonderful treatment of the orchestra in enforcing the expression of the text, and his combination of the voices and instrumentation in what he so aptly calls "the music-drama." tannhäuser "tannhäuser und der singerkrieg auf wartburg" ("tannhäuser and the singers' contest at the wartburg"), a romantic opera in three acts, words by the composer, was first produced at the royal opera, dresden, oct. 20, 1845, with mme. schröder-devrient and herr niemann as elizabeth and tannhäuser. its first performance in paris was on march 13, 1861; but it was a failure after three representations, and was made the butt of parisian ridicule, even berlioz joining in the tirade. in england it was brought out in italian at covent garden, may 6, 1876, though its overture was played by the london philharmonic orchestra in 1855, wagner himself leading. in the spring of 1842 wagner returned from paris to germany, and on his way to dresden visited the castle of wartburg, in the thuringian valley, where he first conceived the idea of writing "tannhäuser." the plot was taken from an old german tradition, which centres about the castle where the landgraves of the thirteenth century instituted peaceful contests between the minnesingers and knightly poets. near this castle towers the venusberg, a dreary elevation, which, according to popular tradition, was inhabited by holda, the goddess of spring. proscribed by christianity, she took refuge in its caverns, where she was afterwards confounded with the grecian venus. her court was filled with nymphs and sirens, who enticed those whose impure desires led them to its vicinity, and lured them into the caverns, from which they were supposed never to return. the first act opens in this court, and reveals tannhäuser, the knight and minstrel, under the sway of venus. in spite of her fascinations he succeeds in tearing himself away, and we next find him at the castle of wartburg, the home of hermann the landgrave, whose daughter elizabeth is in love with him. at the minstrel contest he enters into the lists with the other minnesingers, and, impelled by a reckless audacity and the subtle influence of venus, sings of the attractions of sensual pleasures. walter, of the vogelweide, replies with a song to virtue. tannhäuser breaks out in renewed sensual strains, and a quarrel ensues. the knights rush upon him with their swords, but elizabeth interposes and saves his life. he expresses his penitence, makes a pilgrimage to rome and confesses to the pope, who replies that, having tasted the pleasures of hell, he is forever damned, and, raising his crosier, adds: "even as this wood cannot blossom again, so there is no pardon for thee." elizabeth prays for him in her solitude, but her prayers apparently are of no avail. at last he returns dejected and hopeless, and in his wanderings meets wolfram, another minstrel, also in love with elizabeth, to whom he tells the sad story of his pilgrimage. he determines to return to the venusberg. he hears the voices of the sirens luring him back. wolfram seeks to detain him, but is powerless until he mentions the name of elizabeth, when the sirens vanish and their spells lose their attraction. a funeral procession approaches in the distance, and on the bier is the form of the saintly elizabeth. he sinks down upon the coffin and dies. as his spirit passes away his pilgrim's staff miraculously bursts out into leaf and blossom, showing that his sins have been forgiven. the overture to the opera is well known by its frequent performances as a concert number. it begins with the pilgrim's song, which, as it dies away, is succeeded by the seductive spells of the venusberg and the voices of the sirens calling to tannhäuser. as the whirring sounds grow fainter and fainter, the pilgrim's song is again heard gradually approaching, and at last closing the overture in a joyous burst of harmony. the first act opens with the scene in the venusberg, accompanied by the bacchanale music, which was written in paris by wagner after the opera was finished and had been performed. it is now known as "the parisian bacchanale." it is followed by a voluptuous scene between tannhäuser and venus, a long dialogue, during which the hero, seizing his harp, trolls out a song ("doch sterblich, ach!"), the theme of which has already been given out by the overture, expressing his weariness of her companionship. the second scene transports us to a valley, above which towers the castle of wartburg. a young shepherd, perched upon a rock, sings a pastoral invocation to holda ("frau holda kam aus dem berg hervor"), the strains of his pipe (an oboe obligato) weaving about the stately chorus of the elder pilgrims ("zu dir wall' ich, mein herr und gott") as they come along the mountain paths from the castle. the scene, which is one of great beauty, closes with the lament of tannhäuser ("ach! schwer drückt mich der sünden last"), intermingled with the receding song of the pilgrims, the ringing of church-bells in the distance, and the merry notes of hunters' horns as the landgrave and his followers approach. the meeting with tannhäuser leads to an expressive septet, in which wolfram has a very impressive solo ("als du in kühnem sange"). the second act opens in the singers' hall of the wartburg. elizabeth, entering joyfully, greets it in a recitation ("froh grüss ich dich, geliebter raum"), if we may so term it, which is characterized by a joyous but dignified dramatic appeal, recalling the scenes of her youth. the interview between tannhäuser and elizabeth, which follows, gives rise to a long dialogue, closing with a union of the two voices in the charming duet, "gepriesen sei die macht." then follows the grand march and chorus, "freudig begrüssen wir die edle halle," announcing the beginning of the song contest. the stirring rhythm and bold, broad outlines of this march are so well known that it is needless to dwell upon it. the scene of the contest is declamatory throughout, and full of animation and spirit; its most salient points being the hymn of wolfram ("o himmel lasst dich jetzt erflehen") in honor of ideal love, and elizabeth's appeal to the knights to spare tannhäuser ("zurück von ihm"), which leads up to a spirited septet and choral ensemble closing the act. in the third act we are once more in the valley of the wartburg. after a plaintive song by wolfram ("wohl wusst ich hier sie im gebet zu finden"), the chorus of the returning pilgrims is heard in the distance, working up to a magnificent crescendo as they approach and cross the stage. elizabeth, who has been earnestly watching them to find if tannhäuser be of their number, disappointed, sinks upon her knees and sings the touching prayer, "allmächt'ge jungfrau, hör mein flehen." as she leaves the scene, wolfram takes his harp and sings the enchanting fantasy to the evening star, "o, du mein holder abendstern,"--a love-song to the saintly elizabeth. tannhäuser makes his appearance. a long declamatory dialogue ensues between himself and wolfram, in which he recites the story of his pilgrimage. the scene is one of extraordinary power, and calls for the highest vocal and dramatic qualities in order to make it effective. from this point on, the tragedy hastens. there is the struggle once more with the sirens, and amid wolfram's touching appeals and tannhäuser's exclamations is heard the enticement of the venus music. but at the name "elizabeth" it dies away. the mists grow denser as the magic crew disappears, and through them is seen a light upon the wartburg. the tolling of bells and the songs of mourners are heard as the cortége approaches. as tannhäuser dies, the pilgrims' chorus again rises in ecstasy, closing with a mighty shout of "hallelujah!" and the curtain falls. lohengrin. "lohengrin," a romantic opera in three acts, words by the composer, was first produced at weimar, aug. 28, 1850, the anniversary of goethe's birthday, under the direction of franz liszt, and with the following cast of the leading parts:- lohengrin herr beck. telramund herr milde. king herr hofer. elsa frau agathe. ortrud fraülein fastlinger. "lohengrin" was begun in paris, and finished in switzerland during the period in which wagner was director of the musical society as well as of the orchestra at the city theatre of zurich, whither he had fled to escape the penalties for taking part in the political agitations and subsequent insurrection of 1849. though it manifests a still further advancement in the development of his system, it was far from being composed according to the abstract rules he had laid down. he says explicitly on this point, in his "music of the future:" "the first three of these poems--'the flying dutchman,' 'tannhäuser,' and 'lohengrin'--were written by me, their music composed, and all (with the exception of 'lohengrin') performed upon the stage, before the composition of my theoretical writings." the story of lohengrin, the son of parsifal, upon which wagner has based his drama, is taken from many sources, the old celtic legend of king arthur, his knights, and the holy grail being mixed with the distinctively german legend of a knight who arrives in his boat drawn by a swan. the version used by wagner is supposed to be told by wolfram von eschenbach, the minnesinger, at one of the wartburg contests, and is in substance as follows: henry i., king of germany, known as "the fowler," arrives at antwerp for the purpose of raising a force to help him expel the hungarians, who are threatening his dominions. he finds brabant in a condition of anarchy. gottfried, the young son of the late duke, has mysteriously disappeared, and telramund, the husband of ortrud, daughter of the prince of friesland, claims the dukedom. the claimant openly charges elsa, sister of gottfried, with having murdered him to obtain the sovereignty, and she is summoned before the king to submit her cause to the ordeal of battle between telramund and any knight whom she may name. she describes a champion whom she has seen in a vision, and conjures him to appear in her behalf. after a triple summons by the heralds, he is seen approaching on the scheldt, in a boat drawn by a swan. before the combat lohengrin betroths himself to elsa, naming only the condition that she shall never question him as to his name or race. she assents, and the combat results in telramund's defeat and public disgrace. in the second act occur the bridal ceremonies, prior to which, moved by ortrud's entreaties, elsa promises to obtain a reprieve for telramund from the sentence which has been pronounced against him. at the same time ortrud takes advantage of her success to instil doubts into elsa's mind as to her future happiness and the faithfulness of lohengrin. in the next scene, as the bridal cortége is about to enter the minster, ortrud claims the right of precedence by virtue of her rank, and telramund publicly accuses lohengrin of sorcery. the faith of elsa, however, is not shaken. the two conspirators are ordered to stand aside, the train enters the church, and elsa and lohengrin are united. the third act opens in the bridal chamber. the seeds of curiosity and distrust which ortrud has sown in elsa's mind have ripened, and in spite of her conviction that it will end her happiness, she questions lohengrin with increasing vehemence, at last openly demanding to know his secret. at this juncture telramund breaks into the apartment with four followers, intending to take the life of lohengrin. a single blow of the knight's sword stretches him lifeless. he then places elsa in the charge of her ladies and orders them to take her to the presence of the king, whither he also repairs. compelled by his wife's unfortunate rashness, he discloses himself as the son of parsifal, knight of the holy grail, and announces that he must now return to its guardianship. his swan once more appears, and as he steps into the boat he bids elsa an eternal farewell. before he sails away, however, ortrud declares to the wondering crowd that the swan is elsa's brother, who has been bewitched by herself into this form, and would have been released but for elsa's curiosity. lohengrin at once disenchants the swan, and gottfried appears and rushes into his sister's arms. a white dove flies through the air and takes the place of the swan, and lohengrin sails away as elsa dies in the embrace of her newly found brother. the vorspiel, or prelude, to the opera takes for its subject the descent of the holy grail, the mysterious symbol of the christian faith, and the grail motive is the key to the whole work. the delicious harmonies which accompany its descent increase in warmth and power until the sacred mystery is revealed to human eyes, and then die away to a pianissimo, and gradually disappear as the angels bearing the holy vessel return to their celestial abode. the curtain rises upon a meadow on the banks of the scheldt, showing king henry surrounded by his vassals and retainers. after their choral declaration of allegiance, telramund, in a long declamatory scena of great power ("zum sterben kam der herzog von brabant"), tells the story of the troubles in brabant, and impeaches elsa. at the king's command, elsa appears, and in a melodious utterance of extreme simplicity and sweetness, which is called the dream motive ("einsam in trüben tagen"), relates the vision of the knight who is to come to her assistance. the summons of the heralds preludes the climax of the act. amid natural outcries of popular wonderment lohengrin appears, and, as he leaves his boat, bids farewell to his swan in a strain of delicate beauty ("nun sei gedankt, mein lieber schwan"). the preparations for the combat are made, but before it begins, the motive of warning is sounded by lohengrin ("nie sollst du mich befragen"). the finale of the act takes the form of a powerful ensemble, composed of sextet and chorus, and beginning with the prayer of the king, "mein herr und gott, nun ruf ich dich." the second act opens upon a night scene near the palace, which is merry with the wedding festivities, while the discomfited telramund and ortrud are plotting their conspiracy without in a long duet ("erhebe dich, genossin meiner schmach"), which introduces new motives of hatred and revenge, as opposed to the grail motive. in the second scene elsa appears upon the balcony and sings a love-song ("euch lüften, die mein klagen"), whose tenderness and confidence are in marked contrast with the doubts sown in her mind by ortrud before the scene closes. the third scene is preluded with descriptive sunrise music by the orchestra, followed by the herald's proclamations, interspersed by choral responses, leading up to the bridal-procession music as the train moves on from the palace to the cathedral, accompanied by a stately march and choral strains, and all the artistic surroundings of a beautiful stage pageant. the progress is twice interrupted; first by ortrud, who asserts her precedence, and second by telramund, who, in the scena "den dort im glanz," accuses lohengrin of sorcery. when elsa still expresses her faith, the train moves on, and reaches its destination amid the acclamations of the chorus ("heil, elsa von brabant!"). the third act opens in the bridal chamber with the graceful bridal song by elsa's ladies, "treulich gefuhrt, ziehet dahin," whose melodious strains have accompanied many unions, the world over, besides those of elsa and lohengrin. the second scene is an exquisite picture of the mutual outpouring of love, at first full of beauty and tenderness, but gradually darkening as ortrud's insinuations produce their effect in elsa's mind. tenderly lohengrin appeals to her, but in vain; and at last the motive of warning is heard. the fatal questions are asked, the tragedy of telramund follows, and all is over. the last scene introduces us once more to the meadow on the scheldt, where lohengrin appears before the king and his vassals. in their presence he reveals himself as the son of parsifal, in a scena of consummate power ("in fernem land, unnahbar euren schritten"), wherein the grail motive reaches its fullest development. it is followed by his touching farewell, "o elsa! nur ein jahr an deiner seite," the melody of which can hardly be surpassed in dignity and impressiveness. the dénouement now hastens, and lohengrin disappears, to the accompaniment of the grail motive. tristan und isolde. "tristan und isolde," an opera in three acts, words by the composer, was first produced at munich, june 10, 1865, under the direction of hans von bülow, with the following cast of characters:- tristan herr ludwig schnorr von carolsfeld. kurwenal herr mitterwurzer. king mark herr zottmayer. isolde mme. schnorr von carolsfeld. brangoena mlle. deinet. "tristan and isolde" was commenced in 1857 and finished in 1859, during the period in which wagner was engaged upon his colossal work, "the ring of the nibelung." as early as the middle of 1852 he had finished the four dramatic poems which comprise the cyclus of the latter, and during the next three years he finished the music to "das rheingold" and "die walküre." in one of his letters he says: "in the summer of 1857 i determined to interrupt the execution of my work on the nibelungen and begin something shorter, which should renew my connection with the stage." the legend of tristan was selected. it is derived from the old celtic story of "tristram and iseult," the version adopted by wagner being that of gottfried of strasburg, a bard of the thirteenth century, though it must be said he uses it in his own manner, and at times widely departs both from the original and the mediæval poem. in "tristan and isolde" wagner broke completely loose from all the conventional forms of opera. it has nothing in common with the old style of lyric entertainment. as hueffer says, in his recent life of wagner: "here is heard for the first time the unimpaired language of dramatic passion intensified by an uninterrupted flow of expressive melody. here also the orchestra obtains that wide range of emotional expression which enables it, like the chorus of the antique tragedy, to discharge the dialogue of an overplus of lyrical elements without weakening the intensity of the situation, which it accompanies like an unceasing passionate undercurrent." in an opera like this, which is intended to commingle dramatic action, intensity of verse, and the power and charm of the music in one homogeneous whole, the reader will at once observe the difficulty of doing much more than the telling of its story, leaving the musical declamation and effects to be inferred from the text. even wagner himself in the original title is careful to designate the work "ein handlung" (an action). the vorspiel to the drama is based upon a single motive, which is worked up with consummate skill into various melodic forms, and frequently appears throughout the work. it might well be termed the motive of restless, irresistible passion. the drama opens on board a ship in which the cornish knight, tristan, is bearing isolde, the unwilling irish bride, to king mark of cornwall. as the vessel is nearing the land, isolde sends brangoena to the knight, who is also in love with her, but holds himself aloof by reason of a blood-feud, and orders him to appear at her side. his refusal turns isolde's affection to bitterness, and she resolves that he shall die, and that she will share death with him. she once more calls tristan, and tells him that the time has come for him to make atonement for slaying her kinsman, morold. she directs brangoena to mix a death-potion and invites him to drink with her, but without her knowledge brangoena has prepared a love-potion, which inflames their passions beyond power of restraint. oblivious of the landing, the approach of the royal train, and all that is going on about them, they remain folded in mutual embrace. the second act opens in cornwall, in a garden which leads to isolde's chamber, she being already wedded to king mark. with brangoena she is waiting for tristan. the king goes out upon a night hunt, and no sooner has he disappeared than isolde gives the signal for his approach, while brangoena goes to her station to watch. the second scene is a most elaborate love-duet between the guilty pair, the two voices at first joining ("bist du mein? hab'ich dich wieder?"). a passionate dialogue ensues, and then the two voices join again ("o sink' hernieder, nacht der liebe"). after a brief dialogue brangoena's warning voice is heard. absorbed in each other, they pay no heed, and once more they join in the very ecstasy of passion, so far as it can be given musical form, in the finale of the duet, "o süsse nacht! ew'ge nacht! hehr erhabne liebes-nacht." the treachery of sir melot, tristan's pretended friend, betrays the lovers to the king. tristan offers no explanations, but touched by the king's bitter reproaches provokes sir melot to combat and allows himself to be mortally wounded. the third act opens in brittany, whither kurwenal, tristan's faithful henchman, has taken him. a shepherd lad watches from a neighboring height to announce the appearance of a vessel, for kurwenal has sent for isolde to heal his master's wound. at last the stirring strains of the shepherd's pipe signal her coming. in his delirious joy tristan tears the bandages from his wounds, and has only strength enough left to call isolde by name and die in her arms. now a second vessel is seen approaching, bearing king mark and his men. thinking that his design is hostile, kurwenal attempts to defend the castle, but is soon forced to yield, and dies at the feet of his master. the king exclaims against his rashness, for since he had heard brangoena's story of the love-potion he had come to give his consent to the union of the lovers. isolde, transfigured with grief, sings her last farewell to her lover ("mild und leise wie er lächelt"), and expires on his body. the dying song is one of great beauty and pathos, and sadly recalls the passion of the duet in the second act, as isolde's mournful strains are accompanied in the orchestra by the sweetly melodious motives which had been heard in it, the interweaving of the two also suggesting that in death the lovers have been reunited. the mastersingers. "die meistersinger von nürnberg," a comic opera in three acts, words by the composer, was first produced at munich, june 21, 1868, under the direction of hans von bülow, with the following cast: hans sachs herr betz. walter herr nachbauer. beckmesser herr hölzel. david herr schlosser. eva mlle. mallinger. magdalena mme. dietz. the plan of "the mastersingers" was conceived about the same time as that of "lohengrin," during the composer's stay at marienbad, and occupied his attention at intervals for twenty years, as it was not finished until 1867. as is clearly apparent both from its music and text, it was intended as a satire upon the composer's critics, who had charged that he was incapable of writing melody. it is easy to see that these critics are symbolized by the old pedant beckmesser, and that in walter we have wagner himself. when he is first brought in contact with the mastersingers, and one of their number, kothner, asks him if he gained his knowledge in any school, he replies, "the wood before the vogelweid', 'twas there i learnt my singing;" and again he answers:- "what winter night. what wood so bright, what book and nature brought me, what poet songs of magic might mysteriously have taught me, on horses' tramp, on field and camp, on knights arrayed for war parade my mind its powers exerted." the story is not only one of love as between walter and eva, but of satirical protest as between walter and beckmesser, and the two subjects are illustrated not only with delicate fancy but with the liveliest of humor. the work is replete with melody. it has chorales, marches, folk-songs, duets, quintets, ensembles, and choruses, and yet the composer does not lose sight of his theories; for here we observe as characteristic a use of motives and as skilful a combination of them as can be found in any of his works. to thoroughly comprehend the story, it is necessary to understand the conditions one had to fulfil before he could be a mastersinger. first of all he must master the "tabulatur," which included the rules and prohibitions. then he must have the requisite acquaintance with the various methods of rhyming verse, and with the manner of fitting appropriate music to it. one who had partially mastered the tabulatur was termed a "scholar;" the one who had thoroughly learned it, a "schoolman;" the one who could improvise verses, a "poet;" and the one who could set music to his verses, a "mastersinger." in the test there were thirty-three faults to be guarded against; and whenever the marker had chalked up seven against the candidate, he was declared to have oversung himself and lost the coveted honor. the vorspiel is a vivid delineation of mediæval german life, full of festive pomp, stirring action, glowing passion, and exuberant humor. the first act opens in the church of st. katherine, at nuremberg, with the singing of a chorale to organ accompaniment. during the chorale and its interludes a quiet love-scene is being enacted between eva, daughter of the wealthy goldsmith veit pogner, and walter von stolzing, a noble young knight. the attraction is mutual. eva is ready to become his bride, but it is necessary that her husband should be a mastersinger. rather than give up the hand of the fair eva, walter, short as the time is, determines to master the precepts and enter the lists. as eva and her attendant, magdalena, leave the church, the apprentices enter to arrange for the trial, among them david, the friskiest of them all, who is in love with magdalena. he volunteers to give walter some instructions, but they do not avail him much in the end, for the lesson is sadly disturbed by the gibes of the boys, in a scene full of musical humor. at last pogner and beckmesser, the marker, who is also a competitor for eva's hand, enter from the sacristy. after a long dialogue between them the other masters assemble, hans sachs, the cobbler-bard, coming in last. after calling the roll, the ceremonies open with a pompous address by pogner ("das schöne fest, johannis-tag"), in which he promises the hand of eva, "with my gold and goods beside," to the successful singer on the morrow, which is john the baptist's day. after a long parley among the gossiping masters, pogner introduces walter as a candidate for election. he sings a charming song ("so rief der lenz in den wald"), and as he sings, the marker, concealed behind a screen, is heard scoring down the faults. when he displays the slate it is found to be covered with them. the masters declare him outsung and rejected, but hans sachs befriends him, and demands he shall have a chance for the prize. the second act discloses pogner's house and sachs's shop. the apprentices are busy putting up the shutters, and are singing as they work. walter meets eva and plots an elopement with her, but sachs prevents them from carrying out their rash plan. meanwhile beckmesser makes his appearance with his lute for the purpose of serenading eva and rehearsing the song he is to sing for the prize on the morrow. as he is about to sing, sachs breaks out into a rollicking folk-song ("jerum, jerum, halla, halla, he!"), in which he sings of mother eve and the troubles she had after she left paradise, for want of shoes. at last he allows beckmesser a hearing, provided he will permit him to mark the faults with his hammer upon the shoe he is making. the marker consents, and sings his song, "den tag seh' ich erscheinen," accompanied with excruciating roulades of the old-fashioned conventional sort; but sachs knocks so often that his shoe is finished long before beckmesser's song. this is his first humiliation. before the act finishes he is plunged into still further trouble, for david suspects him of designs upon magdalena, and a general quarrel ensues. the third act opens upon a peaceful sunday-morning scene in the sleepy old town, and shows us sachs sitting in his arm-chair at the window reading his bible, and now and then expressing his hopes for walter's success, as the great contest is soon to take place. at last he leans back, and after a brief meditation commences a characteristic song ("wahn! wahn! ueberall wahn!"). a long dialogue ensues between him and walter, and then as eva, david, magdalena, and beckmesser successively enter, the scene develops into a magnificent quintet, which is one of the most charming numbers in the opera. the situation then suddenly changes. the stage-setting represents an open meadow on the banks of the pegnitz. the river is crowded with boats. the plain is covered with tents full of merrymakers. the different guilds are continually arriving. a livelier or more stirring scene can hardly be imagined than wagner has here pictured, with its accompaniment of choruses by the various handicraftsmen, their pompous marches, and the rural strains of town pipers. at last the contest begins. beckmesser attempts to get through his song and dismally fails. walter follows him with the beautiful prize-song, "morgenlich leuchtend in rosigem schein." he wins the day and the hand of eva. exultant sachs trolls out a lusty lay ("verachtet mir der meister nicht"), and the stirring scene ends with the acclamations of the people ("heil sachs! hans sachs! heil nürnberg's theurem sachs!"). the ring of the nibelung. "der ring des nibelungen," a trilogy, the subject taken from the nibelungen lied and adapted by the composer, was first conceived by wagner during the composition of "lohengrin." the four dramatic poems which constitute its cyclus were written as early as 1852, which will correct a very general impression that this colossal work was projected during the closing years of his life. on the contrary, it was the product of his prime. hueffer, in his biographical sketch of wagner, says that he hesitated between the historical and mythical principles as the subjects of his work,--frederick the first representing the former, and siegfried, the hero of teutonic mythology, the latter. siegfried was finally selected. "wagner began at once sketching the subject, but gradually the immense breadth and grandeur of the old types began to expand under his hands, and the result was a trilogy, or rather tetralogy, of enormous dimensions, perhaps the most colossal attempt upon which the dramatic muse has ventured since the times of æschylus." the trilogy is really in four parts,--"das rheingold" (the rhinegold); "die walküre" (the valkyrie); "siegfried"; and "die götterdämmerung" (the twilight of the gods), "the rhinegold" being in the nature of an introduction to the trilogy proper, though occupying an evening for its performance. between the years 1852 and 1856 the composer wrote the music of the "rhinegold" and the whole of "the valkyrie;" and then, as he says himself, wishing to keep up his active connection with the stage, he interrupted the progress of the main scheme, and wrote "tristan and isolde," which occupied him from 1856 to 1859. during its composition, however, he did not entirely forsake the trilogy. in the autumn of 1856 he began "siegfried," the composition of which was not finished until 1869, owing to many other objects which engaged his attention during this period, one of which was the composition of "the mastersingers," which he wrote at intervals between 1861 and 1867. from the latter year until 1876, when the trilogy was produced at baireuth, he gave himself wholly to the work of completing it and preparing it for the stage. prior to the production of the completed work, separate parts of it were given, though wagner strongly opposed it. "the rhinegold," or introduction, came to a public dress-rehearsal at munich aug. 25, 1869, and "the valkyrie" was performed in a similar manner in the same city, june 24, 1870, with the following cast:- wotan herr kindermann. siegmund herr vogl. hunding herr bauserwein. brünnhilde frl. stehle. sieglinde frau vogl. fricka frl. kauffmann. the "siegfried" and "götterdämmerung," however, were not given until the entire work was performed in 1876. upon the completion of his colossal task wagner began to look about him for the locality, theatre, artists, and materials suitable for a successful representation. in the circular which he issued, narrating the circumstances which led up to the building of the baireuth opera-house, he says: "as early as the spring of 1871 i had, quietly and unnoticed, had my eye upon baireuth, the place i had chosen for my purpose. the idea of using the margravian opera-house was abandoned so soon as i saw its interior construction. but yet the peculiar character of that kindly town and its site so answered my requirements, that during the wintry latter part of the autumn of the same year i repeated my visit,--this time, however, to treat with the city authorities.... an unsurpassably beautiful and eligible plot of ground at no great distance from the town was given me on which to erect the proposed theatre. having come to an understanding as to its erection with a man of approved inventive genius, and of rare experience in the interior arrangement of theatres, we could then intrust to an architect of equal acquaintance with theatrical building the further planning and the erection of the provisional structure. and despite the great difficulties which attended the arrangements for putting under way so unusual an undertaking, we made such progress that the laying of the corner-stone could be announced to our patrons and friends for may 22, 1872." the ceremony took place as announced, and was made still further memorable by a magnificent performance of beethoven's ninth or choral symphony, the chorus of which, set to schiller's "ode to joy," was sung by hundreds of lusty german throats. in addition to the other contents of the stone, wagner deposited the following mystic verse of his own: "i bury here a secret deep, for centuries long to lie concealed; yet while this stone its trust shall keep, to all the secret stands revealed." he also made an eloquent address, setting forth the details of the plans and the purposes of the new temple of art. the undertaking was now fairly inaugurated. the erratic king of bavaria had from the first been wagner's steadfast friend and munificent patron; but not to him alone belongs the credit of the colossal project and its remarkable success. when wagner first made known his views, other friends, among them tausig, the eminent pianist, at once devoted themselves to his cause. in connection with a lady of high rank, baroness von schleinitz, he proposed to raise the sum of three hundred thousand thalers by the sale of patronage shares at three hundred thalers each, and had already entered upon the work when his death for the time dashed wagner's hopes. other friends, however, now came forward. an organization for the promotion of the scheme, called the "richard wagner society," was started at mannheim. notwithstanding the ridicule which it excited, another society was formed at vienna. like societies began to appear in all the principal cities of germany, and they found imitators in milan, pesth, brussels, london, and new york. shares were taken so rapidly that the success of the undertaking was no longer doubtful. meanwhile the theatre itself was under construction. it combined several peculiarities, one of the most novel of which was the concealment of the orchestra by the sinking of the floor, so that the view of the audience could not be interrupted by the musicians and their movements. private boxes were done away with, the arrangement of the seats being like that of an ancient amphitheatre, all of them facing the stage. two prosceniums were constructed which gave an indefinable sense of distance to the stage-picture. to relieve the bare side walls, a row of pillars was planned, gradually widening outward and forming the end of the rows of seats, thus having the effect of a third proscenium. the stage portion of the theatre was twice as high as the rest of the building, for all the scenery was both raised and lowered, the incongruity between the two parts being concealed by a façade in front. "whoever has rightly understood me," says wagner, "will readily perceive that architecture itself had to acquire a new significance under the inspiration of the genius of music, and thus that the myth of amphion building the walls of thebes by the notes of his lyre has yet a meaning." the theatre was completed in 1876, and in the month of august (13-16) wagner saw the dream of his life take the form of reality. he had everything at his command,--a theatre specially constructed for his purpose; a stage which in size, scenery, mechanical arrangements, and general equipment, has not its equal in the world; an array of artists the best that europe could produce; an orchestra almost literally composed of virtuosi. the audience which gathered at these performances--composed of princes, illustrious men in every department of science and culture, and prominent musicians from all parts of the world--was one of which any composer might have been proud, while the representation itself marked an epoch in musical history, and promulgated a new system of laws destined to affect operatic composition ever after. the casts of the various portions of the trilogy upon this memorable occasion were as follows: das rheingold. (prelude.) wotan | (herr betz. donner | (herr gura. | gods froh | (herr unger. loge | (herr vogl. fasolt | (herr eilers. | giants fafner | (herr von reichenberg. alberich | (herr hill. | nibelungs mime | (herr schlosser. fricka | (frau von grün-sadler. freia |goddesses (frl. haupt. erda | (frau jäida. woglinde ) ( frl. lilly lehmann. wellgunde ) rhine daughters ( frl. marie lehmann. flosshilde ) ( frl. lammert. die walküre. siegmund herr niemann. hunding herr niering. wotan herr betz. sieglinde frl. schefzky. brünnhilde frau friedrich-materna. fricka frau von grün-sadler. siegfried. siegfried herr unger. mime herr schlosser. der wanderer herr betz. alberich herr hill. fafner herr von reichenberg. erda frau jäida. brünnhilde frau friedrich-materna der götterdämmerung. siegfried herr unger. gunther herr gura. hagen herr von reichenberg. alberich herr hill. brünnhilde frau friedrich-materna. gutrune frl. weckerlin. waltraute frau jäida. the motive of the drama turns upon the possession of a ring of magic qualities, made of gold stolen from the rhine daughters by alberich, one of the nibelungen, who dwelt in nebelheim, the place of mists. this ring, the symbol of all earthly power, was at the same time to bring a curse upon all who possessed it. wotan, of the race of the gods, covetous of power and heedless of the curse which follows it, obtained the ring from alberich by force and cunning, and soon found himself involved in calamity from which there was no apparent escape. he himself could not expiate the wrong he had done, nor could he avert the impending doom, the "twilight" of the gods, which was slowly and surely approaching. only a free will, independent of the gods, and able to take upon itself the fault, could make reparation for the deed. at last he yields to despair. his will is broken, and instead of fearing the inevitable doom he courts it. in this sore emergency the hero appears. he belongs to an heroic race of men, the volsungs. the unnatural union of the twins, siegmund and sieglinde, born of this race, produces the real hero, siegfried. the parents pay the penalty of incest with their lives; but siegfried remains, and wotan watches his growth and magnificent development with eager interest. siegfried recovers the ring from the giants, to whom wotan had given it, by slaying a dragon which guarded the fatal treasure. brünnhilde, the valkyr, wotan's daughter, contrary to his instructions, had protected siegmund in a quarrel which resulted in his death, and was condemned by the irate god to fall into a deep sleep upon a rock surrounded by flames, where she was to remain until a hero should appear bold enough to break through the wall of fire and awaken her. siegfried rescues her. she wakens into the full consciousness of passionate love, and yields herself to the hero, who presents her with the ring, but not before it has worked its curse upon him, so that he, faithless even in his faithfulness, wounds her whom he deeply loves, and drives her from him. meanwhile gunther, gutrune, and their half-brother hagen conspire to obtain the ring from brünnhilde and to kill siegfried. through the agency of a magic draught he is induced to desert her, after once more getting the ring. he then marries gutrune. the curse soon reaches its consummation. one day, while traversing his favorite forests on a hunting expedition, he is killed by hagen, with gunther's connivance. the two murderers then quarrel for the possession of the ring, and gunther is slain. hagen attempts to wrest it from the dead hero's finger, but shrinks back terrified as the hand is raised in warning. brünnhilde now appears, takes the ring, and proclaims herself his true wife. she mounts her steed, and dashes into the funeral pyre of siegfried after returning the ring to the rhine-daughters. this supreme act of immolation breaks forever the power of the gods, as is shown by the blazing walhalla in the sky; but at the same time justice has been satisfied, reparation has been made for the original wrong, and the free will of man becomes established as a human principle. such are the outlines of this great story, which will be told more in detail when we come to examine the component parts of the trilogy. dr. ludwig nohl, in his admirable sketch of the nibelungen poem, as wagner adapted it, gives us a hint of some of its inner meanings in the following extract: "temporal power is not the highest destiny of a civilizing people. that our ancestors were conscious of this is shown in the fact that the treasure, or gold and its power, was transformed into the holy grail. worldly aims give place to spiritual desires. with this interpretation of the nibelungen myth, wagner acknowledged the grand and eternal truth that this life is tragic throughout, and that the will which would mould a world to accord with one's desires can finally lead to no greater satisfaction than to break itself in a noble death.... it is this conquering of the world through the victory of self which wagner conveys as the highest interpretation of our national myths. as brünnhilde approaches the funeral pyre to sacrifice her life, the only tie still uniting her with the earth, to siegfried, the beloved dead, she says:- "'to the world i will give now my holiest wisdom; not goods, nor gold, nor godlike pomp, not house, nor lands, nor lordly state, not wicked plottings of crafty men, not base deceits of cunning law,- but, blest in joy and sorrow, let only love remain.'" we now proceed to the analysis of the four divisions of the work, in which task, for obvious reasons, it will be hardly possible to do more than sketch the progress of the action, with allusions to its most striking musical features. there are no set numbers, as in the italian opera; and merely to designate the leading motives and trace their relation to each other, to the action of the _dramatis personæ_, and to the progress of the four movements, not alone towards their own climaxes but towards the ultimate dénouement, would necessitate far more space than can be had in a work of this kind. das rheingold. the orchestral prelude to "the rhinegold" is based upon a single figure, the rhine motive, which in its changing developments pictures the calm at the bottom of the rhine and the undulating movement of the water. the curtain rises and discloses the depths of the river, from which rise rugged ridges of rock. around one of these, upon the summit of which glistens the rhinegold, woglinde, a rhine-daughter, is swimming. two others, wellgunde and flosshilde, join her; and as they play about the gleaming gold, alberich, a dwarf, suddenly appears from a dark recess and passionately watches them. as they are making sport of him, his eye falls upon the gold and he determines to possess it. they make light of his threat, informing him that whoever shall forge a ring of this gold will have secured universal power, but before he can obtain that power he will have to renounce love. the disclosure of the secret follows a most exultant song of the undines ("rheingold! leuchtende lust! wie lachst du so hell und hehr!"). in the announcement made by them also occurs the motive of the ring. the rhine-daughters, who have fancied that alberich will never steal the gold because he is in love with them, are soon undeceived, for he curses love, and snatches the gold and makes off with it, pursued by the disconsolate maidens, whose song changes into a sad minor leading up to the next scene. as they follow him into the dark depths the stream sinks with them and gives place to an open district with a mountain in the background, upon which is the glistening walhalla, which the giants have just built for the gods. wotan and fricka are discovered awakening from sleep and joyfully contemplating it, the latter, however, filled with apprehension lest the giants shall claim freia, the goddess of love, whom wotan has promised to them as the reward for their work. loge, the god of fire, however, has agreed to obtain a ransom for her. he has searched the world over, but has been unable to find anything that can excel in value or attraction the charm of love. as the gods are contemplating their castle loge appears, and in a scene of great power, accompanied by music which vividly describes the element he dominates ("immer ist undank loge's lohn"), he narrates the tidings of his failure. the giants, however, have heard the story of the rhinegold, and as they carry off the weeping freia agree to release her whenever the gods will give to them the precious and all-powerful metal. as love departs, the heavens become dark and sadness overcomes the gods. they grow suddenly old and decrepit. fricka totters and wotan yields to despair. darkness and decay settle down upon them. the divine wills are broken, and they are about to surrender to what seems approaching dissolution, when wotan suddenly arouses himself and determines to go in quest of the all-powerful gold. loge accompanies him, and the two enter the dark kingdom of the gnomes, who are constantly at work forging the metals. by virtue of his gold alberich has already made himself master of all the gnomes, but wotan easily overpowers him and carries him off to the mountain. the nibelung, however, clings to his precious gold, and a struggle ensues for it. in spite of his strength and the power the ring gives to him it is wrenched from him, and the victorious wotan leaves him free to return to his gloomy kingdom. infuriated with disappointment over his loss and rage at his defeat, alberich curses the ring and invokes misfortune upon him who possesses it. "may he who has it not, covet it with rage," cries the dwarf, "and may he who has it, retain it with the anguish of fear;" and with curse upon curse he disappears. now that he has the ring, wotan is unwilling to give it up. the other gods implore him to do so, and the giants demand their ransom. he remains inflexible; but at last erda, the ancient divinity, to whom all things are known, past, present and future, appears to wotan and warns him to surrender the ring. she declares that all which exists will have an end, and that a night of gloom will come upon the gods. so long as he retains the ring a curse will follow it. her sinister foreboding so alarms him that at last he abandons the gold. youth, pride, and strength once more return to the gods. the grand closing scene of the prelude now begins. wotan attempts to enter walhalla, but all is veiled in oppressive mist and heavy clouds. the mighty donner, accompanied by froh, climbs a high rock in the valley's slope and brandishes his hammer, summoning the clouds about him. from out their darkness its blows are heard descending upon the rock. lightning leaps from them, and thunder-crashes follow each other with deafening sounds. the rain falls in heavy drops. then the clouds part, and reveal the two in the midst of their storm-spell. in the distance appears walhalla bathed in the glow of the setting sun. from their feet stretches a luminous rainbow across the valley to the castle, while out from the disappearing storm comes the sweet rainbow melody. froh sings, "though built lightly it looks, fast and fit is the bridge." the gods are filled with delight, but wotan gloomily contemplates the castle as the curse of the ring recurs to him. at last a new thought comes in his mind. the hero who will make reparation is to come from the new race of mortals of his own begetting. the thought appears in the sword motive, and as its stately melody dies away, wotan rouses from his contemplation and hails walhalla with joy as "a shelter from shame and harm." he takes fricka by the hand, and leading the way, followed by froh, freia, donner, and loge, the last somewhat reluctantly, the gods pass over the rainbow bridge and enter walhalla bathed in the light of the setting sun and accompanied by the strains of a majestic march. during their passage the plaintive song of the rhine-daughters mourning their gold comes up from the depths. wotan pauses a moment and inquires the meaning of the sounds, and bids loge send a message to them that the treasure shall "gleam no more for the maids." then they pass laughingly and mockingly on through the splendor to walhalla. the sad song still rises from the depths of the rhine, but it is overpowered by the strains of the march, and pealing music from the castle. the curtain falls upon their laments, and the triumphant entrance of the gods into their new home. die walküre. in "the valkyrie," properly the first part of the cyclus, the human drama begins. strong races of men have come into existence, and wotan's valkyres watch over them, leading those who fall in battle to walhalla, where, in the gods' companionship, they are to pass a glorious life. according to the original legend, wotan blessed an unfruitful marriage of this race by giving the pair an apple of hulda to eat, and the twins, siegmund and sieglinde, were the result of the union. when the first act opens, siegmund has already taken a wife and sieglinde has married the savage warrior hunding, but neither marriage has been fruitful. it is introduced with an orchestral prelude representing a storm. the pouring of the rain is audible among the violins and the rumbling of the thunder in the deep basses. the curtain rises, disclosing the interior of a rude hut, its roof supported by the branches of an ash-tree whose trunk rises through the centre of the apartment. as the tempest rages without, siegmund rushes in and falls exhausted by the fire. attracted by the noise, sieglinde appears, and observing the fallen stranger bends compassionately over him and offers him a horn of mead. as their eyes meet they watch each other with strange interest and growing emotion. while thus mutually fascinated, hunding enters and turns an inquiring look upon sieglinde. she explains that he is a guest worn out with fatigue and seeking shelter. hunding orders a repast and siegmund tells his story. vanquished in combat by a neighboring tribe, some of whose adherents he had slain, and stripped of his arms, he fled through the storm for refuge. hunding promises him hospitality, but challenges him to combat on the morrow, for the victims of siegmund's wrath were hunding's friends. as sieglinde retires at hunding's bidding, she casts a despairing, passionate look at siegmund, and tries to direct his attention to a sword sticking in the ash-tree, but in vain. hunding warns her away with a significant look, and then taking his weapons from the tree leaves siegmund alone. the latter, sitting by the fire, falls into dejection, but is soon roused by the thought that his sire had promised he should find the sword nothung in his time of direst need. the dying fire shoots out a sudden flame, and his eye lights upon its handle, illuminated by the blaze. the magnificent sword-melody is sounded, and in a scene of great power he hails it and sings his love for sieglinde, whom now he can rescue. as the fire and the song die away together, sieglinde reappears. she has drugged hunding into a deep sleep, and in an exultant song tells siegmund the story of the sword. they can be saved if he is strong enough to wrench it from the trunk of the ash. he recognizes his sister and folds her passionately in his arms. the storm has passed, and as the moonlight floods the room he breaks out in one of the loveliest melodies wagner has ever written, the spring song ("winterstürme wichen dem wonnemond"), a song of love leading to the delights of spring; and sieglinde in passionate response declares, "thou art the spring for which i longed in winter's frosty embrace." the recognition is mutual, not alone of brother and sister but of lover and mistress,--the union which is destined to beget siegfried, the hero. seizing her in his arms, siegmund disappears with her into the depths of the forest, and the curtain falls. the second act opens in the mountains of the gods, and discloses wotan with spear in hand in earnest converse with brünnhilde, his daughter, who is arrayed in the armor of a valkyr. he tells her of the approaching combat, and bids her award the victory to siegmund the volsung, beloved of the gods. as she disappears among the rocks, shouting the weird cry of the valkyres, the jealous fricka, protector of marriage vows, comes upon the scene in a chariot drawn by rams. a stormy dialogue occurs between them, fricka demanding the death of siegmund as compensation for the wrong done to hunding. wotan at last is overcome, and consents that the valkyres shall conduct him to walhalla. as he yields, brünnhilde's jubilant song is heard on the heights, and wotan summons her and announces his changed decision. siegmund must perish. as he stalks gloomily away among the rocks, brünnhilde falls into deep dejection, and turns away moaning: "alas! my volsung! has it come to this,--that faithless the faithful must fail thee?" as she enters a cave for her horse, the fugitives siegmund and sieglinde hurriedly approach, pursued by the infuriated hunding. they stop to rest, and sieglinde falls exhausted in his arms. the scene is marked by alternations of passionate love and fear, hope on the one side, despair on the other, vividly portrayed in the instrumentation. as the music dies away and sieglinde rests insensible in his arms, brünnhilde, with deep melancholy in her visage, shows herself to siegmund. in reply to his question, "who art thou?" she answers, "he who beholds me, to death in the battle is doomed. i shall lead thee to walhalla." eagerly he asks, "shall i find in walhalla my own father wälse?" and she answers, "the volsung shall find his father there." with passionate earnestness he asks, "shall siegmund there embrace sieglinde?" the valkyre replies, "the air of earth she still must breathe. sieglinde shall not see siegmund there." then furiously answers siegmund, "then farewell to walhalla! where sieglinde lives, in bliss or blight, there siegmund will also tarry," and he raises his sword over his unconscious sister. moved by his great love and sorrow, brünnhilde for the first time is swayed by human emotions, and exultantly declares, "i will protect thee." hunding's horn sounds in the distance, and soon is heard his defiant challenge to battle. siegmund rushes to the top of one of the cloudy summits, and the clash of their arms resounds in the mists. a sudden gleam of light shows brünnhilde hovering over siegmund, and protecting him with her shield. as he prepares himself to deal a deadly thrust at hunding, the angry wotan appears in a storm-cloud and interposes his spear. siegmund's sword is shivered to pieces. hunding pierces his disarmed enemy, and he falls mortally wounded. brünnhilde lifts the insensible sieglinde upon her steed and rides away with her. wotan, leaning upon his spear, gazes sorrowfully at the dying volsung, and then turning to hunding, so overcomes him with his contemptuous glance that he falls dead at his feet. "but brünnhilde, woe to the traitor. punishment dire is due to her treason. to horse, then. let vengeance speed swiftly." and mounting his steed he disappears amid thunder and lightning. the last act opens in a rocky glen filled with the valkyres calling to each other from summit to summit with wild cries as they come riding through the clouds after the combat, bearing the dead bodies of the warriors on their saddles. the scene is preluded with an orchestral number, well known in the concert-room as the "ride of the valkyres," which is based upon two motives, the valkyre's call and the valkyre melody. in picturesque description of the rush and dash of steeds, amid which are heard the wild cries of the sisters, "the ride" is one of the most powerful numbers ever written. brünnhilde arrives among the exultant throng in tears, bearing sieglinde with her. she gives her the fragments of siegmund's sword, and appeals to the other valkyres to save her. she bids sieglinde live, for "thou art to give birth to a volsung," and to keep the fragments of the sword. "he that once brandishes the sword, newly welded, let him be named siegfried, the winner of victory." wotan's voice is now heard angrily shouting through the storm-clouds, and calling upon brünnhilde, who vainly seeks to conceal herself among her sisters. he summons her forth from the group, and she comes forward meekly but firmly and awaits her punishment. he taxes her with violating his commands; to which she replies, "i obeyed not thy order, but thy secret wish." the answer does not avail, and he condemns her to sleep by the wayside, the victim of the first who passes. she passionately pleads for protection against dishonor, and the god consents. placing her upon a rocky couch and kissing her brow, he takes his farewell of her in a scene which for majestic pathos has never been excelled. one forgets wotan and the valkyre. it is the last parting of an earthly father and daughter, illustrated with music which is the very apotheosis of grief. he then conjures loge, the god of fire; and as he strikes his spear upon the rock, flames spring up all about her. proudly he sings in the midst of the glare:- "who fears the spike of my spear to face, he will not pierce the planted fire,"-a melody which is to form the motive of the hero siegfried in the next division of the work--and the curtain falls upon a scene which for power, beauty, and majesty has not its equal on the lyric stage. siegfried. the second division of the tragedy, "siegfried," might well be called an idyl, of the forest. its music is full of joyousness and delight. in place of the struggles of gods and combats of fierce warriors, the wild cries of valkyres and the blendings of human passions with divine angers, we have the repose and serenity of nature, and in the midst of it all appears the hero siegfried, true child of the woods, and as full of wild joyousness and exultant strength as one of their fauns or satyrs. it is a wonderful picture of nature, closing with an ecstatic, vision of love. after the death of siegmund, sieglinde takes refuge in the depths of the forest, where she gives birth to siegfried. in her dying moments she intrusts him to mime, who forged the ring for alberich when he obtained possession of the rhinegold. the young hero has developed into a handsome, manly stripling, who dominates the forests and holds its wild animals subject to his will. he calls to the birds and they answer him. he chases the deer with leaps as swift as their own. he seizes the bear and drags him into mime's hut, much to the nibelung's alarm. but while pursuing the wild, free life in the forest, he has dreams of greater conquests than those over nature. heroic deeds shape themselves in his mind, and sometimes they are illuminated with dim and mysterious visions of a deeper passion. in his interviews with mime he questions him about the world outside of the forest, its people and their actions. he tires of the woods, and longs to get away from them. mime then shows him the fragments of his father's sword, which had been shattered upon wotan's spear, the only legacy left her son by sieglinde, and tells him that he who can weld them together again will have power to conquer all before him. mime had long tried to forge a sword for siegfried, but they were all too brittle, nor had he the skill to weld together the fragments of siegmund's sword, nothung. the only one who can perform that task is the hero without fear. one day siegfried returns from a hunting expedition and undertakes it himself. he files the fragments into dust and throws it into the crucible, which he places on the fire of the forge. then while blowing the bellows he sings a triumphant song ("nothung! nothung! neidliches schwert"), which anticipates the climax towards which all the previous scenes have led. as he sings at his work mime cogitates how he shall thwart his plans and get possession of the sword. he plots to have him kill fafner, the giant, who has changed himself into a dragon, for the more effectual custody of the rhine-treasure and the ring. then when siegfried has captured the treasure he will drug him with a poisoned broth, kill him with the sword, and seize the gold. siegfried pours the melted steel into a mould, thrusts it into the water to cool, and then bursts out into a new song, accompanied by anvil blows, as he forges and tempers it, the motive of which has already been heard in the "rhinegold" prelude, when alberich made his threat. while mime quietly mixes his potion, siegfried fastens the hilt to his blade and polishes the sword. then breaking out in a new song, in which are heard the motives of the fire-god and the sword, he swings it through the air, and bringing it down with force splits the anvil in twain. the music accompanying this great scene, imitating the various sounds of the forge, the flutter of the fire, the hissing of the water, the filing of the sword, and the blows upon the anvil, is realism carried to the very extreme of possibilities. the great exploit has been successful, and siegfried at last has siegmund's sword. mime takes him to the cave where fafner, the giant-dragon, guards the gold. siegfried slays the monster, and laughs over the ease of the task. his finger is heated with the dragon's blood, and as he puts it to his lips to cool it he tastes the blood, and thus learns the language of the birds. he cares nought for the treasure, and takes only the ring and a magic helmet, which enables the wearer to assume any form. after the contest he throws himself at the foot of a tree in the forest and dreamily listens to the "waldweben," the rustle and mysterious stirrings of the woods. amid all these subtle, soothing sounds, pierced now and then with the songs of the birds, and distant cries in far-away sylvan recesses, he realizes that he is alone, while his old companions of the woods are together. he thinks of the mother whom he has never known, and of that mysterious being whom he has never seen, who should make the companionship he observes among the birds. the passion of love begins to assert itself vaguely and strangely, but full soon it will glow out with ardent flame. a bird flying over his head sings to him. he can understand its song and fancies it his mother's voice coming to him in the bird-notes. it tells him now he has the treasure, he should save the most beautiful of women and win her to himself. "she sleeps upon a rock, encircled with flames; but shouldst thou dare to break through them, the warrior-virgin is thine." the bird wings its flight through the forest, and siegfried, joyously seizing his sword, follows it with swift foot, for he knows it is guiding him to brünnhilde. the time for great deeds has come. the wild, free life of the forest is over. the third act once more shows us the god wotan still plunged in gloom. gazing into a deep abyss, he summons erda, who knows the destiny of all the world, to question her again as to the twilight of the gods. the mysterious figure appears at his bidding, but has nothing further to communicate. their doom is certain. the fearless race of men is destined to efface the gods, and walhalla must disappear. the hero is at hand, and coming rapidly. the despairing wotan, who appears in this scene as "der wanderer" (the wanderer), cries out, "so be it. it is to this end i aspire." he turns gloomily away, and confronts siegfried bounding from rock to rock like a deer, still following his airy guide. the god angrily tries to bar his way, but in vain. his lance is shattered at a single blow of the sword nothung, which he himself had once so easily shivered. it is the first catastrophe of the final fate which is approaching. the hero without fear has come, the free will of man has begun to manifest itself. the power of the gods is breaking. joyously siegfried rushes on over the rocks. he is soon bathed in the glow of the fire, which casts weird shadows through the wild glen. now the burning wall of red flames is before him. with a ringing cry of exultation he dashes through them, and before him lies the sleeping maiden in her glistening armor. mad with her beauty and his own overpowering passion, he springs to her side and wakes her with a kiss. the volsung and the valkyr gaze at each other a long time in silence. brünnhilde strives to comprehend her situation, and to recall the events that led up to her penalty, while love grows within her for the hero who has rescued her, and siegfried is transfixed by the majesty of the maiden. as she comes to herself and fully realizes who is the hero before her and foresees the approaching doom, she earnestly appeals to him:- "leave, ah, leave, leave me unlost, force on me not thy fiery nearness. shiver me not with thy shattering will, and lay me not waste in thy love." what is preordained cannot be changed. siegfried replies with growing passion, and brünnhilde at last yields, and the two join in an outburst of exultant song:- "away, walhalla, in dust crumble thy myriad towers. farewell, greatness, and gift of the gods. you, norns, unravel the rope of runes. darken upwards, dusk of the gods. night of annulment, draw near with thy cloud. i stand in sight of siegfried's star. for me he was, and for me he will ever be." with this great duet, which is one of the most extraordinary numbers in the trilogy for dramatic power and musical expression of human emotion, this division closes. die götterdämmerung. the last division of the tragedy opens under the shade of a huge ash-tree where the three fates sit spinning and weaving out human destinies. as they toss their thread from one to the other,--the thread they have been spinning since time began,--they foresee the gloom which is coming. suddenly it snaps in their fingers, whereupon the dark sisters crowding closely together descend to the depths of the earth to consult with the ancient erda and seek shelter near her. meanwhile as day breaks siegfried and brünnhilde emerge from the glen where they have been reposing in mutual happiness. brünnhilde has told her lover the story of the gods and the secrets of the mystic runes, but he is still unsatisfied. his mission is not yet fulfilled. he must away to perform new deeds. before he leaves her he gives her the ring as his pledge of fidelity, and they part, after exchanging mutual vows of love and constancy. in his search for further exploits, siegfried arrives at the dwelling of gunter, a powerful rhenish chief, head of the gibichungen, another race of heroes, where also resides gutrune, his fascinating sister, and the evil hagen, begotten by alberich of crimhilda, gunter's mother, who was the victim of his gold. alberich's hatred of the gods and all connected with them is shared by his son, who has been charged by the nibelung to recover the gold. from this point the tragic denouement rapidly progresses. siegfried's horn is heard in the distance, and he soon crosses gunter's threshold, where his ruin is being plotted by the sinister hagen. he is hospitably received, and at hagen's bidding gutrune pours out and offers him a draught so cunningly mixed that it will efface all past remembrances. he is completely infatuated with the girl's beauty, and as the potion takes effect, the love for brünnhilde disappears. he demands gutrune in marriage, and hagen promises her upon condition that he will bring brünnhilde as a bride for gunter. siegfried departs upon the fatal errand, and after taking from her the ring drags her by force to deliver her to gunter. the valkyr rises to a sublime height of anger over her betrayal, and dooms siegfried to death in the approaching hunt, for by death alone she knows that she can regain his love. the last act opens in a rocky glen on the banks of the rhine, the ripple of whose waters is repeated in the melody of "the rhinegold." siegfried is separated from his companion, and while alone, the song of the rhine-daughters is heard. they rise to the surface of the gleaming water and demand their gold, but siegfried refuses to restore it. they warn him again to fly from the curse, but he proudly exclaims that his sword is invincible and can crush the norns. sadly they float away to the sound of harps shimmering over the water. gunter's horn is heard among the hills, and siegfried exultantly answers it. the huntsmen assemble and prepare for a feast. siegfried relates his adventure with the rhine-daughters, and when hagen asks him if it is true that he can understand the language of the birds, he tells the whole story of his life in the "rheinfahrt," a song built up of all the motives which have been heard in the "siegfried" division,--the melody of the sword, the stir of the woods, the song of the mysterious bird, mime's enticement, the love of brünnhilde, and the flaming fire following each other in rapid and brilliant succession through the measures of the picturesque description. as the song dies away, two ravens, messengers of ill-omen, fly across the stage. the curse motive sounds gloomily through the orchestra. hagen springs to his feet and suddenly and treacherously plunges his spear into siegfried's back, then sullenly leaves and disappears among the rocks. the hero falls to the earth and dies, breathing brünnhilde's name, for in the last supreme moment the spell of hagen's draught passes away. with his last breath he breaks out in a death-song of surpassing beauty and majesty, in which the motives are those of the volsung and the valkyr, as well as of the destiny which is to reunite them in death. once more he murmurs the name of brünnhilde, and then his companions tenderly place him upon his shield, and lifting him upon their shoulders carry him to the misty summits and disappear in the cloud, to the mighty and impressive strains of a funeral march, built up on the motives of siegmund, the love-duet of siegmund and sieglinde, the sword and volsung motives, and siegfried's great theme. in the interweaving of these motives and their sombre coloring, in massive fortissimo and crescendo effects, in expressive musical delineation, and in majestic solemnity, the siegfried funeral march must take precedence of all other dirges. in truth it is a colossal and heroic funeral poem fit to celebrate the death of a demigod. in the last scene siegfried's body is borne back to the hall of the gibichungs amid loud lamenting. when gutrune learns what has occurred, she bitterly curses hagen and throws herself on siegfried's corpse. hagen and gunter quarrel for the possession of the ring, and gunter is slain; but when hagen tries to take the ring, the hand of the dead hero is raised in warning. then brünnhilde solemnly and proudly advances in the light of the torches and bids the empty clamor cease, for "this is no lamenting worthy of a hero." she orders a funeral pyre to be built, and siegfried is laid thereon. she contemplates the dead hero with passionate love and sadness, and then solemnly turning to those about her, exclaims: "those who efface the fault of the gods are predestined to suffering and death. let one sacrifice end the curse. let the ring be purified by fire, the waters dissolve it forever. the end of the gods is at hand. but though i leave the world masterless, i give it this precious treasure. in joy or in suffering, happiness can alone come from love." she seizes a burning brand, and invoking loge, god of fire, flings it into the pyre. her horse is brought to her, and she proudly mounts it:- "grane, my horse, hail to thee here! knowest thou, friend, how far i shall need thee? heiaho! grane! greeting to him. siegfried! see, brünnhilde joyously hails thee, thy bride." she swings herself upon her steed and dashes into the furious flames. at last they die away, and the rhine rushes forward from its banks and covers the pyre. the exultant rhine-daughters are swimming in the flood, for brünnhilde has thrown them the ring. hagen makes a last desperate effort to clutch it, but woglinde and wellgunde wind their arms about him, and as they drag him into the depths flosshilde holds the ring above the waters, and the exultant song of the rhine-daughters is heard above the swelling tide, while far in the distance a red flame spreads among the clouds. walhalla is blazing in the sky. the dusk of the gods has come. reparation has been made. the hero without fear is victorious. free will, independent of the gods, will rule the world, and the gods themselves are lost in the human creation. love is given to men, and conquers death. parsifal. "parsifal," a "bühnenweihfestspiel" (festival acting-drama), words by wagner, was concluded in 1879, and first produced at baireuth, july 22, 1882, only about seven months before the distinguished composer's death, with mme. friedrich-materna as kundry, herr winckelmann as parsifal, and herr scaria as gurnemanz. the theme of the opera is taken from the cycle of holy grail myths to which "lohengrin" also belongs. the reader will remember that lohengrin in his final address declares himself son of parsifal, the king of the grail; and it is with this parsifal that wagner's last work is concerned. parsifal, like siegfried, represents free human nature in its spontaneous, impulsive action. he is styled in the text, "der reine thor" (the guileless fool), who, in consonance with the old mythological idea, overcomes the evil principle and gains the crown by dint of pure natural impulse. the opera differs widely from "the nibelung ring." the composer has used the free instead of the alliterative form of verse, which he then contended was best adapted to musical setting. in "the ring" the chorus is not introduced at all until the last division is reached, while in "parsifal" it plays an important part in every act, in the second scene of the first act there being three choirs on the stage at a time. still there is no trace of the aria, the duet, or the recitative, of the italian style, though there is plenty of concerted music, which grows out of the dramatic necessities of the situations. when these necessities do not urge themselves, the music flows on in dialogue form, as in "the ring." the vorspiel is based upon three motives connected with the mystery of the grail, which forms the key-note of the opera, though in a different aspect from that which the grail assumes in "lohengrin," where it can only be visible to the eye of faith, while in "parsifal" it distinctly performs its wonders. let it be remembered that the grail is the chalice from which christ drank with his disciples at the last supper, and in which his blood was received at the cross. the first of these motives is of the same general character as the grail motive in the "lohengrin" vorspiel; the second is an impressive phrase for trumpets and trombones, which will be heard again when the knights of the grail are summoned to their duties; and the third is a broad, dignified melody in the chorale form. the action of the drama occurs in the north of spain, and in the vicinity of monsalvat, the castle of the holy grail, where this chalice was brought by angels when christianity was in danger. the curtain rises upon a lovely forest glade on the borders of a lake, at daybreak, and discovers the grail knight, gurnemanz, and two young shield-bearers, guardians of the castle, sleeping at the foot of a tree. trumpet-calls, repeating the motive first heard in the prelude, arouse them from their sleep; and as they offer up their morning prayer the chorale is heard again. as they wend their way to the castle, they meet two knights preceding the litter upon which the wounded amfortas, king of the grail, is carried. in the subsequent dialogue gurnemanz tells the story of the king's mishap. he is suffering from a wound which refuses to close, and which has been inflicted by the sacred spear,--the spear, according to the legend, with which our saviour's side was pierced. klingsor, a magician, had aspired to become a knight of the grail, but his application was refused; for only those of holy lives could watch the sacred vessel and perform its ministrations. in revenge, klingsor studied the magic arts and created for himself a fairy palace, which he peopled with beautiful women, whose sole duty it was to seduce the knights of the grail. one of these women, a mysterious creature of wonderful fascinations, kundry by name, had beguiled amfortas, who thus fell into the power of klingsor. he lost his spear, and received from it a wound which will never heal so long as it remains in the hands of the magician. in a vision he has been told to wait for the one who has been appointed to cure him. a voice from the grail tells him the following mystery:- "durch mitleid wissend, der reine thor, harre sein' den ich erkor." ["let a guileless fool only, knowing by compassion, await him whom i have chosen."] meanwhile, as the shield-bearers are carrying amfortas towards the lake, the savage, mysterious kundry is seen flying over the fields. she overtakes gurnemanz and gives him a balm, saying that if it will not help the king, nothing in arabia can, and then, refusing to accept thanks or reveal her identity, sinks to the ground in weariness. the king takes the drug with gratitude; but she scorns thanks, and sneers at those about her with savage irony. gurnemanz's companions are about to seize her, but the old knight warns them that she is living incarnate to expiate the sins of a former life, and that in serving the order of the grail she is purchasing back her own redemption. as gurnemanz concludes, cries are heard in the wood, and two knights, approaching, announce that a swan, the bird sacred to the grail, which was winging its way over the lake, and which the king had hailed as a happy omen, has been shot. parsifal, the murderer, is dragged in, and when questioned by gurnemanz, is unaware that he has committed any offence. to every question he only answers he does not know. when asked who is his mother, kundry answers for him: "his mother brought him an orphan into the world, and kept him like a fool in the forest, a stranger to arms, so that he should escape a premature death; but he fled from her and followed the wild life of nature. her grief is over, for she is dead." whereupon parsifal flies at her and seizes her by the throat; but gurnemanz holds him back, and kundry sinks down exhausted. parsifal answers to the "thor," but it remains to be seen whether he is the "reine thor." gurnemanz conducts him to the temple where the holy rites of the grail are to be performed, hoping he is the redeemer whom the grail will disclose when the love-feast of the saviour is celebrated. the scene changes to the great hall of the castle and the celebration of the feast of the grail. the scene is introduced with a solemn march by full orchestra, including trombones on the stage, accompanied by the clanging of bells as the knights enter in stately procession. they sing a pious chant in unison, the march theme still sounding. as the younger squires and pages enter, a new melody is taken in three-part harmony, and finally an unseen chorus of boys from the extreme height of the dome sing the chorale from the introduction, without accompaniment, in imitation of angel voices. the shield-bearers bring in amfortas upon his litter, when suddenly from a vaulted niche is heard the voice of titurel, amfortas's aged father, and the founder of monsalvat, now too feeble to perform the holy offices, bidding the grail to be uncovered. amfortas, mourning that he, the unholiest of them, should be called, opens a golden shrine and takes out the crystal vessel. darkness falls upon the hall, but the grail is illuminated with constantly increasing brilliancy, while from the dome the children's voices sing, "take my blood in the name of our love, and take my body in remembrance of me." parsifal watches the scene with bewildered eyes, but upon saying in reply that he does not understand the holy rite, he is contemptuously ejected from the place. the second act reveals klingsor's enchanted palace. the magician gazing into a mirror sees parsifal approaching, and knows he is the redeemer who has been promised. he summons kundry before him, and commands her to tempt him with her spells. she struggles against the task, for in her soul the powers of good and evil are always contending for the mastery. she longs for eternal sleep, and rest from her evil passions, but klingsor holds her in his power. parsifal enters, and the scene changes to a delightful garden filled with girls of ravishing beauty in garments of flowers. they crowd about him, and by their fascinating blandishments seek to gain his love, but in vain. he is still the "guileless fool." then kundry appears in all her loveliness, and calls him by name, the name he had heard his mother speak. he sorrowfully sinks at kundry's feet. the enchantress bends over him, appeals to him through his longing for his mother, and kisses him. instantly he comprehends all that he has seen, and he cries, "the wound burns in my heart, oh, torment of love!" then quickly rising he spurns her from him. he has gained the world-knowledge. she flies to him again, and passionately exclaims, "the gift of my love would make thee divine. if this hour has made thee the redeemer, let me suffer forever, but give me thy love." he spurns her again, and cries, "to all eternity thou wouldst be damned with me, if for one hour i should forget my mission," but says he will save her too, and demands to know the way to amfortas. in rage she declares he shall never find it, and summons the help of klingsor, who hurls the sacred lance at parsifal. the weapon remains suspended over his head. he seizes it and makes the sign of the cross. the gardens and castle disappear. parsifal and kundry are alone in a desert. she sinks to the ground with a mournful cry, and turning from her, his last words are, "thou knowest where only thou canst see me again." in the third act we are again in the land of the grail. parsifal has wandered for years trying to find monsalvat, and at last encounters gurnemanz, now a very old man, living as a hermit near a forest spring, and the saddened kundry is serving him. it is the good friday morning, and forests and fields are bright with flowers and the verdure of spring. gurnemanz recognizes him, and in reply to his question what makes the world so beautiful, the aged knight makes answer:- "the sad repentant tears of sinners have here with holy rain besprinkled field and plain, and made them glow with beauty. all earthly creatures in delight at the redeemer's trace so bright, uplift their prayers of duty. and now perceive each blade and meadow flower, that mortal foot to-day it need not dread." kundry washes "the dust of his long wanderings" from his feet, and looks up at him with earnest and beseeching gaze. gurnemanz recognizes the sacred spear, hails him as the king of the grail and offers to conduct him to the great hall where the holy rites are once more to be performed. before they leave, parsifal's first act as the redeemer is to baptize kundry with water from the spring. the sound of tolling bells in the distance announces the funeral of titurel, and the scene changes to the hall where the knights are carrying the litter upon which amfortas lies, awaiting the funeral procession approaching to the strains of a solemn march. the knights demand he shall again uncover the grail, but he refuses, and calls upon them to destroy him and then the grail will shine brightly for them again. unobserved by them, parsifal steps forward, touches the king's wound with the spear, and it is immediately healed. then he proclaims himself king of the grail, and orders it to be uncovered. as amfortas and gurnemanz kneel to do him homage, kundry dies at his feet in the joy of repentance. titurel rises from his coffin and bestows a benediction. parsifal ascends to the altar and raises the grail in all its resplendent beauty. a white dove flies down from the dome of the hall and hovers over his head, while the knights chant their praise to god, re-echoed by the singers in the dome, whose strains sound like celestial voices:- "miracle of supreme blessing, redemption to the redeemer." wallace. william vincent wallace was born at waterford, ireland, in 1815. he first studied music with his father, a bandleader, who afterwards sent him to dublin, where he speedily became an excellent performer on the clarinet, violin, and piano. at the early age of fifteen he was appointed organist at the cathedral of thurles, and soon afterwards was engaged as a theatre director and concert conductor. at the age of eighteen he had a fit of sickness, and upon his recovery went to australia for his health, and thence to van diemen's land and new zealand. he passed some time in the latter country, and then began a long series of wanderings, in the course of which he visited the east and west indies, mexico,--where he conducted italian opera,--and the united states. he remained in new york a considerable period, and gave concerts which were very remunerative. in 1846 he returned to europe, and shortly afterwards his pretty little opera, "maritana," appeared, and made quite a sensation among the admirers of english opera. in 1847 "matilda of hungary" was produced, and met with success. thirteen years of silence elapsed, and at last, in 1860, he produced his legendary opera, "lurline," at covent garden. it gave great satisfaction at the time, but is now rarely performed. besides his operas he also wrote many waltzes, nocturnes, studies, and other light works for the piano. after the production of "lurline" he went to paris for the purpose of bringing out some of his operas, and while in that city also composed the first act of an opera for london, but his health was too delicate to admit of its completion. he died at château de bayen, oct. 12, 1865. maritana. "maritana," a romantic opera in three acts, words by fitzball, founded upon the well-known play of "don caesar de bazan," was first produced at drury lane, london, nov. 15, 1845. the text closely follows that of the drama. the first act opens in a public square of madrid, where a band of gypsies are singing to the populace, among them maritana, a young girl of more than ordinary beauty and vocal accomplishments. among the spectators is the young king charles, who after listening to her is smitten with her charms. don josé, his minister, to carry out certain ambitious plans of his own, resolves to encourage the fascinations which have so attracted the king. he extols her beauty and arouses hopes in her breast of future grandeur and prosperity. at this juncture don caesar de bazan, a reckless, rollicking cavalier, comes reeling out of a tavern where he has just parted with the last of his money to gamblers. in spite of his shabby costume and dissipated appearance he bears the marks of high breeding. in better days he had been a friend of don josé. while he is relating the story of his downward career to the minister, lazarillo, a forlorn young lad who has just attempted to destroy himself, accosts don caesar, and tells him a piteous tale of his wrongs. don caesar befriends him, and in consequence becomes involved in a duel, which leads to his arrest; for it is holy week, and duelling during that time has been forbidden on pain of death. while don caesar is on his way to prison, don josé delights maritana by promising her wealth, a splendid marriage, and an introduction to the court on the morrow. the second act opens in the prison, and discovers don caesar asleep, with his faithful little friend watching by him. it is five o'clock when he wakes, and at seven he must die. only two hours of life remain for him, but the prospect does not disturb him. on the other hand he is gayer than usual, and rallies lazarillo with playful mirth. in the midst of his gayety the crafty don josé enters and professes strong friendship for him. when don caesar declares that he has but one last wish, and that is to die a soldier's death instead of being ignominiously hanged, don josé says it shall be gratified upon condition that he will marry. the prisoner has but an hour and three quarters to live, but he consents. he is provided with wedding apparel, and a banquet is spread in honor of the occasion. during the feast lazarillo brings in a paper to don josé containing the king's pardon for don caesar, but the minister promptly conceals it. maritana, her features disguised by a veil, is introduced, and as the nuptial rites are performed the soldiers prepare to execute the penalty. at the expiration of the hour don caesar is led out to meet his fate, but lazarillo has managed to abstract the balls from the guns. the soldiers perform their duty, and don caesar feigns death; but as soon as the opportunity occurs, he leaves the prison and hurries to a grand ball given by the marquis and marchioness de montefiori at their palace, while the marquis, who has had his instructions from don josé to recognize maritana as his long-lost niece, is introducing her as such. don caesar enters and demands his bride. the astonished don josé, perceiving that his scheme to introduce maritana at court is liable to be frustrated, offers the marquis a rich appointment if he will induce his wife to play the part he shall suggest. the scheme is soon arranged, and the marchioness, closely veiled, is presented to don caesar as the countess de bazan. disgusted at "the precious piece of antiquity," as he terms her, and fancying that he has been duped, he is about to sign a paper relinquishing his bride, when he suddenly hears maritana's voice. he recognizes it as the same he had heard during the marriage rites. he rushes forward to claim her, but she is quickly carried away, and he is prevented from following. the last act opens in a palace belonging to the king, where maritana is surrounded with luxury, though she is as yet unaware that she is in the royal apartments. don josé, fancying that don caesar will not dare to make his appearance, as he does not know of his pardon, carries out his plot by introducing the king to her as her husband. she at first rejects him, and as he presses his suit don caesar breaks into the apartment. the king in a rage demands to know his errand. he replies that he is in quest of the countess de bazan, and with equal rage inquires who he (the king) is. the king in confusion answers that he is don caesar, whereupon the latter promptly replies, "then i am the king of spain." before further explanation can be made, a messenger arrives from the queen with the announcement that she awaits the king. after his departure don caesar and maritana mutually recognize each other, and upon her advice he resolves to appeal to the queen to save her. he waits for her majesty in the palace garden, and while concealed, overhears don josé informing her that the king will meet his mistress that night. he springs out, and denouncing him as a traitor to his king slays him, and then returning to maritana's apartment finds the king there again, and tells him what has occurred. he has saved the king's honor: will the king destroy his? the monarch, overcome with don caesar's gallantry and loyalty, consigns maritana to him and appoints him governor of granada. the appointment does not suit don caesar, for granada is too near his creditors. the king, laughing, changes it to valencia, a hundred leagues away, and thither don caesar conducts his happy bride. the drama is one which is well adapted to bright, cheerful, melodious music, and the opportunity has been well improved, for "maritana" is one of the sprightliest and brightest of all the english operas, and contains several ballads which for beauty and expressiveness may well challenge any that balfe has written. the principal numbers in the first act are maritana's opening song in the public square ("it was a knight of princely mien"); the romanza which she subsequently sings for don josé, "i hear it again, 'tis the harp in the air," which is one of the sweetest and most delicate songs in any of the lighter operas; the duet between maritana and don josé, "of fairy wand had i the power;" don caesar's rollicking drinking-song, "all the world over, to love, to drink, to fight, i delight;" and the tripping chorus, "pretty gitana, tell us what the fates decree," leading up to the stirring ensemble in the finale, when don caesar is arrested. the first scene of the second act is the richest in popular numbers, containing an aria for alto, lazarillo's song ("alas! those chimes so sweetly pealing"); a charming trio for don caesar, lazarillo, and don josé ("turn on, old time, thine hourglass"); don caesar's stirring martial song, "yes, let me like a soldier fall;" the serious ballad, "in happy moments, day by day," written by alfred bunn, who wrote so many of the balfe ballads; and the quartet and chorus closing the scene, "health to the lady, the lovely bride!" the second scene opens with a pretty chorus in waltz time ("ah, what pleasure! the soft guitar"), followed by an aria sung by the king ("the mariner in his bark"), and introduced by an attractive violin prelude. the finale is a very dramatic ensemble, quintet and chorus ("what mystery must now control"). the last act falls off in musical interest, though it is very strong dramatically. it contains a few numbers, however, which are very popular; among them one of the most admired of all english songs ("scenes that are brightest"), which maritana sings in the king's apartments at the beginning of the act; the humorous duet between the king and don caesar when they meet; the love-duet between don caesar and maritana ("this heart with bliss o'erflowing"); and don caesar's song, "there is a flower that bloometh," which is in the sentimental ballad style. the freshness, brightness, and gracefulness of the music of this little opera, combined with the unusual interest and delicate humor of the story, have always commended it to popular admiration. weber. carl maria von weber was born dec. 18, 1786, at eutin, and may almost be said to have been born on the stage, as his father was at the head of a theatrical company, and the young carl was carried in the train of the wandering troupe all over germany. his first lessons were given to him by henschkel, conductor of the orchestra of duke friedrich of meiningen. at the age of fourteen he wrote his first opera, "das waldmädchen," which was performed several times during the year 1800. in 1801 appeared his two-act comic opera, "peter schmoll and his neighbors," and during these two years he also frequently played in concerts with great success. he then studied with the abbé vogler, and in his eighteenth year was engaged for the conductorship of the breslau opera. about this time appeared his first important opera, "rubezahl." at the conclusion of his studies with vogler he was made director of the opera at prague. in 1814 he wrote a cantata, "the lyre and sword," for a festive occasion, and it was greeted with the wildest enthusiasm. in 1816 he went to berlin, where he was received with the highest marks of popular esteem, and thence to dresden as hofcapellmeister. this was the most brilliant period in his career. it was during this time that he married caroline brandt, the actress and singer, who had had a marked influence upon his musical progress, and to whom he dedicated his exquisite "invitation to the dance." the first great work of his life, "der freischütz," was written at this period. three other important operas followed,--"preciosa," "euryanthe," the first performance of which took place in vienna in 1823, and "oberon," which he finished in london and brought out there. weber's last days were spent in the latter city; and it was while making preparations to return to germany, which he longed to see again, that he was stricken down with his final illness. on the 4th of june, 1826, he was visited by sir george smart, moscheles, and other musicians who were eager to show him attention. he declined to have any one watch by his bedside, thanked them for their kindness, bade them good-by, and then turned to his friend fürstenau and said, "now let me sleep." these were his last words. the next morning he was found dead in his bed. he has left a rich legacy of works besides his operas,--a large collection of songs, many cantatas (of which "the jubilee," with its brilliant overture, is the finest), some masses, of which that in e flat is the most beautiful, and several concertos, besides many brilliant rondos, polaccas, and marches for the piano. der freischütz. "der freischütz," a romantic opera in three acts, words by friedrich kind, was first produced at berlin, june 18, 1821. it is one of the most popular operas in the modern repertory. it was first performed in paris, dec. 7, 1824, as "robin des bois," with a new libretto by castile blaze and sauvage, and many changes in the score, such as divertissements made up of the dance-music in "preciosa" and "oberon," and of "the invitation to the dance," scored by berlioz. in 1841 it was again given in paris, with an accurate translation of the text by pacini, and recitatives added by berlioz, as "le franc archer." its first english performance in london was given july 22, 1824, as "der freischütz, or the seventh bullet," with several ballads inserted; and its first italian at covent garden, march 16, 1850, with recitatives by costa, as "il franco arciero." so popular was it in england in 1824 that no less than nine theatres were presenting various versions of it at the same time. the original cast was as follows:- agatha frau caroline seidler. annchen frl. johanna eunike. max herr carl stümer. caspar herr heinrich blume. ottakar herr rubinstein. kuno herr waner. hermit herr gern. kilian herr wiedemann. the text of the opera is taken from a story in "popular tales of the northern nations," and is founded upon a traditionary belief that a demon of the forest furnishes a marksman with unerring bullets cast under magical influences. kuno, the head ranger to the prince of bohemia, too old to longer continue in his position, recommends max, a skilful marksman, who is betrothed to his daughter agatha, as his successor. the prince agrees to accept him if he proves himself victor at the forthcoming hunting-match. caspar, the master-villain of the play, who has sold himself to the demon zamiel, and who also is in love with agatha, forms a plot to ruin max and deliver him over to zamiel as a substitute for himself, for the limit of his contract with the evil one is close at hand. with zamiel's aid he causes max to miss the mark several times during the rehearsals for the match. the lover is thrown into deep dejection by his ill luck, and while in this melancholy condition is cunningly approached by caspar, who says to him that if he will but repeat the formula, "in the name of zamiel," he will be successful. he does so, and brings down an eagle soaring high above him. elated with his success, caspar easily persuades him that he can win the match if he will meet him at midnight in the wolf's glen, where with zamiel's aid he can obtain plenty of magic bullets. the second act opens in kuno's house, and shows us agatha melancholy with forebodings of coming evil. a hermit whom she has met in the woods has warned her of danger, and given her a wreath of magic roses to ward it off. an ancestral portrait falling from the walls also disturbs her; and at last the appearance of the melancholy max confirms her belief that trouble is in store for her. max himself is no less concerned. all sorts of strange sounds have troubled him, and his slumbers have been invaded with apparitions. nevertheless, he goes to the wolf's glen; and though spectres, skeletons, and various grotesque animals terrify him, and his mother's spirit appears and warns him away, he overcomes his fright and appears with caspar at the place of incantation. zamiel is summoned, and seven bullets are cast, six of which are to be directed by max himself in the forthcoming match, while the seventh will be at the disposal of the demon. little dreaming the fate which hangs upon the seventh, caspar offers no objections. the third act opens, like the last, in kuno's house, and discovers agatha preparing for her nuptials, and telling annchen a singular dream she has had. she had fancied herself a dove, and that max fired at her. as the bird fell she came to herself and saw that the dove had changed to a fierce bird of ill omen which lay dying at her feet. the melancholy produced by the dream is still further heightened when it is found that a funeral instead of a bridal wreath has been made for her; but her heart lightens up again as she remembers the magic rose-wreath which the hermit had enjoined her to wear on her wedding day. at last the eventful day of trial comes, and the prince and all his courtiers assemble to witness the match. max makes six shots in succession which go home to the mark. at the prince's command he fires the seventh, zamiel's bullet, at a dove flying past. as he fires, agatha appears to him as the dove, and he fancies he has slain her. the wreath protects her, however, and zamiel directs the bullet to caspar's heart. the demon claims his victim, and max his bride, amid general rejoicing. the overture, which is one of the most favorite numbers of its class in the concert-room as well as in the opera-house, is a masterpiece of brilliant and descriptive instrumentation, and furnishes us with a key to the whole story in its announcement of the leading themes. it opens with an adagio horn passage of great beauty, giving us the groundwork of the entire action; and then follow motives from max's grand scena in the first act, the incantation music, agatha's moonlight scene, and other episodes connected with the action of max and caspar. indeed, the frequent and expressive use of the _leit motif_ all through the work seem to entitle weber to the credit of its invention. the first act opens with a spirited chorus of villagers, followed by a lively march and a comic song by kilian, in which he rallies max upon his bad luck. the next number is a trio and chorus, with solos for the principals, max, kuno, and caspar ("o diese sonne, furchtbar steigt sie mir empor"). max laments his fate, but kuno encourages him, while caspar insinuates his evil plot. the trio is of a sombre cast at the beginning, but by a sudden change the horns and an expressive combination of the chorus give it a cheerful character. it is once more disturbed, however, by caspar's ominous phrases, but at last kuno and his men cheer up the despondent lover with a brisk hunting-chorus, and the villagers dance off to a lively waltz tempo. max is left alone, and the next number is a grand tenor scene. it opens with a gloomy recitative, which lights up as he thinks of agatha, and then passes into one of the most tender and delicious of melodies ("durch die wälder, durch die auen"), set to a beautiful accompaniment. suddenly the harmony is clouded by the apparition of zamiel, but as he disappears, max begins another charming melody ("jetzt ist wohl ihr fenster offen"), which is even more beautiful than the first. as zamiel reappears the harmony is again darkened; but when despairing max utters the cry, "lives there no god!" the wood-demon disappears, and the great song comes to an end. in this mood caspar meets him, and seeks to cheer him with an hilarious drinking-song ("hier im ird'schen jammerthal"), furious in its energy, and intended to express unhallowed mirth. the act closes with caspar's bass aria of infernal triumph ("triumph! die rache, die rache gelingt"), accompanied by music which is wonderfully weird and shadowy in its suggestions. the second act opens with a duet ("schelm! halt fest") in which agatha's fear and anxiety are charmingly contrasted with the lightsome and cheery nature of annchen, her attendant, and this in turn is followed by a naive and coquettish arietta ("kommt ein schlanker bursch gegangen") sung by the latter. annchen departs, and agatha, opening her window and letting the moonlight flood the room, sings the famous scena and prayer, "leise, leise, fromme weise," beginning, after a few bars of recitative, with a melody full of prayer and hope and tender longings, shaded with vague presentiment. it is an adagio of exquisite beauty, closing with an ecstatic outburst of rapture ("alle meine pulse schlagen") as she beholds her lover coming. the melody has already been heard in the overture, but its full joy and splendid sweep are attained only in this scene. in the next scene we have a trio ("wie? was? entsetzen?") between max, annchen, and agatha, in which the musical discrimination of character is carried to a fine point; and the act concludes with the incantation music in the wolf's glen, which has never been surpassed in weirdness, mystery, and diablerie, and at times in actual sublimity. its real power lies in the instrumentation; not alone in its vivid and picturesque presentation of the melodramatic scene with its hideous surroundings, but in its expressiveness and appositeness to the action and sentiment by the skilful use of motives. the last act has an instrumental prelude foreshadowing the hunters' chorus. it opens with a graceful but somewhat melancholy aria of a religious character ("und ob die wolke sie verhülle"), sung by agatha, in which she is still wavering between doubt and hope, and succeeded by another of annchen's arias, beginning with the gloomy romance, "einst traumte meiner sel'gen base," and closing with a lively allegro ("trübe augen, liebchen"), which is intended to encourage her sad mistress. then the bridesmaids sing their lively chorus, "wir winden dir den jungfern-kranz," so well known by its english title, "a rosy crown we twine for thee." the pretty little number is followed by the hunters' chorus, "was gleicht wohl auf erden dem jägervergnügen," which is a universal favorite. it leads up to a strong dramatic finale, crowded with striking musical ideas, and containing agatha's beautiful melody in the closing chorus. few operas have had such world-wide popularity as "der freischütz," and yet it is an essentially german product. the composer's son has aptly characterized it, in his biography of his father: "weber did not compose 'der freischütz;' he allowed it to grow out of the rich soil of his brave german heart, and to expand leaf by leaf, blossom by blossom, fostered by the hand of his talent; and thus no german looks upon the opera as a work of art which appeals to him from without. he feels as if every line of the work came from his own heart, as if he himself had dreamed it so, and it could no more sound otherwise than the rustling of an honest german beech-wood." oberon. "oberon, or the elf king's oath," a romantic and fairy opera in three acts, words by j.r. planché, was first produced at covent garden, london, april 12, 1826, in english. its first italian performance was given in the same city, july 3, 1860, the recitatives being supplied by benedict, who also added several numbers from "euryanthe." the original cast was as follows:- reiza miss paton. fatima mme. vestris. puck miss cawse. huon mr. braham. oberon mr. bland. sherasmin mr. fawcett. mermaid miss gownell. the librettist, planché, in a tribute to weber, gives the origin of the story of "oberon." it appeared originally in a famous collection of french romances, "la bibliothèque bleue," under the title of "huon of bordeaux." the german poet wieland adopted the principal incidents of the story as the basis of his poem, "oberon," and sotheby's translation of it was used in the preparation of the text. the original sketch of the action, as furnished by planché, is as follows:-oberon, the elfin king, having quarrelled with his fairy partner, vows never to be reconciled to her till he shall find two lovers constant through peril and temptation. to seek such a pair his 'tricksy spirit,' puck, has ranged in vain through the world. puck, however, hears the sentence passed on sir huon of bordeaux, a young knight, who, having been insulted by the son of charlemagne, kills him in single combat, and is for this condemned by the monarch to travel to bagdad to slay him who sits on the caliph's left hand, and to claim his daughter as his bride. oberon instantly resolves to make this pair the instruments of his reunion with his queen, and for this purpose he brings up huon and sherasmin asleep before him, enamours the knight by showing him reiza, daughter of the caliph, in a vision, transports him at his waking to bagdad, and having given him a magic horn, by the blasts of which he is always to summon the assistance of oberon, and a cup that fills at pleasure, disappears. here sir huon rescues a man from a lion, who proves afterwards to be prince babekan, who is betrothed to reiza. one of the properties of the cup is to detect misconduct. he offers it to babekan. on raising it to his lips the wine turns to flame, and thus proves him a villain. he attempts to assassinate huon, but is put to flight. the knight then learns from an old woman that the princess is to be married next day, but that reiza has been influenced, like her lover, by a vision, and is resolved to be his alone. she believes that fate will protect her from her nuptials with babekan, which are to be solemnized on the next day. huon enters, fights with and vanquishes babekan, and having spell-bound the rest by a blast of the magic horn, he and sherasmin carry off reiza and fatima. they are soon shipwrecked. reiza is captured by pirates on a desert island and brought to tunis, where she is sold to the emir and exposed to every temptation, but she remains constant. sir huon, by the order of oberon, is also conveyed thither. he undergoes similar trials from roshana, the jealous wife of the emir, but proving invulnerable she accuses him to her husband, and he is condemned to be burned on the same pile with reiza. they are rescued by sherasmin, who has the magic horn. oberon appears with his queen, whom he has regained by their constancy, and the opera concludes with charlemagne's pardon of huon. the overture, like that of "der freischütz," reflects the story, and is universally popular. its leading themes are the horn solo, which forms the symphony of sir huon's vision, a short movement from the fairies' chorus, a martial strain from the last scene in the court of charlemagne, a passage from reiza's scene in the second act, and puck's invocation of the spirits. the first act opens in oberon's bower with a melodious chorus of fairies and genii ("light as fairy feet can fall"), followed by a solo for oberon ("fatal oath"), portraying his melancholy mood, and "the vision," a quaint, simple melody by reiza ("oh! why art thou sleeping?"), which leads up to a splendid ensemble ("honor and joy to the true and the brave"), containing a solo for oberon, during which the scene suddenly changes from the fairy bower to the city of bagdad. huon has a grand scena ("oh! 't is a glorious sight"), a composition in several movements beginning with a dramatic bravura illustrative of the scenes of the battlefield, and closing with a joyous, brisk allegretto ("joy to the high-born dames of france"). the finale begins with an aria by reiza ("yes, my lord"), in the italian style, passing into a duet for reiza and fatima, and closing with the chorus ("now the evening watch is set.") the second act opens with a characteristic chorus ("glory to the caliph"), the music of which has been claimed by some critics as genuinely moorish, though it is probable that weber only imitated that style in conformity to the demands of the situation. a little march and three melodramatic passages lead up to an arietta for fatima ("a lovely arab maid"), beginning with a very pleasing minor and closing in a lively major. this leads directly to the lovely quartet, "over the dark blue waters,"--one of the most attractive numbers in the opera. it is a concerted piece for two sopranos, tenor, and bass, opening with two responsive solos in duet, first for the bass and tenor, and then for the two sopranos, the voices finally uniting in a joyous and animated movement of great power. the music now passes to the supernatural, and we have puck's invocation to the spirits, whom he summons to raise a storm and sink the vessel in which the lovers have embarked. puck's recitative is very powerful, and the chorus of the spirits in response, a very rapid presto movement, is in its way as effective as the incantation music in "der freischütz." the storm rises, the orchestra being the medium of the description, which is very graphic and effective. huon has a short prayer ("ruler of this awful hour"), which is impressively solemn, and then follows reiza's magnificent apostrophe to the sea ("ocean, thou mighty monster that liest curled like a green serpent round about the world"). the scene is heroic in its construction, and its effective performance calls for the highest artistic power. it represents the gradual calm of the angry waters, the breaking of the sun through the gloom, and the arrival of a boat to the succor of the distressed reiza. the immense effect of the scene is greatly enhanced by the descriptive instrumentation, especially in the allegro describing the rolling of the billows and the recitative and succeeding andante picturing the outburst of the sun. the mermaid's song ("oh! 't is pleasant"), with its wavy, flowing melody, forms a fitting pendant to this great picture of elementary strife; and a delicate and graceful chorus closes the act. the third act opens with a lovely song for fatima ("oh! araby, dear araby"), consisting of two movements,--an andante plaintively recalling past memories, and an allegro of exquisite taste. the song, even detached from the opera, has always been greatly admired in concert-rooms, and, it is said, was a special favorite also with the composer. it is followed by a duet for sherasmin and fatima ("on the banks of sweet garonne"), which is of a vivacious and comic nature in sherasmin's part, and then passes into a tender minor as fatima sings. the next number is a trio for soprano, alto, and tenor ("and must i then dissemble?"), written very much in the style of the trio in "der freischütz," and yet purely original in its effect. reiza follows with a smooth, flowing, and pathetic cavatina ("mourn thou, poor heart"), which is succeeded in marked contrast by a joyous rondo ("i revel in hope") sung by sir huon. the next scene is that of sir huon's temptation, a voluptuous passage for ballet and chorus, interrupted at intervals by the energetic exclamations of the paladin as he successfully resists the sirens. the gay scene leads up to the finale. sir huon and reiza are bound to the stake, surrounded by slaves singing a weird chorus. a blast from the magic horn sets them dancing, and a quartet for the four principal characters based upon the subject of the slaves' chorus ensues. oberon appears and takes his leave after transporting the whole company to the royal halls of charlemagne. a stirring march opens the scene, a beautiful aria by huon follows ("yes! even love to fame must yield"), and a chorus by the whole court closes the opera. euryanthe. the opera of "euryanthe" was written for the kärnthnerthor theatre, vienna, where it was first produced oct. 25, 1823, though not with the success which afterwards greeted it in berlin, owing to the rossini craze with which the austrian capital was afflicted at that time. the libretto is by helmine von chezy, an eccentric old woman who proved a sad torment to the composer. the plot, which is a curious mixture of "cymbeline" and "lohengrin," was adapted from an old french romance, entitled "l'histoire de gerard de nevers et de la belle et vertueuse euryanthe, sa mie," and is substantially as follows:-in the palace of king louis of france, where a brilliant assemblage is gathered, count adolar sings a tribute to the beauty and virtue of euryanthe, his betrothed. count lysiart replies with a sneer, and boasts that he can gain her favor; but adolar challenges him to bring a proof. the scene then changes to the castle of nevers, and discloses euryanthe longing for adolar. eglantine, who is also in love with adolar, and who is conspiring against euryanthe, soon joins her, and in their interview the latter rashly discloses the secret of a neighboring tomb known only to herself and adolar. in this tomb rests the body of emma, adolar's sister, who had killed herself, and whose ghost had appeared to euryanthe and her lover with the declaration that she can never be at peace until tears of innocence have been shed upon the ring which was the agency employed in her death. lysiart arrives from court with a commission to take euryanthe to the king, while eglantine is left behind in possession of the secret. in the second act lysiart deplores his failure to obtain the favor of euryanthe; but his hopes are renewed when he meets eglantine emerging from the tomb with the ring, and learns from her that it can be made to convict euryanthe of indiscretion, or at least of breaking her promise not to reveal the tomb secret. he obtains the ring, confronts euryanthe with it at the palace, and forces her to admit the broken promise. adolar, believing that she is guilty, drags her away to a wilderness where it is his intention to kill her; but on the way they are attacked by a serpent. adolar slays the monster, and then, seized with sudden pity, he abandons his intention of killing her, but leaves her to her fate. she is subsequently found by the king while on a hunting expedition, and to him she relates the story of eglantine's treachery. the king takes her with him to the palace. meanwhile adolar has begun to suspect that euryanthe has been the victim of her base wiles, and on his way to nevers to punish lysiart he encounters the wedding-procession of the guilty pair, and challenges him. the king suddenly arrives upon the scene and announces euryanthe's death, whereupon eglantine declares her love for adolar. the furious lysiart turns upon her and stabs her. euryanthe is not dead. she has only fainted, and is soon restored to her lover, while lysiart is led off to the scaffold. the overture, which is familiar in our concert-rooms, gives a sketch of the principal situations in the opera. the first act opens in the great banquet-hall of the king with a flowing and stately chorus ("dem frieden heil") alternating between female and male voices and finally taken by the full chorus. then follows adolar's lovely and tender romanza ("unter blühenden mandelbäumen"). the next number, a chorus ("heil! euryanthe"), with recitatives for adolar, lysiart, and the king leads up to a vigorous trio ("wohlan! du kennst"). euryanthe's idyllic and touching cavatina ("glöcklein im thale") is a match in beauty and tenderness for adolar's romanza. the recitative which follows introduces a sentimental aria for eglantine ("o mein leid ist unermessen"), leading to a duet with euryanthe ("unter ist mein stern gegangen"). a scena for eglantine, characterized by all the hatred and fury of jealousy, introduces the finale, which consists of a vigorous chorus ("jubeltöne") accompanying euryanthe's solo ("fröhliche klänge"). the second act opens with a powerful recitative and aria for lysiart ("wo berg ich mich"), which is full of passion. a duet of a menacing and sombre character between lysiart and eglantine ("komm denn unser leid zu rächen") stands out in gloomy contrast with adolar's aria ("wehen mir lüfte ruh'") and the duet with euryanthe ("hin nimm die seele mein"), so full of grace and tenderness. they lead up to the finale, a grand quartet ("lass mich empor zum lichte"), with powerful chorus accompaniment. the last act opens with the serpent episode, with characteristic music, and a recitative scene between euryanthe and adolar leads up to a pathetic cavatina for euryanthe ("hier am quell wo weiden stehn"). the ringing notes of the horns behind the scenes announce the approach of the king's party, who sing a fresh and sonorous hunting chorus ("die thale dampfen"). the remaining numbers are a duet for euryanthe and the king with chorus ("lasst mich hier in ruh' erblassen"), a lovely and melodious aria with chorus for euryanthe ("zu ihm"), a bright wedding-march and scene with chorus, and a duet for adolar and lysiart with chorus, leading to the grand quintet and chorus which bring the opera to a close. appendix. a work of this kind, by whomsoever written, must be somewhat arbitrary in its selection of the standard operas; and the writer has often found it difficult to say where the line should be drawn,--what excluded and what admitted. in addition to the operas treated of, there are others, without a mention of which such a work as this would scarcely be considered complete; and a list of these is herewith submitted, together with the dates of their first performance. many of these are familiar to the public by their past reputation, while others still hold the stage in europe. others have never been given out of the native country of their composers; and still others, like those of mr. sullivan, are in reality operettas, and cannot be classed as standard, although their popularity is extraordinary. adam le postilion de longjumeau (1835). auber le cheval de bronze (the bronze horse) (1835); l'ambassadrice (1836); le domino noir (the black domino) (1837); zanetta (1840); manon lescaut (1856). balfe enchantress (1845); satanella (1858); puritan's daughter (1861); the talisman (1863). benedict the lily of killarney (1862). corder nordisa (1887). donizetti polinto (1840); linda (1842); maria di rohan (1843); don sebastian (1843); gemma di vergi (1845). flotow l'ombre (1869). goetz francesca von rimini (1874); the taming of the shrew (1874). goldmark the queen of sheba (1875); merlin (1886); cricket on the hearth (1896). gomez il guarany (1870). gounod polyeucte (1878). halevy l'éclair (1835). herold zampa(1831); pré aux clercs(1832). isouard joconde (1814). kreutzer das nachtlager in granada (1834). leoncavallo i medici (1893). marchetti ruy blas (1870). marschner der vampyr (1828); hans heiling (1833). mascagni l'amico fritz (1892); i rantzau (1892); silvano(1895); guglielmo ratcliff (1895). massë la reine topaze (1856); paul et virginie (1876). massenet le roi de lahore (1877); manon lescaut (1884); le cid (1886); esclarmonde (1889). nicolai merry wives of windsor (1849). pacini saffo (1840). planquette the bells of corneville (1877). ponchielli la gioconda (1876). ricci crispino (1850). rossini la gazza ladra (1817); moses in egypt (1818). rubinstein dimitri donskoi (1852); the demon (1875); feramors (1863). saint saens le timbre d'argent (1877); étienne marcel (1879); henry viii. (1883); proserpine (1887). strauss indigo (1871); die fledermaus (the bat) (1872); der lustige krieg (the merry war) (1875). sullivan trial by jury (1875); the sorcerer (1877); pinafore (1878); pirates of penzance (1880); patience (1881); iolanthe (1882); the princess (1883); the mikado (1885); ruddygore (1887); the yeomen of the guard (1888); king of barataria (1889); hesse halbpfennig (1896). suppe fatinitza (1876); boccaccio (1882). thomas hamlet (1868); françoise de rimini (1882). verdi the sicilian vespers (1855); la forza del destino (force of destiny) (1862); don carlos (1867). wallace lurline (1860). weber abu hassan (1811); preciosa (1823). index. adam, 32, 63, 71, 277. african, the, 160, 161, 185. aida, 239, 262, 272. albani, 79. alboni, 161, 162. alceste, 106. alvary, 121. anna bolena, 75. appendix, 375. arditi, 284. armide, 106. attila, 238. auber, 9, 14, 16, 17, 18, 24. 258. bach, 126. balfe, 25, 26. balzac, 149. barber of seville, 210, 212. beaumarchais, 192. beethoven, 36, 39, 209, 312. bellini, 43. benedict, 365. berlioz, 289, 358. bizet, 54, 57. 59, 138. bohemian girl, 26, 31. boieldieu, 60. boito, 65, 239, 266, 267, 270, 271. bosio, 11, 244. braham, 15, 365. brandt, 117, 121. bulwer, 277. calvé, 149. carmen, 55. cavalleria rusticana, 155. cenerentola, 211. cherubini, 60. chopin, 225. costa, 358. damrosch, 121. daughter of the regiment, 76. delibes, 71. der freischütz, 357, 358, 367. die götterdämmerung, 309, 311, 315, 335. die walküre, 309, 315, 323. di murska, 284. dinorah, 160, 176. don carlos, 239. don giovanni, 191, 198, 219. donizetti, 75, 88, 95. don pasquale, 76, 83, 91. don sebastian, 85. dumas, 249. duprez, 80, 86. ernani, 238, 239. euryanthe, 357, 365, 371. falcon, cornelia, 138, 161. faure, 176, 185. faust, 125, 132, 253. favorita, 76, 80. fidelio, 37. flotow, 96. flying dutchman, 160, 275, 284, 294. formes, 98. fra diavolo, 10. francesca di rimini, 112. galli-marie, 55, 232, garcia, 212, 213. gazza ladra, 211. gluck, 105. goethe, 65, 127, 160, 232, 294. goetz, 111. goldmark, 116. gounod, 125, 138. grimm, 144. grisi, 44, 51, 80, 83. halevy, 137. hansel and gretel, 143. harrison, 19, 27, 32, 176. hastreiter, helene, 107. haydn, 36, 37. heine, 143, 284. hueffer, 276, 300, 309. hugo, victor, 92, 239, 240, 244. huguenots, 160, 161, 180, 211. humperdinck, 142. idomeneo, 191. i medici, 148. i pagliacci, 149. iphigénie en aulide, 106. iphigénie en tauride, 106. jahn, 209. jewess, 138. juch, emma, 107, 227. kellogg, clara louise, 79, 237, 284. lablanche, 44, 51, 83, 85, 238. la dame blanche, 61. lagrange, 97. lakme, 72. l'allemand, 72, 112, 227. l'amico, fritz, 155. last rose of summer, 100. l'éclair, 137, 138. lehmann, 117, 121. l'elisir d'amore, 75, 89. leoncavallo, 148. lind, jenny, 77, 79, 160, 167, 169, 170, 171, 238. liszt, 225, 276, 277, 294. lohengrin, 275, 294, 304, 309, 340, 371. lombardi, 238. lucca, 186, 237. lucia, 76, 86, 95. lucrezia borgia, 75, 92. lurline, 350. luther, martin, 164, 166. magic flute, 191, 204. malibran, 38, 48. manon lescaut, 137. mario, 15, 80, 83, 85, 92, 162, 244. maritana, 349, 350. marriage of figaro, 191, 192, 198, 201. martha, 98, 253. masaniello, 14, 176. mascagni, 153. masked ball, 239, 257. massé, 138. materna, 340. maurel, 267. meistersinger, 276, 303, 310. mendelssohn, 142. mendès, catulle, 151. mephistopheles, 66, 239. mérimée, 55. merlin, 116, 121. meyerbeer, 138, 159, 161, 176, 185, 211, 277. mignon, 231, 232. miolan-carvalho, 126, 131, 134, 176, 244. mireille, 126. mosenthal, 117. moses in egypt, 211. mozart, 36, 37, 142, 190, 193, 204. nero, 226. niemann, 288. nilsson, 66, 237, 250. nohl, 318. norma, 44. nourrit, 138, 161, 171, 220. oberon, 357, 358, 365. orpheus, 106, 107. otello (rossini), 211. othello (verdi), 239, 266. pacini, 358. paisiello, 211. pantaleoni, 267. parepa-rosa, 192. parsifal, 276, 340. pasdeloup, 276. pasta, 44, 48, 75. patti, 79, 250. persiani, 86. piccini, 106. piccolomini, 27, 250. preciosa, 357,358. prophet, the, 160, 180. puritani, 44, 50. pyne, 19, 32, 176. queen of sheba, 117. rameau, 105. reeves, 19. rheingold, 309, 310, 314, 319. richings, caroline, 79. richter, 276. rienzi, 160, 275, 277, 285. rigoletto, 88, 239, 244. ring des nibelungen, 276, 300, 309, 341. robert the devil, 160, 171. robin adair, 63. romeo and juliet, 131, 136. ronconi, 11, 244. rosa, carl, 143, 284. rose of castile, 32. rossini, 25, 44. 76, 82, 138, 174, 210, 266, 371. roze, marie, 66. rubini, 44, 48, 51, 75. rubinstein, 225. salieri, 193. sammartini, 105. santley, 134, 284. scaria, 340. schickaneder, 204, 205. schiller, 36, 220, 312. schröder-devrient, 277, 284, 288. scribe, 10, 14, 19, 48, 61, 82, 138, 160, 161, 166, 171, 172, 180, 185, 258. semiramide, 211, 216. shakspeare, 97, 112, 131, 266. sicilian vespers, 239. siegfried, 309, 310, 311, 315, 329, 337, 338, 340. sonnambula, 43, 48. sontag, 79. spohr, 285. star of the north, 160, 166. staudigl, 171. stradella, 102. stritt, 117. sullivan, 375. taglioni, 171. tamburini, 44, 51, 83, 162. taming of the shrew, 111, 112. tancredi, 210, 216. tannhäuser, 275, 288, 294. tausig, 312. thalberg, 225. thillon, 19, 76. thomas, ambroise, 231. thomas, theodore, 54, 71, 107, 229, 276. tichatscheck, 277. titiens, 134. traviata, 239, 249, 253. trebelli, 134. tristan and isolde, 276, 299, 310. trovatore, 239, 253, 262, 266. ulrich, 111. verdi, 238. viardot-garcia, 107, 162, 180. vogler, 159, 356. von bülow, 111, 277, 299, 304. wagner, 18, 58, 65, 70, 122, 142, 143, 144, 160, 220, 266, 272, 275, 288, 312. wallace, 349. weber, 356. wette, adelheid, 143. william tell, 138, 176, 211, 220. winckelmann, 340. zingarelli, 43. zucchi, 186. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original visual illustrations as well as audio illustrations. see 28711-h.htm or 28711-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28711/28711-h/28711-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28711/28711-h.zip) transcriber's note: obvious printer's errors have been corrected. _operas_ every child should know descriptions of the text and music of some of the most famous masterpieces by dolores bacon [illustration] new york grosset & dunlap publishers all rights reserved copyright, 1911, by doubleday, page & company printed in the united states at the country life press, garden city, n.y. [illustration: brünnhilde the valkyrie] foreword in selecting a few of the operas every child should know, the editor's greatest difficulty is in determining what to leave out. the wish to include "l'africaine," "othello," "lucia," "don pasquale," "mignon," "nozze di figaro," "don giovanni," "rienzi," "tannhäuser," "romeo and juliet," "parsifal," "freischütz," and a hundred others makes one impatient of limitations. the operas described here are not all great compositions: some of them are hopelessly poor. those of balfe and flotow are included because they were expressions of popular taste when our grandfathers enjoyed going to the opera. the nibelung ring is used in preference to several other compositions of wagner because the four operas included in it are the fullest both of musical and story wonders, and are at the same time the least understood. "aïda" and "carmen" belong here--as do many which are left out--because of their beauty and musical splendour. few, instead of many, operas have been written about in this book, because it seemed better to give a complete idea of several than a superficial sketch of many. the beginnings of opera--music-drama--are unknown; but sulpitius, an italian, declared that opera was heard in italy as early as 1490. the greeks, of course, accompanied their tragedies with music long before that time, but that would not imply "opera" as we understand it. however, modern opera is doubtless merely the development of that manner of presenting drama. after the opera, came the ballet, and that belonged distinctively to france. before 1681 there were no women dancers in the ballet--only males. all ballets of shepherdesses and nymphs and dryads were represented by men and boys; but at last, the ladies of the court of france took to the ballet for their own amusement, and thus women dancers became the fashion. even the most heroic or touching stories must lose much of their dignity when made into opera, since in that case the "music's the thing," and not the "play." for this reason it has seemed necessary to tell the stories of such operas as "il trovatore," with all their bombastic trimmings complete, in order to be faithful in showing them as they really are. on the other hand, it has been necessary to try to treat "pinafore" in gilbert's rollicking fashion. opera is the most superficial thing in the world, even if it appears the most beautiful to the senses, if not to the intelligence. we go to opera not specially to understand the story, but to hear music and to see beautiful scenic effects. it is necessary, however, to know enough of the story to appreciate the cause of the movement upon the stage, and without some acquaintance of it beforehand one gets but a very imperfect knowledge of an opera story from hearing it once. a very great deal is said of music-motif and music-illustration, and it has been demonstrated again and again that this is largely the effort of the ultra-artistic to discover what is not there. at best, music is a "concord of sweet sounds"--heroic, tender, exciting, etc.; but the elemental passions and emotions are almost all it can define, or even suggest. certain music is called "characteristic"--anvil choruses, for example, where hammers or triangles or tin whistles are used, but that is not music in its best estate, and musical purpose is best understood after a composer has labelled it, whether the ultra-artistic are ready to admit it or not. the opera is never more enjoyed than by a music lover who is incapable of criticism from lack of musical knowledge: music being first and last an emotional art; and as our emotions are refined it requires compositions of a more and more elevated character to appeal to them. thus, we range from the bathos and vulgarity of the music hall to the glories of grand opera! the history of opera should be known and composers classified, just as it is desirable to know and to classify authors, painters, sculptors, and actors. music is first of all something to be felt, and it is one of the arts which does not always explain itself. dolores bacon. contents chapter page i. balfe: the bohemian girl 3 ii. beethoven: fidelio 35 iii. berlioz: the damnation of faust 51 iv. bizet: carmen 69 v. dekoven: robin hood 95 vi. flotow: martha 105 vii. humperdinck: hänsel and gretel 135 viii. mascagni: cavalleria rusticana 152 ix. meyerbeer: the prophet 163 x. mozart: the magic flute 191 xi. sullivan: pinafore 218 xii. verdi: rigoletto, il trovatore, aïda 238 xiii. wagner: the nibelung ring, the mastersingers of nuremberg, lohengrin 306 operas every child should know operas every child should know balfe the story of the bohemian girl is supposed to have been taken from a french ballet entitled the gipsy, which was produced in paris in 1839. again, it is said to have been stolen from a play written by the marquis de saint-georges, which was named la bohémienne. however that may be, it would at first sight hardly seem worth stealing, but it has nevertheless been popular for many decades. balfe, the composer, had no sense of dramatic composition and was not much of a musician, but he had a talent for writing that which could be sung. it was not always beautiful, but it was always practicable. the original title of la bohémienne has in its meaning nothing to do with bohemia, and therefore a literal translation does not seem to have been especially applicable to the opera as bunn made it. the story is placed in hungary and not in bohemia, and the hero came from warsaw, hence the title is a misnomer all the way around. it was balfe who tried to establish english opera in london, and to that purpose he wrote an opera or two in which his wife sang the principal rôles; but in the midst of that enterprise he received favourable propositions from paris, and therefore abandoned the london engagement. when he went to paris, the bohemian girl was only partly written, and he took from its score several of its arias for use in a new opera. when he returned to london he wrote new music for the old opera, and thus the bohemian girl knew many vicissitudes off, as well as on, the stage. the first city to hear this opera, outside of london, was new york. it was produced in america at the park theatre, november 25, 1844. the most remarkable thing about that performance was that the part of arline was sung in the same cast by two women, miss dyott and mrs. seguin: the former singing it in the first act, the latter in the second and third. when it was produced in london, piccolomini (a most famous singer) sang arline and it was written that "applause from the many loud enough to rend the heavens" followed. because of this inconsequent opera, balfe was given the cross of the legion of honour from napoleon iii., and was made commander of the order of carlos iii. by the regent of spain. this seems incredible, for good music was perfectly well known from bad, but the undefined element of popularity was there, and thus the opera became a living thing. a story is told of balfe while he belonged to the drury lane orchestra. "vauxhall gardens" were then in vogue, and there was a call for the drury lane musicians to go there to play. the "gardens" were a long way off, and there was no tram-car or other means of transportation for their patrons. those who hadn't a coach had no way of getting there, and it must have cost balfe considerable to go and come each day. he decided to find lodgings near the gardens to save himself expense. he looked and looked, on the day he first went out. others wanted the same thing, and it was not easy to place himself. however, by evening, he had decided to take anything he could find; so he engaged a room at an unpromising looking house. he was kept waiting by the landlady for a long time in the passageway, but at last he was escorted up to his room, and, being tired out, he immediately went to bed and to sleep. in the morning he began to look about, and to his horror and amazement he found a corpse stowed away in a cupboard. some member of his landlady's family who occupied the bed had died. when he applied for the room, he had been made to wait while the previous occupant was hastily tucked out of sight. after that, he never hired lodgings without first looking into the cupboards and under the bed. balfe was a good deal of a wag, and his waggishness was not always in good taste, as shown by an incident at carnival time in rome. his resemblance to a great patroness of his, the countess mazzaras, a well-known woman of much dignity, induced him upon that occasion to dress himself in women's clothes, stand in a window conspicuously, and make the most extraordinary and hideous faces at the monks and other churchmen who passed. every one gave the credit of this remarkable conduct to the countess mazzaras. balfe had pianos carried up to the sleeping rooms of great singers before they got out of bed, and thus made them listen to his newly composed tunes. he sometimes announced himself by the titles of his famous tunes, as, "we may be happy yet," and was admitted, and received as readily as if he had resorted to pasteboard politeness. in short, balfe was never a great musician, yet he had all the eccentricities that one might expect a great musician to have, and he succeeded quite as well as if he had had genius. balfe was born may 15, 1808, and died october 20, 1870. the bohemian girl characters of the opera with the original cast arline miss romer. gipsy queen miss betts. thaddeus mr. harrison. devilshoof mr. stretton. count arnheim mr. borrani. florestein mr. durnset. scene laid in hungary. composer: michael balfe. author: alfred bunn. first sung at london, england, her majesty's theatre, drury lane, nov. 27, 1843. act i many years ago, when noblemen, warriors, gipsies, lovers, enemies and all sorts and conditions of men fraternized without drawing very fine distinctions except when it came to levying taxes, a company of rich nobles met in the gardens of the count arnheim to go hunting together. the count was the governor of presburg, and a very popular man, except with his inferiors. they began their day's sport with a rather highfalutin song sung by the count's retainers: "up with the banner and down with the slave, who shall dare dispute the right, wherever its folds in their glory wave, of the austrian eagle's flight?" the verses were rather more emotional than intelligent, but the singers were all in good spirits and prepared for a fine day's sport. after this preliminary all the party--among whom was the young daughter of the count, whose name was arline, and a girlie sort of chap, florestein, who was the count's nephew--came from the castle, with huntsmen and pages in their train; and what with pages running about, and the huntsmen's bright colours, and the horns echoing, and the horses that one must feel were just without, stamping with impatience to be off, it was a gay scene. the old count was in such high feather that he, too, broke into song and, while singing that "bugles shake the air," he caught up his little daughter in his arms and told how dear she was to him. it was not a proper thing for so young a girl to go on a hunt, but arline was a spoiled young countess. when a huntsman handed a rifle to florestein, that young man shuddered and rejected it--which left one to wonder just what he was going to do at a hunt without a rifle, but the others were less timid, and all separated to go to their various posts, arline going by a foot-path in charge of a retainer. these gay people had no sooner disappeared than a handsome young fellow, dishevelled, pursued, rushed into the garden. he looked fearfully behind him, and stopped to get his breath. "i can run no farther," he gasped, looking back upon the road he had come; and then suddenly at his side, he saw a statue of the austrian emperor. he was even leaning against it. "here i am, in the very midst of my foes!--a statue of the emperor himself adorning these grounds!" and he became even more alarmed. while he stood thus, hesitating what to do next, a dozen dusky forms leaped the wall of the garden and stood looking at him. thaddeus was in a soldier's dress and looked like a soldier. foremost among the newcomers, who huddled together in brilliant rags, was a great brigand-looking fellow, who seemed to lead the band. "hold on! before we undertake to rob this chap, let us make sure of what we are doing," he cautioned the others. "if he is a soldier, we are likely to get the worst of it"--showing that he had as much wisdom as bravado. after a moment's hesitation they decided that caution was the better part of valour, and since it was no harm to be a gipsy, and there was a penalty attached to being a robber, they nonchalantly turned suspicion from themselves by beginning to sing gaily of their gipsy life. frequently when they had done this, they had received money for it. if they mayn't rob this soldier chap, at least he might be generous and toss them a coin. during this time, thaddeus was not napping. the austrian soldiery were after him, and at best he could not expect to be safe long. the sight of the vagabonds inspired him with hope, although to most folks they would have seemed to be a rather uninspiring and hopeless lot. he went up to the leader, devilshoof: "my friend, i have something to say to you. i am in danger. you seem to be a decent sort--gay and friendly enough. the austrian soldiers are after me. i am an exile from poland. if i am caught, my life will be forfeited. i am young and you may count upon my good will. if you will take me along with you as one of you, i may stand a chance of escaping with my life--what do you say?" the gipsies stared at him; and devilshoof did so in no unfriendly manner. the leader was a good-natured wanderer, whose main fault was stealing--but that was a fault he shared in common with all gipsies. he was quite capable of being a good friend. "just who are you?" he asked, wanting a little more information. "a man without country, friends, hope--or money." "well, you seem able to qualify as a gipsy pretty well. so come along." just as he spoke, another gipsy, who was reconnoitering, said softly: "soldiers are coming----" "good--we'll give them something to do. here, friend, we'll get ready for them," he cried, delighted with the new adventure. at that the gipsies fell to stripping off thaddeus's soldier clothes, and exchanging them for a gipsy's smock; but as this was taking place, a roll of parchment fell at devilshoof's feet. "what's this?" he asked, taking it up. "it is my commission as a soldier of poland--the only thing i have of value in the world. i shall never part with it," and thaddeus snatched it and hid it in his dress and then mixed with the gipsies just as the emperor's soldiers came up. "ho, there! you vagabonds--have you seen anything of a stranger who has passed this way?" "what--a polish soldier?" "that's our man." "young?" "yes, yes--where did he go?" "a handsome fellow?" "have done there, and answer--where did he go?" "i guess that may be the one?" devilshoof reflected, consulting his comrades with a deliberation which made the officer wish to run his sword through him. "speak up--or----" "yes, yes--that's right--we have the right man! up those rocks there," pointing. "that is the way he went. i shouldn't wonder if you might catch him." the officer didn't wait to hear any more of this elaborate instruction, but rushed away with his men. "now, comrade," devilshoof said to thaddeus: "it is time for us to be off, while our soldier friends are enjoying the hunt. only you lie around here while we explore a little; this gipsy life means a deal of wear and tear, if a fellow would live. there is likely to be something worth picking up about the castle, and after we have done the picking, we'll all be off." as the gipsies and thaddeus went away, the huntsmen rushed on, shouting to each other, and sounding their horns. florestein came along in their wake. he was about the last man on earth to go on a hunt. he made this known without any help, by singing: is no succour near at hand? for my intellect so reels, i am doubtful if i stand on my head or on my heels. no gentleman, it's very clear, such a shock should ever know, and when once i become a peer, they shall not treat me so---that seemed to suggest that something serious had happened, but no one knew what till thaddeus and a crowd of peasants rushed wildly in. "the count's child, arline, is attacked by an infuriated animal, and we fear she is killed,"--that is what florestein had been bemoaning, instead of hurrying to the rescue! the count arnheim ran in then, distraught with horror. but thaddeus had not remained idle; he had rushed after the huntsmen. presently he hurried back, bearing the child in his arms. the retainer whose business it was to care for arline fell at the count's feet. "oh, great sir, just as we were entering the forest a wild deer rushed at us, and only for the bravery of this young gipsy,"--indicating thaddeus--"the child would have been torn in pieces. as it is, she is wounded in the arm." the count took his beloved daughter in his arms. "her life is safe and the wound is not serious, thank god. take her within and give her every care. and you, young man--you will remain with us and share our festivities--and ask of me anything that you will: i can never repay this service." "humph! thaddeus is a fool," devilshoof muttered. "first he served his enemy and now has to stand his enemy's thanks." thaddeus refused at first to remain, but when his refusal seemed to draw too much attention to the gipsy band, he consented, as a matter of discretion. so they all seated themselves at the table which had been laid in the garden, and while they were banqueting, the gipsies and peasants danced to add to the sport; and little arline could be seen in the nurse's arms, at a window of the castle, watching the fun, her arm bound up. "now," cried the old count, when the banquet was over, "i ask one favour of all--and that is that you drink to the health of our great emperor." he rose and lifted his glass, assuming that all would drink. but that was a bit too much for thaddeus! the emperor was the enemy of poland. most certainly he would not drink--not even to save his life. florestein, who was always doing everything but what he ought, walked up to thaddeus and pointed out his glass to him. "your fine acquaintance, uncle, is not overburdened with politeness, it seems to me. he does not respond to your wishes." "what--does he not drink to the emperor? my friend, i challenge you to drink this health." the old count filled thaddeus's glass and handed it to him. "and thus i accept the challenge," thaddeus cried; and before devilshoof or any one else could stop him, the reckless chap went up to the statue of the emperor and dashed the wine in its face. this was the signal for a great uproar. the man who has dared insult the emperor must be punished. the nobles made a dash for him, but the old count was under an obligation too great to abandon thaddeus yet. he tried to silence the enraged guests for a moment, and then said aside to thaddeus: "go, i beg of you, your life is not worth a breath if you remain here. i cannot protect you--and indeed i ought not. go at once," and he threw thaddeus a purse of gold, meaning thus to reward him, and get him away quickly. thaddeus immediately threw the purse amidst the nobles who were threatening him, and shouted: "i am one whom gold cannot reward!" at that the angry men rushed upon him, but devilshoof stood shoulder to shoulder with thaddeus. "now, then, good folks, come on! i guess together we can give you a pretty interesting fight, if it's fighting you are after!" a scrimmage was just in devilshoof's line, and once and forever he declared himself the champion of his new comrade. "really, this is too bad," florestein whimpered, standing at the table with the bone of a pheasant in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. "just as a man is enjoying his dinner, a boor like this comes along and interrupts him." but by that time the fight was on, and thaddeus and devilshoof were against the lot. the old count ordered his retainers to separate the nobles and the gipsies, and then had devilshoof bound and carried into the castle. thaddeus was escorted off by another path. the row was over and the nobles seated themselves again at the table. the nurse, who had arline at the window, now left her nursling and came down to speak with the count. immediately after she left the castle chamber, devilshoof could be seen scrambling over the castle roof, having escaped from the room in which he was confined. reaching the window where arline was left, he closed it. the nurse had been gone only a moment, when she reëntered the room. whatever had taken place in her absence caused her to scream frightfully. the whole company started up again, while the nurse threw open the window and leaned out, crying: "arline is gone--stolen--help, help!" all dashed into the castle. presently some of the nobles came to the window and motioned to those left outside. it was quite true. arline was gone. out they all rushed again. every one in the place had gone distracted. the poor old count's grief was pitiable. at that moment devilshoof could be seen triumphantly mounting the rocks, with arline in his arms. he had avenged his comrade thaddeus. all at once the crowd saw the great gipsy leaping from rock to rock with the little child in his arms, and with a roar they started after him. then devilshoof seemed fairly to fly over the rocks, but the crowd gained upon him, till they reached a bridge which spanned a deep chasm; there devilshoof paused; he was over, and with one tremendous effort he knocked from under the structure the trunk of a tree which supported the far end of the bridge, and down it went! the fall of timbers echoed back with devilshoof's shout of laughter as he sped up the mountain with arline. the old count ran to the chasm to throw himself headlong into it, but his friends held him back. act ii twelve years after that day of the hunt in count arnheim's forests, the gipsies were encamped in presburg. in those strange times gipsies roved about in the cities as well as in the fields and forests, and it was not at all strange to find the same old band encamped thus in the public street of a city. there, the gipsy queen had pitched her tent, and through its open curtains arline could be seen lying upon a tiger's skin, while thaddeus, who had never left the band, watched over her. there were houses on the opposite side of the street, and the gipsy queen's tent was lighted only dimly with a lamp that swung at the back, just before some curtains that formed a partition in the tent. it was all quiet when the city patrol went by, and they had no sooner passed than devilshoof entered the street, followed by others of the gipsy band, all wrapped in their dark cloaks. "the moon is the only one awake now," they sang. "there is some fine business on foot, when the moon herself goes to bed," and they all drew their daggers. but devilshoof, who was a pretty decent fellow, and who didn't believe in killing, whispered: "fie! fie! when you are going to rob a gentleman, you shouldn't draw a knife on him. he will be too polite to refuse anything you may ask, if you ask politely"--which was devilshoof's idea of wit. there was a hotel across the street, and one of the gipsies pointed to a light in its windows. "it will be easy when our fine gentlemen have been drinking long enough. they won't know their heads from their heels." they stole off chuckling, to wait till they imagined every one to be asleep, but they were no sooner gone than florestein, that funny little fop who never had thought of anything more serious than his appearance, reeled out of the hotel. he was dressed all in his good clothes, and wore golden chains about his neck--to one of which was attached a fine medallion. rings glittered on his fingers, and altogether, with his plumes and furbelows, he was precisely the sort of thing devilshoof and his companions were looking for. he was so very drunk that he could not imagine what a fool he was making of himself, and so he began to sing: wine, wine, if i am heir, to the count, my uncle's line; wine, wine, wine, where's the fellow will dare to refuse his nephew wine? this excellent song was punctuated by hiccoughs. there was another stanza which rebuked the boldness of the moon--in short, mentioned the shortcomings of most people compared to this elegant fellow's. altogether, he was a very funny joke to the gipsies who were waiting for him and peering and laughing from round a corner as he sang. then devilshoof went up to him with mock politeness. he bowed very seriously. my ear caught not the clock's last chime, and might i beg to ask the time? florestein, even though he was drunk, was half alive to his danger. he hadn't enough courage to survive a sudden sneeze. so he braced up a little and eyed devilshoof: if the bottle has prevailed, yet whenever i'm assailed, though there may be nothing in it, i am sobered in a minute. one could see that this was quite true. florestein was a good deal worried. he took out his watch, and assured devilshoof that it was quite late. i am really grieved to see any one in such a state, and gladly will take the greatest care of the rings and chains you chance to wear, devilshoof said still more politely; and bowing all of the time he removed the ornaments from florestein's person. what i thought was politeness, is downright theft, and at this rate i soon shall have nothing left, the unfortunate dandy moaned, clutching his gewgaws hopelessly, while all the gipsies beset him, each taking all he could for himself. but devilshoof having secured the medallion, made off with it. he was no sooner gone than a dark woman wrapped in a cloak came into the street and, when she was right in the midst of the squabble, she dropped her cloak and revealed herself as queen of the band. all the gipsies were amazed and not very comfortable either!--because, strange to say, this gipsy queen did not approve of the maraudings of her band; and when she caught them at thievery she punished them. "return those things you have stolen," she commanded, and they made haste to do so, while the trembling florestein took a hurried inventory of his property. but among the things returned, he didn't find the medallion. "i'm much obliged to you, madame, whoever you are, but i'd like a medallion that they have taken, returned." "that belongs to the chief--devilshoof," they cried. "i'll answer for your safety," the queen said to florestein, who was not overmuch reassured by this, but still tried to make the best of things. "now follow me," she called the band, and went, holding florestein and dragging him with her. they had no sooner gone than arline, who had been awakened by the noise outside the tent, came out into the street. thaddeus followed her. she was greatly disturbed. "thaddeus," she said, "i have had a strange dream": [music: i dreamt that i dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at my side, and of all who assembled within those walls, that i was the joy and the pride.] i had riches too great to count;--could boast of a high ancestral name; but i also dreamt (which pleased me most) that you loved me still the same. i dreamt that suitors sought my hand, that knights upon bended knee and with vows no maiden heart could withstand they pledged their faith to me. and i dreamt that one of that noble host came forth my hand to claim, but i also dreamt (which pleased me most) that you loved me still the same. when she had ceased to sing, thaddeus embraced her tenderly and assured her that he should love her always, "still the same." arline had often been troubled because of some difference between herself and the gipsies, and she had also been curious about a scar which was upon her arm. so upon that night she questioned thaddeus about this, and he told her of the accident in the forest twelve years before, when she got the wound upon her arm. however, he did not reveal to her that she was the daughter of a noble. "thou wert but six years old when this accident befell thee," thaddeus told her. but arline was not yet satisfied. "there is more to tell! i know that i am not of this gipsy band--nor art thou!--i feel that this is true, thaddeus. wilt thou not tell me the secret if there is one?" and thaddeus had decided that he would do this, when the curtains at the back of the queen's tent were parted and the gipsy queen herself appeared. "do you dare throw yourself into the arms of this man, when i love him?" the queen demanded angrily, at which arline and thaddeus were thrown into consternation. but arline had plenty of courage, especially after what had just happened; hence she appealed to thaddeus himself. he declared his love for her, and the two called for their comrades. all ran in and asked what the excitement was about. arline declared to them that she and thaddeus loved each other and wished to be married--which pleased devilshoof mightily. all life was a joke to him, and he knew perfectly that the queen was in love with thaddeus. "ho, ho," he laughed. "now we shall have everybody by the ears. come!" he cried to the queen. "as queen of the gipsies, it is your business to unite this handsome pair. we are ready for the ceremony," and they all laughed and became uproarious. the queen's pride would not let her ignore the challenge, so she advanced haughtily and took the hands of the lovers. "hand to hand and heart to heart, who shall those i've united part?" she chanted; and with this gipsy rite, they were united. then the band sat down in groups and made merry; but the queen began to plot revenge against arline. while they lounged about, prolonging the revel, a gipsy entered and told them that day was dawning, and that already the people of the city were awake and wending their way to a fair which the gipsies were bound for; and if they were to make anything by their dances and tricks they had better be up and doing. "up, all of you!" cried the moody queen, "and meet me in the public square; while you, devilshoof, stay behind for further orders." whereupon all went down the street, thaddeus and arline hand in hand. as soon as the last gipsy had disappeared, the queen turned on devilshoof. "now, then--that thing you are wearing about your neck--that medallion you stole! hand it over; and as for what has just happened, i shall not forget the part you had in it--it was you who urged the marriage and compelled me to perform it or else betray myself! you shall pay for this. meantime, see that you take nothing more that doesn't belong to you," and she snatched the medallion from him. this did not endear her to devilshoof, and he determined to have his revenge. "now be off and join the rest!" she cried; and while she left the square by one route devilshoof departed by another. after going a little way, devilshoof was certain to come up with those who had gone before and who were dancing along, in front of arline and thaddeus, singing gaily about the wedding. come with the gipsy bride, and repair to the fair. where the mazy dance will the hours entrance. come with the gipsy bride, where souls as light preside. thus they pranced along having a fine gipsy time of it till they arrived at the fair, which was held in a great public square in the midst of the city. the courthouse was on one side, and over the door there was a sign which read "the hall of justice." everybody seemed to be at the fair: peasants, nobles, soldiers, and citizens; rope-dancers, quack doctors, waxworks, showmen of all sorts, and bells rang and flags flew, and altogether it was just the thing for a gipsy's wedding day. the quack doctor blew his horn, and everybody surged about him, and while all that movement and fun were taking place, devilshoof and thaddeus formed a sort of flying wedge on the outskirts of the crowd and forced a passage for the gipsy band. at that moment florestein came along, taking part in the day as all the rest of presburg were doing, and the first man his eye lighted upon was that miscreant, devilshoof. there stood the man who had stolen his medallion! there were several gentlemen with florestein, and he called their attention to the gipsy group. meantime arline, like any gipsy, had been going about selling flowers and telling fortunes, and while those things were taking place the old count arnheim and some officers of the city entered and tried to pass through the group to the courthouse, where the old count presided as judge. florestein stopped him. "uncle, just stop a bit and look at those gipsies! do you see that pretty girl? i am delighted with her. even an old gentleman like you should have an eye to a girl as pretty as that," he laughed. this was not in very good taste, but then, nobody ever accused the little idiot of having either good taste or good courage. "i have no eyes for beauty since my arline was lost to me, nephew," the old man returned sadly, and passed to his courtroom. but florestein pressed through the crowd till he reached arline's side. "you are a pretty girl," he said boldly, ogling her. "come! you are teaching others" (arline had been telling a fortune), "teach me." "a lesson in politeness, sir?--you need it," and arline slapped his face; not at all the sort of thing a countess would do, but then she had been brought up a gipsy, and couldn't be expected to have all the graces of her ancestors. the queen, who had been watching, ready to make trouble, called thaddeus's attention to the incident, and thaddeus shouldered his way through the crowd just in time to slap florestein's face from the other side, as he turned about. the fop was somewhat disturbed, while arline and thaddeus burst out laughing at him. the queen, watching this episode, recognized in florestein the chap to whom she had restored the trinkets. she herself had the medallion, and instantly a malicious thought occurred to her: it was her opportunity to revenge herself on arline for loving thaddeus. she approached arline, and held out the medallion. "you should be rewarded, my girl, for giving this presumptuous fellow a lesson. take this from me, and think of it as my wedding gift," and she left the medallion with arline. the girl was very grateful and kissed the queen's hand. "now we must go! call the band together," she commanded, leading the way; and slowly they all assembled and prepared to go. thaddeus hung the medallion on arline's neck and, with her, came last of the band. now florestein, smarting under their blows, saw the medallion on arline's neck and at once drew the attention of his friends to it. they recognized it as his. he then went up to thaddeus and arline and pointed to the trinket. "you may stay awhile, my girl. how about that medallion of mine which you have on your neck? my friends here recognize it!" "the queen has given it to me--only now," she replied in amazement; but as she looked about she saw that the queen was gone, and devilshoof, who had witnessed all, was then sneaking off. "that is a good story. we have all heard that sort of thing before. come along," and he would have arrested her instantly, but thaddeus sprang forward and took a hand in the matter. when florestein saw the affair had grown serious he ran into the hall of justice, and returned with a guard who arrested the girl. arline, in tears, declared her innocence, but everything appeared against her. she had only thaddeus to stand by her, but at this crisis the other gipsies ran back, hearing of the row, and tried to rescue her. there thaddeus, too, was seized, and a free fight took place in which the gipsies were driven off; finally, arline, left alone, was marched into the hall of justice. the queen then returned, and stood unseen, enjoying the young girl's peril, while thaddeus threatened everybody concerned. now before the guards reached the count arnheim's apartment where arline was to be tried, the count had been sitting before a portrait of his lost daughter, which pictured her as she was twelve years before. he had never known a happy hour since her loss. as he looked at her portrait he sang: [music: the heart bow'd down by weight of woe, to weakest hope will cling, to tho't and impulse while they flow, that can no comfort bring, that can, that can no comfort bring, with those exciting scenes will blend, o'er pleasure's pathway thrown; but mem'ry is the only friend, that grief can call its own, that grief can call its own, that grief can call its own.] the mind will in its worst despair, still ponder o'er the past, on moments of delight that were too beautiful to last. to long departed years extend its visions with them flown; for mem'ry is the only friend that grief can call its own. thus, while the old count's mind was lingering sadly over the past, calling up visions of the hopes that had fled with his daughter, she was being brought to him charged with a crime of which she was innocent. soon the count heard a noise near his apartment, and the captain of the guard burst in to tell him a robbery had been committed in the square. no sooner had arnheim seated himself in his official place than the people hustled in arline. florestein was in the midst of the mob; going at once to his uncle he cried: "your lordship, it is i who have been robbed!" "ah! some more of your trouble-making. why are you forever bringing the family name into some ill-sounding affair?" "but, uncle, it is true that i am a victim. there is the very girl who robbed me!" he cried, pointing to arline. the count looked pityingly at her. "what--the pretty girl i saw in the square? so young and innocent a face!" "however that may be, she has stolen my medallion: we found it upon her!" "can this be true, my child?" the count asked gently. "no, your lordship. i have done nothing wrong; but alas! there is no one to help me." at that the count became more distressed. the thought of his own child returned to him. she might be somewhere as hardly pressed and as helpless as this young gipsy girl. "we can prove her guilty," florestein persisted. "tell me your story, my child. i shall try to do you justice," the count urged, looking kindly at arline. "the queen of our tribe gave me that medallion. i do not know how she possessed herself of it, unless----" arline suddenly remembered the scene at her wedding, and half guessed the truth. "your lordship, i cannot prove it, but i believe she gave me a medallion which she knew to be stolen, in order to revenge herself upon me for giving her displeasure last night!" the old count gazed thoughtfully at her. he believed her story: she looked truthful, and her tone was honest. "i believe you," he answered, at last, "yet since you cannot prove this, i have no alternative but to hand you over to justice." "then, sir, i can deliver myself!" she cried, drawing a dagger, and was about to plunge it into her heart when the horrified count sprung forward and stopped her. as he seized her arm, he glanced at the scar upon it: then started and looked closely at her face. again the face of his lost daughter was before him. he looked at the painting of the little girl upon the wall, and again at arline. they were so like that he could doubt no longer. "tell me--how did you come by that scar upon your arm--speak the truth, because my very life hangs upon it, my child." by this time the whole mob had gathered excitedly about the girl and the old judge. "when i was six years old a wild deer wounded me--" the count nearly fainted with hope--"i was saved and--" at this moment, thaddeus, having shaken off his guard, rushed in to help arline. she cried out happily and pointed to him. "it was he who saved my life," she said. "it was thaddeus!" the count recognized the man who had refused to drink the health of the emperor at the banquet years before! clearly it was his own child who had been brought before him! with a joyous cry he clasped her in his arms, but she did not know the meaning of his joy or of the excitement, and, frightened and bewildered, she ran to thaddeus. thaddeus pointed sadly to the count: "it _is_ thy father, arline. it is true," and he buried his face in his hands. he must now give her up. since she had found a noble father he could not hope to be near her again, and while he stood with his face in his hands, and arline was again in the arms of the count, devilshoof made his way in through the crowd, and tried to drag thaddeus away. he loved his comrade of twelve years, and he saw that harm might come to him in the new situation. act iii after leaving the hall of justice, arline returned with her father to the home of her childhood, for her dream had come true: she "dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at her side." yet she was far from happy: thaddeus had left the hall with devilshoof on the day of arline's arrest, and she had not seen him since. gorgeously dressed in a ball gown, she was in a beautiful room in her father's house. her father entered with florestein and begged her to think kindly of her silly foppish cousin. "you have every reason to be resentful toward florestein," he said, "but if you can think kindly of him for my sake it would make me very happy. i have always intended you to marry each other." at that arline was very wretched; and after a moment she said: "father, i should like to please you, but i cannot think affectionately of my cousin," and before the argument could be carried further, a servant entered to tell them that the palace was filling with guests, and that the count was needed. florestein and the count then went to meet the company, leaving arline alone to recover her self-possession. she became very sad for she was thinking of thaddeus and of the days she had spent wandering over the world with him and the gipsies. suddenly she went to a cabinet, took her gipsy dress from it, and looked at it, the tears streaming from her eyes. while she was lost in the memories of other days, devilshoof jumped in at the window and arline nearly screamed upon seeing him so suddenly. "don't scream! don't be frightened," he said quickly. "i have come to say how we all miss you, and to beg you to come back to the tribe. i have brought with me one whose powers of persuasion are greater than mine," he added, and instantly thaddeus appeared at the window, while arline, unable to restrain herself, rushed into his arms. "ah, i feared you would forget me in the midst of so much luxury and wealth," he said happily. "oh, thaddeus, did i not also dream--which pleased me most--that you loved me still the same?" she reminded him. "i came only to entreat you sometimes to think of me," he now said with a lighter heart, "and also i came to tell you--" he paused, kissed her, and then sang: [music: when other lips and other hearts their tales of love shall tell, in language whose excess imparts the pow'r they feel so well: there may, perhaps, in such a scene, some recollection be of days that have as happy been, and you'll remember me, and you'll remember, you'll remember me.] when coldness or deceit shall slight the beauty now they prize, and deem it but a faded light which beams within your eyes; when hollow hearts shall wear a mask 'twill break your own to see: in such a moment i but ask that you'll remember me. the song only added to arline's distress. she could not let thaddeus go. "you must never leave me, thaddeus," she cried. "then will you fly with me?" he begged. "it would kill my poor father; he has only now found me. i would go if it were not for love of him, but how can i leave him?" and while the lovers were in this unhappy coil devilshoof, who had been watching at the window to warn them if any one was coming, called out: "your doom is sealed in another moment! you must decide: people are coming. there is no escape for you, thaddeus." "come into this cabinet," arline cried in alarm. "no one can find you there! and you, devilshoof, jump out of the window." no sooner said than done! out devilshoof jumped, while thaddeus got into the cabinet. the great doors were thrown open and the company streamed in to congratulate arline on being restored to her father. the old count then took arline by the hand and presented her to the company, while florestein, as the suitor who expected to be given her hand in marriage, stood beside her, smiling and looking the coxcomb. everybody then sang a gay welcome, and florestein, who seemed born only to do that which was annoying to other people, picked up the forgotten gipsy dress, declaring that it was not suitable to such a moment, and that he would place it in the cabinet. that was the worst possible thing he could do, and arline watched him with horror. if he should go to the cabinet, as she was now certain he would, he could not possibly help finding thaddeus. she watched with excitement every moment; but in the midst of her fears there was a great noise without, and the gipsy queen forced her way in, to the amazement of the company. she went at once to the old count, who it seemed was never to have done with surprises. "who art thou, intruder?" he asked angrily. upon this the queen lifted her veil, which till then had concealed her face. "behold me!" she cried, very dramatically, "heed my warning voice! wail and not rejoice!" a nice sort of caution to be injected into a merrymaking. "the foe to thy rest, is the one you love best. think not my warning wild, 'tis thy refound child. she loves a youth of the tribe i sway, and braves the world's reproof. list to the words i say, he is now beneath thy roof!" this was quite enough to drive the entire company into hysterics. "base wretch," the count cried, "thou liest!" "thy faith i begrudge, open that door and thyself be the judge," she screamed, quite beside herself with anger. of course everybody looked toward the door of the cabinet, and finally the count opened it, and there stood thaddeus. he staggered back, the queen was delighted, but everybody else was frightened half to death. everybody concerned seemed then to be in the worst possible way. arline determined to stand by thaddeus, and she was quite appalled at the wickedness of the queen. "leave the place instantly," the count roared to thaddeus. "i go, arline," thaddeus answered sorrowfully. "never!--unless i go with thee," she declared, quite overcome by the situation. "father, i love thee, but i cannot give up thaddeus," she protested sorrowfully to the count. then the count drew his sword and rushed between them. "go!" he cried again to thaddeus, and at the same time the queen urged him to go with her. then arline begged to be left alone with her father that she might have a private word with him. everybody withdrew except thaddeus, wondering what next, and how it would all turn out. "father," arline pleaded when they were alone, "i am at your feet. if you love me you will listen. it was thaddeus who restored me to you; who has guarded me from harm for twelve years. i cannot give him up, and to send him away is unworthy of you." the count made a despairing gesture of dismissal to thaddeus. "but, father, we are already united," she urged, referring to the gipsy marriage. at that the count was quite horrified. "united?--to a strolling fellow like this?" this was more than thaddeus could stand, knowing as he did that he was every bit as good as the count--being a polish noble. true, if he revealed himself, he might have to pay for it with his life, because he was still reckoned at large as the enemy of the emperor, but even so, he decided to tell the truth about himself for arline's sake. "listen," he cried, stepping nearer to the count. "i am not what you think me. let this prove to you my birth," and he took the old commission from his pocket where he had carried it for years, and handed it to the count. "this will prove to thee, though i am an exile, that i am a noble like thyself; and my birth does not separate me from thy daughter." the count read the paper tremblingly and then looked long at thaddeus. tears came to his eyes. "the storms of a nation's strife should never part true lovers," he said softly, at last: "thy hand!"--and taking thaddeus's hand he placed it tenderly in that of arline. as they stood thus united and happy, the queen appeared at the window, pointing him out to a gipsy beside her. the gipsy was about to fire upon thaddeus at the queen's command, when devilshoof knocked up the gipsy's arm, and the bullet meant for the lover killed the revengeful queen. "guard every portal--summon all the guests!" the count cried. "suspend all festivities," at which the music which had been heard in the distant salon ceased, and the guests began to assemble. arline rushed to the arms of thaddeus. the count explained all that had occurred, the danger thaddeus had just been in, that he had been given the count's daughter, and that congratulations were in order. as you may believe, after so much fright and danger, everybody was overjoyed to find that all was well--everybody but florestein, and he was certain to be satisfied presently when the banquet began, and he got some especially fine tit-bit on his own plate! beethoven the most complete, at the same time picturesque, story of beethoven and his "fidelio" is told in "musical sketches," by elise polko, with all the sentimentality that a german writer can command. whole paragraphs might be lifted from that book and included in this sketch, but the substance of the story shall be told in a somewhat inferior way. "leonora" (fidelio) was composed some time before it was produced. ludwig van beethoven had been urged again and again by his friends to put the opera before the public, but he always refused. "it shall never be produced till i find the woman in whose powers i have absolute confidence to sing 'leonora.' she need not be beautiful, change her costume ten times, nor break her throat with roulades: but she must have _one_ thing besides her voice." he would not disclose what special quality he demanded; and when his friends persisted in urging the production of his first, last, and only opera, beethoven went into a great rage and declared if the subject were ever mentioned again, he would burn the manuscript. at one time friends begged him to hear a new prima donna, wilhelmina schröder, the daughter of a great actress, believing that in her he would find his "leonora." this enraged him still more. the idea of entrusting his beloved composition to a girl no more than sixteen years old! his appearance at that time is thus described: "at the same hour every afternoon a tall man walked alone on the so-called wasserglacis (vienna). every one reverentially avoided him. neither heat nor cold made him hasten his steps; no passer-by arrested his eye; he strode slowly, firmly and proudly along, with glance bent downward, and with hands clasped behind his back. you felt that he was some extraordinary being, and that the might of genius encircled this majestic head with its glory. gray hair grew thickly around his magnificent brow, but he noticed not the spring breeze that played sportively among it and pushed it in his eyes. every child knew: 'that is ludwig van beethoven, who has composed such wondrously beautiful music.'" one day, during one of these outings a fearful storm arose, and he noticed a beautiful young woman, whom he had frequently seen in his walks, frightened but standing still without protection from the weather. she stared at him with such peculiar devotion and entreaty that he stopped and asked her what she did there in the storm. she had the appearance of a child, and great simplicity of manner. she told him she waited to see him. he, being surprised at this, questioned her, and she declared she was wilhelmina schröder, who longed for nothing but to sing his leonora, of which all vienna had heard. he took her to his home, she sang the part for him, and at once he accepted her. it was she who first sang "fidelio," and she who had the "quality" that beethoven demanded: the quality of kindness. it is said that her face was instinct with gentleness and her voice exquisitely beautiful. it was almost the last thing that beethoven heard. his deafness was already upon him, but he heard her voice; heard his beloved opera sung, and was so much overcome by the beauty of the young girl's art that during the performance he fainted. of all temperamental men, beethoven was doubtless the most so, and the anecdotes written of him are many. he was especially irascible. his domestic annoyances are revealed freely in his diary: "nancy is too uneducated for a housekeeper--indeed, quite a beast." "my precious servants were occupied from seven o'clock till ten, trying to light a fire." "the cook's off again--i shied half a dozen books at her head." "no soup to-day, no beef, no eggs. got something from the inn at last." these situations are amusing to read about, decades later, but doubtless tragic enough at the time to the great composer! that in financial matters beethoven was quite practical was illustrated by his answer to the prussian ambassador at vienna, who offered to the musician the choice of the glory of having some order bestowed upon him or fifty ducats. beethoven took the ducats. beautiful as the production of "fidelio" was, it did not escape criticism from an eminent source. cherubini was present at the first performance at the karnthnerthor theatre in vienna, and when asked how he liked the overture (leonora in c) he replied: "to be honest, i must confess that i could not tell what key it was in from beginning to end." fidelio characters of the opera marcelline (jailer's daughter). leonora (under name of fidelio). florestan (her husband and a state prisoner). jaquino (porter of the prison). pizarro (governor of the prison). hernando (the minister). rocco (the jailer). chorus of soldiers, prisoners and people. scene is laid in spain. composer: beethoven. act i marcelline, the jailer's daughter, had been tormented to death for months by the love-making of her father's porter, jaquino. in short, he had stopped her on her way to church, to work, to rest, at all times, and every time, to make love to her, and finally she was on the point of consenting to marry him, if only to get rid of him. "marcelline, only name the day, and i vow i'll never make love to you again," said the soft jaquino. this was so funny that marcelline thought he was worth marrying for his drollery; but just as she was about to make him a happy man by saying "yes," some one knocked upon the door, and with a laugh she drew away from him: oh, joy! once again i am free; how weary, how weary his love makes me. quite disheartened, jaquino went to open the door. there had been a time--before a certain stranger named fidelio had come to the prison--when jaquino's absurd love-making pleased marcelline, but since the coming of that fine youth fidelio, she had thought of little but him. now, while jaquino was opening the door, and she watched his figure (which was not at all fascinating), she murmured to herself: "after all, how perfectly absurd to think of it! i shall never marry anybody but fidelio. he is quite the most enchanting fellow i know." at that moment jaquino returned. "what, not a word for me?" he asked, noting her change of mood. "well, yes, and that word is no, no, no! so go away and let me alone," she answered petulantly. now fidelio was certainly a most beautiful youth, but quite different from any marcelline had ever seen. fidelio observed, with a good deal of anxiety, that the jailer's daughter was much in love with him, and there were reasons why that should be inconvenient. fidelio, instead of being a fine youth, was a most adoring wife, and her husband, florestan, was shut up in that prison for an offence against its wicked governor, pizarro. he had been placed there to starve; and indeed his wife leonora (fidelio) had been told that he was already dead. she had applied, as a youth, for work in the prison, in order to spy out the truth; to learn if her dear husband were dead or alive. there was both good and bad luck in the devotion of the jailer's daughter. the favourable part of the affair was that leonora was able, because of her favouritism, to find out much about the prisoners; but on the other hand, she was in danger of discovery. although the situation was tragic, there was considerable of a joke in marcelline's devotion to the youth fidelio, and in the consequent jealousy of jaquino. love of money was rocco's (the jailer) besetting sin. he sang of his love with great feeling: life is nothing without money, anxious cares beset it round; sad, when all around is sunny, feels the man whom none hath found. but when to thy keeping the treasure hath rolled, blind fortune thou mayest defy, then; both love and power their secrets unfold, and will to thy wishes comply, then. rocco was also a man of heart; and since hiring fidelio (leonora) he had really become very fond of the young man. when he observed the attachment between fidelio and marcelline, he was inclined to favour it. don pizarro had long been the bitterest enemy of don florestan, leonora's husband, because that noble had learned of his atrocities and had determined to depose him as governor of the fortress prison. hence, when pizarro got florestan in his clutches, he treated him with unimaginable cruelties, and falsely reported that he was dead. now in the prison there had lately been much hope and rejoicing because it was rumoured that fernando, the great minister of state, was about to pay a visit of investigation. this promised a change for the better in the condition of the prisoners. but no one knew better than don pizarro that it would mean ruin to himself if fernando found don florestan in a dungeon. the two men were dear friends, and so cruelly treated had florestan been that pizarro could never hope for clemency. hence, he called rocco, and told him that florestan must be killed at once, before the arrival of fernando. rocco refused point blank to do the horrid deed; but as a dependent he could not control matters, and hence he had to consent to dig the grave, with the understanding that pizarro, himself, should do the killing. thus far, fidelio had been able to find out nothing about her beloved husband, but she had become more and more of a favourite with the unfortunate old jailer, and was permitted to go about with a certain amount of freedom. upon the day when pizarro had directed rocco to kill a prisoner in a certain dungeon, she overheard a good deal of the plot, and she began to fear it might be her husband. she went at once to rocco: "rocco, i have seen very little of the prison. may i not go into the dungeon and look about?" "oh, it would never be allowed," rocco declared. "pizarro is a stern and cruel governor, and if i should do the least thing he did not command, it would go hard with me. i should not dare let you do that," he said, much troubled with the deed that was in hand. "but wilt thou not ask him, rocco?" fidelio entreated so determinedly that rocco half promised. "fidelio, i will tell thee. i have a bad job to do. it is to dig a grave in one of the dungeons." fidelio could hardly conceal her horror and despair. her suspicions were confirmed. "there is an old well, covered by a stone, down there, far underground, and if i lift the stone that covers it, that will do for the grave. i will ask pizarro if i may have thee to help me. if he consents, it will be thy chance to see the dungeons, but if not, i shall have done all i can about it." so he went away to discuss the matter with pizarro, while fidelio waited between hope and despair. meantime, pizarro was gloating over his triumph. soon his revenge would be complete, and he sang of the matter in a most savage fashion: ha! what a day is this, my vengeance shall be sated. thou treadest on an abyss! for now thy doom is fated. the words mean little, but beethoven's music to them means much: remember, that once in the dust i trembled, 'mid mocking fiends assembled; beneath thy conquering steel, but fortune's wheel is turning, in torments thou art burning, the victim of my hate. the guards told one another that they had better be about their business, as some great affair seemed afoot. rocco entered again. "i do not see the need for this killing," he urged. "the man is nearly dead as it is. he cannot last long; but at least, if i must dig the grave, i shall need help. i have a youth in my service who is to marry my daughter--thus i can count upon his faithfulness; and i had better be permitted to take him into the dungeon with me, if i am to do the work. i am an old man, and not so strong as i used to be." "very well, very well," pizarro replied. "but see to the business. there is no time to lose." and going back to fidelio, rocco told her the good news: that pizarro had consented. then she sang joyfully of it: [music: oh hope, thou wilt not let the star of sorrowing love be dimm'd for ever! oh come, sweet hope, show me the goal, however, however far forsake it will i never, forsake it will i never, forsake it i will never, etc.] "but, rocco, instead of digging a grave for the poor man, to whom we go, couldst thou not set him free?" she begged. "not i, my boy. it would be as much as my life was worth. i have not been permitted even to give him food. he is nearly dead from starvation already. try to think as little as you can of the horrors of this place. it is a welcome release for the poor fellow." "but to have a father-in-law who has committed a murder," fidelio shuddered, trying to prevail upon rocco by this appeal. but he sang: [music: my good lad, thou need'st not fear, of killing, of killing him i shall be clear, yes, yes, i shall be clear, my lord himself, my lord himself will do the deed.] "nay, do not worry--you'll have no murderer for a father-in-law. our only business is to dig the man's grave." in spite of herself leonora wept. "come, come. this is too hard for thee, gentle boy. i'll manage the business alone." "oh, no! no! i must go. indeed i am not afraid. i must go with thee," she cried. while she was thus distracted, in rushed marcelline and jaquino. "oh, father! don pizarro is frantic with rage. you have given the prisoners a little light and air, and he is raging about the prison because of this. what shall we do?" rocco thought a moment. "do nothing! he is a hard man, i--" at that moment pizarro came in. "what do you mean by this? am i governing this prison or are you?" "don pizarro," rocco spoke calmly. "it is the king's birthday, and i thought it might be politic for you to give the prisoners a little liberty, especially as the minister was coming. it will look well to him." at that pizarro was somewhat appeased, but nevertheless he ordered the men back to their cells. it was a mournful procession, back to dungeon darkness. as they went they sang: [music: farewell, thou warm and sunny beam, how soon thy joys have faded, how soon thy joys have faded!] while they were singing, rocco once more tried to soften pizarro's heart. "wilt thou not let the condemned prisoner live another day, your highness?" the request enraged pizarro still more. "enough! now have done with your whimpering. take that youth of thine who is to help, and be about the job. go! and let me hear no more." with that awful voice of revenge and cruelty in her ears, the unhappy leonora followed rocco to the dungeons, to dig her husband's grave. act ii down in the very bowels of the earth, as it seemed to leonora, was florestan's dungeon. there he sat, manacled, despairing, with no ray of light to cheer him, and his thoughts occupied only with his visions of the beautiful home he had known, and of his wife, leonora. when leonora and rocco entered the dungeon, florestan had fallen, half sleeping, half dreaming upon the floor of his cell, and leonora groped her way fearfully toward him, believing him to be dead. "oh, the awful chill of this vault," she sobbed. "look! is the man dead, already, rocco?" rocco went to look at the prisoner. "no, he only sleeps. come, that sunken well is near, and we have only to uncover it to have the job done. it is a hard thing for a youth like thee. let us hurry." rocco began searching for the disused well, into which he meant the body of florestan to be dumped after the governor had killed him. "reach me that pickaxe," he directed fidelio. "are you afraid?" "no, no, i feel chilled only." "well, make haste with the work, my boy, and it will warm you," rocco urged. then while he worked and urged fidelio to do the same, she furtively watched the prisoner whose features she could not see in the gloom of the cell. "if we do not hurry, the governor will be here. haste, haste!" rocco cried. "yes, yes," she answered, nearly fainting with grief and horror. "come, come, my boy. help me lift this great stone which closes the mouth of the well." the despairing fidelio lifted with all her poor strength. "i'm lifting, i'm lifting," she sobbed, and she tugged and tugged, because she dared not shirk the work. then the stone slowly rolled away. she was still uncertain as to the identity of the poor wretch who was so soon to be put out of existence. she peered at him continually. "oh, whoever thou art, i will save thee. i will save thee," she thought. "i cannot have so great a horror take place. i must save him." still she peered through the darkness at the hopeless prisoner. at the same time her grief overwhelmed her, and she began to weep. the prisoner was roused, and plaintively thanked the strange youth for his kindly tears. "oh, whoever this poor man may be, let me give him this piece of bread," fidelio begged, turning to rocco. (she had put bread into her doublet, thinking to succour some half-starved wretch.) "it is my business, my boy, to be severe," he said, frowning. he was sorely tried, for his heart was kind and yet he dared not show pity. but she pleaded and pleaded, and finally rocco nervously agreed. "well, well, give it, boy. give it. he will never taste food again," and again the prisoner thanked fidelio through the darkness of his cell. when he spoke she felt a strange presentiment. suppose this should be the beloved husband whom she sought! "oh, gentle youth! that i might repay this humane deed!" the prisoner murmured, too weak to speak loudly. "that voice--it is strange to me, yet--it is like some remembered voice," fidelio said to herself, and she clasped her hands upon her heart, because it seemed to beat so loudly that rocco might hear it. while she wavered between hope and fear, don pizarro entered the dungeon. he had come at last for his revenge. "now, thou dog," he said to the prisoner, "prepare to die. but before you die, you are to know to whom you owe the deed." at that he threw off his cloak and showed himself to be pizarro. "it is pizarro whom thou hast insulted. it is he who shall kill thee." "do not think i fear a murderer," florestan replied, with what heroism his weakness would permit. at that pizarro made a lunge at him with the knife, but fidelio threw herself in front of him, suddenly recognizing him as he spoke to pizarro. "thou shalt not kill him, unless thou kill his wife as well," she screamed. rocco, florestan and pizarro all cried out in amazement. "wife!" florestan clasped her weakly to his heart. pizarro rushed at fidelio, becoming frantic with rage. he hurled her away and shouted: "no woman shall frighten me! away with ye! the man shall die." instantly, fidelio drew a pistol and pointed it at the murderer. "if he is to die, you shall die also," she cried, whereupon rocco shouted in fright, since it was a dreadful thing to try conclusions with the governor of the prison. pizarro himself drew back with fear. then a fanfare of trumpets was heard, announcing the arrival of fernando, the minister. "hark!" pizarro cried. "i am undone! it is fernando!" the assassin began to tremble. but florestan and fidelio knew that liberty was near. one word of the truth to the minister, one word that should tell him of the governor's awful cruelty for a personal revenge, would set florestan free and bring punishment to pizarro. then jaquino hurried in: "come, come, quick! the minister and his suite are at the gates." "thank god," said the kind-hearted jailer, under his breath. "the man is surely saved now. we're coming, my lad, we're coming," he answered. "let the men come down and bear torches before don pizarro. he cannot find his way out." rocco's voice was trembling with gladness, florestan was almost fainting with weakness because of the sudden joy that had come to him. fidelio was praying to heaven in gratitude, while don pizarro was horrified at the thought of what his punishment would be. the jailer and don pizarro ascended, and soon fernando ordered all the prisoners of the fortress brought before him. he had come to investigate the doings of the governor who had long been known as a great tyrant. when the unhappy men, who had been abused by starving and confinement in underground cells, stood before him, the minister's heart was sorely touched, and don pizarro was more and more afraid. presently, rocco fearlessly brought fidelio and don florestan in front of fernando. "oh, great minister, i beg you to give ear to the wrongs of this sad pair," he cried, and as fernando looked at florestan his eyes filled with tears. "what, you? florestan? my friend, whom i have so long believed was dead? thou who wert the friend of the oppressed, who tried to bring to punishment this very wretch?" he said, looking at pizarro; and his speech revealed why pizarro had wanted to revenge himself upon the unhappy noble. "yes, yes, it is don florestan, my beloved husband," fidelio answered, while the good rocco pushed her ahead of him, closer to fernando's side. "she is no youth, but the noblest woman in the world, don fernando," rocco cried, almost weeping in his agitation and relief at the turn things were taking for those with whom he sympathized. "just let me be heard," pizarro called, becoming more and more frightened each moment. "enough of thee," fernando answered, bitterly, in a tone that boded no good to the wretch. then rocco told the whole truth about the governor: how he, himself, had had to lend a hand to his wicked schemes, because as a dependent he could not control matters; and then all the prisoners cried out for pizarro's punishment. fernando commanded pizarro to give fidelio the key of the prison, that she, the faithful wife, should have the joy of unlocking the doors and giving her husband his freedom. all the other prisoners and fernando's suite, the jailer, his daughter, marcelline, and jaquino rejoiced and sang rapturously of fernando's goodness. pizarro was left, still uncertain of his punishment, but all hoped that he would be made to take florestan's place in the dungeon and meet the fate he had prepared for the much abused noble. berlioz "the damnation of faust" was first produced as an opera, by raoul gunsburg, in monte carlo, about 1903. before that time it had been conducted only as a concerted piece. later it was produced in paris, calvé and alvarez singing the great rôles. that was in the late spring of 1903. in europe the opera was produced with the dream scene (the dream-marguerite) as in the original plan of berlioz, but in this country this dream-marguerite was omitted, also the rain in the ride to hell; otherwise the european and the new york production were much the same. at the metropolitan opera house, in new york, there were three hundred people upon the stage in the first act, and every attention was given to scenic detail. this piece is meant for the concert room, and in no sense for the operatic stage, but great care and much money have been spent in trying to realize its scenic demands. as a dramatic production, it cannot compare with the "faust" of gounod, but it has certain qualities of a greater sort, which have made impresarios desire to shape it for the stage. berlioz was probably one of the least attractive of musicians. as a man, he was entirely detestable. he despised (from jealous rather than critical motives) all music that was not his own; or if he chose to applaud, his applause was certain to be for some obscure person without ability, in order that there might be no unfavourable comparisons drawn between his own work and that which he was praising. beyond doubt he was the greatest instrumentalist of europe, but he was _bizarre_, and none too lucid. his method of showing his contempt for other great composers like beethoven, mozart, and the like, was to conduct their music upon important occasions, without having given himself or any one else a rehearsal. he called haydn a "pedantic old baby," and refused as long as he lived to hear elijah (mendelssohn). in short, he was one of the vastly disagreeable people of the earth, who believe that their own genius excuses everything. the story of his behaviour at a performance of cherubini's ali baba will serve as an illustration of his bad taste. cherubini had become old, and was even more anxious about the fate of his compositions than he had been in his youth, having less confidence in himself as he declined in years, and on the occasion of ali baba he was especially overwrought. berlioz got a seat in the house, and made his disapproval of the performance very marked by his manner. finally he cried out toward the end of the first act, "twenty francs for an idea!" during the second act he called, "forty francs for an idea!" and at the finale he screeched, "eighty francs for an idea!" when all was over, he rose wearily and said, loud enough to be heard all over the place, "i give it up--i'm not rich enough!" and went out. there is hardly an anecdote of berlioz extant that does not deal with his cynicism or displeasing qualities, therefore we may more or less assume that they pretty correctly reflect the man. one of the stories which well illustrates his love of "showing up" his fellows, concerns his fuite en egypte. when it was produced he had put upon the programme as the composer one pierre ducré "of the seventeenth century." the critics, one and all, wrote of the old and worthless score that berlioz had unearthed and foisted upon the suffering public. some of them wrote voluminously and knowingly of the life of pierre ducré, and hinted at other productions of his, which they said demonstrated his puerility. then when he had roused all the discussion he pleased, berlioz came forward and announced that there never had been any such personage as ducré, and that it was himself who had written fuite en egypte. he had made everybody appear as absurd as possible, and there is no sign that he ever did that sort of thing for the pure love of a joke. he was malicious, born so, lived so, and died so. however great his music, he was unworthy of it. damnation of faust characters of the opera faust. mephistopheles. brander. marguerite. sylphs, students, soldiers, angels. composer: hector berlioz. act i one lovely morning, in a hungarian meadow, a scholar went to walk before he should begin his day's task of study and of teaching. he was an old man, who had thought of little in life, so far as his associates knew, besides his books; but secretly he had longed for the bright joys of the world most ardently. while he lingered in the meadow, possessed with its morning brightness, and its summer dress he heard some person singing not far away: [music: the shepherd donned his best array, wreath and jacket and ribbons gay, oh, but he, but he was smart to see, the circle closed round the linden tree, all danced and sprang, all danced and sprang, all danced and sprang; like madmen danced away. hurrah, hurrah, huzza tra la, la, la, la.] at first a single voice was singing, but soon the song was taken up by a joyous chorus, and faust, the scholar, stopped to listen. alas! it spoke of that gaiety he had so longed to enjoy. a group of peasants were out for a holiday, and their sport was beginning early. while he meditated on all that he had lost, the merrymakers drew near, and he watched them dance, listened to them laugh and sing, and became more and more heartsick. it was the youth of the revellers that entered into his heart. there was he, so old, and nearly done with life; done with its possibilities for joy and with its hardships! then, in the very midst of these thoughts the sound of martial music was heard. faust shaded his eyes with his trembling old hand: "ha! a splendour of weapons is brightly gleaming afar: the sons of the danube apparelled for war! they gallop so proudly along: how sparkle their eyes, how flash their shields. all hearts are thrilled, they chant their battle's story! while my heart is cold, all unmoved by glory." he sang this in recitative, while the music drew nearer and nearer, and as the army passed by, it marched to one of the famous compositions of history: [music] then the scene changed, and faust was once more alone in his study. he was melancholy. "i left the meadow without regret, and now, without delight, i greet our haughty mountains. what is the use of such as i continuing to live? there _is_ no use! i may as well kill myself and have done it." and after thinking this over a moment in silence he prepared himself a cup of poison, and lifted it to his lips. as he was about to drink and end his woes, the choir from the chapel began to sing an easter hymn. "ah!" he cried, "the memories that overwhelm me! oh, my weak and trembling spirit, wilt thou surely ascend to heaven, borne upward by this holy song!" he began to think of his happy boyhood, of his early home; then as the glorious music of the choir swelled higher and higher, he became gentler and thought more tolerantly of life. "those soft melodious strains bring peace to my soul; songs more sweet than morning, i hear again! my tears spring forth, the earth has won me back." he dropped his head upon his breast and wept. as he sat thus, in tender mood, a strange happening took place. a queer, explosive sound, and a jet of flame, and--there stood the devil, all in red, forked tail, horns, and cloven hoof! he stood smiling wickedly at the softened old man, while faust stared at him wildly. "a most pious frame of mind, my friend. give me your hand, dear doctor faust. the glad easter ringing of bells and singing of peans have certainly charmed you back to earth!" "who art thou, whose glances are so fierce? they burn my very soul. speak, thou spectre, and tell me thy name." from his very appearance, one could hardly doubt he was the devil. "why! so learned a man as you should know me. i am thy friend and comfort. come, ye are so melancholy, doctor faust, let me be thy friend--i'll tell thee a secret: if you but say the word, i'll give ye your dearest wish. it shall be whatever you wish. eh? shall it be wealth, or fame?--what shall it be? come! let us talk it over." "that is well, wretched demon! i think i know ye now. i am interested in ye. sit, and we shall talk," the poor old doctor replied, despising that which nevertheless aroused his curiosity. he, like everybody else, had heard of the devil, but he doubted if any other had had the fortune actually to see him. "very well; i will be thine eye, thine ear. i will give thee the world; thou shalt leave thy den, thy hateful study. come! to satisfy thy curiosity, follow me." the old man regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, and then rose: "let us go," he said, and in the twinkle of an eye they disappeared into the air. they were transported over hill and dale, village and fine city, till the devil paused at leipzig. "here is the place for us," he said; and instantly they descended to the drinking cellar of auerbach, a man who kept fine rhenish wine for jolly fellows. they entered and sat at a table. by this time the devil had changed faust the scholar, into a young and handsome man, youth being one of faust's dearest wishes. all about them were coarse youths, soldiers, students, men off the street, all drinking and singing gaily. faust and the devil ordered wine and became a part of the company. they were all singing together at that moment: oh, what delight when storm is crashing, to sit all the night round the bowl; high in the glass the liquor flashing, while thick clouds of smoke float around. the rest of the words were not very dignified nor fascinating, and faust looked on with some disgust. presently some one cried out to a half-drunken fellow named brander to give them one of his famous songs, and he got unsteadily upon his feet and began: there was a rat in the cellar-nest whom fat and butter made smoother; he had a paunch beneath his vest like that of doctor luther; the cook laid poison cunningly, and then as sore oppressed was he, as if he had love in his bosom. he ran around, he ran about, his thirst in puddles laving; he gnawed and scratched the house throughout, but nothing cured his raving; he whirled and jumped with torment mad, and soon enough the poor beast had, as if he had love in his bosom. and driven at last, in open day, he ran at last into the kitchen, fell on the hearth and squirming lay in the last convulsion twitching; then laughed the murd'ress in her glee, "ha, ha! he's at his last gasp," said she, as if he had love in his bosom. "requiescat in pace, amen!" the devil sang, and all joined on the "amen." "now then, permit _me_ to sing you a ballad," the devil cried, gaily, and he jumped upon his feet. "what, you pretend that you can do better than brander?" they demanded, a little piqued. "well, you see, i am expert at anything nasty and bad; so let us see: there was a king once reigning, who had a big black flea, and loved him past explaining, as his own son were he. he called his man of stitches, the tailor came straightway, 'here, measure the lad for breeches, and measure his coat, i say.' in silk and velvet gleaming, he now was wholly drest, had a coat with ribbons streaming, a cross upon his breast. he had the first of stations, a minister's star and name, and also his relations, great lords at court became. and lords and dames of honour were plagued awake and in bed. the queen, she got them upon her, the maids were bitten and bled. and they did not dare to brush them, or scratch them day or night. we crack them and we crush them, at once whene'er they bite." "enough!" said faust; "i want to leave this brutal company. there can be no joys found where there is so much that is low and degrading. i wish to go." and turning angrily to the devil, he signified that he would leave instantly. "very well," said the prince of darkness, smiling his satirical smile. "away we go--and better success with thee, next time." at which he placed his mantle upon the ground, they stood upon it, and away they flew into the air and disappeared. when next they stopped, it was upon a grassy bank of the elbe river. "now, my friend; let us rest. lie thou down upon the grassy bank and close thine eyes, and dream of joys to come. when we awake we shall wish again and see what new experience the world holds for us. thus far you do not seem too well satisfied." "i will sleep," faust answered, reclining upon the bank. "i should be glad to forget some things that we have seen." so saying he slept. no sooner had he done so, that the devil summoned the most beautiful sylphs to dance before him, and thus to influence faust's dreams. they began by softly calling his name. then they lulled him to deeper sleep, and his dream was of fair women. in his dream he saw the lovely dance, the gracious forms, the heavenly voices of youthful women. the devil directed his dream-laden eyes toward a loving pair who walked and spoke and loved apart. then immediately behind those lovers walked, meditatively, a beautiful maiden. "behold," the black prince murmured to faust; "that maiden there who follows: she shall be thy marguerite. shall it not be so?" and faust sank back in his sleep, overcome with the lovely vision. then the devil motioned the sylphs away. "away, ye dainty elves, ye have served my turn to-day, and i shall not forget." they danced to exquisite waltz music, hovering above faust, and gradually disappeared in the mists of the air. slowly faust awakened; his first word was "marguerite!" then he looked about him in a daze. "what a dream! what a dream!" he murmured. "i saw an angel in human form." "nay, she was a woman," said the devil. "rise and follow me, and i will show her to thee in her home. hello! here comes along a party of jolly students and soldiers. they will pass her home. we'll move along with them, join their shouts and songs, and presently we shall arrive at her house." faust, all trembling with the thought that at last he had found that which was to make his life worth living, joined the crowd and followed. the soldiers boisterously sang a fine chorus as they went. no sooner had they finished than the students began their song. it was all in latin and seemed to faust to echo that life which had once been his. then the soldiers and students joined in the jollity and sang together. this fun lasted what to faust seemed too long a time. he was impatient to see and speak with the dear maiden marguerite; and at last, his wish was to be granted. the devil set him down without ceremony in the young girl's house. there, where she lived, where her meagre belongings were about, he sang rapturously of her. he went about the room, looking at her chair, her basket of work, the place where she should sleep, examining all with rapture. then the devil said in an undertone: "she is coming! hide thyself, and frighten her not." then he hid faust behind some curtains and took himself off with the parting advice: "have a care not to frighten her, or thou wilt lose her. now make the most of thy time." faust's heart beat so with love that he feared to betray himself. then marguerite entered. she was as lovely as a dream. she was simple and gentle, and very young and innocent. she had never seen any one outside her little village. she was so good that she could fairly tell by instinct if evil influences were about her. she no sooner entered the chamber than she was aware of something wrong. she felt the presence of the evil one who had but just gone. she paused and murmured to herself: "the air is very sultry," and she felt stifled. "i am trembling like a little child. i think it is the dream i had last night" (for the devil had given her a dream as he had given faust, and in it she had seen her future husband). "i think it is because i expect every moment since my dream, to see the one who is to love and cherish me the rest of my life." the simple folk of marguerite's time believed in dreams and portents of all kinds. there she sat in her chair and recalled how handsome the lover of her dream was, and how truly she already loved him. then she decided to go to bed, and while she was folding her few things, putting her apron away, combing out her long and beautiful hair, she sang an old gothic song, of the king of thule: [music: there was a king in thule was faithful till the grave to whom his mistress, dying, a golden goblet gave. naught was to him more precious, he drained it at ev'ry bout. his eyes with tears ran over as oft as he drank thereout.] when came his time of dying, the towns in his land he told; naught else to his heir denying except the goblet of gold. he sat at the royal banquet, with his knights of high degree, in the lofty hall of his fathers, in the castle by the sea. there stood the old carouser, and drank the last life-glow, and hurled the hallow'd goblet into the tide below. he saw it plunging and filling, and sinking deep in the sea, then his eyelids fell forever, and never more drank he. there was a king once in thule, faithful was he--to the grave. then the devil, who was watching all, summoned his imps. this time they took the form of will-o'-the-wisps. "come! dance and confuse this maiden, and see what we can do to help this lovesick faust," he cried to them, and at once they began a wonderful dance. marguerite watched them entranced, and by the time faust appeared from the folds of the curtains she was half dazed and confused by the unreal spectacle she had seen. then she recognized the handsome fellow as the one she had seen in her dream. "i have seen thee in my dreams," she said, "and thou wert one who loved me well." faust, entranced with her beauty and goodness, promised to love her forever; and as he embraced her, the devil suddenly popped in. "hasten," he cried. "we must be off." "who is this man?" marguerite cried in affright. "a brute," faust declared, knowing well the devilishness of his pretended friend in whose company he travelled. "nay! i am your best friend. be more courteous," the devil cautioned, smiling. "i expect i am intruding," he continued. "but really i came to save this angel of a girl. our songs have awakened all the neighbours round, and they are running hither like a pack of hounds to see what is going on. they know this pretty girl has a young man in here talking with her, and already they are calling for her old gossip of a mother. when her mother comes ye will catch it finely. so come along." "death and hell!" faust cried, not knowing how near he was to both. "there is no time for that. just come along. you and the young woman will have plenty of time hereafter to see each other. but just now we must be off." "but she----" "it will go hard with her if we are found here, so ye had better come on, if only for her sake." "but, return, return," marguerite cried, looking tenderly at faust. "i shall return, never to leave thee," he cried, and then, interrupted by the noise made by men and women in the street, who were coming to find out what he was doing there, faust left hurriedly. every night thereafter for a time they met, and marguerite was persuaded by the devil to give her old mother a sleeping potion to keep her from surprising them. then one day the devil again lured faust away. "now thou shalt never see her again," the devil said to himself, gloating over the sorrow faust was sure to feel; and away they fled, the devil sure of tempting faust anew. after that marguerite, left quite alone, watched sadly, each day for the return of her lover, but alas! he never came. one night while she was leaning out of her casement, the villagers were singing of the return of the army. "alas, they are all making merry, soldiers and students, as on the night when i first saw my lover, but he is no longer among them." and then sadly she closed her window and kept her lonely vigil, ever hoping for his return. away in a cavern, in the depths of the forest, was faust. he had never returned to marguerite's village, and neither had he known any peace of mind. he had immediately found other pleasures which had for a time made him forget her, and then, when he was far away and it was too late to return, he desired again to be with her. now, sitting apart in the wood, mourning, the devil came to him. "how about that constant love of thine? do ye never think of that poor child marguerite, lonely and far away, awaiting thee month after month?" "be silent and do not torture me, fiend," faust cried bitterly. "oh i have a lot to tell thee," the black prince replied. "i have been saving news for thee. dost thou remember how, on those nights when thou didst go to see that good maiden, she was told to give her old mother a sleeping draught, that she might sleep soundly while ye billed and cooed? well, when ye were gone, marguerite still expected ye, and continued to give the draught, and one night the old dame slept forever, and i tell thee that draught killed her. now thy marguerite is going to be hanged for it." upon hearing that, faust nearly died with horror. "what is it ye tell me?" he cried. "my god! this is not true." "all right. all right. believe it or not, it is the same to me--and to her--because that poor maid is about to die for killing her mother." "thou shalt save her, or i shall kill--" but he stopped in his fury, knowing that none could kill the devil. he wrung his hands in despair. "now if thou wilt keep thyself a bit civil, i may save her for thee, but don't forget thy manners." at that faust was in a fury of excitement to be off to marguerite's village. "not so fast, not so fast," the devil said "now if i am to save thy love, i must have a little agreement with thee. i want your signature to this paper. sign, and i promise to save her, without fail. but i must have that first." "i will give thee anything," faust cried, and instantly signed the paper. that paper was really an agreement to give the devil his soul when he should die, so faust had abandoned his last hope on earth or hereafter. then the devil called for his horses--his black horses upon which damned souls rode with him to hell. "mount," he said to faust, "and in a trice we shall be with thy marguerite and snatch her from the gallows." instantly they mounted and then began the fearful ride to hell. presently they came near a crowd of peasants kneeling about a roadside cross. "oh, have a care. let us not ride upon them," faust cried. "get on, get on," the devil cried. "it is thy marguerite we are hastening to," and the poor peasants scattered in every direction, some being trampled upon and little children hurt. "horrible, horrible," faust cried. "what is that monster pursuing us?" he whispered, glancing fearfully behind him. "ye are dreaming." "nay! and there are hideous birds of prey now joining us. they rush upon us. what screams? their black wings strike me." and then a bell tolled. "hark ye! it is the bell for her death. hasten," the devil urged. "aye, make haste, make haste." and the horses, black as night, were urged on and on. "see those ghastly skeletons dancing!" faust screamed, as the fearful spectres gathered round them. "think not of them, but of our marguerite!" the devil counselled. "our horses' manes are bristling. they tremble, the earth rocks wildly. i hear the thunders roar, it is raining blood," faust shrieked. then the devil shouted: "ah! ye slaves of hell, your trumpets blow. i come triumphant. this man is mine!" and as he spoke, the two riders fell headlong into the abyss of hell. then all the fiends of hell began to sing wildly. the scene was one of damnation. then, grandly above hell's din rose a mighty chorus. it was a heavenly strain. marguerite had not been spared the horror of execution; but dead, the saints forgave her. in heaven, as her soul ascended, they sang: "ascend, o trusting spirit! it was love which misled thee. come, let us wipe away thy tears. come, come, and dwell forever among the blest." and thus faust met his end, and marguerite her reward for faith and innocence. bizet when bizet wrote his music around prosper mérimée's story of carmen, he reflected his familiarity with spanish life and his long living in the pyrenees mountains. the character of michaela is not found in the novel, but the clever introduction of it into the opera story adds greatly to dramatic effect, since the gentle and loving character is in strong contrast with that of carmen. bizet's name was alexandre césar léopold, and he was born on october 25, 1838, at bougival, and died june 3, 1875. he with charles lécocq won the offenbach prize for the best operetta while bizet was as yet a youth, and from that time his art gained in strength and beauty. in those days it was a reproach to suggest wagner in musical composition, but bizet was accused of doing so. thus he was handicapped by leaning toward an unpopular school at the very start, but the great beauty of his productions made their way in spite of all. he wrote, as his second composition of importance, an opera around the novel of scott's fair maid of perth--in french, la jolie fille de perth--and this was not a success, but that same opera survives through his carmen. the bohemian dance in that opera was taken from it and interpolated into the fourth act of carmen. bizet died only three months after the production of this last opera, but he had lived long enough to know that he had become one of the world's great composers. he wrote exquisite pastoral music for "l'arlésienne"--whose story was adapted from daudet's novel of that name. in short, bizet was the pioneer in a new school of french opera, doing for it in a less measure what wagner has finally done for the whole world. this genius left few anecdotes or personal reminiscences behind him. the glory of his compositions alone seems to stand for his existence. carmen characters of the opera with the original cast, as presented at the first performance don josé, corporal of dragoons m. lhérie escamillo, toreador m. bouhy zuniga, captain of dragoons m. dufriche morales, officer m. duvernoy lillas pastia, innkeeper m. nathan carmen, gipsy-girl mme. galli-marié michaela, a village maiden mlle. chapuy frasquita mlle. ducasse mercedes mlle. chevalier el dancairo } el remendado } smugglers. a guide. dragoons, gypsies, smugglers, cigarette-girls, street-boys, etc. the time of the story is 1820, and it takes place in and near seville. composer: georges bizet. book: h. meilhac and l. halévy. first sung at the opéra comique, paris, march 3, 1875. i knew a boy who once said: "that soldier thing in 'carmen' is the most awful bully thing to whistle a fellow ever heard; but if you don't get it just right, it doesn't sound like anything," which was a mistake, because if you don't get it "just right" it sounds something awful. that boy's whistle was twenty per cent. better than his syntax, but his judgment about music was pretty good, and we shall have the soldier song in the very beginning, even before learning how it happens, because it is the thing we are likely to recall, in a shadowy sort of way, throughout the first act: [music: with the guard on duty going marching onward, here we are! sound, trumpets merrily blowing! ta ra ta ta ta ra ta ta. on we tramp, alert and ready, like young soldiers ev'ry one;- heads up and footfall steady, left! right! we're marching on! see how straight our shoulders are, ev'ry breast is swell'd with pride, our arms all regular hanging down on either side. with the guard on duty going, marching onward, here we are! sound, trumpets merrily blowing, ta ra ta ta ta ra ta ta!] that is the way it goes, and this is the way it happens: act i once upon a time there was a pretty girl named michaela, and she was as good as she was beautiful. she loved a corporal in the spanish army whose name was don josé. now the corporal was a fairly good chap, but he had been born thoughtless, and as a matter of fact he had lived away from home for so long that he had half-forgotten his old mother who lived a lonely life with michaela. one day, about noontime, the guard, waiting to be relieved by their comrades, were on duty near the guard-house, which was situated in a public square of seville. as the soldiers sat about, or walked with muskets over shoulders, their service was not especially wearisome, because people were continually passing through the square, and besides there was a cigarette factory on the other side of the square, and when the factory hands tumbled out, about noon, there was plenty of carousing and gaiety for an hour. here in the square were little donkeys with tinkling bells upon them, and donkeys carrying packs upon their backs, and gentlemen in black velvet cloaks which were thrown artistically over one shoulder, and with plumes on their hats. then, too, there were ragged folks who looked rather well, nevertheless, since their rags were spanish rags, and made a fine show of bright colours. just as morales, the officer of the guard, was finding the hot morning rather slow, and wishing the factory bell would ring, and his brother officer march his men in to relieve him, michaela appeared. she had come into the city from the home of josé's mother, which was somewhere near, in the hills. his old mother had become so lonely and worried, not having heard from josé for so long, that at last the girl had undertaken to come down into the city, bearing a note from his mother, and to seek him out at his barracks. she had inquired her way till she found the square where the guard was quartered, and now, when she entered it, morales was the first to see her. "that is a pretty girl," morales decided as he watched her. "seems to be looking for some one--little strange in this part of the town, probably. can i do anything for you?" he called to her, as she approached. "i am looking for don josé, a soldier, if you know him----" "perfectly. he is corporal of the guard which is presently to relieve us. if you wait here, you are certain to see him." michaela thanked him quietly, and went away. the soldiers were strange to her, and she preferred to wait in another part of the square rather than where they were idling. she had no sooner disappeared than the music of the relief guard was heard in the distance. it was the soldiers' chorus: a regular fife and drum affair. it came nearer, nearer, nearer, till it arrived in full blast, fresh as a pippin, the herald of all that was going to happen through four acts of opera. there was to be fighting and smugglers: factory-girls in a row, and carmen everywhere and anywhere, all of the time. with the new guard comes first the bugler and a fifer with a lot of little ragged urchins tagging along behind; then comes zuniga strutting in, very much pleased with himself, and after him don josé, the corporal, whom michaela has come to town to see. the street boys sing while the new guard lines up in front of the old one, and every one takes up the song. it is the business of every one in opera to sing about everything at any time. thus the guard describes itself in song: on we tramp, alert and steady, like young soldiers, every one! head up, and footfall steady, left, right! we're marching on! see how straight our shoulders are,- every breast is swelled with pride, our arms all regular- hanging down on either side. there is not much poetry in this, but there is lots of vim, and the new guard, as bright as a new tin whistle, has formed and the old guard marched off during the singing. meantime, while things have been settling down, morales has had a word with don josé. "a pretty girl is somewhere near here, looking for you, josé. she wore a blue gown and her hair is in a braid down her back; she's----" "i know her; it is michaela," josé declares: and, with the sudden knowledge that she is so near, and that she comes directly from his old mother, he feels a longing for home, and realizes that he has been none too thoughtful or kind toward those who love him. as everybody finds himself in place, zuniga points across to the cigarette factory. "did you ever notice that there are often some tremendously pretty girls over there?" he asks of josé. "huh?" josé answers, abstractedly. zuniga laughs. "you are thinking of the pretty girl morales has just told you of," he says. "the girl with the blue petticoat and the braid down her back!" "well, why not? i love her," josé answers shortly. he hunches his musket a little higher and wheels about. he doesn't specially care to talk of michaela or his mother, with these young scamps who are as thoughtless as himself: he has preserved so much of self-respect; but before he can answer again the factory bell rings. dinner time! josé stands looking across, as every one else does, while the factory crowd begins to tumble out, helter-skelter. all come singing, and the girls smoking cigarettes, a good many of them being gipsies, like carmen. they are dressed in all sorts of clothes from dirty silk petticoats, up to self-respecting rags. carmen is somewhere in the midst of the hullabaloo, and everybody is shouting for her. carmen leads in everything. she leads in good and she leads in bad. she makes the best and the worst cigarettes, she is the quickest and she is the slowest, as the mood moves her; and now, when she flashes on to the stage in red and yellow fringes and bedraggled finery, cigarette in mouth and bangles tinkling, opera has given to the stage the supreme puzzle of humanity: the woman who does always what she pleases, and who pleases never to do the thing expected of her! the first man she sees when she comes from the factory is josé. the first thing that she pleases to do is to make josé love her. it will be good fun for the noon hour. she has her friends with her, frasquita and mercedes, and all are in the mood for a frolic. they sing: [music: love is like any wood-bird wild, that none can ever hope to tame; and in vain is all wooing mild if he refuse your heart to claim. naught avails, neither threat nor prayer, one speaks me fair--the other sighs, 'tis the other that i prefer, tho' mute, his heart to mine replies.] while carmen sings, her eyes do not leave don josé, and he is watching her in spite of himself. the racket continues till the factory bell rings to call the crowd back to work. carmen goes reluctantly, and as she goes, she throws a flower at josé. this little flower gave me a start like a ball aimed fair at my heart! he says, half smiling, half seriously, as he picks it up. while he stands thus, looking toward the factory, holding the flower, thinking of carmen, michaela comes back into the square. they espy each other, and a sudden warmth and tenderness come upon josé: after all, he loves her dearly--and there is his old mother! his better self responds: josé, in imagination, sees the little house in the hills where he lived as a boy before he went soldiering. he recalls vividly for the first time in months, those who are faithful to him, and for a moment he loves them as they love him. they speak together. michaela gives him the note from his mother. there is money in it: she has thought he might be in debt, or in other trouble and need it. josé is surprised by the tears in his own eyes--it is a far cry from gay seville to the little house among the hills! "go back to mother, michaela, tell her i am going to get leave as soon as i can and am coming back to her and you. i am going to play fair. there's not much in life, otherwise. go home and tell her i am coming, and i mean to make you both as happy as once i meant to." his sudden tenderness enraptures the young girl, and kissing him she sets out to leave seville with a glad heart. josé, left alone, on guard, his life and thought interrupted by this incident of home and faithfulness, leans thoughtfully upon his musket. "it hasn't been quite right, and i am not happy. we'll change all this," he meditates. as the afternoon sun grows hot the citizens begin to creep within doors for the _siesta_, as all spanish life seems to grow tired and still in the burning day. suddenly the silence is broken by a scream from over the way. josé starts up and looks across. "hey, there! what the devil!" zuniga shouts from the guard-house, and runs out. "hello, hello! josé, look alive there! what's gone wrong?--what the----" and the men start to run across the square. "help, help!" comes from the factory. "will no one come? we're being killed--the she-devil--look out for her--carmen! look out for her--she has a knife!" every one is screaming at once and trying each in his own way to tell what has happened. "get in there, josé, and bring out the girl. arrest the gipsy; and you men here get into this crowd and quiet it down. make those girls shut up. why, what the devil, i say! one would think a lunatic asylum loose. you've got the girl, josé?" he calls across as the corporal brings carmen out. "bring her over," and zuniga starts across to meet them, clattering on the cobblestones with his high heels. "she knifed one of the girls, did she? all right--clap her into jail. you're just a bit too ready with your hands, my girl," the captain cries as josé takes her into the guard-house. josé is set to guard her; which is about as wise as setting the cream where the cat can dip her whiskers. if it pleased the girl a moment before to stab a companion, it pleases her best now to get out of jail. she begins ably. "i love you," she remarks to josé. "it does not concern me," replies the heroic josé. "it should," carmen persists. "ah!" replies josé, noncommittally. this is unsatisfactory to carmen. however, she is equal to the occasion. when is she so fascinating as when quite preoccupied?--she will try it now. she will sing: [music: near to the walls of sevilla with my good friend lillas pastia i'll soon dance the gay seguidilla and i'll drink manzanilla- i'll go see my good friend lillas pastia!] josé is disturbed. carmen is conscious of it. she continues to sing, meanwhile coquetting with him. before he is aware of his own mood, he has cut the cord that he bound her hands with, and has disgraced himself forever. in the fascination carmen has for him, he has forgotten that he is a soldier. presently zuniga enters. carmen is to be transferred in charge of josé, with a guard detailed to go with him. it is arranged. carmen also makes some arrangements. "when we have started, and are about to cross the bridge, i'll give you a push. you must fall--you could not see me locked up--one so young and gay!--and when you fall i shall run. after you can get away, meet me at lillas pastia's inn." josé seems to himself to be doing things in a dream. he has earned a court-martial already if it were known what he has done. a corporal's guard start under josé; the bridge is reached. carmen makes a leap; down goes josé. the others are taken unawares and she rushes at them. they too fall, head over heels, one down the bank. carmen is up, and off! she flies up the path, laughing at them as they pick themselves up. "this is a good business, eh?" zuniga sneers. "on the whole, don josé, i think you will shine rather better under lock and key, in the guard-house, than you will as a soldier at large. men, arrest him!" he orders sharply, and josé has made the first payment on the score fate has chalked up against him. act ii flying to lillas pastia's inn, as she had agreed with josé, carmen is joined by her old comrades--smugglers and gipsy girls, chief of whom are mercedes and frasquita. it is late at night, and a carouse is in progress. among those in the inn is zuniga himself. as a matter of truth, he has fallen in love with carmen on his own account, and has kept josé under arrest in order to have him out of the way. there they are, all together, the gipsies playing on guitars and tambourines. the girls are mostly dancing. carmen is coquetting with every man present, and the fun becomes a riot, so that the innkeeper has to interfere. "it is so late, i've got to close up," he says. "you'll all have to clear out." zuniga looks at carmen. he wants to have a talk with her. "will you go with me?" he asks. "i've no good reason for going with you," she answers, tantalizingly. "perhaps you're angry because i have locked josé up," zuniga suggests. "if you will make yourself agreeable, i don't mind telling you i have had him set free." "what's that? not in prison?" she asked. "well, that's very decent of you, i'm sure," she sneers. "good-night, gentlemen, i'm off!" she cries, and runs out into the night. everybody follows her but zuniga, who knows well enough he cannot trust her. they have no sooner disappeared than zuniga hears shouts and "hurrahs" outside. he runs to the window and leans out. "hello! they are going to have a torch-light procession, eh?" and he leans farther out. "by the great horn spoon," he presently exclaims--or something which is its spanish equivalent, "it's that bull-fighting fellow, escamillo, who won that fight in granada! hello, out there, old friend! come in here and have something to drink with me. to your past success and to your future glory!" motioning to the bull-fighter outside, zuniga goes toward the door. in he comes, this escamillo, all covered with the glory of having killed some frisky and dangerous bulls--with all the chances against the bulls, nevertheless. everybody else enters with escamillo and all stand ready for refreshments at zuniga's expense. carmen comes back, and of course is to be found in the thick of the fun. "rah, rah, rah!" everybody yells, calling a toast to the bull-fighter, who is dressed up till he looks as fine as a little wagon. the toast suits him perfectly and he says so. he squares himself and strikes an attitude of grandeur without the least doubt that he is the greatest thing in the world, and while he is singing about it, half the people in the opera house are likely to agree with him. here he goes: [music: for a toast your own will avail me, señors, señors! for all you men of war, like all toréros, as brother hail me! in a fight, in a fight we both take delight! 'tis holiday, the circus full, the circus full from rim to floor: the lookers on, beyond control, the lookers on now begin to murmur and roar! some are calling, and others bawling and howling too, with might and main! for they await a sight appalling! 'tis the day of the brave of spain! come on! make ready! come on! come on! ah! toréador, make ready! toréador! toréador! and think on her, on her, who all can see: on a dark eyed lady, and that love waits for thee, toréador, love waits, love waits for thee!] while escamillo is singing the refrain of this song he is about the most self-satisfied fellow one ever saw. he hasn't the slightest doubt about himself and neither has any sensible person a doubt about him; but carmen is not a sensible person. the bull-fighter has been trying the same trick upon carmen that she tried upon josé. she is not indifferent to his fascinations, but--well, there is trouble coming her way, escamillo's way, josé's way, everybody's way, but it is some comfort to know that they all more or less deserve it. when escamillo has finished singing of his greatness, he asks carmen what she would think of him if he told her he loved her, and for once in a way she is quite truthful. she tells him she would think him a fool. "you are not over-encouraging, my girl, but i can wait," he returns. "i am sure there is no harm in waiting," she answers him. now carmen's familiar friends, the smugglers, have an enterprise in hand, and it has been their habit to look to carmen, frasquita, and mercedes for help in their smuggling. when they find an opportunity, they approach carmen. "we need your help to-night." "indeed! well, you won't get it," she declares. "what! you won't attend to business?" "i won't." "what's the matter now?" el dancairo, chief of the smugglers, demands. "if you particularly want to know--why, then, i am in love--for to-night only," she hastens to add, as the smugglers stare at her in disgust. "well, we wish you joy; but you'll show better sense to come along with us. if you wait here, your lover is likely not to come, and you'll lose the money in the bargain." when any sly intrigue is weaving, whether for thieving, or for deceiving, you will do well if you provide, to have a woman on your side-they sing--which shows what the smugglers think of their sisters and their cousins and their aunts. when they insist upon knowing for whom carmen is going to wait at the inn, she finally tells them she is waiting for josé, and pretends to some very nice sentiments indeed, on his account; says he got her out of prison, has been locked up for her sake, and of course she must treat him nicely. "well, all we have to say about it is that you had better have a care. very likely he'll not come, and----" el dancairo is interrupted by a song in the hills. it is josé's voice signalling to carmen. "think not?" she asks, nonchalantly. when josé enters, she really is glad to see him: he is very handsome indeed. after her comrades have gone outside the inn, she tells josé of her regret that he has suffered for her, and starts to entertain him. there, in the dingy inn, she begins a wonderful dance, shaking her castanets and making herself very beautiful and fascinating once more to josé. in the midst of the dance they hear a bugle call. josé starts up. "carmen, it is my squad going back to camp. it is the retreat that has sounded. i must go." "go?" she stares at him. then, realizing that he is going to desert her for duty, she flies into a rage, throws his shako after him and screams at him to go and not come back. this puts josé in a bad way, because he has been able to think of nothing but carmen ever since she escaped and he went to prison in her place. meantime, she raves about the inn, declaring that he doesn't love her, whereupon he takes the flower she once threw him, now dead and scentless, from his pocket, and shows it to her. he has kept it safely through all that has happened to him. "that is all very well, don josé, but if you truly loved me, you would leave this soldiering which takes you away, and go live with me and my companions in the mountains. there, there is no law, no duties, no----" don josé nearly faints at the idea. "disgrace my uniform!" he cries. "let your uniform go hang," she answers. she never was any too choice in her language. poor josé! poor wretch! he buries his face in his hands, and cries several times, "my god!" and looks so distracted that one almost believes he will pull himself together, take his shako, and go back to his men. presently he decides that he will go, and starts toward the door, when there comes a knocking. "what's that?" he whispers, pausing; but almost at the moment, zuniga, looking for carmen, opens the door. "fie, carmen! is this your taste?" the captain laughs, pointing to josé. josé is only a corporal, while zuniga, being a captain, feels in a corporal's presence like a general at the very least. "come on, get out," he demands of josé. "no," josé answers. "i think not," and there is no doubt he means it. then the men begin to fight. carmen, desiring to have one of them to torment, throws herself between them. her screams bring the gipsies and smugglers. "seize the captain," she cries, and zuniga is seized and tied. he roars and fumes and threatens, but the smugglers carry him off. this puts josé in a truly bad way. how can he return and tell zuniga's men what has happened? and then when zuniga is free he will be tried by court-martial and suffer the worst, beyond doubt. "now then, josé. what about it? you can't go back to your company, eh?" "this is horrible," he tells her. "i am a ruined man." "then come with us and make the best of it," she cries, and fate scores again. act iii disgraced, there is nothing left for josé but to go away to the smugglers' retreat in the mountains. there, in a cave looking out to sea, well located above the valley for smuggling operations, all the gipsies and the smugglers, headed by el dancairo, lie waiting for the hour when they can go out without being caught. there, too, is don josé, sitting gloomily apart, cut off from all that is good, dishonoured and so distressed that he is no longer a good companion. carmen looks at him, and feels angry because he seems to be indifferent to her. "what do you see, that you sit staring down there into the valley?" she asks. "i was thinking that yonder is living a good, industrious old woman, who thinks me a man of honour, but she is wrong, alas!" "and who is this good old woman, pray?" carmen sneers. "if you love me do not speak thus," he returns, "for she is my mother." "ah, indeed! well, i think you need her. i advise you to return to her." don josé needed her more than he knew. "and if i went back--what about you?" "me? what about me, pray? i stay where i belong--with my friends." "then you expect me to give you up, for whom i have lost all that i had in life!" realizing that he has given so much for so little, his bitterness becomes uncontrollable, and though he says nothing, carmen surprises a horrid look on his face. "you'll be committing murder next, if you look like that," she laughs. "well, you are not very good company. hello, there! mercedes, frasquita--anybody instead of this fool--let's amuse ourselves. get the cards. let us tell our fortunes, eh?" the three girls gather about the table; the other two shuffle and cut. the cards turn out well for them. carmen watches them. after a moment she reaches for the pack. she is very nonchalant about it, and glances at josé as she shuffles the cards. then she sits half upon the table and cuts. a glance! a moment of sudden fear! she has cut death for herself! the blow has come to her in her most reckless moment. after an instant's pause she sings with a simple fatalism in voice and manner: in vain to shun the answer that we dread. she cuts the cards again and yet again. still her dreadful fate appears. "there is no hope," she murmurs to herself, as el dancairo starts up and cries: "'tis time to be off. the way is clear. come." the others, headed by remendado and el dancairo, file down the path, leaving don josé alone in the cave. it is a dismal scene: the loneliness of josé, the menace of death in the air! while josé sits with bowed head, a girl's figure rises behind the rocks, and almost at the same moment there appears the form of a man, as well. josé hears the rolling of the stones beneath their feet and starts up, musket in hand. just as he rises, he sees the man's head. the girl cries out as he fires upon the man, and misses him; then she crouches down behind the rock. it is michaela, come to find josé wherever he may be. she knows of his disgrace; it is killing his mother. the lonely old woman is dying. michaela has come to fetch him, if he has not lost all memory of gentler hours. as josé fires, the man shouts. "hey, there! what are you about?" "what are _you_ about? what do you want up here?" "if you were not so ready with your gun, my friend, you are more likely to find out. i'm escamillo the toreador." "oh, well, then come up. i know you and you are welcome enough, but you run a fearful risk, let me tell you. you haven't sought very good company, i suppose you know." "i don't care particularly; because, my friend, i am in love, if you want to know." "do you expect to find her here?" "i am looking for her," escamillo returns, complaisantly. "these women are all gipsies." "good enough: so is carmen." "carmen!" josé cries, his heart seeming to miss a beat. "that's her name. she had a lover up here--a soldier who deserted from his troop to join her--but that's past history. it's all up with him now." josé listens and tries not to betray himself. "do you know that when a rival tries to take a gipsy girl from her lover there is a price to pay?" he tries to ask with some show of tranquillity. "very well, i am ready." "a knife thrust, you understand," josé mutters, unable to hide his emotion. he hates escamillo so much that he is about to spring upon him. "ho, ho! from your manner, i fancy you are that fine deserter. you want to fight? good! i fight bulls for pleasure; you used to fight men for business. evenly matched. have at it," and the men fall to fighting. the fight grows hotter and hotter. escamillo's knife suddenly snaps off short. josé is about to kill him when carmen and the men are heard running back. they have encountered some one in the valley below and have returned just in time to interrupt the quarrel. "josé," she screams, and holds his arm. then he is set upon by the others and held in check. escamillo throws his arms about carmen and taunts the helpless fellow. josé rages. "i'm off, my fine dragoon," he cries, "but if you love me you will all come to the bull fight next week at seville. come, my friend," to josé, "and see what a really good looking fellow is like," he taunts, looking gaily at carmen. he goes off, down the path, while josé is struggling to free himself, and at that moment, michaela, nearly dead with fright, falls upon the rock, and is heard by the men. el remendado hears her and runs out. he returns bringing the young girl with him. "michaela!" josé calls. "josé! your mother is dying. i have come for you. for god's sake----" "my mother dying," he shakes off the men. then the voice of escamillo is heard far down the mountain singing back at carmen the toreador's song. carmen rushes for the entrance to the cave. she will follow escamillo. josé goes wild with rage. he bars the entrance. "my mother is dying. i am going to her--but your time too has come," he swears, looking at carmen. "i have lost friends, honour, and now my mother for you, and i swear you shall reckon with me for all this wrong. when we meet again, i shall kill you," and he disappears behind the rocks with michaela. act iv back in gay seville, not near to its cigarette factory and the guard-house, but at the scene of the great bull-fight, where escamillo is to strut and show what a famous fellow he deserves to be! the old amphitheatre at the back with its awning stretched, the foreground with its orange-girls, fan-girls, wine-pedlars, ragged idlers and beggars, fine gentlemen, mules--all eager for the entertainment! escamillo is the man who kills bulls and makes love to all the pretty girls he sees. everybody wants to get a peep at him. the air is full of excitement. everybody, wine-sellers, orange-girls, all dance and twirl about, and donkeys' bells tinkle, and some are eating, and some are drinking. the alcalde is to attend, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen of seville. here comes zuniga. "here, bring me some oranges," he orders, in his old at-least-a-general fashion. the smugglers had let him loose, of course, as soon as carmen and josé had got away from lillas pastia's inn, that night. he sits to eat his oranges and to watch the gradually assembling crowd. frasquita and mercedes are on hand, and there is a fair sprinkling of smugglers and other gipsies. "here they come, here they come!" some one cries, and almost at once the beginning of the bull-fighting procession appears. first the cuadrilla, then the alguazil, chulos, banderilleros--all covered with spangles and gold lace; and the picadors with their pointed lances with which to goad the bull. every division in a different colour, and everybody fixed for a good time, except the bull, perhaps. after all these chromo gentlemen have had a chance at him, escamillo will courageously step up and kill him. yes, spain is all ready for a good time! now at last comes escamillo. "viva escamillo!" if one ever saw a beauty-man, he is one! he might as well have been a woman, he is so good-looking. he has a most beautiful love song with carmen, who of course is in the very midst of the excitement, and in the midst of the song, the great alcalde arrives. nobody wants to see the bull-fight more than he does. he was brought up on bull-fights. his entrance makes a new sensation. in the midst of the hurly-burly frasquita forces her way to carmen. "you want to get away from here. i have seen don josé in this crowd. if he finds you there will be trouble----" "for him maybe." carmen returns, insolently looking about to see if she can espy josé. the girls urge her not to go too far; to keep out of josé's way, but she refuses point blank. "leave the fight and escamillo? not for twenty josés. here i am, and here i stay," she declares. everybody but carmen thinks of the fortune in the cave: death, death, death! but gradually the great crowd passes into the amphitheatre, and carmen has promised escamillo to await him when he shall come out triumphant; and escamillo has no sooner bade carmen good-bye than josé swings into the square in search of carmen. carmen sees him and watches him. he does not look angry. as a matter of fact he has gone through so much sorrow (the death of his mother, and the jeers of his friends) that he has sought carmen only with tenderness in his heart. he now goes up to her and tells her this. "indeed, i thought you had come to murder me." "i have come to take you away from these gipsies and smugglers. if you are apart from them you will do better. i love you and want you to go away from here, and together we will begin over and try to do better." carmen looks at him and laughs. suddenly she hears cheering from the amphitheatre and starts toward it. josé interposes. "you let me alone. i want to go in----" "to see escamillo----" "why not--since i love him----" "how is that?" "as i said----" at this, a blind rage takes possession of don josé. all his good purposes are forgotten. for a moment he still pleads with her to go away, and she taunts him more cruelly. then in a flash josé's knife is drawn, another flash and carmen's fortune is verified: she falls dead at the entrance to the amphitheatre, just as the crowd is coming out, cheering the victorious escamillo. josé falls beside her, nearly mad with grief for what he has done in a fit of rage, while escamillo comes out, already fascinated by some other girl, and caring little that carmen is dead--except that the body is in the way. josé is under arrest, carmen dead, and the great crowd passes on, cheering: "escamillo, escamillo forever!" dekoven smith and dekoven, who have made countless thousands laugh, are living still, and will very likely continue to do gracious things for the comic-opera-loving public. the very imperfect sketch of the opera, "robin hood," given in this book, is lacking in coherence and in completeness in every way, but a prompt-book, being necessary properly to give the story, is not obtainable. rather than ignore an american performance which is so graceful, so elegant, and which should certainly be known to every child, an attempt had been made to outline the story. little idea can be had of the opera's charm from this sketch, but the opera is likely to live, even after the topical stories of "pinafore" and "the mikado" have lost their application, because the story of robin hood is romantic forever, and the dekoven music is not likely to lose its charm. "robin hood" was first produced at the chicago opera house, june 9, 1890, by the bostonian opera company. in january, 1891, under the management of mr. horace sedger, the opera was produced, under the title of "maid marian," at the prince of wales's theatre in london. the cast included mr. haydn coffin, mr. harry markham, miss marion manola, and miss violet cameron. robin hood characters of the opera robin hood edwin h. hoff little john w.h. macdonald scarlet eugene cowles friar tuck george frothingham alan-a-dale jessie bartlett davis sheriff of nottingham h.c. barnabee sir guy peter lang maid marian marie stone annabel carlotta maconda dame durden josephine bartlett act i in sherwood forest, the merriest of lives, is our outlaw's life so free! we roam and rove in sherwood's grove, beneath the greenwood tree. through all the glades and sylvan shades our homes (through the glades) are found; we hunt the deer, afar and near, our hunting horns do we sound. and thus begins the merriest tale of the merriest lives imaginable. it is on a may morning: every young sprint and his sweetheart in nottingham are out in their best, for the fair--may-day fair in nottingham; and near at hand, alan-a-dale, little john, will scarlet, friar tuck, and the finest company of outlaws ever told about, are just entering the town to add to the gaiety. now in the village of nottingham lived dame durden and her daughter, annabel. annabel was a flirtatious young woman who welcomed the outlaws in her very best manner. she assured them that outlaws of such high position would surely add much to the happiness of the occasion; and they certainly did, before the day was over. the outlaws came in, as fine a looking lot and as handsome as one would wish to see, and joined the village dance. it was an old english dance, called a "morris dance," with a lilt and a tilt which set all feet a-going. [music: fa la, fa la, trip a morris dance hilarious, lightly brightly, trip in measure multifarious, fa la la, fa la la, trip a morris dance hilarious, lightly and brightly we celebrate the fair!] if anything was needed to add to the gaiety of the day, the outlaws furnished it, because, among other things, they brought to the fair a lot of goods belonging to other people, and they meant to put them up at auction. friar tuck was an old renegade monk who travelled about with the merry men of sherwood, to seem to lend a little piety to their doings. he had a little bottle-shaped belly and the dirtiest face possible, a tonsured head, and he wore a long brown habit tied round the middle with a piece of rope which did duty for several things besides tying this gown. he was a droll, jolly little bad man and he began the auction with mock piety: as an honest auctioneer, i'm prepared to sell you here some goods in an assortment that is various; here's a late lamented deer (that was once a king's, i fear) killing him was certainly precarious. here i have for sale casks of brown october ale, brewed to make humanity hilarious; here's a suit of homespun brave fit for honest man or knave; here's a stock in fact that's multifarious. and so it was! his stock consisted of the most curious assortment of plunder one ever saw even at a nottingham fair in the outlaw days of robin hood. while all that tow-wow was going on, people were coming in droves to the fair; and among them came robert of huntingdon. the name is very thrilling, since the first part gives one an inkling that he beholds for the first time the future robin hood. however, on that may morning he was not yet an outlaw. he was a simple knight of the shire. the sheriff, who was a great personage in nottingham, had a ward whom he had foisted upon the good folks of nottinghamshire as an earl, but as a fact he was simply a country lout, and all the teachings of the sheriff would not make him appear anything different. robert of huntingdon was the earl, in fact, and the sheriff was going to try to keep him out of his title and estates. the merry men of sherwood forest were great favourites with robert and they were his friends. during the fair a fine cavalier, very dainty for a man, fascinating, was caught by friar tuck kissing a girl, and was brought in with a great to-do. she declared that she had a right to kiss a pretty girl, since her business was that of cavalier. robin hood discovered her sex, underneath her disguise, and began to make love to her. among other reasons for robin hood being at the fair was that of making the sheriff confer upon him his title to the earldom. when he boldly made his demand, the foxy sheriff declared that he had a half-brother brought up by him, and that the half-brother, and not robert, was the earl. "you are a vain, presumptuous youth," the sheriff declared. "you are no earl, instead it is this lovely youth whom i have brought up so carefully." and he put forth guy, the bumpkin. this created an awful stir, and all the outlaws who were fond of robin hood took up the case for him. "a nice sort of earl, that," little john cried. "you think we will acknowledge him as heir to the estates of huntingdon? never!" scarlet declared. "traitor!" robin hood cried to the sheriff. "in the absence of the king i know that your word is law; but wait till the king returns from his crusade! i'll show you then whose word is to prevail." "my friend!" little john then cried, stepping into the middle of the row, "take thou this good stout bow of yew. you are going to join us and make one of sherwood's merry men till his majesty returns and reinstates you as the rightful earl of huntingdon. come! say you will be one of us." all the outlaws crowded affectionately about robert and urged him. "you shall become king of outlaws, if you will," scarlet cried. "come! accept our friendship. become our outlaw king!" after thinking a moment, robert turned and looked at the gay cavalier whom he knew to be his cousin marian, in masquerade, and whom he loved. then he decided he would go and live a gay and roving life in the forest till he could return and marry his cousin as the earl of huntingdon should. "farewell," he sang to her. "farewell, till we meet again," and he was carried off amid the uproarious welcome of the outlaws of sherwood forest, to become their leader till the king returned from the crusades to make him earl. act ii away in sherwood forest the outlaws were encamped--which meant merely the building of a fire and the assembling of the merry men. robin hood had become their leader. oh, cheerily soundeth the hunter's horn, its clarion blast so fine; through depths of old sherwood so clearly borne, we hear it at eve and at break of morn, of robin hood's band the sign. a hunting we will go, tra-ra-ra-tra-ra! we'll chase for the roe, tra-ra-ra-tra-ra! oh where is band so jolly as robin's band in their lincoln green? their life is naught but folly, a rollicking life i ween! now the merry men gathered about their fire, and while the old monk was broiling the meat, they all lounged about in comfortable ways and little john sang to them: and it's will ye quaff with me, my lads, and it's will ye quaff with me? it is a draught of nut-brown ale i offer unto ye. all humming in the tankard, lads, it cheers the heart forlorn; oh! here's a friend to everyone, 'tis stout john barley-corn. so laugh, lads, and quaff, lads! 'twill make you stout and hale, through all my days i'll sing the praise of brown october ale! while the outlaws were lounging thus, in came the sheriff, sir guy, the spurious earl, and a lot of journeymen tinkers. immediately they began a gay chorus, telling how they were men of such metal that no can or kettle can withstand their attack, and as they hammered upon their tin pans, one believed them. of all the merriment and nonsense that ever was, the most infectious took place there in the forest, while the tinkers sang and hammered, and friar tuck made jokes, and the other outlaws drank their brown october ale: but soon maid marian, the dainty cavalier, wandered that way, looking for robin hood--robert of huntingdon. she had missed him dreadfully, and finally could not refrain from going in search of him. she was certain she should find him thinking of her and as true to her as she was to him. robin hood found that she had come to the forest, and sang to her a serenade which was overheard by the other outlaws. alan-a-dale, who was in love, became jealous, and the sheriff came on to the scene, and the outlaws, finding him on their ground, took him prisoner, and dame durden, who secretly had been married to the sheriff, and from whose shrewish tongue the sheriff had fled, came to free him. she declared that if the sheriff of nottingham would acknowledge her, she would get him free from the stocks, into which the outlaws had put him, and would take him home. but the prospect of having to stand dame durden's tongue was so much worse than the stocks, that the sheriff begged the outlaws to take him anywhere so long as it was away from his wife. woman, get thee gone, i'd rather live alone! if guy should come with the king's men, i'd turn the tables on them, the sheriff cried, trying to plan a way to get free. at that all the outlaws danced gaily about him, gibing at him and making the pompous sheriff miserable. they were trying to pay him for his mistreatment of robin hood, their beloved leader. in the height of their gaiety in rushed sir guy with the king's men. "we're lost," all cried. "you are," sir guy recklessly shouts, "because we're brave as lions, all of us, and shall make short work of you." we're brave as lions, every one, we're brave as lions--for we're two to one, all cried, and immediately they marched the gay outlaws off to prison and set the sheriff free. as it turned out, maid marian, the cousin and beloved of robin hood, had been commanded by the king himself to become robin's wife, or rather the wife of the earl of huntingdon. as the false earl, guy had tried to make love to the maid, and to win her, but the cousins loved each other, and all guy's efforts were quite hopeless. but now that the outlaws, and robin hood with them, were all in the power of the sheriff again, the case looked serious. as outlaws, the sheriff could hang them, every one. little john and the leading outlaws pleaded for their friend, reminding the sheriff and sir guy that, since robin must, by the king's command, marry marian, the sheriff dare not kill him. "don't count upon that," the wily sheriff cried "the king's command was to the earl of huntingdon--and he is my ward, sir guy; not your outlaw friend! robin hood shall go to the gallows and guy shall marry the maid marian." at that everybody sighed very sadly. it really began to look as if the wicked sheriff was going to get the best of them. act iii among the outlaws, the strongest and also the cleverest, perhaps, was will scarlet. he had not been captured with the others of the band, and so he had come into nottingham, whence the prisoners had been taken, to spy out the ground and to see if he could not help to free his comrades. he had set up a blacksmith's shop and had set about forging a sword. all the while he was watching what took place about him, and hoping to get news of his friends. friar tuck was finally discovered locked up in a tower, and with his dirty face at the window. it would have been a shame for so dirty and merry a gentleman as the friar to have his life cut short, and of course he was freed, but before this happened he had plenty of chance to get scared half to death. at the very moment when maid marian was distracted because she feared that her lover, robin hood, was to be led to the gallows, a message came from the king, pardoning all of the outlaws. some one had revealed to his majesty the doings of the sheriff, and the king had hastened to look into matters. when everybody's life seemed to be in danger, the king rushed back from the crusades and saved them all, and put the temporary outlaw into his rightful place, and forgave all the other merry men because they had befriended robert of huntingdon. in the midst of the rejoicing, robin bade the foresters farewell, clasped his cousin in his arms, the sheriff was properly punished, and the merriest of operas came to an end. flotow there has never been more uncertainty and disagreement about the production, composition, and source of any opera than about the opera of "martha." among the reasonable guesses as to its source is one that flotow found the theme for the story in a french ballet named "lady henriette, ou la foire de richmond," also, "lady harriette, ou la servante de greenwich." among the german titles we find "martha, oder der markt zu richmond," and "martha, oder der mägdemarkt zu richmond." when all is said and done, it is still a german opera. flotow belonged to the petty nobility of mecklenburg. he was destined for the diplomatic profession and his art work was continually interrupted by revolutions in his own country and in france. he had already written a number of unimportant pieces before he undertook "martha." this opera was made under particularly interesting circumstances, being originally the work of three composers. the marquis saint-georges--the librettist of the day--asked flotow to undertake the music of one act only, as the other two had already been assigned to two different composers. this proved to be on account of a contract made by the manager of the grand opéra with the french government to produce a new ballet in three acts every year--and the marquis had tried to evade the contract on the ground that it would bankrupt him. the manager's _première_ heard of this appeal, and she in her turn went to headquarters, asking that the manager be compelled to put on the piece as agreed. the next day he received an offer of 100,000 francs to mount the new ballet if he would put the dancer, mlle. dumilatre, into the leading part, and do it in an incredibly short time. this was how three composers brought into being the piece that one day was to become the "martha" with which we are now familiar. after flotow had written "stradella" he was asked to write an opera for the court, and remembering the peculiarly carpentered piece, "martha," he went to saint-georges's ballet for his court-opera theme. when finished it was "martha." the librettist for "martha" and another flotow piece was reise, but he wrote under the name of w. friedrich. balfe used the story for an opera which he called "the maid of honour." the opera was about ten years in gaining popularity outside of germany. it was perhaps somewhat longer than that in reaching paris and london. it was known in new york, having been presented at niblo's garden, before it was known in paris or london, and madame anna bishop sang it. the great singers who have appeared in the cast are anna bishop, mario, lehman, nilsson, patti, brignoli, and others. flotow's best claim to distinction lies in this opera of "martha." he was not a special favourite nor a genius, but in "martha" he turned out a number of fascinating tunes of a humable sort. one of them has been adapted to sacred words, and is much used in churches, but for the most part "martha" is made of a series of jiggy choruses. berlioz, who especially hated flotow, declared that the "introduction of the irish melody ('last rose of summer') served to disinfect the rottenness of the martha music." flotow was born april 27, 1812. died january 24, 1883. martha characters of the opera with the original cast as presented at the first performance lady harriet anna zerr nancy therese schwarz lionel joseph erl plunkett carl formes sheriff of richmond, three servants of lady harriet, three maid servants. chorus of ladies, servants, farmers, hunters and huntresses, pages, etc. the story is enacted in england during queen anne's reign. first sung at vienna court opera, november 25, 1847. composer: friedrich freiherr von flotow. author: w. friedrich (f.w. riese). act i one morning during fair time in richmond the lady harriet, maid of honour to her majesty queen anne, was sitting in her boudoir at her toilet table. she and all her maids and women friends who were attending at her toilet were bored to death. "did any one ever know such a stupid, dismal life as we are leading?" they declared. "in heaven's name, why doesn't some one think of something to do that will vary the monotony of this routine existence? we rise in the morning, make a toilet, go to her majesty, make a toilet, breakfast, read to her majesty, make a toilet, dine, walk with her majesty, sup, unmake a toilet and go to bed! of all the awful existences i really believe ours has become the most so." "it is as you say, but we cannot improve matters by groaning about it. lady harriet, sir tristram has sent you some flowers," nancy, lady harriet's favourite, cried, handing them to her ladyship. "well, do you call that something new? because i don't! why doesn't the cook send me some flowers--or maybe the hostler--somebody, something new? take them out of my sight--and sir tristram with them, in case he appears." "look at these diamonds: they sparkle like morning showers on the flowers. the sight of them is enough to please any one!" "it is not enough to please me," lady harriet declared petulantly, determined to be pleased with nothing. "who is that? there is some one who wishes an audience with me! i'll see no one." "ah," a man's voice announced from the curtains, "but i have come to tell you of something new, lady harriet!" "you? sir tristram? is there anything new under the sun? if you really have something to suggest that is worth hearing, you may come in." "listen, ladies! and tell me if i haven't conceived a clever thought. the fair is on at richmond----" "well--it is always on, isn't it?" "oh, no, ladies. only once a year--this is the time. there is a fair and there are cock-fights----" "ah--that sounds rather thrilling." "and donkeys----" "oh, there are always donkeys--always!" the ladies cried, looking hopelessly at poor sir tristram. "i mean _real_ donkeys," the poor man explained patiently. "so do we mean _real_ donkeys," they sighed. "and there are the races--and--well, if you will come i am certain there are several new attractions. let me take you, lady harriet, and i promise to make you forget your _ennui_ for once. cock-fights and----" "donkeys," she sighed, rising. "very well, one might as well die of donkeys and cock-fights as of nothing at all. it is too hot, open the window----" "i fly." "oh, heavens! now it is too cold--shut it----" "i fly," the unhappy sir tristram replied. "give me my fan----" "i fly." he flies. "o lord, i don't want it----" "i fl--oh!" he sighed and sank into a chair, exhausted. [music: come away, maidens gay, to the fair all repair, let us go, let us show willing hearts, fair deserts!] "what is that?" harriet asked impatiently, as she heard this gay chorus sung just outside her windows. "a gay measure: the girls and lads going to the fair," nancy replied. "servant girls and stable boys--bah!" "yes--shocking! who would give them a thought?" sir tristram rashly remarked. "why, i don't know! after all, they sound very gay indeed. you haven't very good taste, sir tristram, i declare." and at this the poor old fop should have seen that she would contradict anything that he said. "oh, i remember now! fair day is the day when all the pretty girls dress in their best and go to the fair to seek for places, to get situations. they hire themselves out for a certain length of time!--till next year, i think. meantime they dance in their best dresses and have a very gay day of it." "that sounds to me rather attractive," lady harriet remarked thoughtfully. "a foolish fancy, your ladyship," the unfortunate sir tristram put in. "now i am resolved to go! get me that bodice i wore at the fancy dress ball, nancy. we shall all go--i shall be martha,--nancy, and old rob." "and--and who may be 'old rob,' your ladyship?" sir tristram asked, feeling much pained at this frivolity. "why, you, to be sure. come! no mumps! no dumps! we are off!" "oh, this is too much." "what, sir tristram, is that the extent of your love for me?" "no, no--i shall do as you wish--but," the poor old chap sighed heavily. "to be sure you will--so now, nancy, teach old rob how the yokels dance, and we'll be off." "this is too much. i can't dance in that manner." "dance--or leave me! dance--or stay at home, sir!" harriet cried sternly. "o heaven--i'll dance," and so he tried, and the teases put him through all the absurd paces they knew, till he fell exhausted into a seat. "that was almost true to nature," they laughed. "you will do, so come along. but don't forget your part. don't let us see any of the airs of a nobleman or you shall leave us. we'll take you, but if you forget your part we shall certainly leave you," and they dragged him off recklessly. at the fair, ribbons were flying, bands were playing, lads and lasses were dancing, and farmers were singing: [music: bright and buxom lasses, come, the fair shall now begin, show your rosy faces and our hearts ye soon shall win.] fleet of foot, and clad with neatness, come and let the master choose; sweet of temper, all discreetness, who a prize like this would lose? done is the bargain if the maid is trusty, blythe and willing; done is the bargain if she accepts the master's proffered shilling! thus, the farmers who had come to the fair to choose a maid-servant, sang together. the maid-servants were meanwhile singing a song of their own, and everybody was in high feather. now to this fair had come two farmers in particular; one being farmer plunkett, and the other, altogether a handsome fellow, named lionel, who was the foster-brother of plunkett. as a matter of fact, he was left in his babyhood on the doorstep of plunkett's father, who adopted him and brought him up with his own son. the baby had had nothing by which he could be identified, but there was a ring left with him, and the instruction that it was to be shown to the queen in case the boy should ever find himself in serious trouble when he grew up. now both these gay farmers had come to secure maid-servants for the year, and plunkett came up to inspect the girls as they assembled. "what a clatter! this becomes a serious matter. how on earth is a man to make a choice with such confusion all about him?" "oh well, there is no haste," lionel replied leisurely. "no haste? i tell you, lionel, we can't afford to lose any time. there is that farm falling to pieces for need of a competent servant to look after it! i should say there was haste, with a vengeance. we must get a good stout maid to go home with us, or we shall be in a pretty fix. you don't know much about these things, to be sure. you were always our mother's favourite, and i the clumsy bear who got most of the cuffs and ran the farm; but take my word for it, if we don't find good maids we shall soon be ruined, because you are of no more use on a farm than the fifth wheel is on a wagon." "oh, come, come, brother, don't----" "that's all right! i meant no harm. you are my brother and i'll stick by you forever, but you aren't practical. leave this maid-servant business to me, and take my word for it we must hurry the matter up and get home. some day you'll be giving that fine ring of yours to queen anne, lionel, and then heaven knows what will happen; but i suspect that whatever it is i shall find myself without a brother." "it shall never happen. i shall live and die quite contented beneath the roof where we have grown up together and where i have been happiest." "ohe! ohe! ohe! the fair begins! here comes the sheriff with his bell. ye maids, come forth now, both young and old! come forth, come forth! make way there for the law!" bawled a crier, clearing the way for the sheriff, who had come to preside over the business of contract-making between the serving maids and the farmers. i the statute first will read, then to business we'll proceed, the burly sheriff called at the top of his voice; and all the yokels laughed and crowded about him while he mounted a box and began to read the law. "'tis our royal will and pleasure--' hats off! rustics, look at me! loyal feelings let us cherish! 'we, queen anne, hereby decree to all subjects of the crown, dwelling here in richmond town, whoso at the fair engages, to perform a servant's part, for a year her service pledges; from this law let none depart.'" when the earnest money's taken, let the bargain stay unshaken! "now, then, ye have heard? stick to the bargains ye make--or the law will get ye!" "and now what can ye do, molly pitt?" i can sow, sir, i can mow, sir, i can bake and brew, mend things like new, can mind a house, and rule it, too, there's naught i cannot do. "she's worth four guineas. who will hire her?" molly was at once hired by a farmer. "and now you, polly smith?" i can cook, sir, by the book, sir, i can roast and toast, and 'tis my boast that nothing in house that i preside in yet was lost. "polly's worth five guineas. who wants her?" polly was immediately hired by a farmer. after half a dozen buxom girls had told what they could do, and had found places for the year--none of them satisfying plunkett and lionel, however, who are feeling almost discouraged at the outlook--lady harriet (who called herself martha) and nancy and sir tristram came pushing merrily into the crowd. lady harriet (or martha) was certain to want to see everything. old sir tristram was protesting and having a most dreadful time of it. "this way, rob," martha called, dragging him by the hand and laughing. "what! must i lead you?" "come, good, good rob," nancy mocked, entering into the spirit of it and poking the old beau ahead of her. sir tristram groaned. "oh, i am just like a lamb led to the slaughter." "look, brother," plunkett now said, nudging lionel. "what pretty lasses! theirs are not like servants' faces." "let's inquire," lionel replied, a good deal interested and staring at nancy and martha. "do you see how these disgusting rustics are staring? let us fly, lady----" "martha," lady harriet reproved him. "don't forget i'm martha." "well, 'martha,' let us go----" "not i! i am having the first moment of gaiety i have known in a year. no, ye'll not go." then in bravado and to torment sir tristram she set up a cry: "no, here in the open fair, i refuse you for my master! i won't go with you!" by that outbreak she had attracted the attention of everybody about. nancy, too, set up a screech and everybody crowded about them. sir tristram dared not say a word to help himself, because if he should really displease lady harriet he knew it would be all up with him. "nonsense, nonsense," he said, confused and tormented. "well, you can't force her, master rob," the frolicsome nancy joined in. "force the girl? no, i think not, old fellow," plunkett now cried, coming forward with lionel. the two of them had been watching the quarrel. "no farmer can hire a maid against her will. there are servants to spare here; take your pick and let these alone," and the tricky martha and nancy nearly fainted with trying to suppress their laughter as they witnessed sir tristram's plight. at that moment all the unhired serving maids rushed to sir tristram and crowded about him and began their eternal, "i can bake, sir, i can brew, sir," etc., and begged him to hire them. now this was the last straw, and sir tristram looked for martha and nancy to come to his assistance, but they only shrieked with laughter and urged the girls on. meantime, plunkett and lionel had approached them, and, when martha noticed that they were about to speak, she became a little frightened. "oh, see how they are looking at us!" she gasped to nancy. "well, i can't say i mind it. i am willing to be seen," nancy laughed, still more giddily than lady harriet. "i'd like her to do the cooking," plunkett remarked aside to lionel and pointing to nancy. "i think it would be best to hire them both." "well, that might be a good plan. go up and bargain with them." "i do not dare," lionel answered, hanging back. "pooh! then i must show you, now then--er--now then--er--ahem!" plunkett, too, found himself embarrassed. in fact, the women did not seem at all like the other serving maids, though their clothing was that of the others. "pooh, they'll never dare ask us!" nancy told martha. "no, come on! let's go!" and they turned away. at that lionel became excited. "we shall lose them altogether! they are going!" so then plunkett got up courage and went to them. "damsels, listen! we would hire you. have you ears? if your floors and platters glisten, ye shall stay with us for years!" "yes--for--for years," lionel managed to say. "what, as your servants?" lady harriet gasped. nancy laughed. "you are laughing?" lionel said. he was very anxious to hire them. they were quite the handsomest serving maids he had ever seen. "no trouble about that," plunkett declared. "if she laughs, she will certainly be good-natured about her work." "what work?" "what work?" lady harriet and nancy said in one breath. "oh, you are for the farmyard," plunkett replied, reassuringly to lady harriet, "to keep the house and stable clean, you know. and you," to nancy, "are to do the cooking." "you don't mean that this tender creature is to clean stables, brother?" lionel demanded impulsively. "well, she might work in the garden instead if she prefers it. fifty crowns shall be your wages; and, to be brief, everything found! beer and cheese for supper on week days; and on sundays, good roast beef." lady harriet tried to control her laughter. "who could resist so splendid an offer," she asked of nancy. nancy for her part was nearly dying of laughter. "not we, not we, martha." "'tis done, then; we will go." "then by the powers, here's the shilling to bind the bargain," lionel cried, fearful lest after all he and plunkett should lose them; so he handed over the shilling to lady harriet, who, not knowing that this bound her to their service for a year, took it as a part of the fun. was there ever so droll a situation? i began to feel not quite at ease, the girls then said to each other, and they began to look about for tristram. he had got away, trying to rid himself of the maids, but now he came back again, still followed by the whole of them. he was the image of despair. "here's a pound to pay the forfeit," he cried to the maids, giving them money. "and now for heaven's sake let me go. but--but how is this--all so friendly," he gasped in amazement, observing plunkett and lionel, lady harriet and nancy. "who are you?" demanded plunkett in a threatening manner. "oh, good-bye," harriet cried now to the farmers, and she went to sir tristram. they had had enough of it now, and decided to go home. "good-bye?" cried plunkett. "are you demented? did ye not hire to us? good-bye?" "hush! o lord! that wasn't our intention. what if it should be heard of at court?" "really we must go," she repeated, starting again to go to tristram while plunkett held her back. "i guess you go no place but home with us! you're hired, do you understand? you took the shilling. you are hired to serve us for one year. now no more nonsense. here, sheriff, tell these girls about this." "why, if you have taken the earnest money, ye are bound to go," said the sheriff. "so go along and make no more trouble, or i'll look after ye." now the women were in a pickle. if they persisted, of course they would be set free when it was known they belonged to queen anne's court; but they could never live down the disgrace of their prank. plainly there was nothing left for them but to abide by their arrangement and go with plunkett and lionel. everybody now set up an indignant howl at their behaviour. tristram could not help them. the angry farmers pushed him aside, and lady harriet and nancy were taken by their arms by the two farmers, and walked back to where the wagon waited. "now then! no more nonsense, girls! ye are hired to us and ye will go," plunkett declared, lifting the women into the wagon, while lionel got up beside them, and then amid the shouts of the crowd and the laughter of the other girls, and the noise of the hurdy-gurdies and the dancing and the calls of the people, lady harriet, nancy, and lionel were driven off to the farm by plunkett. act ii "now, damsels, get to bed," plunkett said to martha and nancy as he opened the door of the farmhouse upon their arrival. "get to bed, because ye must get up at dawn." the two giddy young women looked about them. there were doors at the right and left of the big room which they first entered, and they doubtless led to bedrooms. on the table a lamp was burning and there were a couple of spinning wheels to be seen. as they came in they noticed a bell hung on a pole just outside the door. not a bit like the palace of queen anne! and altogether the lark didn't appear to have the advantages it first had. "o heaven! what shall we do?" martha said to nancy. "we must get out of this soon, in some way." "well, the main thing is to get to bed now," nancy declared, and so the girls turned to say good-night to the two farmers. "good-night? not so. there are your duties to be done first." "our duties?" martha exclaimed, looking blank. "oh, don't disturb them to-night," lionel interrupted, speaking to his brother. lionel was more and more impressed with both of them, especially with the beauty of martha. "they are very tired. don't disturb them to-night." "but you will spoil them to begin with," plunkett insisted. "and by the way, what are your names?" he asked. "mine is martha," lady harriet answered dolefully. "mine is--julia," nancy said impatiently. "ho, ho! too grand to please me!--but, julia, my dame of fashion, pray, put my cloak away," plunkett returned, handing it to her. "upon my life! what impertinence!" she cried, throwing the cloak upon the floor. "put away your own cloak." "what--what?" plunkett shouted, enraged, and starting up. "now, pray be lenient with them, brother. they are quite strange to our ways, perhaps--and then they are very tired, you know. probably overworked by their last master. leave matters to me. i'll put them quite at their ease;" whereupon lionel took his hat and held it out to martha. "martha--take it, if you please," martha looked at him haughtily, and turned her back on him. poor lionel was distracted and abashed. "well, really, i don't--i don't know just what to do myself," he declared, as his brother snorted with satisfaction at lionel's discomfiture. "well," said lionel, hesitating a moment; then he took his hat and hung it up himself; then plunkett picked up _his_ cloak and waited upon _him_self. "a pretty kettle-of-fish, i should say," he muttered. "well, then, to your spinning!" "to our spinning?" they cried in unison. "yes, yes, to your spinning," plunkett returned testily. "do you expect to do nothing but entertain us with conversation? to your spinning, i said." then all at once the women burst out laughing. "are ye good for nothing?" plunkett shouted, in a greater rage. "come, we've had enough of this! you go and bring those spindles," and plunkett shouted this so loudly that the girls were downright frightened at last. "oh, do not scold us," martha entreated, shrinking back. "no, no, brother, let us be gentle." "stuff! now, girls, you get at that spinning wheel as i tell you." the two girls looked at each other. they no longer dared carry matters with a high hand, and yet how could they spin? they knew no more how to spin than did a couple of pussy-cats. after going up to the wheels and looking at them in wonder, they exclaimed: "i can't." "what?" yelled plunkett. "we--we don't know how." "well, upon my soul!" plunkett cried. "now you two sit down there as quick as you can." they sat as if they were shot. plunkett seemed very much in earnest. "now turn those wheels!" "they--they will _not_ turn," they cried, trying and making an awful botch of it. "twist the thread," lionel instructed with much anxiety. "o lord! it _won't_ twist, they _won't_ turn. oh, good gracious! we can't! we can't do it at all." "now then, look at this," plunkett cried, and he took nancy from the chair, and seated himself at the spinning wheel; and lionel unseated martha--gently--and took her place, and then the fun began. "now watch--and we will teach you something about this business." this way set the wheel a-flying, set it whirring, set it flying. work the treadle with a will. while an even thread you're plying, never let your wheel be still. come, you will not lose by trying, i can see you have good will. and while the girls joined in this gay spinning song, the men buzzed an accompaniment of "brr, brr, brr," and the fun waxed fast and furious, the men spinning faster and faster every moment, the girls becoming more and more excited with watching and trying to learn--because they now saw that there was nothing for them but to begin business; and more than this, they began almost to like the farmer chaps. after a moment, first one began to laugh, then another, till suddenly they all dragged off into a merry "ha, ha, ha!" look! how the busy task he's plying, hercules is at the wheel; look, i too can set it flying, scold me if i do it ill nancy--or rather julia--sang, as she took a turn at it. all had turned to fun and frolic, and now even lady harriet--or martha--could not withstand the temptation to try her hand; so down she sat, and away she went spinning, and singing with the best of them. suddenly nancy upset her wheel, plunkett gaily threatened her, and away she ran, with plunkett chasing after her. in a minute they had disappeared, and martha was left alone with lionel. "nancy--julia--where are you? here! don't leave me--" martha cried. "have no fear, gentle girl," lionel said, detaining her. "there is no one who will hurt you." martha regarded him with some anxiety for a moment, then became reassured. "no--i will not be afraid," she thought. "this stranger has a kind way with him. true, they are strange in their ways--to me--but then i am strange in my ways--to them." "come! i'll promise never to be impatient with you nor to scold you if you do not get things right. i am sure you will do your best," he gently insisted, trying to put her at her ease. "to tell the truth--i am desperately in love with you, martha." "oh, good gracious--it is--so sudden----" she gasped, looking about for some chance of escape. "don't, sir! i assure you i am the worst sort of servant. i have deceived you: as a matter of fact, i know almost nothing of housework or farm work--i----" "well, at least, you know how to laugh and while the time away. never mind about the work--we shall get on; we'll let the work go. only sing for me--come, let us be gay." "alas! i do not feel gay----" "then sing something that is not gay. sing what you will--but sing," he urged. he was more in love with her every moment, and not knowing what else to do martha sang--"'tis the last rose of summer!" by the time the song was sung, lionel had quite lost his head. "martha, since the moment i first saw thee, i have loved thee madly. be my wife and i will be your willing slave--you may count on me to do the spinning and everything else, if only you will be my wife. i'll raise thee to my own station." this was really too much. martha looked at him in amazement. "raise me--er--" in spite of herself she had to laugh. then, with a feeling of tenderness growing in her heart, she felt sorry for him. "i am sorry to cause you pain, but really you don't know what you are saying. i----" and at this crisis nancy and plunkett came in, plunkett raising a great to-do because nancy had been hiding successfully from him, in the kitchen. "she hasn't been cooking," he explained; "simply hiding--and i can't abide idle ways--never could--now what is wrong with you two?" he asks, observing the restraint felt by lionel and martha; but before any one could answer, midnight struck. "twelve o'clock!" all exclaimed. "all good angels watch over thee," lionel said impulsively to martha, "and make thee less scornful." for a moment, plunkett looked thoughtful, then turning to nancy he said manfully, while everybody seemed at pause since the stroke of midnight. "nancy, girl, you are not what i sought for--a good servant--but some way, i feel as if--as if as a wife, i should find thee a good one. i vow, i begin to love thee, for all of thy bothersome little ways." "well, well, good-night, good-night, sirs," nancy cried hastily and somewhat disconcerted. to tell the truth, she had begun to think kindly of plunkett. plunkett went thoughtfully to the outer door and carefully locked it, then turned and regarded the girls who stood silently and a little sadly, apart. "good-night," he said: and lionel looking tenderly at martha murmured, "good-night," and the two men went away to their own part of the house, leaving the girls alone. "nancy----" martha whispered softly, after a moment. "madame?" "what next?--how escape?" "how can we go?" "we must----" "it is very dark and the way is strange to us," she said, sadly and fearfully. "well, fortune has given us gentle masters, at least," martha murmured. "yes--kind and good----" "what if the queen should hear of this?" "oh, lord!" and at that moment came a soft knocking at the window. both girls started. "what's that?" more knocking! "gracious heaven! i am nearly dead with fear," martha whispered, looking stealthily about. nancy pointed to the window. "look----" martha looked. "tristram--sir tristram!" she whispered excitedly. "open the window. i can't move, i am so scared. now, he'll rave--and i can't resent it. we deserve anything he may say." nancy opened the window, and sir tristram stepped in softly, upon receiving a caution from the girls. "lady harriet, this is most monstrous." "oh, my soul! don't we know it. don't wake the farmers up, in heaven's name! things are bad enough without making them worse." "yes, let us fly, and make as little row about it as we can," nancy implored. "then come--no words. i have my carriage waiting; follow me quickly and say good-bye to this hovel." "hovel?" lady harriet looked about. suddenly she had a feeling of regret. "hovel?" "nay," nancy interrupted. "to this peaceful house--good-bye." nancy, too, had a regret. they had had a gleeful hour here, among frank and kindly folk, even if they had also been a bit frightened. anything that had gone wrong with them had been their fault. tristram placed a bench at the window that the ladies might climb over, and thus they got out, and immediately the sound of their carriage wheels was heard in the yard. plunkett had waked up meantime and had come out to call the girls. it was time for their day's work to begin. farmer folk are out of bed early. "ho, girls!--time to be up," he called, entering from his chamber. then he saw the open window. he paused. "do i hear carriage wheels--and the window open--and the bench--and the girls--gone! ho there! everybody!" he rushed out and furiously pulled the bell which hung from the pole outside. his farmhands come running. "ho--those girls hired yesterday have gone. get after them. bring them back. i may drop dead the next instant, but i'll be bound they shan't treat us in this manner. after them! back they shall come!" and in the midst of all this confusion in ran lionel. "what----" "thieves!--the girls have run off--a nice return for our affections!" "after them!--don't lose a minute," lionel then cried in his turn, and away rushed the farmhands. "they are ours for one year, by law. bring them back, or ye shall suffer for it. be off!" and the men mounted horses and went after the runaways like the wind. "nice treatment!" "shameful!" plunkett cried, dropping into a chair, nearly fainting with rage. act iii plunkett's men had hunted far and wide for the runaways, but without success. the farmer was still sore over his defeat: he felt himself not only defrauded, but he had grown to love nancy, and altogether he became very unhappy. one day he was sitting with his fellow farmers around a table in a little forest inn, drinking his glass of beer, when he heard the sound of hunting horns in the distance. "hello! a hunting party from the palace must be out," he remarked, but the music of the horn which once pleased him could no longer arouse him from his moodiness. nevertheless an extraordinary thing was about to happen. as he went into the inn for a moment, into the grove whirled--nancy! all bespangled in a rich hunting costume and accompanied by her friends who were enjoying the hunt with her. they were singing a rousing hunting chorus, but martha--lady harriet--was not with them. "what has happened to lady harriet?" some one questioned of nancy, who was expected to know all her secrets. "alas--nothing interests her ladyship any more," she replied! nancy knew perfectly well that, ever since their escapade, harriet had thought of nothing but lionel. for nancy's part, she had not thought of much besides plunkett; but she did not mean to reveal the situation to the court busybodies. then while the huntresses were roaming about the inn, out came plunkett! and nancy, not perceiving at first who he was, went up to him and began to speak. "pray, my good man, can you tell--good heaven!" she exclaimed, recognizing him; "plunkett!" "yes, madame, plunkett; and now plunkett will see if you get the better of him a second time. we'll let the sheriff settle this matter, right on the spot." "man, you are mad. do not breathe my name or each huntress here shall take aim and bring you down. ho, there!" she cried distractedly to her friends; and she took aim at plunkett, while all of the others closed round him. it was then plunkett's turn to beg for mercy. "they're upon me, they've undone me!" he cried. "this is serious," and so indeed it was. "but oh, dear me, there is a remarkable charm in these girls, even if they do threaten a man's life," and still looking back over his shoulder, away he ran, pursued by the girls. they had no sooner gone than lionel came in. he was looking disconsolately at the flowers to which martha sang the "last rose of summer." he himself sang a few measures of the song and then looked about him. "ah," he sighed, thinking still of martha: [music: none so rare, none so fair, yet enraptur'd mortal heart; maiden dear. past compare, oh, 'twas death from thee to part! ere i saw thy sweet face on my heart there was no trace of that love from above, that in sorrow now i prove; but alas, thou art gone, and in grief i mourn alone; life a shadow doth seem, and my joy a fleeting dream, a fleeting dream. none so rare, etc.] and after he had sung thus touchingly of martha, he threw himself down on the grass, and remained absorbed in his thoughts. but while he was resting there, lady harriet and sir tristram had also wandered thither. at first they did not see lionel. "i have come here away from the others, in order to be alone," harriet declared impatiently. "alone with me?" sir tristram asked indiscreetly. "good heaven--it doesn't matter in the least whether you are here or elsewhere. i am quite unconscious of you, wherever you are," she replied, not very graciously. "do go away and let me alone!" and, finding that he could not please her, tristram wandered off, and left her meditating there. after a while she began to sing to herself, softly, and lionel recognized the voice. "it is she!--martha!" he cried, starting up. harriet recognized him, and at once found herself in a dreadful state of mind. "what shall i do? it is lionel! that farmer i hired out to!" well! it was lionel's opportunity, and he fell to making the most desperate love to her--which she liked very much, but which, being a high-born lady of queen anne's court, she was bound to resent. she called him base-born and a good many unpleasant things, which did not seem to discourage him in the least, even though it made him feel rather badly; but while he was still protesting his love, tristram returned, and at once believed harriet to be in the toils of some dreadful fellow. so he called loudly for everybody in the hunt to come to the rescue--which was about the most foolish thing he could do. then all set upon lionel. plunkett, hearing the row, rushed in. "stand by me!" lionel cried. nancy appeared. "what does this mean?" she in turn demanded in a high-handed manner. "julia, too," lionel shouted, recognizing her. "bind this madman in fetters," tristram ordered. "don't touch him," plunkett threatened. "i shall die," nancy declared. "i engaged these girls in my service," lionel shouted, "and now they wish to break the bargain!" "what?" everybody screamed, staring at nancy and harriet. tristram and the hunters laughed, tristram trying to shield the girls and turn it into a joke. "have compassion on this madman"; harriet pleaded wincing when she saw lionel bound and helpless. lionel then reproached her. she knew perfectly that she deserved it and felt her love for him growing greater. everybody was in a most dreadful state of mind. then a page rushed in and cried that queen anne was coming toward them, and immediately lionel had an inspiration. "take this ring to her majesty--quick," he cried, handing his ring to plunkett. a litter was then brought for lady harriet. she, heartbroken, stepped into it. lionel was pinioned and was being dragged off. plunkett held up the ring, to assure him that it should straightway be taken to the queen. act iv after the row had quieted down and nancy and harriet got time to think matters over, harriet reached the conclusion that she could not endure lionel's misfortune. hence she had got nancy to accompany her to the farmer's house. when they arrived some new maid whom the farmers had got opened the door to them. "go, nancy, and find plunkett, lionel's trusty friend, and tell him i am repentant and cannot endure lionel's misfortunes. tell him his friend is to have hope," and, obeying her beloved lady harriet, nancy departed to find plunkett and give the message. in a few minutes she returned with the farmer. he now knew who the ladies were and treated harriet most respectfully. "have you told him?" lady harriet asked. "yes, but we cannot make lionel understand anything. he sits vacantly gazing at nothing. he has had so much trouble, that probably his brain is turned." "let us see," said harriet; and instantly she began to sing, "'tis the last rose." while she sang, lionel entered slowly. he had heard. harriet ran to him and would have thrown herself into his arms, but he held her off, fearing she was again deceiving him. "no, no, i repent, and it was i who took thy ring to the queen! i have learned that thy father was a nobleman--the great earl of derby; and the queen sends the message to thee that she would undo the wrong done thee. thou art the earl of derby--and i love thee--so take my hand if thou wilt have me." well, this was all very well, but lionel was not inclined to be played fast and loose with in that fashion. when he was a plain farmer, she had nothing of this sort to say to him, however she may have felt. "no," he declared, "i will have none of it! leave me, all of you," and he rushed off, whereupon harriet sank upon a bench, quite overcome. then suddenly she started up. "ah--i have a thought!" and out she flew. while she was gone, the farmer and nancy, who had really begun to care greatly for each other, confessed their love. "now that our affairs are no longer in confusion, let us go out and walk and talk it over," plunkett urged, and, nancy being quite willing, they went out. but when they got outside they found to their amazement that plunkett's farmhands were rushing hither and thither, putting up tents and booths and flags, and turning the yard into a regular fair-ground, such as the scene appeared when lionel and harriet first met. some of the girls on the farm were assuming the rôle of maids looking for service, and, in short, everything was as nearly like the original scene as they could possibly make it in a short time. "what, what is all this?" plunkett asked, amazed. then he learned it was all done by harriet's orders, and he and nancy began to understand. then harriet came in, dressed as martha. nancy ran off and returned dressed as julia, and then all was complete. "there is lionel coming toward us," nancy cried. "what will happen now?" and there he came, led sadly by plunkett. he looked about him, dazed, till plunkett brought up lady harriet and presented her as a maid seeking work. "heaven! it is martha----" "yes, is this not enough to prove to thee that i am ready to renounce my rank and station for thee? here i am, seeking thy service," she pleaded. "well, good lassies, what can ye do?" plunkett asked, entering into the spirit of the thing, and then nancy gaily sang: i for spinning finest linen, etc. lady harriet gave lionel some flowers and then began "'tis the last rose." then presently, lionel, who had been recovering himself slowly while the play had been going on, joined in the last measures, and holding out his arms to lady harriet, the lovers were united. nancy and plunkett were having the gayest sort of a time, and everybody was singing at the top of his voice that from that time forth there should be nothing but gaiety and joy in the world; and probably that turned out to be true for everybody but old sir tristram, who hadn't had a stroke of good luck since the curtain rose on the first act! humperdinck this composer of charming music will furnish better biographical material fifty years hence. at present we must be satisfied to listen to his compositions, and leave the study of the man to future generations. hänsel and gretel characters of the opera peter, a broom-maker. gertrude, his wife. hänsel } gretel } their children. witch, who eats little children. sandman, who puts little children to sleep. dewman, who wakes little children up. children. fourteen angels. the story takes place in a german forest. composer: e. humperdinck. author: adelheid wette. act i once upon a time, in a far-off forest of germany, there lived two little children, hänsel and gretel, with their father and mother. the father and mother made brooms for a living, and the children helped them by doing the finishing of the brooms. the broom business had been very, very bad for a long time, and the poor father and mother were nearly discouraged. the father, however, was a happy-go-lucky man who usually accepted his misfortunes easily. it was fair-time in a village near the broom-makers' hut, and one morning the parents started off to see if their luck wouldn't change. they left the children at home, charging them to be industrious and orderly in behaviour till they returned, and hänsel in particular was to spend his time finishing off some brooms. now it is the hardest thing in the world for little children to stick to a long task, so that which might have been expected happened: hänsel and gretel ceased after a little to work, and began to think how hungry they were. hänsel was seated in the doorway, working at the brooms; brooms were hanging up on the walls of the poor little cottage; and gretel sat knitting a stocking near the fire. being a gay little girl, she sang to pass the time: [music: susy little susy, pray what is the news? the geese are running bare foot because they've no shoes! the cobbler has leather and plenty to spare, why can't he make the poor goose a new pair?] this sounded rather gay, and, before he knew it, hänsel had joined in: eia popeia, pray what's to be done? who'll give me milk and sugar, for bread i have none? i'll go back to bed and i'll lie there all day, where there's naught to eat, then there's nothing to pay. "speaking of something to eat--i'm as hungry as a wolf, gretel. we haven't had anything but bread in weeks." "well, it does no good to complain, does it? why don't you do as father does--laugh and make the best of it?" gretel answered, letting her knitting fall in her lap. "if you will stop grumbling, hänsel, i'll tell you a secret--it's a fine one too." she got up and tiptoed over to the table. "come here and look in this jug," she called, and hänsel in his turn tiptoed over, as if something very serious indeed would happen should any one hear him. "look in that jug--a neighbour gave us some milk to-day, and that is likely to mean rice blanc-mange." "oh, gracious goodness! i'll be found near when rice blanc-mange is going on; be sure of that. how thick is the cream?" the greedy fellow asked, dipping his finger into the jug. "aren't you ashamed of yourself! take your fingers out of that jug, hänsel, and get back to your work. you'll get a good pounding if mother comes home and finds you cutting up tricks." "no, i'm not going to work any more--i'm going to dance." "well, i admit dancing is good fun," gretel answered him reluctantly. "we can dance a little, and sing to keep us in time, and then we can go back to work." brother, come and dance with me, both my hands i offer thee, right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again, she sang, holding out her hands. "i don't know how, or i would," hänsel declared, watching her as she spun about. "then i'll teach you. just keep your eyes on me and i'll teach you just how to do it," she cried, and then she began to dance. gretel told him precisely how to do it, and hänsel learned very well and very quickly. then they danced together, and in half a minute had forgotten all about going back to their work. they twirled and laughed and sang and shouted in the wildest sort of glee, and at last, perfectly exhausted with so much fun, they tumbled over one another upon the floor, and were laughing too hard to get up. just at this moment, when they had actually forgotten all about hunger and work, home came their mother. she opened the door and looked in. "for mercy's sake! what goings on are these?" she cried. "why, it was hänsel, he----" "gretel wanted to----" they both began, scrambling to their feet. "that will do. i want to hear nothing from you. you are the most ill-behaved children in the world. here are your father and i slaving ourselves to death for you, and not a thing do you do but dance and sing from morning till night----" "it would be awfully nice to eat, too," hänsel replied reflectively. "what's that you say, you ungrateful child? don't you eat whenever the rest of us do?" however harsh she seemed, the mother was only angry at the thought of there being nothing in the house to eat, and she felt so badly to think the children were hungry that she made a dive at hänsel to slap him, when--horrors! she knocked the milk off the table, broke the jug, and all the milk went streaming over the floor. this was indeed a misfortune. there they stood, all three looking at their lost supper. "_now_ see what you have done?" she screamed angrily at the children. "get yourselves out of here. if you want any supper you'll have to work for it. take that basket and go into the wood and fill it with strawberries, and don't either of you come home till it is full. dear me, it does seem as if i had trouble enough without such actions as yours," the distracted mother cried; and quite unjustly she hustled the children and their basket outside the hut and off into the wood. they had no sooner gone out than the poor, distracted woman, exhausted with the day's tramping and unsuccessful effort to sell her brooms, sat at the table weeping over the lost milk; and finally she fell asleep. after a while a merry song was heard in the wood, and the father presently appeared singing, at the very threshold. really, for a hungry man with a hungry family and nothing for supper, he was in a remarkably merry mood. "ho, there, wife!" he called, and then entered with a great basket over his shoulder. he saw the mother asleep and stopped singing. then he laughed and went over to her. "hey, wake up, old lady, hustle yourself and get us a supper. where are the children?" "what are you talking about," the mother asked, waking up and looking confused at the noise her husband was making. "i can't get any supper when there is nothing to get." "nothing to get?--well, that is nice talk, i'm sure. we'll see if there is nothing to get," he answered, roaring with laughter--and he began to take things out of his basket. first he took out a ham, then some butter. flour and sausages followed, and then a dozen eggs; turnips, and onions, and finally some tea. then at last the good fellow turned the basket upside down, and out rolled a lot of potatoes. "where in the world did all of these things come from?" she cried. "i had good luck with my brooms, when all seemed lost, and here we are with a feast before us. now call the children and let us begin." "i was so angry because the milk got spilt that i sent them off to the woods for berries and told them not to come home till they had a basket full. i really thought that was all we should have for supper." at this the father looked frightened. "what if they have gone to the ilsenstein?" he cried, jumping up and taking a broom from the wall. "well, what harm?" the wife inquired, "and why do you take the broom?" "what harm? do you not know that it is the awful magic mountain where the old witch who eats little children dwells?--and do you not know that she rides on a broomstick. i may need one to follow her, in case she has got the children." "oh, heavens above! what a wicked woman i was to send the children out. what shall we do? do you know anything more about that awful ogress?" she demanded of her husband, trembling fit to die. an old witch within that wood doth dwell, and she's in league with the powers of hell. at midnight hour, when nobody knows, away to the witches' dance she goes. up the chimney they fly, on a broomstick they hie, over hill and dale, o'er ravine and vale, through the midnight air they gallop full tear, on a broomstick, on a broomstick hop, hop, hop, hop, the witches! and by day, they say, she stalks around, with a crinching, crunching, munching sound. and children plump, and tender to eat, she lures with magic gingerbread sweet. on evil bent, with fell intent, she lures the children, poor little things, in the oven hot, she pops the lot. she shuts the door down, until they're done brown--all those gingerbread children. "oh, my soul!" the poor woman shrieked. "come! we must lose no time: hänsel and gretel may be baked to cinders by this time," and out she ran, screaming, and followed by the father, to look for those poor children. act ii after wandering all the afternoon in the great forest, and filling their basket with strawberries, hänsel and gretel came to a beautiful mossy tree-trunk where they concluded to sit down and rest before going home. they had wandered so far that they really didn't know that they were lost, but as a matter of fact they had no notion of where they were. without knowing it, they had gone as far as the ilsenstein, and that magic place was just behind them, and sunset had already come. as usual, the gay little girl was singing while she twined a garland of wild flowers. hänsel was still looking for berries in the thicket near. pretty soon they heard a cuckoo call, and they answered the call gaily. the cuckoo answered, and the calls between them became lively. "there is the bird that eats up other birds' eggs," gretel said, poking a strawberry into hänsel's mouth; and hänsel sucked the berry up as if it were an egg. then in his turn, he poked a berry into gretel's mouth. this was very good fun, especially as yet they had had nothing to eat. they began to feed each other with berries, till before they knew it the full basket was empty. foolish children, who by their carelessness got themselves into all sorts of scrapes! now what was to be done? they surely couldn't go home and tell their mother they had eaten up all the berries! "hänsel, you have eaten all the berries. now this time it is no joke--this that you have done. what shall we do now?" "nonsense--you ate as many as i. we shall simply look for more." "so late as this! we never can see them in the world. the sun is going down. where can we have got to? we are surely lost." "well, if we are, there is nothing to be afraid of. come, don't cry. we shall sleep here under the trees, and, when morning comes, find our way home," hänsel replied, no longer blaming her, but trying to be very brave, notwithstanding he was nearly scared to death with the shadows which were then gathering quickly. "oh, oh! do you hear that noise in the bushes? i shall die of fright." "it--it--is nothing, sister," hänsel answered, his teeth chattering, while he peered all about him uneasily. "i'm a boy and not afraid of anything, and can take care of you wherever we are." what's glimmering there in the darkness? that's only the birches in silver dress. but there, what's grinning so there at me? th-that's only the stump of a willow tree. hänsel tried to answer heroically. "i'll give a good call," he said, going a little way toward the ilsenstein. then putting his hands to his mouth, he called loudly: "who's there?" "you there,--you there,--you there," the echoes came--but they seemed to come from the ilsenstein. "is some one there?" gretel timidly asked. "there--where--there--" the echoes from the ilsenstein again replied. "i'm frightened to death," gretel said, beginning to cry. "little gretelkin," said hänsel, "you stick close to me, and i'll let nothing hurt you;" and while they huddled together, a thick white mist slowly gathered and spread between the children and the ilsenstein. "oh! there are some shadowy old women, coming to carry me away," gretel sobbed, hiding her face, as the mist seemed to sway and assume strange forms. then while her face was hidden, the mist slowly cleared away, and a little gray manikin with a little sack upon his back came out of the shadows. hänsel held his breath with fear and sheltered gretel beside him as best he could. "it is a shadowy queer little manikin, gretel dear, with a little sack upon his back, but he looks very friendly." then addressing the little manikin, "do not hurt us, sir--and will you tell us who you are?" i shut the children's peepers--sh! and guard the little sleepers--sh! for dearly i do love them--sh! and gladly watch above them--sh! and with my little bag of sand, by every child's bedside i stand; then little tired eyelids close, and little limbs have sweet repose; and if they are good and quickly go to sleep, then from the starry sphere above the angels come with peace and love, and send the children happy dreams, while watch they keep. all the while the little sand-man was telling them who he was, the children got sleepier and sleepier and nodded upon each other's shoulders. "the sand-man was here?" little hänsel asked, trying to rouse a bit. "i guess so," said gretel; "let us say our prayers," and so they folded their hands, and said a little prayer to the fourteen angels which guard little children. they prayed to the two angels who should stand at their head, to the two at their feet, two upon their right hand and two upon the left, and two should cover them warm, and two should guard them from harm, and two should guide them one day to heaven; and so they sank to sleep. as they slept, a beautiful light broke through the mist, which rolled up into a glittering staircase down which those angels came, two and two. they all grouped about hänsel and gretel as they had been prayed to do; and as they silently took their places the night grew dark, the trees and birds all slept, and hänsel and gretel were safe until the morning. act iii the night had passed, the angels had disappeared again in the mist which still hung over the forest at the back, and now as dawn broke, the dew-fairy came out of the mist as the manikin and the angels had done; and from a little blue bell she shook the dewdrops over the children's eyes. just as they began to stir, away ran the dew-fairy, and when they were quite wide awake they found the sun rising and themselves all alone. "hänsel, where are we?" little gretel asked, not recalling all that had happened to them since the day before. "i hear the birds twittering high in the branches. we certainly are not in our beds at home." "no--but i had a fine dream," hänsel answered--"that the angels were here looking after us all night, the entire fourteen. but look there!" he cried, pointing behind them. the mist was gradually lifting and revealing the house of the witch of ilsenstein. it looked very fine, with the sun's bright rays upon it; very fine indeed! a little way off to the left of that queer little house was--an oven. oh, dreadful! it was well hänsel and gretel did not know in the least what that oven meant. then, on the other side of the house, was a cage--and heaven! it was certainly well that they had no idea of what that was for, either. then, joining that cage to the house, was a queer-looking fence of gingerbread, and it looked strangely like little children. "oh, what a queer place!" gretel cried. "and do you smell that delicious odour? that cottage is made all of chocolate cream!" she was overcome with joy. the roof is all covered with turkish delight, the windows with lustre of sugar are white and on all the gables the raisins invite, and think! all around is a gingerbread hedge. "oh, to eat such a cottage!" they cried ecstatically. "i hear no sound. let's go inside," hänsel urged. "no, no! who knows who may live in that lovely house." "well, anyway, it can't do any harm to nibble a little. they can have it repaired next baking day," he persisted. "maybe that is true,--and it does look too good to leave"; so hänsel reached out and broke a little piece of the house-corner off. nibble, nibble, mousekin, who's nibbling at my housekin? a voice called from within. "good gracious! did you hear that?" he whispered, dropping the corner of the house. gretel picked it up, hesitatingly. "it's most awfully good," she declared, but at that very minute came the voice again: nibble, nibble, mousekin, who's nibbling at my housekin? "maybe that is the voice of the sweety maker," hänsel suggested, all the same a good deal scared. and so they went on nibbling at a bit of the fence and then at the house-corner, until they became so full of good things that they began to laugh and caper about in high spirits. but while all this fun was going on, the upper part of the door opened and the old witch stuck her head out. then slowly and softly, out she crept with a rope in her hand, and getting behind the children she suddenly threw it over hänsel's head. when he turned and saw her he was frightened almost into fits. "let me go, let me go!" he howled, while the witch only laughed hideously at the two and, drawing them closer to her, she began to pat their heads and talk very nicely to them. "you are lovely children! don't give yourselves such airs. i am rosina dainty-mouth and just love little children like you," but she didn't say how she preferred them--broiled or stewed. nevertheless, hänsel had his doubts about her, in spite of her affectionate pretensions. come, little mousey, come into my housey! come with me, my precious, i'll give you sweets, delicious! this extraordinary old lady cried, naming things that made the children's mouths water. but there was hänsel's caution! he was not to be caught napping after sunrise. gretel, however, recalled the flavour of the eave-spout which she had lately tasted and could not help showing a certain amount of interest. "just what shall i get if i go into your housey?" she inquired; but before the old creature could reply, hänsel had pulled gretel's petticoat. "have a care! do not take anything from her that you can help. she is meaning to fatten us and cook us,"--which was the exact truth. at that moment, hänsel got clear of the rope which had been about his neck and ran to gretel, but the old witch pointed at them a stick which had been hanging at her girdle, and instantly they found themselves spellbound. she repeated this blood-curdling rhyme, and there they stood, quite helpless: hocus pocus, witches' charm! move not as you fear my arm. back or forward, do not try, fixed you are, by the evil eye! and "fixed" they were. now, right in the middle of the forenoon, it began to grow horribly dark, and as it darkened, the little knob on the end of her stick began to glow brilliantly, and as hänsel watched it, fascinated, the witch gradually led him, by the stick's charm, into the stable, and fastened him in. then the knob of the stick gradually ceased to glow, and gretel was still standing there. "now while i feed hänsel up till he is plump as a partridge, you stand where you are," said the witch, and into the house she went. gretel stood horrified, and hänsel whispered to her: "don't speak loud, and be very watchful, gretelkin. pretend to do everything the witch commands, yet be very watchful. there she comes again"; and so she did, with a basket full of raisins and other things for him to eat. she stuck good things into his mouth, as if she were fattening a strasburg goose, and after that she disenchanted gretel with a juniper branch. "now, then, you go and set the table," she ordered, then turning again to hänsel she found him apparently asleep. "that's good! it is a way to grow fat," she grinned. "i'll just begin my supper with gretel. she looks quite plump enough as she is. here, my love," she cried, opening the oven door, and sniffing some gingerbread figures within, "just look into the oven and tell me if it is hot enough to bake in," she called. oh, when from the oven i take her, she'll look like a cake from the baker, the old wretch giggled to herself. but gretel pretended not to hear her; and after all, she thought the oven not quite hot enough to push gretel into, so she began jabbering about the witch's ride she was going to have that night at twelve, on her broomstick. as she thought about it she became very enthusiastic, and getting upon her broom she went galloping about the house and back. when she got through performing in this outrageous manner--which fairly froze gretel's blood in her veins--the old witch tickled hänsel with a birch-twig till he woke. "here, my little darling, show me your tongue," she said, and hänsel stuck out his tongue as if the doctor had been called to investigate his liver. "my, but you are in fine condition," the old wretch mumbled smacking her lips. "let me see your thumb," she demanded, and instead of sticking out his plump thumb, hänsel poked a tiny bone through the bars of the cage. "oh! how lean and scraggy! you won't do yet"; and she called to gretel to bring more food for him, and there she stopped to stuff him again. then she again opened the oven door, looking all the while at gretel. "how she makes my mouth water," she muttered. "come here, little gretelkin, poke your head into the oven and tell me if you think it hot enough for us to bake in." at this awful moment hänsel whispered: "oh, be careful, gretel!" gretel nodded at him behind the witch's back. "just smell that lovely gingerbread. do poke your head in to see if it is quite done. then you shall have a piece hot from the oven." gretel still hung back. "i don't quite know how to do it," she apologized. "if you will just show me how to reach up," she murmured; and the old witch, quite disgusted that gretel should take so long to do as she was bid, and so delay the feast, said: "why, this way, you goose," poking her head into the oven, and instantly, hänsel, who had slipped out of the stable, sprang upon the old woman, gave her the push she had intended to give gretel, and into the oven she popped, and bang went the oven door, while the children stood looking at each other and shivering with fright. "oh, my suz! _do_ you suppose we have her fast?" "i guess we have," hänsel cried, grabbing gretel about the waist and dancing wildly in glee. then they rushed into the house and began to fill their pockets with good things. while they were at this, the oven began to crack dreadfully. the noise was quite awful. "oh, mercy! what is happening?" gretel cried. and at that moment the awful oven fell apart, and out jumped a lot of little children with the gingerbread all falling off them, while they sprang about hänsel and gretel in great joy. but all their eyes were shut. they laughed and sang and hopped, crying that hänsel and gretel had saved them because by baking the old witch they had broken the oven's charm. "but why don't you open your eyes," gretel asked. "we shall not be entirely disenchanted till you touch us," they told her, and then upon being touched by gretel they opened their eyes like ten-day-old kittens. then hänsel took a juniper branch and repeated what he had heard the witch say: hocus pocus elder bush, rigid body loosen, hush! and there came that gingerbread hedge, walking on legs,--the beautiful gingerbread falling all over the place, and the whole fence turning back into little children. at that very moment came the broom-maker and his wife, who had sought for the children till they had become nearly distracted. when the children saw them they ran into their mother's arms. all the gingerbread children were singing at the top of their voices and were carrying on in the most joyous way. two boys had run to the broken oven, and had begun to drag out an immense gingerbread--it was the old witch, turned into the finest cake ever seen. it was well that she turned out to be good in the end, if only good gingerbread. they dragged her out where everybody could see her, and broke a piece of her off; and then they shoved her into the cottage. "now, you see how good children are taken care of," the broom-maker sang; while everybody danced about the disenchanted ilsenstein, before they went into the house for supper. mascagni this composer is too contemporary to be discussed freely. he has done no great amount of work, and fame came to him in his youth. "cavalleria rusticana" is his supreme performance, and there is in it a promise of greater things. cavalleria rusticana[a] (rustic chivalry) characters of the opera santuzza. lola. turiddu. alfio. lucia. peasants. the story is of peasant people in a small sicilian village, on an easter day. composer: pietro mascagni. authors: giovanni targioni-tozzetti and guido menasci. first sung at rome, may 20, 1890. [footnote a: the quotations from "cavalleria rusticana" are from the english version by nathan haskell dole, copyright, 1891, by g. schirmer.] act i one fine easter morning, in a small italian village, a fop, named turiddu, came along the little street singing of lola, an old sweetheart, who, since turiddu went to serve his required term in the army, had married a wagoner. turiddu was far from heartbroken, because when he returned and first heard of lola's faithlessness, he straightway fell in love with a worthier girl--santuzza. neither lola nor turiddu was a faithful sort, but lived for a good time to-day, leaving luck to look after to-morrow; but it was not the same with santuzza. she truly loved turiddu, and being an italian peasant, very emotional and excitable, it was going to be dangerous for turiddu to ill-treat her. if that easter morning found turiddu quite gay and free, it found santuzza full of despair and misgiving, because she knew that her lover had returned to his former sweetheart. lola's husband, the wagoner, was frequently away from his home, and in his absence his wife had been flirting. in a little village, where everybody knew everybody else, and all of each other's business, santuzza's companions had learned that turiddu had thrown his new love over for the old, and instead of pitying her, they had ridiculed and treated her unkindly. on a sunday morning, just before the villagers started to church, santuzza started for turiddu's home. he lived near the church, with lucia, his old mother. santuzza had been thinking all night of what she could do to win her lover back; and at daylight had risen with the determination to go to old lucia, and tell her how her son had misbehaved. in italy, even grown sons and daughters obey their parents more promptly than the small children in america ever do. santuzza, all tears and worn with sleeplessness, thought possibly lucia could prevail upon turiddu to keep his word and behave more like an honest man. all the little village was astir early, because easter is a fête day in italy, and the people make merry, as well as go to church. the peasants were passing and repassing through the little square as santuzza entered it. she looked very sad and her eyes were swollen with crying. but no one paid any attention to her as all were going into the church for early mass. after the crowd had gone in, the sound of the organ and of the congregation's voices could be heard in the square. they sang an easter carol--about flowers and carolling larks and orange blossoms--which did not make santuzza any the happier; but she went to the door of old lucia's house and called softly: "mama lucia--mama lucia--art thou there?" "thou, santuzza? what wilt thou, my dear?" the old woman answered, hobbling out. "mama lucia, where is thy son?" santuzza demanded. "thou hast come to see turiddu? i do not know, my girl. i have nothing to do with quarrels, you must understand," she answered cautiously, half suspecting santuzza's trouble, because she had already suffered many times on account of her son's faithlessness to others. "mama lucia, i beg of you not to turn me away. listen to my troubles. it is thy son who has caused them, and i must see him," santuzza sobbed. "well, i cannot help thee--though i am truly sorry for thee," the mother answered, after a moment, observing all the signs of the sorrow that santuzza felt. "he is not at home. he has gone to fetch the wine from francofonte." "no, no--he hasn't. he was seen about the village only last night." "who told thee that? i, his mother, should know if he is at home or not." "mama lucia, do not turn me away--i am in great sorrow, and you will be unhappy all your life if you ill-treat me now." at this they were disturbed by the cracking of whips and jingling of bells which told of the return to town of the wagoner. alfio was returning on easter morning in time to join the gaiety with his wife, lola. he came in jauntily, singing: [music: proudly steps the sturdy steed, gayly ring the merry bells, crack! goes the whiplash! o' hi! tho' the icy wind may blow, let it rain or let it snow, what in the world care i?] soon all the neighbours appeared to welcome him. he was a most popular fellow--unlike turiddu, who was a favourite mainly with the girls. "well, about all i have wished for all the week, neighbours, was to get home here to my wife, that we might spend this easter day together. when i am away, i think of nothing but her, you may be sure! i can't stop here with you, jolly as you are. lola is certain to be waiting for me, so off i go!" and the wagoner waved his hand gaily and was about to hurry off, while some went back into the church again, and some went to their homes. but mama lucia could not but regard him anxiously. she, herself, was in trouble over her wild son. "ah, alfio, you are always in such high spirits----" "hello, mama lucia! good day to you--have you any more of that famous wine?" lucia's house was also the village inn, where the folks congregated to drink their wine, to play cards, and have a good gossip. "no, not now; turiddu has gone to francofonte to get it." "you are wrong: i met him near my cottage as i came into the village this very morning," the wagoner answered, and at the same moment santuzza pulled old lucia's skirt, signing to her to be silent. but the old woman, surprised and confused at the turn things seemed to be taking, persisted: "how so? are you certain of that?" "oh, yes, perfectly sure. and now i must be going: lola will be expecting me," the unsuspicious wagoner answered, turning in earnest to go home. now, while old lucia and santuzza stood without, the choir in the church sang: [music: queen of the heavens, grief is ended! he, whom thy love once defended--] and those peasants who had gradually wandered back into the square knelt, as they heard the prayer. the scene was very devotional and beautiful, with the exquisite music floating out from the church, and the reverent people gathering about it. presently they broke into a joyous chorus of "hallelujah! christ is risen!" while santuzza and old lucia joined in spite of their sadness. but after all had wandered away, old lucia approached santuzza: "why didst thou caution me not to speak when alfio said he had seen my son near his house?" she asked, anxiously, already half guessing the reason. "good mama, do you not know that before turiddu went to the war he was lola's lover; and at first after he returned he cared for me, but now he has forgotten me and is again making love to lola? if the wagoner knew of this, what do you think he would do?" "oh, what hast thou told me upon this holy morning! you are right--if alfio knew of this he would kill them both maybe. he surely would kill my son." "it seems to me all are cursed this beautiful day. go and pray for us all, mama lucia, and so will i," santuzza replied. and she was about to enter the church to say her prayers when there came turiddu, himself, dressed in his best, ready to meet lola in the square as she passed on her way to the church. "turiddu!" santuzza called. "devils! what are you here for, santuzza? are you on your way to church?" "not now. i am here to speak with you----" "well, well, i cannot stop for it; i must go into the inn and see my mother just now." "you must stay here and speak with me. i warn you to do it, turiddu. i am very unhappy, and if you will give up lola i will forget all your wrongdoing. but if you neglect me, and will not give up alfio's wife, alfio will surely learn of it and make you trouble." "oh, come now--do you think you can frighten me? i will be a slave to no woman's whim, santuzza. go about your business. i shall attend to mine without your help. no, i will listen to you no longer," he cried, becoming angrier as she spoke, and pushing her away from him, as lola, in the street near the square could be heard singing. santuzza and turiddu both paused and listened. she was singing of turiddu. she was calling him her "king of roses." and then, while the two were standing uncertain what to do, lola entered the square and spied them. "hello," she called loftily, looking at santuzza. "have you seen alfio, turiddu?" "no, i have only just now come into the square." "oh, perhaps you have come to church," she persisted impertinently. "i--i stopped to tell santuzza--" he hardly knew what to say. "i stopped to see turiddu," santuzza interrupted earnestly. "i stopped to say that the good lord beholds all our deeds." "ah--then you are not going to mass?" "no--those who go to mass must have a clear conscience. which of us here has that?" "really i know nothing about you," lola answered; "as for mine--it is clear!" turiddu foreseeing trouble between them interrupted hastily. "let us go in," speaking to lola. "oh, stay with santuzza--and her conscience! do!" "yes, turiddu--i warn you!" at that lola laughed and went into the church. "now what have you done? by your folly, angered lola. i am done with you!" turiddu exclaimed, throwing off santuzza, who held him back while she spoke. he became so enraged that he treated her brutally; and in trying to rid himself of her he threw her down upon the stones, and then ran into the church. when she got upon her feet again she was furious with anger. "now i will punish him for all his faithlessness," she sobbed, and she no sooner took this resolve than fate seemed to give her the means of carrying it out, for at that moment alfio came back into the square. "oh, neighbour alfio! god himself must have sent you here!" "at what point is the service?" "it is almost over, but i must tell you--lola is gone to it with turiddu." "what do you mean by that?" alfio demanded, regarding her in wonder. "i mean that while you are about your business turiddu remains here, and your wife finds in him a way to pass the time. she does not love you." "if you are not telling me the truth," alfio said, with anguish, "i'll certainly kill you." "you have only to watch--you will know the truth fast enough," she persisted. alfio stood a moment in indecision and looked at her steadfastly. "santuzza, i believe you. your words--and the sadness of your face--convince me. i will avenge us both." and off he ran. for a moment santuzza was glad, then remorse overtook her. now turiddu would be killed! she was certain of it. alfio was not a man to be played with. surely turiddu would be killed! and there was his old mother, too, who would be left quite alone. when it was too late, santuzza repented having spoken. she tried to recall alfio, but he had gone. the organ within the church swelled loudly again, and, the music being most beautiful, santuzza stood listening in an agony of mind. soon people began to come out, and old lucia hobbled from the church in her turn, and crossed to her inn, followed by the young men and women. the men were all going home to their wives, and the women to their duties, but it was proposed that all should stop a moment at old lucia's for a glass of her famous wine before they separated. as they went to the bar of the inn, which was out under the trees, lola and turiddu came from the church together. "i must hurry home now--i haven't seen alfio yet--and he will be in a rage," she said. "not so fast--there is plenty of time! come, neighbours, have a glass of wine with us," turiddu cried to the crowd, going to his mother's bar, and there they gathered singing a gay drinking song. "to those who love you!" turiddu pledged, lifting his glass and looking at lola. she nodded and answered: "to your good fortune, brother!" and while they were speaking alfio entered. "greeting to you all," he called. "good! come and join us," turiddu answered. "thank you! but i should expect you to poison me if i were to drink with you, my friend," and the wagoner looked meaningly at turiddu. "oh--well, suit yourself," turiddu replied, nonchalantly. then a neighbour standing near lola whispered: "you had better leave here, lola. come home with me. i can foresee trouble here." lola took her advice and went out, with all the women following her. "well, now that you have frightened away all the women by your behaviour, maybe you have something to say to me privately," turiddu remarked, turning to alfio. "nothing--except that i am going to kill you--this instant!" "you think so? then we will embrace," turiddu exclaimed, proposing the custom of the place and throwing his arms about his enemy. when he did so, alfio bit turiddu's ear, which, in sicily, is a challenge to a duel. "good! i guess we understand each other." "well, i own that i have done you wrong--and santuzza wrong. altogether, i am a bad fellow; but if you are going to kill me, i must bid my mother good-bye, and also give santuzza into her care. after all, i have some grace left, whether you think so or not," turiddu cried, and then he called his mother out, while alfio went away with the understanding that turiddu should immediately follow and get the fight over. "mama," turiddu then said to old lucia when she hobbled out, "that wine of ours is certainly very exciting. i am going out to walk it off, and i want your blessing before i go." he tried to keep up a cheerful front that he might not frighten his old mother. at least he had the grace to behave himself fairly well, now that the end had come. "if i shouldn't come back----" "what can you mean, my son?" the old woman whispered, trembling with fear. "nothing, nothing, except that even before i go to walk, i want your promise to take santuzza to live with you. now that is all! i'm off. good-bye, god bless you, mother. i love you very much." before she hardly knew what had happened, turiddu was off and away. she ran to the side of the square and called after him, but he did not return. instead, santuzza ran in. "oh, mama lucia," she cried, throwing her arms about her. then the people who had met alfio and turiddu on their way to their encounter began to rush in. everybody was wildly excited. both men were village favourites in their way. a great noise of rioting was heard and some one shrieked in the distance. "oh, neighbour, neighbour, turiddu is killed, turiddu is killed!" at this nearly every one in the little village came running, while santuzza fell upon the ground in a faint. "he is killed! alfio has killed him!" others cried, running in, and then poor old lucia fell unconscious beside santuzza, while the neighbours gathered about her, lifted her up and carried her into her lonely inn. meyerbeer genius seems born to do stupid things and to be unable to know it. probably no stupider thing was ever said or done than that by wagner when he wrote a diatribe on the jew in art. he called it "das judenthum in der musik" (judaism in music). he declared that the mightiest people in art and in several other things--the jews--could not be artists for the reason that they were wanderers and therefore lacking in national characteristics. there could not well have been a better plea against his own statement. art is often national--but not when art is at its best. art is an emotional result--and emotion is a thing the jews know something about. meyerbeer was a jew, and the most helpful friend richard wagner ever had, yet wagner was so little of a jew that he did not know the meaning of appreciation and gratitude. instead, he hated meyerbeer and his music intensely. meyerbeer may have been a wanderer upon the face of the earth and without national characteristics--which is a truly amusing thing to say of a jew, since his "characteristics" are a good deal stronger than "national": they are racial! but however that may have been, meyerbeer's music was certainly characteristic of its composer. as between jew and jew, mendelssohn and he had a petty hatred of each other. mendelssohn was always displeased when the extraordinary likeness between himself and meyerbeer was commented upon. they were so much alike in physique that one night, after mendelssohn had been tormented by his attention being repeatedly called to the fact, he cut his hair short in order to make as great a difference as possible between his appearance and that of his rival. this only served to create more amusement among his friends. rossini, with all the mean vanity of a small artist, one whose principal claim to fame lay in large dreams, declared that meyerbeer was a "mere compiler." if that be true, one must say that a good compilation is better than a poor creation. rossini and meyerbeer were, nevertheless, warm friends. meyerbeer put into practice the wagnerian theories, which may have been one reason, aside from the constitutional artistic reasons, why wagner hated him. meyerbeer was born "to the purple," to a properly conducted life, and yet he laboured with tremendous vim. he outworked all his fellows, and one day when a friend protested, begging him to take rest, meyerbeer answered: "if i should stop work i should rob myself of my greatest enjoyment. i am so accustomed to it that it has become a necessity with me." this is the true art spirit, which many who "arrive" never know the joy of possessing. meyerbeer's father was a rich jewish banker, jacob beer, of berlin. it is pleasant to think of one man, capable of large achievements, having an easy time of it, finding himself free all his life to follow his best creative instincts. it is not often so. meyerbeer's generosity of spirit in regard to the greatness of another is shown in this anecdote: above all music, the jew best loved mozart's, just as mozart loved haydn's. upon one occasion when meyerbeer was dining with some friends, a question arose about mozart's place among composers. some one remarked that "certain beauties of mozart's music had become stale with age." another agreed, and added, "i defy any one to listen to 'don giovanni' after the fourth act of 'les huguenots'!" this vulgar compliment enraged meyerbeer. "so much the worse then for the fourth act of 'the huguenots'!" he shouted. of all his own work this jewish composer loved "l'africaine" the best, and he made and remade it during a period of seventeen years. in this he was the best judge of his own work; though some persons believe that "le prophète" is greater. among meyerbeer's eccentricities was one that cannot be labelled erratic. he had a wholesome horror of being buried alive, and he carried a slip about in his pocket, instructing whom it might concern to see that his body was kept unburied four days after his death, that small bells were attached to his hands and feet, and that all the while he should be watched. then he was to be sent to berlin to be interred beside his mother, whom he dearly loved. the prophet characters of the opera count oberthal, lord of the manor. john of leyden, an innkeeper and then a revolutionist (the prophet). jonas } mathison } anabaptists. zacharia } bertha, affianced to john of leyden. faith, john's mother. choir: peasants, soldiers, people, officers. story laid in holland, near dordrecht, about the fifteenth century. composer: meyerbeer. author: scribe. act i one beautiful day about four hundred years ago the sun rose upon a castle on the meuse, where lived the count oberthal, known in holland as lord of the manor. it was a fine sight with its drawbridge and its towers, its mills and outbuildings, with antique tables outside the great entrance, sacks of grain piled high, telling of industry and plenty. in the early day peasants arrived with their grain sacks, called for entrance, and the doors were opened to them; other men with grain to be milled came and went, and the scene presented a lively appearance. sheep-bells were heard in the meadows, the breezes blew softly, and men and women went singing gaily about their work. among them was a young girl, more beautiful than the others, and her heart was specially full of hope. she was beloved of an innkeeper, john, who lived in a neighbouring village. he was prosperous and good, and she thought of him while she worked. she longed to be his wife, but john had an old mother who was mistress of the inn--in fact, the inn was hers--and it had been a question how they should arrange their affairs. john was too poor to go away and make a separate home, and the old mother might not care to have a daughter-in-law take her place as mistress there, carrying on the business while the active old woman sat idly by. upon that beautiful day, bertha was thinking of all of these things, and hoping something would happen to change the situation. even while she was thinking thus fate had a pleasant surprise in store for her, because the old mother, faith, was at that very moment approaching the manor where bertha lived. like others of her class she owed vassalage to some petty seigneur, and while that meant oppression to be endured, it included the advantage of safety and protection in time of war. bertha, looking off over the country road, saw faith, john's mother, coming. her step was firm for one so aged, and she was upheld on her long journey by the goodness of her mission. when bertha saw her she ran to meet and welcome her. "sit down," she cried, guiding the old woman's steps to a seat, and hovering over her. "i have watched for your coming since the morning--even since sunrise," the young woman said, fluttering about happily. "i was certain thou wert coming." "yes, yes. john said: 'go, go, mother, and bring bertha home to me,' and i have come," she answered, caressing bertha kindly. "i have decided to give over the work and the care to you young people; to sit by the chimneyside and see you happy; so bid farewell to this place, and prepare to return with me. john is expecting thee." "at once, dear mother?" she asked with some anxiety. "you know, mother, i am a vassal of the seigneur oberthal, and may not marry outside of his domain, without his permission. i must first get that; but he cannot wish to keep me here, when there is so much happiness in store for me!" she cried, with all the assurance of her happiness newly upon her. but while she had been speaking, faith had looked off toward the high-road: "look, bertha! dost see three strange figures coming along there?" she asked in a low tone, pointing toward the road. bertha looked. it was true: three men, in black, of sinister appearance, were coming toward them. the pair watched. "who are they?" she repeated, still in low and half-frightened tones. "i have seen them before," bertha answered. "it is said that they are saintly men, but they look sinister to me." by this time the men had been joined by many of the peasants and were approaching the castle. they were jonas, mathison, and zacharia, seditionists; but they were going through the country in the garb of holy men, stirring up the people under cover of saintliness. they preached to the people the most absurd doctrines; that they would have all the lands and castles of the nobles if they should rise up and rebel against the system of vassalage that then prevailed. they lacked a leader, however, in order to make their work successful. now they had come to dordrecht and were approaching the castle of the count of oberthal. all the peasants got into a frightful tangle of trouble and riot, and they called and hammered at the count's doors till he and his retainers came out. "what is all this noise?" he demanded, and as he spoke, he recognized in jonas, the leader of the anabaptists, a servant whom he had discharged for thievery. he at once told the peasants of this, and it turned them against the three strangers and stopped the disturbance, but at the back of the crowd the count oberthal had seen the beautiful bertha and faith. "what do ye do here?" he asked, curiously but kindly, noticing the beauty of bertha. at that she went toward him. "i wish to ask you, seigneur, for leave to marry outside your domain. i love john of leyden, the innkeeper--this is his mother--and she has come to take me home with her, if i may go." she spoke modestly, never thinking but she would be permitted to leave. but oberthal looked at her admiringly and decided that he would have her for himself. then thinking of her love, she began to sing of how john had once saved her life, and faith joined her in pleading. [music: one day in the waves of the meuse i struggled i struggled john, john saved me--] "no," oberthal said at last, smiling; "i will not have so much loveliness leave my domain. no! i shall not give my consent." at that she began to weep, while faith protested against his decision. this made him angry and he ordered the two woman taken into his castle and confined there till he should decide what he wished to do with them. the peasants, who were still gathered about the anabaptists, uncertain how to treat them after the count's disclosures, now showed great anger against oberthal for his action toward bertha and faith. as the two women were dragged within the castle, the peasants set up a howl of rage, while the anabaptists extended their hands above them in a pious manner and began their latin chant once more. act ii at the little inn belonging to faith, john had been waiting all day for her return with bertha, and trying his best to look after those who came and went. outside, people were waltzing and drinking and making merry, for the inn was a favourite place for the townsmen of leyden to congregate. "sing and waltz; sing and waltz!" they cried, "all life is joy--and three cheers for thee, john!" "hey! john, bring beer," a soldier called merrily. "let us eat, drink and--" at that moment jonas, followed by the other anabaptists, appeared at the inn. "john! who is john?" they inquired of the soldier. "john! john!" first one, then another called. "here are some gentlemen who want beer--although they are very unlikely looking chaps," some one added, under his breath, looking the three fellows over. john came in to take orders, but his mind was elsewhere. "it is near night--and they have not come," he kept thinking. "i wonder if anything can have happened to them! surely not! my mother is old, but she is lively on her feet, and on her way home she would have the attention of bertha. only i should feel better to see them just now." "come, come, john! beer!" the soldier interrupted, and john started from his reverie. as he went to fetch the beer, jonas too started. then he leaned toward mathison. "do you notice anything extraordinary about that man--john of the inn?" he asked. the two other anabaptists regarded the innkeeper closely. "yes! he is the image of david--the saint in münster, whose image is so worshipped by the westphalians. they believe that same saint has worked great miracles among them," zacharia answered, all the while watching john as he moved about among the tables. "listen to this! just such a man was needed to complete our success. this man's strong, handsome appearance and his strange likeness to that blessed image of those absurd westphalians is enough to make him a successful leader. we'll get hold of him, call him a prophet, and the business is done. with him to lead and we to control him, we are likely to own all holland presently. he is a wonder!" and they put their heads together and continued to talk among themselves. then jonas turned to one of the guests. "say, friend, who is this man?" "he is the keeper of this inn," was the answer. "he has an excellent heart and a terrible arm." "a fiery temper, i should say," the anabaptist suggested. "that he has, truly." "he is brave?" "aye! and devoted. and he knows the whole bible by heart," the peasant declared, proud of his friend. at that the three looked meaningly at one another. this certainly was the sort of man they needed. "come, friends, i want you to be going," john said at that moment, his anxiety for his mother and bertha becoming so great that he could no longer bear the presence of the roistering crowd. "besides it is going to storm. come. i must close up." they all rose good-naturedly and one by one and in groups took themselves off--all but the three anabaptists, who lingered behind. "what troubles thee, friend?" jonas said sympathetically to john, when all had gone, and he looked toward them inquiringly. "the fact is, my mother was to have returned to leyden with my fiancée before this hour, and i am a little troubled to know they are so late upon the road. i imagine i feel the more anxious because of some bad dreams i have had lately--two nights." he added, trying to smile. "pray tell us what your dreams were. we can some of us interpret dreams. come! perhaps they mean good rather than bad," jonas urged. "why, i dreamed that i was standing in a beautiful temple, with everything very splendid about me, while everybody was bowing down to me----" "well, that is good!" jonas interrupted. "ah! but wait! a crown was on my brow and a hidden choir were chanting a sacred chant. they kept repeating: 'this is the new king! the king whom heaven has given us.' and then upon a blazing marble tablet there appeared the words 'woe through thee! woe through thee!' and as i was about to draw my sword i was nearly drowned in a sea of blood. to escape that i tried to mount the throne beside me. but i and the throne were swept away by a frightful storm which rose. and at that moment the devil began to drag me down, while the people cried: 'let him be accursed!' but out of the sky came a voice and it cried 'mercy--mercy to him!' and then i woke trembling with the vividness of my dream. i have dreamed thus twice. it troubles me." and he paused abstractedly, listening to the storm without, which seemed to grow more boisterous. "friend, let me interpret that dream as it should be understood. it means that you are born to reign over the people. you may go through difficulties to reach your throne, but you shall reign over the people." "humph!" he answered, smiling incredulously, "i may reign, but it shall be a reign of love over this little domestic world of mine. i want my mother and my sweetheart, and want no more. let them arrive safely this night, and i'll hand over that dream-throne to you!" he answered, going to the door. "listen again!" jonas persisted. "you do not know us but you have heard of us. we are those holy men who have been travelling through holland, telling people their sacred rights as human beings; and pointing out to them that god never meant them for slaves. join us, and that throne you dreamed of shall become a real one, and thine! come! consent, and you go with us. that kingdom shall be yours. you have the head and heart and the behaviour of a brave and good man." thus they urged him, but john only put them aside. he listened to them half in derision. "wait till i get my bertha and my mother safe into this house this night, then we'll think of that fine kingdom ye are planning for me," he said. the anabaptists seeing that his mind was too troubled with his own affairs, got up and went out. "well, thank heaven!" john cried when they had gone. "what queer fellows, to be sure! i wish it were not so late----" at that moment a great noise arose outside the inn. "what can that mean?" he said to himself, standing in the middle of the floor, hardly daring to look out, he was so disturbed. the noise became greater. "it is the galloping of soldiers, by my faith!" he cried, and was starting toward the door when it was burst open and bertha threw herself into his arms. "what is this! what has happened? good heaven! you are all torn and----" "save me, save and hide me!" she cried. "thy mother is coming. the soldiers are after us--look!" and glancing toward the window he saw oberthal coming near with his soldiers. he hastily hid bertha behind some curtains in one part of the room, just as oberthal rushed in. he demanded bertha, telling john how he had taken the two women and was carrying them to haarlem when bertha got away. now he had faith, the mother, and would keep her as hostage, unless bertha was instantly given into his hands. upon hearing that, john was distracted with grief. "give her up, or i'll kill this old woman before thy eyes!" he declared brutally. john was torn between love for his old mother and for his sweetheart, and while he stood staring wildly at oberthal the soldiers brought his mother in and were about to cleave her head in twain when bertha tore the curtains apart. she could not let john sacrifice his mother for her. oberthal fairly threw her into the arms of his soldiers, while the old mother stretched her arms toward john, who fell upon a seat with his head in his hands. then, after the soldiers and oberthal had gone, the poor old woman tried to comfort him, but his grief was so tragic that he could not endure it, and he begged her to go to her room and leave him alone for a time. soon after she had gone out, john heard the strange chant of the anabaptists. he raised his head and listened--that was like his dream--the sacred chant! "it is my dream," he said. then he started up furiously. "it is my revenge. if those strange men should come again and ask----" and at that very moment they summoned him to the door. they knew what had passed, and believed it a good time to persuade him to join them. "enter, enter, enter!" he cried, half beside himself with his grief; and the three strange creatures came in. "john of leyden, we come to offer you a throne once more, and with it your revenge for what has happened here this night." "i will join thee for my revenge. i need no throne--but my revenge! i must have my revenge!" "come, and thou shalt have it. work henceforth as we direct, and as that sainted figure of david, beloved by those of westphalia, and we promise you revenge against the whole nobility of holland. come!" "aye--thou shalt be to holland what jeanne d'arc was to france!" john went softly, yet quivering with hate and sorrow, to his mother's door. "she mutters a prayer in her sleep," he said, hesitating what to do, yet overwhelmed with misfortune and fury. "thy revenge!" whispered zacharia in his ear. john of leyden looked at him darkly a moment, then: "let us go," he said, and the four conspirators went softly from the old inn. act iii at the close of day, at the foot of an ice-covered mountain, forests on every side, the anabaptists were encamped in westphalia. john of leyden had gone to that part of germany under the direction of jonas, mathison, and zacharia, and being introduced to the people as a sainted man, all had fallen down and worshipped him and he had become a great power. so many had rallied round him that his army had become very large, and the nobles and their families were fleeing from it in consternation. just before nightfall, while all seemed quiet in camp, a noise of battle was heard far off, which grew louder and louder, telling of the approach of the fighters. finally, the noise of combat was right at hand, and when the soldiers rushed into the camp there was great confusion. among the prisoners were men and women richly dressed, little children, and old people, all prisoners, or flying on every side. the anabaptists were ferocious in their joy over every success, and since john of leyden had joined and led them they had been most successful. peasants came into camp with baskets and loads of food, while those things were bought by giving in exchange many spoils of war--rich vases and fine stuffs of all sorts. then the soldiers fell to eating and drinking, being served by their women and children while there was dancing and general rejoicing. many of the girls who had brought provisions into camp had skated over miles of frozen waterway, thinking little of such a performance in that country, and all was gaiety and expectation. it was known that the emperor was marching against the anabaptist army, and while john of leyden had been very successful, he had as yet no stronghold; so he decided, after talking with jonas and the other two seditionists, to attack the city of münster itself. that city was held by the father of the count oberthal, who had carried off bertha. then, when the rout and camp gaiety were at their height, a stranger who had been seen wandering about the camp was brought in. he was looked upon with suspicion, and it was decided that he must immediately take an oath to belong to the anabaptists. he agreed to do so and then, while every one was talking about the prophet, the stranger was brought before jonas. "who is it?" he asked, for outside the rays of the camp lights the wood was dark. "one who is ready to take the oath and join us," was the answer. "very well, but in this dense wood who can see anything at this time of the night? strike a light there." "yes, have a care, brother," said zacharia. "let us be certain the man is sincere in his purpose to join us." "to-morrow we go to take münster, which is in the hands of that traitor oberthal," mathison said. the stranger started violently. "we shall massacre the wretch and his people," jonas continued. "massacre!" the stranger exclaimed, then aside he murmured "my father!" because in truth the stranger who had been caught near the camp was none other than the oberthal who had carried away bertha. the three anabaptists continued to speak in so blood-thirsty a manner of their exploits that oberthal was horrified by the thought that it was his father who was to fall into their hands on the morrow. more than that, they expected him to swear to join their expedition. "well, here we stand, talking in the darkness still. let us get out of it," jonas cried, and they moved toward the light of the camp, taking oberthal with them. suddenly when in the bright light, jonas recognized his old master who had sent him away and punished him for stealing. "heaven! well, i have you now!" he cried, wickedly. "now i'll make short work of you!" and he called the guard. "here! surround him. lead him instantly to execution." "without consulting the prophet?" all cried in amazement. that was high-handed work, indeed. "wait for nothing. kill him," jonas cried, going excitedly by one path, as john the prophet came upon the scene by another. he was sad and cast down, and zacharia spoke to him. "what is wrong with you?" "i get small joy from all this," he answered. "jeanne d'arc was born to such affairs, but i was better off in my inn, serving my people. it is a bad business," and he was very melancholy. "what is this you say?" "i say that i think of my bertha and my mother. i wish i were with them, while others were reforming holland." "but thy mother and thy sweetheart, since they got into the hands of oberthal, are doubtless dead." "then there is little for me to fight for. i shall stop now; do you carry on your schemes as best you may. who is that prisoner?" he asked, as oberthal was brought back by the soldiers. "it is a man who is about to be executed." "oh--he is? who says so, since i say otherwise?" john replied, looking at zacharia contemptuously. "i am thy prophet," he declared with hardly less contempt in his tone than before. "i am thy prophet and settle these matters of life and death. i settle this one. yonder man shall not die. i am in a humane mood." he motioned the guard to bring oberthal, whom he had not yet seen, before him. when face to face, john of leyden lifted his eyes and looked again upon the man who had brought all his woes upon him; who had so persecuted him that he had in a mad moment left his peaceful inn, and undertaken to change the face of germany. he had already wrought untold pain and suffering. "oberthal!" he said, hardly able to speak because of his emotion. "ah! thou wilt still treat him tenderly, i doubt not!" zacharia cried, sneeringly. for a moment john of leyden could not speak; then he said: "leave us!" his tone was awful, yet showed great self-repression. "so!" he said, after gazing at oberthal a moment. "heaven has delivered thee into my hands!" "it is just. my crime merits my punishment," oberthal said in a low voice. "but i will tell thee one thing which is thy due and may save my soul from damnation: thy bertha, to save herself from my hands, threw herself into the sea, and thus escaped me." "dead, dead!" john of leyden said, bowing his head a moment upon his hands. "no! there is more. touched with remorse, i saved her." "and then,--speak!" "she fled to münster, and i was on my way there to find her and to try to restore her to thee, when i was arrested." "oberthal, thy fate shall rest with her. i spare thee till she shall pronounce sentence upon thee." he had no sooner spoken than mathison rushed in and cried that the troops had rebelled, and that john alone could stop the riot and stay the ruin. "the gates of münster have been thrown open, its army has marched upon us, and our men are fleeing." "run! run!" john of leyden shouted. "after them, and turn them back. münster must be ours!" and he rushed off, the anabaptists following. when he managed to rally the soldiers, they turned upon him and accused him of being a false prophet. "ye promised us to take münster; thy dallying has lost it to us. we shall no longer tolerate a rule like thine. thou art no prophet." but since learning that bertha was within the city of münster, john of leyden's purpose had become fixed. if he entered that city at all, it must be as a conqueror; because as a seditionist his head was wanted there. yet if he did not enter he could not find bertha. when they had cried death to the prophet, john of leyden calmly, with great impressiveness, made them cower before his rage. "i punish rebellion like this. if you have come to grief--or if the cause shall--it is because you have offended god by your haste, and by your disobedience to me," he cried, while the soldiers shouted: "he speaks like a holy man! we have done wrong." "get to your knees, you impious men!" he cried, seeing his advantage over them, and they all fell upon their knees. his personality had gained the control over a great people once again. with this spirit of enthusiasm aroused, the city of münster was soon taken, and a great hymn of triumph went up. all the people likened john of leyden to david, and rallied round him, proclaiming him king. act iv before the city hall of the city of münster, many citizens were collected, and many were continually arriving, bearing rich bronzes, and chests of treasure, which they were hoping to save for themselves by placing them under the direct protection of the city. the invading hosts of john's army filled all with fear. no one was more furious against the prophet than bertha, who, being in münster, had no thought that the prophet who had laid waste the whole country could be her beloved sweetheart. the public square before the city hall was soon invaded by the soldiers of john, who were crying, "long live the prophet!" while answering cries of "down with him! down with thy prophet!" were courageously shouted by the people of münster. "this prophet who is to be crowned king of the anabaptists; he is of satan and not of heaven!" the whole city was full of despair. while all was in confusion, faith, john's mother, was seen to wander in and kneel in prayer. "what art thou doing there, mother?" one of the crowd questioned. "i am praying for my son. i am begging for money that i may buy masses for his soul. i am hungry and cold. i am alone in the world. all the world seems buried in grief. i pray. there is no other hope save in prayer!" she moaned, little thinking that it was her son who had brought upon a nation so much desolation, and who at the same time was about to be crowned by the revolutionists. as people passed, they dropped money into her hand, and some led her a little way to a seat where she could rest her weary body. she had become very old and trembling since that night when she had last seen her son. she had wandered from the old inn in search of him, and had never found him; and she had no sooner left the old home than bertha, saved from oberthal, had flown to the inn again, to throw herself into the strong arms of her lover. she had found the place closed, for faith and john had gone, no one knew where. after begging and praying in the public square, faith found herself near a sick and almost helpless man, close to the palace toward which she had wandered. many people were about. the prophet was going to be crowned, so it was rumoured. among others, bertha had wandered near. "thou poor, helpless brother," said faith. "let me, out of my poverty, help thee a little." at the sound of that voice bertha paused, turned, and nearly shrieked. she had wandered alone and hopeless; and there stood faith, her lover's mother. "oh, dear mother!" she cried, and they threw themselves into each other's arms. "oh, mother! how i sought for thee!" she sobbed. "since you were not to be found in leyden, i turned myself toward münster, hoping against hope to find you or john. now take me to him. let us go quickly!" she urged, but old faith held back. "my child, he is dead. i heard a voice declare to me that i should see him no more. it was an unseen voice. he is dead." whereupon, both women fell to weeping in each other's arms. "it has to do with these wicked men who have brought ruin upon germany!--these anabaptists!" bertha cried. "oh, john, if thou couldst rise from thy grave and help me now. thy courage and goodness would raise up men to drive back these who do bad deeds in the name of god." she cursed the famous prophet, neither of them dreaming who he might be, and that desolation had come because the man whom they loved best had sought revenge for the wrongs done to them. with those curses in their hearts, the forlorn women wandered on with the crowd toward the cathedral where the prophet was to be crowned. some of his suite had already gone into the church, but many were arriving in a grand procession. the appearance of the prophet's guard aroused great indignation among the citizens, who were compelled to look on helplessly. then came the prophet himself, garbed all in white, from head to foot, and a wonderful march was being played, while the spectacle grew each moment more and more magnificent. [music] as john the prophet passed, the revolutionary crowd threw themselves at his feet; young girls strewed flowers in his path, the choir chanted. then, the anabaptists having deposed the elector princes, were to take their places. the prophet was anointed with holy oil, a great and impressive ceremony took place, and all the city rang with the cries that proclaimed him king. faith and bertha could not see the new king, but they were in the crowd, and they cursed this prophet again--none so vigorously as bertha, while faith hailed her as a new judith. after a time, all being prostrate upon their knees awaiting the reëntrance of the prophet from the church, john appeared upon the great staircase which led from the cathedral. as he stood there looking unhappily upon all of those abased people who seemed to be worshipping him, he thought he heard the voice of his dream of long ago. "woe through thee! let him be accursed!" overcome by the memory, he uttered those words aloud. faith heard the voice and screamed: "my son! my son!" john of leyden trembled and started toward her, his arms outstretched, but mathison, knowing the disastrous effect such an acknowledgment would have upon the crowd who believed him of holy origin, said in a low voice to john: "speak! reply to her, and she shall die, instantly! deny thy mother, or she shall be killed before thine eyes." the anabaptists had no mind to lose all they had risked so much for, when it was just within their grasp. john looked at his mother, in agony and then he regained his self-possession. "who is this woman?" he asked: it was to save her life that he did it. at that cold denial of her, faith clasped her hands and wept. then she became enraged at his ingratitude, and began to upbraid him. "this poor wretch is mad," he said, but by that time the crowd was beginning to murmur against him. "he said he was the son of god! he is an impostor." the anabaptists seeing how fatal the effect of faith's words was going to be, spoke menacingly to john. then john cried, as jonas raised his sword to strike the old mother down: "hold! respect the day! i, thy prophet, hath to-day received his crown. no bloodshed. this poor creature is demented. a miracle alone can restore her reason," and he went toward faith. "woman, to thy knees!" he said, but she made a gesture of indignation. he continued to go toward her, then laying his hands lovingly upon her head he looked meaningly into her eyes. "to thy knees." his voice was soft and gentle, and slowly faith fell upon her knees, half comprehending that he was acting as fate compelled him. "put up thy swords!" he commanded the people who had drawn them. then to faith: "thou wert wrong, good mother!" she looked at him a moment longer. "yes!--wrong," she said, and bowed her head. at that the people burst into cries of enthusiasm. "is he thy child?" jonas asked loudly, placing his sword-point upon her breast. "alas! no, he is not my son!" she answered in a weak voice. "a miracle! a miracle!" all cried, and then the prophet passed on, faith looking after him without following, the people again acclaiming him with joyous shouts. act v in a dungeon underneath the palace, john found his mother. he went to the place where he had privately ordered the anabaptists to have her taken, the moment he could leave the ceremonies of his coronation. the feast of the day was yet to come, but while the ceremonies had been going on, the three anabaptists had had a message from the emperor of germany, which promised safety to themselves, if they would give the prophet into his hands. they had treacherously decided to do this at the coronation feast. in the dungeon the poor old mother had huddled down, no longer in fear, because her grief had rendered her insensible to everything else. "i forgive him," she sobbed, thinking of her son. "let no ill come to him for what he has done to me this day." as she was thus plunged in deepest grief, the iron door opened, flambeaux lighted the palace up, and the guard cried the prophet's name. "woman, get upon thy knees; the prophet is coming to thee," an officer said. she started up: "he is coming here--i shall see him?" she whispered to herself. then the guard left, and john of leyden came in. he ran toward his mother. "mother! my mother!" he cried. "nay!" she answered. "in the crowd i obeyed thee--i read some strange message in thy face. but here, with only god's eye upon thee, go down on thy knees before me." "oh, mother, i love thee!" but the old mother reproached him with what he had done--how he had brought a people to despair and had imposed himself upon them as the son of god; but all the while she chided him, she loved him dearly. "it was my wrongs that made me do this thing, mother," he urged. but she showed him all his wickedness with such vehemence that he could not answer, and could only weep. then she spoke quietly. "if thou art remorseful for thy sins, proclaim thy wrong. be thyself, john of leyden, the innkeeper, my son!" "desert my soldiers?" he asked, in a frightened voice. "i have led others into danger--dare i desert them?" "thy mother demands it: it is the only way to right thy wrongdoing. the blessing of god will only then descend upon thee." the prophet, overwhelmed by her command, opened his arms to heaven as a sign that he would obey, and faith threw herself upon his breast. now bertha, utterly distracted by her troubles, had disguised herself as a pilgrim, and in her madness she had determined to set fire to the stores of wood beneath the palace. she found her way into the dungeon just as john and his mother were embracing. as the iron doors were heard to open again, john turned around and saw a woman enter. as she saw john she cried bitterly: "behold the prophet!" both john and faith cried out upon recognizing her voice. "now, let us perish together!" bertha said, wildly, approaching john. then suddenly recognizing him she stifled a scream: "thou! the prophet is thou? my god, my god! then let us perish now!" she stared in horror at the man she loved, who was also the man she had cursed and despised--the famous prophet. "oh, my child, speak low, speak low!" faith implored, looking anxiously toward the iron door. "abandon thy hate. i have found my son. he will do right. have pity upon him," the old mother pleaded. bertha looking at him, felt all the love of her heart enfold him again. the madness died out her eyes. "yes. let us not hate. let us curse no more. far from this dread city, we three were to have been happy. yes, i love thee still; but still thou art the infamous man whom i have cursed. since i love thee, let this atone for thee," and before he could answer, she had plunged a dagger into her heart and fallen dead at his feet. then john summoned the guard. he no longer cared to live. the officer of the guard, who was faithful to him, told him, when he entered, of the plot to give him over to the emperor, while the coronation feast was in progress. "very well. i am satisfied. do thou take my mother to a place of safety. i shall be at the feast," he said significantly. embracing his mother, he handed her into the care of the astonished guard, and left the dungeon. nothing could have been more magnificent than the banquet prepared for the coronation. the tables were loaded with golden dishes, and young women passed, scattering flowers, while pages in gay dress ran hither and thither. there, john entered, and sat apart, as had been arranged. he was pale and sad. all was gaiety about him, but he had prepared an awful fate for his betrayers. in the vaults of the palace were stored powder and firearms of all sorts. just above those vaults was the banqueting room, which had great iron gates closed at one end. the company could only leave the room by those gates. john of leyden had brought two officers whom he could trust into the hall with him, and unheard, he commanded them to close and lock the gates as soon as the anabaptists zacharia, mathison, and jonas, with oberthal, the great power of münster and the bishops--all who were his enemies and to whom the anabaptists meant to betray him--were assembled. then the feast began. all hailed the prophet in loud voices, pretending great affection and faith in him. in the midst of a dance by which the guests were entertained, faith, whom he thought quite safe, entered. she knew what he had done--that he meant to blow up the palace by firing the vaults below, and she had determined to die with her son. the prophet had not yet seen her. the anabaptists and john's enemies spoke apart, and john watched them cynically. he knew well what they intended, and that he had them trapped. "now close the gates," he said in a low voice to his officers. "lock them." he had not seen his mother. when the gates were closed, he turned smilingly to the company. he called for wine. "let us drink!" he cried. then oberthal rose and shouted: "thou art mine, great prophet! surrender thyself." still the prophet smiled at them. jonas then cried: "yes, thou tyrant--thou art betrayed. we have thee fast! surrender!" "oh, ye poor creatures," he answered. "listen! do ye hear nothing?" still smiling upon them, as they stared at him, they heard a strange rumbling below. the train he had laid to blow up the palace had fired the powder. "thy time has come!" john of leyden cried, and the vast hall began to fill with smoke and powder fumes. riot reigned, and just at that moment faith, her gray hair streaming about her, pushed through the crowd and threw herself into her son's arms. he gave a great cry of agony. "mother! thou art here?" "to die with thee, my son!" she shrieked, and with a roar the palace fell about their ears. mozart it is not at all probable that anything so ridiculous as the "magic flute" story was ever before written. it might have been the concerted effort of artemus ward, theodore hook, bill nye, and mark twain. but an effort at coherence must be made in the putting together of this story, because the opera is, above all things, one that every man, woman, and child should know. mozart's lovely music could not be ruined, even by this story. it has been said that the "magic flute" might have had some masonic significance. that is quite likely, on the ground that it has no other significance whatever. this opera proves one thing beyond a doubt: that mozart could have written beautiful music with the new york directory for a theme. rossini summed up mozart very properly: "who is the greatest musician in the world?" some one asked him. "beethoven," rossini answered. "but what about mozart?" "well, you see, mozart is the _only_ musician in the world," he answered, allowing of no comparisons! and he is the only one, yet, to some of us! that he was a man of the most fascinating temper cannot be doubted, when one reads his memoirs. he was without any financial judgment. he could make money, but he couldn't keep it. there is a story illustrating the dominance of his heart over his head, told in connection with an offer of patronage from the king of prussia. at that time mozart was emperor leopold's musician, and when he went to leopold to offer his resignation and take advantage of the better arrangement which the prussian king had offered, leopold said urgently: "but, mozart, you surely are not going to forsake me?" "no, of course not," mozart answered hastily. "may it please your majesty, i shall remain." when his friends asked him if he had not been wise enough to make some demand to his own advantage at such a time, he answered in amazement: "why, who could do such a thing--at such a time?" his sentiment was charming, his character fascinating. he married constance weber, herself a celebrated person. she was never tired of speaking and writing of her husband. it was she who told of his small, beautifully formed hands, and of his favourite amusements--playing at bowls and billiards. the latter sport, by the way, has been among the favoured amusements of many famous musicians; paderewski is a great billiard player. as a little child, mozart had a father who "put him through," so to speak, he being compelled to play, and play and play, from the time he was six years old. at that age he drew the bow across his violin while standing in the custom-house at vienna, on the way to play at schönbrunn for the emperor, and he charmed the officers so much that the whole mozart family baggage was passed free of tax. while at the palace he was treated gorgeously, and among the imperial family at that time was marie antoinette, then a young and gay princess. the young princesses treated little wolfgang mozart like a brother, and when he stumbled and fell in the drawing room, it happened to be antoinette who picked him up. "oh, you are good, i shall marry you!" he assured her. on that occasion the mozart family received the sum of only forty pounds for his playing, with some additions to the family wardrobe thrown in. most composers have had favourite times and seasons for work--in bed, with a heap of sausages before them, or while out walking. beethoven used to pour cold water over his hands till he soaked off the ceiling of the room below; in short, most musicians except mozart had some surprising idiosyncrasy. he needed even no instrument when composing music. he could enjoy a game of bowls, sitting and making his ms. while the game was in progress, and leaving his work to take his turn. he was not strong, physically, and was often in poor circumstances, but wherever he was there was likely to be much excitement and gaiety. he would serenely write his music on his knee, on his table, wherever and however he chanced to be; and was most at ease when his wife was telling him all the gossip of the day while he worked. after all, that is the true artist. erraticalness is by no means the thing that makes a man great, though he sometimes becomes great in spite of it, but for the most part it is carefully cultivated through conceit. mozart's burial was probably the most extraordinary commentary on fame and genius ever known. the day he was buried, it was stormy weather and all the mourners, few enough to start with, had dropped off long before the graveyard was reached. he was to be buried third class, and as there had already been two pauper funerals that day, a midwife's, and another's, mozart's body was to be placed on top. no one was at the grave except the assistant gravedigger and his mother. "who is it?" the mother asked. "a bandmaster," the hearse driver answered. "well, gott! there isn't anything to be expected then. so hurry up!" thus the greatest of musical geniuses was done with this world. germany has given us the greatest musicians, but she leaves other people to take care of them, to love them, and to bury them--or to leave them go "third-class." the magic flute characters of the opera queen of the night. pamina (queen's daughter). papagena. three ladies of the queen's court. three genii of the temple. tamino, an egyptian prince. monostatos, a moor in the service of sarastro. sarastro, high priest of the temple. papageno, tamina's servant. speaker of the temple. two priests. two armed men. chorus of priests of the temple, slaves, and attendants. the scene is near the temple of isis, in egypt. composer: mozart. act i once upon a time an adventurous egyptian youth found himself near to the temple of isis. he had wandered far, had clothed himself in another habit than that worn by his people, and by the time he reached the temple he had spent his arrows, and had nothing but his useless bow left. in this predicament, he saw a monstrous serpent who made after him, and he fled. he had nothing to fight with, and was about to be caught in the serpent's fearful coils when the doors of the temple opened and three ladies ran out, each armed with a fine silver spear. they had heard the youth's cries of distress, and had rushed out to assist him. immediately they attacked the monster and killed it, while tamino lay panting upon the ground. when they went to him they found him unconscious. he seemed to be a very noble and beautiful youth, whose appearance was both heroic and gentle, and they were inspired with confidence in him. "may not this youth be able, in return for our services to him, to help us in our own troubles?" they inquired of each other; for they belonged to the court of the queen of the night, and that sovereign was in great sorrow. her beautiful daughter, pamina, had been carried away, and none had been able to discover where she was hidden. there was no one in the court who was adventurous enough to search in certain forbidden and perilous places for her. as tamino lay exhausted upon the ground, one of the women who had rescued him declared that she would remain to guard him--seeing he had no arrows--while the others should go and tell the queen that they had found a valiant stranger who might help them. at this suggestion the other two set up a great cry. "you stay to guard the youth! nay, i shall stay myself. go thou and tell her majesty." thereupon they all fell to quarrelling as to who should remain beside the handsome youth and who should go. each declared openly that she could gaze upon him forever, because he was such a beauty, which would doubtless have embarrassed tamino dreadfully if he had not been quite too tired to attend to what they said. the upshot of it was that all three went, rather than leave any one of them to watch with him. when they had disappeared into the temple once more, tamino half roused himself and saw the serpent lying dead beside him. "i wonder where i can be?" he mused. "i was saved in the nick of time: i was too exhausted to run farther," and at that moment he heard a beautiful strain of music, played upon a flute: [music] he raised himself to listen attentively, and soon he saw a man descending from among the rocks behind the temple. still fearful of new adventures while he was unarmed and worn, tamino rose and hid himself in the trees. the man's name was papageno, and he carried a great cage filled with birds upon his back; in both hands he held a pipe, which was like the pipe of pan, and it was upon this that he was making music. he also sang: [music: a fowler bold in me you see, a man of mirth and minstrelsy; my name is ever in demand, with old and young thro'out the land- i set my traps, the birds flock round, i whistle, and they know the sound.] for wealth my lot i'd not resign, for every bird that flies is mine. i am a fowler, bold and free, a man of mirth and minstrelsy; my name is ever in demand, with old and young throughout the land. but nets to set for pretty maids: that were the most divine of trades. i'd keep them safe 'neath lock and key, and all i caught should be for me. so that exceedingly jolly fellow sang as he passed tamino. he was about to enter the temple when tamino, seeing he had nothing to fear, stopped him. "hello, friend! who are you?" "i ask the same," the fowler answered, staring at tamino. "that is easily answered. i am a prince and a wanderer. my father reigns over many lands and tribes." "ah, ha! perhaps in that land of thine i might do a little trade in birds," the fowler said, jovially. "is that how you make your living?" tamino asked him. "surely! i catch birds and sell them to the queen of the night and her ladies." "what does the queen look like?" tamino asked, somewhat curious. "how do i know? pray, who ever saw the queen of the night?" "you say so? then she must be the great queen of whom my father has often spoken." "i shouldn't wonder." "well, let me thank you for killing that great serpent. he nearly did for me," tamino replied, taking it for granted that the man before him had been the one to rescue him, since he had fallen unconscious before he had seen the ladies. the fowler looked about at the dead serpent. "perfectly right! a single grasp of mine would kill a bigger monster than that," the fowler boasted, taking to himself the credit for the deed; but by this time the three ladies had again come from the temple and were listening to this boastful gentleman with the birds upon his back. "tell me, are the ladies of the court beautiful?" tamino persisted. "i should fancy not--since they go about with their faces covered. beauties are not likely to hide their faces," he laughed boisterously. at that the ladies came toward him. tamino beheld them with pleasure. "now give us thy birds," they said to the fowler, who became suddenly very much quieter and less boastful. he gave them the birds and received, instead of the wine he expected, according to custom, a bottle of water. "here, for the first time, her majesty sends you water," said she who had handed him the bottle; and another, holding out something to him, said: "and instead of bread she sends you a stone." "and," said the other, "she wishes that ready mouth of yours to be decorated with this instead of the figs she generally sends," and at that she put upon his lips a golden padlock, which settled his boasting for a time. "now indicate to this youth who killed that serpent," she continued. but the fowler could only show by his actions that he had no idea who did it. "very well; then, dear youth, let me tell you that you owe your life to us." tamino was ready to throw himself at the feet of such beautiful champions, but one of them interrupted his raptures by giving him a miniature set in jewels. "look well at this: our gracious queen has sent it to you." tamino gazed long at the portrait and was beside himself with joy, because he found the face very beautiful indeed. "is this the face of your great queen?" he cried. they shook their heads. "then tell me where i may find this enchanting creature!" "this is our message: if the face is beautiful to thee and thou would'st make it thine, thou must be valiant. it is the face of our queen's daughter, who has been carried away by a fierce demon, and none have dared seek for her." "for that beautiful maiden?" tamino cried in amazement. "i dare seek for her! only tell me which way to go, and i will rescue her from all the demons of the inferno. i shall find her and make her my bride." he spoke with so much energy and passion that the ladies were quite satisfied that they had found a knight to be trusted. "dear youth, she is hidden in our own mountains, but----" at that moment a peal of thunder startled everybody. "heaven! what may that be?" tamino cried, and even as he spoke, the rocks parted and the queen of the night stood before them. "be not afraid, noble youth. a clear conscience need have no fear. thou shalt find my daughter, and when she is restored to my arms, she shall be thine." with this promise the queen of the night disappeared as suddenly as she had come. then the poor boastful fowler began to say "hm, hm, hm, hm," and motion to his locked mouth. "i cannot help thee, poor wretch," tamino declared. "thou knowest that lock was put upon thee to teach thee discretion." but one of the women went to him and told him that by the queen's commands she now would set him free. "and this, dear youth," she said, going to tamino and giving him a golden flute, "is for thee. take it, and its magic will guard thee from all harm. wherever thou shalt wander in search of the queen's daughter, this enchanted flute will protect thee. only play upon it. it will calm anger and soothe the sorrowing." "thou, papageno," said another, "art to go with the prince, by the queen's command, to sarastro's castle, and serve him faithfully." at that the fowler was frightened half to death. no indeed! that i decline. from yourselves have i not heard that he's fiercer than the pard? if by him i were accosted he would have me plucked and roasted. "have no fear, but do as you are bid. the prince and his flute shall keep thee safe from sarastro." i wish the prince at all the devils; for death nowise i search; what if, to crown my many evils, he should leave me in the lurch? he did not feel half as brave as he had seemed when he told tamino how he had killed the serpent. then another of the ladies of the court gave to papageno a chime of bells, hidden in a casket. "are these for me?" he asked. "aye, and none but thou canst play upon them. with a golden chime and a golden flute, thou art both safe. the music of these things shall charm the wicked heart and soothe the savage breast. so, fare ye well, both." and away went the two strange adventurers, papageno and tamino, one a prince, the other a bird-catcher. _scene ii_ after travelling for a week and a day, the two adventurers came to a fine palace. tamino sent the fowler with his chime of bells up to the great place to spy out what he could, and he was to return and bring the prince news. without knowing it they had already arrived at the palace of sarastro, and at that very moment pamina, the queen's daughter, was in great peril. in a beautiful room, furnished with divans, and everything in egyptian style, sat monostatos, a moor, who was in the secrets of sarastro, who had stolen the princess. monostatos had just had the princess brought before him and had listened malignantly to her pleadings to be set free. "i do not fear death," she was saying; "but it is certain that if i do not return home, my mother will die of grief." "well, i have had enough of thy meanings, and i shall teach thee to be more pleasing; so minions," calling to the guards and servants of the castle, "chain this tearful young woman's hands, and see if it will not teach her to make herself more agreeable." as the slaves entered, to place the fetters upon her hands, the princess fell senseless upon a divan. "away, away, all of you!" monostatos cried, just as papageno peeped in at the palace window. "what sort of place is this?" papageno said to himself, peering in curiously. "i think i will enter and see more of it." stepping in, he saw the princess senseless upon the divan, and the wretched moor bending over her. at that moment the moor turned round and saw papageno. they looked at each other, and each was frightened half to death. "oh, lord!" each cried at the same moment. "this must be the fiend himself." "oh, have mercy!" each shrieked at each other. "oh, spare my life," they yelled in unison, and then, at the same moment each fled from the other, by a different way. at the same instant, pamina awoke from her swoon, and began to call pitiably for her mother. papageno heard her and ventured back. "she's a handsome damsel, and i'll take a chance, in order to rescue her," he determined, feeling half safe because of his chime of bells. "why, she is the very image of the prince's miniature and so it must be the daughter of the queen of the night," he decided, taking another good look at her. "who art thou?" she asked him, plaintively. "papageno," he answered. "i do not know the name. but i am the daughter of the queen of the night." "well, i think you are, but to make sure"--he pulled from his pocket the portrait which had been given to him by the prince and looked at it earnestly for a long time. "according to this you shouldn't have any hands or feet," he announced gravely. "but it is i," the princess declared, looking in turn at the miniature. "pray, where did you get this?" "your mother gave this to a young stranger, who instantly fell in love with you, and started to find you." "in love with me?" she cried, joyfully. "you'd think so if you saw the way he carries on about you," the fowler volunteered. "and we are to carry you back to your mother even quicker than we came." "then you must be _very_ quick about it, because sarastro returns from the chase at noon exactly, and if he finds you here, you will never leave alive." "good! that will suit the prince exactly." "but--if i should find that, after all, you are an evil spirit," she hesitated. "on the contrary, you will find in me the best spirits in the world, so come along." "you seem to have a good heart." "so good that i ought to have a papagena to share it," he answered, plaintively, whereupon pamina sang affectingly: [music: the manly heart that claims our duty, must glow with feelings high and brave.] it is a very queer and incoherent opera, and not much sense to any of it, but, oh! it is beautiful music, and this duet between the fowler and pamina is not the least of its beauties. at the end of it they rushed off together--pamina to meet the prince and be conducted back to her mother. _scene iii_ in the meantime, tamino, instead of looking for pamina himself, had been invoking wisdom and help from a number of genii he had come across. there were three temples, connected by colonnades, and above the portal of one of these was written, temple of wisdom; over another, temple of reason; the third, temple of nature. these temples were situated in a beautiful grove, which tamino entered with three genii who each bore a silver palm branch. "now, pray tell me, ye wise ones, is it to be my lot to loosen pamina's bonds?" he asked anxiously. "it is not for us to tell thee this, but we say to thee, 'go, be a man,' be steadfast and true and thou wilt conquer." they departed, leaving tamino alone. then he saw the temples. "perhaps she is within one of these temples," he cried; "and with the words of those wise genii in my ears, i'll surely rescue her if she is there." so saying, he went up to one of them and was about to enter. "stand back!" a mysterious voice called from within. "what! i am repulsed? then i will try the next one," and he went to another of the temples. "stand back," again a voice called. "here too?" he cried, not caring to venture far. "there is still another door and i shall betake me to it." so he went to the third, and, when he knocked, an aged priest met him upon the threshold. "what seek ye here?" he asked. "i seek love and truth." "that is a good deal to seek. thou art looking for miscreants, thou art looking for revenge? love, truth, and revenge do not belong together," the old priest answered. "but the one i would revenge myself upon is a wicked monster." "go thy way. there is none such here," the priest replied. "isn't your reigning chief sarastro?" "he is--and his law is supreme." "he stole a princess." "so he did--but he is a holy man, the chief of truth--we cannot explain his motives to thee," the priest said, as he disappeared within and closed the door. "oh, if only she still lives!" tamino cried, standing outside the temple. "she lives, she lives!" a chorus within sang, and at that reassurance tamino was quite wild with happiness. then he became full of uncertainty and sadness again, for he remembered that he did not know where to find her, and he sat down to play upon his magic flute. as he played, wild animals came out to listen, and they crowded around him. while he was playing, lamenting the loss of pamina, he was answered by papageno from a little way off, and he leaped up joyously. "perhaps papageno is coming with the princess," he cried. he began to play lustily upon his flute again. "maybe the sound will lead them here," he thought, and he hastened away thinking to overtake them. after he had gone, pamina and papageno ran in, she having heard the magic flute. "oh, what joy! he must be near, for i heard the flute," she cried, looking about. suddenly her joy was dispelled by the appearance of monostatos, who had flown after them as soon as he discovered pamina's absence. "now i have caught you," he cried wickedly, but as he called to the slaves who attended him to bind papageno, the latter thought of his chime of bells. "maybe they will save me," he cried, and at once he began to play. then all the slaves began to dance, while monostatos himself was utterly enchanted at the sweet sound. as the bells continued to chime, monostatos and the slaves began to leave with a measured step, till the pair found themselves alone and once more quite safe. then the chorus within began to sing "long life to sarastro," and at that the two trembled again. "sarastro! now what is going to happen?" papageno whispered. while they stood trembling, sarastro appeared, borne on a triumphal car, drawn by six lions, and followed by a great train of attendants and priests. the chorus all cried, "long life to sarastro! long life to our guard and master!" when sarastro stepped from the car, pamina knelt at his feet. "oh, your greatness!" she cried. "i have sorely offended thee in trying to escape, but the fault was not all mine. the wicked moor, monostatos, made the most violent love to me, and it was from him i fled." "all is forgiven thee, but i cannot set thee free," sarastro replied. "thy mother is not a fitting guardian for thee, and thou art better here among these holy people. i know that thy heart is given to a youth, tamino." as he spoke, the moor entered, followed by prince tamino. for the first time the two lovers met, and they were at once enchanted with each other. at once monostatos's anger became very great, since he, too, loved the princess. he summoned his slaves to part them. kneeling in his turn at sarastro's feet he protested that he was a good and valiant man, whom sarastro knew well, and he complained that pamina had tried to flee. "thou art about good enough to have the bastinado," sarastro replied, and thereupon ordered the slaves to whip the false moor, who was immediately led off to punishment. after that, sarastro ordered the lovers to be veiled and led into the temple to go through certain rites. they were to endure a period of probation, and if they came through the ordeal of waiting for each other properly they were to be united. act ii the priests assembled in a grove of palms, where they listened to the story of pamina and tamino, told by sarastro. "the princess was torn from the queen of the night, great priests, because that queen would overthrow our temple, and here pamina is to remain till purified; if you will accept this noble youth for her companion, after they have both been taught in the ways of wisdom, follow my example," and immediately sarastro blew a blast upon a horn. all the priests blew their horns in concurrence. sarastro sang a hymn to the gods, and then he and his priests disappeared. tamino and papageno were next led in to the temple porch. it was entirely dark. "art thou still near me, papageno?" he asked. "of course i am, but i don't feel very well. i think i have a fever. this is a queer sort of adventure." "oh, come, be a man. there is nothing to fear." the priests asked tamino at that moment why he had come to seek entrance in the temple. "i came to find friendship and love," he replied. "if you would have that, you must go through every trial; and how about you, papageno?" "well, i do not care as much as i might for wisdom. give me a nice little wife and a good bird-market, and i shall get on.'" "but thou canst not have those things, unless thou canst undergo our trials." "oh, well, i'll stay and face it out--but i must be certain of a wife at the end of it. her name must be papagena--and i'd like to have a look at her before i undertake all this sort of thing," he persisted. "oh, that is quite reasonable--but thou must promise not to speak with her." "and pamina?" tamino suggested. "certainly--only thou too must not speak." thus it was agreed, and the priests went out. instantly the place was in darkness again. "i should like to know why, the moment those chaps go out, we find ourselves in the dark?" papageno demanded. "that is one of our tests; one of our trials," tamino responded. "take it in good part." he was interrupted by the appearance of the three ladies of the queen of the night's court. "why are you in this place?" they demanded seductively. "it will ruin you." "do not say so," tamino returned, stoutly, this being one of the temptations he was to meet: but papageno was frightened enough. "stop thy babbling, papageno," tamino cautioned. "or thou wilt lose thy papagena." in short, the ladies did all that was possible to dishearten the youth and papageno; but the prince tamino stood firm, and would not be frightened nor driven from his vow to the temple; but papageno found himself in an awful state of mind, and finally fell down almost in a fit. at once the ladies sank through the temple floor. then the priests and a spokesman appeared and praised tamino, threw another veil over him and led him out; but when a priest inquired of papageno how it was with him, that fine gentlemen was so addled that he couldn't tell. "for me--i'm in a trance," he exclaimed. "well, come on," they said, and threw a veil over him also. "this incessant marching takes away all thought of love," he complained. "no matter, it will return"; and at that the priests marched him out, and the scene changed to a garden where pamina was sleeping. _scene ii_ monostatos was watching the beautiful pamina sleep, and remarking that, if he dared, he certainly should kiss her. in short, he was a person not to be trusted for a moment. he stole toward her, but in the same instant the thunder rolled and the queen of the night appeared from the depths of the earth. "away," she cried, and pamina awoke. "mother, mother," she screamed with joy, while monostatos stole away. "let us fly, dear mother," pamina urged. "alas, with thy father's death, i lost all my magic power, my child. he gave his sevenfold shield of the sun to sarastro, and i have been perfectly helpless since." "then i have certainly lost tamino," pamina sobbed somewhat illogically. "no, take this dagger and slay sarastro, my love, and take the shield. that will straighten matters out." then the bloody queen sang that the fires of hell were raging in her bosom. indeed, she declared that if pamina should not do as she was bidden and slay the priest, she would disown her. thus pamina had met with her temptation, and while she was rent between duty and a sense of decency--because she felt it would be very unpleasant to kill sarastro--monostatos entered and begged her to confide in him, that he of all people in the world was best able to advise her. "what shall i do, then?" the trusting creature demanded. "there is but one way in the world to save thyself and thy mother, and that is immediately to love me," he counselled. "good heaven! the remedy is worse than the disease," she cried. "decide in a hurry. there is no time to wait. you are all bound for perdition," he assured her, cheerfully. "perdition then! i won't do it." temptation number two, for pamina. "very well, it is your time to die!" monostatos cried, and proceeded to kill her, but sarastro entered just in time to encourage her. "indeed it is not--your schedule is wrong, monostatos," sarastro assured him. "i must look after the mother, then, since the daughter has escaped me," monostatos remarked, comforting himself as well as he could. "oh don't chastise my mother," pamina cried. "a little chastising won't hurt her in the least," sarastro assured her. "i know all about how she prowls around here, and if only tamino resists his temptations, you will be united and your mother sent back to her own domain where she belongs. if he survives the ordeals we have set before him, he will deserve to marry an orphan." all this was doubtless true, but it annoyed pamina exceedingly. as soon as sarastro had sung of the advantages of living in so delightful a place as the temple, he disappeared, not in the usual way, but by walking off, and the scene changed. _scene iii_ tamino and the speaker who accompanied the priests and talked for them were in a large hall, and papageno was there also. "you are again to be left here alone; and i caution ye to be silent," the speaker advised as he went out. the second priest said: "papageno, whoever breaks the silence here, brings down thunder and lightning upon himself." he, too, went out. "that's pleasant," papageno remarked. "you are only to think it is pleasant--not to mention it," tamino cautioned. meantime, papageno, who couldn't hold his tongue to save his life, grew thirsty. and he no sooner became aware of it, than an old woman entered with a cup of water. "is that for me?" he asked. "yes, my love," she replied, and papageno drank it. "well, next time when you wish to quench my thirst you must bring something besides water--don't forget. sit down here, old lady, it is confoundedly dull," the irrepressible papageno said, and the old lady sat. "how old are you, anyway?" "just eighteen years and two minutes," she answered. "um--it is the two minutes that does it, i suppose," papageno reflected, looking at her critically. "does anybody love you?" he asked, by way of satisfying his curiosity. "certainly--his name is papageno." "the deuce you say? well, well, i never would have thought it of myself. well, what's your name, mam?" but just as the old lady was about to answer, the thunder boomed and off she rushed. "oh, heaven! i'll never speak another word," papageno cried. he had no sooner taken that excellent resolution than the three genii entered bearing a table loaded with good things to eat. they also brought the flute and the chime of bells. "now, eat, drink, and be merry, and a better time shall follow," they said, and then they disappeared. "well, well, this is something like it," papageno said, beginning at once to obey commands, but tamino began to play upon the flute. "all right; all right! you be the orchestra and i'll take care of the _table d'hôte_," he said, very well satisfied; but at that instant pamina appeared. she no sooner began to talk to tamino than he motioned her away. he was a youth of unheard-of fortitude. "this is worse than death," she said. she found herself waved away again. tamino was thoroughly proof against temptation. then pamina sang for him, and she had a very good voice. meantime, papageno was sufficiently occupied to be quiet, but he had to call attention to his virtues. when he asked if he had not been amazingly still, there was a flourish of trumpets. tamino signed for papageno to go. "no, you go first!" tamino only repeated his gesture. "very well, very well, i'll go first--but what's to be done with us now?" tamino only pointed to heaven, which was very depressing to one of papageno's temperament. "you think so!" papageno asked. "if it is to be anything like that, i think it more likely to be a roasting. no matter!" nothing mattered any longer to papageno, and so he went out as tamino desired, and the scene changed. _scene iv_ sarastro and his priests were in a vault underneath one of the temples. there they sang of tamino's wonderful fortitude and then said: "let him appear!" and so he did. "now, tamino, you have been a brave man till now; but there are two perilous trials awaiting you, and if you go through them well--" they didn't exactly promise that all should be plain sailing after that, but they led the youth to infer as much, which encouraged him. "lead in pamina," the order then was given, and she was led in. "now, pamina, this youth is to bid thee a last farewell," sarastro said. pamina was about to throw herself into her lover's arms, but with amazing self-control tamino told her once more to "stand back." as that had gone so very well, sarastro assured them they were to meet again. "i'll bear whatever the gods put upon me," the patient youth replied. then he said farewell and went out, while papageno (who if he ever did get to heaven, would surely do so by hanging on to tamino's immaculate coat-tail) ran after him, declaring that he would follow him forever--and not talk. but it thundered again, and papageno shrunk all up. then, while the speaker chided him for not being above his station, papageno said that the only thing he really wanted in this world or the next was a glass of wine: he thought it would encourage him. "oh, well, you can have that," the speaker assured him, and immediately the glass of wine rose through the floor. but he had no sooner drunk that than he cried out that he experienced a most thrilling sensation about his heart. it turned out to be love; just love! so at once, the matter being explained to him, he took his chime of bells, played, and sang of what he felt. the moment he had fully expressed himself, the old water lady came in. "here i am, my angel," she said. "good! you are much better than nobody," papageno declared. "then swear you'll be forever true," she urged. "certainly--since there is no other way out of it." and it was no sooner said than the old lady became a most entrancing young one, about eighteen years old. "well, may i never doubt a woman when she tells me her age again!" papageno muttered, staring at her. as he was about to embrace her, the speaker shouted: "away; he isn't worthy of you." this left papageno in a nice fix, and both he and the girl were led away as the genii appeared. the genii began to sing that pamina had gone demented, and no wonder. she almost at once proved that this was true, by coming in carrying a dagger; and she made a pass at the whole lot of them. no one could blame her. she thought each of them was tamino. "she's had too much trouble," the penetrating genii declared among themselves. "and now we'll set her right." they were about to do so when she undertook to stab herself, but they interfered and told her she mustn't. "what if tamino should hear you! it would make him feel very badly," they remonstrated. at once she became all right again. "is he alive? just let me look at him, and i'll be encouraged to wait awhile." so they took her away to see tamino. then two men dressed in armour came in and said: he who would wander on this path of tears and toiling, needs water, fire, and earth for his assoiling, which means nothing in particular. although "assoiling" is an excellent old english word. then tamino and pamina were heard calling to each other. she entreated him not to fly from her, and he didn't know what he had better do about it, but the matter was arranged by somebody opening some gates and the lovers at once embraced. they were perfectly happy, and there seemed to be a mutual understanding between them that they could wander forth together. they did so, and wandered at once into a mountain of fire, while tamino played entertainingly upon his flute. soon they wandered out of the fire, and embraced at leisure. then they wandered into the water, and tamino began again to play upon his flute, the water keeping clear of the holes in a wonderful way. after they got out of the woods--the water, rather,--they embraced as usual, and the gates of the temple were thrown open and they saw a sort of fourth-of-july going on within. everything was very bright and high-coloured. this would seem to indicate that their trials were over and they were to have their reward. then the scene changed. _scene v_ papageno was playing in a garden, all the while calling to his papagena. he was really mourning for his lost love, and so he took the rope which he used as a girdle and decided to hang himself. then the genii, whose business it seemed to be to drive lovers to suicide and then rescue them just before life was extinct, rushed in and told him he need not go to the length--of his rope. "just ring your bells," they advised him; and he instantly tried the same old effect. he had no sooner rung for her than she came--the lovely papagena! they sang a joyous chorus of "pa-pa-pa-pa" for eight pages and then the queen of the night and monostatos, finding that matters were going too well, appeared. they had come to steal the temple. "if i really get away with that temple, pamina shall be yours," she promised monostatos,--which would seem to leave pamina safe enough, if the circumstances were ordinary. nevertheless it thundered again. nobody in the opera could seem to stand that. the queen had her three ladies with her, but by this time one might almost conclude that they were no ladies at all. the thunder became very bad indeed, and the retinue, monostatos, and the queen sank below, and in their stead sarastro, pamina, and tamino appeared with all the priests, and the storm gave way to a fine day. immediately after that, nothing at all happened. sir arthur sullivan sir arthur sullivan was a man of many musical moods and varied performances, yet his surest fame, at present, rests upon his comic operas. perhaps this is because he and his workfellow, gilbert, were pioneers in making a totally new kind of comic opera. "pinafore" may not be the best of these works, "mikado" may be better; but "pinafore" was the first of the satires upon certain institutions, social and political, which delighted the english-speaking world. music and words never have seemed better wedded than in the comic operas of gilbert and sullivan. the music is always graceful, gracious, piquant, and gaily fascinating. the story has no purpose but that of carrying some satirical idea, and the satire is never bitter, always playful. sullivan's versatility was remarkable, his work ranging from "grave to gay, from lively to severe," and his was a genius that developed in his extreme youth. many anecdotes are told of this brilliant composer, and all of them seem to illustrate a practical and resourceful mind, while they show little of the eccentricity that is supposed to belong to genius. it was sir arthur sullivan who first popularized schumann in england. potter, head of the royal academy in london in 1861, had known beethoven well, and had never been converted to a love of music less great than his--nor was his taste very catholic--and he continually regretted sullivan's championship of schumann's music. but one day sullivan, suspecting the academician didn't know what he was talking about, asked him point-blank if he had ever heard any of the music he so strongly condemned. potter admitted that he hadn't. whereupon sullivan said, "then play some of schumann with me, mr. potter," and, having done so, potter "blindly worshipped" schumann even after. frederick crowest tells this story in his "musicians' wit, humour, and anecdote": "the late sir arthur sullivan, in the struggling years of his career, once showed great presence of mind, which saved the entire breakdown of a performance of 'faust.' in the midst of the church scene, the wire connecting the pedal under costa's foot with the metronome stick at the organ, broke. costa was the conductor. in the concerted music this meant disaster, as the organist could hear nothing but his own instrument. quick as thought, while he was playing the introductory solo, sullivan called a stage hand. 'go,' he said, 'and tell mr. costa that the wire is broken, and that he is to keep his ears open and follow me.' no sooner had the man flown to deliver his message than the full meaning of the words flashed upon sullivan. what would costa, autocratic, severe, and quick to take offence, say to such a message delivered by a stage hand? the scene, however, proceeded successfully, and at the end sullivan went, nervously enough, to tender his apologies to his chief. costa, implacable as he was, had a strong sense of justice, and the great conductor never forgot the signal service his young friend had rendered him by preventing a horrible _fiasco_." there are numberless stories of his suiting his composition to erratic themes. beverley had painted borders for a woodland scene. sullivan liked the work and complimented beverley, who immediately said: "yes, and if you could compose something to fit it now." instantly, sullivan, who was at the organ, composed a score within a few minutes which enraptured the painter and which "fitted" his borders. again: a dance was required at a moment's notice for a second _danseuse_, and the stage manager was distracted. "you must make something at once, sullivan," he said. "but," replied the composer, "i haven't even seen the girl. i don't know her style or what she needs." however, the stage manager sent the dancer to speak with sullivan, and presently he called out: "i've arranged it all. this is exactly what she wants: tiddle-iddle-um, tiddle-iddle-um, rum-tirum-tirum--sixteen bars of that; then: rum-tum-rum-tum--heavy you know--" and in ten minutes the dance was made and ready for rehearsal. h.m.s.[b] "pinafore" the right honourable sir joseph porter, k.c.b. first lord of the admiralty. captain corcoran commanding h.m.s. _pinafore_. ralph rackstraw able seaman. dick deadeye able seaman. bill bobstay boatswain's mate. bob becket carpenter's mate. tom tucker midshipmate. sergeant of marines josephine the captain's daughter. hebe sir joseph's first cousin. little buttercup a portsmouth bumboat woman. first lord's sisters, his cousins, his aunts, sailors, marines, etc. the story takes place on the quarterdeck of h.m.s. _pinafore_, off portsmouth. composer: sir arthur sullivan. author: w.s. gilbert. [footnote b: her majesty's ship.] act i on the quarterdeck of the good ship _pinafore_, along about noon, on a brilliant sunny day, the sailors, in charge of the boatswain, are polishing up the brasswork of the ship, splicing rope, and doing general housekeeping, for the excellent reason that the high cockalorum of the navy--the admiral, sir joseph porter--together with all his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, is expected on board about luncheon time. when an admiral goes visiting either on land or sea, there are certain to be "doings," and there are going to be mighty big doings on this occasion. if sailors were ever proud of a ship, those of the _pinafore_ are they. the _pinafore_ was, in fact, the dandiest thing afloat. no sailor ever did anything without singing about it, and as they "heave ho, my hearties"--or whatever it is sailors do--they sing their minds about the _pinafore_ in a way to leave no mistake as to their opinions. we sail the ocean blue, and our saucy ship's a beauty. we're sober men and true, and attentive to our duty. when the balls whistle free, o'er the bright blue sea, we stand to our guns all day. when at anchor we ride, on the portsmouth tide, we've plenty of time for play--ahoy, ahoy! and then, while they are polishing at top speed, on board scrambles little buttercup. naturally, being a bumboat woman, she had her basket on her arm. "little buttercup!" the crew shouts; they know her well on pay-day. "yes--here's an end at last of all privation," she assures them, spreading out her wares, and this ridiculous "little" buttercup sings: [music: i'm called little buttercup, dear little buttercup, though i could never tell why, but still i'm called buttercup, poor little buttercup, sweet little buttercup i.] i've snuff and tobaccy, and excellent jacky; i've scissors and watches and knives. i've ribbons and laces to set off the faces of pretty young sweethearts and wives. i've treacle and toffee, i've tea and i've coffee, soft tommy and succulent chops, i've chickens and conies, i've pretty polonies, and excellent peppermint drops-which would imply that little buttercup might supply on demand anything from a wrought-iron gate to a paper of toothpicks. "well, little buttercup, you're the rosiest and roundest beauty in all the navy, and we're always glad to see you." "the rosiest and roundest, eh? did it ever occur to you that beneath my gay exterior a fearful tragedy may be brewing?" she asks in her most mysterious tones. "we never thought of that," the boatswain reflects. "i have thought of it often," a growling voice interrupts, and everybody looks up to see dick deadeye. dick is a darling, if appearances count. he was named deadeye because he _had_ a dead-eye, and he is about as sinister and ominous a creature as ever made a comic opera shiver. "you _look_ as if you had often thought of it," somebody retorts, as all move away from him in a manner which shows dick to be no favourite. "you don't care much about me, i should say?" dick offers, looking about at his mates. "well, now, honest, dick, ye can't just expect to be loved, with such a name as deadeye." little buttercup, who has been offering her wares to the other sailors, now observes a very good-looking chap coming on deck. "who is that youth, whose faltering feet with difficulty bear him on his course?" buttercup asks--which is quite ridiculous, if you only dissect her language! those "faltering feet which with difficulty bear him on his course" belong to ralph rackstraw, who is about the most dashing sailor in the fleet. the moment buttercup hears his name, she gasps to music: "remorse, remorse," which is very, very funny indeed, since there appears to be nothing at all remarkable or remorseful about ralph rackstraw. but ralph immediately begins to sing about a nightingale and a moon's bright ray and several other things most inappropriate to the occasion, and winds up with "he sang, ah, well-a-day," in the most pathetic manner. the other sailors repeat after him, "ah, well-a-day," also in a very pathetic manner, and ralph thanks them in the politest, most heartbroken manner, by saying: i know the value of a kindly chorus, but choruses yield little consolation when we have pain and sorrow, too, before us! i love, and love, alas! above my station. which lets the cat out of the bag, at last! "he loves above his station!" buttercup sighs, and pretty much the entire navy sighs. those sailors are very sentimental chaps, very!--they are supposed to have a sweetheart in every port, though, to be sure, none of them are likely be above anybody's station. but their sighs are an encouragement to ralph to tell all about his sweetheart, and he immediately does so. he sings rapturously of her appearance and of how unworthy he is. the crew nearly melts to tears during the recital. just as ralph has revealed that his love is josephine, the captain's daughter, and all the crew but dick deadeye are about to burst out weeping, the captain puts in an appearance. "my gallant crew,--good morning!" he says amiably, in that condescending manner quite to be expected of a captain. he inquires nicely about the general health of the crew, and announces that he is in reasonable health himself. then with the best intentions in the world, he begins to throw bouquets at himself: i am the captain of the _pinafore_, he announces, and the crew returns: and a right good captain too. you're very, very good, and be it understood, i command a right good crew, he assures them. tho' related to a peer, i can hand, reef and steer, or ship a selvagee; i'm never known to quail at the fury of a gale,- and i'm never, never sick at sea! but this is altogether too much. the crew haven't summered and wintered with this gallant captain for nothing. "what, never?" they admonish him. "no,--never." "what!--never?" and there is no mistaking their emphasis. "oh, well--hardly ever!" he admits, trimming his statement a little: and thus harmony is restored. now when he has thus agreeably said good morning to his crew, they leave him to meditate alone, and no one but little buttercup remains. for some reason she perceives that the captain is sad. he doesn't look it, but the most comic moments in comic opera are likely enough to be the saddest. hence little buttercup reminds him that she is a mother (she doesn't look it) and therefore to be confided in. "if you must know, little buttercup, my daughter josephine! the fairest flower that ever blossomed on ancestral timber"--which is very neat indeed--"has received an offer of marriage from sir joseph porter. it is a great honour, little buttercup, but i am sorry to say my daughter doesn't seem to take kindly to it." "ah, poor sir joseph, i know perfectly what it means to love not wisely but too well," she remarks, sighing tenderly and looking most sentimentally at the captain. she does this so capably that as she goes off the deck the captain looks after her and remarks abstractedly: "a plump and pleasing person!" at this blessed minute the daughter josephine, who does not love in the right place, and who is beloved from all quarters at once, wanders upon the deck with a basket of flowers in her hand. then she begins to sing very distractedly about loving the wrong man, and that "hope is dead," and several other pitiable things, which are very funny. the captain, her father, is watching her, and presently he admonishes her to look her best, and to stop sighing all over the ship--at least till her high-born suitor, sir joseph porter, shall have made his expected visit. "you must look your best to-day, josephine, because the admiral is coming on board to ask your hand in marriage." at this josephine nearly drops into the sea. "father, i esteem, i reverence sir joseph but alas i do not love him. i have the bad taste instead to love a lowly sailor on board your own ship. but i shall stifle my love. he shall never know it though i carry it to the tomb." "that is precisely the spirit i should expect to behold in my daughter, my dear, and now take sir joseph's picture and study it well. i see his barge approaching. if you gaze upon the pictured noble brow of the admiral, i think it quite likely that you will have time to fall madly in love with him before he can throw a leg over the rail, my darling. anyway, do your best at it." "my own, thoughtful father," josephine murmurs while a song of sir joseph's sailors is heard approaching nearer and nearer. then the crew of h.m.s. _pinafore_ take up the shout, and sing a rousing welcome to sir joseph and all his party. almost immediately sir joseph and his numerous company of sisters and cousins and aunts prance upon the shining deck. they have a gorgeous time of it. "hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" the captain and his crew cry, and then sir joseph informs everybody of his greatness in this song: [music: i am the monarch of the sea, the ruler of the queen's navee, whose praise great britain loudly chants; cousin hebe. and we are his sisters and his cousins and his aunts; his sisters and his cousins and his aunts!] when at anchor here i ride, my bosom swells with pride, and i snap my fingers at the foeman's taunts-the chorus assures everybody that so do his sisters and his cousins and his aunts. in short, while we learn from sir joseph that he is a tremendous fellow, we also learn, from his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, that they are whatever he is. among other things he tells precisely how he came to be so great, and gives what is presumably a recipe for similar greatness: when i was a lad i served a term as office boy to an attorney's firm. i cleaned the window and i swept the floor, and i polished up the handle of the big front door. i polished up the handle so carefullee, that now i am the ruler of the queen's navee. as office boy i made such a mark that they gave me the post of a junior clerk. i served the wits with a smile so bland, and i copied all the letters in a big round hand. i copied all the letters in a hand so free, that now i am the ruler of the queen's navee. in serving writs i made such a name that an articled clerk i soon became. i wore clean collars and a brand new suit for the pass examination at the institute. and that pass examination did so well for me that now i am the ruler of the queen's navee. this was only a part of the recipe, but the rest of it was just as profound. after he is through exploiting himself, he bullies the captain a little, and then his eye alights on ralph rackstraw. "you are a remarkably fine fellow, my lad," he says to ralph quite patronizingly. "i am the very finest fellow in the navy," ralph returns, honouring the spirit of the day by showing how entirely satisfied with himself he is. "how does your captain behave himself?" sir joseph asks. "very well, indeed, thank you. i am willing to commend him," ralph returns. "ah--that is delightful--and so, with your permission, captain, i will have a word with you in private on a very sentimental subject--in short, upon an affair of the heart." "with joy, sir joseph--and, boatswain, in honour of this occasion, see that extra grog is served to the crew at seven bells." "i will condescend to do so," the boatswain assures the captain, whereupon the captain, sir joseph, and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts leave the deck. "you all seem to think a deal on yourselves," dick deadeye growls, as he watches these performances. "we do, we do--aren't we british sailors? doesn't the entire universe depend on us for its existence? we are fine fellows--sir joseph has just told us so." "yes--we may aspire to anything--" ralph interpolates excitedly. he had begun to think that josephine may not be so unattainable after all. "the devil you can," responds dick. "only i wouldn't let myself get a-going if i were you. what if ye got going and couldn't stop?" the one-eyed gentleman inquires solicitously. "oh, stow it!" the crew shouts. "if we hadn't more self-respect 'n you've got, we'd put out both our eyes," the estimable crew declares, and then retires to compliment itself,--that is, all but ralph. he leans upon the bulwark and looks pensive; and at intervals he sighs. while he is sighing his very loudest, josephine enters. sir joseph has been making love to her, and she is telling herself and everybody who happens to be leaning against the bulwark sighing pensively, that the admiral's attentions oppress her. this is ralph's opportunity. he immediately tells her that he loves her, and she tells him to "refrain, audacious tar," but he does not refrain in the least. in short he decides upon the spot to blow out his brains. he pipes all hands on deck to see him do it, and they come gladly. now ralph gets out his pistol, he sings a beautiful farewell, the chorus turns away weeping--the sailors have just cleaned up and they cannot bear the sight of the deck all spoiled with a british sailor's brains so soon after scrubbing! ralph lifts the pistol, takes aim--and josephine rushes on. "oh, stay your hand--i love you," she cries, and in less than a minute everybody is dancing a hornpipe, except deadeye. deadeye is no socialist. he really thinks this equality business which makes it possible for a common sailor to marry the captain's daughter is most reprehensible. but nobody notices dick. everybody is quite happy and satisfied now, and they plan for the wedding. dick plans for revenge. he goes apart to think matters over. the situation quite shocks his sense of propriety. meantime the crew and ralph and josephine decide that: this very night, with bated breath and muffled oar, without a light, as still as death, we'll steal ashore. a clergyman shall make us one at half-past ten, and then we can return, for none can part us then. thus the matter is disposed of. act ii it is about half-past ten, and everything ready for the elopement. the captain is on deck playing a mandolin while holding a most beautiful pose (because little buttercup is also "on deck," and looking sentimentally at him). the captain sings to the moon, quite as if there were no one there to admire him; because while this "levelling" business is going on in the navy there seems no good reason why buttercup or any other thrifty bumboat lady shouldn't do a little levelling herself. now to marry the captain--but just now, even though it is moonlight and a very propitious moment, there is other work on hand than marrying the captain. she can do that almost any time! but at this moment she has some very mysterious and profound things to say to him. she tells him that: things are seldom what they seem, skim milk masquerades as cream. high-lows pass as patent leathers, jackdaws strut in peacock feathers. and the captain acquiesces. black-sheep dwell in every fold. all that glitters is not gold. storks turn out to be but logs. bulls are but inflated frogs. and again the captain wisely acquiesces. drops the wind and stops the mill. turbot is ambitious brill. gild the farthing if you will, yet it is a farthing still. and again the captain admits that this may be true. it is quite, quite painful if it is. on the whole, the captain fears she has got rather the best of him, so he determines to rally; he philosophises a little himself, when he has time. he has time now: tho' i'm anything but clever, he declares rhythmically, even truthfully; i could talk like that forever, once a cat was killed by care, only brave deserve the fair. he has her there, beyond doubt, because all she can say is "how true." thus encouraged he continues: wink is often good as nod; spoils the child, who spares the rod; thirsty lambs run foxy dangers, dogs are found in many mangers. buttercup agrees;--she can't help it. paw of cat the chestnut snatches; worn-out garments show new patches; only count the chick that hatches, men are grown-up catchy-catches. and little buttercup assents that this certainly is true. and then, just as she has worked the captain up into a pink fit of apprehension she leaves him. while he stands looking after her and feeling unusually left alone, sir joseph enters and declares himself very much disappointed with josephine. "what, won't she do, sir joseph?" the captain asks disappointedly. "no, no. i don't think she will. i have stooped as much as an admiral ought to, by presenting my sentiments almost--er--you might say emotionally, but without success; and now really i----" "well, it must be your rank which dazzles her," the captain suggests, and thinks how he would like to take a cat-o'-nine-tails to her. "she is coming on deck," sir joseph says, softly, "and we might watch her unobserved a moment. her actions while she thinks herself alone, may reveal something to us that we should like to know"; and sir joseph and the captain step behind a convenient coil of rope while josephine walks about in agitation and sings to herself how reckless she is to leave her luxurious home with her father, for an attic that, likely as not, will not even be "finished off." of course sir joseph and her father do not understand a word of this, but they understand that she is disturbed, and sir joseph steps up and asks her outright, if his rank overwhelms her. he assures her that it need not, because there is no difference of rank to be observed among those of her majesty's navy--which he doesn't mean at all except for one occasion only, of course. at the same time, it is an admirable plea for his rival ralph. now it is rapidly becoming time for the elopement, and josephine pretends to accept sir joseph's suit at last, in order to get rid of him at half-past ten. he and josephine go below while dick deadeye intimates to the captain that he wants a word with him aside. then dick deadeye gives the captain his information, thus: [music: kind captain, i've important information, sing hey, the gallant captain that you are! about a certain intimate relation, sing hey, the merry maiden and the tar!] kind captain, your young lady is a-sighing, sing, hey, the gallant captain that you are! this very night with rackstraw to be flying, sing, hey, the merry maiden and the tar! this information certainly comes in the nick of time, so the captain hastily throws an old cloak over him and squats down behind the deck furniture to await the coming of the elopers. presently they come up, josephine, followed by little buttercup, and all the crew on "tip-toe stealing." suddenly amid the silence, the captain stamps. "goodness me!" all cry. "what was that?" "silent be," says dick. "it was the cat," and thus reassured they start for the boat which is to take the lovers ashore. at this crisis the captain throws off the cloak and creates a sensation. he is so mad he swears just as sir joseph puts in an appearance. "damme!" cries the captain. "what was that dreadful language i heard you use?" sir joseph demands, highly scandalized. "he said 'damme,'" the crew assure him. sir joseph is completely overcome. to excuse himself the captain is obliged to reveal the cause of his anger. "my daughter was about to elope with a common sailor, your greatness," he says, and at this moment josephine rushes into the arms of ralph. the admiral is again overcome with the impropriety of the situation. "my amazement and my surprise, you may learn from the expression of my eyes," the admiral says. "has this sailor dared to lift his eyes to the captain's daughter? incredible. put him in chains, my boys," he says to the rest of the crew, "and captain--have you such a thing as a dungeon on board?" "certainly," the captain says. "hanging on the nail to the right of the mess-room door--just as you go in." "good! put him in the ship's dungeon at once--just as you go in--and see that no telephone communicates with his cell," whereupon ralph is lugged off. "when the secret i have to tell is known," says little buttercup, "his dungeon cell will be thrown wide." "then speak, in heaven's name; or i certainly shall throw myself into the bilge water," josephine says desperately. "don't do that: it smells so dreadfully," buttercup entreats; "and to prevent accidents i will tell what i know:" a many years ago, when i was young and charming, as some of you may know, i practised baby farming. two tender babes i nursed, one was of low condition, the other upper crust- a regular patrician. oh, bitter is my cup, however could i do it? i mixed those children up, and not a creature knew it. in time each little waif, forsook his foster-mother; the well-born babe was ralph- your captain was the other! so, the murder is out! nobody outside of comic opera can quite see how this fact changes the status of the captain and ralph (the captain not having been a captain when in the cradle) but it is quite enough to set everybody by the ears. josephine screams: "oh, bliss, oh, rapture!" and the admiral promptly says: "take her, sir, and mind you treat her kindly," and immediately, having fixed the ship's affairs so creditably, falls to bemoaning his sad and lonesome lot. he declares that he "cannot live alone," and his cousin hebe assures him she will never give up the ship; or rather that she never will desert him, unless of course she should discover that he, too, was changed in the cradle. this comforts everybody but the changed captain. ralph has, in the twinkling of an eye, become the captain of the good ship _pinafore_, while the captain has become ralph, and ralph has taken the captain's daughter. but while he is looking very downcast, buttercup reminds him that she is there, and after regarding her tenderly for a moment, he decides that he has always loved his foster mother like a wife, and he says so: i shall marry with a wife, in my humble rank of life, and you, my own, are she. the crew is delighted. everybody is happy. but the captain adds, rashly: i must wander to and fro, but wherever i may go i shall never be untrue to thee! whereupon the crew, which is very punctilious where the truth is concerned, cries: "what, never?" "no, never!" the captain declares. "what--never?" they persist. "well, hardly ever," the captain says, qualifying the statement satisfactorily to his former crew. and now that all the facts and amenities of life have been duly recognized, the crew and sir joseph, ralph and the former captain, josephine and buttercup, all unite in singing frantically that they are an englishman, for they themselves have said it, and it's greatly to their credit; and while you are laughing yourself to death at a great many ridiculous things which have taken place, the curtain comes down with a rush, and you wish they would do it again. verdi giuseppe verdi, born october 9, 1813, was the composer of twenty-six operas. his musical history may be divided into three periods, and in the last he approached wagner in greatness, and frequently surpassed him in beauty of idea. wagner made both the libretti and the music of his operas, while verdi took his opera stories from other authors. both of these great men were born in the same year. of verdi's early operas, "ernani" was probably the best; then he entered upon the second period of his achievement as a composer, and the first work that marked the transition was "rigoletto." the story was adapted from a drama of hugo's, "le roi s'amuse," and as the profligate character of its principal seemed too baldly to exploit the behaviour of francis i, its production was suppressed. then verdi adjusted the matter by turning the character into the duke of mantua, and everybody was happy. the story of the famous song "la donna è mobile," is as picturesque as verdi himself. while the rehearsals of the opera were going on, mirate, who sang the duke, continued to complain that he hadn't the ms. of one of his songs. verdi kept putting him off, till the evening before the orchestral rehearsal, when he brought forth the lines; but at the same time he demanded a promise that mirate--nor indeed any of the singers--should not hum or whistle the air till it should be heard at the first performance. this signified verdi's belief that the song would instantly become a universal favourite. the faith was justified. the whole country went "la donna" mad. "il trovatore" came next in this second period of the great composer's fame, and we read that "nearly half a century has sped since verdi's twelfth opera was first sung of a certain winter evening in rome." out of the chaff of italian opera comes this wheat, satisfying to the generation of to-day, as it was to that first audience in rome. we do not even know any longer why we love it, because in most ways it violates new and better rules of musical art, but we love it. helen keyes has written that "the libretto of 'il trovatore' is based on a spanish drama written in superb verse by a contemporary of verdi's, antonio garcia gutierrez," and she relates a romantic story in connection with the spanish play; the author was but seventeen years old when he wrote it and had been called to military duty, which was dreaded by one of his temperament. but his drama being staged at that moment, the authorities permitted him to furnish a substitute on the ground that such genius could best serve its country by remaining at home to contribute to its country's art. at the time the opera was produced in rome, the tiber had overflowed its banks and had flooded all the streets near the theatre; nevertheless people were content to stand knee-deep in water at the box office, waiting their turn for tickets. so great had verdi become in a night, by this presentation, that his rivals formed a cabal which prevented the production of "il trovatore" in naples for a time, but in the end the opera and verdi prevailed. now came "traviata,"--third in that time of change in a great master's art, and this marked the limits of the second period. "aïda" followed. it is well said that "the importance of verdi's 'aïda' as a work of musical art can hardly be overestimated!" this opera was written at the entreaty of the khedive ismail pacha. he wished to open the opera house at cairo with a great opera that had egypt for its dramatic theme. upon the khedive's application verdi named a price which he believed would not be accepted, as he felt no enthusiasm about the work. but his terms were promptly approved and mariette bey, a great egyptologist, was commissioned to find the materials for a proper story. verdi, in the meantime, _did_ become enthusiastic over the project and went to work. egyptian history held some incident upon which the story of "aïda" was finally built. first, it was given to camille du locle, who put the story into french prose, and in this he was constantly advised by verdi, at whose home the work was done. after that, the french prose was translated into italian verse by ghislanzoni, and when all was completed, the italian verse was once more translated back into french for the french stage. then the khedive decided he would like verdi to conduct the first performance, and he began to negotiate for that. verdi asked twenty thousand dollars for writing the opera, and thirty thousand in case he went to egypt. this was agreed, but when the time came to go, verdi backed out; he was overcome with fear of seasickness and wouldn't go at any price. then the scenery was painted in paris, and when all was ready--lo! the scenery was a prisoner because the war had broken out in france! everything had to wait a year, and during that time verdi wrote and rewrote, making his opera one of the most beautiful in the world. finally "aïda" was produced, and the story of that night as told by the italian critic filippi is not out of place here, since the night is historic in opera "first nights:" "the arabians, even the rich, do not love our shows; they prefer the mewings of their tunes, the monotonous beatings of their drums, to all the melodies of the past, present, and future. it is a true miracle to see a turban in a theatre of cairo. sunday evening the opera house was crowded before the curtain rose. many of the boxes were filled with women, who neither chatted nor rustled their robes. there was beauty and there was intelligence especially among the greeks and the strangers of rank who abound in cairo. for truth's sake i must add that, by the side of the most beautiful and richly dressed, were coptic and jewish faces, with strange head-dresses, impossible costumes, a howling of colours,--no one could deliberately have invented worse. the women of the harem could not be seen. they were in the first three boxes on the right, in the second gallery. thick white muslin hid their faces from prying glances." this gives a striking picture of that extraordinary "first night." verdi was born at a time of turmoil and political troubles, and his mother was one of the many women of the inhabitants of roncole (where he was born) who took refuge in the church when soldiery invaded the village. there, near the virgin, many of the women had thought themselves safe, but the men burst in, and a general massacre took place. verdi's mother fled with her little son to the belfry and this alone saved to the world a wonderful genius. when verdi was ten years old he was apprenticed to a grocer in busseto, but he was a musical grocer, and the musical atmosphere, which was life to verdi, surrounded him. he had a passion for leaving in the midst of his grocery business to sit at the spinet and hunt out new harmonious combinations: and when one of his new-made chords was lost he would fly into a terrible rage, although as a general rule he was a peaceable and kindly little chap. on one such occasion he became so enraged that he took a hammer to the instrument--an event coincident with a thrashing his father gave him. there is no end of incident connected with this gentle and kindly soul, who, unlike so many of his fellow geniuses, reflected in his life the beauty of his art. rigoletto characters of the opera, with the original cast as presented at the first performance the duke of mantua signori mirate rigoletto varesi sparafucile ponz count monterone damini marullo kunnerth matteo borsa zuliani count ceprano bellini usher of the court rizzi gilda signore teresa brambilla maddalena casaloni giovanna. saini countess ceprano morselli page modes lovati the story belongs to the sixteenth century, in the city of mantua and its environs. composer: giuseppe verdi. author: francesco maria piave. first sung in venice, gran teatro la fenice. march 11, 1851. act i dukes and duchesses, pages and courtiers, dancing and laughter: these things all happening to music and glowing lights, in the city of mantua four hundred years ago!--that is "rigoletto." there lived, long ago, in mantua, the duke and his suite, and the only member of his household who dared do as he pleased was the duke of mantua's jester, rigoletto. the more deformed a jester happened to be, the more he was valued in his profession, and rigoletto was a very ugly little man, and as vindictive and wicked as he was ill-favoured in appearance. the only thing he truly loved was his daughter, gilda. as for the duke of mantua, he loved for the time being almost any pretty woman who came his way. on the night of a great ball at the duke's palace he was thinking of his latest love, gilda, the jester's daughter. the duke usually confided his affairs to his servant borsa, and the ball had no sooner begun than he began to speak with borsa of his newest escapade. he declared that he had followed gilda to the chapel where she went each day, and that he had made up his mind to speak with her the next time he saw her. "where does this pretty girl live, your highness?" "in an obscure and distant street where i have followed her each day. at night a queer-looking fellow is admitted, thus i am sure she has a lover. by the way, whom do you think that fellow to be?" the duke asked with a laugh. "pray tell me." "none other than rigoletto!" the duke cried, laughing more boisterously. "what do you think of that--the little hunchback!" "and does he know that you have followed this sweetheart of his?" "not he. but look at all of these beautiful women," he exclaimed with delight as the company began to assemble from another room. "alas, a man hardly knows whom to love among so many beauties," he sighed heavily. "but after all, i think it must be the countess ceprano! do you see her? most beautiful!" "just the same i advise you not to let the count ceprano hear you!" borsa advised. ah, in my heart, all are equally cherished, every thought of exclusion within me i smother, none is dearer to me than another, in their turn, i for each one would die, the duke sang gaily, giving his friend and servant the wink. now, rigoletto was in the habit of assisting the duke in all his wrongdoing, and on this night the duke confided to him his new enchantment--not gilda, but the countess ceprano. "the countess has a jealous husband, rigoletto; pray what do you advise?" "why, that you carry her off, to be sure; or else get rid of her husband the count; maybe that would be the easiest way." the duke was wild enough to undertake almost anything, and so with the help of rigoletto he was ready to undertake that. hence, he made desperate love to the countess all the evening, while the count became more and more angry, and followed the pair continually about. even the courtiers were a good deal disgusted with the duke's conduct, and they especially hated rigoletto, who they thought was the real author of most of the duke's misconduct. "i don't know what we are coming to," marullo exclaimed. yes, and 'tis here but as elsewhere! 'tis gambling and feasting, duelling and dancing; and love-making always, wherever he goes. to-day he's for pastime, besieging the countess, while we watch the husband and laugh at his woes! this condition of things exactly suited the malevolent dwarf, however. after the count had followed the duke and countess about the palace half the night, the duke came into the room in a rage. "what am i to do with this count? i'd like to fight him and kill him. he torments me to death. if you don't think out a way to rid me of him while i am making love to the countess, i'll get some other fellow to make life gay for me, rigoletto," he cried to the dwarf. "well, have i not told you--run off with her." "oh, yes, that's easy enough to say." "it's easy enough to _do_. try it to-night!" "but what about her husband?" "oh, i don't know--let him be arrested." "no, no, that won't do; he's of noble birth. you are going too far." "all right! if he is too good to be arrested, then exile him," the dwarf obligingly arranges, showing thereby his notion of the fitness of things. "no! that would hardly do, either," the duke exclaimed impatiently. "well, cut off his head, then." rigoletto thought that should be an ending dignified enough for any one. meantime ceprano overheard that pleasing conversation. "they are black-hearted villains," he muttered aside. "cut off that head so unbending," the duke exclaimed, looking at ceprano, who was really a noble-appearing aristocrat. "aye--we have discovered its use. cut it off; that will make it pliant," the charming dwarf said, facetiously; and that being a bit too much for any noble to put up with, the count drew his sword. "enough! you ribald hunchback," he cried; at which the duke became uneasy. "yes, come here, you jesting fool!" he called to rigoletto, trying to turn the matter off. "we've had enough of your jests. we are tired of you. i advise you not to impose too much on our good humour, because some of this maliciousness may come back at you." but the count was not so easily to be pacified. he turned to the other nobles and asked them to help him revenge himself; but the duke of mantua was very powerful, and few were willing to displease him, however much they disapproved of his conduct. "what can we do?" several of them murmured, and meanwhile the dwarf was trying aside to secure help in carrying off the countess for the duke. that was really too audacious, and all of the nobles finally sided with the count, privately agreeing to help him ruin the dwarf, since they dared not directly oppose the duke. while the excitement of this general quarrel was at its height, the dancers all poured in from the other room and began to sing gaily of life's pleasures, which were about all that made life worth living. in the very midst of this revelry some one without made a great noise and demanded instant admittance. the duke recognized the voice of monterone, a powerful noble, whom he had wronged and cried out angrily: "he shall not come in." as a fact, rigoletto had carried off monterone's daughter for the duke but a little time before. "make way there," the old count insisted, more enraged than ever, and forcing his way past the attendants, he entered the room. he was an old and proud man and the nobles present were bound to give heed to him. "yes, sir duke, it is i. you know my voice! i would it were as loud as thunder!" he cried. "ah! i will deign to give you audience," rigoletto spoke up, mimicking the duke's voice in a manner insulting to monterone. he continued to speak insultingly to the old man, using the duke's manner and voice, till the count cried out against the shameful action. "is this thy justice? thou darest deride me? then no place shall hide thee from my curse. i will pursue thee as long as i live, day and night. i will recall to you how you have taken my daughter away from me, and have disgraced us. you may cut off my head, but still i'll appear to thee and fill thee with fear. and thou, thou viper," he cried to rigoletto, "be thou accursed!" "don't curse me," the dwarf exclaimed, turning pale. he was superstitious, and the fearful words of the wronged father sounded ominous. the scene became terrifying to the whole company and they cried out. "away with him," the duke demanded, angrily. "am i to have the gaiety of my guests spoiled because of this old dotard? take him to prison." the attendants rushed in and seized monterone, while he turned again upon the dwarf and cursed him roundly. not only did the dwarf shrink back, the whole company became affrighted, while the old man was silenced at last by the guards, and rigoletto hurried, panic-stricken, from the palace. _scene ii_ as rigoletto hastened away from the palace with the curses ringing in his ears he could not rid himself of the terror they inspired; probably because he was so bad a man and knew that he deserved them. he was in a street very near to his home, when he was stopped by a forbidding-looking fellow. "it was a father's curse he laid upon me," rigoletto was muttering, thinking of his own daughter, the only thing in the world that he loved. "ho, there," said the fellow in the road, calling softly. "oh, don't stop me," rigoletto answered with impatience. "i have nothing worth getting." he lived in a time of bandits and highwaymen, and, since he had nothing to be robbed of, was not much frightened. he was far more afraid of the count's curse. "no matter, good sir; that is not exactly what i stopped you for. you look to me like a man who might have enemies; or who might wish to employ me." "what for, pray?" sparafucile laughed shortly. "well, you are not a very benevolent-looking chap, and i'd murder my brother for money," he whispered, grinning at the crooked, odious-looking rigoletto. rigoletto eyed him. the villain had spoken almost as if he knew the dwarf's fear. "i believe you," he muttered, looking steadily at the cut-throat. "you look it, every inch. what do you charge to kill a noble?" "more than i charge for a churl, by double." "and how do you want your money?" "half before i do the deed, and the other half when he is dead." "you're a demon," rigoletto murmured; and certainly he himself was bad enough to be able to judge of a rogue when he saw one. "aren't you afraid of being discovered?" "no, when it is dangerous to kill in the city, i do it in my own house. there in the gloom of night, far away from help, it is easy enough. no one ever finds it out." "you are the wickedest man i know--not excepting myself," said rigoletto, contemplating the wretch with curiosity. "tell me how you lure people to your home?" "easy enough. i have a handsome sister there. nobody ever thinks of resisting her. she gets them to come; i do the rest." "i follow you." "then not a sound is heard. the knife is a silent fellow. now what do you think?--that i can serve you?" "no. i don't like the notion." rigoletto was not half as daring of wicked deeds as he had been an hour before; the curse was still ringing in his ears. "you have enemies, i judge," sparafucile urged, shrewdly. "you'll regret not accepting my services." "nay. be off. no, stay a moment! if i ever should need thee, where could i address thee?" "you won't have to address me; you'll find me here each night." "well, be off, be off!" as a fact rigoletto didn't much care to be seen with one of his own kind. but he looked after the _coupe-jarret_ uneasily. "after all, we are equals, that fellow and i. he stabs in the dark--and so do i. i with my malicious tongue, he with his knife. bah! i am all undone. i hear that old man's curse yet. how i hate them, all those nobles who hire me to laugh for them and to make them laugh! i haven't even a right to know sadness. it is my business in life, because i am born crooked, to make sport for these rats of fellows who are no better than i am. i am hired to bear the burden of their crimes. i wish they all had but one neck; i'd strangle them with one hand." overwhelmed with the exciting scenes of the night, he turned toward the gate in his garden wall. as he opened it, gilda ran out gaily to meet him. to her he was only the loving and tender father. she waited for his coming all day, and had no pleasure till she saw him. "oh, in this abode, my nature changes," the crooked little man murmured as he folded his daughter in his arms. "near thee, my daughter, i find all the joy on earth that is left me," he said, trying to control his emotion. "you love me, father?" "aye!--thou art my only comfort." "father, there is often something mysterious in thy actions. you have never told me of my mother. who was my mother, dear father?" [music: ah why recall in misery, what tempests dread have moved me? an angel once companion'd me, an angel in pity lov'd me] he sang. "hideous, an outcast, penniless, she blessed my lonely years. ah! i lost her, i lost her. death wafted her soul to heaven!--but thou art left me," he said tenderly, beginning to weep. "there, father, say no more. my questions have made thee sad. i shall always be with thee to make thee happy. but, father, i do not know that you are what you tell me. what is your real name? is it rigoletto?" "no matter, child, do not question. i am feared and hated by my enemies. let that suffice." "but ever since we came to this place three months ago, you have forbidden me to go abroad. let me go into the city, father, and see the sights." "never! you must not ask it." he was frightened at the very thought. if men like the duke, his master, should see such a beautiful girl as gilda, they would surely rob him of her. at that moment the nurse, giovanna, came from the house and rigoletto asked her if the garden gate was ever left open while he was away. the woman told him falsely that the gate was always closed. "ah, giovanna, i pray you watch over my daughter when i am away," he cried, and turned suddenly toward the gate upon hearing a noise. "some one is without there, now!" he cried, running in the direction of the sound. he threw the gate wide, but saw no one, because the duke--who it was--had stepped aside into the shadow, and then, while rigoletto was without, looking up the road, he slipped within and hid behind a tree, throwing a purse to giovanna to bribe her to silence. giovanna snatched it and hid it in the folds of her gown, showing plainly that she was not to be trusted, as rigoletto trusted her, with his precious daughter. there was the man whom rigoletto had most cause to fear, who ran off with every pretty girl he saw, and he had now found the prettiest of them all in the dwarf's daughter. "have you noticed any one following gilda?" the dwarf asked, returning to the garden and fastening the gate behind him. "if harm should come to my daughter it would surely kill me," he sobbed, taking gilda in his arms. at that the duke, listening behind the tree, was amazed. so! gilda was no sweetheart of his jester; but was his daughter instead! "now," said rigoletto, "i must be off, but i caution you once more; let no one in." "what, not even the great duke if he should come to inquire for you?" "the duke least of all," the dwarf answered in a new panic. and kissing gilda he went out again. no sooner had he gone than gilda turned tearfully to her nurse. "giovanna, my heart feels guilty." "what hast thou done?" the nurse asked, indifferently, remembering the purse of the duke which she carried in her bosom. "ne'er told my father of the youth whom i have learned to love and who has followed me." "why should he know it? would he not prevent it? if you wish that----" "nay, nay," gilda replied, fearfully; and in her loneliness and distress she confided to giovanna how much she loved the duke. mantua, behind the tree, heard all, and, motioning giovanna to go away, he came toward gilda. giovanna went at once into the house, but gilda cried to her to come back, as the sudden appearance of the duke frightened her, after the scene she had just had with her father. then while the duke was giving her a false name, and trying to reassure her, they heard voices outside the garden wall. the duke recognized the voice of borsa and ceprano. they seemed to be searching for some house, and again, quite terror-stricken, gilda started to rush within. giovanna met her. "i am afraid it is your father returned. the young gentleman must hasten away," she whispered under her breath, and immediately the duke went out by another way, through the house. then gilda watched off, down the road, and while she was watching, borsa, ceprano, and other dare-devils of the duke's court stole into the garden. ceprano, who had heard that gilda was some one beloved by rigoletto, although it was not known that she was his daughter, meant to carry gilda off, since he owed rigoletto a grudge. having seen the duke disappear, gilda had gone within again, and as the kidnappers were about to enter, they heard rigoletto coming. it was then their opportunity to plan a great and tragic joke upon the wretched dwarf. "listen to this!" borsa whispered. "let us tell him we are here to carry off the countess ceprano, who has fled here for safety from us. then when we have blind-folded him, we will make him help to carry off his own sweetheart." just as that infamous plan was formed, in came rigoletto. he ran against one of the men in the dark. "what's this?" he cried. "h'st! be silent!" "who spoke?" he unconsciously lowered his voice. "marullo, you idiot." "the darkness blinds me, and i cannot see you." "h'st, rigoletto! we're for an adventure. we are going to carry off the countess ceprano: she has fled here from us. we had the duke's key to get into her place." he holds out the key which the dwarf felt in the darkness and found the duke's crest upon it. "her palace is on the other side----" "she fled here, we tell thee. we are stealing her for the duke. put on this mask, hurry!" marullo tied on a mask and put the jester at the foot of a ladder which they had run up against the terrace. "now hold the ladder till one of us gets over and unfastens the door." rigoletto, somewhat dazed, did mechanically what he was told, and the men entered the house. "ah, i shall have a fine revenge on that scamp," ceprano muttered, looking toward rigoletto through the dark. "sh! be silent," borsa whispered. "they will bring the girl out muffled so he can't hear her scream. rigoletto will never hear a sound. no joke of his ever matched the one we are preparing for him." at that moment, gilda was brought out, her mouth tied with her scarf; but as they were bearing her away, she got the scarf loose and uttered a piercing shriek, and the scarf fell near rigoletto. "father, help, help!" she cried, but the voice seemed to come from afar off. rigoletto only just heard. he could not collect his senses. "here, what does this mean? aren't you nearly through?" he cried, angrily tearing off the mask and also the handkerchief that bound his ears. "what cry was that? i thought i heard a cry!" he was becoming mad with fear. all the conditions seemed so strange. "hello there!" but no one answered; all the men were gone. then he snatched a lantern one of the men had left near, and suddenly he saw gilda's scarf. he stared at it, rushed like a madman into the house and dragged out the nurse, tried to shriek "gilda," but overcome with horror he fell senseless. act ii now if the duke of mantua was ever angry in his life, he was angry when the curtain rose on the second act. there he was, pacing about a sumptuous apartment, fuming with rage. "if ever i loved any one in my life, it was that girl!" he cried. "and heaven knows what can have become of her." as a matter of fact, the duke had some misgiving after he had left gilda in the garden, and, later, he had returned. but he had found the place deserted and could get no news of her from that hour. "oh, but i would defend thee, if thou art in trouble," he cried; and in the midst of his excitement marullo, borsa, and ceprano and other courtiers rushed into the room. all were fairly bursting with news of the escapade of the night before. "oh, duke! oh, lord! what do you think? we have carried off the jester's sweetheart!" "what?" the duke stared and then gave a great cry. "speak, speak. what have you done?" "the jester's sweetheart." "where is she?" the duke asked, hardly daring to trust his voice. "here, in this house." "what do you say?" "yes, we brought her here." "oh, joy!" the duke exclaimed; then aside: "she is near me," and forgetting all about his friends he went out excitedly. "why did he turn away from us?" the men asked each other. "he has enjoyed our adventures before now." they were a little uneasy and were conferring together when rigoletto came in. he was a pitiful-looking fellow, worn with a night of horror and weeping, but he came singing: "la, la, la, la, la,"--pretending not to be agitated. "pray what is the news?" he asked off-hand, seeking not to betray his agony of mind, till he should have learned something about his daughter. "pleasant morning, rigoletto!" the men answered, mockingly, and glancing with grins at each other. "pray what _is_ the news?" rigoletto, half dead with anxiety, moved about the room looking for some sign of gilda. "lord! see him fishing about in every corner for her? he thinks to find her under the table," one of them whispered, and the men burst out laughing. then rigoletto discovered a handkerchief on the floor and snatched it, hoping to find a clue, but it was not hers. just then a page ran in to say that the duchess was asking for the duke. "he is still in bed," one of the men answered, watching the effect of that upon rigoletto, who was listening to every word. "he cannot be," the page persisted. "didn't he just pass me on the stairs?" "all right, then! he has gone a-hunting," and they laughed. "with no escort? hardly. come, don't think me a fool. where's the duke? the duchess wishes to speak with him." "it is you who are a dull fool," the men exclaimed, seeming to carry on the conversation aside, but taking good care that rigoletto should hear. "the duke cannot be disturbed--do you understand? he is with a lady." "ah! villains!" rigoletto shrieked, turning upon them like a tiger. "my daughter! you have my daughter--here in this palace. give me my daughter!" the men all rushed after him as he made for the door. "your daughter? my god! your daughter?" they were horrified at their own doings, hearing it was rigoletto's daughter. "stand back! don't think to keep me from my daughter." as they still held him tight, hardly knowing what then to do, he sank down in despair. he entreated help of the different courtiers whom he had so often and maliciously misused. then he wept. "oh, have pity on me, my lords! let me go to my daughter." while everybody was hesitating in consternation, gilda, having got free, rushed from the next room, and into his arms. she screamed hysterically that she had been carried off by the duke. rigoletto nearly foamed at the mouth with rage, and at last the men became truly afraid of him. "go, all of you!" he stammered, no longer able to speak plainly. "and if the duke comes into this room i will kill him." so the courtiers withdrew. the palace was in an uproar. "it is a mistake to jest with a madman," marullo whispered to borsa as they went out. father and daughter were left alone. after looking at gilda a moment, trying to recover himself, rigoletto whispered. "now, my child; they have gone. speak!" gilda throwing herself into her father's arms, told of her meetings with the duke, and of how she had grown to love him, and finally of how in the night she had been carried away. as they were in each other's arms the guard entered with old count monterone, who was being taken to his cell. as he was being led across the room, rigoletto's wild eyes fixed themselves in horror upon the man whose curse had cursed him. the count paused before the duke's picture and cursed it. "i shall be the instrument to fulfill thy curse, old man," rigoletto whispered as the count passed out, and he made a frightful oath of vengeance against the duke of mantua. his words frightened gilda, because she dearly loved the duke even though she believed he had caused her to be carried off. as the jester raised his hand to take the dreadful oath to kill, gilda fell upon her knees beside him. act iii rigoletto and gilda had fled from the palace, for the dwarf meant to hide his daughter away forever; and in the darkness they were hurrying on their way to an old inn, which could be seen near at hand. a swift, rushing river ran back of the inn, and the innkeeper could be seen inside his house sitting at a table polishing an old belt. it was the villainous old cut-throat, sparafucile, who had stopped rigoletto on his way home two nights before, offering to kill whomever rigoletto would for a sum of money. gilda was very weary and she and her father were about to stop at the inn for the night. they were speaking in the road: "do you still love the duke, my child?" "alas, father! i cannot help it. i think i shall always love him." at that moment rigoletto espied a man, dressed as a cavalry officer, approaching the inn by another road. instantly he recognized the duke in disguise. he peeped through an opening in the wall which surrounded the house and could see the duke greeting sparafucile and ordering a bottle of wine, after which he gaily sang, while waiting: [music: plume in the summer wind, waywardly playing, ne'er one way swaying, each whim obeying, etc.] the song was gay and thoughtless, and when it should be last heard by rigoletto it was to have a fearful meaning. "ah, ha?" rigoletto murmured to himself. "this rat of a noble is seeking some new adventure! let us see if gilda will continue to love him when she knows the true wickedness of the wretch! when she knows that he is false to all that he has said to her: because there is of course another woman in the case!" while rigoletto was observing him, the wine was brought to the duke, who raised his sword and rapped upon the ceiling with its hilt. at that signal a pretty girl ran down the ladder and mantua embraced her. that freed sparafucile and he ran out of the inn to look for rigoletto, whose coming was expected. in fact, rigoletto had at last made a bargain with the _coupe-jarret_ to kill the duke. "your man's inside. shall i do the job at once, or wait a bit?" "wait a bit," said rigoletto, glancing at gilda, who heard nothing, "i'll give the signal," whereupon sparafucile went off, toward the river. then while the father and daughter stood outside the inn they could see all that was taking place within it. the duke began to make love to the gipsy girl, and she laughed at him. "you have told fifty girls what you tell me," she declared. "well, i'll admit all that. i am an unfaithful fellow--but you don't mind that! just at this moment i love no one in the world but you," he returned. "father, do you hear that traitor?" gilda whispered, tearfully, and rigoletto nodded. he was indeed glad; maybe it would cure her of her infatuation. "i must laugh to think how many girls you have made believe you," the gipsy said again, mocking the duke. but he only protested the more, and gilda threw her arms about her father in despair. "now, my child, since this traitor is here, you cannot well go in; so return to mantua, change thy dress for that of a youth; get a horse and fly to verona. there i will meet thee and see thee safe. you can see that this man is no longer to be trusted." "alas, i know that is true;--yet, if i must go--come with me, father," she entreated, feeling very lonely and heartbroken, there in the dark night. "not at once. i cannot go at once; but i will soon join thee"; and in spite of her pleading he started her back to the city alone. then he and sparafucile stood together in the middle of the road while the dwarf counted out the half of the money to the cut-throat. "here is thy money, and i am going away. but at midnight i shall return and help thee throw him into the river. it will make a great noise,--this killing of a man of the duke of mantua's fame," he muttered. "never mind about coming back. i can dump him into the river, without help. it is going to be a bad night," the fellow said, uneasily looking up at the storm clouds that were gathering. as the lightning began to flash and the thunder to roll distantly, rigoletto turned toward mantua, while sparafucile went into the inn. "a fine night! black as thunder and going to storm like satan," he said as he entered. "so much the better," the duke answered, "i'll stay here all night, and you clear out," to sparafucile;--"go to the devil, will you? i don't want you about." "you're a nice, soft spoken gentlemen--if a man doesn't care what he says," sparafucile returned. "you mustn't stay here," maddalena said hastily to the duke. she well knew the tricks her brother was up to when a stranger with money stopped at the house; and after the duke had made himself so agreeable she didn't care to see him killed under her nose. "you mind your business," her brother said to her, shortly, seeing his plans interfered with. then speaking to her aside: "it's worth a pot-full of gold to us. mind your own business, i say." then to the duke: "sir, i am delighted to have you sleep at my inn. pray take shelter in my own chamber. come, i will show you the way." sparafucile took the candle and went toward the ladder that led to the rooms above. the duke then whispered to the gipsy girl, and went laughing up the ladder. maddalena looked thoughtfully after him. she liked money as well as her brother did. should she let her brother kill him or not? "heavens! that thunder is loud," she exclaimed, as the storm struck the dreadful house. up in the loft, the duke was laughing with sparafucile about the airiness of the chamber. "well, well, i'm tired," he said, after the cut-throat had gone down the ladder. "i'll take off my sword and have an hour's sleep, anyway." he removed his protecting sword, and began to hum to himself while he was waiting for more wine. the storm, the gay song, the murder which was about to be committed!--it was a fearful hour. down below sparafucile was saying to his sister: "go and get my dagger. this affair will give us a tidy sum of money." maddalena listened to the duke singing above and hesitated. "he--he is young and--no--we shall not do this thing, sparafucile," she declared. "come! no foolishness, now," he growled. "get my dagger and be quick." she reluctantly ascended the staircase again to where the duke was sleeping. it was not very light. the flickering candle made but a wavering shadow over all, and as maddalena went up the ladder, gilda, who had returned, softly stole up to the inn door and began to listen to what went on within, but not daring to enter. she had returned because for some reason unknown to herself she was oppressed with a sense of danger to the duke who had so ill-treated her. through the chink of the door she could see the innkeeper at the table drinking. gilda had already changed her girl's clothing for that of a youth with spurs and boots. now she saw maddalena come back down the stairs with the duke's sword which she had stolen from his side. "oh, it is a horrible night," gilda whispered to herself, shuddering and cold and frightened there in the dark, with only sparafucile's wicked face before her. "brother," maddalena began, "i am not going to let you kill that young man up there. i have taken a fancy to him and i won't let you do it." "you mind your own affairs and get away from here. i'll attend to my business," he snarled. upon hearing there was a plan to kill the duke whom after all she truly loved, unworthy as he was, gilda nearly fainted. "you just take this sack and mend it," sparafucile said, throwing an old sack toward his sister. "what for?" she asked suspiciously. "it is to hold your fine young man, up there--when i shall throw him in the river." upon hearing that, gilda sank down upon the stone step. "see here! if it were not for the money you are to get, you would let him go, i know," maddalena urged. "well, no--because you see already i have received half my pay, and the fellow i am doing the job for is a nasty customer, and, to tell the truth, i shouldn't dare let the duke go. "then listen to my plan: the hunchback will presently return with the rest of the money." gilda learned then to her horror that it was her father who had bargained for the duke's assassination. "when the jester comes, kill him instead and take his money--all of it--and throw him into the river, and let this young man above go." at that gilda could not longer support herself and she fell down upon the ground. "no, i won't do it," the fellow said doggedly. "i agreed to kill the man upstairs--and there must be honour among rogues. it wouldn't be right to kill the one i hadn't bargained for. i make it a rule never to kill my employer," the rascal returned piously. "i'll call him, then, and tell him to defend himself," the girl cried, running toward the stairs. "hold on there," sparafucile cried; "i'll tell you--i agree to kill the first man who enters this house between now and midnight, in the duke's stead, if that will suit you. then we shall put him in the sack, and the hunchback will not know the difference. will that suit you?" he repeated. "that will do, and see that you keep your word or i will arouse the young man, i promise you." at that moment the clock struck half past eleven, and gilda was frantic with fear. maddalena was in tears, fearing that no one would come along, in that storm, so late at night. "if no one comes!" gilda thinks shudderingly. "oh, how shall i save him?" but no sooner had she that thought than a desperate plan entered her mind. she would go into the inn! she was dressed like a young man and no one would ever know the difference in the darkness and the storm. she would go in and the duke would be spared. then she waited a moment, overcome with the fear of death; finally, summoning all her courage, she knocked against the door. "who's there?" both maddalena and sparafucile exclaimed, looking in terror at each other. the knock was sudden and ominous. then another knock. "who's there?" again he called. "a stranger, caught in the storm. will you give me shelter?" gilda could hardly speak, with terror. maddalena and the murderer looked at each other significantly. they knew well what they would do the moment the door was opened. the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled and broke above them, and the scene became terrifying. sparafucile placed himself behind the door and motioned to maddalena to open it. "thou art welcome," she said, throwing the door back suddenly; and as gilda stumbled in, maddalena ran out and closed the gateway. the candle went out in the gust of wind, and all was dark. gilda stood an instant in the blackness of the room. with one blow of the knife, which could not be seen for the darkness, sparafucile killed her, and then all was silent. after a moment the storm broke away, the moon came forth, and rigoletto could be seen coming up the river bank. "it is the time of my vengeance, now," he muttered to himself. he tried the inn door and found it locked. "he cannot have done the deed yet," he muttered. after waiting a little he knocked. "who's there?" "i am known to thee," he whispered back; at this sparafucile came out, dragging behind him a sack. "bring a light," rigoletto called, "that i may see him." "that's all right--but you pay my money first," the cut-throat insisted. rigoletto impatiently paid him. "i'll throw him into the river, myself," rigoletto said triumphantly. "the tide is shallow here--go farther on--and be sure no one surprises you," sparafucile advised. "good night," he said shortly, and went inside the inn. then rigoletto stood in the dripping road looking gloatingly at the sack. "i've got you at last," he chuckled, diabolically, "i have revenge for your treatment of my daughter. my dear daughter! the child of my heart!" at the very thought of what she had suffered the dwarf sobbed. "i'll put my foot upon you, you noble vermin," he cried, kicking the body in the sack. at that moment he heard a song--_la donna è mobile_--the voice! was he going mad? he knew the voice. he had heard it only a few hours ago, in the inn--he had heard it daily at court--_la donna è mobile_! he looked toward the windows of the inn. _la donna è mobile!_ as he looked he saw the duke and maddalena step from the window to the terrace that ran by the river bank. "_la donna è mobile_," the duke sang gaily. with a frightful cry, rigoletto dragged the sack open and the body of his murdered daughter rolled out upon the road. she moved ever so little. "father?" and she gasped out the truth, with a dying breath, while the dwarf shrieked and tore his hair. "the curse, the curse! monterone's curse!" he screamed, and went raving mad. il trovatore characters of the opera, with the original cast as presented at the first performance leonora penco azucena goggi inez quadri manrico baucardé count di luna guicciardi ferrando balderi ruiz bazzoli an old gipsy. messenger, jailer, soldiers, nuns, gipsies, and attendants. the story belongs to the fifteenth century in spain, and tells of the border wars of northern spain, carried on in the provinces of arragon and biscay. composer: giuseppe verdi. author: cammarano. first sung in rome, _teatro apollo_, january, 19, 1853; paris, _théâtre des italiens_, december 23, 1854 (in italian); at the _opéra_, january 12, 1857 (in french); london, covent garden, may 17, 1855; new york, academy of music, april 30, 1855. act i [music] there you are, prepared for almost anything in the way of battle, murder, or sudden death, to the accompaniment of beautiful music; opera in true italian style, at its second best. soldiers and servants were gathered about the beautiful columns of a porch of the aliaferia palace just before midnight awaiting the return of the count di luna. among them was ferrando, the captain of the count's guard. all were lounging in the vestibule of the palace gossiping till it was time to go on duty within. "hey, wake up! you'll be caught napping," ferrando called to his comrades. "it is time for the count to come. i suppose he has been under the lady leonora's windows. ah, he is madly in love with her--and so jealous of that troubadour who sings beneath her windows that some day they will meet and kill each other." this was an old story to the men, and in their effort to keep awake they clamoured for the story of the count di luna's brother, which all had heard told with more or less of truth; but ferrando knew the whole horrible tale better than any one else; besides, it was a good story to keep awake on. "ah, that was a great tragedy for the house of luna," ferrando began with a shiver. "i remember it as if it were but yesterday:" when the good count di luna here resided, two children fair he numbered; one to a faithful nurse was once confided, by the cradle she slumbered. at morning when she woke and gazed about her, sorely stricken was she, and what sight do ye think did so confound her? cho. ... what, oh tell us did she see? [music: ferrando. swarthy and threatening, a gipsy woman, bearing of fiendish art, symbols inhuman upon the infant fiercely she gazes, as if to seize him her arm she raises! spellbound the nurse watch'd at first the beldame hoary but soon her shrieking was answer'd in the distance, and quicker than now i can tell you the story, the servants of the [transcriber's note: music ends here]] the frightful story was sung in a deep bass voice, by ferrando. he sang of how the cry of the nurse on that morning years before had brought the servants running and they had put the gipsy out; but almost at once the baby grew ill, and the count and his people believed the old hag had put a spell upon it, so that it would die. they sought wildly for her, and, when they finally found her, they burned her alive. while that frightful scene was being enacted, the baby was stolen, outright, and the di luna family saw it thrown upon the fire which had consumed the gipsy. this deed was done by the daughter of the gipsy whom they had burned alive. there were those who believed that the child burned had not been the count's, but a young gipsy baby--which was quite as horrible. the name of the young woman who had done this fiendish thing was azucena, and the di lunas searched for her year after year without success. it was believed that the spirit of the hag they had burned had entered into the younger woman's body. the gossiping soldiers and servants sang: anon on the eaves of the house-tops you'll see her, in form of a vampire; 'tis then you must flee her; a crow of ill-omen she often is roaming, or else as an owl that flits by in the gloaming. while they were talking of this tragedy for the hundredth time, it approached the hour of midnight. the servants, through fear, drew closer together, and the soldiers formed a rank across the plaza at the back. each recalled some frightful happening in relation to witches; how one man who had given a witch a blow, had died, shrieking and in awful agony. he had been haunted. it was at the midnight hour that he had died! as they spoke of this, the castle bell tolled the midnight hour. the men, wrought up with fright, yelled sharply, and the face of the moon was hidden for a moment. _scene ii_ when the cloud which had hidden the moon's rays cleared away, a beautiful garden belonging to the palace was revealed. the place was very silent, the soldiers and servants, excepting those on guard, having gone within. the lady leonora, whom the count di luna loved, was one of the suite of the princess of arragon, and when all in the palace were sleeping it was her custom to steal into the lovely gardens with her friend, inez. of late, when she came there, she had hoped, secretly, to find a mysterious young troubadour, who sang almost nightly beneath her windows. she loved this troubadour and not the count. the first time she had met the handsome youth was at a tournament. there he had come, dressed in a suit of black, and all unknown; wearing a sweeping sable plume in his helmet; and when the jousting took place, he had vanquished all the nobles. it was leonora, herself, who had placed the wreath of the victor upon his brow. from that very moment they had loved. he had worn no device upon his shield by which he could be known, but she had loved him for a gallant knight. he belonged to the retinue of a neighbouring prince, who was an enemy of the princess of arragon, and he risked his life each time he came to sing in the gardens to leonora. "ah, i fear some harm will come of this love of yours!" inez said to her friend and mistress. "the princess awaits thee, dear countess, and we must go within. i hope your trust will never be betrayed by this unknown knight and singer." the women mounted the gleaming marble staircase, and then leonora paused for a moment looking down into the garden again. she had no sooner gone than a man peered out from the shadow of the trees. it was the count di luna, jealously watching for the knight who sang beneath the lady's window. also, he hoped to see leonora, herself, but all was still, and after watching the balcony a moment, he started toward the marble steps. at that instant a beautiful voice stole through the moonlight. [music: manrico. naught upon earth is left me, fate of all joy hath bereft me.] it was manrico the troubadour! the count paused upon the stair and looked down; but leonora, too, had heard, and ran out upon the balcony, then down the steps, throwing herself into the count's arms, mistaking him for manrico. manrico, still hidden by the shadows, witnessed this, and becoming enraged at the sight, believing leonora faithless, he rushed upon them just as the moon again shone forth and revealed to leonora that she was in the count's arms, instead of the troubadour's. "traitress!" manrico cried. "manrico, the light blinded me," she implored, throwing herself at the troubadour's feet. for thee alone the words were meant, if those words to him were spoken, she sang. "i believe thee," manrico answered; while the count, enraged in his turn, cried: "you shall fight with me, sir knight!" "aye, behold me!" manrico answered, lifting his visor and standing in the bright light of the moon. at the sight of him di luna started back: "manrico! the brigand! thou darest----" "to fight thee? aye, have at it!" and manrico stood _en garde_. leonora implored them not to fight, but too late. they would fight to the death. "follow me," di luna called, drawing his sword, which he had half sheathed when he had seen that his antagonist was not of noble birth like himself. "follow me," and he hurried off among the trees, followed by manrico. "i follow, and i shall kill thee," the handsome troubadour cried, as he too rushed off after the count. whereupon the countess leonora fell senseless. act ii this opera of shadows and darkness began again in a ghostly ruin in the mountains of biscay. a forge fire blazed through a yawning doorway of tumbled-down stones. it was not yet day, but very soon it would be; and manrico, the handsome knight, brigand, troubadour, lover of leonora, lay wounded upon a low couch near the forge fire. azucena, his gipsy mother, sat beside him, tenderly watching. many months had passed since the night of the duel in the palace garden, when manrico had had di luna at his mercy, but had spared him. since that time there had been war between the factions of arragon and biscay, and manrico had been sorely wounded in his prince's service. here he had lain ever since, in the gipsy rendezvous, cared for by his mother. all night the gipsy band had been at work, forging weapons with which to fight, and just before the early dawn they were discovered singing a fine chorus, which they accompanied by a rhythmic pounding upon their anvils. there, beside him, through the long nights, azucena had sat, conjuring back memories of her fierce past, and soon she broke into a wild song describing the death of her mother, years before, when manrico was a baby. she sang how that old mother had been burned at the stake by the di lunas--by the father of the living count. "di luna, mother?" manrico questioned. "aye, it was di luna. why did ye not kill the young count when ye fought?" she asked, fiercely. "i do not know," he murmured, rising upon his elbow. "mother, do you know when i had disarmed him, something seemed to hold me back, to paralyze my arm. i hated him, but i could not strike the death-blow." "his father burned my mother at the stake, manrico. ye must avenge me." and at that moment a gipsy interrupted the talk between mother and son by crying: "the sun rises! we must be off!" thereupon the gipsy band threw their tools into bags, gathered up their cloaks and hats, and one by one and in groups they disappeared down the mountain-side, leaving azucena and her wounded son alone in the ruined hut. he remained wrapped in his mantle, sword and horn beside him, while the old hag continued to croon about the horrors of the past. in her ever-increasing rage she called again and again upon manrico to avenge her. "again those vengeful words, mother! there is something in thy voice which i do not understand." "listen! i will tell thee! i have told thee how my mother was accused, arrested by the old count and burned alive. well, in that fearful moment, crazed with grief i crept into the palace, snatched the count's child, and rushed out, thinking only of my revenge. with maddened mind i tossed the babe into the flames that were consuming my mother--or so i thought! but when i looked around there was the child of noble birth, and my own was gone. it was you who were left to me. my own child had gone into the flames. i snatched thee up and fled." "what is this that ye tell me?" manrico cried, his eyes strained, his body stiffened with horror. "thou who art so tender of me--" and he fell back upon his couch overcome with the frightful deed. "i was mad! but now you must avenge me. you must ruin my enemy. have i not tended thee as my own, and loved thee?" "oh, tale of woe! mother, speak no more." frightful as the deed had been, he tried to soothe the demented old woman who had truly cared for him with a mother's care. he had known no other mother, but the tale had distracted him. the knowledge that the count di luna, whose life he had spared, was his own brother, explained much to him. no wonder something had stayed his hand when he might have killed him. yet, he also recalled that his unsuspecting brother loved leonora. in all their encounters, di luna had shown only a hard, unyielding heart, and manrico had no reason to love him. after all, manrico was but a wild young brigand, living in a lawless time, when nobles themselves were highwaymen and without violating custom. such a one had little self-control. "show di luna no mercy, my son," azucena urged. "art thou not my son? my own, dear son?" then suddenly remembering all that her distraught condition had betrayed her into saying, she cried remorsefully: "i am an old and wretched woman who has seen much sorrow. when i spoke i was distracted with my griefs, but remember the count di luna and do not spare him. if you do, he will take the lady leonora from thee." "true, mother, and i will kill him," the troubadour said suddenly. the thought of di luna's rivalry overcame his sense of humanity. the forge fire died down, and manrico, exhausted by his mother's story, lay back upon his couch while his mother continued to sit, lost in her tragic thoughts, but while he rested, half sleeping, the long clear note of a horn was heard, and manrico started up. "it is ruiz," he said anxiously, believing it to be his servant. snatching his horn from his belt, he blew a clear, answering blast. in a moment a messenger, who was not ruiz, ran in. "quick, what is thy news?" manrico demanded, made apprehensive by illness and the stories he had heard. he expected misfortune from every quarter. "a letter for thee, master," the messenger panted, leaning against the rocky wall, worn with running. manrico read excitedly: "our men have taken castellar. the prince's order is that thou shalt come instantly to defend it. unless thy wounds have laid thee low, i shall expect thee. know that, deceived by the tidings of thy death, the beautiful lady leonora will this day become the elect of heaven." manrico started, then stared at the letter again. leonora to enter a convent where he could never see her again! no! "bring me my horse, quick. i shall join thee below the hill. mother, i go! my mantle!" and snatching his cloak and helmet, his mother threw her arms about him. "where do you go, my son?" she cried with anxiety. "to save leonora--let me go." "thou art still ill. it will kill thee, and i shall die if i lose thee." "farewell, mother; i go. without leonora, i could not live. i go." tearing himself from her he rushed down the mountain. _scene ii_ again it was night; there was always an appearance of darkness and gloom about the lovers. from the cloisters of the convent to which leonora had gone, there stretched away at the back a deep wood. the count, having heard where leonora was hidden, had also started with his followers and vassals, to reach the convent before she could take the veil and retire forever beyond his reach. when he reached the convent it was just before day, and with ferrando he stole into the gardens, wrapped in his long cloak. "everything is still; the convent is sleeping. they have ceased their prayers awhile and we are safe, ferrando," the count whispered. "it is a bold adventure, count. i fear----" "do not speak. a man does not fear when he is in danger of losing the woman he loves." he began to sing softly: [music: on the light of her sweet glances, joy celestial beameth upon me.] it was a love song to leonora, who, within the convent, was about to bury herself from all the world, believing manrico to be dead. as the light of day slowly flushed the scene, a bell sounded from the chapel tower. "that bell, ferrando!" "it is to summon the nuns to prayer. they will pass this way." "now to rescue her!" di luna motioned to his men, who had lain concealed in the shadows. "she is coming," he whispered, watching the convent door, while a weird chant floated out. the nuns were singing. while di luna watched, leonora came from the convent with her beloved friend, inez, who was weeping. "why weep, inez?" leonora asked, gently. "in another hour shall we not be forever parted?" "have no regrets for me, dear sister. there is no longer any happiness for me in this life, since manrico is dead. come, weep no more. let us go to the altar." "no," di luna cried, rushing upon her, while the nuns from the convent screamed: "sacrilege! help!" they struggled, and the count's men rushed up to help him. the count had overcome leonora and was about to flee with her, when manrico leaped into the midst of the fight. his men set upon the count's men, while manrico himself lifted leonora and ran off with her. his men vanquished the count's. leonora believed herself in heaven upon finding herself in manrico's arms, and as he carried her away he cried to di luna that he would be revenged upon him. then he fled to castellar. act iii at last this tragedy began to see daylight, inasmuch as the third act began in broad day with the banner of the count floating from his tent, pitched before the ramparts of castellar, which could be seen in the distance. soldiers were moving about, brightening their armour, and a band of strong crossbow-men crossed the ravine behind the camp. "those are the troops to reinforce us," some of the soldiers sang out. "we shall vanquish castellar then, without delay," others cried; and then comes a famous soldiers' chorus. the count di luna came from his tent and looked off toward the grim stronghold of castellar. "thy day is over," he said, vindictively, thinking of manrico, who, with leonora, in the castle, was defending the domain. his thoughts were interrupted by a commotion in the camp. "what is the trouble there?" he asked ferrando, who came from the hill. "a wandering gipsy has been found near the camp, and the men believe her to be a spy from castellar. they have arrested her, and are bringing her to you, count," he announced as azucena appeared with some men. "let me go!" she screamed, struggling to get away from her captors. "bring her here," di luna said, and they released her before him. "where is your home?" "not here," she replied sullenly. "well, where?" "the gipsy has no home; she wanders. i come from biscay, if you must know." biscay! di luna started at the word. ferrando looked at him quickly. "say, old hag, how long hast thou been among the biscay mountains? dost thou remember that many years ago--fifteen--a young child was stolen from a noble, by one of thy people?" "what is that you say?" she screamed in fright. "i say the child was my brother." she stared at him in horror. "well," she muttered, "thy tale is no concern of mine." but ferrando, who had been watching her closely, believed he recognized her features. "count, do not let her go--it is the murderess herself; she who threw thy brother upon the fire." "ah, my god!" the count cried, shrinking away from her. "let me punish her. to the stake with her!" and she was instantly surrounded by the men. she twisted and screamed, calling upon manrico to come and save his mother, but manrico was in the castle of castellar defending it and leonora from the count below. he was about to marry the countess and they were even at that moment on their way to the chapel. they entered the great hall, whose windows opened out upon the horrid scene below, where azucena was to be burned at the stake. it was now dusk, and the clamour of battle could be plainly heard, within the hall. leonora, being frightened, asked manrico if the trouble would never end. "banish all sad thoughts, leonora; our soldiers will win and it will soon be over. think only of joyful things. we shall live and be happy." the organ sounded from the chapel. "that calls us to our marriage," manrico said, leading her toward the chapel door, but as they were about to enter, ruiz rushed in. "manrico! look out--that gipsy." he pointed frantically out of the window. manrico looked, and there he saw his old mother being tied to the stake, the fagots being piled about her. he yelled with horror. "leonora! it is my mother. she was my mother before i loved thee. i go to save her. call our men, ruiz, i follow!" embracing leonora, he rushed wildly away, while the trumpets of war were heard, and the din of battle began. act iv back at aliaferia, manrico was held prisoner. all was gloom and darkness again, with the prison tower where manrico was confined looming near, its bars seeming very sinister, the evening more forbidding by contrast with that first moonlight night, when he had sung to leonora in the gardens. leonora, protected by ruiz, the faithful servant, stole from the shadows, while ruiz tried to reconnoitre and spy out where manrico was hidden. the countess was worn with fear and trouble. while they stood there, outside the prison, the "miserere" was dolorously chanted. the sound was ominous. "they chant prayers for the dead!" she whispered, and then the bell tolled. "it is the bell for the dead," she whispered again, fainting with despair. "what voices of horror. my god! death is very near;" and she stood listening. then, mingling with the death chant, the troubadour's glorious voice floated out upon the night. [music: ah send thy beams, aurora, light me to early death, waft her my longing, waft her my latest breath! i leave thee, leonora, ah, i leave thee!] it was the doomed manrico singing, from his prison, while waiting, wearily, for the dawn. it was a fearful hour: the death song! the bell for the dead, the lonely troubadour's voice, and prayer for the dead, sounding through the night. as leonora listened, her anguish became too great to bear, and she resolved to save his life or die. then di luna came, accompanied by his men; he was giving hurried orders: "the moment the day dawns, bring out the man, and here, on this spot, cut off his head," he commanded. the attendants entered the prison tower, and di luna, believing himself to be alone, began to sing passionately of leonora. he thought her dead in the ruins of castellar, which his soldiers had demolished. while cursing his fate, leonora came near to him and threw herself at his feet. "thou art not dead!" he cried. "nay--but i shall die unless you give me manrico's life," she murmured pleadingly. "he dies at dawn," di luna answered. "spare him and i will wed thee," she swore. at that di luna regarded her in amazement. "you speak the truth?" he demanded, scarcely daring to believe his senses. "unbar those gates; let me into his dungeon and take him word that he is free, and i swear to be thy wife," she repeated. "hola! you there!" he called to his men. "show this woman to manrico's dungeon," he commanded, trembling with joy. unseen by him, she took a deadly poison from her ring. she would free manrico with her promise, and before di luna could reach her she resolved to die. the men stood ready, and she went into the prison with them. _scene ii_ in the gloomy tower a lamp swung from the ceiling by a chain, casting a dim uncertain light upon azucena, whom manrico had saved from the flames, but who had been imprisoned with him, and was presently to be killed also. she was lying on a low bed with manrico beside her, and in her half-waking dream anticipated the scorching of the flame, which was soon to be lighted about her. she cried out pitifully. "art thou waking, mother?" "this fearful dungeon, my son! it is a living tomb. but they shall not torture me: i am already dying. i shall be dead before they come to drag me to the stake." manrico tried to soothe her to sleep, saying that he would guard her; and gradually the poor wretch slept. as she did so, leonora slipped into the room, through the door unbarred for her at di luna's order. "leonora! i am dreaming," manrico muttered. "nay, it is i. i have come to save thee. do not waste a moment. go!" "without thee--never! what have you done? how have you purchased my freedom?" he demanded, shrewdly. "it was by promising to be di luna's wife," he cried. "before that can be, i will kill thee and myself." he covered his face with his hands. he was in despair, and leonora did not at first tell him that she was already dying. "go while there is time," she pleaded, feeling the poison in her veins. manrico saw her stagger and grow faint. "we shall not part," he whispered, as she fell at his feet! "we shall not part." he lifted her up, but she was already dying. "fly before di luna discovers that i have cheated him," but manrico still held the dying leonora to his breast, and at that moment the count entered. "i have cheated him," she murmured. "i am dying." hearing this the count made an outcry and his guards rushed in. "away with him!" he shouted, pointing to manrico; and manrico was torn from leonora, as she sank back dead. he was bound and hustled out, while azucena was awakened by the confused sounds. she sat up and called desperately: "manrico!" finding him gone and seeing di luna, "where hast thou taken him?" she screamed, tearing her gray hair. "see--" and di luna dragged her to the barred window. "see! the knife falls--look upon the sight, old fiend." she saw manrico's head struck from his shoulders as the day dawned. with a frightful shriek she cried: "mother, i am avenged! fiend! he was thy brother!" di luna looked first at the dying gipsy, then at the horrid scene below, and staggered back, unable to speak his brother's name. his peace was destroyed forever. aïda characters of the opera, with the original casts as presented at the first performances cairo milan aïda signora pozzoni signora stolz amneris grossi waldmann radames signor mongini signor fancelli amonasro steller pandolfini ramphis medini maini the king costa pavoleri messenger bottardi vistarini priests, priestesses, ministers, captains, soldiers, officials, ethiopian slaves, prisoners, egyptian populace, etc., etc. the time of the story is when the pharaohs were puissant, and the scenes are laid in the cities of thebes and memphis. composer: giuseppe verdi. author: a. ghislanzoni. the opera was first sung at cairo, egypt, december 27, 1871; at milan, february 8, 1872. act i all egypt was troubled with wars and rumours of wars, and in memphis the court of the king was anxiously awaiting the decision of the goddess isis, as to who should lead the egyptian army against egypt's enemies. the great hall of the memphis palace was beautifully ornamented with statues and flowers, and from its colonnades of white marble one could see the pyramids and the palaces of the city. it was in this vast and beautiful hall that radames, a gallant soldier and favourite of the egyptian court, met ramphis, the high priest, on the day when the oracle, isis, was to choose the general of the army. isis had already spoken, and ramphis knew it, but he did not tell radames. together they spoke of radames's loyal wish to serve his people, either as a great general or as a soldier. he was too modest to think that isis would choose him, out of all the worthy men of the army, to lead the hosts of egypt. his desire to do valorous deeds was inspired by his love for a slave girl, who attended the princess amneris. the slave's name was aïda. the only thing that saddened him at the moment, was the fact of aïda being an ethiopian, for it was the ethiopians whom the egyptians were about to war against. after he had spoken with the priests, radames sat down alone, in the hall, and fell to thinking of aïda. presently he sang of her loveliness: [music: heav'nly aïda, beauty resplendent, radiant flower, blooming and bright; queenly thou reignest o'er me transcendent, bathing my spirit in beauty's light.] aïda could not be happy in an alien land, serving the daughter of the king who had been the conqueror of her people, and radames knew this; but what he didn't know was that the princess, herself, loved him, and therefore that her jealousy might do aïda much harm. while he was thus sunk in deep reflection, amneris, the princess, entered the hall, attended by her slave. radames no sooner looked at aïda than his love could be seen by any one present. he was so sincere and honest that he could not conceal his feelings. "ah, radames, you are very happy to-day! something has happened to please you! are you not going to tell me?" amneris asked, smiling happily at him. "nay, princess," he answered. "i am not more happy than before, only i am thinking of this war that is about to be, and how i should love to do some valiant deed--for us all," he added as an after-thought, but amneris surprised the look of tenderness that he gave to aïda. from that moment she watched the lovers closely. "to-day the goddess is to decide who shall lead the egyptians against the ethiops; i would it were to be i," he sighed. amneris flushed with anger, as she again saw a look of devotion pass between the slave-girl and radames, the darling of the court. still, she pretended to be unsuspicious. "is there nothing to attract you in memphis, that you wish to be off to the war?" she asked, narrowly observing him. radames, so sensitive and so much in love, saw that he had betrayed his love for aïda. all three became ill at ease, but the princess called the slave girl to her, pretending great affection for her, and said: "why do you weep, aïda? neither you nor radames seem to be happy to-day." "ah, princess, i weep because of this war rumour. i have known the sadness and terror of war, and the thought of assembled war-hosts gives me pain. it means ruin and despair to so many." "that is the only the reason for your tears?" she persisted, trying to hide her anger, but her glances belied the softness of her tone. radames, noting this, trembled for aïda. even the life of the girl was in the hands of the princess, and radames knew it. "ah, my love, you are weeping for something besides a nation, and your blush betrays you," amneris answered, gently enough, but in her heart she determined to punish the helpless girl. as the scene became more and more painful, trumpets, which always preceded the king's coming, were heard near at hand, and in he came, surrounded by guards, ministers, priests, and officers; a brilliant company, making a brilliant picture. "greeting!" he cried, "it is a mighty cause which brings us here together. a messenger has this moment arrived among us with news of great import. i need the support of all the gallant men of my kingdom. now, messenger, come before us, if thou wilt, and tell thy news," the king cried in a fine and haughty manner, motioning the messenger before him. "i came to tell thee, sire, that egypt is invaded by ethiop's king, and all her border lands are laid waste. our crops are destroyed, great havoc hath been wrought, and unless thou shouldst send an army to resist the invading hosts, we are lost." "ah, the presumptuous bandit!" the king cried, thus regarding his brother ruler, and it is probable that the king of ethiopia did not feel more temperately toward the king of the egyptians. "by whom are the ethiopians led?" the king asked. "by one amonasro--a warrior who hath never been conquered." "what? the ethiopian king, himself," all cried, because that was news with a vengeance. amonasro was known to be an invincible warrior, and, if he was going to take the field in person, egypt had indeed something to fear. at the name, aïda started. "amonasro!" she began to cry, but checked herself. amonasro was her beloved father! since she was already a slave, her life would be in danger if it were known that the ethiopian king was her father. she leaned, almost fainting, against the princess's throne, and in the excitement her agitation passed unnoticed. the messenger continued to speak: "all thebes has risen and sallied forth to check this foe." "death and battle, be our cry!" the king shouted; and all his nobles took up the war-cry: "death and battle, death and battle!" "war, war, war! fierce and unrelenting," cried radames, loudest of all, his war spirit and love of country both aroused. at his cry all became still, and the king looked at him with great affection. "egyptians, warriors, hear! the chief to lead our hosts against this bold invader has this day been named by the goddess isis." every one leaned breathlessly forward. many a brave fellow hoped the choice had fallen upon him. none listened more eagerly than the princess and aïda. "there is the choice!" the king continued, pointing to radames. a moment of silence followed, then radames shouted: "ah! ye gods! i thank thee! my dearest wish is mine." all the court and soldiers burst into shouts of joy and confidence. "now to the temple of vulcan, chieftain, and there equip yourself and men for victory," the king cried, and all prepared to follow radames. "take the war-standard from my hand, radames," amneris said, smiling at him with affection: but aïda murmured unheard: "whom shall i weep for, my lover or my father?" her heart was breaking, for the defeat of either her father or her lover would be a disaster to one so tender as she. "battle, battle," all cried excitedly, all certain of victory at the hands of their beloved leader, radames. "may laurels crown thy brow!" they shouted, following him to the temple, where they were to don their armour, feel if their swords were sharp, and pray for success. "aye, may laurels crown thee," aïda murmured. "i cannot wish thee ruin, yet what a wicked wish, since victory must mean my father's loss. if radames shall conquer, i may see my father brought here in chains." the unhappy girl prayed in turn for her father and radames. _scene ii_ when the men entered the temple of vulcan, a mysterious light came into the temple from above and long rows of columns could be seen, placed one behind the other, while statues stood between. the long rows of columns were lost in the dim distance. in the middle of the temple was placed a high altar, and all the scene was wrapped in the haze of incense which arose from golden bowls. the high priestess sang a song of mystic beauty in which the high priest and others joined, and then the priestesses danced to an exquisite measure. while this beautiful thing was happening, radames entered, all unarmed, and went to the altar. there the gallant chief offered prayers for strength and victory. a fine silver veil was placed upon his head, to show that he was favoured of the gods and chosen by them. the weapons, those of the temple, given him were tempered by an immortal hand and were to bring him success forever in all battles. while he knelt there before the god of war, all the sacred men and women of vulcan's temple joined in praise and in prayers for his safe return. the chorus swelled higher and higher, till at last in one mighty volume of glorious sound their invocations were completed, and radames departed for war. act ii the return of the egyptian troops was hourly expected; all thebes was preparing to receive them with honours and rejoicing; and great fêtes were arranged for their amusement. amneris was in her apartment, surrounded by her attendants. slave-girls waved feather fans, others were hanging beautiful jewels upon her and anointing her with rare perfumes, all being done to prepare her for the celebration of radames's return. the air was full of incense which rose from beautiful metal bowls placed on tripods about her chamber, and she, herself, was waiting impatiently for news that radames and his men were in sight of thebes. the egyptian king had decided to reward radames for his victories by giving him his daughter for a wife, but all the while amneris was disturbed and devoured by jealousy for she believed that radames and aïda loved, though she could not be certain. she had thought and thought of this, till she could not rest longer without some proof, and after her slaves had danced awhile for her amusement, to make the time waiting for the fêtes pass more quickly, the princess dismissed all but aïda. then she said to her: "ah, aïda, my heart goes out to thee in this affliction--because thy people have been beaten in this fearful war, and so many taken captive." her voice was very soft and affectionate, and she sighed, seeming to be deeply moved. "but i mean to make thee as happy as i may, and----" "princess, far from my home, my father's fate uncertain, what happiness is there in this world for me?" "time will bring thee comfort, aïda; thou shalt be as my sister; and then this return of our brave men--alas! that the bravest of them all may not return to us." she seemed about to weep, and aïda looked at her anxiously. "the bravest?" she faltered; "that can mean but one"; and she became pale with fear and apprehension. "aye--our brave radames! he fell in battle; have you not heard?" while the princess was speaking, aïda clasped her hands wildly and cried out. thus, she betrayed instantly all her love for radames, and amneris was no longer in doubt. "so, you love him?" she cried. "that was what i wished to know. now let me tell thee that he lives and is returning with honours--but not for thee. if you love him, so do i. what chance has one like you--a slave--beside a princess like me? i feel nothing but hate now for you, and from this moment you shall know all the humility of a slave. since you have dared to love radames, i shall be revenged." "not upon him, madame. i care not what my fate is, if he be happy. surely you can spare a sad and despairing heart? i am poor and far from friends and country. my father is ruined, since he too was a soldier, and may even now be a captive. can you wish me greater ill than this, princess?" "i wish thee every ill. come, now, while i exhibit thee before radames and all the court as my slave and servant. you shall see me triumph." "i have no hope," aïda answered, bowing her head, "but i have not harmed thee." the sound of a trumpet was heard, and outside the people shouted: "the troops! they come! they are here!" _scene ii_ down an avenue lined with palms and with the temple of ammon to be seen near by, the people went. there was a stately throne with a purple and gold canopy, and a vast, triumphal arch under which the returning heroes were to come. the trumpets sounded louder and nearer and the music became martial and triumphant. first came the king of egypt and his high priest and standard-bearers and fan-bearers; then followed amneris with aïda and her other slaves. the king sat upon his throne and the princess beside him, while all assembled were vibrating with excitement and pleasure. presently all burst into a loud song of celebration and rejoicing, and then the troops began to enter in procession. trumpets sounded and one rank after another defiled before the king. there came more, more, more, covered with the glory of victory; all glittering in their armour and helmets, and their swords glancing. then came the dancing girls laden with jewels and golden ornaments, and the fine spoils of war, brought by the soldiers. then came the war-chariots, and banners borne aloft, and images of gods, and last and greatest came radames. the king descended from his throne to embrace him, the soldiers and people shouted his triumphs, and radames knelt before amneris to receive the crown of victory from her hands. "ask anything thou wilt and i will give it thee," she cried joyfully. "first, princess, order the captives of war brought before thee," radames asked. "the prisoners!" she called, and the ethiopians entered surrounded by the guard, and among them marched a splendid figure dressed in an officer's uniform. now this man's rank was quite unknown to radames or to any one, but he was really the king of ethiopia, himself, and aïda's father. she gave a cry upon seeing him, but amonasro looked at her with a commanding, if agonized, glance, and spoke quickly: "yes, i am thy father," he answered cleverly, "and have fought and sought death in vain. my garment," pointing to his officer's dress, "tells that i fought for my king. the king is dead," he said impressively, looking at aïda with meaning; "i would that i were dead, too, my child. but thou, great king of egypt," he continued, turning to him, "hast conquered, and so i pray you spare the lives of my soldiers. thou canst generously do so much for us." at this, aïda understanding that she must not let it be known that the king himself was a prisoner, added her entreaties to amonasro's. "nay, ye must face the fortune of war. death is thy portion," the king answered. then aïda's grief became pitiful, and radames, who was watching her lovingly, was sorrowful on her account. while all others clamoured for the death of the ethiopians, radames stepped forth and asked the king to hear him. "my king, thou hast said that i should have whatever i would ask of thee." "true! ask!" "then give these captives their freedom. their country is conquered. oh, king! do not take their lives," and he looked quickly at aïda, to inspire her with hope. the king thought upon this for a moment, and was inclined to grant the plea, but ramphis and the other priests clamoured for their death. "at least keep this girl's father as a surety," they persisted. "it shall be so," the king answered. "aïda's father shall remain our prisoner; and since i cannot grant your request, radames, yet love thee so for thy valour, i give thee instead the greatest prize within man's gift; my daughter, amneris." alas! the king could not well have done worse had he tried. if his gift was most distracting to the lovers, amneris was overwhelmed with delight, ready to weep with joy and pride. "you shall reign with her," the king added, but radames could not speak, so overcome was he with his misfortune. all assumed his silence to mean an overmastering joy at the honour bestowed upon him. aïda, nearly fainting with pain to see her father a captive, and her lover given to another who was her enemy, stared motionless before her, but amonasro had observed everything, had seen radames's glances at aïda, the distraction of the lovers, and suddenly, under his breath to aïda, he said: "have courage. i will give thee thy revenge, daughter. together we shall conquer." radames roused himself and knelt before the princess. act iii the eve before her marriage it was proper for amneris to go to the temple of isis to pray. she went accompanied by ramphis, the high priest, who promised to remain near till morning, that she might feel safe, and not be lonely. she knew well that radames's heart was then aïda's, and her prayers were to be appeals for his love. the temple was built upon a high rock, surrounded by beautiful palms, and the moon, which shone brightly upon it, silvered all the landscape. as amneris entered the temple, the chorus of priests and priestesses swelled forth and added to the weirdness of the scene. amneris had no sooner disappeared within than aïda approached the place. it was the last night of radames's freedom, and he and she had arranged to meet near the temple to speak together, perhaps for the last time of their lives. as she entered the grove she looked sadly about her. "my griefs and misfortunes are now greater than i can bear," she murmured. "after to-night, all will be over. it is better to drown myself in the nile than to live alone, without father, mother, country, or friends." thinking of her lost country, she leaned against the rock and half forgot why she had come. she recalled the warmth and beauty of her childhood's home, and then by contrast her term of slavery in egypt. while she waited, thinking of these sad things, she saw a man's form coming toward her, through the night; it was not radames. as he drew nearer she recognized her father, amonasro. "father, what brings thee here?" she whispered. "a grave cause, my child. naught escapes my eye. i know thy heart. i know that radames loves thee and that thou art here to meet him;--also that thou art in the grasp of this princess, who hates thee." "alas, there is no hope," she cried, despairingly. "that shall be as you may decide, daughter. our people are waiting for a signal to strike a blow at these egyptians. our backbone is not yet broken. all that is needful for our success is to know by what road our enemies will march in their next sortie upon us. that is for thee to find out for us. radames alone knows--and radames loves thee," he finished significantly. "but since he loves me, how can i betray him, father?" she asked. "choose--between thy father and the man who is to marry amneris.--or--" with a new thought he hesitated a moment--"or why should radames not leave these cold people for a fairer place and kinder? why should he not become one of us?" aïda stared at her father in amazement. "betray his people?" "why not? since he loves thee, shall not thy people become his people, even as thou wouldst have made his people thine, hadst thou been wedding him. choose between us, child." amonasro looked at her menacingly. "unless thou doest this, it means the destruction of thy people and of me; and, too, thou must live and die the hated bond-maiden of this cruel woman radames is about to marry." "radames is coming," she whispered in affright. "what shall i do?" "thy duty to me and to thy people and to thyself. make radames join us. i shall wait near thee." so saying, he stepped within the shadow of the trees as radames approached. "art thou there, aïda?" radames called softly. "alas, why should i meet thee," she sobbed, "since thou wilt marry amneris to-morrow?" "aïda, i have come to tell thee there is hope," radames whispered, trembling with happiness. "the ethiopians have again risen against us. i am immediately to go forth to battle. i shall crush them this time, and on my return the king will once more be generous to me, and i shall demand then, that for my reward he free me from amneris and give me thee for my wife. when i have twice saved his kingdom, he cannot refuse me." "but do you not see that though the king should favour us, yet amneris's rage would be beyond all bounds?" "i would defend thee." "thou couldst not. she is nearly as powerful as the king. if you slight her we are lost." "alas, then, what can i do?" "but one thing can save us--all of us--my father, you, i." "name it," he cried. "you would not listen to me," she sobbed, wringing her hands in despair. "i will do whatever you desire," he cried recklessly. "then make my people thy people. fly with us. even now the ethiopians are without the gates ready for battle. join them, lead them, and----" "a traitor to my country!" he cried, stricken with horror at the thought. "then there is no hope. the princess will drive us to death and despair." she drew a picture that brought it all vividly into radames's mind. at last with breaking heart he cried: "i will go with thee--making thy people my people," and he started to leave the temple with her. "what path shall we take to avoid the egyptian soldiers?" she questioned wildly. "we may go by the same path that the army will take: the gorges of napata: the way will be free till to-morrow." that was how aïda discovered the way the egyptians would take, while her father listened. "ah! i will post my men there," amonasro cried, stepping forth into the moonlight, that radames might see him. "who has heard?" radames said, with a start. "amonasro, aïda's father, king of ethiopia," he answered, proudly facing radames. "thou--thou art the king--amonasro--aïda thy daughter! do i dream? i have betrayed my people to thee!" he suddenly realized all that he had done, in wavering between love and duty. "no, thy people are the people of aïda. the throne is thine, to share with her." "my name will be forever branded--a coward!" he groaned in despair. "no blame to thee, son. it was thy fate; and with us thou wilt be far from these scenes that try thy heart: far away where none can reproach thee." but radames knew that he had better die than live, knowing himself for a traitor. he determined that he would not go; that he would remain and undo the wrong that he had blindly done, but even then aïda was trying to drag him away, and urging him with each loving breath to fly with them. as he would have broken away from her, amneris, who had heard all, ran from the temple, crying, "traitor!" "destruction! she would undo us," amonasro shouted, and as the people began to pour from the temple, he sprang forward and would have plunged his sword through her had radames not sprung between them. "thou art a madman," he shouted, horrified at the deed amonasro would have done. meantime all was confusion. people shouted for the guard, and radames cried to aïda: "fly with thy father. fly or thou art lost." his voice was so full of agony for her that she suddenly turned and fled. "follow them," ramphis demanded of the soldiers, while radames said hopelessly: "ramphis, i yield to thee." act iv there was no joy in the court, and amneris sat in the vast hall of the palace between radames's prison, on the one hand, and the hall of justice on the other, where the trial of the gallant soldier was soon to be held. he was in prison, and aïda and her father were far away. amneris still loved him, and hoped yet to save him, and thus to win his love. presently she called to the guard to bring him before her, and almost at once he was brought through the hall accompanied by the priests who were to try him in the underground dungeon. "radames, the priests who are to judge thee are assembled. consent to clear thyself. say that thou didst not mean to betray us and i, myself, will kneel to the king, and promise you your freedom. i would give my life and power and country for thee," amneris pleaded, as he passed before her. "i would give no less for aïda," radames declared sadly. "i shall not try to save myself. i shall say nothing in my own defense. i wish to die." at the mention of aïda, amneris was enraged. "i'll hear no more of her!" she cried. "ah, you have killed her----" "no! her father is slain, but she lives. she has vanished--no one knows where!" "then may the gods guide her safe to her home and country, and keep her from knowing how i die." "if you will swear to see her no more, radames, i will save thee." "if i were to live i should find her. i will not swear." "then you shall die. if you will not hear me, i shall avenge myself," she answered bitterly, motioning to the guards to take him away. radames was taken below to the subterranean hall which was to be his grave and judgment hall alike, while amneris was left alone, both grief-stricken and revengeful. her jealousy was certain to bring fearful retribution upon her. as more white-robed priests passed below, looking spectral and ominous, she hid her face in her hands. "it was i who brought him to this fate," she murmured, and then listened in anguish to the chorus of the priests which sounded dismally from below. then a voice called from the crypt, three times: "radames, radames, radames," and it was his summons to judgment. "oh, who can save him now?" amneris murmured, horrified at what was taking place. "defend thyself!" she heard voices from below command. there was no answer. "radames, radames, radames," the high priest called again in a fearful voice, and again the princess shuddered. "thou hast deserted the encampment the very day before the combat!--defend thyself." she listened, but still no answer. "radames, radames, radames," again the high priest called, and for the third and last time. still no answer. "oh, have mercy on him," amneris then cried, her love becoming greater than her desire for revenge. then listening again, she heard the judge say: "radames, thy fate is decided. it is to be the fate of a traitor. you shall be buried alive beneath the altar of the god of war, whom thou hast derided and betrayed." "oh, horror," amneris shrieked. "we have spoken," the priests replied, and then ascended. "ye priests of isis, ye are tigers! demons!" and the princess assailed them bitterly as they came into the hall. she was now mad with grief. truly loving radames, she cursed the priests and even the gods. then the scene changed, revealing the interior of vulcan's temple and the crypt beneath the altar. there were spectral statues, and great marble columns which seemed to vanish in the gloom, and all was gloomy as the grave. stairs led from the temple above into the vault, and radames sat down upon the steps as the priests let down again the massive stone that covered the opening beneath the altar. radames watched the closing of the opening, the descent of the great stone into place. "i can bear my fate, since aïda may never know. she could not survive such horror," he said, under his breath. the vault, the ghostly cold about him, the rows upon rows of senseless marble, supported by the expressionless stone faces of the gods, these things overwhelmed the great warrior. then, from the gloom, he saw a white figure emerge. is it a phantom? at first he thought it some fearful vision. but as he peered through the twilight he recognized--aïda. perhaps it was her ghost come to comfort him, he thought, and raised himself to stare at the figure. "aïda!" "i am here to die with thee," she answered, and radames clasped her in his arms. he had thought her safe, unacquainted with his fate, but she was there to share it. "my heart foreboded thy fearful sentence," she said. "i hid here till the stone shut down upon thee, and now i am beside thee till the end." radames beat wildly upon the stone above. he called for help. he tried with his great strength to raise the deadly stone with his shoulders, only to sink down, exhausted and horrified. he could not save her. the chorus sung by priests began above; aïda was already dying. at least she would not live slowly to starve. and while amneris appeared above in black garments, dying of grief for radames, and threw herself upon the stone, radames held the dying aïda in his arms and waited for death. "peace," amneris moaned while lying prostrate above on the altar stone. "peace," and while the women were dying and radames losing his senses below, the priests of isis chanted, "peace," the light faded out, and the tragedy ended. wagner richard wagner was born in leipzig, on the 22d of may, 1813. his father was chief of police and his mother was johanna rosina bertz. his brothers and sisters were distinguished singers or actors; thus love of dramatic art was common to all the family. his father died and his mother married an actor, ludwig geyer. the stepfather became very fond of young richard and intended to make a painter of him, but upon hearing him play some of his sister's piano pieces geyer wondered if it were possible that he had the gift of music! wagner was a poor scholar during his school days, the only thing he especially enjoyed being literature, mainly shakespeare, sophocles, and æschylus; and about the time the dramatic philosophies of these men filled his attention, he wrote a great drama in which there were forty-two characters, every one of whom was killed or died in the course of the play, so that he was compelled to finish his performance with the spectres of his original characters. later he wished to put music to that remarkable drama, and he did so, much to the distraction of his family. it was actually performed. he thus described his composition: this was the culmination of my absurdities. what i did, above all things wrong, was a roll _fortissimo_ upon the kettle-drums, which returned regularly every four bars throughout the composition. the surprise which the public experienced changed first to unconcealed ill-humour, and then into laughter, which greatly mortified me. it was under theodor weinlig's teaching that he finally developed a fixed purpose of composition and something like regular study. when he first wished to marry, he could not for lack of money to provide a home for his wife. in time this difficulty was overcome, and later he started to london with his wife and his dog, which was named robber. the terrors of that voyage impressed him so much that he was inspired with the idea for "the flying dutchman," one of his great operas. he was told the legend of "the flying dutchman" by the sailors; but long before he was able to write that splendid opera he was compelled to write music for the variety stage in order to feed his wife and himself. he wrote articles for musical periodicals, and did a great deal of what is known as "hack" work before his great genius found opportunity. one manager liked the dramatic idea of "the flying dutchman" so well that he was willing to buy it if wagner would let him get _some one who knew how to write music_, to set it. after the production of "rienzi" in dresden, his difficulties were never again so serious, and soon he became _hofkapellmeister_ (musical director at court), which gave him an income, leaving him free to write operas as he chose. when "rienzi" was produced, a great musician said: "this is a man of genius; but he has already _done more than he can_! listen to me, and give up dramatic composition!" but he continued to "do more than he could." when he wrote "tannhäuser" he was reduced almost to despair, for nobody liked it. schumann said of it: "it is the empty and unpleasing music of an amateur." but spohr wrote: "the opera contains certain new and fine things, which at first i did not like, but to which i became accustomed on repeated hearings." at last, this composer, whose inspirations had come entirely from historical subjects, found his mythological beginnings in the scandinavian eddas; and in a poem of the "nibelung" he found the germ of "siegfried." as _kapellmeister_ of the court, wagner did too many indiscreet things: allied himself with revolutionists and the like; and, before he knew it, he found himself an exile. liszt was his friend, and when, on a visit to weimar, politics made his presence hazardous, liszt got him a passport which took him out of the country. he did not return for twelve years. during his exile, which was passed mostly in zurich, he had karl ritter and hans von bülow for pupils, and it was there that he did all of his most wonderful work. there he composed the "nibelung ring." he wrote the last of it first, and the first of it ("das rheingold") last. this was because his central idea, as it developed, seemed to need explanation, and successive operas upon the same dramatic and mythological theme became necessary. wagner's mythology is not the mythology of the eddas. it is distinctly his own, he having adapted a great and rugged folklore to his dramatic purposes, regardless of its original construction. in the ring, the goddess fricka is a disagreeable goddess of domesticity, and the story is told of a first reading of the opera series, which involved an anecdote of fricka and his hostess: he went to the house of a friend, wille, to read the poem after it was finished, and madame wille happened to be called from the room, while he was reading, to look after her little sick child. when she returned, wagner had been so annoyed by the interruption that he thereafter named madame wille, fricka. during a sleepless night in italy he formed the plan for the music of "das rheingold," but not wishing to write on italian soil, he got up and hastened to zurich. he would not come to america to give a series of concerts because he "was not disposed to go about as a concert-pedlar, even for a fabulous sum." the irony of all the world is epitomized in a single incident that occurred to wagner in london. he was accused of a grave fault because he conducted beethoven's symphonies "from memory." therefore he announced he would thereafter conduct them from the score. he reappeared with the score very much in evidence upon his rack, and won british approval completely. then he announced that he had conducted from "il barbiere de siviglia" with the barber's score upside down! he wrote to his friend roekel: "if anything could increase my scorn of the world, it would be my expedition to london." wagner was fiery and excessive in all his feelings and doings. he hurt his friends without malice, and made them happy for love of doing so. his home was broken up by his own unruly disposition; and when his good, commonplace wife left him, it was said that he neglected to take care of her, but this was not true. she, herself, denied it before she died. his second marriage was a happy one--to the daughter of his friend liszt. when his little son was born, he named him siegfried, after his favourite hero, and at the time of the christening he had a magnificent little orchestra hidden away, conducted by hans richter, which played the old german cradle-song, now woven into the third act of "siegfried." the manner in which the cycle of the "nibelung ring" was first presented was as follows: the first opera was given on a sunday, the last on a wednesday, and then there were three days of rest, beginning once more on a sunday and ending as before. this order continued for three representations, and it has been followed in bayreuth ever since. for lack of means, wagner saw his theatre opened only three times, but since his death there have been several performances. the nibelung ring first day tetralogy the rhein daughters: woglinde, wellgunde, flosshilde; guardians of the rheingold. they appear in the "rheingold" and in the "dusk of the gods." fricka: goddess of marriage or domesticity, wotan's wife; sister of donner, froh, and freïa. appears in the "rheingold" and in the "valkyrie." freïa: goddess of plenty; sister to donner, froh, and fricka. appears in the "rheingold." erda: goddess of wisdom; mother of the three fates or norns and of the nine valkyries. appears in the "rheingold" and in "siegfried." sieglinde: daughter of wotan under his name of wälse. hunding's wife, and then siegmund's wife. siegfried is her son. appears in the "valkyrie." brünnhilde: a valkyrie; daughter of wotan and erda; first siegfried's wife, then gunther's. the valkyries: helmwige, gerhilde, waltraute, ortlinde, rossweisse, grimgerde, and schwertleite. [transcriber's note: siegrune omitted in original.] daughters of wotan and erda, and sisters to brünnhilde. appear in the "valkyrie," and waltraute also in the "dusk of the gods." norns: earth's daughters who spin men's destinies. gutrune: daughter of gibich and grimilde and gunther's sister, hagen's half-sister, and siegfried's wife. appears in the "dusk of the gods." wotan: (the wanderer) king of the gods, and god of war, father of the valkyries, father of siegmund and sieglinde. appears in the "rheingold," the "valkyrie," and as the wanderer, in "siegfried." married to fricka. alberich: gnome: king of the nibelungs, spirit of darkness. appears in the "rheingold," "siegfried," and the "dusk of the gods." fasolt: giant and brother of fafner; belongs to the race of mortals. appears in the "rheingold." fafner: giant and brother of fasolt, and of the race of mortals. appears in the "rheingold" and "siegfried." froh: god of pleasure; brother of donner and freïa, and fricka. appears in the "rheingold." donner: god of thunder, brother to fricka, freïa, and froh. appears in the "rheingold." loge: spirit of fire and flame. belongs first to the underworld and then the gods. appears in the "rheingold." mime: dwarf (nibelung, foster-father of siegfried.) appears in the "rheingold" and in "siegfried." siegmund: son of wotan, husband to sieglinde and siegfried's father. appears in the "valkyrie." siegfried: son of siegmund and sieglinde, and grandson of wotan (wälse). husband of brünnhilde and gutrune. appears in "siegfried" and the "dusk of the gods." hunding: sieglinde's husband. appears in the "valkyrie." gunther: son of gibich and grimhilde and brother to gutrune and husband to brünnhilde; half-brother to hagen. appears in the "dusk of the gods." hagen: son of alberich and grimhilde; half-brother to gunther and gutrune. appears in the "dusk of the gods." the rheingold characters of the opera donner } wotan } froh } gods. loge } fricka } freïa } goddesses. erda } alberich } mime } nibelungs. fasolt } fafner } giants. woglinde } wellgunde } rhein-daughters. flosshilde } nibelungs. act i deep down in the jagged bed of the river rhein there lay hidden a great treasure of gold, which for ages had belonged to the rhein-daughters--three mermaids who guarded it. above the gold, in and out of the shadowy fissures, the beautiful fishwomen had swum and played happily, and the years had never made them old nor weary nor sad. there they frolicked and sang and feared nothing. the golden treasure was heaped high upon the rock in the middle of the river's bed, and it shone through the waters of the stream, always to cheer and delight them. now, one tragic day, while the daughters of the rhein were darting gaily about their water home, a little dark imp came from nibelheim--the underground land of the nibelungs--and hid himself in the dark cleft of a rock to watch the mermaids play. in all the universe there was probably not so malevolent a creature as that one. his name was alberich. hidden in his dark nook, he blinked his rheumy eyes at the mermaids, envied them their beauty, and thought how he might approach them. above, on the surface of the earth, it was twilight, and the reflection from the gold upon the rock was soft and a beautiful greenish hue. the mermaids, all covered with iridescent scales from waist to tail, glimmered through the waters in a most entrancing way. in that shimmering, changeful light they were in amazing contrast with the slimy, misshapen alberich, who came from that underworld where only half-blind, ugly, and treacherous creatures live. the mermaids disported themselves quite unconscious of the imp's presence, till he laughed aloud, and then, startled, they swam in haste and affright to the rock where the gold lay stored. "look to our gold," flosshilde cried in warning to her sisters. "aye! it was just such a creature as this, whom our father warned us against. what does he want here, i should like to know?" woglinde screamed, swimming frantically to join her sisters. "can i not watch ye at play?" alberich called, grinning diabolically. "dive deeper,--here, near to me; i shall not harm ye." at this they recovered a little from their fright, but instead of approaching the ugly fellow, they laughed at him and swam about, near enough to tantalize him. "only listen to the languishing imp," they laughed. "he thinks to join us in our sport." "why not swim down and torment him?" flosshilde said. "he can never catch us--such a sluggish creature as he!" "hello!" wellgunde cried; "scramble up here, if you like." alberich tried to join them, but he slipped and rolled about over the wet stones and cursed in a most terrible way. "that is all very well, but i am not made for thy wet and slippery abode. the water makes me sneeze." he sneezed in a manner that set all the mermaids laughing till their scales shook. however, he at last reached the rock whereon the gold lay and he had no sooner got near than the sun shone out so brightly above, that the rays shot through the waters and reflected a beauteous gleam from the rheingold. alberich started back in amazement. "what is that, ye sleek ones," he asked, "that gleams so brightly there?" "what, imp! dost thou not know the story of the rheingold? come, bathe in its glow and maybe it will take away a little of thy ugliness," one of the sisters cried. "what do i care for the lustre of gold? it is the gold itself that i want." "well, the lustre is all that thou wilt get," flosshilde answered him. "the one who would take our gold and hope to make of it the magic ring must forswear love forever. who is there who would do that?" she called, swimming triumphantly toward the rock. "what is the secret of thy ring that a man must forswear love for it?" alberich asked craftily. "the secret is, that he who would be so rash would have in return power over all the earth." "what?" shouted the wretched nibelung, "well, then, since love has forsworn me, i shall lose nothing by forswearing love. i need not hesitate to use thy gold." springing and clinging to the rock the nibelung tore the gold from its resting place, dived deep into the river-bed and disappeared into the fissures of the earth. the mermaids followed frantically, but he was quite gone, and with him the beautiful gold, which till then had given only innocent pleasure to the rhein-daughters. as soon as the gold vanished, the sun was hid, and the waters turned dark and gloomy. the waves began to grow black, rough, and high, while the water sank, sank, sank, till only darkness and a rushing sound could be seen or heard. as the waves disappeared, a thick mist took their place, and soon separating, became detached clouds, till at last the sun shone forth again. as the cloudlets floated quite away a great mountain was revealed. the water had given place to the surface of the earth, and there, in the early morning light, lay fricka, the goddess of home and domesticity, and wotan, the god of war, who was fricka's husband. behind them rose a great cliff and as the sun shone more and more brightly a splendid palace could be seen rising into the clouds. all its pinnacles sparkled in the sun's rays, while the river rhein flowed peacefully between the mountain peak whereon the palace rose, and the hills where wotan and his goddess lay. _scene ii_ just as the sun arose, the goddess fricka lifted her head, and, looking behind her, saw the palace. it gave her a terrible fright, because it had not been there when she fell asleep. "look, wotan!" she called loudly. "what do i see?" wotan raised himself at her call. he gazed and was spellbound with delight. "walhall, the home of the gods; the home of the eternals!" he cried. "it appears as it did in my dreams." "that which enraptures thee fills me with fear," fricka replied sadly. "hast thou not promised to give my sister freïa to the giants who builded it for thee? their task is done, and now they will claim their reward. hast thou no feeling? thou art cold and cruel, knowing nothing of tenderness and love!" "how falsely thou accusest me," wotan answered. "did i not give an eye to win thee, fricka?" he looked tenderly at her with his single, brilliant eye. "true, i have promised freïa to the giants when they should have finished the palace, but i do not mean to keep that promise." "how wilt thou evade it?" fricka asked scornfully. "loge, the spirit of flame, shall prepare the way. he agreed to help me satisfy them in some other way and he will do it." "loge?" fricka cried, still more scornfully. "that trickster! he is a fine one to look to. it was a sad day for us when thou didst rescue him from the underworld, where even his own did not trust him." "he will keep his word," wotan answered, confidently. "then it is time he appeared," the goddess cried, "since here comes freïa, the giants after her, to demand the reward." at that moment, freïa, their goddess sister, ran crying to wotan to save her from fasolt and fafner, the giants, who followed her with great strides. "save me, save me, brother," freïa cried. "i shall save thee," wotan answered, reassuringly. "did not loge promise to ransom thee? he will be here presently. have no fear." nevertheless wotan, himself, was not too confident, and he looked anxiously for the spirit of flame. meantime the giants were striding over the mountain. "come now," they shouted, "while we wrought, ye slept. give us our reward as promised and we shall be off." "well, what do ye want? name a suitable reward and i shall give it to ye." wotan answered, trying to pacify them. "we want only what is promised, and we shall have it. we shall take the goddess freïa." they struck the earth with their staves and roared loudly. "donner! froh!" freïa shrieked to her brothers, and immediately they rushed upon the scene. donner, the god of thunder, carried a great hammer with which he woke the thunders. "save me from fasolt and fafner," freïa cried. "we'll save thee, sister," froh answered, facing the giants, while donner menaced them with his thunders. "you know the weight of my hammer's blow," he threatened, while the giants laughed a horrible, rumbling laugh and donner swung his hammer. wotan feared the strife that would surely follow, and being a god of war, understood the value of diplomacy, as well as of force, so he interposed his spear between the giants and donner. "thy thunder is powerless against my spear, donner. the whole world is shattered if only i interpose thus; so hold thy peace." "even wotan abandons us," fricka cried in despair. "where is now thy fine loge?" "i can quench thy accursed loge with only one blow of my hammer, which shall make the mists collect and the waters descend upon the earth till his fires are put out," donner answered bitterly. "hold thy peace," wotan commanded. "his cunning is worth all thy force and here he comes to straighten out this coil. come, loge," wotan demanded, "thou hast promised to free us from this bargain; get thy wits to work." "alas, wotan!" the tricky fellow replied, coming into their midst, "i have wandered everywhere for a substitute for the goddess freïa, and have found none; but i have brought news of great misfortune, which thou art called upon to set right," he said, watching the giants craftily out of the corner of his eye. "the rhein-daughters have lost their gold. it has been stolen by a nibelung, and with the golden treasure he can rule the world. the bargain with the fates was: he who should forswear love forever would be able to make of the rheingold a magic ring which would give him power over all the earth and over the eternals as well. alberich has done this and has stolen the gold." now, while the cunning loge spoke, the giants had been listening, and exchanging glances. when loge had finished, fafner spoke up: "i would not mind having that gold for myself." "how? wouldst thou take it in exchange for freïa?" wotan instantly asked. "have a care, brother," fasolt interposed; "after all, a woman's love----" "it will not gain for us what the rheingold will gain," fafner answered determinedly. "wilt give us the gold for freïa?" he asked wotan. all the gods fell to talking among themselves. freïa pleaded with wotan, and wotan reflected: the word "gold" made even the gods tremble with pleasure. why should wotan not have the treasure for himself? "well, answer us!" fafner shouted, making a motion to take the goddess and flee. fricka and freïa shrieked with fright. "what is the secret of this ring?" fafner asked again. "that whoever shall make a ring out of the rheingold shall rule the universe. alberich has already forsworn love, and is already having the ring made." "we shall take the goddess freïa," fafner cried, "and give ye till evening to decide among yourselves. if ye have not the gold by that time the goddess is ours forever." so saying he leaped toward freïa, grasped her and fled over mountain and valley, while the goddess fricka cried out wildly, and freïa echoed her shrieks. all looked anxiously toward wotan. "how darkly wotan broods," loge thought, while a great gloom settled upon all. a pale mist gradually enfolded all the gods, as they stood uncertain and troubled. until that moment they had appeared young and handsome, but now they looked at each other in fright. "what aileth thee?" each asked of the other. "do the mists trick us?" each stared at the other in horror, because all were growing old, suddenly. "my hammer drops from my hand," donner muttered, weakly. "my heart stands still," froh sighed faintly. "ah! know ye not the fate that has overtaken you?" cried loge. "ye have not to-day eaten of freïa's magic apples; the apples of life. without them ye must grow old and die, ye well know. without freïa to tend the fruit, it must wither." reminded of what they had forgotten, the gods started up in terror. "'tis true, 'tis true! we are fainting, dying! what is to be done?" "get the gold quickly from alberich, and redeem the goddess," the tricky spirit of flame answered with decision. "that is why they have taken freïa. well those giants know that without her and her apples ye must die; thus they will overcome the good of the gods. ye must redeem her before the evening comes, or ye all must die." "up, loge!" wotan cried desperately. "down to nibelheim with me. the gold must be ours. oh, death! stay thy hand an hour till we can buy back our youth and everlasting life!" loge interrupted him, narrowly eyeing him: "the gold belongs to the rhein-daughters. it should be returned to them." "cease thy babbling," wotan shouted, "and get thee down to nibelheim." "shall we not go through the river rhein?" loge craftily asked. "get thee through that sulphurous cleft," wotan answered, pointing to the deep fissure in the rock. "swing thyself down and i will follow thee." he no sooner ceased to speak than loge swung himself into the black abyss, and a frightful, sulphurous vapour arose from the opening. "await us here till evening," wotan charged the gods and fricka, and he in turn disappeared. as wotan followed loge into the abyss, such clouds of vapour arose as to hide the gods completely, and as fricka called "farewell" through the mist the earth began slowly to rise, showing the descent of wotan and loge. their passage through the earth was long and filled with astounding sights. it grew blacker and blacker, but after a time they saw the far-off glow of forge-fires, and heard the sound of hammers ringing upon anvils. these things, too, passed them by, and on a sudden, they found themselves in the midst of a large open space, formed by a cavern in the rock. _scene iii_ as they arrived at that place, they heard groans and moans, and shrieks and wrangling. presently they saw alberich bring from a cleft of the rock a wretched mime, one of the inhabitants of nibelheim. "ah, thou mischievous imp! i'll pinch thee well if thou forgest me not the thing i commanded thee," alberich shouted, at the same time pinching and poking the miserable little fellow. "i've finished thy work," the nibelung screamed, trying to flee from alberich's blows. "then where is it?" the wretch demanded; as he wrenched open the mime's hand in which was concealed a piece of metal called a tarnhelm. "ah, ha! now thou shalt writhe," alberich shouted, and setting the tarnhelm upon his head he immediately became invisible. unseen himself, he pinched and cuffed the mime so as to make the tortured little imp cry for mercy. "i cannot see you," the mime screamed piteously, trying to dodge the blows. "no matter, i am somewhere about," alberich answered, giving him another pinch. then taking the tarnhelm from his head he stood there in his own shape. "now," shouted the imp of darkness, "now i can punish thee properly! if thy work is not well done i can torment thee to death. with this magic helmet and my ring i can make the whole world smart if i choose. and i shall choose," he added, reassuringly. "wait till i get at those fine gods up there." he disappeared chuckling, into a crack in the rock while the mime crouched down in pain. alberich had no sooner gone, than loge and wotan came from the darkness. "what is wrong with thee, thou merry dwarf?" wotan asked. "only leave me to myself," the mime sobbed, moving his sore body. "so we shall, but we shall do more than that; we shall help thee. only tell us what ye forged for alberich which gave him such power over ye!" "oh, it was a ring, made from the rheingold. now he has power over all the nibelheim, and he will kill us. till this happened, we wrought at the forge beautiful trinkets for our women-folks and laughed gaily all day, but now he has made us his slaves who must dig precious metals from the earth and turn them into what he commands. there is no more happiness for us. i thought to keep the tarnhelm he bade me make, and learn its power, but i had to give it up." he went on whining and moaning. "ah, thy case is a hard one! but we shall help thee." while wotan was thinking what they should do, alberich was heard returning. he was cracking his whip and driving a great host of nibelungs before him from the cleft of the rock. all were staggering under loads of valuable metals; gold and silver, and precious stones. "hi, there! move thy fastest," he shouted, lashing them as he drove them before him. he had taken his tarnhelm off and hung it at his girdle: turning, he saw wotan and loge. "hey! who are these?" he cried. "nibelungs, be off to your digging; and mind ye bring me treasure worth having." lashing them soundly, and raising his magic ring to his lips, the nibelungen shrunk away in affright and disappeared into the clefts of the rock. "ah, ye are a precious possession," he said to the ring. "whoever fails to obey thy lord, feels thy power." the little black villain looked gloatingly upon it; then turning to wotan and loge he asked: "what are ye doing in my domain?" "we have heard of thy power, great sir, and came to see it," loge replied. "it were nearer the truth if ye come to envy me, and to spy out my possessions," he answered, but loge laughed as he retorted: "what! you miserable imp of darkness! you speak thus to me! do you not remember me? i was once of thy realm. pray tell me what you would do in your underground caverns with your forges and smithies if i were to deny you my flame? how, then, would you forge your precious rings?" loge laughed mockingly. "you are that false rogue, the spirit of flame, then?" alberich said. "never mind calling names; you can't get on without me, you know that well enough," loge answered, grinning. "what good can thy treasures do thee here in this perpetual night?" wotan asked. "my gold shall buy me even the gods, themselves." alberich replied; "and though i forswore love, i am likely to get even that; my gold shall buy it for me." "what prevents some one stealing thy magic ring? thou hast no friend in all the world, so when you sleep who shall guard the ring?" "my own wit! what, think you i am a fool? let us see! by my own cunning i have had fashioned this tarnhelm which makes me invisible to all. then who shall find me when i sleep?" he demanded triumphantly. loge smiled contemptuously. "doubtless thou wouldst be safe enough--if such magic could be," he answered, incredulously, "but----" "you doubt?" alberich shouted, his vanity all aroused. "well, if it be true--show us," the cunning flame spirit returned. immediately alberich set the tarnhelm upon his head. "what would ye that i become?" "oh, it matters not--so that you become something that you are not," loge answered carelessly. "then behold!" alberich cried, and instantly he turned into a great writhing serpent which coiled and uncoiled at wotan's feet. "oh, swallow me not," loge cried, as if in mortal fear. then alberich, becoming himself again shouted, "now will you doubt?" "that was very well done," loge assured him, "and i grant you frightened me; but as for your safety--if you could have turned yourself into some small thing--a toad or mouse for example--it would be safer for you." "then behold!" alberich shouted again, losing all caution in his pique. he turned himself into a slimy crippled toad, which crawled upon the rock, near wotan's foot. instantly wotan set his heel upon the creature and pinned him to the earth, while loge grasped the tarnhelm. then alberich becoming himself again squirmed and shouted, beneath wotan's feet. "something to bind the imp, quickly," wotan called to loge, and in a trice the dwarf was bound, and borne upward by the god and loge. again they passed by the smithy lights, heard the ring of the anvils, and soon they were back at the trysting place. the nibelung, still shrieking and cursing at his own folly, was placed upon a rock, while loge and wotan stood looking down at him. _scene iv_ "there, imp, the gods have conquered thee and thy magic. thus they conquer the powers of evil and darkness. thou art henceforth our slave unless you see fit to ransom yourself with the rhein treasure." at this, alberich set up a great howling, but wotan was impatient. "slavery for thee--worse than that of thy mimes--or else give me the rheingold quickly." alberich remembered his ring--the tarnhelm hung at loge's girdle--and thought he might safely give up the gold. "with my ring, i can win it back and more too," he thought; so he said to loge: "well, then, rascal, unbind my arm that i may summon the nibelungen." loge loosened one arm for him, alberich raised the ring to his lips and called upon his host of imps. instantly they poured from the crevasses of the rocks, laden with the rheingold, which they dumped in a great heap before wotan. "ah, thou rogues," alberich shrieked to loge and the war-god; "wait till my time comes!--i'll make you dance." the awful little fellow roared from his small throat with rage. "never mind that: we shall be able to take care of ourselves," the god answered, while alberich lifted the ring and the nibelungen rushed pell-mell into the rocks again. "being a god, you think you can take what you desire without pay; but even the gods must pay. the gold was stolen and you need not think to profit by another's roguery." "we shall chance it," wotan replied, with a smile--"so take off that ring of thine--" at this alberich gave a frightful scream. "never! i will give my life, but never this ring. oh, you wretches! rascals! villains!" he stopped shouting for sheer lack of breath. he saw before him the loss of that which was to win him back his gold and power. wotan made a motion to loge, who laughed and dragged the ring from the dwarf's hand, wotan put the magic ring upon his own finger, and alberich nearly fainted with despair. gathering his scattered senses, he began to utter a frightful curse upon the ring. he swore that whoever had it should meet ruin and death instead of power and happiness, and cursing thus in a way to curdle even the blood of the gods, he spat at wotan. "have done, thou groundling," loge said. "go to thy hole." alberich fled, still crying curses on the gold. when wotan and loge first returned to earth with the imp, it had been twilight, but now, just before night, the light grew stronger, and when the mist that had hung lightly over all cleared away, fricka, donner, and froh could be seen hurrying to the tryst. "thou hast brought freïa's ransom," fricka cried, joyously, looking at the great golden heap. "already, she must be near, because see! do we not all grow younger?" she asked tremblingly, looking at the others. "it is true; we were dying and now i feel strength in all my limbs," donner answered, looking in amazement at his brother gods. "yes--here comes freïa with fafner and fasolt." freïa would have rushed into fricka's arms, but the giants still held her fast. "she is not thine till we have the gold," they declared; and thrusting his staff into the earth, fafner said: "thou shalt heap the rheingold as high as my staff--which is as high as the goddess, and the heap shall be made as thick and as broad as she. when this is done, she is thine." wotan called out impatiently: "heap up the gold; make haste and be rid of them." so loge and froh fell to heaping the gold about the staff, while the giants stood by and watched. when it all was piled, fafner peered through the heap to see if there was an unfilled chink. "not enough," he cried; "i can still see the gleam of freïa's hair--which is finer than gold. throw on that trinket at thy belt," he signified the tarnhelm which hung at the girdle of loge. loge threw it contemptuously upon the heap. then fafner peeped again. "ah! i still can see her bright eyes--more gleaming than gold. until every chink is closed so that i may no longer see the goddess and thus behold what i have sacrificed for the treasure, it will not do. throw on that ring thou wearest on thy finger," he called to wotan. at that wotan became furious. "the ring. thou shalt never have the ring--not if thou shouldst carry away the eternals, themselves." fafner seized freïa as if to make off with her. "what, thou cruel god! thou art going to let them have our sister," fricka screamed, mingling her shrieks with freïa's. donner and froh added their rage to hers, and assailed wotan. "i'll keep my ring," wotan shouted, being overcome with the power it would give to him, and determined rather to lose his life. "thou wretched god! thy wickedness means the doom of the eternals," fricka again screamed, beside herself with the shrieks of freïa. as the gods were about to curse wotan, a bluish light glowed from a fissure in the earth. "look," cried loge, and all turned to see, while fafner, certain of one treasure or the other, looked and waited. the bluish light grew and grew, and slowly from the ground rose a frost-covered woman, her glittering icy hair flowing to her waist, the blue light about her causing her garments of frost to glance and shimmer and radiate sparkles all about her. "wotan," she spoke, "give up thy ring." all were silent, the gods and giants dumb with amazement. again she spoke: "it is erda, she who knows the past, present, and the future. thy ring is accursed. ruin and disaster follow its possession. give up thy ring!" "who art thou?" wotan asked in amazement. "i am mother of the three fates--of her who weaves--her who watches--and her who cuts the cord of life. they are my daughters. thy fate is spread out before me; give up thy ring." the gods trembled before one who knew both good and evil. erda had sunk into the earth as far as her breast. "give up thy ring," she sighed again, and disappeared in the earth, as wotan rushed toward her. donner and froh held him back. "touch her not--to touch her would mean death!" they cried. wotan stood thoughtfully, looking at the spot where erda had been, till presently, with a quick movement, he threw the ring upon the rheingold. "freïa!" he cried, "give us back our youth and life, and thou, giants, take thy treasure." as freïa sprung toward her sister fricka to embrace her, the giants fell to quarrelling over the gold. "here, thou! give me my share," fafner roared, as fasolt was trying to possess himself of all the hoard. thus they fought while the gods looked on. "keep the ring, fafner," loge called. "it is worth more to thee than all the gold." but the struggle became more fierce till at last fafner with one great blow killed his brother, while the gods looked on in horror. "behold how alberich's curse begins to work," loge cried to wotan. "i must see erda the wise again," wotan answered, abstracted and troubled. "nay," said fricka, grasping his arm. "see thy palace--the walhall of the eternals for which thou hast nearly caused us to perish. thou hast got what thou desired, yet hast not even entered its halls. come--let us go and seek peace and happiness." thus urged, but looking thoughtfully at the spot where erda had disappeared, he permitted himself to be led toward walhall. "the place was paid for with an evil wage," one of the gods said, moodily, for all saw the mists settling upon them and felt youth and hope leaving them. they had not yet eaten of their apples of life, but donner at last aroused himself and strode to a high peak. "come," he cried, in a mighty voice; and swinging his mammoth hammer above his head he called again: "come! come, ye mists of all the earth! gather around me. come, ye hovering clouds, ye foreboding mists! come with lightnings and with thunder and sweep the heavens clear," and swinging his hammer he shouted: "heda, heda, heda! to me, all mists! to me, all ye vapours! donner calls his hosts. vapours and fogs; wandering mists, heda, heda, heda!" the black clouds gathered about him till all the gods were obscured, and as they enfolded them, even the thunder god was hidden. out of the darkness flashed the lightning. boom! his hammer crashed, and the thunders rolled away into the hills. boom! the hammer crashed against the rock again, and with another mighty stroke the darkness rolled away, the storm cleared, the sun shone forth and at donner's feet a brilliant rainbow-bridge appeared. it bridged the way from peak to palace. it was the bridge of promise, and to it froh pointed the way. as the sun beamed upon the earth, the pinnacles and roofs of walhall shone like burnished gold, and wotan took his goddess by the hand and crossed the bridge of promise while the others followed in his train. loge, going last, paused. "i foresee the downfall of the eternals," he murmured. "they have longed for ease and luxuries which they have bought with evil bargains. shall i go with them, or shall i once more wander, flickering, dancing, wavering, glancing--a spirit of flame that shall destroy while others build?" thinking of what was to come, he slowly crossed the rainbow-bridge and cast in his lot with the eternals. as the gods departed for walhall, the rhein-daughters were lamenting their loss; but wotan heard and turned to chide them. (_see following pages--in which the music is to be read straight across five pages: 331 to 335 inclusive._) [music: (die drei rheintöchter in der tiefe des thales, unsichtbar.) (_the three rhein-daughters in the valley._) wogl. rheingold! rheingold! guileless gold! how brightly and clear shimmered thy beams on us! wellg. rheingold! rheingold! guileless gold! how brightly and clear shimmered thy beams on us! flossh. rheingold! rheingold! guileless gold! how brightly and clear shimmered thy beams! wotan (im begriff den fuss auf die brücke zu setzen, hält an, und wendet sich um.) (_preparing to set his foot on the bridge, stops and turns round._) what plaints come hither to me? wogl. for thy pure lustre now lament me: wellg. for thy pure lustre now lament me: flossh. for thy pure lustre now lament me: loge (späht in das thal hinab.) (_looks down into the valley._) the [transcriber's note: music ends here]] the nibelung ring second day the valkyrie characters of the opera siegmund. hunding. wotan. sieglinde. brünnhilde. fricka. the valkyries: gerhilde, ortlinde, schwertleite, waltraute, helmwige, siegrune, grimgerde, rossweisse. act i far off in the forest lived a huntsman and his wife. the huntsman was rough and brutal, but his wife, sieglinde, was a young and tender creature who lived far away from pleasure and friends, while her husband hunted all day, went to sleep as soon as he had his supper, and was always surly and rough. the huntsman's house was strangely built, with the trunk of an ash tree in its very centre, while struck deep into its hole was a sword. the weapon had been driven so far into the tree's trunk, that only its hilt was to be seen. the house was poor, indeed, with only a table and some rough benches for furniture, and at one side, a fireplace where a dull fire flickered. one night, while sieglinde was about to prepare hunding's supper, a handsome youth burst into the hut, seeking shelter from the storm. the room was empty and he stood at the open door, looking about for some one from whom he might ask a welcome; but all was silent and deserted; so he staggered to the hearth and sank down before the fire upon a great bearskin. he appeared to be exhausted as if he had fled far from some persistent foe. he wore no armour, had no arms, and was quite defenceless and worn. "whoever owns this shelter and warmth must share it with me for a moment," he sighed: "i can go no farther;" and he stretched himself before the welcome blaze. sieglinde, hearing a sound and thinking hunding might have returned, came from an inner room. upon opening the door the sight that met her eyes was the man upon her hearth-stone. "some stranger here!" she whispered to herself, a little afraid, for she was not able to see his half-hidden face. poor siegmund had no sooner stretched himself before the blaze than he fell asleep. presently sieglinde drew nearer, looked into his face and saw that he was very handsome, besides being gentle in appearance. "i wonder if he can be ill?" she thought, compassionately; and as she continued to look into his face a great feeling of tenderness and love for him crept into her heart. half waking, he called for water, and sieglinde gave it to him from the drinking horn. as she again bent to give him the water, he saw her for the first time, and he looked at her thoughtfully in his turn, and in his turn, too, he loved her. she appeared to him to be very beautiful and kind. "whose house is this?" he asked, at last, watching sieglinde wherever she went. "it is the house of hunding, the hunter," she answered, "and i am sieglinde, his wife." "i wonder will he welcome a wounded and defenceless guest?" he asked with some anxiety. "what? art thou wounded?" she demanded with solicitude. "show me thy wounds that i may help thee." "nay," he cried, leaping to his feet; "my wounds are slight and i should still have been fighting my foes, but my sword and shield were shattered and i was left at their mercy. they were many and i could not fight them single-handed and weaponless. i must now be on my way. i am but an ill-fated fellow, and i would not bring my bad luck upon thee and thy house." he started to go out of the door. "thou canst not bring ill-fate to me," she answered, looking at him sadly. "i am not happy here." "if that be true," he said, pausing to regard her tenderly, "then i shall remain," and he turned back into the house. _scene ii_ at that very moment, hunding was heard returning. sieglinde, hearing him lead his horse to the stable, opened the door for him, as was her wont, and waited for him to come in. when hunding finally appeared, he paused at seeing siegmund. "whom have we here?" he asked his wife, suspiciously. "a wounded man whom i found lying upon the hearth-stone. i gave him water, and welcomed him as a guest." hunding, hearing this, hung his sword and shield upon a branch of the dead ash tree, and taking off his armour, handed it to sieglinde. "set the meal for us," he said to her in a surly tone, looking sharply at the stranger. sieglinde hung the armour upon the tree and began to prepare the meal. "you seem to have come a long way," said hunding at last to siegmund. "have you no horse?" "i have come over mountain and through brake. i know not whither the journey has led me. i would find that out from thee; and may i ask who gives me shelter?" "i am hunding whose clan reaches far, and who has many kinsmen. now for thyself?" "i, too, have kinsmen who war for freedom. my father was a wolf and my mother is dead. i am the son of the wälsungs--a warring race. once my father, the wolf, and i wandered together in the forest. we went to hunt, and upon our return we found our hut laid waste and my mother burned to ashes. then, sadly, my father and i went forth again." "i have heard of this wolfling," hunding answered, frowning. "a wild and wolfish race, truly! tell me, stranger, where roams thy father, now?" "he became the game of the neidlings--they who killed my mother; but many a neidling has been destroyed in his pursuit. at last my father must have been slain. i was torn from him, but later escaped from my captors and went in search of him. i found only his empty skin, and so i was left alone in the forest. i began to long for the companionship of men and women; but i was mistrusted; whatever i thought right, others thought wrong, and that which others thought well of appeared to me to be evil. thus, in all my wanderings, i found no friend. in truth my name is wehwalt: woe. i may never find love and kindness. foes wait ever upon my track. since i am a wolf's son, who will believe that i have loving thoughts?" hereupon, sieglinde looked at the handsome yet sorrowful stranger with great tenderness. "tell us, guest, how thy weapons were lost?" hunding insisted. "willingly i shall tell thee. a sorrowing maid cried for help. her kinsmen thought to bind her in wedlock to one she did not love; and when she cried to me to free her, i had to fight all her kinsmen single-handed. i slew her brothers and while protecting her as she bent above their bodies, her people broke my shield and i had to flee." "now i know you," hunding shouted, rising and glaring at the young wolfling. "i was called to battle with my kinsmen--they were your foes! he who fought us fled before i could reach the battling place, and here i have returned to find my enemy in my house! let me tell you, wolf-man, my house shall hold you safe for the night, since you came here wounded and defenceless; but to-morrow you must defend yourself, for i will kill you." at that hunding moved threateningly toward siegmund, but sieglinde stepped between them, regarding siegmund with a troubled face. "as for thee," said hunding to her roughly; "have off with thee! set my night-draught here and get thee to bed!" sieglinde took from the cupboard a box of spices from which she shook some into the drinking horn in which she was making the night-draught. all the while she moved about she tried to direct siegmund's eye toward the sword hilt which gleamed upon the ash tree; but hunding was not pleased with her and drove her from the room to her bed-chamber. then taking the armour from the tree he glowered darkly at siegmund. "look well to thyself, to-morrow," he said; "for i mean to kill thee." then he followed sieglinde to the inner chamber. _scene iii_ siegmund sat down, sad and lonely, while the lights burned out and the fire flickered lower. the wolf-man with his head in his hands thought gloomily upon his unhappy fate. never was he to find friends, though he was true and honest and meant harm to no man. "i have no sword," he thought; "hence i cannot defend myself against hunding. if only i could find, somewhere in the world, that enchanted sword of which my father told me!" he cried, aloud in his despair. suddenly, the logs in the fire fell apart and the flame flared high--it was loge doing the bidding of wotan, who, from walhall, was watching the movements of the universe--and in the blaze the sword hilt could be seen shining upon the tree. the gleam caught siegmund's eye, but he did not know what he saw. "what is that so bright and shining?" he said to himself. "ah, it must be the memory of dear sieglinde's brilliant eyes, which rested so often upon that spot before she left the room. it is because i love her and think of her that i fancy i see a jewel shining in the dark." musing thus he became sadder than before. again loge flamed up high, and again siegmund saw the gleam of the sword, but still he did not know what he saw, so the lonely wolf-man was again left in darkness. then the chamber door softly opened and sieglinde stole into the room. she had left hunding sleeping. "guest," she whispered. "art thou sleeping?" siegmund started up joyfully. "it is sieglinde?" he whispered back. "listen! make no sound. hunding lies sleeping, overcome by the heavy drink that i have given him. now, in the night, fly and save thy life. i have come to show thee a weapon. oh, if thou couldst make it thine! many have tried, but all have failed. it is only the strongest in all the world who can draw it from its strange sheath." siegmund's glance wandered to where she pointed, and rested upon the sword hilt which the flame had shown him. "i was given by my kinsmen to the cruel hunding," she continued; "and while i sat sad and sorrowful on my wedding night, and my kinsmen gathered around rejoicing, there entered an old man, clad all in gray, his hat pulled low over his face, and one eye hidden; but the other eye flashed fear to all men's souls but mine. while others trembled with fear, i trembled with hope; because on me his eye rested lovingly. he carried a sword in his hand, and with a mighty stroke, buried it deep in the ash tree. "'only he who has a giant's strength can draw that sword,' he cried. after that, guests came and went, came and went, tried and tried; but none could draw the sword. so there it cleaves until this day. ah! if thou couldst draw it out and save thy life! he who draws that sword shall also deliver me from hunding," she added, wistfully. at that, siegmund leaped up and clasped her in his arms: "then in truth shall i draw it. it is i who shall free thee. and who but the god wotan put the weapon there for thy deliverance? thou sayst he had but one eye! did not wotan give one of his to win his wife, fricka? thou hast been guarded by the gods themselves," he cried, and again clasping her to his breast he promised to free her forever from hunding. "it is the weapon told of by my father, the wolf," he declared; and while they stood thus, the outer door swung noiselessly open and the moonlight streamed in. "ah! it is the spring," he whispered. "the beautiful spring! she has entered unannounced to bring us cheer and hope, it is an omen of good. i am no longer sad. i have found one to love who loves me, and a weapon to defend her." with a mighty wrench siegmund pulled the sword from its bed and swung it above them. act ii when sieglinde and siegmund had fled and while they were wandering, waiting for the battle which was certain to occur between siegmund and hunding, wotan was preparing to send out his war-maid, brünnhilde, from the palace of the gods--walhall. the warrior-maid had been given him by erda, and she went forth each day to the ends of the earth, to guard all warriors. when men died in battle, she and her eight sisters, who were called the valkyries, bore those heroes to wotan, and they dwelt in walhall forever. it was on the day of the battle that brünnhilde and wotan came to a high rock, armed and prepared for war. wotan carried a magic spear. "listen, brünnhilde! thou art to hasten. there is this day to be a great battle between siegmund, who is of the wälsung race, and hunding. as for hunding, i want him not in walhall. yet it is siegmund whom thou art to shield in the strife. take thy horse and hurry forth." brünnhilde, springing upon her beautiful horse, grane, flew shouting over the rocks, loudly calling her battle-cry: "ho-jo-to-ho! ho-jo-to-ho! heia-ha, heia-ha, heia-ha!" this loud clear cry, rang from peak to peak, from crag to crag, while the maid on her enchanted horse flew away to summon her sisters. on a far peak she paused, and called back to wotan: "have a care war-father! thy goddess, fricka, comes drawn in her car by rams. she will give thee a great battle i fear; she swings her golden lash, and makes the poor beasts dance. i tell thee, war-father, thy goddess has some quarrel with thee!" and laughing, brünnhilde flew on her way. fricka's rams, scrambling over the rocks, dragging her car behind them, landed her close to wotan. "so, wotan, i must look the world over for thee!" she cried angrily. "i have no time to chide thee, however. the hunter hunding has called to me for help. he is sorely pressed. siegmund is his foe, and has taken the magic sword from the ash tree. with that sword he is invincible. he has carried off hunding's wife, and i, the goddess of home and domesticity, must avenge him. i have come to warn thee not to interfere for siegmund. i shall help hunding." "i know of thy hunding," wotan answered, frowning. "and i know no harm of siegmund. it was the beautiful spring which united the pair. am i to overwhelm these two with ruin because thy cruel hunding has come to thee for help? spring's enchantment was upon sieglinde and siegmund." "what, ye speak thus to me, wotan? when those two had been united in holy wedlock----?" "i do not call so hateful a union, 'holy'," wotan answered, sternly. "thy words are shameful. i have come to tell thee thou shalt take back the magic power thou hast given to siegmund with the sword. i know well he is thy son, and that thou wandered upon the earth as a wolf, leaving behind thee this sword, invincible, for thy beloved wolf-boy, but i declare to you, i shall give you henceforth no peace till the sword is taken from him. hunding shall have his revenge! the conduct of these mortals is shameful. but when gods, such as thou, misbehave, what can be expected of mere mortals?" fricka sighed. "however thou may seek to free thyself or defend thyself, i am thy eternal bride; thou canst not get away from me, and if thou wouldst have peace, thou wilt heed me. see to it that the wolf-man loses his life in this encounter." fricka, for all the world like a shrewish, scolding mortal wife, quite overwhelmed the unhappy war-god. "but what can i do, since i should have to fight against my own enchantments?" wotan urged, hoping to save his beloved wolf-son. "thou shalt disenchant the sword. the magic thou gavest thou canst destroy." the quarrel was at its height, when brünnhilde's cry could be heard afar. [music: ho-jo-to-ho! ho-jo-to-ho! heia-ha! heia-ha! ho-jo-to-ho! ho-jo-to-ho! heia-ha! heia-ha! ho-jo-to-ho! ho-jo-to-ho! ho-jo-to-ho! ho-jo-to-ho! heia-ha-ha! ho-jo-ho!] "ho-jo-to-ho-ho-to-jo-ho! heia-ha, heia-ha, heia-ha!" brünnhilde came leaping down the mountain again, upon her horse, grane. seeing a quarrel was in progress between the goddess and wotan she became quiet, dismounted, and led her horse to a cave and hid him there. "there, wotan, is thy war-maid now. pledge me thine oath that the magic sword which siegmund bears, shall lose its virtue! give thy war-maid instruction." fricka urged this in a manner calculated to show wotan there would be no more peace in walhall if he flouted his wife. he sat down in dejection. "take my oath," he said miserably; and thus sieglinde's and siegmund's doom was sealed. fricka triumphantly mounted into the car drawn by rams, and in passing, spoke to brünnhilde. "go to thy war-father and get his commands." brünnhilde, wondering, went to wotan. _scene ii_ "father, fricka has won in some encounter with thee, else she would not go out so gaily and thou sit there so dejected. tell me, thy war-child, what troubles thee!" at first wotan shook his head, but presently his despair urged him to speak and he told brünnhilde the story of the rheingold and the ring of the nibelungs. "i coveted what was not mine," he said. "i got the gold from alberich and in turn fafner and fasolt got it from me. fafner killed his brother for love of the gold, and then turning himself into a dragon, set himself to watch over the gold forever. it was decreed by the fates--erda's daughters--that when alberich should find a woman to love him, the overthrow of the gods was at hand. alberich had bought love with the treasure. our only hope lay in the victory of some hero in whose life i had no part. i left for such a one a magic sword, so placed that only the strongest could draw it. he had to help himself before i gave him help. siegmund has drawn the magic sword. if he had won in the battle with hunding, the eternals would have been saved; but fricka demands that hunding shall win the fight and a god must sacrifice all walhall if his wife demands it. he had better be dead than browbeaten forever." wotan almost wept in his anguish. "so must the eternals face extermination. a wife can crush even a god!" "what shall i do for thee, father wotan?" brünnhilde cried distractedly. "obey fricka this day in all things. desert siegmund and fight on hunding's side." wotan sighed heavily. "nay, i shall defy thy commands for once," she declared, but at this wotan rose in wrath. "obey me!--or thy punishment shall be terrible. to disobey would be treason to the gods." he strode away. brünnhilde put on her armour once more. "why is my armour so heavy, and why does it hurt me so?" she asked of herself. "alas! it is because i donned it in an evil cause." slowly she went toward the cave where her enchanted horse, grane, was hidden. _scene iii_ now that the gods had forsaken them, the two lovers, sieglinde and siegmund, were in great danger, and sieglinde, without knowing why, was filled anew with fright. she hurried painfully along, assisted by siegmund who was all the time lovingly urging her to stop and rest. "nay," she answered always; "i cannot rest because i hear hunding's hounds who would tear thee in pieces, if they caught thee." at that very moment they heard the blast of hunding's horn in the distance. "there he comes with all his kinsmen at his back, and they will surely overwhelm thee," she cried in distress; and fell fainting with fear. as siegmund placed her tenderly upon the ground, brünnhilde came toward them from the cavern, leading her horse. _scene iv_ she regarded siegmund sorrowfully and said in a troubled voice: "i have come to call thee hence, siegmund." the youth stared at her curiously. "who art thou?" he asked. "i am brünnhilde, the valkyrie; and whoever i look upon must die." "not i," siegmund answered, incredulously. "i fight with the enchanted sword of wotan. my life is charmed. i cannot die." "alas!" she answered, then paused. presently she spoke again. "whoever looks upon me must die, siegmund," she said earnestly. "when i have died, where do i go?" he asked. he was not sad at the thought of giving up a life so full of strife. "thou goest to walhall to dwell with the eternals." "do i find there wotan, and the wälsungs--my kinsmen who have gone before me?" "aye," she answered--"and wish-maidens to fill thy drinking cup and to cheer thee. it is the home where heroes dwell, forever and forever." siegmund's face glowed with hope. "and sieglinde?" he cried. "ah, not she. she must stay yet a while behind thee." then a terrible change came upon siegmund and he frowned at the valkyrie. "begone! thinkest thou i go to thy walhall without sieglinde? begone! what do you of the gods know of love such as ours. walhall is not for me. i carry the enchanted sword given by wotan. this day i kill hunding, and live my life in peace with sieglinde." brünnhilde could no longer let him deceive himself. "the enchantment of thy sword is gone!" siegmund started. "wotan deserts thee. to-day thou must go hence with me. hunding will kill thee." for a moment siegmund regarded the valkyrie, then drawing his sword, he turned to where sieglinde was lying, still unconscious. "what wouldst thou do?" brünnhilde cried. "kill sieglinde, to save her from hunding's wrath." "leave her to me," brünnhilde entreated, moved with pity. "i swear to thee i will preserve her. leave her with me." "with thee--when wotan himself has tricked me? nay. the gods are no longer trustworthy," he said, bitterly, turning again to sieglinde. brünnhilde, overcome with pity and admiration for such devotion between mortals--a love more steadfast than the promises of the gods themselves--sprang forward to stay him. "do not! i will preserve thee--thee and thy sieglinde. i am here to guard hunding, but it shall not be so. i will shield thee in the fight. i will brave the wrath of wotan for such love as thine and sieglinde's. if the magic of thy sword is destroyed, the power of my shield is not. i will guard thee through the fight. up! renew thy courage. the day is thine, and the fight is at hand." mounting her horse, grane, the valkyrie flew over the mountain tops and disappeared. siegmund's despair was turned to joy and again hearing hunding's horn, he turned to go, leaving sieglinde to sleep till the fight was over. the storm-clouds gathered, and all the scene became hidden. _scene v_ lightning flashed and thunder rolled ominously. siegmund bent to kiss sieglinde and disappeared in the blackness of the storm. all the heavens and earth spoke of war and death. the air grew thick with vapours, and lightning cleft the hills. siegmund called through the darkness to hunding to face him for the fight, and at the sound of his voice and the horns and the shouting of battle, sieglinde awoke. she could see naught, but could hear the sounds of war. her fear for siegmund returned. she shrieked and ran toward the storm-shrouded mountain. the skies were rent, and high upon the rocky peak, hunding and siegmund stood forth in battle. "the goddess fricka is with me!" hunding shouted. "away with thy goddess! it is the gods who support me" siegmund answered, bravely swinging his sword. instantly brünnhilde floated above the warriors. she interposed her burnished shield between siegmund and the sword of hunding, and cried: "thrust, siegmund! thy sword shall preserve thee!" instantly the whole earth was filled with a dazzling fire, in which wotan appeared, foaming with rage. he thrust his spear to catch the blow of the wolfling's sword, which broke in half upon it; while hunding's point pierced siegmund's breast. brünnhilde fell at wotan's feet, while with a shriek sieglinde in the glade below fell as if dead. while wotan faced hunding, brünnhilde rushed down the mountain to save sieglinde. taking her in her arms she sprang upon grane and flew for the rock of the valkyries. "now go, thou miserable being," wotan thundered at hunding, and waving his spear at him, the man fell dead. "now brünnhilde, for thee! and for thy punishment!" he cried in an awful voice, and amidst the crashing of donner's hammer against the sides of the universe and flames from heaven, wotan disappeared. act iii away on a far mountain, the valkyries were waiting for brünnhilde's coming. they were her sisters: gerhilde, ortlinde, waltraute and schwertleite, seated upon a high place, dressed in their armour. from time to time they gave the cry of the valkyries: "ho-jo-to-ho! ho-jo-to-ho! heia-ha, heia-ha, heia-ha!" soon this call was answered by helmwige, who could be seen coming on her horse, with a slain warrior tied to her saddle. the valkyries were arriving from the four quarters of the earth--each bearing a slain warrior. at last, all but brünnhilde had come. "we cannot go to wotan without her," they said among themselves. "she is his favourite and she brings to him those heroes he most desires. we must not start for walhall till she has come." thus they talked among themselves, now and then sounding their cry and laughing over the misfortunes of mortals. at last one called: "look! brünnhilde is coming in wildest haste. look, look! her pace is so furious that the horse staggers. what lies on her saddle?" all peered in amazement into the vale below. "it is no man," one cried. "it is a maid," shouted another. "she does not greet us." they ran to help her from her horse, shouting their war-cry as they went, and returned supporting sieglinde, while they surrounded brünnhilde and questioned her wildly. "shield us!" she cried to them. "i am pursued. the war-father is coming after me. he is foaming with rage. hide us, shield us." all looked at her in consternation. "what hast thou done?" they questioned. "who can shield thee from our father's wrath, brünnhilde?" one cried. "i see him not," one who was on the look-out called. "but a fearful storm gathers." "it is wotan. our father rides upon the storm. oh, shield this poor wife," brünnhilde called. "alas! the storm increases." "then he is near. his anger increases as he comes," brünnhilde cried in terror. "now who will lend me a horse to put this poor wife upon?" none dared brave the wrath of the god. "all of you are silent," she said at last, in despair. turning to the fainting sieglinde, she cried: "up! take the way to the east. there dwells the dragon, fafner, and near him alberich also watches. that is the only place in the world wotan avoids. go thou, and i will detain the father till thou art far and safe. take these pieces of the magic sword. i snatched them when siegmund fell. give them to thy son and siegmund's, and that son shall be named siegfried. with these sword-pieces again made whole, the sword shall win the world for that son of thine." with these words she turned sieglinde's face toward the east, while she herself stood waiting. sieglinde was no sooner gone than the storm grew more fierce, and wotan called with a loud voice from the clouds: "brünnhilde!" full of fear she sought to hide herself in the midst of her sisters. "he is coming, sister," they shouted. all the forest about them was lighted up with a lurid fire, and wotan came raging through the midst of it. _scene ii_ striding from the wood he called again: "come forth! naught can save thee from thy punishment." without hope, brünnhilde came from the company of her sisters and threw herself on her knees before wotan. he looked at her in pity because he loved her dearly. "for thy treason to the eternals and to me, i doom thee to roam the earth as a mortal woman. i take thy glory from thee. walhall shall know thee no more. thou art forever cast out from us. henceforth thy fate shall be to spin the flax, to sit by the hearth, a slave to man." he could not look upon her because he loved her so. at this, all the valkyries cried out. "away!" he called to them. "her punishment is fixed and whoever tries to help her shall share her fate." at this threat, all fled wildly to their horses, and shrieking, flew away, leaving behind them a sound of rushing and a streaming light. _scene iii_ wotan regarded brünnhilde mournfully. she raised herself and tried to move him with her tears. "if i am doomed to become mortal, to suffer all mortals' ills and woes, remember still that my treason was partly for love of thee. i knew siegmund was dear to thee. wilt thou not pity me a little?" her pleading was so mournful that wotan at last listened to it. "brünnhilde, i will guard thee from the worst. since thou must become as mortals are, and the slave of man, i will guard thee from all but the brave. i will enchant thee into a sleep from which only a hero can wake thee. fire shall surround thee, and he who would win thee must pass through the flame." he kissed her on the eyelids which began to droop as with sleep, and he laid her gently down upon a little mound beneath a fir tree. he closed her helmet and laid upon her her shining shield, which completely covered her body. then he mounted a height. "loge!" he called, and struck the rock three times with his spear. "loge, loge, loge! hear! once i summoned thee, a flickering flame, to be companion of the gods. now, i summon thee to appear and wind thyself in wavering, dancing, fairy flame, about the fallen. loge, i call!" a little flashing flame burst from a riven place. it spread, it crept, it darted and stung; catching here, clutching there, fading, leaping, higher, higher, higher, till all the world was wrapped in fire. the shooting tongues drew about the god, who, stretching forth his magic spear, directed it toward the rock on which the valkyrie lay asleep. the fiery sea spread round and in its midst brünnhilde slept safely. "he who fears my spear-point, may not cross the flame," he said, pointing his spear toward the tomb of fire; and then, with backward glances, the god of war passed through the flame and was seen no more. the nibelung ring third day siegfried characters of the opera siegfried. alberich. mime. fafner. the wanderer. erda. brünnhilde. act i in a cavernous rock in the forest, hammering upon an anvil, was a complaining mime. as he hammered, the sparks flew from the sword which he was forging. "alas!" he cried, muttering to himself, as he worked at his task; "alas! here i am, day after day, trying to forge a sword which siegfried cannot break. i, who have made swords for giants, am yet unable to satisfy this stripling." at this the mime flung the new-made sword upon the anvil with a crash, and stood gazing thoughtfully upon the ground. "there _is_ a sword to be forged which even that insolent boy cannot break; a sword which, if the race of nibelungs could wield it would win them back the treasure and the ring. this sword must kill the dragon, fafner, who guards that ring--the magic sword, nothung! but my arm cannot forge it; there is no fire hot enough to fuse its metal! alas! i shall always be a slave to this boy siegfried; that is plain." while he lamented thus, siegfried, himself, ran boisterously into the cavern, driving a great bear before him. the youth was dressed all in skins, wore a silver hunting-horn at his girdle, and he laughed as bruin chased the mime into a corner. "tear this tinkering smith to pieces," siegfried shouted to the beast. "make him forge a real sword fit for men, and not for babes." the mime ran about, shrieking with fear. "there is thy sword, siegfried," he shouted, pointing to the sword which he had thrown on the anvil. "good! then for to-day thou shalt go free--the bear can eat thee another day?" he cried, mockingly; and giving the bear a blow with the rope which held him, the beast trotted back into the forest. "now to test thy great day's work! where is this fine sword? i warrant it will be like all the others; fit only for a child's toy." the mime handed him the sword saying: "it has a fine, sharp edge"; thus trying to soothe the youth. "what matters its edge if it be not hard and true?" he shouted irritably, and snatching the sword from the mime's hand he struck it upon the anvil and it flew in pieces. siegfried flew into a great rage, and while he foamed about the smithy, the mime got himself behind the anvil, to keep himself out of the angry fellow's way. when siegfried's anger had spent itself, the mime came from the corner and said solicitously: "thou must be hungry, my son." "don't call me thy 'son,' thou little black fool," the boy again shouted. "what have i to do with a misshapen thing like thee, whose heart is as wicked as its body is ugly? when i want food, i'll cook it." the mime held out a bowl of soup to him, but siegfried dashed it to the ground. "did i not rescue thee from the forest when thou wert born, and have i not fed and clothed thee?" he whimpered. "if so, it was for no good purpose. i know thee." siegfried had a marvelous instinct which told him good from evil. "dost know why i go forth and yet return, day after day?" he asked presently, studying the mime's face thoughtfully. "it is because i mean to learn from thee something of my mother and my father." siegfried's voice had become gentle, and full of longing. "what can i tell thee?" the mime replied, craftily. "i found thy mother ill in the wood, and brought her to my cave, where i tended her till thou wert born. i know nothing of thy father--except one thing." he paused, considering whether or not he should reveal what he knew about the good sword, nothung. "well, get on with thy tale. i will know it all," siegfried threatened. "thy mother carried the fragments of a sword which had been thy father's, and when she died at thy birth, she named thee siegfried and gave to me the pieces, saying if thou couldst reweld the sword, so as to make it new, it would win thee the world. the sword's name is nothung." "where are those pieces," siegfried roared, starting up and menacing the mime. "do not set upon me so fiercely--i will give them to thee," the mime pleaded, and taking the pieces from a cleft in the rock, he gave the youth a sword in two parts. "it is useless to thee, i tell thee frankly; i could not make thee the sword. there is no fire hot enough to fuse the metal, and no arm strong enough to forge it--not even mine, which has fashioned swords for giants." siegfried shouted with joy. "thou old thief, have the good sword done ere i return or i will have the bear swallow thee at a gulp." leaping with joy he went back into the forest. the mime sat down in great trouble. he did not doubt siegfried's word--yet he knew that he could never make the sword. he fell to rocking himself to and fro upon the stone seat, while he thought of what he should do to excuse himself upon siegfried's return. in the midst of his trouble a strange man entered the cavern, dressed in a dark blue cloak which nearly hid him. on his head was a great hat pulled low over his face, but one fierce eye shone from under it. when the mime saw him, he felt new fear. _scene ii_ "who art thou?" the mime demanded in an ugly tone, as the wanderer stood watching him reflectively. "i am one who brings wisdom, and whom none who have good hearts turn away. only the evil turn from me. the good offer me shelter." the mime, seeing only his own cunning and wickedness reflected in the wanderer, tried to think how he should rid himself of one he believed had come to harm him. he thought the wanderer must be a spy, but in reality, he was the god wotan, who had seated himself upon the hearth, and was watching the mime. "listen!" he said, beholding the mime's fear; "ask of me what thou wilt and i shall lighten thy burden, be it what it may." he looked long and curiously at the mime and could read his heart. "wilt answer me three questions?" the mime demanded. "aye--and stake my head upon the truth of the answers." "then tell me what race it is that dwells in the depths of the earth." "it is the nibelung race, and nibelheim is their land. there, all are black elves, and once upon a time, alberich was their lord. he tamed them with the spell of a magic ring formed of the rheingold. ask on." "what is the race which dwells upon the surface of the earth?" the mime asked, less timidly. "it is the race of giants. riesenheim is their land and fasolt and fafner were their rulers, but, possessing themselves of the nibelung's gold, they fought, and one killed the other; till now, fafner alone, in the form of a dragon, guards the hoard and ring. speak on." "thou hast told me much," the mime said, wondering. "but now canst thou tell me who are they who dwell upon cloud-hidden heights?" "they are the eternals, and walhall is their home. wotan commands that world. he shaped his spear from the branches of an ash tree, and with that spear he rules the gods. whoever wields that spear rules all the giants and the nibelungs." as if by accident, wotan--the wanderer--struck the spear he carried upon the ground and a low roll of thunder responded. the mime was terror-stricken. "well, mime, is my head which i pledged to thee, free?" "aye, go." "if thou hadst welcomed me, i could have solved thy problems for thee, but i had to pledge my head to thee before i could rest here. so now, by the law of wager, this matter is now reversed. it is for thee to answer me three questions--or lose thy head. tell me, then: what race does wotan the war-god favour?" "ah, i can answer that: it is the wälsungs--a race sprung from wolves. the wälsungs' mightiest son is his care. his name is siegfried." "now tell me the name of the sword with which this same siegfried is bound to conquer the world, to kill the dragon fafner, and to get the rheingold and the ring?" "the name of the sword is nothung," the dwarf replied, not daring to keep silence. "now one more answer, as wise as those gone before, and thy head is free: who shall fashion this same sword, nothung, for siegfried?" at this question the mime leaped up and flung his tools all about in rage. "i know not who has the power to make the sword," he screamed. "i will tell thee," the wanderer answered, smiling contemptuously upon the mime. "the sword shall be forged by one who has never known fear. now thy head is forfeit, but i shall leave it on thy shoulders for that same man--he who knows no fear--to strike from thee." still smiling at the terror-stricken mime, the wanderer passed out into the forest. he had no sooner gone, than the mime began to think upon the last words he had spoken. he was to lose his head by the stroke of one who had never known fear. the only one the mime knew who was fearless was siegfried. then unless siegfried could be made afraid, he would one day strike off the mime's head. _scene iii_ when siegfried returned to the cavern, the mime began to tell him that he must learn to fear, before he could go forth into the world to seek adventures. he told siegfried of the horrible dragon, fafner, who guarded the rheingold and the ring, thinking to strike terror to the youth's heart; but siegfried became at once impatient to go in search of the dragon, that he might know what the experience of fear was. "where is that strong sword you are to make for me?" he demanded, being thus put in mind of it again. the wretched mime knew not what to answer. "alas!" he sighed; "i have no fire hot enough to fuse the metal." "now by my head, i will stand no more of thee!" siegfried shouted. "get away from that forge and give me the sword's pieces. i'll forge that sword of my father's and teach thee thy trade before i break thy neck." so saying, he grasped the fragments of the sword, began to heap up the charcoal, and to blow the bellows. then he screwed the pieces into a vise and began to file them. "use the solder," the mime directed. "it is there, ready for thee." "solder? what should i do with solder?" he said, and continued to file the pieces till the file was in shreds. in time he had ground the pieces to powder, which he caught in a crucible and put upon the fire. while he blew the bellows with a great roaring of the fire, he sang the song of nothung, the invincible sword. [music: nothung! nothung! conquering sword! what blow has served to break thee? to shreds i shattered thy shining blade; the fire has melted the splinters ho ho! ho ho! ho hei! ho hei! ho ho! bellows blow! brighten the glow.] as the mime watched that easy forging of the mighty weapon, he believed that siegfried was the one who would slay the dragon as wotan had foretold. if he did that then he surely would possess himself of the treasure and the ring. so the mime fell to planning how he could get the gold into his own hands. siegfried knew nothing of gold and power, and so, why should he not willingly hand the treasure over to the mime? then the mime would determine that siegfried should perish, and by the ring's magic his destruction would come about, leaving the mime lord of all. so the mime decided it was well that siegfried should forge the sword, because the mime, even if he had such a sword, had known fear, and therefore, could not kill the dragon with it. siegfried must do this and the mime should profit by it, and afterward kill siegfried. thus he reasoned. all this time siegfried had been at work upon his sword. he had poured the molten metal into a mould, and held the mould high above his head. presently he plunged it into cold water, and a great hissing of steam occurred. again he thrust the sword into the fire to harden it the more, and meantime the mime was fussing about the fire, making a broth. "what is the devil's brew thou art making," siegfried demanded giving him a lowering look. "something to take with us upon the journey to the dragon's lair." "none of it for me," siegfried shouted. "i'll have none of thy brew." but the mime reasoned that by the morrow, when siegfried would have slain the dragon and have found himself weary, he would gladly drink of the broth. as it was poisoned, it would kill siegfried as soon almost as he had killed the dragon. at last the broth was finished and poured into a bottle ready for taking, while the sword was done at the same time, siegfried having tempered it and tested its point and its strength a little. "now," shouted siegfried, "if the good sword will stand, let us go." he stood before the anvil, swung nothung about his head, and with a frightful blow he cleaved the anvil from top to bottom so that the halves fell apart with a great crash. the sight was more than the mime could bear and he stood palsied with fear of such tremendous strength. "yes, yes, let us be off," he cried, when he could speak again. he longed to have the dragon dead and siegfried dying; only then would he feel safe. swinging the great sword about his head, siegfried started off into the forest, in search of adventures. act ii alberich crouched, waiting near the dragon's cave, having always known, even as the gods knew, that the day would come when even fafner, the dragon, would meet his match. when that time came, alberich meant to possess himself again of the gold, for he felt capable of fighting any one but the dragon. as siegfried and the mime reached the part of the forest where the dragon kept guard, it seemed to be black, black night and a storm was brewing. the scene was very frightful, indeed. the thunder muttered, showing that donner was somewhere about, using his hammer. while alberich, imp of the underworld, sat watching and waiting, he saw a bluish light, such as had appeared when erda spoke to wotan. alberich started up in alarm. "can that light mean the coming of him who is to slay fafner?" he wondered, as the bluish radiance grew brighter and brighter. then the storm abated and the light died out. next, the wanderer entered the place before the dragon's cave, and although it was very dark such a bright light seemed to come from him that alberich recognized wotan. "what are you doing here, thief," cried the black revengeful spirit, "you who took the rheingold? once more let me gain possession of the ring and i'll come against all walhall and thy celestial world." "peace! thy rage means naught to me," the wanderer replied. "listen, and i will tell thee what thou wouldst like to know. the mime brings hither a boy who shall kill the dragon. the mime plans to win the gold and the ring. i may not help the boy: i may not serve those whom i love; but if thou wouldst warn the dragon, very likely he would give thee the treasure for thy reward. i'll call the dragon to thee," he said, and stepped to the mouth of the cave. "fafner, fafner, awake, thou dragon!" alberich trembled with fear when an awful voice roared in answer: "who wakes me from my sleep?" "a friend," wotan, the wanderer, replied, bending his head toward the cave and listening. alberich, taking courage, listened too, and called: "a foe is near who comes to snatch the rheingold and the ring from thee." "then food is near at hand," the dragon roared in his softest voice. "listen," alberich persisted. "if thou wilt give the ring to me, i will help thee." the dragon yawned terrifically: "don't trouble yourself. i will look after my hoard and my ring." even if he had whispered, he could have been heard a mile away. as it was, he spoke in his loudest voice, although he was sleepy, and alberich nearly fainted with terror. "thou hast failed with the dragon, alberich," the wanderer said, smiling, "but i will give thee one word more of advice: make terms with the mime. attack him; perhaps thou wilt have better luck with thy kind!" in a flash of lightning, the wanderer mounted his magic steed and disappeared. when he had looked after him for a moment, alberich slipped into the dragon's cave, and as he disappeared, the day slowly dawned, and all the scene grew bright in the morning light. just at the dawn of day, siegfried, and the mime reached the glade before the dragon's cave. the enchanted sword hung at siegfried's belt. _scene ii_ "now we have arrived where the dragon lives," the mime said to siegfried. "ah?" the youth said, sitting down to rest under a lime tree. he looked curiously about him. "is it time to be afraid?" he asked, anxiously. "because if so, i feel nothing yet--although maybe i do, and do not know it?" "oh, you'll know it fast enough," the mime assured him. "in that cave there lies the dragon. his great hairy jaws will open and swallow thee at one gulp." but siegfried sat under the lime tree and asked if that were really true. it interested him greatly. "but one thing i tell thee," he cried: "if this thing which you have told me be not true, we'll part company at once. i'm not to be fooled. i have come here to learn something--how to be afraid--and if i don't learn it as thou hast said, i'll teach thee to stop lying." "when, out of the dragon's mouth, a poisoned foam pours, which will kill thee if any drop gets upon thee, i guess thou wilt shake a little. thy body and thy bones would melt if that stuff touched thee." "well, i'll give him plenty of room, to be sure," siegfried replied. "his great tail will sweep about and if he should catch thy limbs in it, thy bones would be crushed like glass." "that sounds very bad; but tell me if this thing has a heart which is placed where other hearts are placed?" "truly--a cold and cruel heart." "oh, as to that, i am not concerned, but if he has any heart, nothung will slip into it. now come, old babbler, is this the thing that is to teach me fear--this thing that spits a bit and lashes about with a clumsy old tail?" "laugh away, laugh away! but i have no mind to stay so near, so i shall go away and lie down beside a stream to sleep. watch thou there, and have a care for thyself." so saying the mime went off a little way and laid himself down. when he had gone, siegfried stretched himself beneath the lime tree to listen to the birds' song. he cut himself a reed and tried to answer the birds, but could not. as he rested there in the bright day, he had lonely thoughts of his mother and his father, and longed for some one whom he could love. while in the midst of these musings, he looked up and there, with his frightful head resting upon the knoll, was fafner, the dragon. he was giving vent to a terrific yawn, and made such an awful sound that siegfried regarded him in amazement, but suddenly burst out laughing. "hello! are you the beauty who is to teach me to be afraid? well, well!" and he laughed again. the dragon ceased to yawn and stared hard at siegfried. "you are a pretty plaything," siegfried continued. "such a nice, rosy little mouth. i fancy you must be the fellow who was to scare me to death. thou art a beauty, surely!" "who is it?" the dragon roared suddenly. "ho! and a sweet voice--like the birds," siegfried grinned. "since my mouth is so rosy, let me see how my teeth will feel when set in a juicy morsel like you," said the dragon and he spouted venomous vapours, stretching his horrid jaws, while siegfried nimbly sprang to one side to avoid the poisonous steam. standing watchful, with his sword, he tried to thrust it at the dragon's tail, but fafner roared and swished his tail away, and prepared to strike with his body; but to do this he had to raise himself upon high, and in so doing exposed his breast. instantly siegfried plunged nothung into his heart, and the dragon rolled over upon his side with a groan which shook the trees to their very roots. siegfried left his sword in the wound and sprang to one side. "oh," groaned the dragon, with a sigh like a weary earthquake. his blood spouted upon siegfried and burnt his hand like fire. as the blood soused him, a little bird sang. "it is almost as if that little bird was speaking to me," he said, pausing and looking up into the trees. "can it be the dragon's burning blood has some virtue which makes me understand the bird's song?" "siegfried now owns all the nibelung's hoard which lies hidden in the cave. there will be found the tarnhelm and the ring, which will give him power over all the earth," so the bird sang, and siegfried understood. "i thank thee, dear birdling, for thy counsel. i shall follow thy call." he turned toward the cave and entered it in search of the treasures. at that moment, the mime came into the glade, and alberich, in the dark of the cavern's mouth, slipped out past siegfried, and the mime and he came face to face, while the dead dragon lay between them. _scene iii_ "thou sly and slippery knave," alberich began pleasantly to address the mime; "thou wouldst have the ring and the gold, eh?" he glared viciously at the little imp of nibelheim. the mime tried to pacify the evil creature, but alberich, who had waited long, would listen to nothing. before they could fall a-fighting, however, siegfried came from the cave bearing the ring and the tarnhelm. he slipped the ring upon his finger and hung the tarnhelm at his belt. "i know not what these things are for," he murmured to himself, "but i have taken them because the little bird gave me that advice." unseen behind him, alberich slipped into the cave to fetch the treasure. at that same moment the little bird sang: "let siegfried wait to see what the mime will do. listen and learn and have a care." "good!" the youth cried. "i am the one to take advice." as the mime approached him, siegfried stood steadily, one foot upon the knoll where the dragon had lain, and watched the imp. "ah, my lovely boy, hast thou now learned to fear?" he said, in an ingratiating tone. "not yet, mime!" siegfried said, seriously. "well, at least thou art weary, so drink of this and rest a while," and the mime drew forth his bottled broth. "it will give thee new courage." but siegfried, filled with loathing for the little man, felled him with a single stroke of his sword. thus the mime was slain, as wotan had said, by one who knew no fear. after that, the youth picked up the mime's body and threw it into the cave where the treasure lay still, and with a great effort he tugged at the dragon's body till he had rolled it near, and in turn he dumped the dragon into the cavern. after looking down into the darkness, he sighed and turned back to the green glade. "i am truly tired," he said. "i think i can now stretch myself beneath this tree and rest." so saying he laid himself down and turned his face to the sky. "ah, little birdling," he said, "here am i, so lonely, without father nor mother nor any one to love me. i wish thy clear voice would speak again to me and tell me of some fond friend." the bird trilled: [music] "thou hast great treasure and power from this time forth; still thou art not happy without love and one to share thy fortune. i will tell thee then of a lovely bride who lies guarded round by fire in a rocky forest fastness. she sleeps and waits for one who shall dare the flames for love. the glorious maiden's name is brünnhilde." "oh, song of joy," siegfried cried, starting up. "now indeed thou hast made me happy." "only he who has never known fear may wake her," the little bird sang. "have no fear, dear bird. i have known no fear and brünnhilde shall be mine. lead on, lead on, dear bird. lead me to the rock where this dear maid lies and i shall know no fear." the little bird rose beside him, and circling a few times above his head, took a straight flight and led the way while siegfried followed. act iii while siegfried was on his way, led by the little bird, the wanderer was seeking erda, who had given to him brünnhilde and his eight other warrior daughters. erda was wisdom, and the wanderer sought her at the base of a wild and rock-made mountain. it was night and a storm was roaring all about. wotan arrived at the mouth of a cave and called "erda!" "waken," he cried, "i must waken thee from thy long sleep." the bluish light shone steadily and slowly erda rose. she was covered with hoar frost and her iridescent garment shimmered as if made of ice. "erda, a youth has been found who knows no fear. he has slain fafner. he is governed only by love, and i am about to resign my godhood in his favour. wisdom has been sleeping and the gods have lost their power. wisdom and the gods must at last give way to love." having heard this, erda slowly sank back to her sleep. wotan, the wanderer, leaned gravely against the face of the rock, waiting for siegfried. suddenly a little bird fluttered along, dropped to the ground, and disappeared. siegfried, coming up afterward, saw the flight and disappearance of his birdling, so knew that his journey was ended and that brünnhilde was near. _scene ii_ "i must find the burning rock, without further help," he said. "i think the little bird would not have gone, if it had not left me very near the place." he looked impatiently about, and went toward the mountain. in passing the wanderer, who stood watching him, he paused and asked which way he should take. "is there not a rock surrounded by flames, near by? and is there not a maiden?" he told the wanderer his story; and as the old man did not speak, siegfried became curious to know who he was. he looked closely into his face, questioned him about his queer hat, and suddenly saw that the strange old man had but one eye. he mocked at him, in his youth and strength. wotan, being a god and truly loving siegfried, spoke gently to him, but the youth was defiant and mocked him again. the wanderer became enraged and declared that siegfried should never pass the flames that divided him from brünnhilde. "it is only he who fears naught," the god cried. "look and say if thou art he," he pointed his spear toward the mountain top and the flames broke forth, burning fiercely. "ah," siegfried cried; "it is there the lovely brünnhilde sleeps! farewell, old man. i go to waken her and claim my bride." but the wanderer again halted the youth. "that sword of thine has once been broken on my spear. i shall break it again, wild boy. no sword has ever yet withstood the shock of my spear. thou canst not go!" he plunged his spear to bar siegfried's way, but siegfried stepped back and regarded him closely. "if this sword of mine has once been broken on thy spear, then thou art the destroyer of my father--for this sword is nothung. thus, with one blow i avenge him." so saying, he struck once at the wanderer's spear, and shattered it. the wanderer stepped back, knowing then that the end of the eternals was at hand. thunder crashed and lightning splintered across the sky and sprung from the spear to the mountain-top. presently, the flaming mountain height seemed to descend nearer to siegfried, and putting his horn to his lips he blew a great blast and plunged into the fire. he was soon out of sight, but gradually the fire died down, and the red cloud hovering over all became less lurid in its reflection. gradually the cloud dissolved till naught was left but a beautiful rosy mist. with the passing of the mist, brünnhilde could be seen, still lying on the mound where wotan had laid her, and she was still covered with her helmet and the beautiful shining shield. _scene iii_ the fir tree spread itself above brünnhilde, and she shone in her brilliant armour. siegfried rose above a mound, and stood looking at her, spellbound. near at hand, he saw a beautiful steed, standing as if asleep: it was grane, who had been enchanted along with his mistress. gently lifting brünnhilde's shield he thought himself to be gazing upon a young man. "i think his helmet must press too heavily upon his brow!" siegfried murmured, and lifted it. the beautiful hair of brünnhilde streamed down, and siegfried paused in admiration; but still he thought her a man. "i think his armour presses," he whispered. "i will lift it." he carefully cut the fastenings with his sword and lifting the breast-plate he saw the form of brünnhilde lying shrouded in the soft folds of her gown. she was so beautiful that at last he was afraid. "oh, how shall i awaken her?" he cried, and stooping he kissed her lips, as she opened her eyes. at the same moment, grane, the horse, moved and began quietly to graze. brünnhilde looked about her, saw her dear horse, and the sun and the glory of the day, and lastly beheld siegfried who had delivered her from the enchantment of wotan. "is it thou who hast gone through flame for me?" she asked. "it is i who will guard thee forever," he cried, embracing her tenderly. knowing that she loved him, the only fear he had ever known, vanished. thus mortal love overthrew the powers of evil, and of the gods, as well. nibelung ring fourth day the dusk of the gods characters of the opera norns (3). fricka. brünnhilde. gutrune. waltraute. siegfried } gunther } nibelungen. hagen } wotan. donner. alberich. woglinde. wellgunde. flosshilde. prologue on the valkyries' rock, where siegfried woke brünnhilde, the norns were gathering. the first norn was old and tall and lay where brünnhilde had lain--under the spreading fir tree. the second was younger and also tall, and she was stretched upon a rock in front of the cave. the third was the youngest, and she, too, was tall, and she sat upon a rock below the mountain peak, and all were clothed in dark and veil-like draperies. they were erda's daughters, and were called the fates. behind them shone the firelight which guarded the rock and it flared fitfully above the peaks. the first norn unwound from her waist a golden rope and tied one end of it to a branch of the fir tree. while one wove into this rope the destinies of the world, another clipped it, and the three sang the story of creation. they sang of the ash tree, of wotan and the eternals; and as they sang they threw the rope from branch to branch, weaving and clipping, weaving and clipping. they sang the story of brünnhilde, of the rheingold, of all the strife in the world, and of the destinies of the gods and mortals. after a while the dawn began to glow, the sun to rise, and the fire-glow behind the mountain to die out. on the third day, brünnhilde and siegfried had entered the cave; then when the sun rose and night was dispelled, they came out, siegfried dressed in brünnhilde's armour and brünnhilde leading her good horse, grane. "now, i must be gone and do valorous deeds, dear brünnhilde," siegfried said to her. taking the nibelung ring from his finger, he put it upon hers. "keep thou this ring and thou art all powerful and it shall keep our faith, truly." in return brünnhilde gave him her horse, grane. "once he mounted above the clouds while now he can only pace the earth; but that he will do bravely for thee, my siegfried," she assured him. the parting was full of promises and love for each other. siegfried and grane disappeared below the cliff, while brünnhilde, standing upon a little mountain height, looked down at them and bade siegfried a loving farewell. act i while siegfried was on his way to search for the glory suited to such a hero, a banquet was being held in the hall of the gibichungs, a race of mortals living on the banks of the river rhein. gunther and his sister gutrune were the rulers, and they sat upon a rude throne, side by side, while the banquet table was spread before them. at one side sat hagen, the half brother of gunther, half a nibelung--in short, the son of alberich. through the great door of the hall could be seen a green field stretching away to the bank of the rhein. "tell me, hagen," gunther asked of his half brother, "is there anything i have left undone that could enhance the fortunes of my race?" "that there is," hagen cried. "dost thou not know of the nibelungs' ring?" "i have heard there is a treasure stolen from the rhein-daughters; and that of it a ring was made, which has magic power." "that is true; but the ring belongs to a wonderful youth, who by its power hath won a beautiful maiden called brünnhilde. she lay in an enchanted sleep, in a forest-fastness, guarded by fire. this youth, siegfried, alone, by means of this ring and his sword, has dared that flame; and now he has power over all the world, over thee and the nibelungs, and even over the gods." upon hearing this, gunther became moody and frowning. "why hast thou stirred up envy in my breast. why should this youth have the most beautiful maiden for a wife, and also a golden treasure that gives him power over us all?" "why not have these things for thyself?" hagen asked, eyeing him keenly. "how could i manage that?" "dost thou remember a magic potion i brought here to the hall of the gibichungs? if siegfried should chance to drink that when our sister gutrune were in his sight, he would forget brünnhilde and love none but gutrune. would not the ring and the treasure of the rhein thus come into the hands of the gibichungs?" gutrune looked earnestly at hagen. "from what thou sayest of this brave youth, i long to have him for my husband; but he is not here! how are we to lure him hither?" "he is an adventurous youth and hath heard of the fame of the gibichungs. he will not rest until he has met with all the adventure the gibichungs can afford him. even now, he may be near this place." as hagen spoke, the sound of siegfried's horn was heard afar off. "ah, dost hear the challenge?" cried hagen, running to the broad entrance from which could be seen the river rhein. "there comes a horse and a man, standing in a boat which nears the shore. it must be he, because he is beautiful as none other is beautiful, and he wears the air of a brave man." putting his hands to his mouth in the fashion of a trumpet he called loudly: "hoi-ho! whom seekest thou, hero?" "the stalwart son of the gibichung." "a welcome waits thee," hagen answered. siegfried could now be seen, disembarking with his horse, grane. hagen went to help him and made the boat's chain fast. gunther followed his brother to the bank, while gutrune stood in the great entrance to welcome the stranger. _scene ii_ "which is the son of the gibich?" siegfried asked, standing with his arm thrown across his horse. "i am he, siegfried," gunther answered. "thy fame as a fighter has spread to the farthest corners of the earth and i am come to seek thee. fight me, or be my friend, whichever thou wilt," he said, tranquilly. gunther held out his hand in welcome: "come thou in friendship, siegfried," he begged; and siegfried gave grane's bridle into hagen's hand. "care well for the horse, hagen; for it is of the mightiest strain ever known, and dear to me as my eyes; but how do you know my name?" he asked curiously of gunther. "thou hast the appearance of that bold knight of whom all have heard. there can be no braver in the world, and if thou art not he i know not who thou art," gunther answered, and, unseen by siegfried, he motioned his sister to leave the hall before they entered it. "these lands and people are mine," he continued, leading the way. "this great hall is my heritage, and my kinsmen are legion. i give all to you; share all with me. let us dwell together in peace." at this saying a beautiful light came into siegfried's face. "i have neither kinsmen nor lands," he answered, much moved; "but i have this good sword, nothung, which i forged myself and it, with my life, shall be thine." thus they made a compact of brotherhood. "dost thou not own the treasure of the nibelungen, then?" hagen asked. "true, but when i won it i let all but the ring and the tarnhelm lie. i cared naught for the gold." he held up the tarnhelm for them to see. "aye, 'tis the tarnhelm!" hagen cried. "thou hast only to set it on thy head to be transformed into what thou wilt. put it on thy head and wish it so, and thou wilt be transported in a trice to other lands. but there is also the ring----" "aye," siegfried said tenderly; "but that is held by a woman," hagen and gunther looked at each other, meaningly, for they knew he spoke of brünnhilde. "brother, call gutrune to bring siegfried a refreshing drink," hagen said, and gunther opening the door called to his sister who came out and offered the magic drink to the knight. no sooner had he drunk, than he raised his eyes to thank gutrune and beholding her, loved her. "i drink to thee, dear brünnhilde," he had been about to say, but looking, he loved another. "what is thy sister's name?" he asked of gunther in a low voice, scarcely daring to speak for fear his love would depart. "gutrune." "i must have her for my wife. hast thou not a wife, gunther--why hast thou none?" he said, not waiting for one question to be answered before asking another. "alas, i have no wife because i have set my heart on one i may not have. i long for brünnhilde, the valkyrie maid who lies surrounded by fire--and i may not cross the flame." "what! is that thy only reason for being lonely? then thou shalt have thy brünnhilde. if gutrune may be mine, i will win thy brünnhilde for thee. wearing the tarnhelm i shall change my shape to thine, and as thy brother go through fire for thee and bring forth the maid." "ah," the gibichung cried, joyfully; "our oath of brotherhood upon that! gutrune shall be thine, thou ours, brünnhilde mine." thus it was agreed. hagen filled a drinking horn, while the two men cut their arms and let their blood mingle in the cup. having drunk, they swore fidelity in the drink, and hagen cut the horn in two with a single blow, while siegfried and gunther joined hands. putting on his armour again, siegfried declared they should at once go forth and win brünnhilde for gunther. "wilt thou not rest, first?" so eager was the enchanted siegfried to win for another his own bride that he would take no rest till it was done; so hagen was left to guard the hall till their return. soon gunther and the knight were pushing off from the river bank, and floating down the middle of the stream. hagen, the half gibichung, half nibelung, thought of nothing but winning the rheingold for the nibelungs. he had sent gunther after another's bride, by means of an evil enchantment, and when she was brought to the hall, she would certainly be wearing the ring. thus the prize of the nibelungen would once more be within the grasp of an evil race, and that which might be a power for good if rightly used, would become a power for evil and be badly abused. _scene iii_ while siegfried and gunther were on their way to fetch brünnhilde, she sat lonely upon her rock, looking at the ring given her by siegfried. as long as she looked upon it, she felt siegfried to be near; nevertheless she was lonely. very soon she heard the thunder. "it is donner! it is like a greeting to me from the eternals," she thought, smiling half sadly. once again she heard it and saw the flash of lightning. in the clouds, she saw waltraute, her sister, coming on her winged horse, and brünnhilde started up joyfully. "wotan has forgiven me," she cried, running to meet waltraute, who arrived in great excitement. "brünnhilde, i have braved the war-father's wrath to beg thee to save the eternals," she cried. "since the day of thine enchantment wotan has sent us no more to the battle-field for heroes. he has roamed over all the earth, till he is known as the wanderer. one day he returned to walhall with his spear broken, and he ordered the ash tree to be hewn in pieces and its splinters piled about walhall. then he summoned all our heroes about him, mounted the throne with his broken spear in his hand, and while we valkyries crouched at his feet, he closed his eyes and seemed to wait for calamity to overwhelm us. "at last in despair i threw myself upon his breast and demanded to know our fate. he told me that the nibelungs' ring was now yours, and that should you restore it to the rhein-daughters, the eternals would once more be given back their life and youth, and all would be well with the world. now i have fled to thee to beg thee to save us by restoring the ring." at that, brünnhilde looked at her sister sorrowfully. "the ring given me by siegfried? nay! i will never give up my ring. so hasten back to walhall, sister. i cannot aid thee." sadly embracing the despairing valkyrie, brünnhilde parted from her. mounting her winged horse, waltraute rose among the clouds whose bright effulgence was watched sadly by brünnhilde, till with the last sight of the valkyrie, the evening closed in and the fire which guarded the beautiful maid began to be reflected again from below. soon the flames seemed to leap with anger, and brünnhilde watched the strange sight with anxiety. suddenly she heard a call. it was siegfried's. she ran to the edge of the cliff to look below, and almost instantly he appeared, rushing to her through the flames which immediately grew dull. the knight wore the tarnhelm, but it hid only the half of his face, and his eyes were visible. his form was strange to brünnhilde because he had changed into the image of gunther, and when she looked at the unknown figure she shrieked. then she whispered: "who cometh?" at first siegfried stood motionless, leaning upon his spear. then he said in a strange voice: "i am a gibichung come to wed thee." this made brünnhilde frantic with terror, and to protect herself she stretched out the hand which wore the ring. "go back," she cried, but siegfried in the guise of gunther tore the ring from her, and after that she had no more strength to fly from him, so seizing her he carried her away to the hall of the gibichungs. act ii back at the home of the gibichungs sat hagen, awaiting the return of gunther and siegfried. altars to fricka, donner, and wotan were raised upon the rhein, ready for sacrifices to be offered, when gunther should return with brünnhilde for his bride. toward evening, hagen sat just inside the entrance hall asleep and leaning upon his spear, his shield beside him. when the bright moon rose above the river, alberich could be seen crouching at hagen's knees, whispering evil dreams to him. "thou art my son," he said, "and must win back the rheingold for the nibelungen"; and in his dreams, hagen promised to follow the counsel. then the moon's light was hidden, and in the darkness alberich disappeared. when he had gone, the dawn broke. hagen woke and looked out upon the peacefully flowing rhein. _scene ii_ as the rhein grew redder and redder in the morning light, hagen heard siegfried's call and, all at once, the knight's head rose above the river's bank. he still wore the tarnhelm upon his head, but appeared in his own shape. "waken and greet me, hagen!" he cried gaily. "where are brünnhilde and gunther?" hagen called, going to meet siegfried. "they follow, more slowly, in the boat. when i called to thee just now, i was miles away--at brünnhilde's rock; but with the tarnhelm upon my head, i arrived before thou couldst answer. where is the beautiful gutrune?" "she will come at once to hear thy tale and to greet thee." hagen called to her, and she appeared to learn of brünnhilde's coming with her brother. she looked shyly at siegfried. "let us call all to the wedding and greet brünnhilde gaily, that she may be glad to dwell with us, and not sigh for her mountain rock," she cried; and siegfried, taking her hand, went with her to prepare the feast. meanwhile, hagen, watching from a high rock, blew upon his cow-horn as he saw a boat slowly coming up the river bearing gunther and brünnhilde. _scene iii_ "ho! vassals! come! hither come ye with your arms!" he shouted, blowing again a sharp blast upon the horn. in response the warriors of gunther began to pour from the hall, and to run in great excitement to the river-bank. "what do we gather for? whom shall we fight? is our lord, gunther, in danger?" "he comes hither with a valkyrie maid, and ye are to make sacrifices to the gods. kill ye a boar for froh, a goat for donner, and for fricka kill a sheep. after ye have done those things, take the drinking horns and drink yourselves drunk in honour of the gods." the vassals went, some of them to the river's bank to receive gunther and brünnhilde, some to the hall to await their coming, and to welcome them upon its threshold. "if any one has done your lord's bride wrong, see that ye avenge her," hagen forewarned. he was already beginning to stir up strife for siegfried in accordance with alberich's advice. _scene iv_ clashing their shields and arms together, the vassals formed a line through which brünnhilde and gunther should pass, and when the boat reached the landing place all cried "hail!" but hagen stood silently watching, planning siegfried's ruin. when the pair stepped ashore, brünnhilde walked with eyes cast down, full of despair and sorrow, while gunther led her by the hand. they reached the hall, where siegfried and gutrune stood to welcome them, and the men hailed each other as brother. gunther rejoiced that siegfried had won gutrune for his wife, but brünnhilde raised her eyes to the knight, and beholding her own husband, the hero knight, she gave a great cry: "siegfried here?" she became distracted with horror. but siegfried did not know her, and all her entreaties were in vain, since he was still enchanted by the potion. suddenly the valkyrie maid saw the nibelungen ring upon siegfried's finger, and she pointed to it, trembling. gunther, astounded by her appearance, touched her. "regard thy husband, brünnhilde," he commanded; but instead of heeding him, she pointed to the knight. "he is my husband," she cried, and hagen at once demanded that all should give heed to what she might say. he foresaw the downfall of siegfried, in her words. "the one who won me, wore that ring," she said, pointing to it with shaking hand. "he was the image of gunther, then, and he took the ring from me." gunther looked at siegfried and frowned while all stared at the men and at brünnhilde in amazement. "it was he who wrenched the ring from me," she declared, pointing to gunther, "yet it is this knight who wears it." gunther denied having given or taken from her the ring, and siegfried declared she did not speak the truth. gunther feared to have it known that he had not dared the flame himself, for his bride, and yet he feared siegfried had betrayed his honour. there was confusion among the spectators who said among themselves: "whose wife can brünnhilde be?" but siegfried, having quite forgotten the woman he so dearly loved, declared that he had got the ring he wore from no woman, but had taken it from a dragon, whom he attacked in his lair, and killed. this was true, of course, but it was also true that he had given the ring to brünnhilde and under a wicked enchantment had taken it away. hagen spoke next, seeing a chance to gain the ring for the nibelungs: "brünnhilde, thou sayest it was gunther who wooed thee, and that it was he who took the ring from thee? since that is true, siegfried has won the ring by some false deed. it must have been siegfried who came to thee in the guise of gunther." at this all the vassals murmured, and gunther began to feel resentment, notwithstanding the part he had played in the deception. brünnhilde wildly accused them both, and everybody cried out against siegfried, gutrune, too, accusing him. all the women called upon the knight to defend himself if he could, but he called for the spear's point on which to take an oath. when hagen presented the spear to him, the knight laid his two fingers upon it and swore that he had been a faithful friend to gunther, and that brünnhilde's words were false. brünnhilde, thus wronged, struck his hand from the spear and placing her own upon it, swore that siegfried should die by that same spear's point. by this time the quarrel had waxed so hot that the vassals and women called upon donner to send his thunder, to silence it. in the midst of the threats and confusion, siegfried went close to gunther and said aside: "brother, i am sorrier than thou art for all this, but it must have been the fault of the tarnhelm which must have hidden only half of me. thus, brünnhilde cannot know whose wife she really is. but thou knowest well, that i won her for thee, and have no love for any but gutrune. come, let's be gay, and leave this poor girl to rest, so that she may recover herself. like enough it is the strangeness of this place, after her wild, free life in her mountains, that gives her these uncanny thoughts." gunther, convinced by siegfried's words, joined him in urging all to make gay upon this day of double marriage, and finally they followed siegfried out into the forest, shouting and laughing, to feast and make sacrifices. _scene v_ brünnhilde, gunther, and hagen remained in the hall after siegfried had been followed out by the company, and the valkyrie stood, gloomily bewailing her fate; till hagen, watching fate work siegfried's ruin, went at last to the unhappy wife. "give me thy trust, brünnhilde," he said; "i will avenge thy wrongs." "how wilt thou avenge me? one glance of siegfried's eye would kill thee, if he so willed it." she answered, looking at hagen darkly. "no weapon can pierce him in battle: i enchanted him against all danger--except some one thrust at him from behind. in the back i did not guard him. i would not protect him in cowardice, but siegfried will never turn his back upon the enemy. thou canst not kill him in battle." gunther then began to bemoan his disgrace; but brünnhilde turned upon him. "oh, thou most cowardly of men--betrayed and betrayer! if i dealt justice, the whole world's destruction could not pay for the wrong done me." "naught but siegfried's death can wipe out the wrong," hagen cried, watching brünnhilde as he spoke. "since he cannot be killed in battle, listen to my plan! to-morrow we hunt in honour of the weddings of gutrune and the knight, gunther and thee. while in the chase, and siegfried all unsuspecting, i shall thrust at him from behind." "so let it be," brünnhilde cried, and gunther, too cowardly to know the right, consented. with the morrow's tragedy arranged hagen saw the way at last to possess himself of the nibelungen ring. as they decided upon the deed, the bridal procession came from the inner hall. all the vassals and women bore spears and flowers. gutrune and siegfried were carried aloft, upon shields, and as brünnhilde and gunther met them, they too, were hoisted high and the procession moved onward, toward the altars on the river's bank, where they were to offer sacrifices unto the gods. act iii [music] three days had passed since the rhein-daughters had lost their golden treasure, and on the fourth they were swimming near the surface of the river, popping their heads up and calling to each other, when they heard the sound of the gibichung hunters. fearing to be caught by mortals, they dived to the bottom of the rhein. no sooner had they disappeared than siegfried came into the wood, armed for the hunt. he had lost his way, having followed his game, far from the others, and as he began to complain that he had that day got no game, the rhein-daughters rose again to the surface and mocked him. "if we grant thee some game to-day, wilt thou give us that ring upon thy finger?" they called to him. "what! in return for a paltry bearskin give to you a ring which i gained in battling with the dragon?" he laughed, "nay." "ah, maybe thou hast a scold for a wife, who would make thee feel her blows if thou gavest away the ring." this tormenting reply annoyed siegfried and finally he took off the ring and held it up to them, offering it if they would cease to deride him. then they regarded him gravely. "keep that ring," they said, "till thou hast tasted the ill-fate that goes with it; after that thou wilt gladly give it to us. now thou art parting with it, reluctantly." so siegfried replaced the ring on his finger. "tell me the ring's secret, wilt thou?" he asked, and the maidens told him that it was accursed, and that very day, even while he thought himself so safe and fortunate, his death was determined. upon hearing this, siegfried became troubled and told them to hold their peace. so they swam away, while he stood watching them, reflecting gravely, till he heard hagen's horn sound through the forest. _scene ii_ hearing hagen's horn, siegfried wound his own in reply, and soon hagen, followed by gunther and his vassals, entered the glade and flung their game in a great heap. "ah, this is where thou hast hidden thyself?" hagen cried, gaily. "come, let us all rest a while," and he threw himself down upon the ground. "the chase has wearied us, so let us have the wine-skins and drink heartily." "i shall have to share your booty, if i am to eat," siegfried laughed, "for i have had no luck to-day. i might have found game, but i followed the water-birds and heard from them a tale of disaster. it seems that i am to meet my death to-day." hagen and gunther started and looked meaningly at each other. siegfried, all unsuspecting, threw himself down between hagen and gunther to drink his wine, and presently, seeing gunther downcast, he sat up and began to while the time by telling tales of his youth--how he had lived with the mime; how he had forged his good sword nothung. after he had told about fafner the dragon, hagen interrupted him and bade him drink again. then he gave siegfried a horn of wine, into which he had unnoticed poured another potion, which was to disenchant the knight. as in a dream, siegfried's memory returned. he told of slaying the dragon, and then of the little bird who directed him to a beautiful maiden who slept upon a rock, surrounded by fire. "it was brünnhilde," he cried, joyfully; "i waked her and made her mine." at this saying, all the company roused themselves and regarded each other with troubled looks. siegfried had confirmed the story that brünnhilde had told. at that moment two ravens, which wotan had sent out from walhall to learn the time when the doom of the eternals had come, flew from a thicket near by, and siegfried raised himself up to watch them. he turned his back to hagen, and instantly the warrior plunged his sword into the knight's back and siegfried fell dead. there was a frightful outcry then from all, and gunther, remembering the truth, knowing that siegfried had been betrayed by magic, and had believed himself to be serving gunther without harm, felt remorse and knelt beside the body. hagen turned away and went into the hills, while the vassals gathered about, prepared to take the body to the hall of the gibichungs. as the funeral procession moved off, to the measure of wonderful music, the moon rose, its light flooded all the valley, and touched the corpse. back at the hall, gutrune had risen from sleep, believing she heard some strange, threatening sound. first she went to brünnhilde's door, but she appeared to be asleep. next she went to the entrance of the great hall and listened, but she heard nothing; then after a little she saw hagen, wearing a fearful look, coming from the river's bank. something in her heart told her that a dreadful thing had happened. "what misfortune has come to siegfried?" she cried. "they come--bearing his body," hagen answered, looking upon the ground. _scene iii_ after hagen, came the men bearing the body, and when gutrune saw it, she shrieked and fell upon it. "who hath done this wicked thing?" she shrieked, and hagen looked at gunther. "nay," said gunther, shaking his head angrily, "do not look at me. it was not i who did this. it was that accursed man," and he pointed to hagen. already the fight for the ring, in the hall of the gibichungs was beginning to divide brothers. "may grief and ill-fate be thine, forever!" "well," said hagen, "i admit the deed, and now i claim my heritage--the ring of the nibelungen!" he tried to take the ring from the dead man's finger. "never shalt thou have it," gutrune cried, flinging herself upon him. "away! what i have won, thou shalt ne'er make thine!" gunther shouted. "dost think to grasp gutrune's dower?" the two men fell a-fighting; and hagen, piercing gunther's breast, sprang aside, while gunther fell dead. instantly hagen leaped toward siegfried's body to snatch the ring; but slowly, slowly the dead hand was raised threateningly, and gutrune shrieked out. brünnhilde, who now appeared, advanced toward the corpse, solemnly. "do ye who have betrayed me, now think to make that which is mine your own?" she asked, looking at the company contemptuously, and speaking in a grave voice. "thou wert no wife of his," she said to gutrune. "naught that was his is thine." gutrune looked steadily at brünnhilde, and believing that she spoke the truth, she crouched down beside her brother's body, and did not move again. brünnhilde's appearance was so noble that her word convinced everybody and more than that, siegfried's story and his last cry had told them the truth. "now," said brünnhilde to the vassals, "bring great logs and heap them high beside the river rhein. there shalt siegfried's body find a tomb. bring, too, his steed, and let it await me, here." while brünnhilde knelt beside siegfried's beloved body, the men heaped up the logs and the women strewed the top of the pile with garlands. the vassals came for siegfried's body and as they lifted it, brünnhilde drew the ring from his finger. "there, ye sorrowing rhein maidens, i give ye back this accursed ring," she cried. "give heed, ye wayward sisters; this ring which has brought so much sorrow to gods and men, shall now become yours. i thus restore the rheingold to its owners. i place the ring upon my finger, and when i have leaped into the flames beside my siegfried, the ring shall be purged by fire from all the stains that have come upon it since it was so wrongfully come by. take the ring from amid the ashes, and return with it to your water-home." she flung a great brand upon the heap of wood where siegfried's body lay, and immediately two ravens flew from the heap. "go thou, ye ravens, to walhall, and tell wotan what ye have seen. the end of godhood is near. then go to the rock where loge burneth and tell him to go to walhall." the ravens flew away, while the flames leaped about siegfried. turning to the horse, grane, and putting her hand lovingly upon him, brünnhilde took off his bridle. "now, siegfried, we join thee," she cried, and giving her great war-cry, brünnhilde sprang upon the horse, and together they leaped upon the burning bier. instantly the flames roared and flared high and seemed to seize upon the hall of the gibichungs, while all the company fled, crowding close together. when the fire was at its worst, the river rhein overflowed its banks and rolled upon the land, extinguishing the flames. on the waves, the three rhein-daughters swam and hovered over the place where the bodies were. hagen, who saw before him the loss of the ring, became frantic with despair, so he rushed into the flood, to wrench the treasure from the maidens, but woglinde and wellgunde threw their arms about him, dragged him down into the depths, and swam away with him. flosshilde, having found the ring, swam before them, holding up the prize triumphantly. a great bank of clouds had piled up beyond the river, and soon this began to glow, as if with fire. the rhein returned to its natural bed, while the maidens swam once more happily in its waters. the hall of the gibichungs had been destroyed, and all the vassals and women had crowded together, watching the scene with horror and wonderment. as the fiery clouds glowed more and more brightly, the palace of the gods appeared, and the inner courts of walhall could be seen, brightly lighted by the fire which was consuming it. wotan and the eternals sat within, surrounded by the heroes and the valkyries. all awaited the flames without resistance, and as the gibichungs looked, loge, the spirit of flame, seized upon everything and the eternals were seen no more. the mastersingers of nuremberg characters of the opera hans sachs, shoemaker } veit pogner, goldsmith } kunz vogelgesang, furrier } konrad nachtigal, tinsmith } sixtus beckmesser, town clerk } fritz kothner, baker } balthasar zorn, pewterer } mastersingers. ulrich eisslinger, grocer } augustin moser, tailor } hermann ortel, soap boiler } hans schwarz, stocking weaver } hans foltz, coppersmith } walther von stolzing, a young knight from franconia. david, sachs's apprentice. eva, pogner's daughter. magdalene, eva's nurse. night watchman. burghers, women of all guilds, journeymen, apprentices, girls, and people. the action takes place in nuremberg about the middle of the sixteenth century. composer: richard wagner. act i four hundred years ago in nuremberg there was a great rivalry among the townsmen, as to who was the best singer. indeed, in the history of this great yearly competition, some had become so noted for their excellence, that in a spirit of fairness they had almost ceased to compete. there were twelve mastersingers, and this number was to be added to by future competitions. among those who had removed themselves from the contest (because his previous successes made it unfair that he should continue) was hans sachs, the cobbler. hans was beloved by all, and had a spirit as well as a genius above his fellows. the prize for which the singers contended had hitherto been a sum of money, given by the rich man of the city, one veit pogner, a goldsmith, but upon the occasion we are about to describe he had decided to make the prize far more precious. he agreed to give his daughter eva in marriage to the best singer, provided she could love him; and if she could not love him, she was to live unmarried for the rest of her days. on the morning of the preliminary trial, when those qualified to enter the real competition were to be chosen, the good folk of nuremberg were assembled in the church, singing the last hymn. eva and her nurse, magdalene, were there and also the knight, walther von stolzing, a newcomer in nuremberg, greatly in love with eva. she, too, loved him, but it would have displeased her father had she been seen speaking with the handsome stranger. upon that day, both the young people lingered after the others had gone, in order to get speech together. all the time the hymn was being sung, the two looked tenderly at each other, and these glances were surprised by the devoted nurse, magdalene. when the service was over, and eva was near the door, she pretended to have left her handkerchief in her pew, and she sent magdalene back to find it. the lovers had but a minute together before magdalene returned, so eva had to think of a new way to be rid of her. "where can my buckle be," she cried, looking about her. "i must have left that as well"; and back magdalene went the second time. she had no sooner returned than eva found she had forgotten her book, and back the nurse went again, grumbling and declaring that master pogner would be in a rage if he knew what was going on. "only promise that thou wilt marry me," walther urged, while the nurse was gone for the last time. "now what do you mean by standing there and talking love?" magdalene cried on her return, angry and half frightened, because she was responsible for her nursling's conduct. "don't you know, sir walther, that eva is to be given in marriage to the singer who shall this year carry off the prize--otherwise she may not marry at all?" "the prize? what does she mean?" he questioned, greatly agitated. "it is for him who shall prove to be the best singer in nuremberg." the knight looked dejected. "can you not sing?" eva asked anxiously. "alas, i do not know. i think not; i have never tried. what must i sing?" "a song that you have made yourself, sir knight; you must make both rhyme and music yourself according to the rules of the mastersingers." "i fear i could never do it--unless i should be inspired by my love for you. alas! i fear we are lost unless your father can be persuaded to change his mind." "nay, he cannot." eva shook her head sadly, "he has given his word and cannot break it. you must try to sing for love of me," she pleaded. walther was quite distracted at the prospect. meantime, after the church had become empty, david, the apprentice of hans sachs, came in with a great piece of chalk stuck in his belt, and carrying a big rule. magdalene was quite in love with david, so that when eva appealed to her for help, she had turned her attention to the apprentice. "david, what are you doing there?" she cried, in order to give the lovers a little more time. "doing? why is it not weighty business to-day? the mastersingers are to have a trial of voices, to be sure. the pupil, whoever he may be, whose voice is fine and whose composition breaks none of the rules that govern those things is to be made free to enter for the prize; and later, when the great festival of song is on, he may even become a mastersinger, himself." "there, sir knight, is your opportunity! you must be the pupil. eva, we must be gone and leave sir walther to try for thee." "oh, heaven! i am all of a fright. i fear i shall never understand what is expected of me," walther cried distractedly. "david here shall tell you, sir walther. here, david, help this brave gentleman all that you can. i wish it." she looked admonishment at him. "tell him all the plan of the mastersingers and how they will expect him to conduct himself in the competition. come, eva." but eva still lingered. in came two other apprentices, bearing benches. walther watched those formidable preparations with uneasiness, walking up and down the church in dismay. "good heaven! i am sure i cannot sing. i have never tried to sing. i shall never be able to sing. yet i must sing. what in the world can a man do, in such a fix?" "well, well, do the best you can. david will instruct you, sir knight," said magdalene, and she hurried away with eva, leaving the poor knight alone with the apprentices. these chaps came in thick and fast, bringing benches for the mastersingers to sit upon, and arranging everything in the church for the trial of song. david kept watching walther, who had flung himself into a great ecclesiastical chair, and sat there brooding. after observing him in silence for a time, david shouted: "begin," walther started. "what for?" "begin!" "what for?" "what for?--why that is how the marker calls. you must then at once go and sing. don't you understand anything about this business?" he asked in amazement. "who is the marker?" poor walther asked, more and more bewildered. "were you never before at a singing trial?" "not where the judges were craftsmen," walther answered. he was quite certain if he knew anything about music, it could not be the kind that shoe-makers, and boiler makers, and the like were acquainted with. "are you a poet?" "i wish i were," walther sighed dejectedly. "are you then a 'scholar'?" "lord, no, i think not--i don't know. what is a 'scholar?" "don't know that, and yet expect to become a mastersinger!" david cried, in amazement. "well, now, let me tell you, sir knight, no one gets to be a mastersinger in a minute! for a full year, hans sachs, our greatest master, has been teaching me the art, and i am not yet even a 'scholar.'" shoemaker's craft and poet's art, daily i learn by the heart. first, all the leather smooth i hammer, consonants then, and vowels i stammer. next must the thread be stiff with wax, then i must learn it rhymes with sachs. david continued to tell of the difficulties of learning from a cobbler how to become a mastersinger, though the cobbler was one himself. by the time david had finished telling walther about the process of shoemaking and music making, walther threw up his hands in despair. "defend me from learning--the cobbler's trade," he cried, half humorously, yet troubled. "you must learn: the shortened, long, and over-long tones; the paper mode, the black-ink mode; the scarlet, blue, and verdant tones; the hawthorn bloom, strawhalm, fennel mode: the tender, the dulcet, the rosy tone; the passing passion, the forgotten tone; the rosemary, wallflower mode; the rainbow mode and the nightingale mode the english tin, the cinnamon mode, fresh pomegranates, green linden-bloom mode; the lonely gormandizer mode, the skylark, the snail, the barking tone; and the honey flower, the marjoram mode; the lion's skin, true pelican mode, the bright glittering thread mode." "dreadful, dreadful," cried poor walther. "what an endless medley of tones!" "oh, those are only the titles; after that comes the singing--and it has to be according to rules, remember." walther groaned. david at once outlined some of the rules; they appeared quite hopeless. "why no one in the world could meet such demands, it is ridiculous." "you had better not say so," david answered, significantly. "i want you to know that the great mastersingers of nuremberg run this thing; and it doesn't make any difference to anybody but you and herr pogner's daughter whether you approve or not." at the mention of eva, walther tried to control his feelings; he must try at least, the lord help him--to come out somewhere in the midst of all that shoemaker's music of "modes" and "thread" and "buttons" and what-not! by this time the apprentices had erected a small stage with a chair and a desk upon it and a blackboard behind, with a piece of chalk hanging from a long string upon the board, and all about that funny arrangement were black curtains which could be drawn close. "the marker will let seven faults slip by," david explained to the knight; but if he finds more than seven it is all over for the candidate. so god save you from disaster, may you, to-day, be a master, he wound up poetically. having finished their preparations, the apprentices began to dance about in a ring. in the midst of the jollity in came pogner from the sacristy; also, beckmesser, who was the town clerk and a singer who believed in himself. david took his place at the sacristy door, to let in the other mastersingers, and the other apprentices stood waiting before the bench at back. walther, sick to death through being teased by the apprentices, had sat himself down on the very front seat, and there, before all, was the dreaded marker's seat. there was the great "singing chair"--where the candidate was to sit while under trial. pogner stood talking with the town clerk, beckmesser. "herr pogner," the latter was saying, "i know what this prize is to be, and i love your daughter with all my soul." beckmesser, who was a rather old and absurd chap, made a sentimental and dramatic gesture. "i want to beg of you if there is any preference shown, that it be shown to me." "i cannot say there will be any favours shown, beckmesser, but my plan should serve you well. eva is to go to the best singer--in case of course that she loves him. she shall not be forced; and who sings so well as you?" "yet, in certain respects, i am weak," beckmesser murmured. "i should like those weak points to be passed over." he was a foxy old fellow, far too old for the lovely eva, and he was quite willing to take an unfair advantage of his brother singers. walther then jumped from his chair and went to pogner. "herr pogner, may i have speech with you?" he asked. "what, sir walther seeks me in singing school?" "yet it is a fitting place, because, to tell the truth, herr pogner, i came to nuremberg town, solely for the love of art," he said promptly, hoping he would be forgiven for the lie. "i failed to mention this yesterday, but to-day it seems fitting to tell you because i wish to enter the competition. in short, i wish to become a mastersinger." walther was fairly amazed at his own bravado. at the same moment, kunz vogelgesang and konrad nachtigal entered. "vogelgesang, nachtigal, listen to this: here is a noble knight, walther of stolzing, well known to me, who wishes to join our singing. this is very fine. i am sure we all welcome you to our guild, sir walther," he cried heartily. beckmesser, who had observed the handsome walther, became uneasy. "if anything should go wrong with my singing," he thought, "i should stand small chance any other way with this whipper-snapper. i'll go to-night beneath eva's window and sing a serenade which will surely win her heart. i'll not lose her even if this great knight should prove to be a great singer." every time he thought of walther, it was with a sneer. on the whole, beckmesser was a nasty little man, even though he was quite a singer. he was old and ugly and it was quite ridiculous of him to think of marrying eva. walther, still speaking with pogner, confessed: "my strongest reason for entering this competition is love for your dear daughter. i know well that she is to be the prize." pogner was well pleased, for he liked the knight. "i am glad to hear you say this, sir knight; but the matter has to be settled--after the promise i have given--according to certain regulations set down by the mastersingers; but i shall try to give you the best of chances." pogner said this heartily, for he would like to have that fine fellow for a son-in-law. meanwhile, all the mastersingers had arrived by way of the sacristy door, and hans sachs the very last. kothner took from his pocket the list of names of those who were to sing, and standing apart, he began to call the roll. each responded to his name, and then pogner formally announced what the prize was to be. each man cried that he would be the one to win the prize--since it was _such_ a prize. "but remember," pogner interrupted their enthusiasm, "although i am determined she shall marry none but him who wins the prize, if she should not love that singer, she shall not be forced, but shall remain single all the rest of her life"; and with that they had to be content. "let me make still a suggestion, herr pogner," hans sachs, the shoemaker spoke up. he loved eva with all his heart, but he was good and true and fair. he knew that he was growing old, and that he sang so finely that it was not fair he should enter into such a competition. if he sang for the prize, the contest would be won before it was begun. "let me suggest that all the people of nuremberg shall have a hand in choosing the best singer. to-morrow at the fête, let all the people hear the singers, and let theirs be the choice." "ho, ho! then farewell, art," the mastersingers cried, indignantly. "that is a fine joke, indeed, sachs. pray what do the people know about art? what do they know of the singing master's rules? bah!" "listen!" sachs said, impressively. "that which the people approve, is good; they know naught of rule, but they know what beauty of song and theme is better that we. leave it to the people's choice and you shall not rue it. besides, a maiden's heart is to be disposed of, and those who are judges among us are not without selfish feelings. let the people decide and leave the maiden free." "oh, i suppose you are thinking and speaking for yourself--a widower," beckmesser cried, trying to belittle the shoemaker. "so little is that so, my friends, that i shall not sing." every one loved hans sachs and now recognized his generosity. "i am too old for such as she." thereupon beckmesser became furious, because he was older than hans, yet he considered himself quite young enough to marry her. "well, my friends, there is one more piece of business: this young knight," leading forth walther, "wishes to enter the race, and i present him with right good will." this was almost too much for the beset beckmesser. he fairly foamed at the mouth. "now, i understand this matter," he muttered aside. "pogner would have it seem that he treated us fairly in this matter, while in reality he had this handsome fellow up his sleeve. a knight at that, and if he can sing it certainly is all up with the rest of us." he loudly declared it was far too late for walther to be let into the competition; but there were several opinions about that, and a good deal of wrangling. all were somewhat afraid of walther, not knowing that he had no confidence in his own singing or making of verses. at last it was decided that he should have a trial that morning. "but thou must say who has been thy master," they insisted; whereupon walther named a great master, sir walther of the vogelweid. "in truth," hans sachs said, nodding kindly. "he is a great master." hans meant to stand by the knight and to serve him if possible, because he seemed the best choice for eva, whom sachs loved above everything. walther added that, for the most part, he had learned his songs from the birds, titmouses, and finches, and the like. he loved the woods and streams, and a joyous heart made him sing in spite of himself, and the song of birds was the one he loved best to imitate. the others were inclined to jeer at these words, but hans sachs saw in them a beautiful nature, fine poesy. "very well, very well, let him begin," all cried, and so the knight took his place in the singer's chair while beckmesser, who was appointed marker, went to his place. "as marker, i guess i can settle his affair for him," beckmesser muttered, in malice. all the while walther, was in despair, having no confidence in himself. "it is for thee, beloved," he murmured, trying to gain courage by putting his thoughts upon eva. then beckmesser, hidden behind the curtain, cried: "now begin." walther hesitated a moment, then began, uncertainly, to sing. it was a beautiful song of the spring. at the end of the first part, beckmesser scratched horribly upon his slate, and sighed in a most disconcerting manner. walther listened and his heart nearly failed him, but he began again. this time he sang of winter, and as he went on he became so much inspired that he forgot his tremendous anxiety, rose from his chair, and sang passionately, with _abandon_. when he came to a pause in the theme, beckmesser burst into the group with his slate. it was all covered with chalk marks. "will you never have done," he shouted angrily. "i've no more room in which to set marks against you. if we must go on listening to such singing we must use the side of the church if we would have room to set down your mistakes." every one but hans sachs burst out laughing. "but i have not finished," walther pleaded. "will none of you let me finish my song, good friends? it is not fair." "that is true, that is true, not too much zeal, beckmesser," hans tried to interpose. everybody was talking at once. "i could not understand one word of his meaning," one cried. "there was false time, false everything; it was ridiculous!" another shouted. "the most absurd thing i ever heard," another called. in short, every one shouted and mocked and offered suggestions, except hans sachs who had stood apart, and after the first notes of walther, had listened with great earnestness. in the midst of the excitement he came forward. "master beckmesser, you have gone too far. we do not all agree with your opinion. the song which you despise, i find both beautiful, new, and free from fault. it is not such as we sing, but it is true and fine. i fear you have forgotten your own rules." "never, never!" the marker shouted. "now, friends, hear my final word. this young knight shall be heard to the end." with a decisive gesture he motioned walther to the chair again. all shouted "no, no!" but sachs insisted and amidst the riot and hullabaloo walther again began his song. his clear, beautiful voice was heard above the noise, but every one was engaged in telling what they thought about it. only sachs stood determined, trying to quiet the frightful uproar. beckmesser was making a terrible to-do, and the apprentices were shouting with laughter, following the lead of their masters. after a little, walther became so confused that at last he could sing no longer. the apprentices began to dance wildly about their masters, and in the midst of the extraordinary scene, the knight descended from the chair, and turned away with a contemptuous glance. he was about to go, as the mastersingers were struggling toward the door; but to add to the confusion the apprentices who had torn up the benches began marching about with them. while walther, the mastersingers, and the apprentices were struggling out, sachs stood looking at the singer's chair, where walther had lately sat, singing so beautifully that none but the splendid sachs, with his good soul and his poetic nature, had been able to understand how great it was. act ii night of the same day came on, and david and other apprentices were putting up the shutters of their masters' houses, before it became too late. hans sachs's house--which was also his workshop--stood in a corner made by a little crooked path which crossed a nuremberg street; while pogner's house, much finer--altogether quite grand--stood opposite. beside hans's house grew an elder tree, and beside pogner's, a lime. magdalene, very anxious to know from david what had taken place in the church, had gone from her master's house with a little basket of the good things which david liked. this gave her a good excuse to seek him. "what happened to the handsome knight?" she inquired, standing on hans's side of the way, and speaking with david. "why what should happen? he was rejected, of course," david answered sulkily, while all the other apprentice boys laughed at him because magdalene, his sweetheart, was trying to pump him. "ho, ho! then you get nothing out of my basket," she answered, walking off. again the boys mocked him, and he grew very angry, telling them to be off about their business. the quarrel grew so loud that finally sachs, coming home unexpectedly, burst into the midst of them and scattered them. "what is all this?" he cried. "the rascals are plaguing me, master," david growled. "well, get thee within and light the lamp; lock up and bring the lamp here to me; after that, put the shoes on the lasts and go"; and as david went into the workshop to obey, sachs followed. at that moment, eva and her father passed along the path, and seeing the light in sachs's house, pogner peeped through the chink of the door. "if sachs is there i shall stop in and speak with him," he said to eva. david just then came from the house with a lamp which he placed upon the work-bench, and seating himself began work upon a pair of shoes. "to-morrow will be a fine day for the festival," pogner said to his daughter, as they seated themselves upon a stone bench, on their own side of the path. "but, father, must i certainly marry the best singer?" eva asked anxiously. "not unless he pleases thee; but in case he does not, eva, i have decided that thou shalt marry no other." he was interrupted by magdalene who came to bid them to supper. eva lingered behind to get a private word with her. "what about the knight? did he succeed?" she asked so anxiously that it broke magdalene's heart to tell her the truth. "david said not--but he would not tell what had happened." "maybe i can learn from hans sachs; he loves me very much, and may feel some distress over my trouble. i shall ask him." just then sachs came to the door of his house. "come, boy," he said to david, "put up thy work for the night, and get thee to bed; to-morrow will be a busy day. put my stool and table outside the door that i may finish a pair of shoes, and then get thee to bed." david gathered up his tools, and after arranging sachs's work bade him good night. sachs sat down, with his hands behind his head, and instead of going at once to work, began to think upon the day's happenings--and other things, maybe. he leaned his arms upon the lower half of the door and sometimes spoke his thoughts aloud: "truly the young knight is a poet," he mused. hans himself was a true poet, tender and loving, and he could think of nothing but eva's good. becoming nervous and apprehensive while thinking of her he began to hammer at a shoe, but again he ceased to work and tried to think. "i still hear that strain of the young knight's" and he tried to recall some part of the song. while he mused thus alone, eva stole shyly over to the shop. it had now become quite dark and the neighbours were going to bed. "good evening, master sachs! you are still at work?" she asked softly. hans started. "yes, my child, my dear evchen. i am still at work. why are you still awake? ah, i know--it is about your fine new shoes that you have come, those for to-morrow!" "nay, they look so rich and fine, i have not even tried them on." "yet to-morrow you must wear them as a bride, you know." "whose shoes are these that you work upon, master sachs," she asked, wishing to change the subject. "these are the shoes of the great master beckmesser," sachs answered, smiling a little at the thought of the bumptious old fellow. "in heaven's name put plenty of pitch in them, that he may stick, and not be able to come after me," she cried. "what--you do not favour beckmesser, then?" "that silly old man," she said scornfully. "well, there is a very scanty batch of bachelors to sue for thee, or sing for thee," hans answered, looking lovingly at her, with a little smile. "well, there are some widowers," eva said returning his friendly look. hans laughed outright. "ah, dear evchen, it is not for an old chap like me to snare a young bird like thee. at the trial to-day, things did not go well," he ventured, trying to turn the conversation. instantly eva was all attention, and she got from him the story of walther's failure and unfair treatment, just as magdalene called from the house over the way. "st--st," she whispered. "thy father has called for thee." "i'll come presently," eva answered. then to hans: "but tell me, dear hans, was there not one who was his friend? is there no hope?" "no master has hope among other masters," hans replied, sorrowfully. "i fear there is nothing for him but to give thee up." hans knew well that eva loved the knight. "what man has a friend, whose own greatness makes other men feel small?" he asked still more sadly. "it is the way with men." "it is shameful," she cried angrily, and hurried across the street. hans closed the upper half of his door, so that he was almost shut in, and only a little light showed through. "eva," magdalene called at the house door, "that beckmesser has been here to say he is coming to serenade you, and to win your love. did ever one hear of such a ridiculous rascal." "i will not hear him," eva declared angrily. "i will not. i am going to see walther to-night, and i will not see beckmesser. look out and see if any one is coming." walther was at that moment coming round the corner of the path, and eva rushed toward him. "you have heard--that i may not sing to win thee?" he said under his breath, for fear pogner should hear him. at that moment the horn of the night warder was heard, which assured them that the town was all quiet and people gone to bed. "it does not matter, i have made up my mind. i will never give the victor's crown to any one but thee, and so we shall flee together--this night, at once, before it is too late." walther, beside himself with joy, looked after her while she hurried into the house to get ready for flight. the night warder came round the house corner. hear all folk, the warder's ditty, 'tis ten o'clock in our city; heed well your fire and eke your light, that none may be harmed this night! praise ye god, the lord! he blew a long loud blast upon his trumpet. hans sachs had heard the plan concocted between the lovers, from behind his nearly closed door; so he put out the lamp, that he might not be seen, and opened his door a little way. he could never permit them to elope; it would cause no end of trouble. after a moment eva and magdalene came from pogner's house with a bundle, while at the same moment walther came from the shadow of the lime tree to meet them. they were hurrying off together when the clever shoemaker caught up his lamp from its place of concealment and turned it full upon the alley-way, so that it shone directly upon the path of the lovers. eva and walther found themselves standing together in a bright light, when they had thought to escape unseen in the darkness. again the warder's horn was heard at a distance. "oh, good gracious! we shall be caught," eva whispered, frightened half to death, as walther drew her out of the streaming light. "which way shall we go?" he whispered, uneasily. "alas! look there--at that old rascal, beckmesser," she returned, distracted with fright and anger, as she saw the old fool come in sight with his lute strung over his shoulder, while he twanged it lightly. the moment hans saw beckmesser he had a new thought. he withdrew the light a little and opened the door. then in the half light he placed his bench in the doorway and began to work upon a pair of shoes. "it is that horrible marker who counted me out this morning," walther murmured, looking at beckmesser as he stole along the pathway. then almost at once, beckmesser began to bawl under eva's window. he looked up where he supposed her to be, in the most languishing manner, so that walther and eva would have laughed outright, if they had not been in such a coil. he no sooner had struck the first notes, than hans sachs gave a bang upon his shoe-last. thus began an awful scrimmage. hans sachs, disliking the absurd old beckmesser as much, if not more, than others did, banged away at beckmesser's shoes, in a most energetic way. he made such a frightful din that beckmesser could hardly hear himself sing. the town clerk tried by every device to stop the shoemaker,--to get him to put aside his cobbling for the night, but hans answered that he had to work lively if he hoped to get the shoes done for the fête. beckmesser did not dare tell why he was there, singing at that hour. walther and eva remained prisoners under the lime tree, wondering what on earth to do. after a while, poor beckmesser, making the most frantic efforts to hear his own voice, pleaded with hans to stop. "i'll tell thee what to do--it will make the time pass pleasantly for me as well, you see," hans cried. "do thou go ahead and sing, and i'll be marker. for every mistake of thine, i'll hammer the shoe. of course there will be so few mistakes that there will then be but little pounding." beckmesser caught at that suggestion. of course it was imprudent, but then beckmesser was in a bad way, and it was his only chance. so he began his serenade once more. then hans began to "mark" him. before he had sung a line, hans's hammer was banging away in the most remarkable manner. even walther and eva had to laugh, frightened as they were. beckmesser became so furious he could hardly speak. sachs pretended to see nothing, and "marked" away valiantly. then the night watch could be heard coming. hans banged louder. beckmesser put his fingers in his ears, that he might drown the sound of hans and the warder, and keep on the key. hans too began to sing as he waxed his threads and banged upon his shoes. meantime windows were going up, the people who had gone to bed having wakened. "stop your bawling there," one shouted. "leave off howling," another screamed. "what's the matter? have you gone crazy down there," others yelled, but beckmesser still shrieked, unable to hear anybody but himself and hans. "listen to that donkey bray," a neighbour called. "hear the wild-cat," another bawled; and in the midst of the singing magdalene stuck her head out of the window. beckmesser, thinking it was eva, was encouraged to keep on, but david, who had come out at the rumpus, believed that beckmesser was serenading magdalene, and instantly became jealous. so out he rushed with a cudgel. the neighbours then began to come from their houses in their night-gowns and caps; some wearing red flannel about their heads and some in very short gowns, and all looking very funny. meanwhile, hans, who had got the row started, withdrew into his house and shut the door. walther and eva were still trembling under the lime tree, sure of being discovered, now that all nuremberg was aroused and on the spot. beckmesser was surrounded by the neighbours, the apprentices came from every shop to swell the crowd, also the journeymen, while all the women bawled from the house windows where they were hanging out half way. david and beckmesser were wrestling all over the place, beckmesser's lute being smashed and his clothes torn off him. at last the mastersingers themselves arrived. walther, at last deciding that the time had come when he must rescue eva, drew his sword and rushed forth. hans, who had been watching behind his door, then ran out, pushed his way through the mob and caught walther by the arm. at that moment--poof! bist! the women in the windows threw down buckets of water over all the people, and beckmesser was half drowned in the streams. this added to the confusion, so that hans grasped walther, and pogner his daughter; sachs and walther retired into sachs's house and eva was dragged within her own. as sachs disappeared, he gave david a kick which sent him flying, to pay him for his part in the fight. beckmesser, battered half to pieces, limped off, while the crowd, dripping wet and with ardour cooled, slunk out. when all was perfectly quiet and safe, and not a sound stirring, on came the night warder. it was comical to see the way he looked all about the deserted place, as if he had been taking a little nap, while all nuremberg had been fighting like wild-cats, and he quavered out in a shaky voice: hear, all folks, the warder's ditty, eleven strikes in our city, defend yourselves from spectre and sprite, that no evil imp your soul affright. he finished with a long-drawn cry: praise ye god, the lord, and all was still. act iii the morning of the song festival dawned clear and fine. early in the morning, hans sachs seated himself in his shop, beside his sunny window, his work on the bench before him, but he let it go unheeded as he fell to reading. david found his master thus employed when he stole into the shop, after peeping to make sure that hans would pay no attention to him. david was not at all sure of the reception his master would give him after the riot in which he had taken a hand the night before. as hans did not look up, david set the basket he carried upon the table, and began to take out the things in it. first there were flowers and bright-coloured ribbons, and at the very bottom a cake and a sausage. he was just beginning to eat the sausage when hans sachs turned a page of his book noisily. david, knowing his guilty part in the fight, looked warily at his master. "master, i have taken the shoes to beckmesser and----" sachs looked at him abstractedly. "do not disturb our guest, sir walther," he said, seeming to forget david's misbehaviour. "eat thy cakes and be happy--only do not wake our guest." soon david went out while sachs still sat thinking of the situation and half decided to take a part in the contest himself--since it were a shame to have beckmesser win eva. while he was thus lost in contemplation, walther woke and came from his room. "ah, dear hans--i have had a glorious dream," he cried. "it is so splendid that i hardly dare think of it." "can it be thou hast dreamed a song?" sachs asked breathlessly. "even if i had, what help would it bring me, friend sachs, since the mastersingers will not treat me fairly?" "stay, stay, walther, not so fast! i want to say of yesterday's experience: the mastersingers are, after all, men of honour. they were hard on thee yesterday, but thou hast troubled them much. thy song was as strange, its kind as new to them as it was beautiful, and they have thought of it again and again since then. if they can make themselves familiar with such beauty they will not fail to give thee credit. i own i am much troubled and know not what to do for you." "i wonder could it be possible that i have had an inspiration in my sleep that might lead me to win my dear eva?" the knight said, taking heart. "that we shall soon know. sir walther, stand thou there, and sing thy song, and i will sit here and write it down. so it shall not escape thee. come, begin, sir knight," sachs cried, becoming hopeful for the young man. trembling with anxiety walther took his stand and began his song, while hans placed himself at the table to write it down. [music: bathed in the sunlight at dawn of the day, when blossoms rare made sweet the air, with beauties teeming, past all dreaming, a glorious garden lay, cheering my way.] as the knight sang he became more and more inspired and when he had finished hans sachs was wild with delight. "it is true!--you have had a wonderful inspiration. go now to your room, and there you will find clothing gay enough for this great occasion. no matter how it came there!--it is there! i have all along believed in you, and that you would sing, and i have provided for it." the knight went rejoicing to put on his new clothes. now hans, when he went with walther to his bedroom, had left the manuscript of the great song upon the table, and no sooner had he gone out than beckmesser, looking through the window and finding the place empty, slipped in. he was limping from the effects of the fight and altogether cut a most ridiculous figure. he was very richly dressed, but that did not conceal his battered appearance. every step he took he rubbed first his back and then his shins. he should have been in bed and covered with liniments. suddenly he espied the song upon hans's table. he believed that after all hans was going to sing, and if he should, all would be up with himself. wild with rage, beckmesser picked up the song and stuffed it into his pocket. no sooner had he done so than the bedroom door opened, and hans sachs came out in gala dress, ready for the festival; seeing beckmesser, he paused in surprise. "what, you? sir marker? surely those shoes of yours do not give you trouble so soon?" "trouble! the devil! such shoes never were. they are so thin, i can feel the smallest cobblestone through them. no matter about the shoes, however--though i came to complain to you about them--for i have found another and far worse cause of complaint. i thought you were not to sing." "neither am i." "what, you deny it--when i have just found you out!" beckmesser cried in a foaming rage. hans looked at the table and saw that the manuscript was gone. he grinned. "so, you took the song, did you?" he asked. "the ink was still wet." "true, i'll be bound!" "so then i've caught you deceiving!" "well, at least you never caught me stealing, and to save you from the charge i'll just give you that song," hans replied, still smiling. beckmesser stared at him. "i'll warrant you have the song by heart," he said, narrowly eyeing the shoemaker. "no, that i haven't. and further than that, i'll promise you not to lay any claim to it that shall thwart your use of it--if you really want it." hans spoke carelessly, watching the greedy town clerk from the tail of his eye. "you mean truly, that i may use that song as i like?" "sing it if you like--and know how," sachs said obligingly. "a song by hans sachs!" he exclaimed, unable to hide his joy--because no one in nuremberg could possibly write a song like sachs. "well, well, this is very decent of you, sachs! i can understand how anxious you are to make friends with me, after your bad treatment last night." beckmesser spoke patronizingly, while his heart was fairly bursting with new hope. any song by hans sachs would certainly win him the prize, even if he could but half sing it. "if i am to oblige you by using this song," he hesitated, "then swear to me you will not undo me by laying claim to it." after all, he was feeling considerable anxiety about it. that he should be saved in this manner was quite miraculous. "i'll give my oath never to claim it so long as i live," sachs answered earnestly, thinking all the while what a rascal beckmesser was. "but, friend beckmesser, one word; i am no scoffer, but truly, knowing the song as i do, i have my doubts about your being able to learn it in an hour or so. the song is not easy." "have no fear, hans sachs. as a poet, your place is first, i know; but believe me, friend, when it comes to 'tone' and 'mode,' and the power to sing, i confess i have no fear--nor an equal," the conceited ass declared. "i tell you, confidentially, i have now no fear of that presumptuous fellow, walther. with this song and my great genius, we shall no longer fear his bobbing upon the scene and doing harm." assured of success at last, away went beckmesser, limping and stumbling, to learn his song. "well, never did i see so malicious a fellow," hans declared, as beckmesser stumbled out of sight. "and there comes evchen--hello, my evchen, thou art dressed very fine. well, well, it is to be thy wedding day, to be sure." "yes--but the shoe pinches," she said putting her little foot upon the bench. "that will never do. that must be fixed," hans answered gravely, his eyes twinkling. he fell to examining the shoes. "why, my child, what is wrong with it? i find it a very fine fit?" "nay, it is too broad." "tut, tut, that is thy vanity. the shoe fits close, my dear." "well, then i think it is the toes that hurt--or maybe the heel, or maybe--" she looked all about, hoping to see walther. at that moment he entered, and eva cried out. then hans said: "ah, ah! ho, ho! that is where the shoe pinches, eh? well, be patient, that fault i shall mend very soon," he declared, thinking of the song that beckmesser had stolen, while he took off the shoe and sat once more at his bench. then he said slyly: "lately i heard a beauteous song. i would i might hear its third verse once more." immediately, walther, looking at eva, began softly to sing the famous song. as it magically swelled, sachs came to her and again fitted the shoes. when the song was rapturously finished, eva burst into hysterical sobbing, and threw herself into the shoemaker's arms. but this scene was interrupted by the coming of lena and david, all dressed for the fête. "come, just in time!" sachs cried. "now listen to what i have to say, children. in this room, a song has just been made by this knight, who duly sang it before me and before eva. now, do not forget this, i charge you; so let us be off to hear him christened a mastersinger." all then went out into the street except david, who lingered a moment to fasten up the house. all the way to the meadow where the fête was to be held were sounding trumpets and horns, glad shouts and laughter. very soon the little group from sachs's reached the fête, and there they found a gala sight. many guilds had arrived and were constantly arriving. colours were planted upon the raised benches which each guild occupied by itself. a little stream ran through the meadow, and upon its waters boats were continually being rowed, full of laughing men and women, girls and boys. as each new guild disembarked, it planted its colours. refreshment stands were all about, and apprentices and journeymen were having great sport. the apprentices and girls began a fine dance, while the people kept landing at the dock and coming from their boats. there came the bakers, the tailors, and the smiths; then the informal gaiety came to a sudden pause and the cry went up that the great mastersingers themselves had arrived. they disembarked and formed a long procession, kothner going ahead bearing the banner, which had the portrait of king david and his harp upon it. at sight of the banner all waved their hats, while the masters proceeded to their platform. when they had reached their place, pogner led eva forward, and at the same moment hans sachs arrived and again all waved and cheered loudly. eva took the place of honour, and behind them all was--beckmesser, wildly struggling to learn his great song. he kept taking the manuscript from his pocket and putting it back, sweating and mumbling, standing first on one of his sore feet and then upon the other, a ridiculous figure, indeed. at length, sachs stood up and spoke to those who had welcomed him so graciously. "friends, since i am beloved of thee, i have one favour to ask. the prize this day is to be a unique one, and i ask that the contest be open. it is no more than fair, since so much is to be won. i ask that no one who shall ask for a chance to sing for this fair prize be denied. shall this be so?" while he waited for an answer, every one was in commotion. "say, marker," he asked of beckmesser, "is this not as it should be?" that rascal was wiping his face from which the sweat was streaming and trying in despair to conquer the knight's song. "you know you need not sing that song unless you wish," hans reminded him, aside. "my own is abandoned, and now it is too late for me to make another," beckmesser moaned; "but with you out of the contest--well, i shall surely win with anything. you must not desert me now." "well, let it be agreed," hans cried aloud, "that the contest shall be open to all; so now begin." "the oldest first," kothner cried, thus calling attention to the age of beckmesser. "begin, beckmesser," another shouted. "oh, the devil," beckmesser moaned, trying to peep again at the song which he had not been able to learn. he desperately ascended the mound which was reserved for the singers, escorted by an apprentice. he stumbled and nearly fell, so excited was he, and so frightened at his plight, for he did not know the song, and he had none of his own. altogether he was in a bad way--but he was yet to be in a worse! "come and make this mound more firm," he snarled, nearly falling down. at that everybody laughed. finally he placed himself, and all waited for him to begin. this is how he sang the words of the first stanza: bathing in sunlight at dawning of the day, with bosom bare, to greet the air; my beauty steaming, faster dreaming, a garden roundelay wearied my way. only compare this with the words of the song as walther sang them! the music matched the words for absurdity. "good gracious! he's lost his senses," one mastersinger said to another. beckmesser, realizing that he was not getting the song right, became more and more confused. he felt the amazement of the people, and that made him desperate. at last, half crazed with rage and shame, he pulled the song from his pocket and peeped at it. then he tried again, but turned giddy, and at last tottered down from the mound, while people began to jeer at him. hans sachs might have been sorry for the wretch, had he not known how dishonest he had been, willing to use another's song that he might gain the prize. beckmesser rushed furiously toward sachs and shook his fist at him: "oh, ye accursed cobbler! ye have ruined me," he screamed, and rushing madly away he lost himself in the crowd. in his rage, he had screamed that the song was sachs's, but nobody would believe him, because, as beckmesser had sung it, it had sounded so absurd. sachs took the manuscript quietly up, after beckmesser had thrown it down. "the song is not mine," he declared. "but i vow it is a most lovely song, and that it has been sung wrong. i have been accused of making this, and now i deny it. i beg of the one who wrote it to come forth now and sing it as it should be sung. it is the song of a great master, believe me, friends and mastersingers. poet, come forth, i pray you," he called, and then walther stepped to the mound, modestly. every one beheld him with pleasure. he was indeed a fine and gallant-looking fellow. "now, masters, hold the song; and since i swear that i did not write it, but know the one who did--let my words be proved. stand, sir knight, and prove my truth." then kothner took the manuscript that the mastersingers might follow the singing and know if the knight was honest; and walther, standing in the singers' place, began the song a little fearfully. the masters following him recognized the truth of all that hans sachs had spoken, and presently dropped the paper in amazement. they became lost in listening to the music, which swelled higher and higher, growing more and more beautiful with every measure, till all the people of nuremberg sat spellbound. at last: "his prize, his prize!" they shouted; and pogner came to him weeping with joy. "it is thy doing," walther said tremblingly to hans; and then he was conducted to where eva awaited him. he stooped and she placed the victor's wreath upon his head. but that was not the end. the mastersingers turned to pogner: "herr pogner, it is thy right to crown the knight who has won this prize," and with that pogner hung a golden chain about walther's neck, from which was suspended three medals. walther would have refused it. "i have a dearer prize than this, my friends," he cried, looking at eva. "nay, take thy chain, too," sachs urged him, smiling. "that shall be the sign of the mastersingers' approval." walther bowed his head and received the chain, while the people stood up and shouted. thus in one day, the knight, walther von stolzing, became a bridegroom and a mastersinger. lohengrin characters of the opera lohengrin, knight of the holy grail. henry i, king of germany. frederick of telramund, a noble of brabant. the royal herald. gottfried, elsa's brother, and mute. four nobles of brabant. elsa von brabant. ortrud, wife of telramund. four pages. saxons, nobles of brabant, ladies, and pages. the story is laid in antwerp, during the first half of the tenth century. first production at weimar, germany, august 28, 1850. composer: richard wagner. act i on a meadow on the banks on the river scheldt, king henry and his saxon nobles were one day assembled in their hall of justice, which in those times was beneath a broad-spreading oak. from another petty german political division had come frederick of telramund, with his wife ortrud. in turn they were surrounded by their own retainers from their province, but all were assembled at king henry's call to rally in defence of the kingdom. when all were awaiting henry's will, his herald stepped forth and blew a blast upon his trumpet. "hark! princes, nobles, freemen of brabant! our sovereign has called ye all to rally to his defence. may he count upon the loyalty of all?" at once, the nobles took up the cry, and welcomed their sovereign to the country. then king henry thanked them for their good will and made the following announcement: "nobles, freemen, all! i come not only to receive this welcome, but to tell ye that germany is in danger of invasion from the hungarian hordes; and that upon our frontiers there are german wives and children praying for our protecting arms. as the nation's guardian it is fitting that i make an end of this misrule which has left us threatened again and again by this lawless people. as ye will recall, i made a nine years' truce with our enemies, when they last tormented us; and now the time is past, they demand a tribute which, for the sake of our people, i have refused them. it is time for us to up and arm against them, and once for all defeat them." henry spoke earnestly, with evident devotion to his subjects, and both saxons and brabantians responded, but the men of brabant looked to their immediate lord, frederick of telramund, for assent. he hesitated a moment, and then stepped before the king. "great king," he said, "thou art here to judge, to listen to the differences of thy people, to make wrong right, so far as in thee lies, and on my part i will not stoop to falsehood. i have a grievance. thou knowest when death took away our beloved duke, his children, elsa and gottfried, were left in my charge. i became their guardian. i treasured them and guarded their interests valiantly; but one day, the two wandered forth into the forest. in time elsa, the elder, returned, trembling and seemingly full of fear. she was alone, and when questioned about the safety of her young brother could tell us nothing. we sought for him, but never found him. she pretended to be in great distress, but her manner betrayed her guilt; of that i am certain. there were but they two, alone, and yet she could give us no intelligent story of his disappearance. a horror of the young girl fell upon me. i could not bear her in my sight, because i felt she was responsible for her young brother's death. her hand had been offered me in marriage by her father, but feeling that she was guilty, i gave her up. i could not have married one who, in my mind, was so wicked. therefore i have chosen another wife, ortrud of radbod." as he spoke, he brought his wife before the king and she made an obeisance. "now, my sovereign, i here charge the lady elsa with the crime, and ask thee to punish her as may be fitting. i also claim that as a fratricide she has forfeited her claim to all her lands; and as her nearest kinsman, i claim them." there ensued a painful silence, because the lady elsa of brabant was a beautiful and gentle creature, and it was difficult for any one to believe such a monstrous story of her. then arose a great outcry against the statement. "telramund, what hast thou said? this is a dreadful accusation." "a fearful thing, indeed, frederick," the good king protested. "but if thou wilt consider, great king, there is cause for my belief. the maid, believing herself sole sovereign of brabant, now that the boy was dead, became dreamy and strange, thinking upon some other with whom she might wish to share both her fortune and her power. me she disdained, after her younger brother was gone." the just king became very thoughtful for a time, then he said sadly: "summon the accused maid, and all of ye prepare to utter a just judgment. heaven help me to judge her rightly!" the herald again sounded his trumpet. "dost thou determine to hold thy court of judgment here, o king?" "aye! i will not rest beneath my shield until the truth is sifted." then all the saxon nobles, who had instantly bared their swords, struck them against the earth, but those of brabant laid theirs flat upon the ground. _scene ii_ "appear, ye royal maid, appear!" the herald cried, and slowly from behind the crowd of nobles the beautiful elsa appeared. she left the ladies of her court behind her, and stood forth quite alone. "behold!" all cried. "see how her face is clouded with sorrow!" she appeared so beautiful and innocent that no one could believe in her guilt. the king asked her if she were willing to recognize him as her sovereign and to abide by his judgment, and she bowed her head. "dost thou know the crime with which thou art charged?" he asked. elsa looked toward ortrud and telramund, and bowed her head. "canst thou deny the accusation?" he demanded in a kind voice. she shook her head, sadly, for she was without defence. "then dost thou confess thy guilt?" he persisted, but her only answer was: "oh, my poor brother!" all those present looked sorrowfully at her. the king was much touched by her hopeless bearing. "come, lady, confide freely in thy sovereign." then she stood alone and told what she knew had happened, as if she were speaking in a dream. [music] oft when hours were lonely, i unto heav'n have prayed, one boon i asked for, only, to send the orphans aid; i prayed in tears and sorrow, with heavy heart and sore, hoping a brighter morrow yet was for us in store. afar my words were wafted, i dreamt not help was nigh, but one on high vouchsafed it, while i in sleep did lie. i saw in splendour shining, a knight of glorious mien, on me his eyes inclining with tranquil gaze serene. a horn of gold beside him, he leant upon his sword, thus when i erst espied him 'mid clouds of light he soar'd; his words so low and tender brought life renewed to me. my guardian, my defender, thou shalt my champion be! thus she sang, while all present looked at her in amazement. "she dreams!" they cried. "frederick of telramund," the king cried, "it is hard to believe wrong of this maiden. think, while yet there is time, of what ye say! do not let any hate in thy heart make thee wrong a defenceless girl," he cautioned, while all the nobles protested that it seemed impossible she could have done so foul a thing as that of which she was accused. "her dreamy mood may deceive thee," frederick said, "but it has never deceived me. do ye not hear that she raves about a lover? i declare that i have spoken truly, and who will dare give me the lie?" whereupon all the nobles of brabant came forward to uphold their lord. "we stand by thee, frederick of brabant," they cried. "i have always known thee to be honourable," the king replied, turning his eyes sadly upon elsa, who still stood gazing ahead of her, as if half dreaming, or maybe seeing the vision she had described. "elsa of brabant, i have no choice but to let heaven decide for thee. i have no proof of thy guilt or innocence. this knight frederick is known to me as an honourable man, and i cannot slight his word, so heaven alone can help thee." the king drew his sword and struck it against the ground. "answer me, frederick, wilt thou do battle here with whoever may appear to defend this lady?" "i will, right valiantly," he answered, his wife urging him on to all that he said. "and thou, elsa, wilt thou name thy champion, and leave thy honour in his hands?" "aye," she answered, simply. "then name the man," the king demanded. "now we shall hear the name of her lover," frederick said hastily. "it will surely be he who was her accomplice." "to whomsoever will defend me i will give all my lands and love," she answered firmly, waiting for some knight to stand out from the others, and declare for her cause and defence. each looked at the other, but no one spoke or moved. then the king cried: "sound the trumpet! call the warrior knight by thy bugle!" the herald advanced with four trumpeters, whom he turned toward north, south, east, and west, and had them sound their trumps. "who will here do battle for elsa of brabant," he shouted. no one answered and the lonely, defenceless elsa looked about pitifully, in great anxiety. "ah, ye see how poor a cause she hath!" frederick called, pointing to her. "dear sovereign, once again i beg the right to call for a defender. my knight dwells afar off, and cannot arrive at once." "again sound thy trumpets," the king directed the herald, and again they called to the four points of the compass. still all was silent. then elsa sank upon her knees, while the ladies of her court came forward to crowd protectingly about her because they loved her very much. she prayed earnestly that some defender might come to her, and so affected were all present, except frederick and his wife, that all joined in her prayer. then a strange thing happened; those standing nearest the water's edge saw a boat coming up the river, drawn by a lovely swan. in the boat stood a handsome knight, so beautiful and kind of face, and so glittering with silver armour, that they fairly held their breath in admiration. "see!" they cried. "some one--a marvellous man appears upon the river." all the others, excepting elsa, who remained upon her knees, went back to the river's edge to look. "oh, he is a brave knight--he stands in the prow--his armour gleams like the sun--a swan draws him. he wears a helmet of light upon his brow. he is nearing the shore!--he has golden reins upon his swan." all but the king, telramund, ortrud, and elsa were crowding about the river's bank, to see the glorious sight. frederick and ortrud were frightened, and cast strange looks of fear at each other; the king rose from his seat to see; but elsa, overcome with joy, remained where she was, not even looking around. "it is a miracle wrought among us," the nobles cried, and all the ladies of the court fell upon their knees. _scene iii_ the gorgeous knight drew to the shore. he wore his shield upon his back, a little silver horn at his side, and he glittered and gleamed in his beautiful armour in a way almost sufficient to blind one. the people fell back to let him land, and frederick looked frightened, while the moment ortrud saw the swan she was for some reason seized with a terrible fright. as everybody bowed their heads, having doffed their helmets, elsa looked around and gave one great cry of joy at the sight of her champion, who was the knight of her dream. lohengrin--for it was he--stepped from his boat, and with one foot upon the shore and one upon his boat gave thanks to his swan for having borne him so swiftly and safely. "now, thou trusty swan, return at once to that land whence we came, and rejoice, for thy task is over." after he had bade it farewell, the stately swan slowly sailed away. lohengrin came toward the king and bowed low. "hail! gracious sovereign. thy name shall ever stand proudly in this land. i have come to fight for this dear maid's honour. i ask her, before thee all, if she will entrust to me her fame?" elsa, so tender and confiding, sank upon her knees before him. "if thou wilt protect me i am thine forever," she answered. "i must ask of thee one promise in return, dear maid. it is this: if i win the fight in thy cause, and thou become my bride, never, as thou dost love me, must thou ask whence i came. i must never be asked by thee my name or race. this one promise alone must i crave of thee." he waited hopefully for her answer. his appearance was so noble that none could doubt him, and she answered instantly: "there is no doubt of thee in my heart, dear defender. i will never question thee. i will ever cherish thy command." he raised her to her feet, and embraced her. "i shall guard and love thee always," lohengrin answered, and led her to the king who gave her into his charge. after that he stepped into the midst of the crowd of nobles. "i want you all to know that this maid is innocent. the tales of frederick of telramund are false, and now i shall prove it by vanquishing him in the fight. great king, command us to begin." the company drew back to their places, and the king commanded six knights to measure a certain space upon each side, which he declared was a fenced field for the combat. three saxon nobles advanced for lohengrin and three brabantians for frederick. when they had formed a circle, all stuck their spears into the ground and waited. the herald declared that any one who interfered should lose his head. he also declared that neither combatant should use magic arts in fighting. the king stepped into the circle made for the fighters, and prayed to heaven to let the right conquer; to give the champion of the right a stronger arm and more skill than his enemy. the six men forming the circle stood beside their spears which were stuck into the ground; the other nobles and freemen formed a larger circle outside the battle ground, while elsa and her ladies stood in front, beneath the oak tree beside the king, and the fighters prepared to enter the circle. the king struck his sword three times upon his great shield which hung upon the tree, as a signal to begin. at the first stroke the fighters entered the circle; at the second stroke they raised their shields and drew their swords; at the third stroke they began the fight. after a mighty battle, frederick fell, and lohengrin placed the point of his sword at his throat. "i shall spare thee, frederick of telramund. repent in peace," he said, standing aside that telramund might get up from the ground. the six men drew their spears from the ground, and the others who had taken sides put their swords back into their scabbards, while elsa rushed into the knight's arms. the king cried to lohengrin: "hail!" as elsa sank upon the knight's breast, she sang of her love for him and of her faith, and all rejoiced in having her innocence proven, except ortrud. she, indeed, looked dark and menacing. "how comes my power to naught?" she questioned of her husband aside, for in reality she was a wicked enchantress, who had lived in the wood near to frederick. her wicked magic had turned him into a bad man, and it was she who had made him accuse elsa. but the fear and resentment of those wicked people made little impression upon the crowd of exultant nobles. the king banished frederick and his wife, ordering them immediately to leave the place, while plans for the wedding of elsa and lohengrin were being made. frederick fell senseless upon the ground, and the youths, spreading their mantles upon the shield of the king, hoisted elsa upon it, and a rejoicing procession of ladies, knights, and retainers moved away. act ii in the great palace of king henry i, at antwerp, there were two parts, called the palas, and the kemenate. the former was where the knights lived, and the latter was the home of the ladies of the court. late on the night of the battle between frederick and lohengrin, frederick and his wife, ortrud, were sitting without the palace, which was brightly illuminated, thinking of the misfortunes their wickedness had brought upon them. they were dressed in the garments of outcasts, as the king had commanded, and especially was frederick gazing at the brightly lighted part where the knights were doubtless making merry since the wedding of lohengrin and elsa was to be on the morrow. he knew that had he been an honest man, he would have been among them and happy. music could be heard floating from the palace windows, and everything spoke of gaiety and happiness. "come, arouse thyself, ortrud. you have brought this upon us, now rouse thyself, since it is near day, and we must be gone out of the city." "i cannot flee! some strange thing holds me here. i shall avenge us, you may be sure before i have gone from this place." she rose from the steps upon which she had been reclining and went toward the palace, looking up at the windows where the women dwelt in the kemenate. "i don't know what spell binds me to a woman so wicked as thou art, ortrud," frederick exclaimed, watching her moodily. "i should leave thee, and cast thee off. to tell the truth i never believed the crimes with which i charged that maiden." "get thyself up," she cried to him, for he had thrown himself upon the ground. "thou art but a chicken-hearted creature, not fit for an heroic woman like me." "thou art a black-hearted woman," he answered, and so they fell to quarrelling vigorously. but at last, each being quite lost to goodness, they felt their only help lay in each other. "if thou wilt be a decently conducted husband toward me, i tell thee i will use my enchantments to undo that strange knight, and then all will be well with us." the lights in the palace began to go out, one by one. "now is the hour when the stars reveal their secrets to me, telramund," she said. "sit here by me, and i will tell you who that swan was who drew the knight's boat upon the river. it was the brother of elsa--enchanted,--whom we accused her of destroying. more than that, the knight is ruined if the secret of his home and his birth is discovered. if elsa can be made to break her promise, and get him to reveal these things, he will be compelled to leave her and return whence he came. no one but she hath the power to drag the secret from him; but should she do so, it is as i have said: all happiness is over for them." "but she has promised--she will never ask that fatal question." "do thou go forth and say that sorcery hath triumphed over thee, and leave the rest to me. rouse suspicion about this knight in every breast. he who will not tell of his birth nor land is soon suspected. say that he won the fight by magic, and i will see that elsa asks the fatal question." "she will never do it----" "well, suppose she does not; the magic of my father is not forgotten by me. let me tell you how we may force his ruin, even if we cannot make her break her word. if that knight should lose one drop of blood, he would be lost. all his power would then be gone." "oh, if i had but pricked his finger in the fight!" "he would have been completely in thy power." as she said this, the door of the kemenate slowly opened, and elsa came out upon the balcony. _scene ii_ elsa was clothed all in white, and she came out into the night to think alone of her knight, to thank heaven for her deliverance, and to take new vows of faith and steadfastness to her promise. all the while she stood there, frederick and ortrud were watching her from below, where they sat upon the steps. "now away!" she whispered to telramund. "it is for me to be left alone with this affair. i shall speak with her." telramund, hoping that by fair or foul means his wife would win him back his forfeited knighthood, departed. after a little ortrud called in a very sweet but sad voice: "elsa!" elsa started and looked over the balcony. "ortrud! what art thou doing here? wert thou not told to go far away from this place, where you tried so hard to wrong me?" "alas! elsa, can you who are so happy, speak harshly to one so forlorn and deserted? indeed it was not i who harmed thee. telramund had some strange delusion, and it was he who cast a doubt upon thee. now his eyes are opened and he is wandering sadly and alone; but i have done thee no harm. it was he who accused thee. i could not stay him. yet i must suffer for it all, while thou art happy and serene. i am glad of thy happiness, but do not let it make thee unfeeling toward one who is so wretched." that touched the soft heart of elsa, and she listened kindly. after a little she spoke words of comfort to ortrud: "hast thou no place to go this night?" "nay! we are quite abandoned; but i could rest well enough upon these steps if i did not remember that you had suffered through telramund." that made elsa's generous heart trouble her. "thou must come in, and stay this night with me," she said. "wait here and i shall return." she went back into the kemenate, and the moment she was left alone, ortrud began rejoicing in the wickedest way, because she had been thus far successful in deceiving elsa. elsa returned with two of her maids bearing lights. "where art thou, ortrud?" elsa called before opening the door below the balcony; and the sorceress threw herself upon her knees and answered sweetly: "here, kneeling before thee, generous maiden." "thou art worn and unhappy, and to-morrow is my wedding day. i could not be gay and know that thou wert suffering, so come in with me, and sleep beside me, and to-morrow array thyself in fine clothing and be happy with the rest of us." ortrud pretended great happiness and gratitude upon hearing this. "ah! who would betray so gentle and trusting a maid?" ortrud sighed. "i pray that the glamour which surrounds thy knight who was brought hither by magic may never depart and leave thee miserable." she sighed again, as if she had some secret fear. "oh, i could not doubt him," elsa cried. but the same moment a little seed of distrust entered her heart. it was true she knew nothing of whence he had come; and moreover was forbidden to ask. "nay. thou must never doubt him," ortrud said plausibly, "since thy lips are forever sealed and ye can never ask one of those questions which other maidens and wives may ask their husbands and lovers. it would not do to doubt him. thou must try to believe he is true and good, as he himself has said." elsa looked doubtfully at ortrud, whose words had made a sad impression upon her, and yet she loved the knight so well she would not own it. but ortrud guessed perfectly that already she had made elsa suspicious and unhappy. trying to shake off the apprehension that was settling upon her because of the wicked woman's words, elsa led the way into the palace, and the maids locked the door, and the day almost immediately began to break. frederick came prowling back, like some bad animal, looking after the two women who had gone within. "there went a woman of darkness!" he murmured, "but i can trust her magic and her godless spirit to win back my fortunes." while he was thinking upon these things the day dawned and two warders blew a blast from the turret where they walked, which announced the wedding morning of the knight and elsa. a warder in another turret answered with his trumpet, and soon people began to assemble from all the country round. frederick looked about for some place to conceal himself from the crowd. seeing some projecting ornamentation upon the porch of the place where he and ortrud had sat, he slipped behind and waited. _scene iii_ trumpets began to sound back and forth, from all parts of the vast buildings of the palace. soon the warders descended from their towers and unlocked the gates of the court. the servants of the castle entered, and went about their duties, some drawing water at the well, some passing on into the palace, where they were employed to wait upon knights and ladies. the four royal trumpeters went to the gates, and sounding their trumps to the four corners of the earth, notified the country round that it was time to assemble at the palace. nobles and inhabitants of the great castle entered and peasants and knights living without the gates came from the road, till a magnificent host were gathered for the occasion of elsa's wedding. when all had assembled, a herald mounted a high place before the palace. "now all listen," he cried. "by order of the king, frederick of telramund is laid under a ban, and whoever shall serve him or take pity upon him shall suffer his fate." the people cried curses upon the false knight. "furthermore," the herald cried, "i am to announce that the king has given to the brave knight who defended the honour of the lady elsa a sceptre and a crown. the knight does not consent to take the title of duke, but he is willing to be known as the guardian of brabant, and as such he will defend his people." all hailed the knight joyously, and welcomed him as their guardian. "the knight bids me give a message. all of you are to come to the wedding, but as soon as it is over he bids ye take up arms, and to-morrow at dawn, he will go forth with ye to rout the invader who has so long troubled our king." again all cried, "hail!" they were delighted with the valour of their new defender. "we shall follow where he leads!" all cried, and turned to speak enthusiastically with each other and to promise loyalty among themselves. in the midst of this rejoicing and good will, four nobles of frederick collected. "ye hear, do ye not, that we are banished?" one said; because they, as supporters of frederick against the lady elsa, were under the ban. "what think ye? are we too to leave home and country and fight a people who ne'er harmed us, because of this new comer?" "i feel as bitter as ye," another said. "yet who dares affront the king or resist his will?" "i," said a cold and bitter voice, and as they turned, they saw frederick himself, standing by their shoulders. "great heaven! if thou art seen, thy life will be in danger!" they cried. "do not fear. this very day i shall unmask this upstart knight!" he was about to say more, but some pages ran gaily down the palace steps and the brabantian nobles pushed frederick back into his hiding place, in haste. every one crowded round the pages, who they knew came before elsa and her ladies. "make way there!" the pages cried, forcing a way for the procession. when a wide passage was made, elsa and all her retinue appeared at the door of the kemenate. _scene iv_ a magnificent procession of great ladies and nobles, attended by train-bearers and pages, came from the palace and crossed the court to the minster where ortrud and frederick had rested upon the steps the night before and the bridal procession marched to fine music: [music] while this march was being played, and the procession passing, all the nobles bared their heads. as elsa was about to pass into the church, everyone cried long life and happiness to her, and the air rang with shouts of rejoicing. but in the very midst of this fine scene, as elsa stood with her foot upon the church steps, ortrud rushed forward and confronted her. her rage and jealousy had got the better of her cunning and judgment. "stand back!" she cried. "i will not follow thee like a slave, while thou art thus powerful and happy. i swear that thou shalt humbly bow thy head to me!" every one stood in amazement and horror, because the sorceress looked very wicked and frightful, almost spitting her anger at the lovely maid. "how is this, after thy gentleness of last night?" elsa murmured. "last night thou wert mild and repentant, why now so bitter?" she looked about her in bewilderment, while the nobles sprang forward and pushed back the raging woman. all this passed as quick as lightning. "ye flout me! ye who will have for a husband, one whom thou canst not name!" she laughed derisively. that hurt elsa very much because it was true. ortrud had remained with her through the night, and had continued to say so many things which had aroused her curiosity and fear, that she was thinking more and more of the fact that she knew nothing whatever of her knight. "she is a slanderer! do not heed her!" all cried to elsa. "what is his race? where are his lands? he is an adventurer!" the sorceress continued to shout bitterly, each word sinking deep into elsa's heart. but she roused herself and suddenly began to cry out against ortrud, and to say how good and noble the knight was and how tenderly she loved him. "when he might have killed your husband yet he spared his life; that was a sign of his great nobleness of heart!" she declared, trying to forget ortrud's words and to convince herself. when the excitement was at its height and elsa nearly fainting with fright and grief, and her ladies crowding about her, the palace doors again opened, the trumpeters came out, and began to blow their blasts, while the king, lohengrin, and the saxon nobles and counts came in a procession from the palas as elsa and her women had come from the kemenate. _scene v_ all hailed lohengrin as guardian of brabant, and elsa threw herself passionately into his arms. at once he saw that something had happened. "what is it?" he asked. "what is all this strife?" the king demanded, looking about upon the scene. then lohengrin saw ortrud. "horror! what is this wicked woman doing here beside thee?" "shelter me against her wrath!" elsa pleaded. "i harboured her last night, because she was weeping outside my door, and now she has tried to drive my happiness from me." lohengrin looked fixedly at ortrud and bade her begone. "she hath filled thy heart with doubts, dear elsa," he said, half reproachfully and full of fear, because he saw a change in the maid. she wept, and he drew her into the church, while the king and his train turned toward the church also. frederick then confronted the king. "o great king and deluded princess! ye have all done me a grievous wrong. i accuse this stranger of undoing me with magic. i confront him here and demand his name and land! if he has naught to fear or to be ashamed of, let him speak." everyone was full of hatred for frederick, but at the same time, the challenge had a kind of justice in it and all were troubled. "it is not thou who can humble me, base knave," lohengrin answered, looking contemptuously at frederick. "it is not the doubts of evil men that can harm me." "thou, o king, command him to tell his place and name," frederick implored. "not even the king nor any prince that rules the earth shall question me upon these things," lohengrin replied proudly, facing them all, as they turned looks of inquiry toward him. "there is but one who may ask--and she has given her word. she will not break it," he declared, looking tenderly at elsa, who still waited beside him at the entrance to the church. "his secret is his own," the king declared; "so have done with this shameful scene! and thou, dear knight--no doubts shall disturb thy happiness." all the nobles crowded loyally about him as the king ceased speaking; but while they were taking lohengrin by the hand, frederick got close to elsa, who, he and ortrud could see, was troubled with womanish doubts. "let me tell thee something, elsa of brabant! if but one drop of thy knight's blood is shed--a finger scratched--his power and magic are gone. give me leave to draw one drop of his blood, and all that he now conceals, he will at once reveal to thee." "ah, do not tempt me!" she cried, afraid to listen, because she had now become curious to learn lohengrin's secret. "i will say no more now, but this very night i shall be within call. and if thou dost only speak the word, i'll enter and prick his arm with my sword and instantly he will tell all, and can never more leave thy side." lohengrin saw frederick had got the ear of elsa, and in a terrible voice told him to go, and chided elsa gently for listening to such a man. as he spoke she sank at his feet, full of self-reproach. lohengrin lifted her and embraced her lovingly, while she swore eternal faith in him, and then all turned once more to the church. the king, the nobles, lohengrin with elsa--all were passing in at last; when elsa, looking back just once, saw the arm of ortrud raised in menace and with an expression of triumph upon her wicked face. elsa turned terrified once more to lohengrin, and they passed into the church. act iii after the ceremony and the festivities that had followed the marriage, came the peace and quiet of night. the door of the bridal chamber opened, and pages went in bearing lights, while the ladies of the court followed, leading elsa, and the king and nobles in turn followed them, leading lohengrin. it was a most beautiful room, with a great open casement at the right, through which the night-breeze swept. the nobles and ladies sang in chorus the most beautiful of wedding songs: [music: faithful and true, we lead ye forth, where love, triumphant, shall crown ye with joy! star of renown, flow'r of the earth, blest be ye both far from all life's annoy.] the king embraced lohengrin; and the ladies, elsa. then the pages gave a signal to go, and all passing before the pair went out in the same order as they came in. _scene ii_ after all had gone lohengrin sat upon the couch beneath the open casement and drew elsa down beside him. he wished above all things to drive from her mind all thoughts of the suspicion which ortrud had implanted. but even while he spoke most lovingly and reassuringly to her, her thoughts were upon the mystery of his name. when he spoke her own she looked at him reproachfully. "ah! my name sounds so beautiful to me from thy lips--if only i might speak thine!" she complained. "if thou wouldst only tell me thy name, it should never pass my lips." lohengrin was sad upon hearing this. he spoke of other things--of how beautiful the night was, and of how they were to pass a long and happy life together; but still her thoughts, poisoned by ortrud, returned again and again to the forbidden subject. "oh! do not doubt me! let me share thy secret whatever it may be," she entreated. "i feel that i am not loved by thee, since i am not trusted with thy story--not even with thy name." at last, after begging her to be silent, after reminding her of her promise, after all the persuasions he could think of, he rose and spoke sternly: "i have given thee the greatest confidence, by believing thee free from every stain. with no proof but thy word, i fought for thy honour. i asked no word to prove thy innocence. in return, i desired only silence from thee about my name and birth and land. it was partly for thy sake that i asked even so much. now i will tell thee. but--" he hesitated, begging her once more to let them live in happiness, and not to ruin all by her fatal curiosity. at that moment, frederick and his false nobles broke through the door with drawn swords. they had come to draw his blood and thus to render him quite powerless. but elsa, though quite ready to ruin him herself by her curiosity, would not let him be hurt by another. lohengrin's armour was laid off, but the sword was by the couch. elsa snatched it, thrust it into his hand and with a single blow he killed frederick. the nobles fell upon their knees before him, while elsa fainted. lohengrin looked upon the scene, feeling nothing but despair. if his blood had not been shed, yet to save his life he had been forced to shed the blood of another, and he had thus been rendered helpless, quite the same. after a moment he rang a bell which summoned elsa's ladies, and bidding the four nobles rise, he confided elsa to the care of the women. "bear the corpse to the king's judgment hall," he said to the men, who then did as they were bid. "for you," he said to the women, "take your mistress into the presence of the king, and i will answer all that she desires to know. nothing shall longer be hidden." he went out with his head bent and his thoughts very sad and melancholy. the day began to dawn, and the lights were all put out, and again the trumpets sounded in the courtyard. _scene iii_ all repaired again to the river bank, where lohengrin had first been seen, drawn by his swan. a count first entered, with his train of vassals. he came upon a horse, and was assisted from it by one of his train. then he took his shield and spear from his pages who bore them, and then set up his banner, after which the vassals grouped themselves about it. trumpets were heard on all sides and counts continued to arrive in the same order as the first, all with their vassals, all setting up their spears and their people grouping themselves about them. finally, the herald who announced the coming of the king was heard, whereupon all the banners were unfurled and the trumpets of each noble and his people were sounded, and then entered the king and his saxon men. as the king reached the royal oak, all struck their spears upon their shields, and cried: "hail!" the purpose of the gathering was to go forth against the foe that threatened the germans, the hungarian hordes. when all were beginning to wonder where the strange and brave knight was who had them summoned for the hour of dawn, and who was expected to lead them to victory, they saw the body of frederick brought in by the four false brabantians. all stood aside in horror. they could not think whose corpse it was. "they who bear it are telramund's vassals," some cried, and at the same moment elsa appeared, coming slowly and surrounded by her ladies. the king met her and conducted her to a seat opposite the royal oak. "art thou mourning because thou art sorry to lose thy lord so soon, sweet lady?" the kind king questioned. she tried to answer him, but her sense of guilt was so great that she could not. the fearful things that were about to happen and that had happened had been caused by her woman's curiosity, and now that it was too late, she was filled with remorse. some one cried: "make way! make way! the guardian of brabant is coming." all looked and saw the shining knight, lohengrin. they hailed him joyfully. "i come not to lead ye to glory," he answered sadly, and uncovered the corpse of frederick of telramund. all shrank back. "neither shall ye condemn me. i killed him, but he came to seek my life. your judgment, o king!" he asked of henry. the king stretched his hand across the body of telramund to clasp lohengrin's. "the saints would not shield him: he deserved thy thrust," henry answered. "once more!--the lady elsa has betrayed her promise. i am undone. ye all heard her give her word that she would never ask my name nor country; but her impatient heart hath broken that pledge, and her injurious doubts now compel me to tell ye all." everybody groaned and cried out sorrowfully. they had entire faith in the brave knight, and loved the lady elsa. all regretted that her curiosity had ruined a fair future, deprived them of their defender, and made her own life forever miserable. "now, mark well what i say," the knight cried, and while he spoke, his face became illuminated with a kind of splendid goodness and faith in his own integrity. in distant land, by ways remote and hidden, there stands a burg that men call monsalvat; it holds a shrine to the profane forbidden, more precious, there is naught on earth than that. and throned in light, it holds a cup immortal, that whoso sees, from earthly sin is cleansed; 'twas borne by angels through the heavenly portal, its coming hath a holy reign commenced. once every year a dove from heaven descendeth, to strengthen it anew for works of grace; 'tis called the grail; the power of heaven attendeth the faithful knights who guard that sacred place. he whom the grail to be its servant chooses, is armed henceforth with high invincible might; all evil craft its power before him loses, the spirits of darkness, where he dwells, take flight. nor will he lose the awful charm it lendeth, although he should be called to distant lands, when the high cause of virtue he defendeth, while he's unknown, its spell he still commands; by perils dread the holy grail is girded, no eye, rash or profane, its light may see; its champion knight from doubtings shall be warded, if known to man he must depart and flee. now mark! craft or disguise my soul disdaineth, the grail sent me to right yon lady's fame; my father, percival, gloriously reigneth, his knight am i, and lohengrin my name! when lohengrin had ceased to speak, having told his story, all that elsa wished to know, everyone spoke softly. they were enchanted by the knight's purity and goodness, and full of sorrow for the ruin which elsa had brought about. she herself cried out that all was dark; she could no longer see; she felt that she was dying. as she fell, lohengrin caught her in his arms. "oh, thou wilt not leave me broken-hearted," she said when she could speak. "alas! i must go. thou hast brought this ruin upon thyself," he said tenderly. "i was not free to tell thee, but if thou hadst been silent for a year, according to thy promise, two things would have happened to make thee happy. i would then have been freed from the bond and could have spoken--and thy lost brother would have been restored to thee." hearing this the grief of all was insupportable. "i must return to guard the holy grail," he said sadly. at that moment those nearest the bank cried out that the swan was coming, drawing the boat. lohengrin handed his sword and horn and ring to elsa. "if thy brother ever returns after i am gone, give him these things in token of me. the horn will bring him help in battle, the sword will conquer every foe, and the ring will remind him of the one who most befriended him and who saved thee from suspicion and dishonour." he kissed her again and again in farewell, while even the nobles wept; but as he was about to enter the boat the wicked ortrud entered, accused him of falsehood, declared that she had wound the golden band worn by the swan around its neck, and that the swan was the lost brother, enchanted by her. "if thy knight had remained here, his magic spells would have brought thy brother back in his rightful shape, but now he is lost to thee forever. the knight must go, and i will keep the swan under my spell." lohengrin, who had stood upon the bank listening to all this sank upon his knees in prayer. all looked toward him, waiting in awe to see what would happen next. the white dove of the holy grail flew slowly down and hovered over the boat. when lohengrin saw it his face shone with joy, he rose and loosened the chain from the swan, which immediately sank out of sight. then from the river, rose a youth in shining silver garments, while lohengrin stooped down and placed him upon the bank. it was gottfried, the brother of elsa, and the heir of brabant. "behold thy ruler!" lohengrin cried, affectionately looking at elsa. at the sight of gottfried, ortrud shrieked and fell down in a fit, which might have ended in death. lohengrin jumped into the boat and the dove seized the chain which had hung loose since the swan had gone, and drew it along. elsa, roused from her stupor of agony, saw her dear brother, and as he and she rushed into each other's arms, the glorious knight slowly passed from sight, having brought joy to all, even if he had left sadness wrought by a woman's curiosity. [illustration: the last photograph of richard wagner] the wagnerian romances by gertrude hall new york: john lane company, mcmvii london: john lane, the bodley head _to_ _my friend_ john sanburn phillips _this book_ _is_ _gratefully dedicated._ introduction the attempt has been made in the following to give an idea of the charm and interest of the original text of the wagner operas, of wagner's extraordinary power and fertility as a dramatist. it is not critique or commentary, it is presentation, picture, narrative; it offers nothing that is not derived directly and exclusively from the wagner libretti and scores. the stories of the operas are widely known already, of course. as literature, however, one may almost say they are not known at all, unless by students of german. the translators had before them a task so tremendous, in the necessity to fit their verse-rendering of the master's poetry to extremely difficult music, that we respect them for achieving it at all. none the less must the translations included in our libretti be pronounced painfully inadequate. to give a better, more complete knowledge of the original poems is the object of these essays. the poems form, even apart from the music, a whole beautiful, luminous, romantic world. one would not lose more by dropping out of literature the idylls of the king than the wagnerian romances. contents parsifal the ring of the nibelung the rhine-gold the valkyrie siegfried the twilight of the gods the master-singers of nuremberg tristan and isolde lohengrin tannhaeuser the flying dutchman parsifal parsifal i the story of the holy grail and its guardians up to the moment of parsifal's appearance upon the scene, is--we gather it from gurnemanz's rehearsal of his memories to the youthful esquires,--as follows: at a time when the pure faith of christ was in danger from the power and craft of his enemies, there came to its defender, titurel, angelic messengers of the saviour's, and gave into his keeping the chalice from which he had drunk at the last supper and into which the blood had been gathered from his wounds as he hung upon the cross; likewise the spear with which his side had been pierced. around these relics titurel built a temple, and an order of knighthood grew. the temple, monsalvat, stood upon the northern slope of mountains overlooking gothic spain. no road led to its doors, and those only could find their way to it whom the holy spirit guided; and those only could hope to be so guided, and could belong to the brotherhood, who were pure in heart and clean of the sins of the flesh. the knights were mystically fed and strengthened by the vision of the chalice--which is called the grail; the duties of the order were "high deeds of salvation," comprehending warfare upon christ's enemies, at home and in distant lands. on the southern slope of the mountain, facing moorish or heathen spain. klingsor had gone into hermitage, in an attempted expiation of evil committed down in the heathen world. what his sin had been, gurnemanz says, he knows not; but he aspired to become a holy man, he wished to join the brotherhood of the grail. finding it impossible to subdue sin in himself by the spirit, he sought, as it were, a mechanical substitute for virtue, by which, however, he failed to attain his object, for his sacrifice called forth from titurel only contempt, and he was rejected from the order. he turned all the strength of his rage then to acquiring black arts by which to ruin the detested brotherhood. on the southward mountainside, he created by sorcery a wonderful pleasure-palace and garden, in which uncannily beautiful women grew. this lay in the path of the knights of the grail, a temptation and a trap, and one so effectual that he who permitted himself to be lured into it was lost; there had been no exception, safety lay singly in avoidance. titurel having reached so great an age that he had no longer strength to perform the service of the grail, invested with the kingly office amfortas, his son. the latter undertook at once the removal of the standing danger to his knights, the destruction of klingsor. armed with the sacred spear, he fared forth.... alas! even before the walls of the enchanted castle had been reached, his followers, among whom gurnemanz, missed him. a woman of dreadful beauty had ensnared him. in her arms he forgot everything, he let the spear drop from his hand.... a great cry, as of one mortally hurt, gurnemanz relates, was suddenly heard. he rushed to the rescue, and caught sight of klingsor, laughing as he disappeared carrying the spear, with which he had wounded amfortas. and now, possessed of the spear, it was klingsor's boast that he should soon be in possession of the chalice likewise, the holy grail itself. and the wound of amfortas would not heal, and an apprehension was that never could it heal, save at the touch of the spear which made it. and this, who could conquer it back? yet the knights were not wholly without hope, for, amfortas once praying before the despoiled sanctuary, and imploring a sign of pardon, a holy dream-face had appeared to him and delivered the dim but comforting oracle: "wise through compassion.... the immaculate fool.... await him.... my appointed one...." thus matters stand when the curtain rises for us upon the forest surrounding the castle of the grail. the introductory music is wholly religious, composed principally of the so moving phrase of the last communion, the grail-motif and the faith-music. the latter opens with what has the effect of a grand declaration, as if it might be understood to say: "i believe in god the father! i believe in god the son! i believe in god the holy ghost!" and fell to worshipping prayer. the grey-haired gurnemanz and two young boys of the order are discovered sleeping. at the clarion-call from the castle, they start awake and kneel at their morning devotions. the lake is near where the sick king is carried daily for the bath. forerunners of his cortège pass, and are questioned by gurnemanz concerning his condition. no, the healing herb, obtained at such price of courage and cunning, has not helped him. (for, though their drugs prove still and ever useless, the devoted followers will not give up the search for earthly relief.) this discouraged answer is hardly given, when another appears who has been ranging afar in search of a remedy--kundry, arriving like the whirlwind, on a mare that staggers reaching the goal. spent with speed, the strange wild woman totters to gurnemanz and presses on him a crystal phial: balsam! if this does not help, arabia holds nothing more from which health can be hoped! felled by fatigue, she drops on the ground, refusing any further speech. when the king is now brought in upon a litter and halts on his way to the lake for a moment's rest, receiving from gurnemanz the balsam, he thanks the woman, as one who has often before done him such service. she rejects his thanks roughly, as if almost they hurt: "no thanks! no thanks! what good will it do? away! away! to the bath!" the young esquires, lingering after the king has been borne onward, eye her as she lies on the ground like a wild beast, and voice their suspicion of her, founded, after the fashion of youth's judgements, upon her looks. they believe those potions of hers will finally destroy the king altogether. gurnemanz checks them, reminding them heatedly of her services, beyond all that any other could perform. "who, when we are at loss how to send tidings to brethren warring in distant lands, we scarcely even know where,--who, before we have come to any resolve, flies to them and returns, having acquitted herself of the task aptly and faithfully?..." "but," they object, "she hates us! see how malignantly she glowers at us! she is a heathen, a sorceress!" "one she may be, perhaps, labouring under a curse," gurnemanz goes thus far with them; "she lives here, it may be, a penitent, to expiate some unforgiven sin of her earlier life." he tells how, so long ago as at the time of the building of the temple, titurel first found her among the tangled growth of the forest, rigid in death-like sleep. "i myself," he continues, "discovered her but recently in the like condition. it was soon after the calamity had befallen, brought upon us by the evil one over the mountain." and turning to kundry, as if the thought had but just occurred: "hey! tell me, you! where were you roaming when our master lost the spear?" the woman gazes gloomily, and preserves a silence which we afterwards see to be significant. "why did you not help us at that time?" "i never help!" she exclaims darkly, and turns away. "if she is as faithful as you say, and as daring, and full of resource," suggests ironically one of the young esquires, "why not send her after the lost spear?" "that!" gurnemanz replies sadly, "is another matter. that nobody can achieve!" and, the memory of the past rising strong within him, he relates to the questioning young fellows, new in the brotherhood and ignorant of its history, the events set down in their order a little way back. he has repeated to them the mysterious promise of help: "wise through compassion.... the immaculate fool.... await him.... my appointed one...." and they, impressed, are saying it after him, when, at the words "_der reine thor_," the pure--the clean-lived--the immaculate fool, a commotion develops in the direction of the lake-side, cries of "woe! a pity! a shame! who did it?" a great wild swan flies in sight, sinks to earth hurt to death by an arrow, and the king's esquires bring in, chiding and accusing him, a tall, innocent-eyed, fresh-cheeked boy, armed with bow and arrows,--parsifal. rustic enough is his outfit, but his bearing unmistakably that of the high-born, as gurnemanz does not fail to remark. a sturdy, brave, gay-hearted strain has ushered him in, and for just a moment he stands quite like a brother of siegfried's, fearless, unconscious of himself, as ignorant of the world as he is unspotted by it, but engagingly wide-awake, serene in watching its mysterious actions. "are you the one who killed the swan?" gurnemanz asks him sternly. and he answers, unabashed, quite as siegfried might have done: "certainly! whatever flies i shoot on the wing!" but at once after this the difference between the two is manifest. to both whole regions of emotion are unknown, but certain emotions which are outside the nature of one, are potentially the very strongest in the other. siegfried is not pitiful. the strong, radiant being is incomplete on that side, so that the christian heart winces a little, here and there, at the bright resoluteness with which he pursues his course when it involves, for instance, death to the little foster-father, unrighteous imp though he be, or horror to brünnhilde, captured by violence and offered to his friend. whereas parsifal, when gurnemanz now makes plain to him the cruelty of his thoughtless action, when he points out the glazing eye, the blood dabbling the snowy plumage of the noble swan, faithful familiar of the lake, killed as he circled in quest of his mate, is seized with a passion of realizing pity, impulsively breaks and flings from him his bow, and hides his eyes from the work of his hands. "how--how could you commit such a wrong?" gurnemanz pursues unrelenting, even after these expressions of contrition. "i did not know," parsifal answers. then to the amazement of all are revealed the most extravagant ignorance and simplicity ever met. "where do you come from?" "i do not know." "who is your father?" "i do not know." "who directed you here?" "i do not know." "what is your name?" "i have had many, but no longer remember any of them." "truly," grumbles gurnemanz, "i have so far never in my life met with any one so stupid--except kundry." very sagely, he leaves off questioning the fool; but when the others, after reverently taking up the dead swan, have departed with it for burial, he addresses him: "of all i have asked you, you know nothing. now tell me what you do know! for it can hardly be but that you know something." whereupon very simply and obediently the boy begins: "i have a mother. her name is herzeleide. (heart's-sorrow.) we lived in the woods and on the wild moor...." and it appears from his own ingenuous narrative and the additions of kundry, who in her rangings has seemingly had opportunities to watch him, that he is the son of the hero gamuret, slain in battle before his birth, and that, in terror of a like early death for him, his mother has reared him in solitude, far from arms and reports of war, in absolute ignorance of the world. one day, he tells in joyous excitement, bright-gleaming men passed along the forest's edge, seated upon splendid animals; his instant wish was to be like them, but they laughed and galloped away. he ran after them, but could not overtake them. up hill and down dale he travelled, for days and nights. with his bow he was compelled to defend himself against wild beasts and huge men.... "yes!" throws in kundry eagerly, as if at the recollection of splendid fights witnessed, "he made his strength felt upon miscreants and giants. they were all afraid of the truculent boy!" he turns upon her a vaguely pleased wonder: "who is afraid of me? ... tell me!" "the wicked!" he seems trying to grasp a wholly new idea presented to him. "those who threatened me were wicked? who is good?" gurnemanz in reply reminds him of his mother, who is good, and from whom he has run away; she no doubt is seeking him in sorrow. kundry brusquely interrupts: "her sorrow is ended. his mother is dead!" and, at his incredulous cry of horror: "i was riding past and saw her die. she bade me take to you, fool, her last blessing." parsifal springs upon this bearer of evil tidings with the instinctive attempt to shut off the breath that could frame such terrible words. gurnemanz forcibly disengages her, and, overpowered by the shock and weight of his pain, parsifal sinks in a swoon. tenderly at once both servants of the grail care for him. kundry hastens for water with which to wet his temples, and, as he revives, offers him drink. gurnemanz is struck by the magnanimity of her action. "that is right," he nods his approval, "that is in accordance with the gracious spirit of the grail. we banish evil when we return good for it." kundry turns sadly away: "i never do good! ... all i desire is rest!... rest!" and while gurnemanz is still occupied with restoring parsifal, she slowly walks, as if powerfully drawn and intensely resisting, toward a tangled copse. she appears struggling with inexpressible weariness; the music gives a hint of something unnatural and evil in the spell of sleep falling leadenly upon her, expressing at the same time an irresistible element in it of attraction. the dark, wild-haired messenger of the grail, the despised subordinate, suddenly assumes to our sense a much greater importance than up to this moment. her personality looms large with an unexplained effect of tragedy. "only rest! rest for the weary one!" she murmurs yearningly; "sleep! oh, let nobody wake me!" terror checks her for a moment: "no! no! i must not sleep!" she shudders, "i am afraid!" she falls to violent trembling. but whatever it is compelling her is too strong at last. her arms fall unnerved, her head bows languidly, and she moves feebly whither she is drawn. "useless resistance! ... the hour is come. sleep.... sleep.... i must!" having reached the thicket she drops on the earth among the bushes. the sun is now high, the king is borne homeward from the bath. the thought has struck gurnemanz that here under his hands is surely as exquisite a _thor_ as could well be, and the experiment suggests itself of taking him to the temple, where, as he tells him, if he be pure, the grail will be to him meat and drink. he places the arm of the still strengthless youth about his neck, and gently upholds him as they start on their way. "who is the grail?" asks parsifal, as they walk. "that may not be put into words," replies gurnemanz, "but, if you are of the chosen, you cannot fail to learn. and, see now! i believe i know who you are. no road leads through the land to the grail, and no one could find the way except itself guided him...." "i am scarcely moving," says the wondering boy, "yet it seems to me we have already gone a long way...." and, indeed, the forest has been miraculously gliding past. it ends before a granite wall in which a great portal stands open. this gives entrance into ascending rocky galleries; sounds of clarions come stealing to the ear; church-bells are heard--and we are presently translated into the interior of the castle of the grail, the great domed hall. parsifal entering with gurnemanz stops still beside the threshold, spell-bound in presence of all the lofty beauty: "now watch with attention," his guide instructs him, before leaving him where he stands, "and let us see, if you are a simple soul and pure, what light shall be vouchsafed you." the scene now enacting itself before him is well calculated to strike the imagination of the boy from the lonely moors. the knights of the grail, beautiful in their clear robes, enter in procession, chanting. when they cease, the singing is taken up by younger voices, of personages unseen up in the dome, and, after them, by children's voices from the airy summit of the dome, floating, angelic. the wounded king is brought in on his litter, and laid upon the high canopied seat before the altar, upon which the shrine is placed enclosing the grail. the knights have ranged themselves along tables prepared with silver goblets. in the silence of recollection which falls upon all, a voice is heard, as if from the grave: "my son amfortas, are you at your post?" it is the aged titurel, whose resting-place is a recess behind the altar and the raised seat. there he is kept alive solely by the contemplation of the grail, mystical means of life and strength. "are you at your post? shall i look upon the grail once more and live?" but long-gathering despair to-day reaches its climax in amfortas, at the necessity to perform the rite required. the torture to him cannot be measured of the vision which creates ecstasy in the others. "woeful inheritance fallen to me!" he complains, in his passion of revolt against this divine infliction, "that i, the only sinner among all, should be condemned to be keeper of holiest holies, and call down blessings upon those purer than i!" but the worst of his anguish is still that when the holy blood glows in the cup, and, in sympathy, the blood gushes forth anew from the wound in his side--the wound made by the same spear--the consciousness ever returns to burning life that, whereas those holy drops were shed in a heavenly compassion for the misery of man, these are unregenerate blood, hot with sinful human passion and longing, which no chastening has availed to drive out. the wretched king is praying for the mercy of deliverance through death, when, from the high dome, the words rain softly of the promise of redemption--through the fool. recovering courage, amfortas proceeds with the rite. while he kneels in prayer before the chalice, which young acolytes have taken from the shrine and reverently uncovered, a mysterious darkness gathers over all. a ray of light suddenly falls through this, upon the chalice, which begins softly to glow, and brightens to a deep luminous purple-red. amfortas lifts it and waves it over the kneeling people. the words of the last communion are heard, sung by the soaring voices in the dome: "take my body--take my blood--for the sake of our love! take my blood--take my body--and remember me!" the ceremony accomplished, amfortas sets down the cup, which begins to pale; as it fades, the twilight lightens. when the common light of day has completely returned, the knights sit down to the repast of consecrated bread placed for them, and wine poured, by the acolytes. at the end of it, they earnestly grasp one another's hands in renewal of their bond of brotherhood. amfortas is perceived to be suffering from the renewed bleeding of his wound. he is laid upon the litter once more and borne away. the knights depart in orderly procession, the hall is gradually deserted. parsifal remains standing on the same spot. he has hardly moved, except, when amfortas's anguished cry rang out, to clutch at his heart. gurnemanz, when he sat down at the table with the other knights, signed to him to come and share in the holy feast, but he did not stir. the impression can be apprehended of the solemn scene upon the white page of the boy's mind. a spirit of religion has breathed through it all, so exalted, so warm, so personal; the passionate mediæval christianity which expressed itself in crusades and religious orders and knight-errantry. the cry of the saviour (_erlösung's held_, hero of redemption, the poet characteristically calls him) has rung so piercingly, there seems but one answer from a humanly constituted simple heart: "did you indeed suffer so much and die for love of me and my brothers? how then can i the most quickly spend and scatter all my strength and blood in gratitude to you?" parsifal has brought to these things a consciousness not blurred and overscored by worldly knowledge and desires, a native capacity for love of others uninterfered with by the developed consideration of self. his fresh instinct has gathered the meaning of what he sees, novel to him as it is; "wise through compassion," he has gotten the measure and character perfectly of amfortas's sufferings, foreign as they are to his experience; he has gotten the spirit of the facts of christ. one especial message, over and above the rest, he has received to himself, shot into his heart upon a ray from the glowing grail held before his gaze by amfortas: that the saviour embodied in the grail must be delivered from the sin-sullied hands now holding it. he has seemed to hear the appeal of the saviour, poignant, to be so delivered. he is left, when the vision fades, with the sense of this necessity--involving for himself, though he knows not how, a duty and a quest: amfortas must be healed, the sacred treasure must be taken into keeping by purer hands. gurnemanz approaches him hopefully: "well, did you understand what you saw?" but parsifal, still in his trance of wonder, only shakes his head. it is too deep for words, what he has felt. to gurnemanz he now seems a hopeless and unprofitable fool, who has no place in the noble company. "you are a fool, it is a fact, and you are nothing else!" he declares. opening a side-door, he without further ceremony pushes him out by the shoulders, with a sour little joke: "take my advice: let the swans alone hereafter, and, gander that you are, find yourself a goose!" as he turns from the door, there falls from above, as if some echo of it had clung to the high dome after all the singers had left, the strain: "wise through compassion.... the immaculate fool...." ii the next change of scene shows the interior of the tower where klingsor practises his dark arts. a strain already known catches our attention (the sorcery-motif), and we become aware what influences were at work in kundry when her weariness succumbed to the lure of sleep, what mesmeric call from klingsor's hotly blooming, godless pleasure-seat. the klingsor-music introducing the second act stands in picturesque contrast to the tender and thoughtful music opening the first; curiously suggesting, as it does, lawlessness, cold evil passions riding the soul hideously at a gallop. it has something vaguely in common with portions of the venus-music in tannhäuser,--perhaps its effect at once unbridled and joyless. the sorcerer has from the battlements seen parsifal approaching, who, thrust out from the castle of the grail, had, by the peculiar magic of the place, found the path to it obliterated. he had come forth with the exalted but undefined sense of a great task to perform. but, even as the road to the castle of the grail was difficult to find, the road to klingsor's castle was easy and overeasy; it would seem that for the feet of a votary of the grail all roads led to it. parsifal had seen it shining afar, and with childish shouts of delight is drawing near. klingsor, divining in him an enemy more than usual dangerous, resorts, to make his ruin altogether sure, to what are his supreme methods. he calls to his assistance once more the ally by whose help the great amfortas had been vanquished. with mysterious passes and burning of gums, he summons that formidable feminine: "nameless one!... most ancient of devils!... rose of hell!... herodias!..." and amid the blue smoke-wreathes, uttering the wail of a slave haled to the market-place, rises the form of kundry. she appears like one but half roused from the torpour of sleep, and struggling with a terrible dream, or resisting some terrible reality. all the answer she can give to his first words of ironical congratulation, is in broken exclamations: "oh! oh! deep night.... madness... oh, wrath! oh, misery!... sleep! sleep! deep sleep!... death!..." and, in a subsequent outburst: "the curse!... oh, yearning!... yearning!..." her history and hints of her extraordinarily complex personality are to be gathered from the scene following and the scene later, with parsifal. the mysterious messenger of the grail was anciently herodias, and meeting with the man of sorrows, she laughed. "then," she herself relates, "he turned his eyes upon me...." under the curse involved in her action and the remorse generated by that divine look, she cannot die, but goes, as she describes it, seeking him from world to world, to meet his eyes again. she tries in every manner to expiate her sin, by service to others, by subjugation of self, but the old nature is still not well out of her, the nature of herodias, and, at intervals, an infinite weariness of welldoing overtakes her, a revival of the passions of her old life, and with the cessation of struggle against them she falls into a death-like sleep. in this condition, as if it represented a laying-off of the armour of righteousness, her spirit is at the mercy of the powers of evil. the necromancer klingsor can conjure it up and force it to his own uses. in the centuries she has lived, she has borne many names. she has but recently been the temptress of amfortas, and at the reassumption of the higher half of her dual nature, has, as the servant and messenger of the grail, striven to make amends, as far as she might, for the mischief done by her in her other state. the curse under which she lives has peculiar laws of its own, of which we just vaguely feel the moral basis. in her character of temptress, while desiring with intensity, in her herodias part, the surrender of the man to whose seduction she applies herself, yet with the other side of her, the side of the penitent, which never quite slumbers, she even more ardently and fundamentally desires his victory over her arts, for, with her own frustration, she would be delivered from her curse, she could die; from the enormous fatigue of centuries of tormented earthly existence, find rest. which is to say, perhaps, that if once more she could meet and look into the eyes of complete strength and purity, see an adequate approach to the christ-spirit shining out of whatsoever eyes, her redemption, so painfully worked toward through centuries of alternate effort and relapse, would be consummated; at that encounter, renewing, or confirming, faith in the existence of perfect goodness, the evil within her, so long vainly fought, would die, and her long trial be at end. so she approaches every new adventure with, under her determined wiles, the hope of failure; and when her subject is still and ever found weak in her hands, experiences despair. and when a hero such as amfortas, undertaken with the undercurrent sense that he perhaps is the unconquerable, whose resistance shall make him her deliverer, vulgarly falls in her arms, the triumph of one side of her nature, and the despair of the other, express themselves in terrible laughter. the fruit of her experience with man is, as it affects the two sides of her, a mixture of sinister cynicism and ineffable pity. "woe! woe!" she laments, at klingsor's mocking mention of amfortas. "weak, he too! weak--all of them! through me, to my curse, all lost as i am lost! oh, eternal sleep, only balm, how, how shall i win you?" one can suppose in this kundry, setting aside all details of personal history, an intended personification of the abstraction--(_namenlose_,--nameless one,) eternal feminine, with, set in the high light, two of her broad traits, the best perhaps and the worst: the passion for serving, tending, protecting, mothering, and the passion for subduing man, proving herself more powerful than the stronger, by remorseless practice upon his point of least strength. this inveterate spirit of seduction it must be which klingsor apostrophises as "most ancient of devils," and "rose of hell." the character of kundry has many aspects, exhibited here and there by a flash, but, when all is said, and before all else, what we are watching is an upward-struggling human soul, whose storm-beaten progress could never move us as it does did we not feel in her simply our sister. we saw her, forspent, crawl into the thicket to sleep. now, klingsor who can command her while in that state, has compelled her to him to accomplish the undoing of parsifal. the idea is to her, all heavy and clogged with sleep, the personality of the _gralsbotin_ still in the ascendant, one of horror only. with wails of protest at having been waked, and lamentation over what is proposed, she refuses to obey, rejecting klingsor's claim to be her master. even when he puts his request in the form of the suggestion: "he who should defy you would set you free. try it then with the boy at hand!" she stubbornly refuses. "he is even now climbing the rampart!" klingsor persists. kundry wrings her hands. "woe! woe! have i waked for this? must i, indeed?... must i?" at which first intimation of weakening, klingsor ceases to press his authority, and adopts a different method of persuasion. climbing to the battlement, he describes the approaching figure: "ha! he is beautiful, the boy!" "oh! oh!" moans kundry, "woe is me!" klingsor blows his horn, to warn the garrison of the palace--the host of the victims of folly, the lost knights--of the approaching enemy. a commotion is heard of arms caught up in haste and of fighting; klingsor from his post follows the contest, with glee in the daring of the beautiful boy, who has snatched the sword from one of his assailants and with it, one against the swarm, is cutting his way through them. kundry, ceasing from her moans, has begun to laugh, and as klingsor continues his report of the skirmish laughs more and more uncontrollably. "they yield, they flee, each of them carries home his wound! ha! how proudly he stands upon the rampart! how the roses bloom and smile in his cheeks, as, in childlike amazement, he gazes down upon the solitary garden! ... hey! kundry!" but with her laughter ending in a scream, kundry has abruptly vanished. "what? already at work?" muses klingsor. "ha ha! i knew the charm which will always bring you back into my service!" then turning his attention once more to the youthful intruder filling his eyes with the unimagined glories of the garden: "you there, fledgling! whatever prophecy may have had to say concerning you, too young and green you have fallen into my power. purity wrested from you, you will become my willing subject!" the tower, with klingsor, vanishes from sight; there lies outspread before us the enchanted garden, glowing, tropical, displaying the last luxuriance of flowers; and we see for ourselves parsifal standing upon the wall, calmly gazing. a swarm of beautiful young creatures, waked by the clash of arms have, even as their lovers turned and fled to cover, rushed forth to discover what is the matter. with confused cries they pour from the palace and, recognising in parsifal the whole of the enemy, assail him with abuse scarcely more unendurable than a pelting with thorny rose-buds. "you there! you there! why did you do us this injury? a curse upon you! a curse upon you!" as parsifal undismayed leaps down into the garden, they fall to twittering like angry sparrows: "ha! you bold thing! do you dare to brave us? why did you beat our beloved?" and the raw boy, acquitting himself rather neatly for such a beginner: "ought i not to have beaten them? they were barring my passage to you!" "you wanted to come to us? had you ever seen us before?" "never had i seen anything so pretty. i speak rightly, do i not, in calling you lovely?" a rapid change takes place in the attitude toward him of the exceedingly pretty persons. they adorn themselves in haste, fantastically, to charm him, with the flowers of the garden; singing a wooing song, of the most melting, persuasive, irresistible, they weave around him, circling as in a child's game of ring-a-rosy, sweeping the heady perfumes of their garlands under his nostrils. they do not appear wholly human, but rather like strange tall-stemmed animated flowers, swaying and jostling in the wind, and whose odor should have turned into music; or, better still, like incarnate emanations from the intoxicating flower-beds of this magical garden of the senses. parsifal stands in their midst, pleased and watchful, fleetingly again like siegfried, with his cheerful calm and poise. "how sweet you smell! ... are you flowers?" they close around him more and more smotheringly, with caresses more and more pressing. he gently pushes them away. "you wild, lovely, crowding flowers! if i am to play with you, let me have room!" as they do not obey, and in addition fall to quarrelling among themselves over him, half-vexed, he repels them and is turning for retreat, when a voice is heard from a blossoming thicket near-by: "parsifal! stay!..." the flowers, startled, at once hold still. the youth stands still, too, struck. _parsifal_.... he remembers that as one of the names his mother had called him by, once, as she lay asleep and dreaming. the voice continues: "here remain, parsifal.... you simple light-o'-loves, depart from him. early withering flowers, he is destined to other things than dalliance with you!" the flock of flowers, reluctantly, lingering as long as they dare, withdraw, their last word one of derision: "you beautiful one! you proud one! you... fool!" with whispered laughter they vanish into the house, and parsifal, in the once more solitary garden, asks himself: "was it all a dream?" for the first time touched with timidity, he turns towards the blossoming bower from which the voice had come. the branches part, and reveal kundry, youthful, gorgeously apparelled and superlatively beautiful, lying upon a flowery bank. "did you mean the name you spoke for me, who have no name?" parsifal asks, standing shyly apart. "i called you, guileless innocent, parsifal.... by this name your father gamuret, expiring in arabian land, called his unborn son. i have sought you here to tell you this...." "never had i seen," sighs parsifal, "never dreamed, such a thing as i now see and am filled with awe!... are you, too, a flower in this garden of flowers?" "no, parsifal. far, far away is my home. i came here only that you might find me. i came from distant lands where i witnessed many things...." with the calm notes of the arch-enchantress, perfectly sure of her power, she unfolds to him the story of his own past further back than he can remember, which is of the things she professes to have ocularly witnessed,--his life with herzeleide; she relates the death of the latter from grief over his loss. she takes him in hand with easy masterliness in the art of reducing a youthful heart. she does not stint to appear to one so boyish much older and very wise. not one discomposing word does she utter about love,--but she brings his heart to a state of fusion by the picture of his mother's sorrowful end, and when, overcome by anguish and remorse, he sinks at her feet with the cry: "what have i done?... sweetest, loveliest mother! your son, your son must bring about your death!..." she gently places her arm about his neck and administers needed comfort: "never before had you known sorrow, and so have not known either the sweetness of consolation. let sorrow and regret be washed away in the consolation proffered to you by love!" but parsifal, the compassionate, cannot so soon be diverted from the rending thought of his mother, and continues despite the fair arm on his neck and the balmy breath in his hair, with his passionate self-reproach: "my mother! i could forget my mother! ha! what else have i forgotten? what, indeed, have i ever remembered? naught but utter folly dwells in me!" kundry again attempts setting him right with himself and offers the cheer: "acknowledgment of your fault will place a term to remorse. consciousness of folly will turn folly into sense...." then, not quite relevantly, "learn to know the love which enfolded gamuret when herzeleide's affection burningly overflowed,..." with the assurance that she who gave him life now sends him as a mother's last blessing the first kiss of love, she bends over him and places her lips upon his in a prolonged wagnerian kiss. the sorcery-motif is heard weaving its unholy snare. of a sudden, with an abruptness as unexpected as it is disconcerting, parsifal tears himself from her embrace, leaps to his feet, and pressing his hands to his heart, as if there were the seat of an intolerable pain, "amfortas!" he cries, staring like one who sees ghosts, "the wound! the wound!..." that has been the effect of her kiss upon his innocence, to give him sudden clairvoyance into her nature, to cast a lightning flash upon the past. he feels himself for a moment identified with amfortas, whom the woman had kissed as she kissed him. amfortas's wound burns in his own side. not only that: the sinful, disorderly, unsubduable passion torturing amfortas, for a moment tortures equally parsifal, whose nature is thrown by it into a horror of self-hatred, and casts itself upon frenzied prayer for deliverance and pardon. pardon, for although this experience can be thought an effect of mysterious insight, parsifal recognises as a crime that he should be in these circumstances at all. he remembers that he had known himself as one marked for a sacred mission. he remembers the vision of the grail, and that the saviour had seemed to speak from it to his inmost soul: "deliver me! save me from sin-polluted hands!" "and i," he groans, "the fool! the coward! i could rush to the insensate exploits of a boy!" kundry has been amazed and somewhat alarmed, but for a moment still, as it appears, has not understood. she leaves her flowery couch and approaches parsifal, where he is kneeling in supplication to the lord of mercy; with soft arts she attempts to reconquer his attention, but with an effect wide of her expectation, for, while she plies him with caresses, he is thinking, and we hear him think: "yes, that voice, even thus it fell upon his ear.... and that glance, i recognise it clearly, which smiled away his peace.... so the lip trembled for him. ... so the throat arched.... so the tresses laughingly gleamed!... so the soft cheek pressed close against his own,... and so, in league with all the sorrows, so her mouth kissed away his soul's salvation!" as if the reinforcements from heaven, which he prayed, had suddenly reached him, he rises in inspired strength, frees himself and thrusts her resolutely from him: "destroyer, away from me! forever and ever away!" from this onward he is a different parsifal, not in the least a boy any more. it is as if in the storm which swept him he had found himself, his anchorage and his strength. and now we gather that kundry really has had an inkling of what is at work in him. she drops at once the fairly simple methods she has up to this used, and, it is not quite clear at first whether still as a mighty huntress, discarding one weapon and taking another better adapted to bring down the quarry, or at last in true earnest, she invokes--pressing, not to be denied--his pity. she reveals--and it is as if beauty and splendour should lift the veil from a hidden ulcer--her strange history, the ancient sin, the curse upon her, the despair that is denied tears and can only voice itself in laughter. "since your heart is capable only of feeling the sorrows of others," she pleads, "feel mine!" in him, as he has become within the hour, she recognises a deliverer, but, illogically, thirsts the more for his love. from this figure with the firm, compassionate eyes and the exalted self-possession, something breathes which associates him to her sense with the figure, sought by her through the centuries, of the derided victim. she feels herself face to face once more with the christ-spirit. but the blind desire of her dual personality is that pardon should wear the form of love. parsifal, with every moment more firmly established in his strength and purpose, replies to her madness with a calm homily,--his theme, how from the springs of passion flow waters of thirst. words of wisdom, eternal truths, drop from the so young lips of the fool. kundry, who has listened in wonder, exclaims: "so it was my kiss which gave you universal vision! the full cup of my love then would make you to a god!" and coming back eagerly to her point: "deliver the world, if such is your mission. if an hour can make you to a god, let me, for that hour, suffer damnation...." "for you, too, sinner, i will find salvation," is parsifal's mild reply. "let me love you in your godlikeness, that shall be salvation for me!" "love and salvation both shall reward you, if you will show me the way to amfortas!" it will have been remarked that kundry in her singular rôle has been playing fair; that, though life for her (which paradoxically is death) depends upon failure, she has put forth her whole strength in the temptation. but it is not at this juncture the penitent who is in the ascendant, it is the evil side of kundry, and at that last request of parsifal's, proving the vanity of her effort, a great anger seizes her: "never!" she cries, "never shall you find him! the fallen king, let him perish! the wretch whom i laughed and laughed and laughed at! ha ha! why--he was wounded with his own spear.... and against yourself," she follows this, "i will call to aid that weapon, if you give that sinner the honour of your pity!" but, at the sound of her own words, her anger dropping: "ah, madness!... pity! on me, do you have pity! one single hour mine... and you shall be shown on your way!" with a renewal of tenderness she attempts to clasp him; but at his abhorrent, "unhappy woman, away!" furious beside all bounds, she falls to shouting for help against him, help to prevent his going. "help! here! hold the audacious one! bar the roads against him! bar the paths!..." then, addressing him in the blaze of her revengeful wrath: "and though you should escape from here--and though you should find all the roads in the world, the road which you seek you shall not find! for all roads and paths which lead you away from me, i place a curse upon them. hopelessly--hopelessly shall you wander and stray!..." at her wild summoning the women have come running into the garden; klingsor has appeared on the threshold, armed with the spear. this, with the words: "the fool shall be transfixed with his master's spear!" he hurls at parsifal. but the spear stands miraculously poised above the youth's head. he grasps it, with a face of ecstasy, and draws in the air a great figure of the cross. "by this sign i dispel your sorceries! as this spear shall close the wound it made, let this lying splendour fall to wreck and desolation!" as if shaken by an earthquake, the palace crumbles to ruin; the garden withers away and turns to a barren waste; like broken and wilted flowers the women are seen bestrewing the ground; kundry falls to earth with a great cry. and parsifal, departing, turns on the ruined wall for a last word to her,--painfully she lifts her head for a last look--"you know where, only, you may see me again!" meaning, we are left to feel, a plane sooner than a place. iii again the domain of the grail, where, on the outskirts of the forest, beside a spring, the old-grown gurnemanz has built himself a hermit's cell. it is long after and much is changed. there is sadness in the air, but it is of an unfretful gentle sort, almost sweet; the sadness of a solitude visited by high thoughts, memories of calamity softened in retrospect, present crosses made supportable by faith and the light cast on the path already of an approaching event which is to mark a new epoch in the life of the order. a sadness in the air and a something holy. it is spring-time and it is good-friday; the trees are in blossom and the meadow at the forest's edge is spotted with new flowers. we are never, through the first part of the act, left unconscious for long of the sweetness of surrounding nature and the hour; it comes like whiffs of perfume, every now and then, reminding us that the earth has renewed herself and the day is holy, until at last these stray intimations have led to a clear and rounded statement in the good-friday charm. forth from his cell comes gurnemanz, to be recognized as a knight of the grail only by the straight under-tunic of the order. he has heard a groan, not to be mistaken for the cry of a hurt animal. as it is repeated, it strikes his ear as a sound known to him of old. anxiously searching among the matted thorn-trees, he discovers kundry, as once before, rigid and to all appearance dead. he chafes and calls and brings her back to consciousness. she is the kundry of the first act, but so changed,--pale with the strained pallor of one lately exorcised; the wildness and roughness all gone out of her face, and in its place a strange rapt fixity; in her bearing an unknown humility. in silence she recovers remembrance of the facts of her existence; mechanically orders her hair and garments, and without a word leaves gurnemanz to set about the work of a servant. as she is moving towards the hut, he asks: "have you no word for me? is this my thanks for having waked you once more out of the sleep of death?" and she brings forth brokenly the last words she is heard to utter: "to serve!... to serve!..." the only need now of her being. "how different her bearing is," gurnemanz muses, "from what it used to be! is it the influence of the holy day?" she brings from the cell a water-jar, and, gazing off into the distance while it fills, sees among the trees some one approaching, to which, by a sign, she calls gurnemanz's attention. he marvels at the figure in sable armour; but we, saddened and slowed as it is, have recognized the parsifal-motif heralding it. the sable knight is faring slowly on his way, with closed helmet, bowed head and lowered spear, unconscious of his observers, until, when he drops on a grassy knoll to rest, gurnemanz greets and addresses him: "have you lost your way? shall i guide you?" receiving no answer to this or the questions which follow, save by signs of the head, he with the bluffness we remember offers a reprimand: "if your vow binds you not to speak to me, my vow obliges me to tell you what is befitting. you are upon a consecrated spot, it is improper here to go in armour, with closed helmet, with shield and spear. and of all days upon this one! do you not know what holy day it is?" the knight gently shakes his head. "among what heathen have you lived, not to be aware that this is the most holy good-friday? lay down, forthwith, your arms! do not offend the lord, who on this day, unarmed in very truth, offered his sacred blood in atonement for the sins of the world!" the knight upon this, still without a word, drives the haft of his spear into the ground, lays down his arms and sinks upon his knees in prayer before the spear. the removal of his helmet has revealed the face of parsifal, but another parsifal, even as kundry is another. the stage-directions have no word concerning it, but it must be in accordance with the custom of bayreuth that the latter parsifal presents a resemblance to the traditional representations of the saviour; the idea being, we must think, to indicate, stamped on the exterior man, this soul's aspiration towards likeness with the divine pattern; or, perhaps, visibly to state that here, too, is a gentle and selfless lover of men, all of whose forces bent on a mission of deliverance. gurnemanz, watching him attentively, recognises the slayer, long ago, of the swan, the stupid boy whom he had turned out of the temple. then he recognises, too, the spear. parsifal, rising from his prayer, gazes quietly around him and recognises gurnemanz. to the question of the latter, how and whence he comes, he replies: "i am come by ways of wandering and pain. can i believe myself at last delivered from them, since i hear once more the rustle of this forest, and behold you, worthy elder? or am i still baffled in my search for the right road? everything looks changed...." "what road is it you seek?" gurnemanz inquires. "the road to him whose profound wail i heard of yore in wondering stupidity, and the instrument of whose healing i now dare believe myself elected to be...." all this long time he has vainly sought the road back to the grail, whether hindered by kundry's curse, or cut off by some stain left upon his nature from his brief hour in the deadly garden, which must be cleansed by such prolonged ordeal. he relates the desperate battle in all his wanderings to keep safe the sacred spear,--which, behold, he is now bringing home! gurnemanz's joy bursts forth unbounded. then he, too, makes his friend even over the past. since the day of his presence among them, the trouble then revealed to him has increased to the last point of distress. amfortas, revolting against the torments of his soul, and desiring naught but death, refuses to perform the office of the grail, by which his life would be prolonged. the knights, deprived of their heavenly nourishment, deprived of a leader, have lost their old strength and courage. they seek their sustenance of herbs and roots, like the animals, in the forest. no longer are they called to holy warfare in distant lands. titurel, unrenewed by the vision of the grail, is dead.... at the relation of these mournful events, grief assails parsifal, who holds himself responsible for all this wretchedness, by reason of his long-delayed return, which he must regard as a consequence of sins and folly of his own,--grief beyond what the human frame is fitted to endure, and he is again swooning, as at the evil news in the first act. kundry hurries with water from the cell, but gurnemanz stops her; he has in thought larger purifications for the pilgrim in whom his prophetic mind discerns one ordained to fulfill this very day a sacred office. "so let him be made clean of all stain, let the dust be washed from him of his long wandering." they ease him upon the moss beside the consecrated spring, remove his greaves and coat of mail. as he revives a little, he asks faintly: "shall i be taken to-day to amfortas?" gurnemanz assures him that he shall, for on this day the burial of titurel takes place, which gurnemanz must attend, and amfortas has pledged himself, in honour of his father, to uncover once more the grail. kundry during this, on her knees, has been bathing the pilgrim's feet. he watches her, at her devoted lowly task, in wonder: "you have washed my feet," he speaks; "let now the friend pour water on my head!" gurnemanz obeys, besprinkling him with a baptismal intention. kundry takes from her bosom a golden phial, and, having poured ointment on his feet, dries them, in the custom of the day when she was herodias, with her long hair; by this repetition of a famous act intending perhaps to signify that she is a sinner and that he has raised her from sin. "you have anointed my feet," speaks parsifal again; "let now the brother-at-arms of titurel anoint my head, for on this day he shall hail me as king." whereupon gurnemanz anoints him as king. kundry has been gazing with a devout hushed face. there is no sign that he recognises her, but, as if his soul recognised some quality of her soul, as if some need in her called to him, he dips water from the sacred well and sprinkles her head: "my first ministration shall be this: i baptize thee! have faith in the redeemer!" and kundry, the curse being lifted which had dried up in her the fountain of tears, bows to the earth abundantly weeping. at this point it is that the vague waftures of sweetness which have been fitfully soliciting us all through these scenes, concentrate themselves and make their call irresistible. parsifal becomes aware of it. with his sense of the absolution from sin for both of them, in baptism, invaded by deep peace, he gazes around him in soft enchantment: "how more than usual lovely the meadows appear to me to-day! true, i have known wonder-flowers, clasping me with eager tendrils so high as my head; but never had i seen blades, blossoms, flowers, so mild and tender, nor ever did, to my sense, all nature give forth a fragrance so innocently sweet, or speak to me with such amiable confidence!" "that," explains gurnemanz, "is good-friday's charm...." "alas!" wails parsifal, "that day of supreme agony! ought not on this day everything which blooms and breathes to be steeped in mourning and tears?" "you see," replies gurnemanz, "that it is not so. they are the sinners' tears of repentance which today bathe meadow and plain with a holy dew; that is why they look so fresh and fair. to-day all created things rejoice upon the earth once trodden by the saviour's feet, and wish to offer him their prayers. beyond them it is to see him upon the cross, wherefore they turn their eyes to redeemed man. man feels himself delivered from the burden and terror of sin, through god's sacrifice of love made clean and whole. the grasses and flowers become aware of this, they mark that on this day the foot of man spares to trample them, that, even as god with a heavenly patience bears with man and once suffered for his sake, man in pious tribute treads softly to avoid crushing them. all creation gives thanks for this, all the short-lived things that bloom; for to-day all nature, absolved from sin, regains her day of innocence." the exquisiteness of this passage, the good-friday spell (_charfreitag's zauber_), can hardly be conveyed; if one says the music is worthy of the theme, one has but given a hint of the overearthly quality of its sweetness. kundry has slowly raised her head and fixed upon parsifal her prayerful wet eyes. either from his recent contemplation of the flowery lea, or some occult association of her personality with the past, the flowers of klingsor's garden come into his mind. "i saw them wither who had smiled on me. may they not also be hungering for redemption now?... your tears, too, are turned to blessed dew.... you weep, and see, the meadow blooms in joy!" he stoops and kisses her gently upon the forehead. bells are heard summoning the knights to the castle. gurnemanz brings from the cell the mantle of a knight of the grail, and places it upon parsifal's shoulders. parsifal grasps the spear, and the three vanish from sight among the trees. again, but from the opposite direction, we approach the castle; the sound of bells increases as we pass through the granite portal and the vaulted corridors. we are once more in the domed hall. all is as we left it, save for the tables, which, become useless, are no longer there. again the doors open at the back and from each issues forth a company of knights, the one bearing the bier of titurel, the other carrying the litter of amfortas and the shrine of the grail, while they chant, in question and response, a song of reproachful tenor. "whom do you bring, with tokens of mourning, in the dark casket?" "the funereal casket holds the hero into whose charge the very god entrusted himself. titurel we bring." "who slew him, whom god himself held in his care?" "the killing burden of age slew him, when he no longer might behold the grail." "who prevented him from beholding the glory of the grail?" "he whom you carry, the sinful keeper." the latter they now urge to fulfill his promise of exposing the grail, and, deeply moved by the sight of his father's face and the outburst of lamentation which follows the folding back of the pall from it, he appears on the point of satisfying them; but, as in their eagerness they hem him around with injunctions almost threatening, he is seized with a revulsion once more against the task imposed on him. he springs from his high seat and stands among them begging that rather they will kill him. "already i feel the night of death closing around me, and must i be forced back into life? you demented! who shall compel me to live? death alone it is in your power to give!" he tears open his garment and offers his breast. "forward, heroes! slay the sinner with his affliction! the grail perchance will glow for you then of itself!" but the knights shrink away. then it is that parsifal, who with gurnemanz and kundry has entered unnoticed, advances and with the point of the sacred spear touches amfortas's wound. "one weapon alone avails. the wound can be closed only by the spear which made it. be whole, pardoned and absolved, for i now hold the office in your stead!" amfortas's countenance of holy ecstasy proclaims the instant virtue of the remedy. as parsifal holds up to the enraptured gaze of the knights the spear which he has brought back to them, the parsifal-motif is heard again, for the last time, triumphant, broad, and glorious. he proceeds to perform the rite which had been the duty of amfortas. a glory rains upon the altar. at the glowing of the grail, titurel, returning for a moment to life, lifts himself on his bier with a gesture of benediction. as parsifal moves the chalice softly above the kneeling assembly, a white dove descends from on high and floats above his head. kundry, with her eyes turned toward all these luminous things, sinks softly upon the altar-steps, the life-giving grail having given her life too, in the form of desired death. with the interwoven grail and faith and spear music letting down as if a curtain of silver and azure and gold, the poem closes. one has heard it objected, as at least strange, that when the search after knowledge is so unquestionably meritorious, and study, as we count it, one of the conditions of progress, and learning a lamp to our feet, an ideal should be made of total ignorance, such as parsifal's. but surely the point is a different one. the point is not parsifal's ignorance--except, perhaps, in so far as it made for innocence--but the qualities which he possessed, and which one may possess, in spite of ignorance. it is a comparison of values which is established. through the object-lesson of parsifal, wagner is saying, after his fashion and inversely, what saint paul says: "though i speak with the tongues of men and angels,... though i have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge,... and have not charity, i am nothing;... it availeth me nothing." the supremacy of charity, love of others, is the point illustrated. one tributary to the mighty stream of our interest in the opera of parsifal has its spring in the date of its appearance. it comes as the poet's last word. what a procession of heroes has passed before us--beautiful, brave, romantic,--how fit, every one, to capture the imagination! towering a little above the rest, siegfried, the _uebermensch_, the overman. but finally, with the effect of a conclusion reached, a judgement, the hero whose heroism differs in quality from that of the others, the lowly of heart, whose dominant trait is _mitleid_, compassion, sympathy with the woes of others, who pities swans and women and the sinful and the suffering, and gives his strength to helping them, and sanctifies himself for their sake. the rhine-gold the rhine-gold in the beginning was the gold,--beautiful, resplendent, its obvious and simple part to reflect sunlight and be a joy to the eyes; containing, however, apparently of its very nature, the following mysterious quality: a ring fashioned from it would endow its possessor with what is vaunted as immeasurable power, and make him master of the world. this power shows itself afterwards undefined in some directions and circumscribed in others, one never fully grasps its law; one plain point of it, however, was to subject to the owner of the ring certain inferior peoples and reveal to him the treasures hidden in the earth, which he could force his thralls to mine and forge and so shape that they might be used to buy and subject the superior peoples, thus making him actually, if successful in corruption, master of the world. but this ring could by no possibility be fashioned except by one who should have utterly renounced love. for these things no reason is given: they were, like the word. one feels an allegory. as the poem unfolds, one is often conscious of it. it is well to hold the thread of it lightly and let it slip as soon as it becomes puzzling, settling down contentedly in the joy of simple story. the author himself, very much a poet, must be supposed to have done something of the sort. he does not follow to any trite conclusion the thought he has started, he has small care for minor consistencies. large-mindedly he drops what has become inconvenient, and prefers simply beauty, interest, the story. thus his personages have a body, and awaken sympathies which would hardly attach to purely allegorical figures; a charm of livingness invests the world he has created. the gold's home was in the rhine, at the summit of a high, pointed rock, where it caught the beams of the sun and shed them down through the waves, brightening the dim water-world, gladdening the water-folk. that was its sole use, but for thus making golden daylight in the deep it was worshipped, besung, called adoring names, by nixies swimming around it in a sort of joyous rite. the mysterious potentiality of the gold was known to the rhine-god; three of his daughters had been instructed by him, and detailed to guard the treasure. some faculty of divination warned him of danger to it, and of the quarter from whence this danger threatened. but nixies--even when burdened by cares of state--are just nixies; those three seem to have lived to laugh before all else--to laugh and chase one another and play in the cool green element, singing all the while a fluent, cradling song whose sweetness might well allure boatmen and bathers. below the rhine lay nibelheim, the kingdom of mists and night, the home of the nibelungs,--dark gnomes, dwarfs, living in the bowels of the earth, digging its metals, excelling in cunning as smiths. the rhine did not continue flowing water quite down to its bed; the boundary-line of nibelheim seems to have been just above it; the water there turned to fine mist; among the rough rocks of the river-bed were passages down into the under-world. up through one of these, one day before sunrise, while the rhine was melodiously thundering in its majestic course--they are the rhine-motifs which open the piece,--came clambering, by some chance, the nibelung alberich. his night-accustomed eyes, as he blinked upward into the green light, were caught by a silvery glinting of scales, flashes of flesh-pink and floating hair. the rhine-maidens, guardians of the gold, were frolicking around it; but this did not appear, for the sun had not yet risen to wake it into radiance. the dwarf saw just a shimmering of young forms, was touched with a natural desire, and called to them, asking them to come down to him, and let him join in their play. at the sound of the strange voice and the sight of the strange figure, flosshilde, a shade more sensible than her sisters, cries out to them: "look to the gold! father warned us of an enemy of the sort!" and the three rally quickly around the treasure. but it soon appears that the stranger is but a dark, small, hairy, ugly, harmless-seeming, amorous creature, uttering his wishes very simply. the watch over the gold is relinquished, and a little amusement sought in tantalizing and befooling the clumsy wooer. alberich, later a figure touched with terror and followed with dislike, is likeable in this scene, almost gentle, one's sympathies come near being with him. the music describes him awkward and heavy, slipping on the rocks, sneezing in the wet; a note of protest is frequent in his voice. all the music relating to him, now or later, is joyless, whatever beside it may be. the sisters have their fun with the poor gnome, whose innocence of nixies' ways is apparent in the long time it is before all reliance in their good faith leaves him. woglinde invites him nearer. with difficulty he climbs the slippery rocks to reach her. when he can nearly touch her--he is saying, "be my sweetheart, womanly child!"--she darts from him. and the sisters laugh their delicious inhuman laugh. woglinde then plunges to the river-bed, calling to alberich, "come down! here you surely can grasp me!" he owns it will be easier for him down there, and lets himself down, when the sprite rises, light as a bubble, to the surface. he is calling her an impudent fish and a deceitful young lady, when wellgunde sighs, "thou beautiful one!" he turns quickly, inquiring naïvely, "do you mean me?" she says, "have nothing to do with woglinde. turn sooner to me!" he is but too willing, vows that he thinks her much the more beautiful and gleaming, and prays she will come further down. she stops short of arm's-length. he pours forth his elementary passion. she feigns a wish to see her handsome gallant more closely. after a brief comedy of scanning his face, with insulting promptness she appears to change her mind, and with the unkindest descriptive terms slipping from his grasp swims away. and again rings the chorus of malicious musical laughter. then the cruellest of the three, flosshilde, takes the poor swain in hand. she not only comes down, she allows herself to be held, she wreathes her slender arms around him, presses him tenderly and flatters him in music well calculated to daze with delight. he is not warned by her words, as, while they sit embraced, she says, "thy piercing glance, thy stubborn beard, might i see the one, feel the other, forever! the rough locks of thy prickly hair, might they forever flow around flosshilde! thy toad's shape, thy croaking voice, oh, might i, wondering and mute, see and hear them exclusively for ever!" it is the sudden mocking laughter of the two listening sisters which draws him from his dream--when flosshilde slips from his hold, and the three again swim merrily around, and laugh, and when his angry wail rises call down to him to be ashamed of himself! but not even then do they let him rest; they hold forth new hopes, inviting and exciting him to chase them, till fairly aflame with love and wrath he begins a mad pursuit, climbing, slipping, falling to the foot of the rocks, starting upwards again, clutching at this one and that, still eluded with ironical laughter, until, realizing his impotence, breathless and quaking with rage, he shakes his clenched hand at them, foaming, "let me catch one with this fist!" he is glaring upward at them, speechless with fury, when his eyes become fixed upon a brilliant point, growing in size and radiance until the whole flood is illumined. there is an exquisite hush of a moment. the sun has risen and kindled its reflection in the gold. the music describes better than words the spreading of tremulous light down through the deep. through the wavering ripples of water and light cuts the bright call of the gold, the call to wake up and behold. again and again it rings, regularly a golden voice. the rhine-daughters have quickly forgotten their victim. they begin their blissful circumswimming of their idol, with a song in ecstatic celebration of it, so penetratingly, joyously sweet, that you readily forgive them their naughtiness: "rhine-gold! rhine-gold! luminous joy! how laugh'st thou so bright and clear!"... alberich cannot detach his eyes from the vision. "what is it, you sleek ones," he asks in awed curiosity, "glancing and gleaming up there?" "now where have you barbarian lived," they reply, "never to have heard of the rhine-gold?" they mock his ignorance; returning to their teasing mood, they invite him to come and revel with them in the streaming light. "if it is no good save for you to swim around, it is of small use to me!" is alberich's dejected observation. as if their treasure had been disparaged, woglinde informs him that he would hardly despise the gold if he knew all of its wonder! and wellgunde follows this part-revelation with the whole secret: the whole world would be his inheritance who should fashion out of the rhine-gold a magic ring. vainly flosshilde tries to silence her sisters. wellgunde and woglinde laugh at her prudence, reminding her of the gold's assured safety in view of the condition attached to the creation of the ring. this is described in a solemn phrase, serious as the pronouncing of a vow: "only he who forswears the power of love, only he who casts from him the joys of love, can learn the spell by which the gold may be forced into a ring."--wherefore, they hold, the gold is safe, "for all that lives wishes to love, no one will give up love," least of all this nibelung, the heat of whose sentiments had come near scorching them! and they laugh and swim around the gold with their light-hearted wallalaleia, diversified with mocking personalities to the gnome down in the gloom. but they have miscalculated. without suspecting it, they have gone too far. the dwarf stands staring at the gold, dreaming what it would be to own the world. he is hardly at that moment, thanks to them, in love with love. his resolution is suddenly taken. he springs to the rock, shouting: "mock on! mock on! the nibelung is coming!" with fearful activity, hate-inspired strength, he rapidly climbs the rock on which he had so slipped and floundered before. the foolish nymphs, though they see his approach, are still far from understanding. they still believe it is themselves he seeks to seize. they now not only laugh--they laugh, as the stage-directions have it, "_im tollsten uebermuth_," the craziest towering insolence of high spirits. "save yourselves, the gnome is raving! he has gone mad with love!" he has reached the summit of the rock, he has laid hands on the gold. he cries, "you shall make love in the dark!... i quench your light, i tear your gold from the reef. i shall forge me the ring of vengeance, for, let the flood hear me declare it: i here curse love!" tearing from its socket their splendid lamp, which utters just once its golden cry, all distorted and lamentable, he plunges with it into the depths, leaving sudden night over the scene in which the wild sisters, shocked at last into sobriety, with cries of help and woe start in pursuit of the robber. his harsh laugh of triumph drifts back from the caves of nibelheim. then occurs a gradual transformation-scene both to the eye and the ear. the rocks disappear, black waves flow past, the whole all the while appearing to sink. clouds succeed the water, mist the clouds. this finally clears, revealing a calm and lovely scene on the mountain-heights. the music has during this been painting the change, too: sounds of running water, above which hovers a moment, a memory of the scene just past and a foreboding of its sorrowful consequences, the strain signifying the renunciation of love; when this dies away, the motif of the ring, to be heard so many times after, its fateful character plainly conveyed by the notes, which also literally describe its circular form. by what magic of modulation the uninitiated cannot discern, the ring-motif, as the water by degrees is translated into mist, slides by subtle changes into a motif which seems, when it is reached, conspicuously different from it, the motif of the gods' abode. there in the distance it stands, when the mists have perfectly cleared, bathed in fresh morning light, the tall just-completed castle, with shimmering battlements, crowning a high rocky mountain, at whose base, far down out of sight, flows the rhine. for the rhine is the centre of the world we are occupied with: under it, the nibelungs; above it, the gods; beside it, the giants and the insignificant human race. the music itself here, while the dwelling of the gods is coming into sight, seems to build a castle: story above story it rises, topped with gleaming pinnacles, one, lighter and taller than all the rest, piercing the clouds. in the foreground lie sleeping side by side, on a flowery bank, the god and goddess wotan and fricka. he lies dreaming happily of the abode from which the world is to be commanded by him, to the display of immeasurable power and his eternal honour. his wife's sleep is less easy. for the situation is not as free from complications as his untroubled slumbers might lead one to suppose. wotan has employed to build him this stronghold the giants fasolt and fafner, formerly his enemies, but bound to peace by treaties, and has promised them the reward stipulated for, freia, goddess of beauty and youth, sister of fricka. and this he has done without any serious thought of keeping his word. "_nie sann es ernstlich mein sinn_," he assures fricka, when, starting in dismay from her sleep and beholding the completed burg, she reminds him that the time is come for payment, and asks what shall they do. loge, he enlightens her, counselled the compact and promised to find the means of evading it. he relies upon him to do so. this calm frankness in the god, with its effect of personal clearness from all sense of guilt, suggests the measure of wotan's distinguishing simplicity. referring later to the dubious act which so effectually laid the foundation of sorrows, he says, "unknowingly deceitful, i practised untruth. loge artfully tempted me." he explains himself to fricka, when she asks why he continues to trust the crafty loge, who has often already brought them into straits: "where frank courage is sufficient, i ask counsel of no one. but slyness and cunning are needed to turn to advantage the ill-will of adversaries, and that is the talent of loge." strong and calm is wotan; music of might and august beauty, large music, supports everyone of his utterances. there is no departure from this, even when his signal fallibility is in question. waftures of walhalla most commonly accompany his steps; the close of his speech is frequently marked by the sturdy motif of his spear, the spear inseparable from him, cut by him from the world-ash, carved with runes establishing the bindingness of compacts, by aid of which he had conquered the world, subdued the giants, the nibelungs, and loge, the spirit of fire. athirst for power he is, before all: in this trait lie the original seeds of his destruction; it is for the sake of the tokens of power, the castle and later the ring, that he commits the injustices which bring about ruin. athirst, too, for wisdom: he has given one of his eyes for wisdom, in the person of fricka, who combines in herself law and order and domestic virtue. and athirst for love,--something of a grievance to fricka. "_ehr ich die frauen doch mehr als dich freut_," "i honour women more than pleases you," he retorts to her reproach of contempt for woman's love and worth, evidenced in his light ceding of freia. he calls himself and all call him a god, adding "eternal" even when the gods' end is glaringly at hand. the other gods look to him as chief among them. but he is ever acknowledging the existence of something outside and above himself, a law, a moral necessity, which it is no use to contend against; through which, do what he may, disaster finally overtakes him for having tried to disregard it. there is a stray hint from him that the world is his very possession and that he could at will destroy it; but this which so many facts contradict we may regard as a dream. yet he feels toward the world most certainly a responsibility, such as a sovereign's toward his people; a duty, part of which is that for its sake he must not allow his spear to be dishonoured. compacts it must sacredly guard. all his personal troubles come from this necessity, this constant check to him: he must respect covenants, his spear stands for their integrity. alberich in a bitter discussion declares his knowledge of where the god is weak, and reminds him that if he should break a covenant sanctioned by the spear in his hand, this, the symbol of his power, would split into spray! he is perhaps best understood, on the whole, with his remorse and despair, the tortures of his heart and his struggle with his soul, if one can conceive him as a sort of sublimated aristocrat; a resplendent great personage--just imaginable in the dawn of history, when there were giants upon earth--lifted far above the ordinary of the race by superior gifts, "reigning through beauty," as fasolt describes; possessing faculties not shared by common mortals, but these rudimentary or else in their decline: the power of divination, not always accurate or clear; the power of miracle, not altogether to be relied upon; remaining young indefinitely, yet not wholly enfranchised from time and circumstance; living indefinitely, but recognising himself as perishable, and passing at last, swallowed in twilight. a great warrior and leader of heroes, inciter of men to bold actions and novel flights; some of his titles: father of hosts, father of battles, father of victory; riding in the storm-clouds on his _luft-ross_, his air-horse, whose hoof-beats and neigh fill us with excited delight. but his air-horse cannot overtake brünnhilde's air-horse, in his pursuit of her, and grane reaching the goal falls exhausted.... a great reveller: reference is repeatedly made to the light-minded, light-hearted, careless humour of the gods, their glorious feasts and joyous life in the light up there. their tribe is qualified as "laughing." wotan's unshakable dignity indeed does not prevent a quick easy laugh. and he shows the true aristocratic temper in being little moved by the sorrows of those beneath and unrelated to him: one of his laughs, which we witness, is for the howls of a poor wee dwarf who had been savagely beaten. and so this powerful clan-chief had had a fancy for a house to live in worthy of their greatness. fricka had fallen in with his desire, but for reasons of her own. to him the citadel was a fresh addition to his power. but fricka had been "_um des gatten treu' besorgt_," "ill at ease with regard to her consort's fidelity," and had thought the beautiful dwelling might keep him at home. with her words, "_herrliche wohnung, wonniger hausrath_," "beautiful dwelling, delectable household order," first occurs the winning strain which afterward stands for fricka in her love of domesticity, or, separate from her, for the pure charm of home. when the giants, however, had been subsidised for the great work of building the house, the narrow-conscienced women had been kept out of the way while an agreement was reached with the builders; a grievance which fricka remembers, and does not let her spouse forget, when the evil consequences of his act are upon them. fricka constitutes something of a living reproach to her husband, though a certain tender regard still exists between them through the introductory opera. a thankless part is fricka's, like that of reason in opposition to feeling and genius. now loge, who had been tamed by the conquering spear, hated his tamer. he craved back his liberty, and, as the norn tells us later in _goetterdaemmerung_, "tried to free himself by gnawing at the runes on the shaft of the spear." he gave counsel to wotan which followed must create difficulties from which the god could deliver himself only by an injustice; and this injustice loge seems clearly to have recognised from the first as the beginning of the end of the strength of the gods. the subtle loge is more widely awake than wotan to the "power not ourselves which makes for righteousness." he counselled him to buy the giants' labor by the promise of freia, knowing that the gods could never endure to let the amiable goddess go. he led them to believe that when the time came he would give them further counsel by which to retain her. and his word wotan chose to trust, and gave his heart over to the untroubled enjoyment of his plans' completion. and now freia comes running to him in terror, crying that one of the giants has told her he is come to fetch her. with her entrance we first hear the slender sweet phrase, delicately wandering upward, which after for a time denoting freia, comes to mean for us just beauty. wotan calms the maiden in distress, and asks, as one fancies, a little uneasily, "have you seen nothing of loge?" the arrival of the giants is one of the great comedy moments of the play. their colossally heavy tread, musically rendered, never fails to call forth laughter from some corner in us of left-over childhood. it is like the ogre's fee-faw-fum. fasolt is a good giant, his shaggy hair is blond, his fur-tunic white, and his soft big heart all given over to the touchingly lovely freia. fafner is a bad giant and his hair and furs are black. he is much cleverer than his brother. they carry as walking-sticks the trunks of trees. they make it known that they have come for their wages. wotan bids them, with a sturdy aplomb worthy of his godhead, state their wishes. what shall the wages be? fasolt, a shade astonished, replies, "that, of course, which we settled upon. haye you forgotten so soon? freia.... it is in the bond that she shall follow us home." "have you taken leave of your senses... with you bond?" asks wotan, with a quick flash. "you must think of a different recompense. freia is far too precious to me." the giant is for a moment still, unable to speak for indignation; but recovering his voice he makes to the "son of light" a series of observations eminently to the point. wotan to these makes no more retort than as if the words had not been spoken; but--to gain time till loge shall arrive--when the giant has quite finished, he inquires, "what, after all, can the charm of the amiable goddess signify to you clumsy boors?" fasolt enlarges, "you, reigning through beauty, shimmering lightsome race, lightly you offer to barter for stone towers woman's loveliness. we simpletons labour with toil-hardened hands to earn a sweet woman who shall dwell with us poor devils.... and you mean to call the bargain naught?..." fafner gloomily checks him: words will not help them. and the possession of freia in itself is to his mind of little account. but of great account to take her from the gods. in her garden grow golden apples, she alone has the art of tending these. eating this fruit maintains her kinsmen in unwaning youth. were freia removed, they must age and fade. wherefore let freia be seized! wotan frets underbreath, "loge is long acoming!" freia's cries, as the giants lay hands upon her, bring her brothers donner and froh--the god of thunder and the god of the fields--quickly to her side. a combat between them and the giants is imminent, when wotan parts the antagonists with his spear, "nothing by violence!" and he adds, what it might be thought he had lost sight of, "my spear is the protector of bargains!" and then finally, finally, comes in sight loge. wotan lets out his breath in relief: "loge at last!" the music has introduced loge by a note-painting as of fire climbing up swiftly through airiest fuel. there is a quick flash or two, like darting tongues of flame. a combination of swirling and bickering and pulsating composes the commonest loge-motif, but the variety is endless of the fire's caprices. fantastical, cheery, and light it is mostly, sinister sometimes, suggestive of treachery, but terrible never; its beauty rather than its terror is reproduced. so characteristic are the fire-motifs that after a single hearing a person instinctively when one occurs looks for some sign or suggestion of loge. he stands now upon the rock, a vivid, charming, disquieting apparition, with his wild red hair and fluttering scarlet cloak. the arch-hypocrite wears always a consummately artless air. he comes near winning us by a bright perfect good-humour, which is as of the quality of an intelligence without a heart. the love of mischief for its own sake, which is one of his chief traits, might be thought to account easily for his many enemies. he is related to the gods, a half-god, but is regarded coldly by his kin. wotan is his single friend in the family, and with wotan he preserves the attitude of a self-acknowledged underling. he stands in fear of his immediate strength, while nourishing a hardly disguised contempt for his wit, as well as that of his cousins collectively. a secret hater of them all, and clear-minded in estimating them. a touch of mephistophelian there is in the pleasure which he seems to find in the contemplation of the canker-spot in wotan's nature, drawing from the god over and over again, as if the admission refreshed him, that he has no intention of dealing justly toward the rhine-maidens. "is this your manner of hastening to set aright the evil bargain concluded by you?" wotan chides, as he appears from the valley. "how? what bargain concluded by me?..." pinned down to accounting for himself, "i promised," he says, "to think over the matter, and try to find means of loosing you from the bargain.... but how should i have promised to perform the impossible?" under the pressure of all their angers, he finally airily delivers himself: "having at heart to help you, i travelled the world over, visiting its most recondite corners, in search of such a substitute for freia as might be found acceptable to the giants. vainly i sought, and now at last i plainly see that nothing upon this earth is so precious that it can take the place in man's affection of the loveliness and worth of woman." struck and uplifted by this thought, the gods, moved, look in one another's faces, and the music expresses the sweet expansion of the heart overflowing with thoughts of beauty and love. it is one of the memorable moments of the prologue. "everywhere," proceeds loge, "far as life reaches, in water, earth, and air, wherever is quickening of germs and stirring of nature's forces, i investigated and inquired what there might be in existence that a man should hold dearer than woman's beauty and worth? everywhere my inquiry was met with derision. no creature, in water, earth, or air, is willing to renounce love and woman." as he pauses, the gods again gaze at one another, with tender tearful smiles, in an exalted emotion over the recognition of this touching truth; and the music reexpresses that blissful expansion of the heart. "only one did i see," loge says further--the light fading out of the music--"who had renounced love; for red gold he had forsworn the favor of woman." he relates alberich's theft of the gold, as it had been told him by the rhine-daughters, who had made him their advocate with wotan, to procure its restitution. but their plea meets with a deaf ear. "you are stupid, indeed, if not perverse," the god answers loge, when he delivers their appeal. "you find me in straits myself, how should i help others?" the giants have been listening to this talk about alberich, an ancient enemy of theirs. the cleverer brother asks loge, "what great advantage is involved in the possession of the gold, that the nibelung should find it all-sufficient?" loge explains. there drift back to wotan's memory runes of the ring, and the thought readily arises that it would be well he possessed the ring himself. "but how, loge, should i learn the art to shape it?" at the reply that he who would practise the magic by which it could be shaped must renounce love, the god turns away in conclusive disrelish. loge informs him that he would in any case have been too late: alberich has already successfully forged the ring. this alters the face of things. "but if he possesses a ring of such power," says simple donner, "it must be taken from him, lest he bring us all under its compulsion!" wotan hesitates no more. "the ring i must have!" "yes, now, as long as love need not be renounced, it will be easy to obtain it," says simple froh. "easy as mocking--child's-play!" sneers loge. "then do you tell us, how?..." wotan's fine majestic simplicity has no false pride. the serpent gleefully replies, "by theft! what a thief stole, you steal from the thief! could anything be easier? only, alberich is on his guard, you will have to proceed craftily if you would overreach the robber... in order to return their treasure to the rhine-daughters, who earnestly entreat you." "the rhine-daughters?" chafes wotan. "what do you trouble me with them?" and the goddess of wisdom,--more sympathetic on the whole in this exhibition of weakness than in her hard justice later--exposing the core of her feminine being, breaks in: "i wish to hear nothing whatever of that watery brood. many a man, greatly to my vexation, have they lured under while he was bathing, with promises of love." the giants have been listening and have taken counsel together. fafner now approaches wotan. "hear, wotan.... keep freia.... we have fixed upon a lesser reward. we will take in her stead the nibelung's gold." wotan comes near losing his temper. "what i do not own, i shall bestow upon you shameless louts?" fafner expresses a perfect confidence in wotan's equipment for obtaining the gold. "for you i shall go to this trouble?" rails the irritated god, "for you i shall circumvent this enemy? out of all measure impudent and rapacious my gratitude has made you clowns!..." fasolt who has only half-heartedly accepted his brother's decision in favor of the gold, stays to hear no more, but seizes freia. with a warning that she shall be regarded as a hostage till evening, but that if when they return the rhinegold is not on the spot as her ransom, they will keep her forever, the giants hurry her off. her cry for help rings back. her brothers, in the act of rushing to the rescue, look at wotan for his sanction. no encouragement is to be gathered from his face. he stands motionless, steeped in perplexity, in conflict with himself. loge has now a few moments' pure enjoyment in safely tormenting his superiors. he stands, with his fresh, ingenuous air, on a point overlooking the valley, and describes the giants' progress, as does the music, too. "not happy is freia, hanging on the back of the rough ones as they wade through the rhine...." her dejected kindred wince. the heavy footsteps die away. loge returning his attention to the gods, voices his amazement at the sight which meets him: "am i deceived by a mist? am i misled by a dream? how wan and fearful and faded you do look! the glow is dead in your cheeks, the lightening quenched in your glances. froh, it is still early morning! donner, you are dropping your hammer! what ails fricka? is it chagrin to see the greyness of age creeping over wotan?" sounds of woe burst from all, save wotan, who with his eyes on the ground still stands absorbed in gloomy musing. the solution of the puzzle suddenly, as he feigns, flashes upon loge: this is the result of freia's leaving them! they had not yet that morning tasted her apples. now, of necessity, those golden apples of youth in her garden, which she alone could cultivate, will decay and drop. "myself," he says, "i shall be less inconvenienced than you, because she was ever grudging to me of the exquisite fruit, for i am only half of as good lineage as you, resplendent ones. on the other hand, you depended wholly upon the rejuvenating apples; the giants knew that and are plainly practising against your lives. now bethink yourselves how to provide against this. without the apples, old and grey, a mock to the whole world, the dynasty of the gods must perish!" with sudden resolution, wotan starts from his dark study. "up, loge! down with me to nibelheim! i will conquer the gold!" "the rhine-daughters, then," speaks wicked loge, "may look to have their prayer granted?" wotan harshly silences him. "be still, chatterer!... freia the good, freia must be ransomed!" loge drops the subject and offers his services as guide. "shall we descend through the rhine?" the rhine, with its infesting nymphs?... "not through the rhine!" says wotan. "then through the sulphur-cleft slip down with me!" and loge vanishes down a cleft in the rock, through which wotan, after bidding his family wait for him where they are until evening, follows. thick vapour pours forth from the sulphur-cleft, dimming and shortly blotting out the scene. we are travelling downward into the earth. a dull red glow gradually tinges the vapour. sounds of diminutive hammers upon anvils become distinct. the orchestra takes up their suggestion and turns it into a simple monotonous strongly rhythmical air--never long silent in this scene--which comes to mean for us the little toiling nibelungs, the cunning smiths. a great rocky subterranean cave running off on every side into rough shafts, is at last clearly visible, lighted by the ruddy reflection of forge-fires. this is where alberich reigns and by the power of the ring compels his enslaved brothers to labour for him. renouncing love has not been good for the disposition of alberich. it is not only the insatiable lust of gold and power now darkening the soul-face of the earlier fairly gentle-natured nibelung, it is a savage gloating cruelty, bespeaking one unnaturally loveless; it is a sanguinary hatred, too, of all who still can love, of love itself, a thirst and determination to see it completely done away with in the world, exterminated--a sort of fallen angel's sin against the holy ghost. a state, beneath the incessant excitement of slave-driving and treasure-amassing, of inexpressible unhappiness, lightened by moments of huge exaltation in the sense of his new power. we find him, when the cavern glimmers into sight, brutally handling his crumb of a gnome brother. mime, like alberich, wins some part of our heart on first acquaintance, which he later ceases to deserve; but in the case of mime i think it is never wholly withdrawn, even when he is shown to be an unmitigated wretch; he is, to begin with, so little, and he has a funny, fetching twist or quaver in his voice, indicated by the notes themselves of his rather mean little sing-song melodies. alberich's nominal reason for indulging his present passion for hurting--he is haling mime by the ear--is that the latter is overslow with certain piece of work which, with minute instructions, he has been ordered to do. mime, under pressure, produces the article, which he had in truth been trying to keep for his own, suspecting in it some mysterious value. it is the _tarnhelm_, a curious cap of linked metal. its uncanny character is confided to us even before we see it at work, by the motif which first appears with its appearance: a motif preparing for some unearthly manifestation the mind pricked to disquieted attention by the weirdness of the air. alberich places it upon his head, utters a brief incantation, and disappears from sight. a column of vapour stands in his place. "do you see me?" asks alberich's disembodied voice. mime looks around, astonished. "where are you? i see you not!" "then feel me!" cries the power-drunken tyrant, and mime winces and cowers under blows from an unseen scourge, while alberich's voice laughs. out of measure exhilarated by his successful new device for ensuring diligence and inspiring fear, he storms out of hearing with the terrible words, "nibelungs all, bow to alberich!... he can now be everywhere at once, keeping watch over you. rest and leisure are done and over with for you! for him you must labour.... his conquered slaves are you forever!" the moment of his overtaking the nibelungs is indicated by their sudden distant outcry. mime has been left crouching and whimpering on the rocky floor. thus wotan and loge find him. loge is in all the following scene wotan's very active vizier, furnishing the invention and carrying out the stratagems. wotan, except to the eye, takes the background and has little to say; but as the blue of his mantle and the fresh chaplet on his locks strike the eye refreshingly in the fire-reddened cave, so his voice, with echoes in it of the noble upper world, comes like gusts of sweet air. loge sets the cowering dwarf on his feet and by artful questions gets the whole story from him of the ring and the nibelungs' woe. about the tarnhelm, too, mime tells loge. at the recollection of the stripes he has suffered, he rubs his back howling. the gods laugh. that gives mime the idea that these strangers must be of the great. he is in his turn questioning them, when he hears alberich's bullying voice approaching. he runs hither and thither in terror and calls to the strangers to look to themselves, alberich is coming! wotan quietly seats himself on a stone to await him. alberich enters driving before him with his scourge a whole army of little huddling, hurrying nibelungs, groaning under the weight of great pieces of gold and silver smithwork, which, while he threatens and urges them, they heap in a duskily glimmering mound. in the fancy that they are not obeying fast or humbly enough, he takes the magic ring from his finger, kisses and lifts it commandingly over them, whereupon with cries of dismay they scramble away, scattering down the shafts, in feverish haste to be digging and delving. heavy groans are in the music when it refers to the oppression of the nibelungs; groans so tragic and seriously presented that they bring up the thought of other oppressions and killing labours than those of the nibelungs. the music which later depicts the amassing of riches, indicates such horror of strain, such fatigue, such hopeless weariness of heart and soul, that the hearer must think with sharpened sympathy of all that part of humanity which represents the shoulder placed against the wheel. alberich turns an angry eye upon the intruders: "what do you want?" it is then most especially that the calm notes of wotan fall healingly upon the sense: they have heard tales of novel events in nibelheim, of mighty wonders worked there by alberich, and are come from curiosity to witness these. after this simple introduction from the greater personage, his light-foot, volatile, graceful minister takes alberich in hand and practising confidently upon his intoxicated conceit of power, his pride in the cleverness which had contrived ring and wishing-cap, uses him like a puppet of which all the strings should be in his hand. alberich recognises in loge an old enemy. loge's reply to alberich's, "i know you well enough, you and your kind!" is perhaps, with its cheerful dancing flicker, his prettiest bit of self-description. "you know me, childish elf? then, say, who am i, that you should be surly? in the cold hollow where you lay shivering, how would you have had light and cheering warmth, if loge had never laughed for you?..." but alberich seems to remember too many reasons for distrusting him. "i can now, however," he boasts, "defy you all!" and he calls to their notice the heaped riches,--the _hort_. "but," remarks wotan, "of what use is all that wealth in cheerless nibelheim, where there is nothing to buy?" "nibelheim," replies alberich, "is good to furnish treasures and to keep them safe. but when they form a sufficient heap, i shall use them to make myself master of the world!" "and how, my good fellow, shall you accomplish this?" alberich has apprehended in this guest one of the immortals,--which, taken into consideration a speech suggestive every time it resounds of calm heights and stately circumstances, is not strange. alberich hates him, hates them all. this is his exposition of his plan: "you who, lapped in balmy airs, live, laugh, and love up there, with a golden fist i shall catch you all! even as i renounced love, all that lives shall renounce it! ensnared and netted in gold, you shall care for gold only! you immortal revellers, cradling yourselves on blissful heights in exquisite pastimes, you despise the black elf! have a care!... for when you men have come to be the servants of my power, your sweetly adorned women, who would despise the dwarf's love, since he cannot hope for love, shall be forced to serve his pleasure. ha ha! do you hear? have a care, have a care, i say, of the army of the night, when the riches of the nibelungs once climb into the light!" wotan, whose olympian self-sufficiency is usually untroubled by what any mean other-person may say, at this cannot contain himself, but starting to his feet cries out a command for the blasphemous fool's annihilation! before alberich, however, has caught the words--his deafness perhaps it is which saves his life--loge has called wotan back to his reason. practising on alberich's not completely outlived simplicity, he by the ruse of feigning himself very stupid and greatly impressed by his cleverness, now induces him to show off for their greater amazement the power of the tarnhelm, which it appears has not only the trick of making the wearer at will invisible, but of lending him whatever shape he may choose. later we find that it has also the power to transport the wearer at pleasure to the ends of the earth in a moment of time. to put loge's incredulity to shame, alberich, tarnhelm on head, turns himself into a dragon, drawing its cumbersome length across the stage to a fearsome tune which gives all of its uncouthness, and never fails to call forth laughter, like the giants' tread. as a further exhibition of his power, after full measure of flattery in loge's pretended fright, he at the prompting of the same changes himself into a toad, which has but time for a hop or two, before wotan places his calm foot upon it. loge snatches the tarnhelm off its head and alberich is seen in his own person writhing under wotan. loge binds him fast, and the gods, with their struggling prey between them, hurry off through the pass by which they came. then reoccurs, but reversed, the transformation between nibelheim and the upper world. the region of the stithies is passed, the little hammers are heard. at last wotan and loge with alberich reappear through the sulphur-cleft. "look, beloved," says loge to the unhappy captive, "there lies the world which you think of conquering for your own. tell me now, what little corner in it do you intend as a kennel for me?" and he dances around him, snapping his fingers to the prettiest, heartlessly merry fire-music. alberich replies with raving insult. wotan's cool voice reminds him of the vanity of this and calls him to the consideration of his ransom. when alberich, after a time, grumblingly inquires what they will have, he says, largely and frankly, "the treasure, your shining gold." if he can only retain the ring, reflects alberich, the loss of the treasure may be quickly repaired. at his request they free his right hand; he touches the ring with his lips and murmurs the spell by which after a moment the swarm of little smoke-grimed nibelungs arrives groaning and straining under the weight of the hort; again they pile it in a heap, and at alberich's command scurry home. "now i have paid, now let me go," says the humbled nibelung-lord, "and that helmet-like ornament which loge is holding, have the kindness to give it me back." but loge flings the tarnhelm on the heap as part of the ransom. hard to bear is this, but mime can after all forge another. "now you have gotten everything; now, you cruel ones, loose the thongs." but wotan remarks, "you have a gold ring upon your finger; that, i think, belongs with the rest." at this, a madness of terror seizes alberich. "the ring?..." "you must leave it for ransom." "my life--but not the ring!" with that bitter coldness of the aristocrat which in time brings about revolutions, wotan replies, "it is the ring i ask for--with your life do what you please!" the dull nibelung pleads still after that, and his words contain thorns which he might reasonably expect to tell: "the thing which i, anguish-harried and curse-crowned, earned through a horrible renunciation, you are to have for your own as a pleasant princely toy?... if i sinned, i sinned solely against myself, but against all that has been, is, or shall be, do you, immortal, sin, if you wrest this ring from me...." wotan without further discussion stretches out his hand and tears from alberich's finger the ring, which gives once more, under this violence, the golden call, saddened and distorted. "here, the ring!--your chattering does not establish your right to it!" alberich drops to earth, felled. wotan places the ring on his hand and stands in gratified contemplation of it. "i hold here what makes me the mightiest lord of the mighty!" loge unties alberich and bids him slip home. but the nibelung is past care or fear, and rising to insane heights of hatred lays upon the ring such a curse as might well shake its owner's complacency. "as it came to me through a curse, accursed be this ring! as it lent me power without bounds, let its magic now draw death upon the wearer! let no possessor of it be happy.... let him who owns it be gnawed by care and him who owns it not be gnawed by envy! let every one covet, no one enjoy it!... appointed to death, fear-ridden let its craven master be! while he lives, let his living be as dying! the ring's master be the ring's slave,--until my stolen good return to me!... now keep it! guard it well! my curse you shall not escape!" "did you hear his affectionate greeting?" asks loge, when alberich has vanished down the rocky cleft. wotan, absorbed in the contemplation of the ring, has heard the curse with the same degree of interest he might have bestowed upon the trickle of a brook. he replies magnanimously, "grudge him not the luxury of railing!" fricka, donner, and froh hasten to welcome the returning gods. the approach of freia, whom the giants are bringing between them, is felt before she appears, in a subtle sweetening of the air, a simultaneous lightening of all the hearts and return of youth to the faces, which froh's daintily expansive greeting describes. fricka is hurrying toward her. fasolt interposes: not to be touched! she still belongs to them until the ransom have been paid. fasolt does not fall in willingly with the arrangement which shall give them the gold in place of the woman; he has been overpersuaded by the black brother; his regret at losing freia is so great, he tells the gods, that the treasure, if she is to be relinquished, will have to be piled so high as completely to hide the blooming maid. "let it be measured according to freia's stature!" decrees wotan, and the giants drive their great staves into the earth so that they roughly frame the figure of freia. helped by loge and froh, they begin stopping the space between with the treasure. wotan's fastidiousness cannot endure the visible sordid details of his bargain; he turns from the sight of the incarnate rose, as she stands drooping in a noble shame, to be valued against so much gold. "hasten with the work!" he bids them, "it sorely goes against me!" when fafner's rough greed orders the measure to be more solidly pressed down, and he ducks spying for crevices still to be stopped with gold, wotan turns away, soul-sick: "humiliation burns deep in my breast!" the hort is exhausted, when fafner looking for crannies exclaims, "i can still see the shining of her hair," and demands, to shut it from view, the tarnhelm which loge has attempted to retain. "let it go!" commands wotan, when loge hesitates. the affair, it now would seem, must be closed; but fasolt, in his grief over the loss of the fair one, still hovers about, peering if perchance he may still see her, and so he catches through the screen of gold the gleam of her eye, and declares that so long as the lovely glance is visible he will not renounce the woman. "but can you not see, there is no more gold?" remonstrates loge. fafner, who has not failed to store in his brain what he earlier overheard, replies, "nothing of the kind. there is a gold ring still on wotan's finger. give us that to stop the cranny." "this ring?..." cries wotan, like alberich before him. "be advised," loge says to the giants, as if in confidence. "that ring belongs to the rhine-maidens. wotan intends to return it to them." but wotan has no subterfuges or indirections of his own--not conscious ones; when he needs their aid, he uses another, as he had told fricka. "what are you prating?" he corrects loge; "what i have obtained with such difficulty, i shall keep without compunction for myself." loge amuses himself with probing further the grained spot in his superior. "my promise then stands in bad case, which i made to the rhine-daughters when they turned to me in their trouble." wotan, with the coldness of the pharisee's "look thou to that," replies, "your promise does not bind me. the ring, my capture, i shall keep." "but you will have to lay it down with the ransom," fafner insists. "ask what else you please, you shall have it; but not for the whole world will i give up the ring." fasolt instantly lays hands again upon freia and draws her from behind the hort. "everything then stands as it stood before. freia shall come with us now for good and all." an outcry of appeal goes up from all the gods to wotan. he turns from them unmoved. "trouble me not. the ring i will not give up." and the idleness of further appeal, howsoever eloquent, cannot be doubted. but now unaccountable darkness invades the scene; from the hollow alcove in the rocks, letting down to the interior earth, breaks a bluish light; while all, breathless, watch the strange phenomenon, the upper half of a woman becomes discernible in it, wrapped in smoke-coloured veils and long black locks. it is the spirit of the earth, the all-knowing erda, whose motif describes the stately progression of natural things, and is the same as the rhine-motif, which describes a natural thing in stately progression. she lifts a warning hand to wotan. "desist, wotan, desist! avoid the curse on the ring... the possession of it will doom you to dark ruin...." wotan, struck, inquires in awe, "who are you, warning woman?" the one who knows all that was, is, and shall be, she tells him; the ancestress of the everlasting world, older than time; the mother of the norns who speak with wotan nightly. gravest danger has brought her to seek him in person. let him hear and heed! the present order is passing away. there is dawning for the gods a dark day.... at this prophesied ruin, the music reverses the motif of ascending progression, and paints melancholy disintegration and crumbling downfall, a strain to be heard many times in the closing opera of the trilogy, when the prophecy comes to pass and the gods enter their twilight. the apparition is sinking back into the earth. wotan beseeches it to tarry and tell him more. but with the words, "you are warned.... meditate in sorrow and fear!" it vanishes. the masterful god attempts to follow, to wrest from the weird woman further knowledge. his wife and her brothers hold him back. he stands for a time still hesitating, uncertain, wrapped in thought. with sudden resolve at last he tosses the ring with the rest of the treasure, and turns heart-wholly to greet freia returning among them, bringing back their lost youth. while the gods are expressing tender rapture over the restoration of freia, and she goes from one to the other receiving their caresses, fafner spreads open a gigantic sack and in this is briskly stuffing the gold. fasolt, otherwise preoccupied, had not thought to bring a sack. he attempts to stay fafner's too active hand. "hold on, you grasping one, leave something for me! an honest division will be best for us both!" fafner objects, "you, amorous fool, cared more for the maid than the gold. with difficulty i persuaded you to the exchange. you would haved wooed freia without thought of division, wherefore in the division of the spoil i shall still be generous if i keep the larger half for myself." fasolt's anger waxes great. he calls upon the gods to judge between them and divide the treasure justly. wotan turns from his appeal with characteristic contempt. loge, the mischief-lover, whispers to fasolt, "let him take the treasure, do you but reserve the ring!" fafner has during this not been idle, but has sturdily filled his sack; the ring is on his hand. fasolt demands it in exchange for freia's glance. he snatches at it, fafner defends it, and when in the wrestling which ensues fasolt has forced it from his brother, the latter lifts his tree-trunk and strikes him dead. having taken the ring from his hand, he leisurely proceeds to finish his packing, while the gods stand around appalled, and the air shudderingly resounds with the notes of the curse. a long, solemn silence follows. fafner is seen, after a time, shouldering the sack, into which the whole of the glimmering hort has disappeared, and, bowed under its weight, leaving for home. "dreadful," says wotan, deeply shaken; "i now perceive to be the power of the curse!" sorrow and fear lie crushingly upon his spirit. erda, who warned him of the power of the curse, now proven before his eyes, warned him likewise of worse things, of old order changing, a dark day dawning for the gods. he must seek erda, learn more, have counsel what to do. he is revolving such thoughts when fricka, who believes all their trouble now ended, approaches him with sweet words, and directs his eyes to the beautiful dwelling hospitably awaiting its masters. "an evil price i paid for the building!" wotan replies heavily. mists are still hanging over the valley, clinging to the heights; nor have the clouds yet wholly lifted from their spirits. donner, to clear the atmosphere, conjures a magnificent storm, by the blow of his hammer bringing about thunder and lightning. when the black cloud disperses which for a moment enveloped him and froh on the high rock from which he directs this festival of the elements, a bright rainbow appears, forming a bridge between the rock and the castle now shining in sunset light. a bridge of music is here built, too; the tremulous weaving of it in tender and gorgeous colours is seen through the ear, and its vaulting the valley with an easy overarching spring. froh, architect of the bridge, bids the gods walk over it fearlessly: it is light but will prove solid under their feet. wotan stands sunk in contemplation of the castle; his reflections, still upon the shameful circumstances of his bargain, are not happy. in the midst of them he is struck by a great thought, and recovers his courage and hardihood. the sharp, bright, resolute motif which represents his inspiration is afterward indissolubly connected with the sword,--a sword aptly embodying his idea, which is one of defence for his castle and clan. a suggestion of his idea is contained, too, in the word which he gives to fricka as the castle's name, when he now invites her to accompany him thither: walhalla, hall of the slain in battle, or, hall of heroes. headed by wotan and fricka, the gods ascend toward the bridge. loge looks after them in mingled irony and contempt. "there they hasten to their end, who fancy themselves so firmly established in being. i am almost ashamed to have anything to do with them...." and he revolves in his mind a scheme for turning into elemental fire again and burning them all up, those blind gods. he is nonchalantly adding himself to their train, when from the rhine below rises the lament of the rhine-daughters, begging that their gold may be given back to them. wotan pauses with his foot on the bridge: "what wail is that?" loge enlightens him, and, at wotan's annoyed, "accursed nixies! stop their importunity!" calls down to them, "you, down there in the water, what are you complaining about? hear what wotan bids: no longer having the gold to shine for you, make yourselves happy basking in the sunshine of this new pomp of the gods!" loud laughter from the gods greets this sally, and they pass over the bridge, walhalla-ward, followed by the water-nymphs' wail for their lost gold, closing with the reproach, "only in the pleasant water-depths is truth; false and cowardly are those making merry up there!" with walhalla and rainbow shedding a radiance around them of which we are made conscious through the delighted sense of hearing, the curtain falls. so we lose sight of them, moving into their new house; in spite of their glory a little like the first family of the county. but while to triumphant strains they seek their serene stronghold, we know that the lines have been laid for disaster. the ring is in the world, with its terrific power; and there is in the world one whom wrong has turned into a deadly enemy, whose soul is undividedly bent upon getting possession of the ring, which wotan may not himself attempt to get--stopped, if not by erda's warning or by terror of the curse, by the fact that he finally gave it to the giants in payment of an acknowledged debt, and that his spear stands precisely for honor in relations of the sort. the valkyrie (die walkuere) the valkyrie (die walkuere) i wotan's idea, from which the abode of the gods received its name of walhalla, had been to people his halls with hordes of heroes who should defend it from alberich and his "army of the night." erda's prophecy of a dark day dawning for the gods had destroyed wotan's peace. the craving to know more of this drove him to seek her in the depths of the earth. he cast upon her the spell of love and constrained her to speak. it does not appear that he gained from her any clear knowledge of the future; he learned chiefly, as we gather, what were the dangers besetting him. the end threatened through alberich's forces, which, however, could not prevail against the heroic garrison of walhalla unless alberich should recover the ring; through the power of the ring he would be able to estrange the heroes from wotan and, turning their arms against him, overcome him. "when the dark enemy of love (alberich) in wrath shall beget a son," so ran erda's warning, "the end of the blessed shall not be long delayed!" from erda was born to wotan a daughter, so near to her father's heart that she seemed an incarnation of his most intimate wish, his very will embodied; so part of himself she knew his unspoken thought. this was brünnhilde (from _brünne_, corslet). with eight other daughters,--born to wotan from "the tie of lawless love," as we learn from fricka in her tale of wrongs--brünnhilde, the dearest to him of all, followed her father to battle, serving him as valkyrie. these warlike maidens hovered over the battle-field, directing the fortune of the day according to wotan's determination, protecting this combatant and seeing his death-doom executed upon the other; they seized the heroes as they fell, and bore them to walhalla to form part of wotan's guard. from these "slain in battle" it was that walhalla had its name. to make great their number, wotan, who earlier had by laws and compacts tried to bind men to peace, now breathed into them a rough, bellicose spirit, goaded them on to quarrel and revolt. that the end of the gods, if prophecy must fulfill itself, should not be a contemptible or pitiful one, that was wotan's preoccupation,--to save, if nothing more, the dignity of the eternals; with this in view, to keep alberich from recovering the ring, by which he might work such really disgusting havoc. the ring was in the possession of fafner, who had turned himself into a dragon, and in a lonely forest-girt cave guarded it and the rest of the treasure of the nibelungen, for the sake of which he had killed fasolt, his brother. wotan, as we have seen, could not wrest from him the ring which he himself had given in payment for the building of walhalla: for the honour of his spear he must not attempt it. alberich, not bound as he was to keep his hands off it, must infallibly and indefatigably be devising means to regain possession of it. it was plain to wotan that he must find some one to do that which he himself could not, some one, who, unprompted by him, should yet accomplish his purposes, some one free as he was not. this tool who was yet not to be his tool, since a god's good faith demanded that neither directly nor indirectly he should meddle with the ring, wotan supposed he had created for himself in siegmund, born to him, with a twin sister, sieglinde, of a human mother. this boy with whom, in human disguise, under the names of wälse and wolf,--wolf for his enemies, wälse for his kindred,--he lived in the wild woods, he reared in a spirit of lawlessness, wild courage, disregard of the gods. we must suppose it to have been for the sake of preventing association with women from softening his disposition that, while siegmund was a child, wotan, sacrificing to the hardness of fibre it was his object to produce, permitted the catastrophe which deprived the boy of mother and sister. returning home from a day's wild chase,--hunters and hunted alike human,--father and son found their dwelling burned to the ground, the mother slain, the sister gone. they lived for years together after that, in the woods, always in conflict with enemies, of whom their peculiar daring and strength raised them an infinite number. in time, when the son was well grown, wotan forsook him, left him to complete his development alone, under the harsh training of the calamities and sorrows fatally incident to the temper and manner of viewing things which that father had bred in him. the lad received the usage of a sword in the forging, extremes of furnace and ice-brook. so he stood at last, wotan's pupil and finished instrument, an embodied defiance of the law and the gods, proper to do the work which the law of the gods forbade. some defence against the wrath which he must inevitably rouse, his father could not but feel impelled to provide, yet could he not, without violating the honour which in his simple-minded way he was striving to preserve intact, give it to him directly. he could not bestow upon him outright a _sieges-schwert_--magical sword which ensured victory. but he placed one where the young man should find it. the piece opens with the blustering music of a storm, whose violence is rapidly dying down. the curtain rises upon the interior of hunding's very primitive dwelling, built about a great ash-tree whose trunk stands in view. siegmund, predestined to be ever at strife with his fellow-man, in circumstances of peculiar distress seeks the shelter of hunding's roof. we see him burst into the empty hall, staggering and panting. his spear and shield have splintered beneath the enemies' strokes; deprived of arms, he has been forced to flee; he has been so hotly pursued, so beaten by the storm, that upon reaching this refuge he can no more than drop beside the hearth and lie there, exhausted. it is his sister's house to which fate has led him, where, ill-starred and unhappy like himself, this other child of wälse's lives, in subjection to hunding, her lord, who has come by her through some obscure commerce, and to whom she is no more than part of the household baggage. hearing the rustle of siegmund's entrance, sieglinde hurries in, and, beholding a stranger outstretched upon the ground, stops short to observe him. the strength of the prostrate body cannot fail to strike her. at his gasped call for water, she hurries to fetch it from the spring out of doors. his perishing need is shown in the devotion with which he drains the horn she hands him. his eyes, as he returns it, are arrested by her face, and dwell upon it with fearless lingering scrutiny--while the strain for the first time trembles upon the air which, singing the love of siegmund and sieglinde, is to caress our hearing so many times more. his fatigue has magically vanished. he asks to whom he owes the refreshment afforded him. when, at her reply and request that he shall await hunding's return, he refers to himself as an unarmed and wounded guest, she eagerly inquires of his wounds. but he jumps up, shaking off all thought of wounds or weariness. his succinct narrative of the circumstances which have brought him to her hearth, he brings to a close: "but faster than i vanished from the mob of my pursuers, my weariness has vanished from me. night lay across my eyelids,--the sun now smiles upon me anew!" she offers the guest mead to drink, at his prayer tasting it before him. as he returns the emptied horn, again his eyes dwell upon her face, with an emotion ever increasing. both gaze in simple undisguised intensity of interest. there is a long moment's silence between them. then, at the love he feels surging in his bosom, remembrance comes to siegmund of what he is,--a man so ill-fated that it may well be feared his ill-fortune shall infect those with whom he comes into contact. "you have relieved an ill-fated man," he warns her, his voice unsteady with the pang of this recognition, "may his wish turn ill-fortune from you! sweetly have i rested.... i will now fare further on my way!" as he turns to the door she detains him with the quick cry: "what pursues you, that you should thus flee?" he answers, slowly and sadly: "misfortune pursues me wherever i flee. misfortune meets me wherever i go. from you, woman, may it remain afar! i turn from you my footsteps and my glance." his hand is on the latch, when her sharp involuntary exclamation stops him: "stay, then! you cannot bring sorrow into a house where sorrow is already at home!" deeply shaken by her words, he fixes his eyes questioningly upon her. she meets them for a moment, then drops her own, sad and half-ashamed. the motif of the wälsungen well expresses the nobility in misfortune of these poor children of wälse. siegmund returns quietly to the hearth: "wehwalt is my name for myself. i will await hunding." (_weh_: woe, sorrow, calamity, pain; _wallen_: to govern. _wehwalt_: lord of sorrows.) there is no further exchange of words while they wait, but in complete unashamed absorption they gaze at each other, and the music tells beautifully how it is within their hearts. hunding's horn is heard. (_hund:_ hound. it was, as we learn later, this amiable personage's custom to hunt his enemies with a pack of dogs.) startled from her trance, sieglinde listens, and hastens to open. hunding appears in the doorway, a dark figure, in helmet, shield and spear. at sight of the stranger, he questions his wife with a look. "i found the man on the hearth, spent with weariness. necessity brings him to our house," she explains. there is some sternness apparently in hunding's tone as he inquires: "have you offered him refreshment?" for siegmund, rash and instantaneous in the woman's defence, speaks, hard on the heels of her answer: "i have to thank her for shelter and drink. will you therefor chide your wife?" but hunding, at his best in this moment, without retort welcomes the guest: "sacred is my hearth, sacred to you be my house!" and orders his wife to set forth food for them. catching sieglinde's eyes unconsciously fixed upon siegmund, he glances quickly from one to the other, and is struck by the resemblance between them; but the luminous look they have in common he defines, with the constitutional dislike of his kind to that freer, more generous type: "the selfsame glittering serpent shines out of his eyes!" he inquires of the circumstances which have brought this stranger to his house, and finding that siegmund has no idea whither his wild flight has led him, introduces himself with a dignity which commends to us, while he is doing it, the narrow-natured, unimaginative man: "he whose roof covers you and whose house shelters you,--hunding your host is called. if you should from here turn your footsteps eastward, there, in rich courts, dwell kinsmen, protectors of hunding's honour!" they seat themselves at table; the host asks for this guest's name, and as siegmund, plunged in thought, does not at once reply, hunding, remarking the interest with which his wife waits for the stranger's words, sardonically encourages him: "if you are in doubt about trusting me, yet give the information to the lady here. see how eagerly she questions you!" and sieglinde, too deeply interested, verily, to mind the thrust, proceeds further to give it point: "guest, i should be glad to know who you are!" whereupon siegmund, as little constrained by the husband's presence as the wife herself, with his eyes upon hers, addressing her directly, tells his story: of wolf, his father, of the twin sister lost to him in infancy, the enmity of the neidingen clan, who in the absence of the men burned down their house, slew the mother, abducted the sister; of his life in the forest with wolf, their numberless foes and perpetual warfare. hunding recalls vaguely wild dark tales he has heard of the mighty pair, the wölfingen. the disappearance of his father, siegmund further relates, from whom he had been separated in a fight, and whom he could never, long though he sought, find again, nor any trace of him save an empty wolf-skin. "then,--" follow the strange cruel fortunes this father had arranged for him, "then i was impelled to forsake the woods, i was impelled to seek men and women. as many as i found, and wherever i found them,--whether i sought for friend, or wooed for woman, always i met with denial, ill-fortune lay upon me!" with ingenuous wonder he describes the natural fruits of the education bestowed on him by wotan: "what i thought right, others held to be wrong; what had ever seemed to me abominable, others considered with favour. i fell into feud wherever i was, anger fell upon me wherever i went. if i reached out toward happiness, i never failed to bring about calamity! for that reason it is i named myself wehwalt, i command calamity alone!" hunding has listened attentively. his small superstitious heart has taken alarm. "fortune was not fond of you, who appointed for you so miserable a lot. the man can hardly welcome you with gladness, whom, a stranger to him, you approach as a guest." with a vivacity which cannot have been the common habit of her intercourse with her husband, sieglinde pronounces judgment aloud and at once upon this ungenerous speech and speaker, whose prudence must certainly, in contrast with the wälsung's frank magnificence of courage, seem to her unspeakably bourgeois: "only cowards fear one going his way unarmed and alone!" and turning again eagerly to the guest: "tell further, guest, how you lately lost your arms in battle!" siegmund as eagerly satisfies her. the circumstances which he describes further exemplify the disposition fostered in him by his father, his non-recognition or acceptance of established law and custom, however sacred, his pursuit of an ideal unattached to any convention: he had lost his arms in the attempt to defend a damsel against her own immediate family, bent upon marrying her against her inclination. he had slain her brothers, whereupon the maiden, as another perhaps would have foreseen, had cast herself upon their bodies, sorrow annulling her resentment. he had stood over her, shielding her from the vengeance of her kindred pressing around. his armour had been shattered; the girl lay dead on her dead brothers. wounded and weaponless, he had been chased by the infuriate horde. "now you know, inquiring woman," he closes his narrative, "why i do not bear the name of friedmund!" (_frieden:_ peace.) with this simple sally, whose bitterness is not enough to crumple the serene forehead, he rises and walks to the hearth, striding to the noble march-measure we know as the motif of the heroism of the wälsungen,--proud in its first bars, with siegmund's pride, tender in the last, with sieglinde's tenderness, loftily mournful throughout. "i know a wild race of men," now speaks hunding, "to whom nothing is holy of all that is revered by others; hated are they of all men--and of me!" he then reveals how he himself had that day been called out for vengeance with his clan against this officious champion of damsels. he had arrived too late for action, and returning home, behold, discovers the fugitive miscreant in his own house! as he granted the stranger hospitality for the night, his house shall shelter him for that length of time; but "with strong weapons arm yourself to-morrow," he grimly warns him; "it is the day i choose for combat; you shall pay me a price for the dead!" when sieglinde in alarm places herself between the two men, hunding orders her roughly: "out of the room! loiter not here! prepare my night-drink and wait for me to go to rest!" siegmund, smothering his anger, stands in contemptuous composure beside the hearth; his eyes frankly follow every movement of the woman as she prepares hunding's drink. on her way out of the room, she pauses at the threshold of the inner chamber, and seeking siegmund's eyes with her own, tries by a long significant glance to direct his glance to a spot in the ash-tree. the sword-motif, distinct and sharp, accompanies her look. hunding, becoming aware of her lingering, with a peremptory gesture orders her again to be gone; and gathering up his own armour, with a warning to the wölfing that on the morrow he will strike home,--let him have a care!--withdraws, audibly bolting the door behind him. left alone, siegmund lies down beside the dying fire. to remove himself during the night as far as possible from hunding's reach is not the solution suggesting itself naturally to him. yet there he stands, pledged to meet an enemy, and not a weapon to his hand of offence or defence. the difficulty of his position is certainly as great as could be, and, reaching the full consciousness of it, he recalls to mind that his father had promised him a sword, which he should find in the hour of his greatest need. "unarmed i am fallen in the house of the enemy; here i rest, devoted to his vengeance. a woman i have seen, gloriously fair.... she to whom my longing draws me, who with a rapturous charm constrains me, is held in thraldom by the man who mocks my unarmed condition...." could need, indeed, be greater? with the whole strength of that need, in a cry, long, urgent, fit to pierce the walls of walhalla, he calls upon his father for the promised sword: "wälse! wälse! where is your sword?..." a flame leaps from the embers and illuminates the ash-tree, bringing into view, at the spot sieglinde had indicated to him with her eyes, a sword-hilt. but though his eyes are caught by the glitter, he does not recognise it for what it is; he watches it, without moving, as it shines in the firelight, and, lover-like, soon lapsing into undivided dreaming of the "flower-fair woman," plays tenderly with the conceit of the gleam on the ash-tree being the trace of her last bright glance. forgetting his swordlessness and altogether unpromising plight, he goes on weaving poetry about her until the fire is quite out and he so nearly dozes that when a white form comes gliding through the door bolted by hunding, he does not stir until addressed: "guest, are you asleep?" sieglinde has mixed narcotic herbs in her husband's drink, and bids the stranger make use of the night to provide for his safety. "let me advise you of a weapon.... oh, might you obtain it! the most splendid of heroes i must call you, for it is destined to the strongest alone." and she relates how at the marriage-feast of hunding, while the men drank, and the woman who "unconsulted had been offered him for wife by ignoble traffickers" sat sadly apart, a stranger appeared, an elderly man in grey garb, whose hat-brim concealed one of his eyes. but the brilliant beam of the other eye created terror in the bystanders,--all save herself, in whom it aroused an aching longing, sorrow and comfort in equal measure. the sword in his hand he swung, and drove into the ash-tree up to the hilt, leaving it there, a prize to whomsoever should be able to draw it out. the men present had all made the essay in vain; guests coming and going since then had tried, equally without success. "there in silence waits the sword." there in the ash-tree. "then i knew," sieglinde concludes, "who it was had come to me in my sorrow. i know, too, who it is alone can conquer the sword. oh, might i find him here and now, that friend; might he, from the unknown, come to me, most wretched of women! all i have ever suffered of cruel woe, all the shame and indignity under which i have bowed,--sweetest amends would be made for it all! all i ever lost, all i ever mourned, i should have recovered it all,--if i might find that supreme friend, if my arm might clasp that hero!" siegmund, to whom it could not occur for the fraction of a second to doubt his strength to draw any sword from any tree, at these words catches her impetuously to his breast: "the friend now clasps you, fairest of women, for whom weapon and woman were meant! hot in my breast burns the oath which, noble one, weds me to you!" and, in her very strain: "all i ever yearned for, i met in you! in you i found all i ever lacked. if you suffered ignominy and i endured pain, if i was outlawed and you were dishonoured, a joyful revenge now calls to us happy ones! i laugh aloud in a holy elation, as i hold you, radiant one, embraced, as i feel the throbbing of your heart!" the great door of the hall, silently, without apparent reason, swings wide open, like a great curious eye unclosing to watch this beautiful marvel of their love, expanded so suddenly, like a huge aloe-flower. it lets in a flood of moonlight, and the glimmering vision of the vapourous green-lit nocturnal spring-world. "who went out?... who came in?" cries sieglinde, starting in alarm. "no one went," siegmund reassures her, "but some one came: see, the spring laughing in the room!" and he pours forth poetry of adorable inspiration, in explanation of the singular action of the door: spring was outside, and love, his sister, inside; spring burst open the severing door, and now, brother and sister, love and the spring, are met! it is touching, the capacity for happiness the two have accumulated in the long, thwarted years. an ecstatic joy marks this hour of forgetting all the world outside themselves; the love-music is all of a fine free sustained rapture. one poignant and subtle and profound thing she says to him: "foreign and unrelated to me seemed until now everything i saw, hostile everything which approached me. as if i had never known them were always the things that came to me.... but you i knew at once, clearly and distinctly; my eye no sooner beheld you, than you belonged to me; and all that lay concealed within my breast, the thing which i verily am, bright as the day it rose to the surface; like a ringing sound it smote my ear, when in the cold lonesome strange world for the first time i beheld my friend!" seated in the light of the full moon, they have freedom at last each to pore over the other's winning beauty. she is struck, fondly peering into his features, with the sense of having seen him before; and trying to think when and where reaches the assurance that it was on the surface of the pool which reflected her own image. again, when he speaks, she is struck by the assurance that she has heard his voice before. she thinks, for a moment, that it was in childhood,... but corrects the impression by a second: she has heard it recently, when the echo in the woods gave back her own voice. his luminous eyes she has seen before: thus shone the glance of the grey guest at the wedding-feast, whom his daughter recognised by that token. earnestly she asks this other guest: "is your name in very truth wehwalt?" "that is no longer my name since you love me!" he replies exuberantly, "i command now the sublimest joys!... do you call me as you wish me to be called: i will take my name from you!" "and was your father indeed wolf?" "a wolf he was to cowardly foxes. but he whose eye shone with as proud an effulgence as, glorious one, does yours, wälse was his name!" beside herself with joy, sieglinde springs up: "if wälse was your father--if you are a wälsung, for you it was he drove his sword into the tree-trunk. let me give you the name by which i love you: siegmund shall you be called!" siegmund leaps to seize the sword-handle: "siegmund is my name, and siegmund am i! (_sieg_: victory.) let this sword bear witness, which fearlessly i seize! wälse promised me that i should find it in my greatest need. i grasp it now...." very characteristically, this greatest need, as he feels it, is not the need of a weapon with which to defend his life against hunding; it is, in his soaring words: "highest need of a holiest love, devouring need of a love full of longing, burns bright in my breast, drives me onward to deeds and to death.... nothung! nothung! so do i name you, sword! (_noth_: need. _nothung_: sword-in-need.) nothung! nothung! out of the scabbard, to me!" with a mighty tug he draws it forth and holds it before the marvelling eyes of sieglinde: "siegmund the wälsung stands before you, woman! as a wedding-gift he brings you this sword. thus he wooes the fairest of women; from the enemy's house thus he leads you forth. far from here follow him now, out in the laughing house of the spring. there nothung, the sword, shall protect you, when siegmund lies overthrown, in the power of love!" "if your are siegmund," cries the woman, "i am sieglinde, who have so longed for you! your own sister you have won at the same time as the sword!" siegmund is given no pause by this revelation. at the realisation of this double dearness, the joy flares all the higher of the lawless pupil of wotan. "bride and sister are you to your brother. let the blood of the wälsungen flourish!" and with arms entertwined, forth they take their madly exulting hearts out into the "laughing house of the spring." ii the rising of the curtain for the second act reveals a wild mountain-pass where wotan, in a vast good-humour, is giving instructions to brünnhilde with regard to the impending meeting between the injured husband and the abductor of his wife. victory is allotted to siegmund; hunding, "let them choose him to whom he belongs; he is not wanted in walhalla!" in wotan's complacency the satisfaction speaks of this thought: at last, at last, a change of fortune,--victory to the wälsung, after a trial of his mettle so severe and prolonged it must have broken a spirit less admirably tempered. the valkyrie, in delight over the charge to her, breaks into her jubilant war-cry, checking herself as she perceives fricka approaching in the chariot drawn by rams, and judges from the goddess's merciless urging of the panting beasts that she comes for a _zank_, a "scold," with her husband. "the old storm!" murmurs wotan, at sight of his liege lady dismounting and coming toward him with ultramajestic gait, "the old trouble! but i must stand and face her!" the scene following has a touch of comical in its resemblance to domestic scenes among less high-born characters, as, for instance, when fricka says, "look me in the eye! do not think to deceive me!" or "do you imagine that you can deceive me, who night and day have been hard upon your heels?" fricka, the guardian of marriage, has come to demand justice for hunding, vengeance upon the "insolently criminal couple." "what," asks wotan, an unguarded and tender indulgence in his tone, "what have they done that is so evil, the couple brought into loving union by the spring?..." "do you feign not to understand me?" is in effect fricka's return; "for the holy vow of marriage, the deeply insulted, i raise my voice in complaint...." "i regard that vow as unholy," says wotan,--and the source is flagrant from which siegmund has drawn his unpopular rules of conduct,--"which binds together those who do not love each other." but the case in question, fricka protests, is not one simply of broken marriage-vow, "when--when was it ever known that brother and sister might stand toward each other in the nuptial relation?" "this day you have known it!" the worthy teacher of siegmund meets her; and, all his paternal affection finding its imprudent way into his accents: "that those two love each other is clear to you. wherefore, take honest advice: if blessed comfort is to reward your blessing, do you bless, laughing with love, the union of siegmund and sieglinde!" upon this, as is hardly unnatural, the furious storm breaks over the indiscreet god; a storm of reproach, in part for personal wrongs, which the outraged goddess details, in part for his failure as ruler of the earth to maintain law and right, to observe the boundaries established by himself. at the end of it, rather feebly, he tells her, in defence of his position, the thing which he had not confided to her before, plain enough indication that the goddess, to win whom he had given an eye, is not of his bosom's counsel any more. "this know! there is need of a hero who without aid from the gods should cast off the law of the gods. such a one alone can compass the act which, however much the gods may need it done, no god can himself do." "and what may the great thing be," the dull august shrew inquires, "that a hero can do which the gods cannot, through whose grace alone a hero acts?... what makes men brave? through your inspiration alone they are strong. with new falsehoods you are trying to elude me, but this wälsung you shall not be able to save. through him i strike at you, for it is through you alone he defies me!" "in wild sorrows," wotan ventures, with deep emotion, "he grew up, by himself. my protection never helped him!" "then do not protect him to-day!" she pursues, hatefully righteous, "take away from him the sword you gave him." "the sword?..." her suggestion is a very sword for wotan's heart. "yes, the sword, strong with a charm, which you bestowed on your son." "siegmund conquered it for himself in his need." the deep strain here shudders out its passion of repressed resentment and grief, which after this darkly underlines wotan's misery. "you created the need, as you created the sword," she follows him up with clear-sighted accusation, almost voluble. "for him you drove it into the tree-trunk. you promised him the goodly weapon. will you deny that it was your own stratagem which guided him to the spot where he should find it?" the effect of her words upon wotan--to whom this mirror held up to him reveals the weakness of his scheme to create a hero who should act for himself, unprompted, against the gods, yet in the very manner the case of the gods demanded--still increases his wife's assurance. "what do you require?" asks wotan at last, in gloom, heart-struck. "that you should sever from the wälsung!" "let him go his way!" wotan acquiesces, smothered by this horrible, yet so clear, necessity. "but you, protect him not, when the avenger calls him out to fight!" "i--protect him not!" "turn from him the valkyrie!" "let the valkyrie determine as she will!" "nay, she solely carries out your wishes.... forbid her the victory of siegmund!" "i cannot deal him defeat!" protests wotan, in anguish, "he found my sword!" "withdraw the charm from the sword. let it snap in the knave's hand. let the adversary behold him without defence!... here comes your warlike maid.... this day must her shield protect the sacred honour of your wife. my honour demands the fall of the wälsung. have i wotan's oath?" the unhappy god casts himself upon a rocky seat, in helpless loathing, and the terrible consent falls forced from his lips: "take the oath!" fricka, with proud tread turning from him to remount her chariot, stops to address brünnhilde: "the father of armies is waiting for you. let him tell you how he has appointed the fortune of battle." wotan sits with his head in his hands, like any humblest mortal hard put to it. it has been brought home to him sharply enough that the thing is not to be done, on the accomplishment of which he had so fondly built. it is not that an angry wife has interfered; it is that her argument has been sound, and that for the sake of his world a god cannot trespass against the laws he has himself made for it. it is, in fact, that kings less than others can do as they choose; that if in this he should follow his desire, it would, as fricka has pointed out, "be all over with the everlasting gods!" but, to sacrifice the wälsung, "brought up in wild sorrows" for this very purpose which is to be relinquished; the wälsung who in his young life has had but one draught at the cup of joy!... it is no wonder that wotan utters his lamentation: "oh, divine ignominy! oh, woful disgrace! distress of the gods! distress of the gods! immeasurable wrath! eternal regret! the saddest am i among all!" the darling of his heart, brünnhilde, torn by his cry, casts from her all her valkyrie accoutrements, and, woman merely and daughter, kneels at his feet, presses her cheek against him, begging to be trusted: "confide in me! i am true to you. see, brünnhilde pleads!" he hesitates, while sorely yearning for the comfort. "if i utter it aloud, shall i not be loosing the grasp of my will?" "to wotan's will you speak in speaking to me. who am i, if not your will?" with the assurance to himself: "with myself solely i take counsel, in talking to you,..." he relates to brünnhilde all the events which have brought about this intolerable position, a long story: the first mistake in trusting loge; the mistake in possessing himself of the ring; what he has since done to obviate the effect of his mistakes, and done, as is now shown, in vain. "how did i cunningly seek to deceive myself! so easily fricka exposed my fallacies! to my deepest shame she looked through me. i must yield to her will." "you will take away then the victory from siegmund?" "i touched alberich's ring," wotan replies, "covetously i held the gold. the curse which i fled from, flees not from me! what i love i must desert, murder what from all time i have held dear, treacherously betray him who trusts me!..." again, it is no wonder his tormented soul breaks forth in lamentation. the mighty groan of wotan has, if ever groan had, adequate cause, and his longing for "the end! the end!" with grim comfort he recalls at this moment that the end cannot be far,--not if there be truth in the prophecy of erda: "when the dark enemy of love shall in wrath beget a son, the end of the immortals will not be long delayed." for the loveless alberich, as wotan knows, has by means of gold won the favour of a woman, and the "fruit of hatred" is on its way toward the light. "take my blessing, son of the nibelung!" cries wotan in his dark mood; "the thing which sickens me with loathing, i bestow it upon you for an inheritance: the empty splendour of the gods!" "oh, tell me, what shall your child do?" entreats the daughter, shaken by the sight of her father's passion. "fight straightforwardly for fricka," he orders her, in the excess of bitterness; "what she has chosen i choose likewise; of what good to me is a will of my own?" "oh, retract that word!" she beseeches, "you love siegmund.... never shall your discordant dual directions enlist me against him. for your own sake, i know it, i will protect the wälsung!" at this first intimation of rebellion in his child,--this incipient treachery of his own will,--wotan becomes stern, lays down his command irrevocably, with threats of crushing retribution if this child of his shall dare to palter with his expressed will. "keep a watch over yourself! hold yourself in strong constraint! put forth all your valour in the fight!... have well in mind what i command: siegmund is to fall! this be the valkyrie's task!" brünnhilde gazes after him in wonder and fear as he storms up over the rocky ascent out of sight: "i never saw sieg-vater like that!" sadly she resumes her armour, woe-begone at the thought of the wälsung, given over to death. becoming aware of the approach of siegmund and sieglinde, she hastens from sight. sieglinde enters, fleeing in distraction from siegmund, anxious in pursuit. the presumption of those seeing her action without understanding her words, is commonly, i suppose, that remorse has overtaken her for her breach of the moral law. remorse, indeed, has assailed her, but not for having followed the "luminous brother." it is for having ever belonged to hunding, whom she neither loved nor was loved by. the new sentiment of love so completely possessing her places her former union in the light of unspeakable pollution, and she adjures the "noble one" to depart from the accursed who brings him such a dowry of shame. siegmund with sturdy tenderness assures her that whatever shame there is shall be washed away in the blood of him who is responsible for it, whose heart nothung shall cleave. an insanity of terror seizes sieglinde at the thought of the meeting between the two men, the vision besetting her of siegmund torn by hunding's dogs, against the multitude of which his sword is of no use. at the picture painted by her delirium of siegmund's fall, shocked as if at the actual sight of it, she sinks unconscious in his arms. having ascertained that she has not ceased to breathe, almost glad perhaps for her of this respite from self-torment, he lets her gently down on to the ground, and seats himself so as to make an easy resting-place for her head. thus the valkyrie finds them. at her approach, three solemn notes are heard which intimate as if something awful and not to be escaped--whose solemn awfulness consists in great part of the fact that it cannot be escaped,--like fate. "siegmund!" she calls him, with firm voice, "look upon me! i am that one whom in short space you must follow!" siegmund lifts his eyes from the sleeping face upon which they have been fondly brooding, and beholds the shining apparition. "who are you, tell me, appearing to me, so beautiful and grave?" "only those about to die can see my face. he who beholds me must depart from the light of life. on the field of battle i appear to the noble alone. he who becomes aware of me, has been singled out for my capture!" siegmund gazes quietly and long and inquiringly into her eyes, and: "the hero who must follow you, whither do you take him?" "to the father of battles who has elected you, i shall lead you. to walhalla you shall follow me." "in the hall of walhalla shall i find none but the father of battles?" "the glorious assemblage of departed heroes shall gather around you companionably, with high and holy salutation." "shall i in walhalla find wälse, my own father?" "the wälsung shall find his father there." "shall i in walhalla be greeted gladsomely by a woman?" "divine wish-maidens there hold sway; the daughter of wotan shall trustily proffer you drink." "unearthly fair are you; i recognise the holy child of wotan; but one thing tell me, you immortal! shall the bride and sister accompany the brother? shall siegmund clasp sieglinde there?" "the air of earth she still must breathe. siegmund shall not find sieglinde there!" the hero bends over the unconscious woman, kisses her softly on the brow, and turns quietly again to brünnhilde: "then bear my greeting to walhalla! greet for me wotan, greet for me wälse and all the heroes; greet for me likewise the benign wish-maidens: i will not follow you to them!" in this strangely impressive and moving dialogue, the brünnhilde-part is upborne on the stately, high and cold walhalla theme; the siegmund-part gives over and over one urgent heartful questioning phrase, filled with human yearning and sorrow: the motif of love and death. "where sieglinde lives in joy or sorrow, there will siegmund likewise abide,..." he pronounces. when he is informed that he has no choice but to follow, that he is to fall through hunding, that its virtue has been withdrawn from his sword, justly incensed, he declares that if this be true,--if he, shame to him! who forged for him the sword, allotted him ignominy in place of victory, he will not go to walhalla, hella shall hold him fast! "so little do you care for eternal joy?" the valkyrie asks wistfully; "all in all to you is the poor woman who, tired and full of trouble, lies strengthless in your lap? nothing beside do you deem of high value?" inexpressibly moved at the manifestation before her of the warmth and depth of this human affection, she begs him to place his wife under her protection. he replies passionately that no one while he lives shall touch the stainless one, that if he must indeed die, he will first slay her in her sleep. brünnhilde, in great emotion, begs still more urgently, "entrust her to me, for the sake of the pledge of love which she took from you in joy!" but siegmund, all the more firmly fixed in his resolve, lifts his sword, and grimly offering nothung two lives at one blow, swings it above the sleeping woman. the valkyrie at this can no longer keep in bounds the surging flood of her compassion: "hold, wälsung!" she restrains his arm, "sieglinde shall live, and with her siegmund!... i change about the doom of battle. to you, siegmund, i apportion blessed victory...." with injunctions to place his trust in the sword and the valkyrie, bidding him farewell till they shall meet on the field, she disappears. siegmund, with heart restored to gladness, bends over sieglinde again; listens to her breathing and studies her face, now smiling, as he sees, in quiet sleep. "sleep on!" he speaks to her, "till the battle has been fought and peace shall rejoice you!" hunding's horn has already been heard, calling out the adversary. siegmund lays sieglinde gently down, and, nothung in hand, rushes to the encounter. a storm has been gathering, a cloud has settled over the mountain-tops. sieglinde, left alone, murmurs in her sleep. her broken sentences reveal her dream: she is a child again and the scene is reenacted to her of the conflagration which ended her life in the forest with father and mother and twin. she starts awake in affright, calling siegmund, and finds herself alone. she hears her husband's horn and his call to wehwalt to stand and meet him. she hears siegmund's arrogant reply. she cannot see them for the black storm-scud, but calls on them to stop, to kill her first. a flash of lightning shows hunding and siegmund fighting on a high point of the rocky pass. sieglinde is rushing toward them, when a sudden glare blinds her. in the light, brünnhilde is seen hard at siegmund's side, defending him with her shield. "strike home, siegmund! trust to the victorious sword!" siegmund raises his sword for a deathblow to hunding, when a fiery beam drops through the storm-cloud; in the red glow of it is distinguished the form of wotan at hunding's side, holding his spear between the combatants. his voice is heard, terrible: "back from the spear! to pieces, the sword!" nothung snaps against the spear, and, run through the body by his adversary, siegmund falls. sieglinde hears his dying sigh--the strong heart stops on a brief snatch, pathetic, of the motif of the heroism of the wälsungen--she drops to earth, stunned. in the gloom, brünnhilde, who has retreated before the angry father's spear, is seen lifting sieglinde and hurrying off: "to horse! that i may save you!" long and mournfully wotan gazes upon the fallen siegmund--best-beloved perhaps of all the wagner heroes. taking account suddenly of the presence of hunding, "begone, slave!" he orders, "kneel before fricka, inform her that wotan's spear has taken vengeance of that which brought mockery upon her!... begone!... begone!..." but at the gesture with which the command is emphasised, hunding drops dead, crushed out of life by the god's contempt. abruptly recalled to the thought of his child's contumacy, wotan starts up in terrific wrath: "but brünnhilde! woe to that offender! dreadful shall be the punishment meted to her audacity, when my horse overtakes her in her flight!" amid lightning and thunder, aptly symbolising the state of his temper, the god vanishes from sight. iii the third act shows the scene, a high rocky peak rising from among great pine-trees, where the valkyries assemble for their return together to the hall of wotan. on the clouds they come riding, each with a dead warrior laid across her steed. over the neighing and hoof-beats, the music develops of a lightly thundering cavalry-charge, suggestive of the rocking in the saddle of horsemen borne over billowing expanses--glorious with the glory of the hosts which fancy sees among the crimson and gold banners of the sunset. the eight are at last arrived; their war-cries, their hard laughter, and the shrill neighing of the battle-steeds mingle in harsh harmony. the shrieks of an autumn gale, exulting in its freedom to drive the waves mountain-high and scatter all the leaves of the forest, have the same quality of wildness and force and glee. the steel-corseleted figures clustered on the peak make one think a little of gleaming dragon-flies seen in summer, swarming as they do around some point of mysterious interest. the laughter of the valkyries is for grim jests they exchange over the conduct of their horses, who fall to fighting with one another, because the dead warriors on their backs were enemies in life. brünnhilde only is wanting, to complete their number, but they dare not start for walhalla without her, lest walvater, not seeing his favourite, should receive them with a frown. they are amazed, when they finally see her coming, to descry on the back of her horse no warrior, but a woman--amazed, likewise, at the wild speed of grane's flight, and to see him stagger and drop on reaching the goal. they hurry to brünnhilde's assistance. she comes in, breathless with terror and haste, supporting sieglinde. wotan, she informs the wondering sisters, is hot in pursuit of her. she begs one of them to keep lookout for him from the top of the peak. the black storm-cloud on which he rides is perceived sweeping toward them from the north. to the questioning valkyries brünnhilde gives in quick outline the story of her disobedience, and implores their help to save sieglinde,--for the wälsungen all wotan has threatened with destruction. she conjures them, too, to conceal herself, who has not the hardihood to face her father in the extremity of his indignation. but the sisters are appalled at the revelation of her misdeed, and no less at the suggestion that they should join in her act of rebellion. her prayer for the loan of one of their horses on which the woman may escape, meets with obtuse looks, headshakes, uncompromising denial. she is appealing urgently, hurriedly, to one after the other, when sieglinde who, stony, death-struck, dazed with grief, has appeared unconscious, up to this moment, of all taking place around her, stops her, stating dully that there is no need to trouble about her, since her only wish is to die. she indeed reproaches brünnhilde for her care, and bids her now, if she is not to curse her for their flight, to end her life by a thrust of the sword. in the next moment the face of this same woman sheds the very radiance of joy: the valkyrie has revealed to her that of her a wälsung shall be born. then, oh, "save me, you valiant one!" she cries. "save my child! protect me, you maidens, with your mightiest protection! save me! save the mother!" she kneels to them. the cool-blooded spinsters are moved by this, but not to the point of braving wotan's ire. "then fly in haste, and fly alone!" brünnhilde with sudden resolve bids sieglinde: "i will remain behind and draw upon me, delaying him, wotan's anger." "in what direction shall i go?" asks the woman eagerly. eastward, one of the sisters tells her, lies a forest. fafner there, in the shape of a dragon, guards the treasure of the nibelungen. an unsuitable place for a helpless woman, yet one where she will be safe from wotan, for the god, it has been observed, shuns it. "away then to eastward," brünnhilde instructs sieglinde; "with undaunted courage bear every trial. hunger and thirst, thorns and stony roads--do you laugh at want and sorrow, for one thing know, and keep it ever in mind: the most exalted hero in the world, o woman, shall be born of you!" a great melodious phrase describes him, the future siegfried, as if with one magnificent stroke outlining a form of heroic beauty and valour. brünnhilde gives sieglinde the pieces of siegmund's sword, gathered up from the field after the ill-fated encounter. "he who one day shall swing this sword newly welded together, let him take his name from me: as siegfried let him rejoice in victory!" from the soul of sieglinde rises a soaring song of gratitude and praise, a song of purest, highest joy. her last words to brünnhilde, as clasping to her breast the broken sword she hastens away, are, interpreted: "my gratitude shall one day reward you, smiling at you in human form!... farewell! sieglinde in her woe calls down blessings upon you!" the storm-cloud has reached the rock, wotan's voice is heard: "brünnhilde, stand!" at the sound of it, brünnhilde's heart fails her; the hearts of the sisters, too, soften. crowding together on the rocky peak, they let the culprit cower out of sight among them. but wotan is not deceived; he addresses to the hidden daughter such sharp and searching reproaches that, her fear for herself losing all importance as these strike her heart, she steps forth from among the sister-valkyries and meekly stands before her father, awaiting condemnation. "not i," he speaks, "punish you. yourself you have framed your punishment!" and he exposes how by forgetting the whole duty of a valkyrie--to deal victory or defeat according to wotan's decree--she had made herself in effect no longer a valkyrie. "no more shall i send you from walhalla.... no longer shall you bring warriors to my hall.... from the tribe of the gods you are cut off, rejected from the eternal line.... our tie is severed.... you are banished from my face!" the sisters break into lamentation. "upon this mountain i banish you. in undefended sleep i shall seal you. let the man then capture the maid who finds her upon his road and wakes her." the sisters endeavour to restrain him, pointing out that their own honour will suffer from such a scandal. he rejects this on the ground that they have nothing more whatever to do with the faithless sister. "a husband is to win her feminine favor; masterful man is henceforth to have her duty. by the fireside she shall sit and spin, an object of scorn to all beholders!" brünnhilde drops at his feet, overwhelmed. cries of horror and protest break from the others; he drives them from his presence with the threat of a similar fate to brünnhilde's if they do not forthwith depart from her, and keep afar from the rock where she suffers her sentence. in a confusion of terror, which is not without the slightest point of humour, the strong girls flee like leaves in the blast before wotan's menace,--and brünnhilde is left alone to plead her poor cause with the stern incensed father. she conjures him first to silence his anger, and define to her the dark fault which has impelled him to reject the most loyal of his children. "i carried out your order," she protests. "did i order you to fight for the wälsung?" he inquires. "you did," she reminds him. "but i took back my instructions." "when fricka had estranged you from your own mind.... not wise am i, but this one thing i knew, that the wälsung was dear to you. i was aware of the conflict which compelled you to turn from the remembrance of this.... i kept in sight for you that which, painfully divided in feeling, you must turn your back upon. thus it was that i saw what you could not see. i saw siegmund. i stood before him announcing death. i met his eye, i heard his voice, i apprehended the hero's ineffable distress.... i witnessed that which struck the heart in my bosom with awe and trembling. timid and wondering i stood before him, in shame. i could think only how i might serve him.... and confidently counting upon an intimate understanding of him who had bred that love in my heart,--of that will which had attached me to the wälsung,--i disobeyed your command!" wotan, in meeting this, shows how he is not merely a father dealing with a disobedient child, but a man in strife with himself, with his own will which has betrayed him into following affection, inclination, when duty called for an opposite course. "if thy right hand offend thee, cut if off and cast it from thee." brünnhilde is to wotan that offending flesh and blood, and the safety of the future depends, it seems, upon his breaking his own heart by cutting her off from himself. she has done what his heart would have had him do; but for interests whose claim upon him is in his estimation greater than that of affection (_einer welt zu liebe_: for the sake of a world), he had elected not to follow his heart's impulse. and this delinquent, daughter at once and his own will, must not only be punished for the example of all the disobedient, but cut off from himself, to provide absolutely against any possible repetition of the so lovable and forgivable offence. brünnhilde, when she has heard him out, has no word further of argument or defence, but acquiesces with sad submissiveness. "certainly the foolish maiden is no fit helpmate for you, who, confused by your amazing counsel, did not understand your mind, when her own mind prompted one thing only: to love that which you loved!" she accepts the punishment as just, only: "if you are to sever that which was bound together," she pleads, "to keep apart from yourself the very half of yourself, that i was once completely one with you, o god, forget it not! your immortal part you cannot wish to dishonour. you cannot intend an ignominy which involves you.... yourself you would be degraded, if you gave me over to insult!" "you followed, light of heart, the call of love," wotan replies unconcedingly: "follow now him whom you must love!" "if i must depart from walhalla, if i am to be your companion and servant no more," brünnhilde pressingly continues, "if my obedience is to be given to masterful man, not of a coward and braggart let me be the prize! let him not be worthless who shall win me!" "you cut yourself off from walvater," he repulses her; "he cannot choose for you!" "a noble generation there is, having its origin in you--" brünnhilde suggests, still unquelled, the point is so vital to her; "the most admirable of heroes, i know it, is to spring from the line of the wälsungen...." "not a word of the wälsungen!" wotan fiercely interrupts. "when i severed from you, i severed from them. doomed to destruction is that line!" sieglinde has been saved, brünnhilde informs him, who shall give birth to the wälsung of whom she speaks. wotan sternly silences her: let her not seek to shake his firmness. he cannot choose for her! he has loitered too long already. he cannot stop to consider what her wishes are, nothing further has he to do with her but to see his sentence executed. what has he devised for her punishment, she asks. he repeats his earlier sentence: "in deep sleep i shall seal you. he who awakes the defenceless sleeper, shall have her to wife." brünnhilde falls on her knees to him. "if i am to be bound in fast sleep, an easy prey to the most ignoble of men, this one prayer you shall grant which a noble terror lifts to you: let the sleeper be protected by a barrier of fright-inspiring things, that only a fearless and great-hearted hero may be able to reach me on my mountain-peak!" "too much you demand! too much of favour!" she clasps his knees, and with the wildest inspiration of terror: "this one prayer you must--must listen to! at your command let a great fire spring up. let the summit be surrounded by fierce flames, whose tongues shall lick up and whose teeth shall devour any caitiff venturing near to the formidable place!" so is her whole soul heard to cry aloud in this prayer, as she pleads for so much more than her life, that all by which wotan had fortified himself against her, and which had been subjected to an assault so prolonged, suddenly gives way, his weary heart is pierced. overcome by emotion, he lifts her to her feet; he gazes long into her eyes, reading her soul there,--then amply, fully, with the whole of his overflowing heart, grants her prayer: "farewell, o dauntless, glorious child! holy pride of my heart, farewell! farewell! farewell! if i must shun you, if i am never more fondly to greet you, if you are no more to ride at my side, or reach me the cup of mead; if i am to lose you whom i so have loved, o laughing joy of my eyes--a bridal bonfire shall blaze for you such as never yet blazed for a bride! a flaming barrier shall girdle the rock; with burning terror-signals it shall frighten away the coward. the fainthearted shall keep afar from brünnhilde's rock. that one alone shall win the bride, who is freer than i--the god!" in a speechless ecstasy of gratitude, brünnhilde sinks on his breast, and he holds her long silently clasped, while there floats heavenward as if the very voice of their relieved, pacified, uplifted hearts. supporting her in his arms, gazing tenderly in her upturned face, he takes his last leave of her. there is a passage in wotan's farewell which seems to contain, compressed into it, all the yearning ache of all farewells, with all the sweetness of the love which makes parting bitter. "for the last time.... farewell.... the last kiss...." these words occur upon it. the motif it seems of the tragedy of last times; one wonders could custom ever so harden him to it that he should feel no clutch at the heart in hearing it. "for the last time i appease myself with the last kiss of farewell.... upon a happier mortal the star of your eye shall beam. upon the unhappy immortal it must, in parting, close. for thus does the god turn away from you, thus does he kiss away your divinity!" he presses a long kiss upon each of her eyes, and the first languor of sleep falling at once upon her, she leans, without strength, against him. he supports her to a mossy knoll beneath a spreading pine-tree, and lays her gently upon it; after a long brooding look at her face, closes her helmet; after a long look at her sleeping form, covers it with the great valkyrie shield; places her spear beside her, and with a last long sad look at the slumbering motionless figure, turns away,--having effectually desolated himself of the three dearest of his children. resolutely striding from the sleeper, he summons loge, and commands him in his original form of elemental fire to surround the mountain-summit. at the shock of his spear against the rock, a flame flashes and rapidly spreads. with his spear wotan traces the course the fire is to follow, girdling the peak. nimbly it leaps from point to point, till the whole background is fringed with flame. at wotan's words, "let no one who is afraid of my spear ever break through the fiery barrier!" there falls, prophetic, across the dream of brünnhilde's charmed sleep, the great shadow of the deliverer, so distant yet in time, siegfried, who when the hour came of test was found to fear wotan's spear as little as he feared anything else. with that firm spell placed upon his magnificent and adequate fence, wotan departs; and, guarded by the singing flames, which weave into the rhythm of their bright dance the tenderest of lullabies, brünnhilde is left to her long rest. siegfried siegfried i fafner, when he had become possessor of the nibelungen treasure, conveyed it, as we have seen, to a cave in a lonesome forest, and there in the shape of a dragon mounted guard over it. mime, the dwarf, in order to keep the same treasure under some sort of oversight, took up his abode in the forest, at a respectful distance from the flame-breathing monster. alberich haunted the immediate neighbourhood of the cave. thus it happened that sieglinde, directed by the valkyries to that region, where she should be safest from wotan's anger, was overheard by mime, out in the lonesome wood, moaning in her trouble. he assisted her into his cave. there siegfried was born, and there sieglinde died. mime reared the "wälsungen-shoot" with solicitous care, in the ulterior view that this scion of a strong race when grown to man's size should kill fafner for him and get him the ring. at the rise of the curtain we see mime at his anvil, struggling with a heavy difficulty. he is fashioning a sword for siegfried,--still another sword, after ever so many,--realising even as he works that no sword he can forge but will break in the lad's strong hands. "the best sword i ever forged, which in the hands of a giant would stand stiff, the insignificant stripling for whom it was shaped he whacks and snaps it in two, as if i had made him a child's plaything!" it is sober fact to mime that he cannot use siegfried for his purposes until he have equipped him with a sword. "a sword there is," he continues his meditation, "which he could not break. the fragments of nothung he never could shatter, could i weld the strong pieces together, which all my art cannot compass! nothung alone could be of use,... and i cannot weld it, nothung, the sword!" half-heartedly he has resumed his toil, when a joyous shout is heard from the forest, of which a sun-shot patch glimmers through the cave's mouth, and there storms in, driving before him a tethered bear, a magnificent youth, clad in skins, a silver horn at his side. the splendour of siegfried's appearance is constantly referred to, the qualifications applied to him suggesting most frequently an effect he shed of light. this child of the unhappy wälsungen seems to have been indelibly stamped with the joy of their one golden hour. of siegmund's tragic consciousness of frustration, of sieglinde's sufferings, there is no trace in their vigorous offspring; but the superabundant vitality of joy which lifted them to the lovers' seventh heaven for one triumphant hour is all in his young blood. he is big, strong, sane, comely, fearless, simple, ignorant of all mean passions and interests; pensive for moments, gay for hours-nearly boisterous; frank and outspoken to the point of brutality; unmannerly at times to the point of ruffianism; but the dice are loaded to secure our cherishing him right through his bright course, by that irresistible, ingrain joyousness of his, born of strength, balance, fearlessness. laughing immoderately, he urges the bear against mime, who flees hither and thither to elude the fearful pair. "i am come in double force, the better to corner you.... brownie, ask for the sword!" when assured by the trembling mime that the sword is in readiness, he releases and sends home his shaggy ally. but when mime hands him the newly finished sword, and he strikes it on the anvil, it flies to bits. the angry boy expresses his wish that he had smashed the sword on the disgraceful bungler's skull. "shall such a braggart go on bragging? he prates me of giants and lusty fighting; of gallant deeds and solid armour; he will forge weapons for me, provide me with swords; he vaunts his art as if he could do something of account; but let me take hold of the thing he has hammered, with a single grip i crush flat the idle rubbish! if the creature were not so utterly mean, i would drop him into the forge-fire with all the stuff of his forging, the old imbecile hobgoblin! there might be an end then to vexation!" he casts himself fuming on a stone seat and turns his face toward the wall. the dwarf, who has kept his distance from the storming youth, tries to quiet him, reminds him of his benefits, of his teachings on the subject of gratitude. ingratiatingly he brings him food. siegfried without turning dashes spit and pipkin from his hands. the little man affects a deeply hurt sensibility. he rehearses at length all siegfried has to thank him for, material necessities, education,--"with clever counsel i made you clever, with subtle wisdom i taught you wit...." this tale of benefactions has been gone over so often that the dwarf has reached a fine glibness in it; the smooth air on which he enumerates the instances of his kindness has a peculiar cast of hypocrisy. he is so touched by the contemplation finally of his own goodness and siegfried's hardness of heart that he falls to weeping. "and for all i have borne this is now the reward, that the hot-tempered boy torments and hates me!" siegfried has been calmly gazing into mime's eyes; trying through these to get at the truth of him. mime expresses surprise that after so many unquestionable services the boy should hate him; and the boy is not himself without a touch of wonder at the invincible antipathy with which this creature inspires him, to whom yet he is actually indebted for many good offices. "much you have taught me, mime, and many a thing have i learned of you; but that which you have most cared to teach me, never have i succeeded in learning: how i could bear the sight of you! if you bring me food and drink, disgust takes the place of dinner; if you spread an easy couch for me, sleep on it becomes difficult; if you endeavour to teach me wise conversation, i prefer to be dumb and dull. whenever i set eyes on you, i recognise as ill-done everything you do; whether i watch you stand, or waggle and walk, ducking, nidnodding, blinking with your eyes, my impulse is to catch the nidnodder by the scruff of the neck, to hurl out of the way for good and all the odious blinker! that is my manner, mime, of being fond of you. now, if you are wise, help me to know a thing which i have vainly reflected upon: i run into the woods to be rid of you; how does it happen that i come back? all animals are dearer to me than you, trees and birds, the fish in the stream, i am fonder of them all than i am of you; then how does it happen that i still come back? if you are wise, make clear to me this thing!" "my child," replies mime, "you are informed by that circumstance how near i lie to your heart!" "i tell you i cannot bear you! forget it not so soon!" mime argues that such a thing is impossible, is out of nature; that what to the young bird is the old bird, which feeds it in the nest until it is fledged, that is to siegfried, inevitably, mime! this simile of mime's suggests to siegfried a further question. in asking it he has one of those brief accesses of pensiveness which endear him, disclosing the existence of a common human tenderness, after all, under that sturdy wrapping of joy befitting the child of demigods. "now, since you are so wise, tell me still another thing: when the birds were singing so blithely in spring, the one luring the other, you told me, as i wished to know, that they were male and female. they billed and cooed so engagingly, and would not leave each other; they built a nest and brooded in it; there was a fluttering presently of young wings, and the two cared for the young. i saw how, in the same way, the deer rested in the forest, in pairs; how even wild faxes and wolves did this. the male brought food to the lair, the female nursed the cubs. i learned from seeing this what love is--i never robbed the mother of her young...." the music has been heaving and falling, as if with the warm palpitation of a vast breast, nature's own, blissful with love and happy creative force. "now, where, mime, is your loving mate, that i may call her mother?" mime becomes cross: "what has come over you, mad boy? now, what a numbskull it is! are you a bird or a fox?" and at siegfried's next question he chafes: "you are to believe what i tell you: i am your father and mother at the same time!" but siegfried vigorously objects: "there you lie, unspeakable gawk! how the young resemble their parents i have luckily observed for myself. more than once i have come to a clear stream: i have seen the trees and animals mirrored in it; the sun and clouds, exactly as they are, appear repeated on the shining surface. my own image, too, i have seen. altogether different from you i seemed to myself: there is as much likeness between a toad and a gleaming fish, but never yet did a fish crawl out of a toad!" this latter bit in its short extent gives an amusing, characteristic illustration of wagner's method of painting with notes. with the first phrase, siegfried's impatient exclamation, comes the motif of siegfried's impetuosity; then, as he is describing it, a representation of the clear stream; upon this is sketched the image of siegfried, in the notes of his proper motif, to which is added a bar of the heroism-of-the-wälsungen motif, indicating his resemblance to the father before him. at his mention of the toad, his metaphor for mime, we hear the hammer of the nibelung; and at his mention of the gleaming fish, the swimming phrase that accompanies the watery evolutions of the rhine-maidens. the ingeniousness of all this would not perhaps of itself especially recommend the piece, were it not that the scheme is worked out to such beautiful purpose that the whole thing is lovely, and that, though one should know nothing whatever of the motifs, his ear must be charmed. satisfied by his own logic that mime cannot be his progenitor, siegfried now himself answers his earlier question: "when i run into the woods in the thought of forsaking you, how does it happen that i still return home? it is because from you i am to learn who are my father and mother!" mime evades him: "what father! what mother! idle question!" but siegfried catches him by the throat, and the terrified dwarf communicates, grudgingly, a scant fact or two of his history. "oh, ungrateful and wicked child! now hear for what it is you hate me. i am neither your father nor any kin of yours, and yet to me you owe your life...." making his own part in the story as meritorious as possible, he relates his taking into shelter the woman whom he had found moaning out in the wild woods. siegfried, for once penetrated with sadness, wonder, and awe, breathes forth softly, when the sorrowful story is ended, "my mother--died then--of me?" he tries by questions to complete the dwarf's bare account: "whence am i named siegfried?" "thus did your mother bid me call you." "what was my mother's name?" mime feigns to have forgotten, but, roughly pressed, recalls it. "then, i ask you, what was my father's name?" "him i never saw!" "but my mother spoke the name?" "she only said that he had been slain." siegfried is smitten with the suspicion that mime may be lying to him, and demands some proof of all this which he has heard. mime, after a moment's resistance, in terror of the boy's rising wrath, fetches from its hiding and shows him the pieces of a broken sword. "this was given me by your mother. for trouble, cost and care, she left it as paltry remuneration. behold it! a broken sword! your father, she said, carried it in the last battle, when he was slain." siegfried's strong good spirits have already returned. "and these fragments," he cries, with enthusiasm, "you are to weld together for me. then i shall swing my proper sword! hurry, mime! quick to work!... cheat me not with trumpery toys! in these fragments alone i place my faith. if i find you idle, if you join them imperfectly, if there are flaws in the hard steel, you shall learn burnishing from me! for this very day, i swear it, i mean to have the sword!" "what do you want this very day of the sword?" mime inquires in alarm. siegfried, his heart inexpressibly lightened by the positive knowledge that mime is neither father nor any kin to him, bursts into merry singing: "to go away, out of the woods into the world. never shall i come back!... as the fish gaily swims in the flood, as the finch freely flies afar, so shall i fly, so shall i dart... that i may never, mime, see you more!" off he storms into the forest, leaving mime shouting after him, a prey to the utmost anxiety. the dwarf's difficulty is now twofold: "to the old care i have a new one added!" how to retain the wild fellow and guide him to fafner's nest, and how to mend those pieces of stubborn steel. "no forge is there whose glow can soften the thorough-bred fragments. no dwarf's hammer can compel the hard pieces...." in unmitigated despair, void of counsel, he drops on his seat behind the anvil and weeps. ushered by great calm chords, measured and dignified as the gait of a god on his travels, a wayfarer appears at the entrance of the cave. he wears an ample deep-blue mantle, and for staff carries a spear. on his head is a broad hat, the brim of which dips so as to conceal one of his eyes. it is wotan. since parting from brünnhilde he has had no heart for warfare, no heart to ride to battle without the "laughing joy of his eyes." alone, unresting, he has wandered all over the wide earth in search of counsel and, very likely, distraction. a spectator he is in these days and not an actor. his spirit has reached a state of philosophic calm. he has learned better certainly than to meddle any more with anything that concerns the accursed ring. he is brought into the neighbourhood of the still interested actors in that old drama in part by curiosity; in part, no doubt, by the wish to watch the actions of siegfried, his beloved children's child. but in some faintest degree, at least, it would seem, he is brought here by the invincible need to influence these fortunes just a little, though it be firmly fixed that he is not to try directly or indirectly to divert the ring into any channel which shall bring it eventually to himself. all else being equal, he had a little rather strengthen mime's chances of getting the ring, through siegfried, than inactively see it fall to the inveterate enemy, alberich. at the greeting he speaks from the threshold to the "wise smith," mime starts up in affright: "who is it, pursuing me into the forest wilderness?" "wanderer is the world's name for me. far have i wandered, much have i bestirred myself on the back of the earth." "then bestir yourself now! and do not loiter here, if wanderer is the world's name for you!" mime, with his head full of his dark little projects, has a deep dread of spies and interference. at every step the wanderer takes further into his dwelling, he utters a sharper protest; and at every protest the wanderer calmly advances a step further. "through much research, much have i learned," speaks wanderer, "i could impart to many a one things of importance to him; i could deliver many a one from that which troubles him--from the gnawing care of the heart." and after still another irritated dismissal from mime: "many a one has imagined himself to be wise, but the thing which he most needed to know, he knew not. i gave him leave to ask me what should help him, and enlightened him by my word." and after again being nervously shown the door: "here i sit by the fireside," speaks blandly wanderer, suiting the action to the word, "and i set my head as stake in a match of wits. my head is yours, you have won it, if you do not, by questioning me, succeed in learning what shall profit you; if i do not, by my instructions, redeem the pledge." it is plain enough that if mime would now expose to the wanderer the source of the gnawing care at his heart, and ask him how nothung might be welded, he would receive the information. wotan is clearly eager to give it, yet cannot do so directly, or he would be too crudely meddling again in the ring affair: he cannot press on him his counsel, but, at his old trick of ingenuous double-dealing, might by means of this guessing-game make shift to convey it to him. mime, old and wise as he is, has yet in certain directions a dwarfed understanding; certainly not enough generosity to trust anybody, or conceive of a disinterested desire to do him a good turn. his whole concern now is how to be rid of this large tactless personage. "i must question him in such a manner as to trap him," he says to himself. it is agreed that he shall have three questions. he sits brooding a moment, trying to find something very difficult indeed. the motif of mime's cogitations, which has already been frequently heard in this act, gives amusingly the unheroic colour of the sordid little mind's workings. he fixes upon questions concerning things which might be supposed little known to a wanderer of human descent, even such a much-travelled and conceited one. first: what race reigns in the depths of the earth? second: what race rests upon the back of the earth? third: what race dwells on the cloudy heights? wotan readily answers all these, giving bits of the histories of the races in question, the nibelungen, the giants, and the gods. as he describes the spear of wotan, whose lord all must eternally obey, he with an involuntary gesture of command brings his spear hard down on the stone floor. faint thunder results. terror falls upon mime, who by the light shining for a moment from his countenance, has recognised the god. "you have solved the questions and saved your head," he says hurriedly, without looking wotan in the face. "now, wanderer, go your way!" but the wanderer declares that according to custom in such contests, it is the dwarf's turn now to answer three questions or lose his head. "it is a long time," mime ventures timidly, "since i left my native place; a long time since i departed from the bosom of earth, my mother; i once saw the gleam of wotan's eye as he looked into the cave; my mother-wit dwindles before him...." but the wee fellow has no mean conceit of his wisdom, and is really not as uneasy as might be expected of one in his position. "perhaps i shall be so lucky," he suggests, not without complacency, "as, under this compulsion, to deliver the dwarf's head!" wotan asks him, for the first question,--and the pain of the memories oppressing him is translated to us by the motif of parting, the motif of "last times," while the god's tones are infinitely tender--"what race is it to which wotan shows himself stern, and which yet he loves the best of all living?" glibly mime answers, showing a full acquaintance with the circumstances, "the wälsungen." wotan passes on to the second question: "a wise nibelung keeps watch over siegfried. he is to kill fafner for him, that he may get the ring and become lord of the hort. what sword now must siegfried wield, if he is to deal death to fafner?" mime, delighted with himself, readily replies: "nothung is the name of a notable sword.... the fragments of it are preserved by a wise smith, for he knows that with the wotan-sword alone an intrepid stupid boy, siegfried, shall destroy the dragon." he rubs his hands in goblin glee. "am i, dwarf, in the second instance still to retain my head?" wanderer, with a laugh for his antics, felicitates him: "the most keen-witted are you among the wise; who can equal you in acuteness? but seeing you are so cunning as to use the boyish hero for your dwarf-purposes, with the third question i now make bold: tell me, wise armourer, who, out of the strong fragments, shall forge nothung anew?" consternation falls upon the dwarf. who, indeed? was not that question the very hub around which turned all his troubled reflections? had it not been that which was forcing tears from him at the moment of the wanderer's arrival? he runs hither and thither distracted, in broken exclamations admitting that he himself cannot forge the sword, and how should he know who can perform the miracle? the wanderer rises from his seat beside the hearth. "three questions you were free to ask. three times i was open to consultation. you inquired of things idle and remote, but that which was closest to you, that which might profit you, did not enter your mind. now that i have guessed it, you lose your senses with fright. i have won the witty head. now, brave conqueror of fafner, hear, doomed dwarf: only one who has never known fear can forge nothung anew." on his way to the mouth of the cave, he turns for another word to the chap-fallen mime: "look out for your wise head from this day forth: i leave it in forfeit to him who has never learned fear!" with a laugh for the double-horned dilemma in which he leaves the "honest dwarf," he passes forth into the woods. as mime gazes after him, violent trembling seizes the poor little smith. the flashing among the leaves of wotan's winged horse his terror mistakes for the flaming of fafner's gaping jaws; and the sound of a rushing approach for the monster crashing toward him through the underbrush. with the cry: "the dragon is upon me! fafner! fafner!" he cowers behind the anvil. the alarming noise proves to have been only siegfried coming with characteristic impetuosity to ask for his sword. "hey, there! lazy-bones! have you finished? quick! what success with the sword?" mime is not in sight. his voice is heard, faint, from his hiding-place: "is it you, child? are you alone?" siegfried for some time can draw no satisfactory answer from him, no matter how roughly pressed. the dwarf is caught between two difficulties, and must first of all things try to think out for himself the safest course of action. only by one who has never known fear can nothung, the indispensable, be forged. "too wise am i for such work!" he soliloquizes. on the other hand, his wise head is forfeit to one who has never learned fear. of the two difficulties, the latter is obviously the one to be first attended to. siegfried fills the description dangerously well of the foretold fatal enemy. "how shall i contrive to teach him fear?" is mime's nearest interest. siegfried, irritated by his continued hesitation, finally catches hold of him. "ha? must i lend a hand? what have you forged and furbished to-day?" "with no care but for your welfare," answers mime, "i was sunk in thought as to how i should instruct you in a thing of great importance." "you were sunk quite under the seat," laughs siegfried; "what of great importance did you discover there?" "i there learned fear for your sake, that i might teach it to you, dunce." "what about fear?" siegfried asks. "you know nothing about it, and you are thinking of going from the woods out into the world? of what use to you would be the strongest sword, if you had no knowledge of fear?... into the crafty world i shall not let you fare before you have learned fear." "if it is an art, why am i unacquainted with it? out with it! what about fear?" "have you never felt,"--asks mime, in a voice which at the suggestion of his own words falls to quaking, "have you never felt, in the dark woods, at twilight,... when there are sounds in the distance of rustling, humming and soughing, when wild muttering gusts sweep past, disorderly fire-wisps flicker around you, a swelling confused sound surges toward you,--have you not felt a shuddering horror seize upon your limbs? a burning chill shakes your frame, your senses swim and fail; the alarmed heart trembling in your breast hammers to the point of bursting? if you have never felt these things, fear is unknown to you!" the music of fear is a darkened and discoloured fire-music through which we recognise, as if under a disguise veiling something of its beauty, the motif of brünnhilde's sleep. if one looks for reasons, one can suppose the reference to be, as to a type of fearful things, to the terror-inspiring barrier surrounding brünnhilde; and imagine a jesting intimation that fear, as siegfried should eventually learn it, is the sensation suspending the heart-beats at sight of a beautiful woman in her sleep. siegfried has listened to mime in amused wonder: "strange exceedingly must that be! my heart, i feel, stands firm and hard in its place. that creeping and shuddering, glowing and shivering, turning hot and turning dizzy, hammering and trembling, i wish to feel the terror of it, i long for that delight! but how can you, mime, bring it about?" "just follow me. i will guide you to some purpose. i have thought it all out. i know a dreadful dragon; he has slain already and swallowed many; fafner will teach you fear, if you follow me to his lair." "where is his lair?" "neidhöhle it is called. (_neid:_ envy; _höhle:_ cavern.) eastward it lies at the end of the wood." "then it is not far from the world?" "the world is close by." "you are to take me there, and when i have learned fear, away, into the world! so quick! give me my sword! i will swing it out in the world!" mime confesses that he neither has mended, nor ever can mend, the sword in question. "no dwarf's strength is equal to it. more likely," he suggests, "one who knows no fear may discover the art!" siegfried, heartily weary of mime's paltering, snatches up the fragments of nothung: "here, the pieces! away with the bungler! my father's steel doubtless will let itself be welded by me. myself i will forge the sword!" and he falls to work. "if you had taken diligent pains to learn the art, it would now, of a truth, profit you," remarks mime; "but you were always lazy at the lesson. what proper work can you do now?" "what the master cannot do," siegfried aptly retorts, "the apprentice might, if he had always minded him? take yourself off! meddle not with this, or you may tumble with it into the fire!" he heaps fuel on the hearth, fastens the sword in a vice and starts filing it. mime watches him, and at this which looks like folly, cannot restrain the exclamation: "what are you doing? take the solder! you are filing away the file!" but the disposition of the young fellow without fear shows in his method with the sword. with a brave thoroughness he reduces the whole blade to steel filings. mime follows all his movements. "now i am as old as this cavern and these woods, but such a thing have i never seen! he will succeed with the sword, that i plainly apprehend. in his fearlessness he will make it whole. the wanderer knew it well! how, now, shall i hide my endangered head? it is forfeit to the intrepid boy unless fafner shall teach him fear--but, woe's me, poor wretch, how will he slay the dragon, if he learns fear from him? how will he obtain the ring for me? accursed dilemma! here am i fast caught, unless i find me wise counsel how to bring under compulsion the fearless one himself...." "quick, mime!" siegfried interrupts mime's meditations; "what is the name of the sword which i have ground into filings?" "nothung is the name of the notable sword; your mother gave me the information." siegfried at work falls to lusty singing, a song of primitive character, of a kind with what one can suppose tubal-cain singing at his ancient anvil. we see him pumping the forge-bellows while the steel melts, pouring the metal into a mould, cooling the mould in a water-trough, breaking the plaster, heating the sword, hammering the red blade, cooling it again, riveting the handle, polishing the whole,--all of which actions his song celebrates: "nothung! nothung! notable sword! (_neidliches schwert_ is literally "covetable sword") why must you of old be shattered? to powder i have ground your sharp magnificence. i now melt the filings in the crucible. hoho! hoho! hahei! hahei! blow, bellows, brighten the glow! wild in the forest grew a tree. i hewed it down, i burned the brown ash to charcoal. it lies heaped now on the hearth. the coals of the tree, how bravely they burn, how bright and clear they glow! upward they fly in a spray of sparks and melt the steel-dust. nothung! nothung! notable sword! your powdered steel is melting, in your own sweat you are swimming, soon i shall swing you as my sword!" mime during this has been revolving his own problem, and has hit upon a plan which seems to him to meet all the difficulties of his case: siegfried, beyond a doubt, will forge the sword and kill fafner. while he is tired and heated from the encounter, mime will offer him a drink brewed from simples of his culling, a few drops of which will plunge the boy into deep sleep, when, with the weapon he is at this moment forging, mime will clear him out of the way and take possession of ring and treasure. enchanted with his inspiration, he sets to work at once preparing the somniferous drink. siegfried is singing at the top of his lungs: "in the water flowed the stream of fire, it hissed aloud in anger, but the cold tamed and chilled it; in the water it flows no more, stiff and hard it is become, the lordly steel--but hot blood will bathe it soon. now sweat again that i may forge you, nothung, notable sword!" he catches sight of mime pottering with the cooking utensils. "there is a wise smith come to shame," the old man answers the youth's mocking inquiry; "the teacher receives lessons from his pupil; all is up with art for the old one, he will serve the young one as cook! while the young one makes iron into broth, the old one will prepare a dish of eggs!" with impish relish of the inwardness of the situation, he stirs the mixture in the pot. "hoho! hahei! hoho!" siegfried proceeds with his work and his singing; "shape, my hammer, a hard sword! blood once dyed your pallid blue, its trickling red brightened you, you laughed coldly, you cooled off the hot liquid. now the fire has made you glow red, your soft hardness yields to the hammer; you dart angry sparks at me, because i have tamed you, stubborn! the merry sparks, how they delight me! anger adorns the brave. you are gaily laughing at me, though you feign to be angry and sullen. hoho! hahei! by means of heat and hammer i have achieved it, with stalwart blows i have shaped you; now let the red shame vanish, become as hard and cold as you can...." mime is meanwhile revelling in dreams of the greatness which is to follow upon his acquisition of the ring. he fairly skips up and down as he thinks of it all: brother alberich himself reduced to subjection, the whole world bowing at the nod of his, mime's, head. no more toil, others to toil for him.... "mime is king, prince of the nibelungen, lord over all! hei, mime! who would have thought it of you?" "nothung! nothung! notable sword!" harmoniously bellows siegfried; "now you are fast in your hilt. you were in two, i have forced you into one. no blow after this shall break you. in the dead father's hand the steel snapped, the living son forged it anew; now its bright gleam flashes like laughter, its sharp edge cuts clean. nothung! nothung! young and renewed! i have brought you back to life. you lay dead there, in fragments; now you flash lightning, defiant and brave! show caitiffs your gleam! strike the traitor! fell the villain!" he waves over his head the finished sword: "look, mime, you smith--thus cuts siegfried's sword!" he brings it down upon the anvil, which falls apart, cleft from top to bottom. mime tumbles over with amazement. ii the next scene shows the woods before fafner's cave. it is night. alberich is dimly distinguishable, lurking among the rocks, brooding his dark thoughts, as he keeps covert watch over the treasure. he is startled by what seems an untimely break of day, accompanied by a great gust of wind. this defines itself as a galloping gleam--a shining horse rushing through the forest. "is it already the slayer of the dragon?" he wonders; "is it he, already, who shall kill fafner?" a moonbeam breaking through the clouds reveals the form of the wanderer advancing toward neidhöhle. the enemies see and recognise each other. alberich, though greatly alarmed at this inopportune presence, breaks into angry vituperation: "out of the way, shameless robber.... your intrigues have done harm enough!" "i am come to look on, not to act," wotan replies, grandly mild and unruffled; "who shall deny me a wanderer's right of way?" alberich, as if words of offence were actually missiles, showers them thick upon the unmoved god. he points out, virulently, the strength of his own position compared with wotan's, in whose hand that spear of his must fly to pieces should he break a covenant established as sacred by the runes carved on its shaft. wanderer, a shade weary of such a berating, yet losing little of his placidity, retorts: "not through any runes of truth to covenants did my spear bind you, malignant, to me; you my spear forces to bow before me by its strength; i carefully keep it therefore for purposes of war." "how haughtily do you threaten in your defiant strength," the rabid alberich continues, "yet how uneasy is all within your breast.... doomed to death through my curse is fafner, guardian of the treasure. who will inherit from him? will the illustrious hort come once more into the possession of the nibelung? the thought gnaws you with unsleeping care. for, let me hold it again in this fist, far otherwise than thick-witted giants shall i employ the power of the ring; then let the holy keeper of the heroes tremble; the heights of walhalla i shall storm with the hosts of hella, the world then will be mine to govern!" tranquilly wotan receives this: "i know your meaning, but it creates in me no uneasiness. he shall rule through the ring who obtains it." this calm of wotan's gives alberich the idea that the god must, so to speak, have cards up his sleeve. "on the sons of heroes," he suggests ironically, "you place your insolent reliance, fond blossoms of your own blood. good care have you taken of a young fellow--not so?--who cunningly shall pluck the fruit which you dare not yourself break off?" "not with me"--wotan cuts short the discussion, "wrangle with mime. danger threatens you through your brother. he is bringing to this spot a youth who is to slay fafner for him. the boy knows nothing of me. the nibelung uses him for his own purposes. wherefore, i tell you, comrade, do freely as you choose!" alberich can scarcely believe that he has heard aright. "you will keep your hand from the treasure?" serenely and broadly, wotan declares--a touch of that tenderness in his tone which the thought of the wälsungen always has power to arouse--"whom i love i leave to act for himself: let him stand or fall, his own lord is he. i have no use save for heroes!" this sounds very fair; to alberich almost too fair. he presses wotan with further questions. the answers are elusive as oracles, but satisfy alberich of thus much: that wotan is himself out of the struggle for the ring. to point his personal disinterestedness, the god even offers to wake the dragon, that alberich may warn him of the approaching danger and peradventure receive in token of gratitude--the ring! we suspect in this wotan's taste for a joke, unless it be an exhibition of that other trait of the god's, the need to gratify his conscience with a comedy of fairness. at this moment he is not, it is true, interfering; but he is confidently watching the play of forces set working by him long ago. the strong siegfried armed with the rejuvenated sieges-schwert is a force having its impulse originally from him. at this moment, perhaps because the events immediately impending have cast their shadows across the sensitive consciousness of an at times prophet, he is in no uneasiness whatever with regard to the fate of the ring. to alberich's mystification, he actually rouses fafner. "who disturbs my sleep?" comes a hollow roar from the cave. the fafner-motif is the old motif of the giants, slightly altered so that instead of the ponderous tread of the brothers it suggests the muffled ponderous beat of a gigantic sinister heart. wotan and alberich explain to the dragon his danger and indicate what may buy him safety. having heard them out, fafner, unseen in the cave, gives a long lazy comfortable yawn. "i lie and possess! let me sleep!" wotan laughs. "well, alberich, the plan failed. but abuse me no more, you rogue! one thing, i further enjoin you, keep well in mind: everything is after its kind, and this kind you cannot alter!" the broad erda-motif accompanies this maxim. "take a firm stand! put your skill to use with mime, your brother. he is of the kind you understand better. what is of a different kind, learn now to know, too...." when wotan disappears, the galloping is heard, through the storm-wind that for a moment agitates the leaves of the forest, of his rising luft-ross. his obscure last words have left alberich puzzled, sorer and angrier than ever. the air is full of curse-motif. "laugh on, you light-minded luxurious tribe of the gods! i shall still see you all gone to destruction. while the gold shines in the light there is a wise one keeping watch--his spite will circumvent you all!" he hides himself among the tumbled rocks near the cave-mouth from the brightening light of dawn. mime enters guiding siegfried. "this is the spot, go no further!" siegfried seats himself under a great tree; they have been travelling through the woods all night. "this is the place where i am to learn fear?" he inquires light-heartedly. the excursion, as far as he knows, has for its single object to teach him that art. he is not of a suspicious turn and does not ask what interest in his education has mime, in whose affection he instinctively does not believe. "now, mime," he instructs the dwarf, "you are after this to avoid me. if i do not learn here what i should learn, i shall fare further alone, i shall finally be rid of you!" "believe me, dear boy," says the dwarf, "if you do not learn fear to-day and here, with difficulty shall you learn it elsewhere and at another time!" he directs the youth's eye to the black mouth of the dragon-hole and describes with griesly detail the monster inhabiting it. siegfried listens unimpressed. hearing, in answer to his inquiry, that the monster has a heart and that it is in the usual place: "i will drive nothung into the overweening brute's heart!" he determines lightly. he is sceptical with regard to the lesson in fear which he has been promised. "just wait!" mime warns him. "what i said was empty sound in your ears. you must hear and see the creature himself.... remain where you are. when the sun climbs high, watch for the dragon. he will come out of his cave and pass along this way to go and drink at the spring." "mime," says siegfried, with a laugh for his foolish big-boy joke, "if you are to be at the spring i will not hinder the dragon from going there. i will not drive nothung into his spleen until he has drunk you up. wherefore, take my advice: do not lie down to rest at the water's edge, but take yourself off as far as ever you can, and never come back!" mime is too near, as he thinks, the hour of triumph, to take offence. may he not be permitted, after the fight, to refresh the victor with a drink? he will be near. let siegfried call him if he needs advice,... or if he finds the sensation of fear delectable! when siegfried has freed himself of mime, whose company seems to become more and more unendurable as he is nearer parting from him for ever, he stretches out again under the great tree, folding his arms beneath his head. "that that fellow is not my father," he muses, "how glad am i of that! the fresh woodland only begins to please me, the glad daylight to smile to me, now that the offensive wretch is out of my sight!" he drives away the thought of him and lets sweeter reflections gradually absorb him. the leaves rustle and waver; delicate shafts of sunshine drop through them and play over the forest floor. the exquisiteness of the hour, by its natural power over the mood, turns the lonely boy's thoughts toward the only human beings life has so far given him to love,--and in images so vague and distant! "how did my father look?" he wonders dreamily, and answers himself: "like me, of course!" after a longer spell of gazing up among the trees, while the soft influences of the fragrant woodland world and lovely summer day still further overmaster him: "but--how did my mother look?... that i cannot in the least picture! like the doe's, i am sure, shone her limpid lustrous eyes--only, more beautiful by far!" the thought of her death fills him with boundless sadness, but not sharp or bitter,--dreamy and sweet from its tenderness. "when she had born me, wherefore did she die? do human mothers always die of their sons? how sad were that! oh, might i, son, behold my mother!... my mother--a woman of humankind!" the motif of mother-love is but a slight, beautiful variation from the motif of love in nature accompanying siegfried's reference to the deer paired in the woods, that strain like the heaving of a great heart oppressed by its burden of love. the thought of his never-known mother draws forth sighs from siegfried's lips. a long time he lies silent. the freia-motif, the motif of beauty, clambers upward like a dewy branch of wild clematis. all is still around, but the little wind-stirred leaves, which weave and weave as if a delicate green gold-shot fabric of sound. against this airy tapestry suddenly stands forth like a vivid pattern the warbling of a bird. over and over, with pretty variations, the bird gives its note. it catches siegfried's attention; he listens. "you sweet little bird," he at last addresses the singer up among the branches, "i never heard you before. is your home here in the forest?..." the thought occurs to him, so natural to the simple: "could i but understand the sweet babbling, certainly it would tell me something--perhaps about the dear mother!" he remembers hearing from mime that one might come to understand the language of the birds. attractive possibility! pricked by his desire at once to bring it about, he springs up, cuts one of the reeds growing around the pool where fafner goes to drink, and fashions it into a pipe. he tries upon it to imitate the bird-note. "if i can sing his language," is his reasoning, "i shall understand, no doubt, what he sings!" after repeated attempts, charmingly comical, and much vain mending of the reed with the edge of nothung, he grows impatient, is ashamed of his unsuccess before the "roguish listener." he tosses away the silly reed and takes his silver horn. "a merry wild-wood note, such as i can play, you shall hear! i have sounded it as a call to draw to me some dear companion. so far, nothing better has come than a wolf or a bear. let us see, now, what it attracts this time, whether a dear comrade will come to the call?" he places the horn to his lips and sounds the cheery _lock-weise_ (lure-call) over and over, with long sustained notes between the calls, during which he looks up at the bird, to see how he likes it. as a variation he plays the motifs which describe himself, the large heroic siegfried-motif, and then the gay, rash, lesser nothung-siegfried motif. he has returned to the lock-weise, and is repeating it with obstinate persistence, a-mind not to stop until the companion his lonesomeness yearns for shall have answered him when a bellowing sound behind him makes him face about. we had been warned already by the _wurm_-motif, heard before in nibelheim, when alberich by the power of the tarnhelm turned himself into a dragon. siegfried at sight of fafner, whom the loud lock-weise has drawn from his slumbers and his cave, laughs aloud: "my tune has charmed forth something truly lovely! a tidy comrade you would make for me!" "what is that?" roars fafner, fixing the glare of his eyes upon the shapely form of siegfried, insignificant in size, as he counts it. "haha!" cries siegfried, enchanted to hear from an animal talk which he can understand. "if you are an animal that can speak, you very likely can teach me something. here is one who does not know fear; can he learn it from you?" "is this insolence?" asks the amazed brute. "call it insolence or what you please, but i shall fall upon you bodily, unless you teach me fear." fafner laughs grimly, as if he licked his chops: "i wanted drink, i now find meat as well!" he shows the red interior of his vast jaws fringed with teeth. there is a brief further exchange of threats and jeers, then fafner bellows: "pruh! come on, swaggering child!" siegfried shouts: "look out, bellower, the swaggerer comes!" and, nothung in hand, leaps to the assault. vainly fafner spouts flame to blind and terrify him. the fight ends as it must. the dragon falls beneath the wotan-sword, wielded by the hero without fear. with his failing breath, in a tone strangely void of resentment, the dragon questions his slip of an adversary, so unexpectedly victorious: "who are you, intrepid boy, that have pierced my heart? who incited the child to the murderous deed? your brain never conceived that which you have done...." a motif we have come to know well punctuates the dying speech of this still another victim of the curse on the ring. "i do not know much, as yet," siegfried replies; "i do not know even who i am. but it was yourself roused my temper to fight with you." the last of the giants, his hollow voice growing fainter, tells the "clear-eyed boy," the "rosy hero," who it is he has slain, and warns him of the treachery surrounding the owner of the hort. "tell me further from whom i am descended," speaks siegfried; "wise, of a truth, do you appear, wild one, in dying. guess it from my name. siegfried i am called!" but the worm sighing, "siegfried!..." gives up the breath. after a moment's contemplation of the mountainous dead, siegfried resolutely drags from his breast the sword which he had driven in up to the hilt. a drop of the dragon's blood spurts against his hand. with the exclamation: "the blood burns like fire!" he lifts his finger to his mouth. at once his attention is arrested by the voices of the birds. with increasing interest he harkens: it seems to him almost as if the birds were speaking to him; a distinct impression he receives of words. "is it the effect of tasting the blood?" he wonders. "that curious little bird there, hark, what is he saying to me?" from the tree-top come clear words on a bird's warble: "hei, to siegfried belongs now the nibelung's treasure! oh, might he find the hort in the cave! if he should win the tarnhelm it would serve him for delightful adventures; but if he should find the ring it would make him sovereign of the world!" siegfried has listened with bated breath. "thanks, dear little bird, for your advice. gladly will i do as you bid!" he enters the cave. as he disappears, mime crawls near to convince himself ocularly of fafner's death. at the same moment, alberich slips from his hiding-place and throws himself across mime's path, to bar his way to the treasure. a bitter quarrel at once springs up between the brothers; alberich claims the treasure because it is rightly his, mime because he reared the youth who has recovered it from the dragon. mime, whom alberich's violence cows still as in the old days, offers to share, if he may have the tarnhelm--a sly proposition,--he will renounce the ring; but this alberich hears with furious scorn, and the wrangle is at its height when siegfried reappears at the cave's mouth. in his hands are tarnhelm and ring. returning into sight after the angry cat-fight between the ill-conditioned pair, he appears more than ever large, serene, fair, noble. mime and alberich betake themselves quickly back to their lurking-places. siegfried stands considering his odd-looking acquisitions: "of what use you may be to me i know not; but i took you from the heaped gold of the treasure because a good adviser bade me. as ornaments you shall serve, bearing witness to this day; these baubles shall remind me that in combat i slew fafner, but failed still to learn fear!" he places the ring on his finger and the tarnhelm at his belt. in the silence that falls, he listens again for the voice of the bird. it suddenly drops from the tree-top: "hei! siegfried possesses the tarnhelm and ring! oh, let him not trust mime the false! if siegfried should listen closely to the wretch's hypocritical words, he would penetrate the true meaning of mime's heart; such is the virtue of the taste of dragon's blood!" no sooner has siegfried heard, than he sees mime approaching. he waits for him, leaning on his sword, quietly watchful. the little man contorts body and face into postures and expressions as humbly flattering and cajoling as he can; at every few steps he scrapes and curtseys. "welcome, siegfried! tell me, you soul of courage, have you learned fear?" "not yet have i found the teacher!" "but the serpent-worm which you slew, a fearsome fellow, was he not?" "grim and malignant though he were, his death verily grieves me, since miscreants of deeper dye still live at large. the one who bade me murder him, i hate more than the dragon!" mime to all appearance takes these words as if they carried no offence. what he thinks he is saying in reply we know not; but this is what, spoken in a voice of tenderest affection, siegfried hears: "gently now! not much longer shall you see me. i shall soon close your eyes for their eternal sleep. that which i needed you for you have accomplished; all i wish, now, is to wrest from you the treasure. i believe i shall effect this with small trouble. you know you are not difficult to befool!" "so you are meditating harm to me?" siegfried asks quietly. mime starts in amazement. "did i say anything of the sort?" then again, in accents sickly-sweet, with the writhings and grimaces of an excessive affection: "siegfried, listen, my son! you and the like of you i have always hated from my very heart. out of love i did not rear you, burdensome nuisance. the trouble i took was for the sake of the treasure in fafner's keeping. if you do not give it to me willingly, siegfried, my son, it must be plain even to yourself, you will have to leave me your life!" this formal and direct declaration of hate, proving the justice of his instinctive dislike all along of mime, calls forth from siegfried's relief even in this moment the exclamation: "that you hate me, i gladly hear!" mime, while giving himself visibly all the pains in the world to disguise from siegfried his intentions, to each of the youth's questions answers, in the supposition that he is telling his lies, the exact truth. thus siegfried learns that the drink mime has prepared for his refreshment will plunge him into deep sleep, upon which, for greater security in his enjoyment of the treasure, mime will with nothung cut off his head. the little monster chuckles genially while making these revelations. as mime reaches him the treacherous drink, siegfried, moved by an impulse of overpowering disgust, with a sudden swift blow of nothung strikes him down. alberich's laugh of glee and derision rings out from his hiding-place. after gazing for a moment at the body of the repulsive little traitor,--with the after-thought, it is possible, that the flat of nothung would have been sufficient for anything so small, though so venomous,--he gives it the obsequies which seem to him the most fitting. he throws him in the cave, that he may lie on the heaped gold and have the coveted treasure at last for his own. he drags fafner to the cave's mouth, that his bulk may block it. "lie there, you too, dark dragon! guard at once the shining treasure and the treasure-loving enemy; thus have you both found rest!" the sun is high; heated with his exertions, siegfried returns to his mossy couch under the trees, and is presently again looking overhead for the friendly bird. "once more, dear little bird, after such a troublesome interruption, i should be glad to listen to your singing. i can see you swinging happily on the bough; brothers and sisters flutter around you, blithe and sweet, twittering the while...." a vague sadness touches his mood, and this pensive moment goes far toward gaining back to him the sympathy which his overgreat sturdiness in dealing death had perhaps forfeited. he is now a poor lonesome beautiful boy, completely sweet-blooded and brave--the hunter that has never robbed the mother of her young--whose heart full of instinctive affection has never had an object on which it could spend itself. "but i," he says envyingly to the bird, "i am so alone! i have neither brother nor sister! my mother vanished,--my father fell,--their son never saw them...." in this humour he lets a shade of regret transpire for the necessity to kill mime. "my only companion was a loathly dwarf; goodness never knit the bond of affection between us; artful toils the cunning foe spread for me. i was at last even forced to slay him!" he stares sorrowfully at the sky through the trees. "friendly bird, i ask you now: will you assist my quest for a good comrade? will you guide me to the right one? i have called so often and never found one; you, my trusty one, will surely hit it better! so apt has been the counsel given by you already! now sing! i am listening for your song!" readily the bright voice from above answers in a joyous warble: "hei! siegfried has slain the wicked dwarf! i have in mind for him now the most glorious mate! on a high rock she sleeps, a wall of flame surrounds her abode. if he should push through the fire, if he should waken the bride, then were brünnhilde his own!" with an instantaneousness touchingly significant of his hard heart-hunger, an attack of impassioned sighing seizes the young siegfried. "oh, lovely song! oh, sweetest breath! how its message glows within my breast, burning me! how it sets my enkindled heart to throbbing! what is it rushing so wildly through my heart and senses?... it drives me, exulting, out of the woods to the mountain-rock. speak to me again, charming singer: shall i break through the fiery wall? can i waken the bride?" "never," replies the bird, "shall the bride be won, brünnhilde wakened, by a faint-heart! only by one who knows no fear!" siegfried shouts with delight: "the stupid boy who knows no fear--little bird, why, that am i! this very day i gave myself fruitless pains to learn it from fafner. i now burn with the desire to learn it from brünnhilde! how shall i find the way to her rock?" the bird forsakes the treetop, flutters over the youth's head and flies further. siegfried interprets this as an invitation. "thus is the way shown me. wherever you fly, i follow your flight!" we see him going hither and thither in his attempt to follow the erratic flight of a bird. his guide after a moment bends in a definite direction and siegfried disappears after him among the trees. iii a wild region at the foot of a rocky mountain, the mountain at the summit of which brünnhilde sleeps. in night and storm wotan the wanderer comes to seek erda, the wise woman, the wala. he conjures her up from the depths of the earth into his presence. we see her appear, as before, rising in the gloom of a rocky hollow up to half her height. in all his wandering over the earth, in search of wisdom and counsel, none has wotan found so wise as she. the question he proposes is: how may a rolling wheel be arrested in its course? erda is not willingly waked out of her sleep, nor is it her wont to communicate directly with the upper world. in her slow and solemn sleep-weighted tones, she tells him that the norns spin into their coil the visions of her illuminated sleep. why does he not consult them? or why, she asks, when that counsel is rejected, why does he not, still mote aptly, consult brünnhilde, wise child of wotan and erda? in his reply, wotan briefly sums brünnhilde's offence: she defied the storm-compeller, where he was practising the utmost self-compulsion; what the leader of battle yearned to do, but refrained from, his own antagonist,--all too confident, the insolent maid dared to bring about for herself. at the indication of brünnhilde's fate, indignation possesses the wala. in view of such high-handed injustice, she wishes and struggles to return back into the earth and be merged with her wisdom in sleep. but wotan will not release her until she has satisfied him "you, all-knowing one, once drove the thorn of care into wotan's daring heart; with the dread of an adverse ignominious ending you filled him by your foreknowledge, so that his courage was in bondage to fear. if you are the wisest woman in the world, tell me now: how shall the god overcome that care?" but the injured mother is not to be conciliated. "you are not," she startlingly announces, "what you call yourself!"--not a god, wotan?--"what are you come, wild and turbulent spirit, to disturb the wala's sleep? restless one, release me! loose the spell!" "you are not" he retorts, "what you suppose yourself!"--not the wisest of women! in that she has not divined what he has really come to impart, rather than seriously to ask counsel. for his true errand is to show her the fruits of time in himself, the mood of patience and reconciliation he has reached, nay, of hope for a future in which he is to have no part, that brünnhilde's mother may sleep the more quietly, and, untroubled, watch the end overtake him through her dream. "do you know what it is wotan wills? i speak it in your ear, unforeseeing one, that with easy heart you may return to your eternal sleep. the thought of the end of the gods no longer grieves me, since it is my desire and my will! the thing which i once, in pain and conflict, torn by despair, resolved, i now joyfully and freely carry out: in raging disgust i once devoted the world to the ill-will of the nibelung; to the joyous wälsung i now appoint my inheritance. he whom i have chosen, but who has never known me, an intrepid boy, unaided by counsel of mine, has conquered the nibelung's ring. void of envy, happy and loving, alberich's curse falls away crippled when it would light on the noble one, for fear is unknown to him. she whom you bore to me, brünnhilde, shall be tenderly waked by the hero; awake, your wise child shall perform a world-delivering deed! wherefore, sleep! close your eye: dreaming watch my passing! whatever works be theirs, to that eternally young one, the god in gladness yields his place. down, then, erda! ancient fear! original care! to your eternal sleep! down! down!..." erda sinks into the earth, the glimmering light fades from the cave. a bird-note is heard, light and sharp, approaching. a bird flutters into sight and siegfried, following it, appears upon the scene. the bird, as if at the recognition of danger,--the ravens of wotan are hovering near--in all haste flies quite away. siegfried resolves to go on alone. he is stopped by the wanderer's voice: "whither, boy, does your way lead you?" here is some one, thinks siegfried, who may show him the way. "i seek a rock," he replies; "it is surrounded by fire; there sleeps a woman whom i wish to wake." "who bade you seek the rock? who taught you to wish for the woman?" "a little woodland bird told me about it in his singing; he gave me good tidings." "a little bird gossips of many things, but no one can understand him. how did you derive the meaning of his song?" "that was the effect of the blood of a wild dragon,..." and so forth. wotan continues to ply the youth with questions, just as a kind old grandfather of humankind might lead on a child to talk, for the simple sake of hearing what he will say, for delight in his ingenuousness. the utmost tenderness for this joyous walsung speaks in the tones of the greybeard. the final object of his questioning is to lead the youth to some acknowledgment of himself as a factor in his fortunes. without discarding his incognito, he longs to hear on the grandson's lips some name which stands for himself, some reference to him. so, from the question, "who prompted you to attack the strong worm?" he passes to the question: "who shaped the sword, so sharp and hard, that the strongest enemy should succumb to its stroke?" and when siegfried replies that he did this himself, insists further: "but who shaped the strong pieces, out of which you forged the sword?" the answer to this is, "wälse!" it can be nothing else. siegfried, however, replies: "what do i know? all i know is that the pieces could be of no use to me until i forged the sword over again for myself." wotan breaks out laughing: "i agree with you!" siegfried suspecting that he has been quizzed, loses his patience, becomes curt and rough. "what are you laughing at me? old questioner, you had better stop. do not keep me chattering here! if you can direct me on my way, speak. if you cannot, hold your mouth!" deplorable are the manners learned in mime's cave. "patience, you boy!" wanderer mildly checks him; "if i seem old to you, you should offer me reverence!" "that," jeers siegfried, "is a fine idea! all my life long an old man has stood in my way. i have no more than swept him away. if you continue to stand there stiffly opposing me, beware, i tell you, lest you fare like mime!" as, with this threat, he takes a stride nearer to the stranger, he is struck by his appearance. "what makes you look like that?" he asks, like a child; "what a great hat you have! why does it hang down so over your face?... one of your eyes, beneath the brim, is missing.... it was put out, i am sure, by some one whose passage you were stubbornly opposing. now, take yourself off, or you might easily lose the other!" the indulgent grandsire is still not stirred from his patience, though this must strike a little painfully on his heart. "i see, my son, that, unencumbered by any knowledge, you are quick at disposing of obstacles. with the eye which is missing from my other socket, you yourself are looking at the single eye which i have left for sight." at this riddle, the brilliant walsung eyes merely flash mirth, while siegfried laughs at the obscure saying. not a moment does he waste in reflection upon it, but, with growing impatience to resume his quest, orders wanderer to guide him or be thrust out of his road. "if you knew me, bold stripling," the suffering god speaks, still gently, "you would spare me this affront. close to my heart as you are, your threatening strikes me painfully. though i have ever loved your luminous race, my anger has before this brought terror upon them. you, toward whom i feel such kindness,--you, all-too-bright!--do not to-day move me to anger.... it might destroy both you and me!" all that is plain to siegfried, mad to be off in search of his sleeper, is that this prattling old personage neither tells him his way nor will consent to move out of it. as he once more rudely bids him clear the path to the sleeping woman, wotan's anger breaks forth: "you shall not," he exclaims, "go the way the bird pointed!" "hoho! you forbidder!..." cries siegfried, amazed, "who are you, trying to prevent me?" "fear the guardian of the rock! my power it is which holds the maid under the spell of sleep. he who awakes her, he who wins her, makes me powerless for ever!" wotan, it would seem, is challenging the boy. his anger, justified though it would be by the stalwart cub's behaviour, is half affected. he had declared not far from this very spot, some eighteen years earlier, that no one who feared his spear should ever cross the barrier of fire. the hour is at hand when the spear must offer itself to be braved by this incarnate courage bent upon that same adventure,--when wotan must take the chances of discovering that this boy is freer than he--the god. he had declared himself but a moment ago, in his communication with erda, willing to yield his supremacy to the eternally young one. actually to do it must be a little bitter, after enduring that young one's cavalier treatment. perhaps--the text admits of the interpretation,--wotan is sincerely angry; at siegfried's impertinence he has changed his mind in respect to yielding his throne to him, and with a real intention of driving him back from the rock describes the terrors of the mountain: "a sea of fire surges around the woman; hot flames lick the rock; the conflagration rages against him who would push through to the bride. look up toward the heights! do you see not the light?... it is waxing in brightness.... scorching clouds, wavering flames, roaring and crackling, stream down toward us. a sea of light shines about your head, soon the fire will catch and devour you.... then, back! mad child!" "back yourself, you braggart!" cries siegfried, nothing deterred; "up there where the flames flicker, i must hasten to brünnhilde!" he is about to push past, when wotan holds his spear across the path: "if the fire does not frighten you, my spear shall stop your way. my hand still holds the staff of sovereignty. the sword which you swing was once shattered against this shaft, again let it snap on the eternal spear!" instead of appalling him, the majestic threat creates in siegfried eagerness and glee: "my father's enemy! do i find you here? excellently this happens for my revenge! swing your spear! with my sword i will split it to pieces!" and he immediately does as he has said. nothing, it seems, not the spear of the law, can stand against the sword of perfect courage. a clap of thunder accompanies the sundering of the spear. the broken pieces roll at the wanderer's feet. he picks them quietly up. with godlike calm, the hour having struck, he accepts inevitable fate. the motif of downfall points this beginning of the end of the gods. "go your way! i cannot hold you!" he vanishes in darkness. "with broken weapon the coward has fled?" says siegfried, looking about for his father's enemy. the magic fire, as if to force the intruder back, has been pouring further and further down the mountain-side. but the one whom it should frighten rejoices, glories in the glory of the flames, jubilates. "ha! delightful glow! beaming brightness! a radiant road lies open before me! oh, to bathe in the fire! in the fire to find the bride! hoho! hoho! hahei! hahei! merrily! merrily! this time i shall lure a dear companion!" he sets the silver horn to his lips and gaily blowing the lock-weise starts up the mountain and is lost among the swirling sanguine smoke-clouds. the fire burns bright; the merry call is heard from time to time from the unseen climber. the fire pales--the barrier has been past, the region above is reached, the charmed sleeper's domain. when the veiling smoke completely clears, we see the remembered scene of the valkyries' rock, and brünnhilde lying under the spreading pine, as wotan left her. it is calm golden daylight. over the brow of the mountain appears siegfried and stands still a moment, outlined against the cloudless sky, wondering at the peace, the airiness, considering the "exquisite solitude on the sunny height!" the sweet fricka-motif speaks aloud as it were the unconscious language of his blood, voices the vague instinct toward nest-building which in the spring lightly turns a young man's fancy to thoughts of love. he has come in search of a bride, upon the word of a little bird; but his ideas concerning the promised "dear companion" are so few, and the novelty of all he is seeing so takes up his mind, that when his eyes presently fall upon the recumbent form his first thought is not that here must be what he has come in search of. he approaches and marvels at the bright armour. he lifts off the great shield, again like a child, to see what it covers. a man in suit of mail! he can see the face in part only, but warms with instantaneous pleasure in its comeliness. the helmet, he surmises, must press uncomfortably on the beautiful head. very gently he takes it off. long curling locks, loosed from confinement, gush abundantly forth. siegfried is startled by the sight. but the right words, "how beautiful!" rise to his untaught lips. he remains sunk in contemplation of the marvel; the tresses remind him of a thing he has often watched: shimmering clouds bounding with their ripples a clear expanse of sky. as if drawn by a magnet, he bends lower over the quiet form and so feels the sleeper's breath. "the breast heaves with the swelling breath, shall i break the cramping corslet?" cautiously he makes the attempt, but, finding his fingers unapt at the task, solves his difficulty by aid of nothung. with delicate care he cuts through the iron and lightly removes the corslet. "this is no man!" he cries, starting away in amazement. such emotion seizes him, with sensations of dizziness and faintness--such a pressure on the heart, forcing from it burning sigh upon sigh, that, with a sense of having no resource in himself, he casts about for help in this all so unfamiliar exquisite distress: "whom shall i call on that he may save me? mother! mother! remember me!" swooning, he sinks with his forehead against brünnhilde's breast--to be roused again by the goad of his desire to see the eyes of the sleeper unclose. "that she should open her eyes?" he hesitates, in tender trouble. "would her glance not blind me? have i the hardihood? could i endure the light?..." he feels the hand trembling with which he is trying to quiet his agitated heart. "what ails me, coward? is this fear? oh, mother! mother! your bold child! a woman lies folded in slumber,... she has taught him to be afraid!... how shall i bring this fear to an end? how shall i gain back my courage? that i may myself awake from this dream i must waken the maid!" but awe of the so august and quiet sleeper again restrains him. he does not touch her, but lingeringly gazes at her "blossoming mouth," bows till the warm fragrance of her breath sweeping his face forces forth his impulsive cry: "awake! awake! sacred woman!" he waits with suspended breath. she has not heard. she does not stir. an infinite weakness overtaking him, a mortal coming less, "i will drink life," he sighs, "from sweetest lips, though i should swoon to death in the act!" with closed eyes he bends over brünnhilde's lips. twelve bars, the tempo of which is marked "_sehr mässig,_" very moderate, sing themselves delicately and gravely to an end. brünnhilde opens wide her eyes. siegfried starts from her, not guiltily or to move from his place, only to stand erect and, absorbed, watch her movements. slowly she rises to a sitting posture and with beatific looks takes account of the glorious world to which she has reawakened. solemnly she stretches her arms toward the sky: "hail to thee, sun!" a great pause, of drinking in further the loveliness of the scene and the joy of life returned to, then: "hail to thee, light!" and after another great pause of wondering ecstasy: "hail to thee, radiant day!... long was my sleep.... i am awake.... who is the hero that has awakened me?" siegfried stands spell-bound, in solemn awe at the sound of her voice and the superhuman splendour of her beauty. he answers, in the only way he knows, childlike, direct: "i pressed through the fire which surrounded the rock; i released you from the close helmet; siegfried i am called who have awakened you!" at the sound of the name, the altogether right one, brünnhilde takes up again her song of praise: "hail to you, gods! hail to thee, world! hail, sumptuously blooming earth!" and siegfried breaks forth, in an exalted rapture which inspires his ignorance with expression befitting the hour: "oh, hail to the mother who bore me, hail to the earth which nourished me, that i might behold the eyes which now shine upon me, blessed!" brünnhilde, joining in his hymn of gratitude, blesses, too, the mother who bore him, and the earth which nourished him, whose eyes alone should behold her, for whom alone she was destined to awake. the love-scene following leaves a singular impression of greatness. the wise daughter of the wala and the "most splendid hero of the world" are simple as children, sincere as animals or angels, ardent with honest natural fire, like stars. when their love finally reaches a perfect understanding their song is a succession of magnificent shouts, primitive as they are thrilling. "oh, if you knew, joy of the world," brünnhilde exposes her artless heart to the hero, "how i have loved you from all time! you were my care, the object of my solicitude! before you were shaped, i nurtured you, before you were born, my shield concealed you,--so long have i loved you, siegfried!" he believes for a moment that his mother has not died but has been sleeping and now speaks to him. in correcting him, brünnhilde shows herself tenderly feminine. no sooner has she spoken the words which must fall with inevitable dreariness on his ear, "your mother will not come back to you!" than she hastens to heal his hurt with the sweetest thing her love has to say: "yourself am i, if you love me, fortunate...." she explains the meaning of her earlier words: "i have loved you from all time, for to me alone wotan's thought was known. that thought which i must never speak, which i did not think, but only felt; for which i strove, struggled, and fought; for which i braved the one who had framed it; for which i was made to suffer and bound in punishment; that thought--might you but grasp it!--was naught but love for you!" it could hardly be hoped that the young forester should at this moment be able to grasp anything so subtle, as he helplessly confesses: "wonderful sounds what you winningly sing; but the sense of it is dark to me. i see your eye beam bright; i feel your warm breath; i hear the sweet singing of your voice; but that which in your singing you would impart, stupefied, i understand it not! i cannot grasp the sense of distant things, when all my senses are absorbed in seeing and feeling only you. with anxious fear you bind me: you alone have taught me to fear. whom you have bound in mighty bonds, no longer withhold from me my courage!" brünnhilde at this, with the touch of nature which makes the valkyrie kin to the young lady of drawing-rooms, turns her head away and talks of something else. she talks of grane, whom she sees grazing a little way off. as her eyes fall upon the corslet, cut from her body with a sword, the sight smites upon her saddeningly, as a symbol. a consciousness of danger and defencelessness oppresses her, and when siegfried, made bold in his fear of her by the very need he feels of overcoming that fear, impetuously seizes her in his arms, in terror she starts away from him and wrings her hands with a woful sense of not being any more that brünnhilde "whom no god had ever approached, before whom reverently the heroes had bowed, who holy had departed from walhalla." she feels her wisdom forsaking her, her light failing, night and terror closing down upon her. she appeals to him at last against himself: "oh, siegfried, see my distress!" he stands so still for a time, silent, puzzled by her, unwilling certainly to frighten her further, that her immediate fear subsides; her countenance betrays, the stage-directions read, that "a winning picture rises before her soul." the character of this may be divined from the melody rippling softly forth, the motif of peaceful love. a fresh green branch, it makes one think of, with a nest upon it, swinging in a summer wind. more gently she addresses him, pleading rather than repelling, winning him to give up his way for hers. "eternal am i,... but eternal for your weal! oh, siegfried, joyous hero! renounce me.... approach me not with ardent approach.... constrain me not with shattering constraint.... have you not seen your own image in the clear stream? has it not gladdened you, glad one? if you stir the water into turmoil, the smooth surface is lost, you cannot see your own reflection any longer. wherefore, touch me not, trouble me not; eternally bright then shall you shine back at yourself from me. oh, siegfried, luminous youth! love--yourself, and withhold from me. destroy not what is your own!" his robust young love to this replies--after the simple outburst: "you i love, oh, might you love me! no longer have i myself, oh, had i you!"--that it matters little his image should be broken in the glorious river before him, for, burning and thirsting, he would plunge into it himself, that its waves might blissfully engulf him and his longing be quenched in the flood. it is he who appeals now, with ancient arguments, simple and telling as his blows at the dragon. when at the end of them he clasps brünnhilde again, she does not as before wrest herself free, but laughs in joy as she feels her love surging, till it, as it seems to her, more than matches his own, and he is the one, she judges, who should feel afraid. she, indeed, asks him, does he not fear?... but the opposite takes place. with her love, ardent as his own, frankly given him, all his courage comes back, "and fear, alas!" he observes, a little disconcerted at the queerness of this new experience, "fear, which i never learned,--fear, which you had hardly taught me,--fear, i believe, i, dullard, have already forgotten it!" brünnhilde laughs in delight--all of joy and laughter is their love after this up on the sunny height--and declares to the "mad-cap treasury of glorious deeds" that laughing she will love him, laughing lose the light of her eyes, laughing they will accept destruction, laughing accept death! let the proud world of walhalla crumble to dust, the eternal tribe of the gods cease in glory, the norns rend the coil of fate, the dusk of the gods close down,--siegfried's star has risen, and he shall be, to brünnhilde, for ever, everything! in equally fine and joyous ravings siegfried's voice has been pouring forth alongside of hers; reaching at last an identical sentiment and the same note, the two rush together like flashing mountain torrents, and are lost to us behind the descending curtain. the twilight of the gods the twilight of the gods (die goetterdaemmerung) i in the prologue of "the twilight of the gods" we learn from report the portion of wotan's history which belongs between the breaking of his spear and the final events which bring about the gods' end. at the rising of the curtain the three norns are dimly discerned upon the well-known scene of brünnhilde's sleep, before the entrance to the rocky hall where siegfried and she have their dwelling. the fiery palisade around their fastness casts a faint glow upon the night. the norns, as it were to while away the heavy hour before dawn, spin and sing. their "spinning" consists in casting a golden coil from one to the other, after some peculiar ritual, involving fastening it to this pine-tree, winding it about that point of rock, casting it over the shoulder, northward. their song is of no frivolous matter, but as if we should entertain ourselves recounting the creation, the fall of man, the deluge. of the world-ash they tell, in whose shade a well flowed, murmuring runes of wisdom; of a daring god who came to drink at the well, paying in toll one of his eyes. from the world-ash, he, wotan, broke a branch and fashioned it into the shaft of a spear. this he carved with runes of truth to compacts, and held it as the "haft of the world." an intrepid hero clove it asunder. wotan thereupon commanded the heroes of walhalla to hew down the world-ash and cut it to pieces. "high looms the castle built by giants," sings the youngest of the norns; "there in the hall sits wotan amid the holy clan of the gods and heroes. wooden billets heaped to a lofty pile surround the room. that was once the world-ash! when the wood shall burn hot and clear, when the flame shall devour the shining hall, the day of the end of the gods shall have dawned!" wotan himself, when the danger is no longer to be averted of a dishonoured end,--if alberich, that is, shall regain possession of the ring,--will plunge the splinters of his defeated spear deep into loge's breast and himself set the world-ash ablaze. as night begins to yield to dawn, confusion falls on the minds of the norns; their visions, they complain, are dim. the strands of the coil become tangled between their fingers. one of them descries an angry face--alberich's--floating before her; another becomes aware of an avenging curse gnawing at the threads of the coil. this suddenly snaps--terrific omen! appalled, with the cry that "eternal wisdom is at an end," they vanish in search of their mother, erda, in the earth's depths. day breaks. the reflection of loge's defence pales. there greets our ear suddenly a sturdy strain, resembling something we have heard before. by analysis, we discover in it one of the siegfried-motifs, the horn-call, but grown so robust and weighty, so firm, strong, commanding, that it hardly more than reminds us of the youthful lock-weise, fluttering forth hopefully to find a "dear companion." the dear companion has long been found. hard upon this motif of the grown-up siegfried comes a wholly new motif, the motif of brünnhilde wedded, wonderful for its entwining tenderness, yet the elevation it combines with its immensely feminine quality. it is given over and over; the instruments pass it from one to the other, like a watchword. the two thus announced come forth into the sunrise from their chamber in the rock, siegfried full-armed, brünnhilde leading grane. they are glorious in this scene of parting. a nobler passion we do not remember hearing expressed than animates them and the music which interprets their being. it is all a little more than life-size. "to new exploits, beloved hero, how poor were my love, did i not let you go! one single care restrains me, fear of the insufficiency of all i could bestow. what i learned from the gods i have given you, a rich treasury of holy runes, but the maidenly staff of my strength the hero took from me, before whom i now bow. despoiled of wisdom, though filled with desire to serve; rich in love, but devoid of power, oh, despise not the poor lover who can only wish you, not give you, more!" but not all the wisdom of the wala's daughter, not the rich treasury of runes, have availed to change siegfried from his big incurable simplicity,--as his answer in effect declares: "more did you give me, wonder-woman, than i have capacity to retain! be not angry that your teaching should have left me still untaught. one knowledge there is which i, none the less, hold fast: that brünnhilde lives and is mine; one lesson i learned with ease: to think ever of brünnhilde!" the gift she asks of his love is that he shall think of himself, think of his great deeds, increase his glory. he bestows on her in leaving the ring, in which the virtue is condensed of all great deeds he ever did. in exchange she gives him grane. after offering each other, in their great mood, the consolation that to part is for them not to be parted, for where he goes there in very truth goes she, and where she remains there does he too abide, they call upon the gods to feed their eyes upon the dedicated pair they are, and with jubilant appellations for each other--victorious light! effulgent star! radiant love! radiant life!--the last good words ever exchanged between them!--they tear apart, without sorrow or foreboding. she watches him out of sight. the stage-directions say: "from her happy smile may be divined the appearance of the cheerfully departing hero." the emphatic phrase is heard, as he descends into the valley, in which at their first meeting (in the opera "siegfried") they vowed that each was to the other "eternally and for ever, his inheritance and his possession, his only and his all!" the curtain closes on the prologue. by the music we can follow siegfried on his journey. we know when he comes to the fire, when he comes to the rhine. there floats to us, with the effect of a folk-song, a legend, the lament of the rhine-nymphs for their lost gold. sounds of warning are in the air as siegfried approaches the hall of the gibichungen, but to such the hardy hero, no need to say, is fast sealed. the curtain unclosing shows the interior of the hall of the gibichungen, open at the further end on the rhine. gunther, his sister gutrune, and their half-brother hagen, sit at a table set with drinking-horns and flagons. this hagen is the nibelung's son of erda's prophecy: "when the dark enemy of love shall in wrath beget a son, the end of the gods shall not be long delayed." an allusion of hagen's there is to his mother, as having succumbed to the craft of alberich. on the other hand, a reference of gunther's to frau grimhild, his mother and hagen's, would seem to show that her history, whatever it may have been, bore no outward blot. he is early old, this "child of hate," as wotan long ago called him, sere and pallid, totally unglad and hating the glad. he is the tool created by alberich--even as siegmund was wotan's tool,--to win back for him the ring. from his nibelung father he has more than human powers and knowledge. in the conversation which we overhear between the brethren, we witness hagen laying lines for the recapture of the ring and siegfried's destruction, for he, like mime, understands that there can be no safety for him who shall unrightfully get from siegfried the ring, while the strong-handed fellow lives. gunther--whose motif betrays him, with its little effect of shallow self-satisfaction, like a jaunty toss of the head,--gunther asks hagen, is he not magnificent, sitting beside the rhine; to the glory of gibich? "it is my habit," remarks hagen evasively, "to envy you." "nay, for me it is to envy you, and not you me," gunther in his pleasant humour rejoins; "true, i inherited the right of the first-born, but wisdom is yours alone, and i am, in fact, but lauding your good counsel when i inquire of my fame!" "i blame the counsel then," speaks hagen, "for indifferent is as yet the fame. i know of high advantages which the gibichung has not yet won...." gunther's inquiry he satisfies: "in summer ripeness and vigour i behold the stem of gibich: you, gunther, without wife,--you, gutrune, still unwed." gunther and gutrune, struck, are silent a moment. then gunther inquires whom should he wed that lustre might be added to the glory of the house? "i know a woman," hagen replies, "the most glorious in the world. on a high rock is her throne; a fire surrounds her abode; only he who shall break through the fire may proffer his suit for brünnhilde." gunther's mediocrity and his sense of it stand ingenuously confessed in his question: "is my courage sufficient for the test?" "the achievement is reserved for one stronger even than you." "who is this unparalleled champion?" "siegfried, the son of the wälsungen.... he, grown in the forest to mighty size and strength, is the man i wish gutrune for her lord." gutrune's motif, sweet and shallow, like gunther's betrays her; an innocent admission of mediocrity, too, is in her exclamation: "you mocker! unkind hagen! how should i be able to attach siegfried to me?" she is unsure of her feminine charm as her brother of his manly courage. as he finds nothing repugnant in the proposition to win his bride through another, so she accepts to win her love through a magic potion. gunther, gutrune, and hunding are the only plain human beings in the drama of the ring, and certainly they produce the effect of rampant creatures among winged ones. acquiescently gutrune hears hagen's suggestion: "remember the drink in the cupboard; trust me who provided it. by means of it, the hero whom you desire shall be bound to you by love. were siegfried now to enter, were he to taste the spiced drink, that he ever saw a woman before you, that ever a woman approached him, he must totally forget!" thus they have it planned: siegfried shall by a love-potion be won to gutrune, and, as a task by which to obtain her from her brother, shall be deputed to fetch brünnhilde for him from her flame-surrounded heights. hagen is alone, of the three, to know of the tie existing between siegfried and brünnhilde. but, "how shall we find him?" very pertinently asks gunther. while storming light-heartedly about the world in search of adventures, it can hardly be, hagen judges, but that he shall come too to gibich's shore on the rhine. even while he is speaking, siegfried's horn is heard in the distance. hagen from the riverside describes the figure he sees approaching: "in a boat, a hero and a horse: he it is, so merrily blowing the horn. by an easy stroke, as if with an idle hand, he drives the craft against the stream." (we hear that easy stroke of the idle hand,--the power and gaiety of siegfried are in it; it has a family resemblance to the horn-call.) "so vigourous a hand at the swinging of the scull he alone can boast who slew the dragon. it is siegfried, surely no other!" hagen makes a speaking-tube of his hands: "hoiho! whither, blithesome hero?" "to the strong son of gibich!" comes answer from the river. "here! here come ashore! hail, siegfried, beloved hero!" the hero lands. as he stands at the entrance, holding grane by the bridle, with the unconstraint of ancient manners they all quietly before speaking take one another's measure with their eyes. siegfried's fame has preceded him. he is known as the slayer of the dragon, the possessor of the hort, and commander of the nibelungen. "which is the son of gibich?" he inquires. gunther presents himself. "i heard you lauded far down the rhine," siegfried says; and, with the fresh directness again of ancient manners: "either fight with me, or be my friend!" as we see him for the first time among common mortals, we perceive the effect of high elegance which pertains to siegfried's calm, his careless perfect strength and simplicity. gutrune who has not removed her marvelling gaze from him since his entrance, withdraws--to prepare the drink. as hagen takes his horse to stable, siegfried charges him, while a dear memory sings in his heart: "take good care of grane for me. never did you hold by the bridle a horse of nobler breed!" magnificent is gunther in expressions of welcome to the great guest: "joyfully hail, o hero, the hall of my fathers! the ground you tread, all you see, regard as your own. yours is my inheritance, yours are my land and my people. to these add my body. i offer myself as your vassal." siegfried replies: "i offer neither land nor people; no father's mansion nor court. my sole inheritance is my own body, which i expend day by day in living. nothing have i but a sword, forged by myself.... this i pledge with myself to our alliance." hagen, overhearing, ventures; "yet report calls you possessor of the nibelungen-hort...." and siegfried; "i had almost forgotten the treasure, so do i prize its idle wealth! i left it lying in a cave where it once was guarded by a dragon." (the reason is clear why the curse must drop away crippled, powerless to blight this free nature, unenfeebled by covetousness as by fear!) "and you brought away no part of it?" "this metal-work, unaware of its use." hagen recognises the tarnhelm and explains its virtues. "and you took from the hort nothing further?" "a ring." "you have it no doubt in safe keeping?" "it is in the keeping of a gracious woman," siegfried replies dreamily. bashful, blushing, tremulous, as different as is well possible from brünnhilde, gutrune approaches, holding a filled drinking-horn. "welcome, guest, in gibich's house! his daughter offers you drink!" siegfried holds the cup before him a moment without drinking, his thoughts flying afar. the words come back to him spoken to brünnhilde at parting. an infinite tenderness invades him. "though i should forget all you ever taught me," he murmurs, "one teaching i shall still hold fast. my first draught, to faithful love, brünnhilde, i drink to you!" with which secret toast to the absent beloved he sets the horn to his lips and drains it--to the motif of evil enchantment, the motif of the cup of forgetfulness, closely resembling the tarnhelm-motif, but sweeter,--cruel as a treacherous caress. this whole passage, surpassingly exquisite to the ear, is painful to the heart as hardly another in the opera, fertile as this is in tragic moments. it marks the end of so much happiness. when siegfried's eyes, as he returns the cup to gibich's daughter, rest upon her, it is, as hagen had foretold, as if he had never before beheld a woman. the inflammable heart which suffocated him of old at sight of brünnhilde asleep, now makes his voice falter with instantaneous passion as he exclaims: "you, whose beauty dazzles like lightning, wherefore do you drop your eyes before me?" and when shyly she looks up: "ha, fairest woman, hide your glance! its beam scorches the heart within my breast--gunther, what is your sister's name?... gutrune!... are they _good runes_ which i read in her eye?..." impetuously he seizes her hand; "i offered myself to your brother as his vassal, the haughty one repelled me; will you exhibit the same arrogance toward me, if i offer myself as your ally?" she cannot answer, for the confusion of joy which overwhelms her; signifying by a gesture her unworthiness of this high honour, with unsteady step she leaves the room. siegfried, closely observed by the other two, gazes lingeringly after her, fast-bewitched. some sketch of a project for winning her it must be prompting his next words: "have you, gunther, a wife?" "not yet have i courted, and hardly shall i rejoice in a wife! i have set my heart upon one whom no well-advised endeavour can win for me!" "in what can you fail," speaks siegfried's brisk assurance, "if i stand by you?" "upon a high rock is her throne, a fire surrounds her abode," gunther in hopeless tone describes the forbidding circumstances. "upon a high rock is her throne, a fire surrounds her abode,..." siegfried rapidly says the words after him, which his lips know so strangely well. "only he who breaks through the fire..." "only he who breaks through the fire,..." siegfried is visibly making a tremendous effort to remember, to account for the something so curiously familiar in the image evoked. "may be brünnhilde's suitor...." by this, the cup of forgetfulness has completely done its work,--the name suggests to him nothing, the effort itself to remember is forgotten. "but not for me," sighs gunther, "to climb the rock; the fire will not die down for me!" "i fear no fire! i will win the woman for you," siegfried declares, "for your man am i, and my valour is yours, if i may obtain gutrune for my wife!" gutrune is promised him. it is siegfried's heated brain--for the first time fruitful in stratagem--which throws off the plan to deceive this strange woman up in the fire-girdled fastness of whom they tell him, by means of the tarnhelm, which lends the wearer any shape he wish to adopt. the future brothers swear "blood-brotherhood," pledging their truth in wine, into which each has let trickle a drop of his blood. "if one of the brothers shall break the bond, if one of the friends shall betray his faithful ally, let that which in kindness we drink to-day by drops gush forth in streams, sacred reparation to the friend!" they clasp hands upon the compact, and hagen with his sword cleaves in two the drinking-horn. "why," it occurs to siegfried, "did not you, hagen, join in the oath?" "my blood would have spoiled the drink," replies the joyless man; "it does not flow noble and untroubled like yours; cold and morose it stagnates in me, and will not colour my cheek. wherefore i keep afar from the fiery league." the ancient conception of the power of a vow, as of the power of a curse, is interestingly illustrated in this story. the effectiveness of a vow, as we discover, has nothing to do with persons or circumstances; an oath becomes a sort of independent creation with a precise operation of its own. hagen, capable of any breach of faith, meditating nothing but treachery, dare not join in the formality of the oath because of sure and deadly danger in breaking it. siegfried deceives gunther without intending or knowing it, yet his blood must "gush forth in streams" as appointed, to wash out his offence. siegfried is for starting without delay on the quest: "there is my skiff; it will take us quickly to the rock; one night you shall wait in the boat on the shore, then shall you lead home the bride." the hall is left in hagen's care. followed by gutrune's eyes, the heroes hurry off. hagen places himself with spear and shield in the doorway, and, while sitting there sentinel-wise, reflects upon the success of his devices: "blown along by the wind, the son of gibich goes a-wooing. helmsman to him is a strong hero, who is to brave danger in his stead. his own bride this latter will bring for him to the rhine, but to me he will bring--the ring! you frank good fellows, light-hearted companions, sail cheerfully on! abject though he may seem to you, you are yet his servants--the servants of the nibelung's son!" the curtain closes. when it reopens we see the scene once more of siegfried's and brünnhilde's leave-taking. brünnhilde sits sunk in contemplation of the ring and the memories attached to it. distant thunder disturbs her dreams; her ear seizes a familiar sound, not heard for many a day, the gallop of an approaching air-horse. her name comes borne on the wind. she rushes to receive waltraute, whose call she has joyfully recognised. in her delight, she does not at once take account of the valkyrie's sorrowful and preoccupied mien. she presses rapid questions upon her: "you dared then for love of brünnhilde brave walvater's commandment? or--how? oh, tell me! has wotan's disposition softened toward me? when i protected siegmund against the god, while it was a fault, i know that i was fulfilling his wish. i know, too, that his anger was appeased, for even though he sealed me in slumber, left me bound on a rock, to be the bondmaid of the man who should find and wake me, yet he granted favour to the prayer of my terror, he surrounded the rock with a devouring fire which should close the way to the base. thus was i through my punishment made happy! the most splendid of heroes won me for wife. in the light of his love to-day i beam and laugh!" with uncontrolled joy she embraces the sister, unconscious of the latter's impatience and shy attempt to repel her. "did my fate, sister, allure you? have you come to pasture your sight upon my bliss, to share that which has befallen me?" the suggestion is verily too much! "to share the tumult which, insensate, possesses you? a different matter it is which impelled me, fearful, to break wotan's commandment...." brünnhilde wakes to the sister's troubled looks, but she can still think of but one reason for them. "the stern one has not forgiven? you stand in terror of his anger?" "had i need to fear him--there would be a term to my fear!" "amazed, i do not understand you!" "master your agitation, listen attentively. the terror which drove me forth from walhalla, drives me back thither...." "what has happened to the eternal gods?" cries brünnhilde, at last alarmed. waltraute unfolds to her then the sorrowful plight of the gods, making her even over the events in walhalla since her cutting off from the eternal dynasty. she describes walvater returning home from his wanderings with his broken spear, the erection around the hall of the blessed of the funeral pile cut from the world-ash, the assembling about wotan's throne of the gods and heroes. "there he sits, speaks no word, the splinters of the spear clenched in his hand. holda's (freia's) apples he will not touch. fear and amazement bind the gods. his ravens both he has sent ranging; should they return with good tidings, then once again--for the last time!--the god would divinely smile. clasping his knees lie we valkyries; he is blind to our entreating looks. i pressed weeping against his breast, his glance wavered--brünnhilde, he thought of you! deeply he sighed; he closed his eyes and as if in dream he breathed forth the words: "if to the daughters of the deep rhine she would restore the ring, delivered from the weight of the curse were the gods and the world!" i bethought me then; from his side, between the rows of silent heroes, i stole. in secret haste i mounted my horse and rode upon the storm to you. you, oh, my sister, i now conjure: that which lies in your power, bravely do it,--end the misery of the immortals!" brünnhilde speaks to her pityingly and gently; it is so long since she emerged from the vapour-dimmed atmosphere of her heavenly home that she receives no clear impression, she owns, of the affair related to her; but: "what, pale sister, do you crave from me?" "upon your hand, the ring--that is the one! listen to my counsel, for wotan's sake cast it from you!" "the ring? cast it from me?" "to the rhine-daughters give it back!" "to the rhine-daughters, i, this ring? siegfried's love-token? are you mad?" brünnhilde is unshaken by waltraute's insistence. good or bad arguments have nothing to do with the case, as it stands in her feeling. indignation possesses her at the bare notion of the exchange proposed to her, out of all reason and proportion: siegfried's love, of which his ring is the symbol, for walhalla's and the world's peace! "ha! do you know what the ring is to me? how should you grasp it, unfeeling maid? more than the joys of walhalla, more than the glory of the immortals, is to me this ring; one look at its clear gold, one flash of its noble lustre, i prize more than the eternally enduring joy of all the gods, for it is siegfried's love which beams at me from the ring! oh, might i tell you the bliss.... and that bliss is safeguarded by the ring. return to the holy council of the gods; inform them, concerning my ring: love i will never renounce; they shall never take love from me, not though walhalla the radiant should crash down in ruins!" when waltraute with cries of "woe!" flees to horse, she looks after her unmoved: "lightning-charged cloud, borne by the wind, go your stormy way! nevermore steer your course toward me!" she has no regrets; the request has been in her judgment so monstrous that it has hardened and shut her heart toward those who made it. she gazes quietly over the landscape. her sense of security in siegfried's love is no doubt at its firmest in these moments following her fiery defence of it, her sacrifice to it of old allegiances. the very peace of possession is upon her. twilight has fallen; the guardian fire glows more brightly as the darkness thickens. of a sudden, the flames leap high,--loge's signal that some one draws near. at the same moment siegfried's horn is heard, approaching. with the cry: "in my god's arm!" brünnhilde rushes to meet him. a figure springs from the flames upon a rock, a form foreign to brünnhilde's eyes. the flames drop back. the figure remains, dark against the dim glow of the sky. his head and the greater part of his face are concealed by a helmet of curious fashion; she does not, in the uncertain light, recognise the tarnhelm. the fact itself of his being there is terrifying, arguing some singular treachery somewhere. "treason!" is brünnhilde's first cry, as she recoils and from a distance stares breathlessly at the sinister intruder. he stands motionless, leaning upon his shield and regarding her. "who is it that has forced his way to me?" she gasps. he is silent still; the horror of him is increased by his silence and motionlessness and his metal mask. the motif of evil enchantment is woven through the whole of this scene. in a hard masterful voice he speaks at length: "brünnhilde! a suitor is come whom your fire does not alarm! i seek you for my wife; follow me unresistingly." it is all so strange, so like the agonising impossibilities of a dream,--brünnhilde falls to trembling. "who are you, dreadful one? are you a mortal? do you come from hella's army of the night?" still watching her, motionless on his point of vantage, he replies: "a gibichung am i, and gunther is the hero's name, whom, woman, you must follow." it flashes upon brünnhilde that this, this must have been the true point of wotan's punishment. when the figure springs from the rock and approaches her, she raises, to hold him off, the hand with siegfried's ring. "stand back! fear this sign!... stronger than steel i am made by this ring; never shall you rob me of it!" "you teach me," he replies, with his dark calm, "to detach it from you!" he reaches for it, she defends it. they wrestle. she escapes from him with a victorious cry. he seizes her again. the former valkyrie, reinforced by the ring, is a match very nearly for the stalwart wälsung. a shriek is heard. he has caught her hand, and draws the ring from her finger. as if all her strength had been in it and were gone with its loss, she sinks, broken, in the arms of the disguised siegfried. he coldly lets her down upon the seat of rock. "now you are mine, brünnhilde,--gunther's bride. withhold not your favour from me now!" she cowers, shattered and stupefied, murmuring, "how could you have helped yourself, miserable woman!" the right of the stronger she recognises, primitive woman, as a right. fairly vanquished, she must accept the fate of battle,--no dignity, as no success, would pertain to further struggle. when with a gesture of command he points her to her stone chamber, trembling and with faltering step she obeys. siegfried, following, draws his sword and in his natural voice again, smooth and happy, addresses it: "now, nothung, do you bear witness to the restraint which marks my wooing. guarding my truth to my brother, divide me from his bride!" ii the hall of the gibichungen once more, seen from the outside. it is night. hagen sits as we left him, in guard over the hall. he sleeps leaning against a pillar of the portal. a burst of moonlight shows alberich crouching before him. "are you asleep, hagen, my son? are you asleep and deaf to my voice, whom sleep and rest have forsaken?" "i hear you, harassed spirit; what message have you for my sleep?" remember! remember! is the burden of alberich's communication. be true to the task for the purpose of which you were created. the old enemy, wotan, is no longer to be feared; he has been made powerless by one of his own race. the object now singly to be kept in view is the destruction of this latter, and capture of the ring in his possession. quickly it must be done, for "a wise woman there is, living for love of the wälsung; were she to bid him restore the ring to the rhine-daughters, for ever and ever lost were the gold!" "the ring i will have!" hagen quiets the care-ridden nibelung, "rest in peace!" "do you swear it to me, hagen, my hero?" "i swear it to myself!" dawn has been creeping over the sky. the form of alberich fades in the growing light and his voice dies on the ear: "be faithful, hagen, my son, be faithful--faithful!" hagen sits alone in the broadening day, seemingly asleep, yet with eyes wide open. he starts. flushed with the morning-red, siegfried strides up from the river-bank, uttering his joyful "hoiho!" "siegfried, winged hero, whence do you come so fast?" "from brünnhilde's rock. i there took in the breath which i put forth in calling you,--so rapid was my journey. a couple follows me more slowly. their journey is by boat. is gutrune awake?" "now make we welcome, gibich's-child!" he greets her, as at hagen's call she comes hurrying out to him. "i bring good tidings!" in exuberantly good spirits he tells them the story of his bad action. the magic draught administered to him had more than destroyed his memory of brünnhilde, we must believe; the inflaming potion had somehow blotted out, or covered over and for the time cast into the background, his father's part in him, the part of siegmund, who fought to the end an unequal and losing battle to save a girl from a marriage without love. "across the expiring fire," he concludes his report, "through the mists of early dawn, she followed me from the mountain-top to the valley. at the shore, gunther and i, in a trice, changed places, and by virtue of the tarnhelm i wished myself here. a strong wind is even at the moment driving our dear pair up the rhine." "let us display all kindness in our reception of her," gutrune proposes, with the generosity of overflowing happiness; "that she may be pleased and glad to sojourn with us here! do you, hagen, summon the vassals to the wedding at gibich's court, while i will gather the women." siegfried fondly offers her his help; hand in hand they go within. hagen is conscious, presumably, of an incongruity in the task assigned to him, the genial office of gathering together the clans for a wedding-feast. however that may be, he does not, to perform it, depart at all from his character. ascending to an eminence, he blows a melancholy blast through a great steer-horn, and, in a voice portending tidings the most alarming, gives the call to arms: "hoiho! gibich's men! up! arms in the land! danger! danger!" in this he persists until from all sides, singly at first, then in groups and lastly in crowds, the vassals, hurriedly armed, come flocking. "why does the horn sound? why are we called to arms? here we are with our weapons.... hagen, what danger threatens? what enemy is near? who attacks us? is gunther in need of us?" "forthwith prepare, and dally not, to receive gunther returning home. he has wooed a wife!" this still in a tone befitting the announcement of disaster. "is he in trouble? is he hard pressed by the foe?" "a formidable wife he brings home!" "is he pursued by the hostile kindred of the maid?" "he comes alone, unpursued." "the danger then is past? he has come forth victorious from the encounter?" "the dragon-slayer succoured him in his need; siegfried, the hero, secured his safety." "how then shall his followers further help him?" "strong steers you shall slaughter and let wotan's altar stream with their blood." "and what, hagen, are we to do after that?" "a boar shall you slay for froh, a mighty ram for donner; but to fricka you shall sacrifice sheep, that she may bless the marriage!" the men are beginning to penetrate through hagen's sullen aspect to his joke; with heavy playfulness they help it on. "and when we have slaughtered the animals, what shall we do?" "from the hands of fair women take the drinking-horn, pleasantly brimming with wine and mead." "horn in hand,--what then?" "bravely carouse until drunkenness overwhelm you--all to the honour of the gods, that they may bless the marriage!" the rough warriors break into laughter, and in uncouth jollity stamp with their feet and spear-butts. "great good fortune is indeed abroad on the rhine when hagen the grim grows jovial!" not the faintest smile illumines the bleak face. at sight of gunther's skiff approaching, he checks the men's laughter. moving among them, with careful foresight he drops seed toward fruits of trouble: "be loyal to your sovereign mistress, serve her faithfully; if she should suffer wrong, be swift to avenge her!" hagen's plan for bringing about siegfried's destruction is not yet at this point settled in outline. we see him grasping at whatever can be construed into a weapon against him. there are repeated attempts on his part in the scene following to stir against siegfried some fatal demonstration of popular anger. the skiff draws to land. the vassals greet their lord and his bride with noisy chorus of welcome, clashing their arms together, beating their swords against their bucklers. brünnhilde stands beside gunther in the boat, statue-still, her eyes bent on the ground, like one who neither sees nor hears. without resistance she lets gunther take her hand to help her ashore; but a suppressed snatch of the motif of wotan's resentment suggests the shudder ominous of danger overrunning his valkyrie daughter at the contact. this is gunther's hour, this for him the supreme occasion in life; the star of his destiny rides the heavens unclouded; he feels now magnificent indeed in his seat on the rhine, as he stands before his people with the regal creature beside him whom he calls his wife. as if to express the momentary expansion of his nature, his motif resounds, as proudly he presents her, quite changed in character; it has taken on a grandeur approaching pomp: "brünnhilde, the glory of her sex, i bring to you here on the rhine. a nobler wife was never won! the race of the gibichungen, by the grace of the gods, shall now tower to crowning heights of fame!" brünnhilde does not heed or hear. when, as gunther leads her toward the hall, siegfried and gutrune meet them, coming forth from it with strains of marriage-music and a festal train of ladies, her eyes never moving from the ground, she does not see them. "hail, beloved hero! hail, dearest sister!" gunther greets the bridal pair. "joyfully i behold at your side, sister, him who has won you. two happy pairs are here met--brünnhilde and gunther, gutrune and siegfried!" at the name, brünnhilde looks quickly up.... her astonished gaze fastens upon siegfried's face and dwells intently upon it. her action is so marked that gunther drops her hand; all watch her in wonder. a murmur runs through the assembly: "what ails her? is she out of her mind?" brünnhilde, still speechless, falls visibly to trembling. siegfried becomes at last aware of something out of the common in the gaze so persistently fixed upon him. he goes quietly to the woman and asks: "what trouble burdens brünnhilde's gaze?" she has hardly power to frame words, make sounds, her emotion still further intensified by his cool and disengaged address. "siegfried, here!... gutrune!" she painfully brings forth. "gunther's gentle sister," he enlightens her, in his major, matter-of-fact manner, "wedded to me, as you to gunther!" at this she recovers her voice to hurl at him startlingly: "i--to gunther?... a lie!" she is swooning with the helpless horror of all this monstrous mystery. siegfried, who stands nearest, receives her as she totters, near to falling. as she lies for a moment in the well-known arms, it seems impossible, beyond everything impossible, that his unimaginable purpose should not break down, that he should not be forced to drop this incomprehensible feint of strangeness. but her dying eyes searching the face close to them discover in it no glimmer of feeling. her heart-broken murmur: "siegfried.... knows me not?" touches no chord. the hero is for handing her over with all convenient haste to her proper guardian. "gunther, your wife is ailing!" as gunther comes, he rouses her: "awake, woman! here is your husband!" because her senses seem clouded and she a moment before rejected the statement that she was married to gunther, he singles out for her with his finger the personage he means. her eyes, as he makes this gesture, are caught by the ring on his hand. her mind leaps, inevitably, to the conclusion that siegfried, who feigns not to know her, not only has cast her off, but is in collusion with this man gunther, her captor. trying by a supreme effort to govern her agitation and anger at the revelation of this unspeakable baseness, till she shall have sounded the affair, "a ring i saw upon your finger," she addresses him; "not to you does it belong; it was torn from me by this man!" indicating gunther. "how should you have received the ring from him?" siegfried looks reflectively at the ring. since all trace of the former brünnhilde is wiped from his brain, he cannot remember his parting gift to her of the ring. certainly, he wrested a ring from this woman, in the twilight.... what became of it?... but the ring on his hand is indisputably a relic of the old days of the fight with the dragon. "i did not receive the ring from him," he replies. she turns to gunther: "if you took from me the ring, by which you claimed me for wife, declare to him your right to it, demand back the token!" gunther is sore perplexed. "the ring?... i gave him none.... are you sure that is the one?" "where do you conceal the ring," brünnhilde presses him, "which you robbed from me?" gunther is stupidly silent, not knowing what he should say; his confusion is so obvious and his blankness so convincingly unassumed, that the truth is borne upon brünnhilde: it was not he, despite all appearances, who took the ring from her, and if not he--"ha!" she cries, in a burst of furious indignation, "this is the man who tore the ring from me; siegfried, trickster and thief!" siegfried has been still gazing at the ring on his hand, trying to puzzle out points which the lacunæ in his memory do not permit him to make clear. the contemplation has brought back old scenes and distant events. he speaks, unruffled: "from no woman did i receive the ring; nor did i take it from any woman. full well do i recognise the prize of battle, won by me before neidhöhle, when i slew the mighty dragon." with what quiet and conviction he makes the statement, as if verily he spoke the truth! such assurance is hardly imaginable, save as based upon conscious integrity.... hagen now, the fisher in troubled waters, interferes, still further to increase brünnhilde's bewilderment: "are you sure you recognise the ring? if it is the one you gave to gunther, it belongs to him, and siegfried obtained it by some artifice which the deceiver shall be made to rue!" plainly, there is no way of help in clearing up this desperate tangle. the goaded woman bursts into a wild outcry, sharp as a knife by which she should hope to cut through the coil in which she is caught: "deceit! deceit! dastardly deceit!... treachery! treachery! such as never until this moment called for vengeance!" gutrune catches her breath: "deceit?..." the quickly roused suspicion of the crowd takes up brünnhilde's word: "treachery?... to whom?..." "holy gods! heavenly leaders!" brünnhilde's madness clamours to heaven: "did you appoint this in your councils? do you impose upon me sufferings such as never were suffered? do you create ignominy for me such as never was endured? prompt me then to vengeance such as never yet raged! enkindle anger in me such as never was quelled! teach brünnhilde to break her own heart that she may shatter the one who betrayed her!" the ineffectual gunther tries vainly to hush her, to stop the scandalous scene. "away!" she thrusts him from her, "cheat!... yourself cheated!" and she announces ringingly to them all the one thing which in all this confusion she knows to be true: "not to him (gunther) am i married, but to that man, there!" "siegfried?... gutrune's husband?" the murmur passes through the astonished crowd. "love and delight he forced from me...." her momentary hatred of siegfried thus distorts the image of the past. siegfried's only possible interpretation of this astonishing declaration is that the tarnhelm did not properly conceal his identity--but even so the woman is not speaking the truth. what her purpose can be in thus darkening her own fame he is at a loss to divine. he replies to her charge directly, careless at this point that the plot between gunther and himself stands betrayed by his words. "hear, whether i have broken my faith! blood-brotherhood i swore to gunther: nothung, my worthy sword, guarded the vow of truth; its sharp blade divided me from this unhappy woman!" brünnhilde hears him with a jeer. they are speaking at cross purposes; he, as it should be remembered, of the foregoing night alone, while she speaks of that past so wholly blotted from his mind. "oh, wily hero! see how you lie! how ill-advisedly you call to witness your sword! i am acquainted indeed with its sharpness, but acquainted, too, with the sheath--in which, pleasantly encased, nothung, the faithful friend, hung against the wall, while the master courted his dear!" "how?... how?..." the agitated followers are beginning to ask. "has he broken his word? has he smirched gunther's honour?" gunther, gutrune, the vassals, all a little shaken in their faith in siegfried by the assurance of his accuser, press him to refute her charge, clear himself, take the oath which shall silence the disgraceful accusation. he unhesitatingly asks for a weapon upon which to swear. hagen craftily offers his spear. siegfried placing his right hand on the point, solemnly calls upon the sacred weapon to register his oath, wording it in the following ill-omened fashion: "where sharpness may pierce me, do you pierce me; where death shall strike me, do you strike me, if yonder woman spoke the truth, if i broke my vow to my brother!" brünnhilde hearing, flings his hand from the spear-point, and grasping it in her own, pronounces the counter-oath: "your weight i consecrate, spear, that it may overthrow him! your sharpness i bless, that it may pierce him! for, having broken every vow, this man now speaks perjury!" siegfried and brünnhilde each believe that what he swears is true; but the oath, the blind power which takes no account of intention, of moral right or wrong, gives right in sequence to brünnhilde. the spear pierces the hero who invokes it so to do "if the woman spoke true." there is nothing more, the solemn oath taken, that siegfried can do, and in his stalwart fashion he turns his back on the whole troublesome business, with the sensible suggestion that the wild woman from the mountains be given rest and quiet "until the impudent rage shall have spent itself which some unholy wizardry has suscitated" against them all. "you men, come away!" he subjoins, all his heroic good-humour recovered. "when the fighting is to be done with tongues, we will willingly pass for cowards!" for gunther, whom he sees darkly brooding, he has a word in the ear: "believe me, i am more vexed than you that i should not have more perfectly deceived her; the tarnhelm, i could almost believe, only half disguised me. but the anger of women is soon appeased. the woman will beyond a doubt be grateful hereafter that i should have won her for you!" the winged exhilaration of the bridegroom repossessing him, he invites them all in to the wedding-feast, and casting his arm gaily around gutrune draws her along with him into the hall--whither the people swarm after them. the three are left outside whom no festivity can allure. in long silence they remain, sunk in gloomy study, each on his side. to attempt arriving at clearness by questions does not occur to them; and, indeed, what to each is the principal thing, known from the proof of his eyes, no discussion could affect: for brünnhilde, siegfried is estranged from her; for gunther, his marriage is turned to dead-sea apples. the cheerful music, the summons to the wedding, dies away. hagen bends his black brow in reflection as to how he shall utilise to his advantage the passions he has aroused; covertly he watches his victims. gunther has cast himself down and muffled his face from the day, in the clutch of his jealous suspicion of siegfried and the smart of his public shame. brünnhilde stands staring ahead, with set countenance of horror and grief. in an hour she has lived the tragedy which, spread over howsoever many years, is still one of the hardest in human experience, the tragedy which extorted othello's groan: "but there, where i have garnered up my heart, where either i must live or bear no life--to be discarded thence!" she seeks in the void and blackness some glimmer of light on the incredible mystery of these events. with returning calm, a flash of the truth illuminates her, to the extent that she suspects in the unnatural developments of the last hour the work of sorcery. while hardly helping the actual situation, this interpretation frees siegfried from the hatefulness of such black guilt as has appeared his, and we feel from this moment that brünnhilde's undeterred reaching after vengeance, her consent to siegfried's death, is less a personal need to make an offender pay, than the instinct to cut short the dishonour in which the most magnificent hero in the world is fallen. impossible of endurance is a world where siegfried is false to all his vows, where siegfried and brünnhilde are no longer each to the other "for ever and ever, his only and his all!" heartbreak much more than resentment stamps brünnhilde's cry: "where is my wisdom against this enigma? where are my runes? oh, lamentation! all my wisdom i bestowed on him. in his power he holds the bondmaid, in thongs the captive, whom, wailing over her wrong, the rich one joyously makes gift of to another! where shall i find a sword with which to cut the thongs?" hagen approaches her: "place your trust in me, deceived woman! i will avenge you on him who betrayed you...." "on whom?..." she inquires, hazily. _him who betrayed you_ describes more than one. "on siegfried, who betrayed you." "on siegfried... you?..." she laughs, bitterly, while her unquelled pride in her faithless lord mocks: "a single glance of his flashing eye, which even through the lying disguise shed its radiance upon me, and your best courage would fail you!" "but is he not, by reason of his perjury, reserved for my spear?" "perjury or none, you must fortify your spear by something stronger, if you think of attacking that strongest of all!" "well i know," the subtle hagen, with an effect of humbleness, continues, "siegfried's victorious strength, and how difficult to overcome him in battle; wherefore do you give me good counsel: by what device may this giant be defeated by me?" she breaks into complaint over the shameful requital with which the love has met that, unknown to him, by charms woven all about his body, made him invulnerable. "no weapon then can hurt him?" asks hagen. "no weapon that is borne in battle...." but she corrects herself, remembering suddenly that he might, in truth, be wounded in the back. "never, i knew, would he retreat or in flight show his back to the foe. upon it therefore i spared to place the spell." "and there my spear shall strike him!" determines hagen. having learned from her all that he need, he turns to gunther: "up, noble gibichung! here stands your strong wife. why do you hang back there in dejection?" gunther breaks into passionate exclamations over the indignity he has suffered. close indeed upon his hour of glory comes the hour of his humiliation, when he must hear from the queenly woman in whom his pride was placed such words as these: "oh, ignoble, false companion! behind the hero you concealed yourself, that he might gain for you the prize of courage! low indeed has your precious race sunk, when it produces such dastards!" gunther utters broken excuses, "while deceiving her he was himself deceived,--betraying her, he was betrayed--" and appeals to hagen to stamp him out of life or help him to wash the stain off his honour! hagen has them now both where, for his purposes, he wishes them. "no brain can help you," he replies to gunther, "nor can any hand! there is but one thing can help you--siegfried's death!" the two words fall awfully on the air, followed by a long silence. the irresolute gunther at the sound of the sentence writhes amid doubts and hesitations, such as do not for a moment move his stern fellow-sufferer. he remembers the blood-brotherhood sworn to siegfried; he begins to question whether the blood-brother has in very fact been false. a returning wave of affection and admiration for the beautiful fellow calls forth a sigh, and then the thought of gutrune: "gutrune, to whom myself i freely gave him! if we punish her husband so, with what face shall we stand before her?" at this mention of gutrune, a light breaks upon brünnhilde; "gutrune!... is the name of the magic charm which has enchanted away from me my husband.... terror smite her!" "if the manner of his death must offend her, let the deed be hidden from her," hagen soothes gunther's scruple. "we will to-morrow fare on a merry hunting-expedition. the noble one will, according to his impetuous wont, go ranging ahead of us, and meet his death by a wild boar." the three, coming to a common determination upon the fall of siegfried, are calling upon the different powers to whom they refer their deeds to hear their vows of revenge--brünnhilde and gunther upon wotan, guardian of promises, hagen upon alberich--who through the happy working of this vow of vengeance will be master once more of the ring--when from the hall comes pouring forth, with music and strewing of flowers, the bridal procession. gutrune, rose-wreathed, is borne shoulder-high upon a gilded and begarlanded throne. at the vision of her and the glowing siegfried at her side, brünnhilde shrinks back. hagen forces her hand into gunther's, and this second bridal pair falls into the train winding up the hillside to offer the nuptial sacrifices. iii a rocky and wooded valley opening on the rhine. it is part of the region over-ranged by the hunting-party of hagen's devising. the horns of the hunters are heard in the distance,--siegfried's horn-call among them, and hagen's. our old acquaintances, the rhine-daughters, rise to the surface of the water. they have warning or scent that siegfried is not far, with the ring, their stolen gold. they complain in their undulating song of the darkness now in the deep, where of old it was light, when the gold was there to shine for them. notwithstanding their loss, they are little less full of their fun than before; they splash and frolic in the water and with their voices copy the crystal play of the river. they pray the sun to send their way the hero who shall give them back the gold, after which they will regard without envy the sun's luminous eye! siegfried's horn is heard. recognising it as that of the hero who interests them, they dive under to consult together,--concerning the best method, of course, of extracting from him the ring. siegfried comes to the edge of the bank overhanging the river, in search of tracks of his game, mysteriously lost. he is blaming some wood-imp for playing him a trick, when the rhine-daughters, rising into sight, hail him by name. they adopt with him the playful, teasing tone of pretty girls with a likely-looking young fellow: "what are you grumbling into the ground?.... what imp excites your ire?... has a water-sprite bothered you?... tell us, siegfried, tell us!" he watches them, smiling, and replies in their own vein: "have you charmed into your dwellings the shaggy fellow who disappeared from my sight? if he is your sweetheart, far be it from me, you merry ladies, to deprive you of him!" they laugh loud and long, the rhine-nymphs. "what will you give us, siegfried, if we find your game for you?" "i have so far no fruit of my chase. you must tell me what you would like!" "a golden ring gleams on your finger..." suggests wellgunde, and, unable to restrain their eagerness, the three cry out in a voice: "give us that!" he considers the ring a moment. "a gigantic dragon i slew for the ring, and i am to part with it in exchange for the paws of a worthless bear?" "are you so niggardly?... so higgling at a bargain?... you should be generous to ladies!..." they shame him one after the other. with perfect good humour, he offers as a better objection: "were i to waste my property on you, my wife, i suspect, would find fault." "she is a shrew, no doubt?... i dare say she beats you.... the hero has a presentiment of the weight of her hand!..." they laugh immoderately. "laugh away!" the hero laughs with them, but, not to be compelled by their derision: "i shall none the less leave you to disappointment, for the ring which you covet no teasing shall get for you!" the wily maidens do not take this up, but, turning from him, permit him to overhear the remarks about him which they exchange among themselves: "so handsome! so strong!... so fitted to inspire love!... what a pity that he is a miser!" with shouts of laughter they duck under. siegfried turns away, untroubled, and descends further into the narrow valley. but their words have not quite glanced off him. "why do i suffer such a mean report of myself? shall i lend myself to gibes of the sort? if they should come again to the water's edge, the ring they might have!" too large to feel demeaned by an inconsistency, he shouts to them: "hey, you lively water-beauties! come quickly! i make you a gift of the ring!" taking it off, he holds it toward them. this is the point in his fortunes where we perceive the working of siegfried's fate. if the nymphs, as one would have felt safe in counting upon their doing, had risen and caught the ring from him with a laugh louder than any before, all might have been well. hagen would have had nothing to gain by killing him. but the curse which doomed the owner of the ring to a bloody end would not have it so. it had been crippled, it is true, against the noble one; it had failed to make him suspicious, sad, and careful. but his violent death we see provided for when, by what seems the merest hazard, his offer of the ring to the rhine-maidens is not accepted on the expected terms. the sisters rise to his call, but instead of faces dancing with laughter they show him grave and warning countenances. their subaqueous deliberations have resulted in a most ill-inspired change of tactics. instead of snatching at the proffered ring and glad to have it, they represent to siegfried that he will be under an obligation to them for ridding him of it. his mood of giving is changed by a threat into one of refusal. "keep it, hero, and guard it with care, until you become aware of the evil fate you are cherishing under its shape. then you will be glad if we will deliver you from the curse!" he slips back the ring on his finger and bids them tell what they know. "siegfried! we know of evil threatening you! to your danger you retain the ring! out of the rhine-gold it was forged; he who shaped it and miserably lost it, placed a curse upon it long ago, that it should bring death upon him who wore it. as you slew the dragon, even so shall you be slain, and this very day, of this we warn you, unless you give us the ring to bury in the deep rhine; its water alone can allay the curse!" "you artful ladies," the hero shakes his head, "let be that policy! if i hardly trusted your flatteries, your attempt to alarm me deceives me still less...." when more impressively still they reiterate their warning, protesting their truth, urging the irresistible strength of the curse woven by the norns into the coil of the eternal law, he answers, and the nature against which the curse had so long been of no effect shows brightly forth in the brief tirade: "my sword once cleft asunder a spear. the eternal coil of the law, whatever wild curses they have woven into it, the norns shall see cut through by nothung. a dragon once upon a time did of a truth warn me of the curse, but he could not teach me to fear! though the whole world might be gained to me by a ring, for love i would willingly cede it; you should have it if you gave me delight. but if you threaten me in life and limb, though the ring should not enclose the worth of a finger, not by any force could you get it from me! for life and limb, if i must live loveless and a slave to fear,--life and limb, look you, like this i cast them far away from me!" he takes up and flings a clod of earth over his shoulder. the rhine-daughters in agitation press him still for a moment with warnings; but, realising the futility of these, with the prophecy: "a proud woman will this very day inherit of you; she will lend a more heedful ear to our warning!" they finally swim away, as they announce: "to her! to her! to her!" their singing floats back, dying away, a long time after they have taken their leave; siefgried stands watching them out of sight, amused: "in water as on land i have now learned the ways of women; if a man resist their cajoling, they try threats with him; if he boldly brave these, let him look for scorn and reproaches! and yet--were it not for my truth to gutrune, one of those dainty water-women i should have liked to tame!" the horns of the hunting-party are heard approaching. siegfried shouts in answer to their shouts. when hagen and gunther come in sight, he calls to them to join him down there where it is fresh and cool. the company with their freight of game descend into the shady gorge, to camp for an hour. the wine-skins and drink-horns are passed. siegfried, questioned by hagen of his fortune at the chase, jestingly gives his account: "i came forth for forest-hunting, but water-game was all that presented itself. had i had a mind to it, three wild water-birds i might have caught for you, who sang to me, there on the rhine, that i should be slain to-day!" never had he spoken with a more unclouded brow. gunther starts at his words and glances apprehensively at hagen. siegfried stretches out contentedly between them, the ample sunshine in his blood, and remembers that he is thirsty. hagen treats the evil prophecy as lightly as does siegfried himself. in not unnatural sequence to siegfried's reference to the water-birds, he remarks: "i have heard it reported, siegfried, that you understand the language of the birds. is it true?" "i have not heeded their babble this many a day--" siegfried is saying, when gunther's heavy and preoccupied mien is borne upon him; he breaks off to reach him his drink-horn, cheerily rallying him: "drink, gunther, drink! your brother brings it to you!" gunther, oppressed by his dark doubt of siegfried, is not prompt in accepting the proffered cup. his reply obscurely conveys his sense of some failure in their good-fellowship. siegfried takes it up merely to turn into occasion for one of his cordial laughs. "you over-cheerful hero!" sighs gunther. something is wrong, siegfried cannot fail to see. he drops privately to hagen his interpretation of the friend's gloom: "brünnhilde is giving him trouble?" "if he understood her as well as you understand the song of the birds!" siegfried has an inspiration. those last words of hagen's contain the germ of it. "hei! gunther!" he calls to the blood-brother, who appears so sorely in need of cheering: "you melancholy fellow! if you will thank me for it, i will sing you tales from the days of my youth!" gunther's reply is politely encouraging. hagen joins his invitation to the half-brother's. the listeners place themselves at ease on the ground about the narrator, seated in their midst on a mossy stump. then siegfried, with his beautiful, bottomless zest in life, recounts in vivid running sketches the story we know. one after the other the familiar motifs pass in review. from them alone one could reconstruct the tale. of his childhood in mime's cave, the forging of nothung, the slaying of the dragon. of the wonder worked by the drop of dragon's blood on the tongue, the little bird's good counsel by which he won tarnhelm and ring, the same bird's warning upon which he slew mime. at this point, when we are wondering how, with brünnhilde wiped from his memory, he can proceed, hagen hands him a horn filled with wine, in which he has been seen expressing the juice of an herb; this, the nibelung's son, wise in the virtues of simples, tells him, will sharpen his memory and bring close remote events. siegfried takes the cup, but for a moment does not taste it, absorbed, as is evident, in the effort to remember what came right after the point in his story at which he just broke off. the forgetfulness-motif suggests his baffled groping. mechanically he sets the horn to his lips--a strain of the tenderest and most ecstatic of the siegfried-brünnhilde love-music marks the first effect of the draught which dissolves the mists obscuring memory,--followed close by the whole slowly unwinding brünnhilde-motif. we feel as if we had suddenly, with siegfried, waked from a bad dream. we take a trembling breath of relief at the weight removed from our heart. a light of fixed joy grows and grows in siegfried's face, as upon this recovering of his true identity he takes up his story again: "wistfully i listened for the bird in the tree-tops. he sat there still, and sang; 'hei, siegfried has slain the wicked dwarf! i have in mind for him now the most glorious mate! on a high rock she sleeps, a wall of flame surrounds her abode. if he should push through the fire, if he should waken the bride, then were brünnhilde his own!'" gunther hears in growing amazement. "straightway, unhesitating, i hastened forth. i reached the fire-girt rock. i crossed the flaming barrier, and found in reward"--the memory holds his breath suspended--a beautiful woman, asleep in a suit of gleaming armour. i loosed the helmet from the glorious head; audaciously with a kiss i waked the maid.... oh, with what ardour did then the arm of the lovely brünnhilde enfold me!" gunther springs up in horrified comprehension. two ravens at this moment make sudden interruption, flying out of a tree and wheeling above siegfried's head. he starts up, in natural interest at the apparition of wotan's messengers. "can you understand, too, the croaking of these ravens?" sneers hagen. siegfried, looking after the black birds as they bend their flight rhine-wards, turns his back to the questioner. "they bid me take vengeance!" hagen grimly interprets for himself, and with a quick thrust drives his spear through siegfried's body, from the back. too late gunther holds his arm and the retainers spring to prevent him. siegfried's eyes flash wildly about for a weapon. he snatches up his great shield and lifts it aloft to crush the perfidious enemy,--but his strength fails, the shield drops, and he falls crashing backwards upon it. "hagen, what have you done?" comes accusingly from gunther and the men-of-arms, while a shudder runs through the assembly, and, as one feels at the music's intimation, through the very heart of nature. "taken vengeance of perjury!" hagen coldly replies, and, turning from the group gathered around the dying hero, slowly disappears in the gathering dusk. gunther, seized with remorseful anguish, bends over the wounded brother. two of the company, aiding his effort to rise, support him. it is clear at once that immediate surroundings and recent events are blotted from his ken by the brighter light of a remembered scene, filling the wide-open, over-brilliant wälsung-eyes. the music lets us into the secret first of what it is--so absorbingly present to him in this last hour: the moment marvellous among all in his existence, when he had seen the sleeping brünnhilde return to life. it is as if it were all happening a second time, she having mysteriously since that first awakening been again sunk into sleep, from which he must now again recall her: "brünnhilde, sacred bride... awake!... open your eyes.... who sealed you again in sleep?... who bound you in joyless slumber? the awakener is come. he kisses you awake.... he rends the confining bands... whereupon breaks forth upon him the light of brünnhilde's smile!... oh, that eye, henceforth to close no more!... oh, the happy heaving of that breath!... sweetest languor, blissful darkness.... brünnhilde welcomes me to her!..." so he dies as he had lived, joyous and unafraid, the curse, while having its way with him to the extent of securing his destruction, crippled as ever before, when the death by which it would punish is embraced like a bride. for a long moment all stand motionless and heavily silent. it really seems impossible that a spear-thrust could extinguish that glowing,--that superabundant,--that splendid life. night deepens. at a sign from gunther, the men lift the dead, laid upon his shield, to their shoulders, and in solemn procession start upon the rocky path homeward. what is called siegfried's funeral-march is, as it were, a funeral oration spoken over him by a great voice, of one penetrated with the sense of what he was and of earth's loss in him. "listen! listen and shudder, all created things, and feel the shock, and measure the magnitude, of your loss! behold, he was brave among all heroes, this wälsung,--yet tender, too. he was the child of the love of two beautiful, unhappy beings, and, a glory to them, he became--siegfried, the most exalted hero of the world! mourn for him heroically, not with tears, but battle-shouts, in keeping with his greatness!" the moon breaks through the clouds and showers spectral light upon the funeral train slowly moving up the hillside. night-mists rise from the rhine and gradually blot out the scene. when the mists disperse we find ourselves once more in the hall of the gibichungen, where gutrune, troubled by the tardiness of the hunters in returning, strains her hearing for siegfried's horn. bad dreams have disturbed her sleep, and the wild neighing of grane, and the sound of brünnhilde laughing in the solitary night. "i fear brünnhilde!" she confesses to herself. yet, in need of companionship in her anxiety, she calls at the sister-in-law's door; receiving no answer, she looks in. the room is empty. it must have been brünnhilde, then, whom she saw striding down to the bank of the rhine, unable, like herself, to sleep. hearing a stir, she again listens intently for siegfried's horn. not that, but hagen's lugubrious hoiho! comes to her ear: "hoiho! awake! lights! bright torches! we bring home spoils of the chase!" he appears in advance of the party thus announced. "up, gutrune! welcome siegfried, the strong hero returning home!" she is frightened--the fact is to her so significant of not having heard his horn. as the confused train accompanying the slain hero pours into the hall, hagen's exultation can no longer contain itself, and, negligent of all suitable appearance of concern for gutrune's sorrow, he announces the death of her beloved with all the gloating glee he feels: "the pallid hero, no more shall he blow the horn, no more storm forth either to chase or to battle, nor sue ever more for fair women!" they bring in the body, they set down the bier. "the victim of a wild boar, siegfried, your dead lord!" with a shriek gutrune falls fainting upon the inanimate form. gunther tries to comfort her, clearing himself, accusing hagen: "he is the accursed boar who slew the noble one!" "yes, i killed him!" boldly boasts hagen, so near the attainment of his object that he is careless of all else; "i, hagen, struck him dead! he was reserved for my spear, by which he swore his false oath. i have earned the sacred right to his spoils, wherefore--i demand that ring!" "back!" shouts gunther, as hagen approaches to take it. "what belongs to me, you shall never touch! dare you lay hands on gutrune's inheritance?" but hagen, in his new mood, is quick of his hands as earlier of his wits. he draws his sword and without further parley attacks gunther. the fight is short, gunther falls. he had been the claimant of the ring but a few hours. hagen hurries to the bier to snatch his prey from siegfried's finger. the dead hand is slowly raised... and threateningly warns off the robber. hagen drops back. in the stillness of horror which succeeds the loud outcry of the women at the portent, a solemn figure parts the crowd and strides slowly forward--brünnhilde, to whom the passing hours have restored calm, and to whom meditation has brought light. she knows now what she should think, and what there remains to do. gutrune, hearing her voice, raises her own to accuse her of all this woe overtaking them: "you--you incited the men against him--woe that you should ever have entered this house!" "hush! pitiable girl!" brünnhilde checks her, without anger. "you never were his wedded wife; as his paramour you ensnared his affections. the mate of his manhood am i, to whom he vowed eternal vows, before ever he saw you!" gutrune upon this, apprehending all, curses hagen who had given her the evil drink through which siegfried had been made to forget his former love. a long space brünnhilde stands in contemplation of siegfried's face, gazing with changing emotions, from passionate sorrow to solemn exultation. she turns at length to the vassals and commands them to build a great funeral pile. high and bright let the flames leap which shall devour the noble body. let them bring grane, that he with herself may follow the hero, whose honours her own body yearns to share. while they are fulfilling her wish, she falls once more into rapt study of the dead face, her own face becoming gentler and gentler, as clearer and clearer understanding comes to her of him and all that had happened. her features appear softly glorified at last with the light of forgiveness and reconcilement--and she speaks his praise and justification: "clear as the sun his light shines upon me. he was the truest of all, this one who betrayed me!" as an instance of his truth she quotes the incident of the sword, placed, in loyalty to his friend, between himself and his own beloved, "alone dear to him." "vows more true than his were never vowed by any; no one more faithfully than he observed a covenant; no other ever loved with a love so unalloyed; and yet all vows, all covenants, all obligations of love, were betrayed by him as never by man before! do you know how this came to be?..." the dealing with her of wotan she recognises in these extreme calamities falling upon her; she must suffer all this to be brought, blind one, to a comprehension of that which was demanded of her, which she had so haughtily refused to consider when waltraute pleaded for the gods. she bows now under his heavy hand, but not without reproach and arraignment: "oh you, holy guardians of vows! turn your eyes upon my broad-blown woe: behold your eternal guilt! hear my accusation, most high god! through his bravest action, desired by you and of use to you, you devoted him who performed it to dark powers of destruction...." (the old story of the ring!) "by the truest of all men born must i be betrayed, that a woman might grow wise!... and have i understood at last what it is you want of me?... aye, of everything, of everything, everything, i have understanding! all has in this hour become clear to me.... i hear the rustling, too, of your ravens: with the message so fearfully yearned for i send them both home.... be at rest, be at rest, you god!" the tone of these last words is that of the old brünnhilde once more, the tender daughter pitying her father's sorrows. yes, let him be at rest, for the ring shall go back to the rhine, to obtain which result her dearest happiness has been sacrificed. she takes it from siegfried's finger, and places it--siegfried's love-token, not to be yielded up while she lives--upon her own. the rhine-daughters, when the funeral pile has burned to the ground, shall take it from her ashes. she has had conversation in the night with the wise sisters of the deep; no fear but that they will be at hand. and is that what will be brünnhilde's prophesied world-delivering act? restoring the ring to the rhine, thus saving the world definitely from alberich and the army of the night? or can we suppose it to be the act which she accomplishes in the same stroke,--the act of plunging into their twilight the whole tribe of the tired unjust gods, so long now tremulously awaiting their end? or, is the latter act brünnhilde's supreme vengeance? or,--this seems more likely,--an act of supreme benevolence, the result of at last understanding "everything, everything, everything!"? the funeral pile decked with precious covers and flowers stands ready, siegfried's body upon it. brünnhilde seizes a torch from one of the attendants: "fly home, you ravens, report to your master what you have heard here by the shore of the rhine! pass, on your way, near to brünnhilde's rock: direct loge, who is still smouldering there, to walhalla. for the dawn is now breaking of the end of the gods! thus do i hurl a burning brand into walhalla's flaunting citadel!" she sets fire with these words to the pyre, which rapidly blazes up. wotan's ravens are seen slowly flapping off toward the horizon. brünnhilde takes grane from the young men holding him, and, with all the joy now again in her voice, face, and words, which illuminated the moment of her first union, long ago, with the then so youthful and ingenuous awakener, she rushes to be reunited to him in death, springing with her jubilant valkyrie-cry upon grane and with him plunging into the flames. the fire flares doubly brilliant and high; the red glare of it fills the whole scene. it becomes evident suddenly that the hall of the gibichungen is burning. the people huddle together in terror. when the funeral pile sinks to a heap, the rhine is seen flooding in upon the embers. hagen, eagerly on the watch for his last chance, beholds with the insanity of despair the rhine-daughters rise from the waves close beside the site of the pyre. hurling from him shield and spear, he dashes into the water to thrust them back. "away from the ring!" two of the jocose sisters for all reply entwine their arms around his neck and draw him away and away with them into the deep water. the third triumphantly holds up before his eyes the recovered ring. as the fire dies among the blackened ruins of the hall, and the rhine recedes into its boundaries, a red light breaks in the sky. more and more brightly it glows, till walhalla is discerned in its central illumination, with its enthroned gods and heroes. flames are seen invading the stately hall. when the company of the blessed are completely wrapped in fire, the curtain falls. the last word of the music is the exultant phrase by which sieglinde greeted the prophecy of siegfried's birth. it has been woven all through brünnhilde's last ardently happy salutation to him, as if in recognition of some mystical quality--in death--of birth. so wotan finds his rest, and the ill consequences at last end of his unjust act--end with the reparation of the injustice, the return of the gold to the rhine. but has not the evil act been like the djinn of old, let out of the insignificant-looking urn, waxing great, looming dark, and dictating hard terms! when wotan in pride of being committed it, against two simpletons, how could he have divined that by this pin-point he set inexorable machinery moving which should bring about his confusion, forcing him in its progress to so many injustices more, injustices which his soul would loathe, which would blight his best beloved, which would by far be his greatest punishment!... the trilogy is moral as a tract. the master-singers of nuremberg the master-singers of nuremberg i the "argument of the master-singers" is effectually given in the overture: art and love. the masters are first--a little pompously, as befits their pretensions,--presented to us. then young love sweeps across the scene, delicate musical gale. the themes of the two then mingle, foreshadowing how the affairs of walther shall become entangled with those of the guild. this walther von stolzing, a young franconian noble, last of his line, had for reasons which are not given forsaken the ancestral castle and come to nuremberg in the intention of becoming a citizen there. he had brought letters to a prominent burgher of the town, veit pogner, the rich goldsmith, long acquainted with his family, and known to it, by reputation. pogner had offered him every courtesy, hospitality, and assistance in the business of selling his franconian lands. walther had found twenty-four hours in nuremberg and pogner's house ample time to fall deeply, transcendingly, rapturously, in love with the goldsmith's daughter. she is very young, very feminine, even in the respect of being little rather than large, so that she is always called, fondly, evchen, little eva. her name is perhaps meant to indicate her quality of inveterate femineity. the whole story goes to show that she was pretty enough to turn heads young and old. she had been an obedient, an exemplary daughter, up to the hour of meeting walther, allowing her father to think for her, accepting demurely his views for her. how should she not feel it best, so long as her immature heart had never spoken a word, to let a most kind and indulgent parent, whose wisdom it was not for her to question, dispose of her hand in the manner he thought most fitting? when she had seen walther, however, a new light illumined her position. on the second day of his acquaintance with her, it seemed to the young lord that he could not live through another night but he made sure of one point. he followed his lady to vespers, in the hope of an opportunity to exchange one private word, ask one question. it was the eve of saint john's day. the congregation when the curtain rises is concluding an anthem to the "noble baptist." eva and magdalene, her nurse, are in one of the pews that fill the nave of the church. walther stands in the aisle, leaning against a pillar, from which position he can watch the fair one. he tries whenever her eyes stray his way, as, irresistibly attracted, they frequently do, to convey to her by glance and gesture his prayer for a moment's interview. magdalene feels herself repeatedly obliged to recall her young lady's attention to the church-service. the congregation rises at last and flocks to the church-door. walther steps before the two women as they are passing forth with the rest, with the hurried demand to eva for a word, a single word. magdalene, who is a step behind, has not caught his request. eva with quick resource sends her back to the pew for her forgotten kerchief. but walther has become alarmed at his own boldness, and instead of utilising his opportunity to utter or obtain that "single word," falls to pouring forth many disconnected words by way of leading up to the all-important question. he has not contrived to get it out before magdalene returns. but eva then discovers that her brooch too has been left in the pew. walther, because he really dreads to hear an answer which may dash his dearest hopes, makes no better use of this second chance than of the first; he is still leading up to his famous question when magdalene brings the brooch. but upon this fortune favours him, magdalene must run back to the pew for her forgotten prayer-book; and in the brief interval of her search walther asks breathlessly of eva: if she be already betrothed! she does not reply by the instantaneous negative he had hoped for, and the passionate wish breaks from his lips that he had never crossed the threshold of her father's house! magdalene, who has rejoined them, bridles indignantly at such an expression from him. "how now, my lord, what is this you say? scarce arrived in nuremberg, were you not hospitably received? is not the best afforded by kitchen and cellar, cupboard and store-room, deserving of any gratitude whatever?" eva tries to silence her: "that is not what he meant, good lene. but... this information he desires of me--how am i to say it? i hardly myself understand! i feel as if i were dreaming--he wishes to know whether i am already betrothed?" lene at this recognises, of course, that here is that reprobate thing, a lover, and remembers her first duty as a duenna, to keep off all such from her young charge. she is for hurrying home at once. walther resolutely detains her. "not till i know all!"--"the church is empty, every one is gone!" eva gives as a reason for not being so punctilious. lene sees in the very loneliness of the place a reason the more for departing with all speed,--but fate again helps walther. david, a youthful shoe-maker's apprentice, enters the church from the vestry, and falls to making mysterious preparations, drawing curtains which shut off the nave of the church, measuring distances on the pavement with a yard-rule. no sooner has magdalene caught sight of him than she becomes absent-minded, and when eva urges, "what am i to tell him? do you tell me what i am to say!" more good-humoured than before, she vouchsafes: "your lordship, the question you ask of the damsel is not so easy to answer. as a matter of truth, evchen pogner is betrothed----" "but no one," quickly adds the girl, "has as yet see the bridegroom!" he gathers from the two that the bridegroom shall be the victor on the following day in a song-contest, the master-singer to whom the other master-singers award the prize, and whom the bride herself crowns. it all falls strangely on the ears of one not a nuremberger. "the master-singer?..." he falters. "are you not one?" eva asks incredulously, wistfully. and when in his effort to grasp the situation exactly he continues asking questions, she answers his interrogative: "the bride then chooses?..." with complete forgetfulness of every maidenly convention, by an ardent, honest "you, or no one!"--"are you gone mad?" magdalene grasps her arm, shocked and flustered. she has, and feels no shame. "good lene, help me to win him!"--"but you saw him yesterday for the first time!" no, she became a victim so readily to love's torment, eva tells lene, because she had long known him in a picture, albrecht dürer's painting of david, after the slaying of goliath, his sword at his belt, his sling in his hand, his head brightly encircled with fair curls. joyful agitation has seized the knight at eva's sweet impulsive word, and, with it, bewilderment as to what must be his course in circumstances so unprecedented. he restlessly paces the pavement, trying to determine how he shall deal with the strange conditions raising their barrier between him and the object of his desire. magdalene calls to her the object of hers. the middle-aged spinster has a weak spot in her heart for david. the boyish shoe-maker's apprentice on his side adores her--and the pleasant bits she maternally smuggles to him from pogner's kitchen. questioned, he informs her that he is making the place ready for the master-singers. there is to be directly a song-trial: such song-apprentices as commit no offence against the table of rules are to be promoted to mastership. here would be the knight's chance, reflects lene,--his one chance to be made master before the fateful morrow. when, as they are leaving, walther offers the ladies his company to master pognet's, she bids him wait rather for pogner where he stands: if he wishes to enter the contest for evchen's hand, fortune has favoured him with respect to time and place. "what am i to do?" asks the lover eagerly. david shall instruct him, and magdalene herself instructs david to make himself useful to the knight. "something choice from the kitchen i will save for you. and if the young lord here shall to-day be made a master, you may to-morrow proffer your requests full boldly!" "shall i see you again?" eva shyly asks of walther, as magdalene is hurrying her off. his answer gives the keynote of him, characteristic outburst that it is of his vital, vigourous, enthusiastic youth, to which all things seem possible--beautiful youth, which has the splendour and force of fire, with the freshness of flowers; which flashes like a sword and trembles like a lute-string. "shall i see you again?" it is after vespers. "this evening, surely!" he replies: "how shall i tell you what i would be willing to undertake for your sake? new is my heart, new is my mind, new to me is all this which i am entering upon. one thing only i know, one thing only i grasp, that i will devote soul and senses to winning you! if it may not be with the sword, i must achieve it with song, and as a master sing you mine! for you, my blood and my possessions, for you, the sacred aspiration of a poet!" strains from this sweet and proud profession are scattered all through the story, they are the walther-motifs, heard in his first sigh as he watches her from the shadow of the church-pillar, and woven finally into his prize-song. and the effect of youth that goes magically with them! the fragrance that belongs to them, with the fire! as of green things in early may, wet with the dew of dawn,--the beams of the rising sun kindling all to a softly-dazzling glory. the hearer feels himself young too with an immortal youth.... but words are never so ineffectual as when they would translate music. when walther and eva part, they are candidly lovers, for she has joined her voice to his at the closing words of his profession, and herself warmly professed: "my heart with its blessed ardour,--for you, its love-consecrated kindness!" in a moment the women are gone. walther casts himself in a great high-backed carved seat which apprentices have a moment before placed in the conspicuous position it occupies, and is absorbed in the attempt to collect himself, deal with his swarming emotions, order his wild thoughts, scheme what to do. the excited blood in his veins sings the song of his youth. apprentices in number, lively and mischievous imps, have entered and are setting the place aright for the meeting of the master-singers, placing seats for these on one side and forms for themselves on the opposite side, arranging near the centre a platform and blackboard enclosed by curtains. david stands studying that original who supposes one can be made a master in an hour. the gentleman's rank and fine feathers do not impress the youth, who feels himself rather, with respect to the requirements of the hour, in a position to patronise. walther is startled to hear him suddenly shout: "begin!" "what is the matter?" he inquires, waking out of his dream. "begin! that is what the marker calls out, and then you must sing. don't you know that?"--"who is the marker?"--"don't you know? have you never been to a song-trial?"--"never, where the judges were artisans."--"are you a poet?"--"would that i were!"--"are you a singer?"--"would that i knew!"--"but you have at least been a 'school-frequenter' and a 'pupil?'"--"it all sounds foreign to my ear!"--"and you wish to become a master, off-hand, like that?"--"what enormous difficulty does the matter present?"--david groans: "oh, lene, lene... oh, magdalene!"--"what a to-do you make! come, tell me, in good faith, what i must do!" david has now the chance he loves. here is one who knows nothing whatever of the things it is his pride to have learned at least the names of, the things to a nuremberger worth knowing among all. the ignoramus shall be properly dazzled. david strikes an attitude. "myself," he informs walther, "i am learning the art from the greatest master in nuremberg, hans sachs. for a full year i have received his instructions. shoe-making and poetry i learn simultaneously. when i have pounded the leather even and smooth, i learn of vowel-sounds and of consonance. when i have waxed the thread hard and stiff, i apply myself to the rules of rhyme. while punching holes and driving the awl, i commit the science of rhythm and number...." and so forth. for a full year he has been learning, and how far does walther suppose he has got? the knight suggests, laughing: "to the making of a right good pair of shoes!" nay, this top-lofty aristocrat, with his jokes, does not in the least understand! and david enlarges further on the great and various difficulties in the way of him who aspires to become a master-singer. a "bar," let him know, has manifold parts and divisions, full difficult to master the law thereof!... and then comes the "after-song," which must not be too short, nor yet too long, and must contain no rhyme already used in the foregoing stanzas. but even when a person has learned and knows all this, even then he is not yet called a master. for there are a thousand subtleties and refinements the aspirant must still make his own. whether david in showing off draws a bit upon his fancy, or whether the master-singers really cherished these distinctions in mode and tone, one can but wonder. suggestive the titles of them certainly are. glibly, grandly, and with a rich relish, david tells them off: the fool's-cap, the black-ink mode; the red, blue and green tones; the hawthorn-blossom, straw-wisp, fennel modes; the tender, the sweet, the rose-coloured tone; the short-lived love, the deserted-lover tones; the rosemary, the golden lupine, the rainbow, the nightingale modes; the english tin, the stick-cinnamon modes; the fresh orange, green linden-blossom modes; the frogs', the calves', the goldfinch modes; the mode--save the mark!--of the secret gormandiser; the lark, the snail tones; the barking tone; the balsam, the marjoram modes; the tawny lion-fell, the faithful pelican modes; the respendent gold-galloon mode! walther cries out to heaven for help. "those," proceeds david, "are only the names! now learn to sing them exactly as the masters have established, every word and tone sounding clearly, the voice rising and falling as it should...." etc., etc., etc.; "but if, when you have done all these things correctly, you should make a mistake, or in any wise stumble and flounder, whatever your success up to that moment, you would have failed in the song-trial! in spite of great diligence and application, myself i have not brought it to that point. let me be an example to you, and drop this folly of seeking to be made a master!" walther, persisting in inquiry, conquers the information at last that in order to be named a master a man must compose an original poem and fit it to an original air, in accordance with the many laws laid down by his judges. "all there is for me to do then," concludes the lover, nothing discouraged, "is to aim directly at mastership. if i am to sing successfully, i must find, to verses of my own, a melody of my own!" david, who has joined the apprentices, fends off their teasing by privately preparing them for rich diversion presently at the song-trial. "not i to-day, another fellow is up for trial! he has not been a 'pupil' and is not a 'singer'; the formality of earning the title of 'poet' he says he will omit; for he is a gentleman of quality, and expects, with one leap and no further difficulty, this very day to become a master. wherefore arrange carefully the marker's cabinet; the blackboard on the wall, convenient to the marker's hand.... the marker, yes!" he repeats bodingly to the not sufficiently impressed knight. "are you not afraid? many a candidate already, singing before him, has met with failure. he allows you seven errors; he marks them there with chalk; whoever makes more than seven errors has completely and conclusively failed!" the apprentices in their glee over the prospective entertainment join hands and dance in a ring around the curtained recess where the marker shortly shall be chronicling the slips and blunders of this self-confident lordling. their play is interrupted, and they hurriedly put on good behaviour, at the entrance of two of the masters, pogner and sixtus beckmesser, the town-clerk. the change in the music is definite as a change of air and scene, is like passing from the hubbub of the street into some calm and pleasant precinct. beckmesser is importuning pogner with regard to his intentions for the morrow. beckmesser wishes extremely to become his son-in-law, wherefore he thinks it would be best to give the young lady no choice, to decree simply and finally that the winner of the prize for song should be her husband. he feels cocksure of his superiority as a master-singer, but dubious, it would seem, of his power to enthrall the fancy of a young girl. "if evchen's voice can strike out the candidate, of what use to me is my supremacy as a master?"--"come," replies pogner sensibly, "if you have no hopes of the daughter's regard, how do you come to enter the lists as her suitor?" beckmesser, after this check, cannot, of course, urge anything further in the same direction. he begs for pogner's influence with his child, and turns away disgusted with the goldsmith's merely civil assent. it seems to him that a man like pogner ought to know as well as he knows that women have no real taste, that they are capable of preferring the sorriest stuff to all the poetry in the world. how shall he, beckmesser, avoid a disappointment, a public defeat? he decides upon reflection to try the prize-song he has prepared, as a serenade, and make sure beforehand that the maiden will be pleased with it. walther has approached and exchanged greetings with pogner. he comes directly to the point, and, with airy aplomb, "if truth must be told," he says, "the thing which drove me from home and brought me to nuremberg was the love of art, nothing else! i forgot to tell you this yesterday--but to-day i proclaim it aloud. it is my desire to become a master-singer. receive me, master, in the guild!" the masters are flocking in, bakers, tailors, coppersmiths, grocers, weavers. pogner turns to them, delighted. "hear, what a very interesting case. the knight here, my friend, is desirous of dedicating himself to our art. it seems like the olden days come back!--you can hardly think," to walther, "how glad i am! as willingly indeed as ever i lent you my assistance to sell your land, i will receive you in the guild!"--"what man is that?" beckmesser almost barks, catching sight of walther. suspiciously he observes him: "i do not like him.... what is he doing here? how his eyes beam with laughter!... look sharp, sixtus, keep an eye on that fellow!" "and may i hope," asks walther of pogner, "to have this very day an opportunity to undergo trial and be elected master?"--"oho!" soliloquises beckmesser, with a shock of surprise at audacity such as this, "on that head stands no skittle!" there is no moss growing on him! pogner is no doubt surprised too, but answers kindly: "the matter must be conducted according to rule. to-day, however, as it happens, is song-trial. i will propose you. the masters lend a favourable ear to requests of mine." the masters are assembled; last of all has entered hans sachs, the shoe-maker,--dear, benignantly-gazing hans sachs. "are we all here?" asks one of the members. "sachs is here! what more is necessary?" sneers beckmesser. fritz kothner, the baker, in the capacity of speaker, calls the roll. as the meeting is about to pass to the business of the day, pogner asks for the floor, and unfolds before the assembled guild his romantic scheme: the following is saint john's day, when it is customary for the master-singers to hold a song-contest out in the open, among the people, the victorious singer receiving a prize. "now i, by god's grace, am a rich man, and every one should give according to his means. i cast about therefore for a gift to give not unworthy of me. hear what i determined upon. in my extensive travels over germany, i have often been chagrined to find that the burgher is held cheap, is thought close-fisted and mean-minded. among high and low alike, i heard the bitter reproach, till i was soul-sick of it,--that the burgher has no aim or object above commerce and the getting of money. that we alone in the whole kingdom of germany are the guardians and preservers of art, they take into no account. to what point we place our honour in that, with what a lofty spirit we cherish the good and beautiful, how highly we prize art and its influence, i wished therefore to show the world. so hear, masters, the gift which i have appointed for prize: to the singer who in the song-contest shall before all the people win the prize on saint john's day, let him be who he may, i give, devotee of art that i am, veit pogner of nuremberg, with my whole inheritance, even as it stands, eva, my only child, in marriage!" loud applause. "there is a man for you!... there is talk of the right sort!... there one sees what a nuremberger is capable of!... who would not wish to be a bachelor?..." "i dare say that some," suggests sachs, "would not mind giving away their wives!" but there is a postscript to pogner's address which qualifies the aspect of the whole: the maiden shall have the right to reject the masters' choice. that is what has from the first bothered beckmesser, in pogner's counsel before this making public of his idea. the general mood is changed by this revelation. "does it strike you as judicious?" beckmesser privately consults kothner; "dangerous i call it!"--"do i understand aright," asks kothner; "that we are placed in the hands of the young lady? if the master-singers' verdict then does not agree with hers, how is it to operate?"--"let the young lady choose at once according to the inclination of her heart, and leave master-singing out of the game!" remarks beckmesser tartly. "not at all! not at all!" pogner strives to calm them, "not in the very least! you have imperfectly understood. the maiden may refuse the one to whom you master-singers award the prize, but she may not choose another. a master-singer he must be. only one crowned by yourselves may become a suitor for her." the arrangement does seem, closely considered, rather hard on the young lady, and one fancies more than once, in the course of the play, a shade of sheepishness in the father's own attitude toward it,--momentary ripples of misgiving. a voice of beautiful, calm, corrective sanity is now raised in the assembly. "your pardon!" speaks sachs to pogner, "you have perhaps already gone somewhat far. the heart of a young girl and the heart aglow for master-art do not always burn with an identical flame. feminine judgment, untutored as it is, would seem to me on a level with popular judgment. if therefore you have in mind to show the people how highly you honour art, and if, leaving to your daughter the right of choice, you wish her not to repudiate the verdict, let the people be among the judges, for the people's taste is sure to coincide with the girl's." indignation upon this among the masters. "the people?... that were fine! as well say good-bye, once for all, to art!... sachs, what you say is nonsense.... are the rules of art to be set aside for the people?"--"understand me aright!" sachs meets them; "how you take on! you will own that i know the rules thoroughly. for many a year i have been at pains to keep the guild to a strict observation of them. but once a year it would seem to me wise to test the rules themselves, and see whether in the easy grooves of habit their strength and vitality have not been lost. and whether you are still upon the right track of nature you can only find out from such as know nothing of tabulated rules!" (the apprentices, who here represent the people, and have no great love for the _tabulatur_, give evidence of joy.) "wherefore it would seem to me expedient that yearly, at saint john's feast, instead of permitting the people to come to you, you should descend out of your lofty mastership-cloud, and yourselves go to the people. you wish to please the people. it would strike me as to the point to let the people tell you itself whether you succeed in pleasing it. you would thus secure a vital advantage, both for the people and for art. there you have hans sachs's opinion!" no one agrees with him, of course. "you no doubt mean well, but it would be a mistake.... if the people is to have a voice, i, for one, shall keep my mouth shut.... if art is to run after the favour of the people, it cannot fail to come to grief and contempt."--"his success would be enormous, no doubt, who urges this matter so stiffly," beckmesser puts in spitefully; "his compositions are nearly all popular street-songs!" pogner sets sachs's suggestion aside with perfect civility and good humour. "the thing i am about to do is novel already. too much novelty at one time might bring in its wake regret...."--"sufficient to me," sachs yields the point, "is the maiden's right of refusal!"--"that cobbler always excites my wrath!" mutters beckmesser. they pass to the order of the day. "who enters the lists as a candidate? a bachelor he must be."--"or perhaps a widower?" offers beckmesser; "ask sachs!"--"oh, no, master beckmesser," sachs retorts; "of younger wax than either you or i must the suitor be, if evchen is to bestow the prize on him!"--"younger than i, too?... coarse fellow!" at the question whether any be on the spot who wish to take the song-trial, pogner presents walther von stolzing, as one desirous of being that same day elected master-singer. the motif of wather's presentation gives a clear idea of the knight's charming appearance, his grace, his elastic step, his hat and feathers, the delicate haughtiness of his bearing, in keeping with his proud name. a black suspicion enters beckmesser's breast at sight of him: he is the card which pogner has all along had up his sleeve. the town-clerk declares promptly that it is too late now to enter the new-comer. the masters exchange glances: "anoble?... is it a case for rejoicing? or is there danger in it?... the fact that master pogner speaks for him has its weight, certainly..."--"if he is to be welcomed among us," says kothner, somewhat forbiddingly, "he must show proper recommendations."--"do not mistake me," pogner hastens to say; "though i wish him good fortune, i have no thought of waiving any rule. put to him, gentlemen, the customary questions." at the very first question, however, whether he be free and honourably born, pogner hurriedly prevents walther's answer by his own, making himself voucher for him in every respect such as that. the generous sachs, feeling the something grudging in the attitude of the masters, reminds them that it had long been one of the rules made by themselves that an applicant being a lord or a peasant should have no significance, that inquiry concerning art alone should be made of one desiring to become a master-singer. kothner passes thereupon to the question: "of what master are you a disciple?" and then is born into the world a new, a ravishing melody--which has all the delight in it that can be compressed into the space. airily, confidently, debonairly, walther delivers himself, in the sweet ingenuousness of his heart, "new," as he had said, ignorant as yet of the jealous world's ways: "beside my quiet hearth in winter-time, when castle and court were buried in snow, in an ancient book, bequeathed to me by my fathers, i was wont to read recorded the engaging beauties of past springs, as well as, prophesied, the beauties of the spring soon to reawaken. the poet, walther von der vogelweid, he it is who has been my master!" sachs has listened with a surprised, charmed sympathy. he nods beamingly: "a good master!"--"but long dead!" snaps beckmesser; "how could he learn the canons from him?" kothner proceeds without comment to the next question: "in what school did you learn to sing?"--"then when the sward was free from frost, and summer-time was come back, all that in the long winter-evenings i had read in the old book was proclaimed aloud in the luxuriance of the forest. i caught the clear sound of it there. in the forest where the birds congregate, i learned likewise to sing!"--"ho, ho, from finches and tomtits you acquired the art of master-singing?" beckmesser jeers; "your song no doubt smacks of its teachers!"--"what do you think, masters," inquires kothner, upon this hopeless revelation, "shall i proceed with the questions? it strikes me his lordship's answers are altogether wide of the mark."--"that is what will presently be seen," sachs interposes warmly; "if his art is of the right sort, and he duly proves it, of what consequence is it from whom he learned it?" whereupon kothner proceeds, addressing walther: "are you prepared, now, at once, to attempt an original master-song, new in conception, original both in text and tune?" walther answers unhesitatingly: "all that winter-night and forest-splendour, that book and grove have taught me; all that the magic of poetry has secretly revealed to me; all that i have gathered, a thoughtful listener, from ride to battle or from dance in gay assembly,--all this, in the present hour, when the highest prize of life may be purchased by a song, is what must necessarily flow into my song, original in word and note,--is what must be outpoured before you, masters, if i succeed, as a master-song!" "did you gather anything from that torrent of words?" beckmesser asks, with his eyebrows up among his hair, of his fellow-masters. "now, masters, if you please," kothner directs, "let the marker take his seat. does his lordship," to walther, "choose a sacred subject?" "one that is sacred to me!" the young man answers magnificently; "the banner of love i swing and i sing--and cherish good hope!" "that," considers kothner, without a gleam, "comes under the head of secular subject. and now, master beckmesser, pray shut yourself in!" with a thin pose of reluctance, beckmesser takes his way toward the curtained cabinet. "a sour office--and to-day especially. the chalk, i surmise, will be troublesomely in requisition. know, sir knight, sixtus beckmesser is the marker. here in the cabinet he attends to his stern duty. he allows you seven errors. he marks them down in there with chalk. if you make over seven errors, sir knight, you have failed in the song-trial. keen is the marker's ear; that the sight of him therefore may not disconcert you, he relieves you of his presence and considerately shuts himself up in there--god have you in his keeping!" he has climbed upon the platform; he sharply draws the curtains. two apprentices take down from the wall and bring forward the _leges tabulaturoe_. with pomp and flourish kothner reads them off to walther. the "tabulature" gives the straight and narrow laws upon which a song must be constructed, to earn its singer the dignity of mastership. "now take your seat in the singing-chair!" kothner orders walther at the close of his reading. "here, in this chair?" it is the tall carved chair in which he had cast himself earlier. "as is the custom of the school!" even so much of restraint as the obligation to sing on a given spot is repugnant to the spirit of the highborn youth, who yet is undertaking to satisfy the most law-ridden assemblage he could have met with. he murmurs, taking the seat: "for your sake, beloved, it shall be done!"--"the singer sits!" announces kothner. "begin!" shouts beckmesser out of sight. from beckmesser's cry "begin!" walther takes his cue, and simply vaulting into the seat of his pegasus, casting the bridle upon the neck of inspiration, he directly before them all pours forth his full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. he has never committed their canons, is ignorant of their conventions; he has genius, that is all, and its daring; is a poet born, not made; is at the moment, beside all the rest, uplifted by the divine fire of his love--and his song is right as some natural object, a crystal or a flower. consummate as is the song, it has yet the character perfectly of an improvisation--the ideal improvisation, let us say--the gush, the rush, the profusion of lovely ornament, the unrestraint,--but essentially orderly, the unrestraint, like that of an army with banners, swarming, in only apparent confusion, up a height, to assured victory. the urge, the climbing effect of the song, are owing, it is plain enough, to walther's being really inside of it, to his having cast his whole self into it, with his straining after a goal, his desperate necessity to win. in this case, verily the style is the man. "begin!"--runs the sense of that perfect song, "thus shouted spring in the woods, till they rang again! and as the sound died away in distant waves, in the distance a sound was born, drawing nearer and nearer in a mighty flood. it grows, it resounds, the woods re-echo with a multitude of sweet voices. loud and clear, it sweeps anear, to what a torrent it is grown! like clangour of bells rings the multiple voice of joy! the forest, how readily it responds to the call which has wakened it anew to life, and entones the sweet canticle of spring!" the marker's chalk is not idle; a number of workmanlike scratches have been heard. walther has stopped short, jarred by the sound. he resumes after a moment: "in a thorny hedge, devoured by envy and chagrin, winter, in his armour of ill-will, cowers in hiding. amid the rustling of withered leaves, he sits spying with watchful eye and ear for a chance to bring to grief the happy singing...." the singer bounds to his feet. "none the less, 'begin!' the cry rang in my breast, when i was as yet wholly unaware of love! and in my breast i felt a deep stirring, which woke me as if from a dream. my heart filled the chamber of my bosom with its trembling palpitations; mightily surged my blood, its stream swollen by new emotions; stormily out of the warm night pressed the host of sighs,--increasing, in the wild tumult of joy, to the innumerableness of the sea. my breast, with what rapture it responds to the call which has wakened it to new life, and entones the lovely canticle of love!" he has hardly ceased, when beckmesser thrusts apart the curtains. "have you finished? i have quite finished with the blackboard!" he holds up for inspection the blackboard, overscored on both sides with great chalk-marks. the masters break into laughter. "have the goodness to listen," demands walther imperiously; "i have only just reached the point where my song is to publish my lady's praise!"--"go and sing wherever else you please. here you have failed." beckmesser descends from his post, flourishing the blackboard. "i beg you will examine, masters, this blackboard. never since i live has such a thing been heard of. i should not have believed it though you had all affirmed it under oath...." walther, in the innocence of his youth, loudly appeals: "do you intend to allow him, masters, to interrupt me like this? am i not from any one of you to have a hearing?" pogner's courtesy interferes: "one word, friend marker, are you not out of temper?" beckmesser excitedly proceeds to justify his chalk-marks. no beginning or end, defective metre, defective construction! blind meaning! not one proper breathing-space anywhere! no appropriate colouring--and of melody not a vestige! then, what a mad medley of "modes"! a mixture of adventure-tone, blue-knightly-spurs tone, tall-pine-trees tone and haughty-stripling tone! (which permits the supposition that david, though moved by the desire to amaze, was yet a faithful reporter of the refinements of master-singing.) the master-singers agree readily with beckmesser, are really relieved to find their impressions boldly put into form for them by him. not one of them has understood anything. walther's unprecedented leaping to his feet in the heat of inspiration has given offence to this one; the other terms his singing "empty battering at the ear-drums." they are about to subscribe unanimously to beckmesser's verdict that he has lost his case, when sachs's voice breaks in upon the confusion. he has listened to walther in complete self-forgetful absorption. the absence of all jealousy in his large nature leaves his mind peculiarly open for genuine first-hand impressions; his wide understanding is not repelled by the new and strange. the close of the young man's song has found him won, enlisted, prepossessed. he calls the masters to halt. "not every one shares in your opinion! the knight's song struck me as novel, yet not confused; although he forsook the beaten track, he strode along with firm, unerring step...." sachs nods to himself and beams at this reviewing of the intense pleasure he has just experienced. "when you find that you have been trying to measure by your own rules that which does not lie within the compass of your rules, the thing to do is to forget your rules and try to discover the rules of that which you wish to measure!" which sage talk is not destined to be fruitfully heard in the agitation of prejudice, alarm, and dislike possessing the majority of the masters. "oh, very well," fumes beckmesser, "now you have heard him: sachs offering a loophole to bunglers, that they may slip in and out at will and flourish at ease. sing to the people as much as you please, in marketplace and street; here no one shall gain admission save in accordance with rule!" sachs insists that walther must be heard to the end. "the guild of the masters, the whole body," chafes beckmesser, "are as nothing counterbalanced by sachs!" "god forbid," speaks sachs, "that i should desire anything contrary to the guild's laws; but among those very laws it stands written that the marker shall be so chosen that neither love nor hate may influence his judgment. now, if the marker go on lover's feet, how should he not yield to the temptation of bringing a rival to derision before the assembled school?" beckmesser flares up, trembling with rage. "what concern of master sachs's is it on what sort of feet i go? let him sooner turn his attention to making me shoes that will not hurt my toes. but since my shoe-maker has become a mighty poet, it's a sorry business with my foot-wear. see there, all down at the heel, the sole half off and shuffling! his many verses and rhymes i would cheerfully dispense with, likewise his tales, his plays, and his comical pieces, if he would just bring me home my new shoes for to-morrow!" the thrust tells. sachs scratches his ear a little ruefully, but is not found quite without a word to say. the excuse he advances is that while it is his custom to write a verse on the sole of every shoe he delivers, he has not yet found a verse worthy of the learned town-clerk. "but," by a turn of the conversation directing it to a use nearer his heart, "i very likely shall catch inspiration from the knight," he says, "when i have heard the whole of his song! wherefore let him sing further undisturbed. sing!" slyly smiling he makes sign to walther, "sing, in master marker's despite!" walther springs to the singing-chair, but the masters cry in a voice, "an end! an end!" walther, undaunted, climbs to his feet upon the very seat of the sacred chair, from which he commands the assembly by half his height and haughtily looks down upon it. and he sings with all his lungs and all his fire to make himself heard above the hubbub; he sings, determined to impose the impress of himself upon their minds, will they or not; and his tenor pierces through and floats over the snarling chorus of objection; and he sings his song, in spite of them all, to the very end. "from the dark thorn-hedge rustles forth the owl, and by his hooting rouses the hoarse choir of the ravens; in night-black swarm they gather, and croak aloud with their hollow voices, magpies, crows, and daws! but thereupon soars upward on a pair of golden wings, wonderful, a bird: his clearly-shining plumage gleams bright aloft in the air, rapturously he soars hither and thither, inviting me to join him in flight. my heart expands with a delicious pain, my longing to fly creates wings. i swing myself heavenward in daring flight, away from that death-vault, the city, away to the hills of home; thence to the green forest, meeting-place of birds, where long ago walther, the poet, won my allegiance. there sing i clear and loud the praise of my dearest lady, there mounts upward, little as master crows may relish it, the proud canticle of love!" all this while the confusion of voices has not ceased or diminished. beckmesser has been heatedly, in support of his chalk-marks, going over walther's literary misdemeanours: defective versification, unpronounceable words, misplaced rhymes, etc. etc. the masters have been vociferously criticising and rejecting the new-comer. pogner has looked on and taken no part, a dejected spectator. he is sorry to see the knight defeated, and he says to himself that he knows he will regret his toleration of this high-handedness of the masters. for the natural thought has risen in his mind that it would be agreeable to have this fine fellow received in the guild, and subsequently into his family as son-in-law. upon which thought naturally follows the other: "the victor whom i now must fall back upon, who knows if my child will care for him? i confess to a degree of uneasiness as to whether eva will choose that master!" sachs alone has listened through all the manifold disturbance--has intently, delightedly listened; has loved the boy's courage, and marvelled at the force of his inspiration; has besought the masters to keep still and listen, or at least to let others listen.... "no use! it is labour lost! one can hardly hear his own words. the knight can not from one of them gain attention!... that is what i call courage, to go on singing like that! his heart is in the right place,--a very giant of a poet. i, hans sachs, make verses and shoes, but he is a knight and a poet on top of it!" the apprentices, emboldened by the general disorder, add their voices to the others, attempting to drown out the singer so fierily, unremittingly singing from his post of vantage. they join hands again and dance in circle around the marker's platform. through all this, over all this, the stubborn song, not for a moment weakening or wavering, has climbed its way, with the figurative bird, to its climax-point. his throat shall burst, but he will be heard! his last note walther holds for four bars: "_das stolze lie----bes lied!_"... sung to an end it is, the lofty canticle of love. the singer jumps down from the chair. "a lasting farewell to you, my masters!" with a proud gesture, which rids him of them forever and consigns them to the dust-heap of their sordid narrowness and mediocrity, he stalks to the door. "_versungen und verthan! versungen und verthan!_" cry the masters, raising their hands according to custom in giving a vote; "_versungen und verthan!_" he has failed in song, he is done with! the song-trial is over. the apprentices in merry tumult take apart the marker's closet, hurry off benches and seats, rapidly clearing the church of all signs of the meeting. the masters leave, except sachs. he stands gazing abstractedly at the singing-chair, while a snatch of walther's song sings itself over in his memory. his meditation is interrupted by the apprentices snatching up and carrying off the chair. with a half-melancholy smile and a gesture of delicate mockery at himself for the spell he has so completely fallen under, reluctantly the last master-singer turns to the door, and the curtain falls. ii the second act shows the exterior of pogner's house and of sachs's, his neighbour across the street. it is the close of day; david, putting up the shutters, is thinking of the morrow and its pleasures so intently that he does not, for a moment, recognise lene's voice calling him. he mistakes it for that of some teasing fellow-apprentice, until he turns around and beholds her, as so often! with a promising-looking basket on her arm. "i bring you something good. yes, you may peep. that is for my precious treasure, but first, quick, tell me, what success had the knight? did you instruct him to some purpose? was he made a master?"--"ah, mistress lene, it's a bad case! he failed utterly and miserably!"--"he failed?..." "ay,--why should you so particularly care?" she jerks away the basket from his outstretched hand: "keep your hands to yourself! here is nothing for you! god ha' mercy, our young lord defeated!" and hurries into the house, leaving him crest-fallen, an object of mockery to his companions, who have lost nothing of the interview. goaded, he has finally plunged among them with punishing fist, when sachs's arrival upon the scene stops the disorder. the boys nimbly scatter. david is ordered indoors. "close the shop and make a light. put the new shoes on the lasts!" both go in. the peacefulness of evening is upon the scene. pogner, with his daughter on his arm, returning from a walk, comes down the lane which divides his house from sachs's. he hesitates at sachs's door. "shall we see whether neighbour sachs be at home? i should be glad of a talk with him. shall i go in?..." but he decides against it. "why should i, after all? better not! when a man undertakes a course out of the usual, how should he accept advice?... was it not he who considered that i went too far? yet, in forsaking the beaten track, was i not doing even as he does? or, was i actuated peradventure--by vanity?" pogner is not easy in his mind, it is plain. he invites his silent and preoccupied daughter to sit beside him a little space on the stone seat under the linden in front of their house; he tries to fortify his faltering heart with the review of his plan for the morrow, held in the poetic light in which he first saw and found it alluring. "deliciously mild is the evening. it presages a most beautiful day to shine upon you to-morrow. oh, child, does no throb of the heart tell you what happiness awaits you to-morrow, when the whole of nuremberg, with its burghers and plebeians, its guilds, its populace and high officials, is to gather in your presence to see you award the prize, the noble laurel-wreath, to the master of your choice and your chosen bridegroom?" but he speaks to the evchen of day before yesterday. so recently as that his scheme no doubt attracted the daughter of his blood even as it did him; she saw it with kindred eyes. her youthful pride rejoiced in the part she was to play of lovely lady of romance, to know that she should become from that day a heroine of legend, her name for long years recurring in the songs of song-loving nuremberg. as for the practical side of the question, she felt safe. she believed she knew which of the master-singers was sure of election by the majority of the masters, and him she had it in her heart to crown with a right good-will--so recently as day before yesterday. but to-day, at her father's "the master of your choice" she wistfully inquires, "dear father, _must_ it be a master?"--"understand me well, _a master of your choice_," the uneasy parent replies. magdalene is making signs from the doorway to eva. the girl becomes absent-minded, drops the subject in question, and suggests to her father that he go in to supper. vexed with himself and her, he rises from her side. "we are not expecting any guest, are we?" he asks, a shade querulously. "why, surely, the knight?"--"how is that?"--"did you not see him to-day?"--"no desire have i to see him!" the troubled father mutters. then, in a flash, two and two leap together and make four to his startled mind. "what's this?... nay, thick-witted am i grown!"--"dear little father, go in and change your coat!" urges the pretty daughter. "humph!" he murmurs, now as absent-minded as she, "what is this buzzing in my head?" and goes indoors. magdalene reports to eva david's news: the knight has been refused admission to the guild. "god help me! what shall i do!" cries eva, in a sea of troubles; "ah, lene, the anxiety!... where to turn to find out something?"--"from sachs, perhaps?"--"ah, yes, he is fond of me. certainly, i will go to him."--"beware of arousing suspicion. your father will notice if we stay out any longer at present. wait until after supper. i shall have something further to communicate to you then, a message which a certain person charged me with privately."--"who?.. the knight?"--"no, beckmesser."--"something proper that must be!" the fair girl scoffs as they enter the house. sachs, in working-clothes, is seen moving within his shop. he orders david to place his table and stool beside the door, and go to bed. reluctantly david goes off. he is troubled over magdalene's unaccountable behaviour to him, and this sitting up late of his master's interferes with his slipping over to her for an explanation. sachs takes his seat before the work-table, sets his materials aright, but having done it, instead of falling to work, leans back and lets the sweetness of the evening beguile him, dreams possess and waft him whither they will. that haunting strain from walther's song, repeated slowly, as by one savouring it with pensive pleasure, again sings itself to his inward ear; it, indeed, is partly to blame for his mood of gentle unrest. the memory will not let him alone of that marvellous, that unprecedented experience of the afternoon. unreservedly the grey-haired man's homage flies to the youngling who so easily outstrips them all, with their inveterate painstaking, their multitudinous canons. not only without a shade of bitterness but with a tender elation, he lives over again the emotions created in him by that passionate song. to his true poet's heart it is a matter for exultation that just something beautiful should have been, and he there to witness and rejoice. he reconsiders it all with affectionate disquisition, fresh delight in every point. if just a shade of sadness belongs to the hour, it lies in the recognition that though the vision of beauty has by the contagion that is proper to it stimulated in him the impulse to be at once producing, he too, beautiful things, not by any longing could he, after a life of faithful effort in the service of poesy, produce anything to compare with the unprepared effusion of that youth! in the serenity of the lovely evening his thoughts breathe themselves forth upon the scented june air: "what fragrance--how mild, how sweet, how abundant,--exhaled from the elder-tree! its soft spell loosens my fibres, solicits me to seek expression for my thoughts. to what purpose, any expression of mine? a poor, simple fellow am i! little in the mood for work as i am, you had best, friend, let me alone! far wiser i should attend to my leather and desist altogether from poetry!" resolutely he falls to work. but friend elder-tree does not therefore cease to shed scent. it casts its spell over him again almost at once. "no, there is no use in trying to work!" sachs leans back and listens again to the echo in his memory of walther's song. "i feel it," he meditates, lending ear to the persistent voice in his brain, "and cannot understand it. i cannot retain it--nor yet can forget it! and if for a moment i grasp it, to measure it is beyond me. but how should i hope to grasp that which struck me as illimitable? no rule fitted it, and yet it had not one fault! it sounded so old, and was yet so new,--like the song of birds in the sweet may-time. one who should hear it, and, smitten with madness, try to sing in imitation of that bird, would meet with scorn and derision.... the law of spring,--exquisite compulsion!--according to that were the rules of song laid in his breast. and he sang even as he must! and as he must, the power to do it came to him, i marked that quite particularly.... the bird who sang to-day, his beak is fashioned aright! great as was the dismay created by him among the masters, he was much to hans sachs's mind!" evchen has come out of her house and softly approached. sachs looks up, joyfully surprised, at her greeting: "good-evening, master; still so diligent?" there follows as pretty an exhibition of youthful feminine arts as one could wish to see. the cajoling inflections of the music alone would inform one of what is in action. eva has come to sachs with an ulterior motive: to hear the details of the song-trial. she has no mind, of course, to avow her interest frankly. she must gain her end as she can, and, as a beginning, to flatter her man and challenge his fondness for her can never fall wholly wide of the mark. sachs loves her dearly, that she knows, and she has, in the innocent presumption of her young beauty, not questioned that he would enter the song-tournament for her; and until yesterday she rested in placid contentment upon the intention of crowning this affection which never since her birth has failed her. her narrow eighteen years have no conception of a devotion so generous and deep it would not dream, however fair the opportunity, of laying upon her youth the burden of his maturity, the oppression of his thoughtfulness. sachs is unwilling, too, very likely, in his wisdom, to compromise the peace of his indian summer by assuming the guardianship of an over-fair young wife. his neighbour's picturesque whim, the song-contest in prospect, has no doubt given sachs sufficient uneasiness, but he finally, as we heard him declare to pogner, rests satisfied with the maiden's privilege of refusal. not one of the guild of master-singers seems to him worthy of this blooming young eve. as for the father's "never!" applied to her marriage if she shall not accept the master-singers' choice, sachs knows his pogner and his eva, and is willing to entrust the matter to time. and so the ingenuous seductress finds the genial, clever, mellow neighbour's attitude toward her in this scene more canny than she can have expected, or quite relishes. it almost appears he had no idea of trying for her. perhaps an intuition of her momentary insincerity has made him more than naturally wary. the practising upon himself of her pretty coquetries he suffers however without unreasonable distaste. "ha, child, dear evchen, out so late? but i know--i know what brings you so late. the new shoes?"--"you are mistaken! i have not even tried on the shoes. they are so beautiful, so richly ornamented, i have not yet ventured so much as to put them on my feet!"--"and yet you are to wear them to-morrow as a bride?" she takes a seat on the stone bench by his door and leans confidingly close to him. "who, then, is to be the bridegroom?"--"how should i know?"--"how can you know then that i am to be a bride?"--"what a question! the town knows it!"--"and if the town knows it, friend sachs feels that he has good authority. i should have thought that he knew more than the town."--"what should i know?"--"see, now, i shall be obliged to tell him! i am certainly a fool!..."--"i did not say so."--"it is you then who are more than common knowing...."--"i do not know."--"you do not know!.. you have nothing to say!..." she draws away, nettled: "ah, friend sachs, i now perceive that pitch is not wax! i had supposed you cleverer." calmly he takes up her words and by them guides the conversation from that ground. "child, the properties both of wax and pitch i am well acquainted with. with wax i stroke the silken threads with which i stitch your dainty shoes; the shoes i am at this moment making, i sew with coarse cord, and use pitch to stiffen it, for the hard-fibred customer who is to wear them."--"who is it? some one of great consequence, i suppose?"--"of consequence, indeed! a proud master, on wooing bent, who has no doubt whatever of coming forth victorious from to-morrow's event. for master beckmesser i am making these shoes."--"then use pitch in plenty, that he may stick fast in them and trouble me no more!"--"he hopes surely by his song to win you."--"what can justify such a hope?"--"he is a bachelor, you see; there are not many in the place." again she draws near and bends close to him. "might not a widower be successful?" in his kind, sane, unsentimental voice he replies promptly: "my child, he would be too old for you!"--"what do you mean, too old? the question here is one of art. the man who has achieved distinction in art, let him contend for me." sachs smiles, indulgently, paternally. "dear little eva, are you making a fool of me?" (_machst mir blauen dunst?_ are you blinding me with blue haze?)--"not i! it is you--" she retorts warmly, "it is you who are playing tricks on me. confess that you are of an inconstant nature. god knows who it is you have now housed in your heart. and i have been supposing for years it was i!"--"because i used to be fond of carrying you in my arms?"--"i see! it was only because you had no children of your own!"--"time was when i had a wife and children enough," sachs reminds her gently. "but your wife died, and i grew up!"--"and you grew up, tall and most fair!"--"and so i thought you would take me into your house in place of wife and child...."--"thus i should have a child and a wife in one ... a pleasant pastime, indeed! ha ha! how beautifully you have planned it all!"--"i believe," she pouts, and bends her brows on him in a puzzled frown, "i believe that the master is making fun of me! in the end he will calmly acquiesce in beckmesser to-morrow carrying me off, right under his nose, from him and all the rest!"--"how could i prevent it," says sachs, not upset apparently by the fearful thought, "if he is successful? your father alone could find a remedy to that."--"where such a master carries his head!" cries eva, in acute exasperation, "if i were to come to your house, should i so much as be made at home?" somewhat dryly he takes up her words, as before, to steer the conversation from these dubious borders; and by some hazard, or intuition, turns it upon the subject nearest her heart. "ah, yes, you are right! my head is in a state of confusion. i have had much care and bother to-day. something of it clings very probably to my wits."--"at the singing-school, do you mean?" she asks, with covert eagerness; "there was song-trial to-day."--"yes, child, i had considerable trouble over an election." she draws close to him. "now, sachs! you should have said so at once, and i would not have harassed you with senseless questions. tell me now who it was that sought for election?"--"a knight, my child, wofully untaught!"--"a knight? you do not say so! and was he admitted?"--"far from it, my dear. there was too much difference of opinion."--"well, tell me, then. tell me how it all happened. if it troubles you, how should it leave me untroubled? so he stood the trial discreditably and was defeated...."--"hopelessly defeated, the gallant cavalier!" walther's failure is symbolised by a melodious groan. "hopelessly, you say? there was no way then by which he might have been saved? did he sing so badly, so faultily, that there is no possibility more of his becoming a master?"--"my child," sachs broadly assevers, "for him all is definitely lost. and never in any land will he be made a master. for he who is a master born occupies ever among masters the very lowest place." on the verge of tears, with difficulty controlling her indignation, eva continues her questioning: "one thing more tell me. did he not find among the masters a single friend?" sachs nearly laughs. "that were not bad! to be, on top of everything, his friend! his friend--before whom all feel themselves so small!..." (if eva were not so engrossed with her single idea, the gleam in sachs's eye, the fire in his tone, would interpret to her this brutal-sounding speech.) "young lord arrogance, let him go his way! let him go brawling and slashing through the world! as for us, let us draw our breath in peaceful enjoyment of what we have acquired with labour and difficulty. keep off the fiery fellow from running amuck among us! let fortune bloom for him elsewhere!" trembling with anger, and dropping all concealment, eva springs to her feet: "yes, elsewhere shall fortune bloom for him than in the neighbourhood of you repulsive envy-ridden creatures!--elsewhere, where hearts still have some warmth in them, in spite of all cantankerous master hanses!--directly, yes, i am coming!" (this to magdalene, who has been calling to her from her father's door.) "i go home much comforted! it reeks of pitch here till god take pity on us! kindle a fire with it, do, master sachs, and get a little warmth into you, if you can!" "i thought so!" sachs says to himself as he watches her cross the street to her own door. two and two have leaped together in his mind, too. "the question is now what will be the sage course to pursue." he goes within and closes his door... all but a crack. "your father is asking for you," magdalene reports to her agitated mistress. "go to him," weeps eva, "and say that i have gone to my room and to bed." but beckmesser--the nurse reminds her of the message from him. he desires her to be at the window; he will sing and play to her a beautiful composition by which he hopes on the morrow to win her. he wishes to discover whether it be to her taste. eva, anxiously awaiting the arrival of her lover, disposes of the subject by ordering magdalene to be at the window in her place. "that would make david jealous!" reflects magdalene; "his chamber is toward the lane." the prospect tickles her spirits. even as she is urging eva to go in, for her father, is calling, walther comes down the lane. hopeless after that, magdalene recognises, to attempt dragging indoors the damsel. she hurries in by herself to content pogner with some discreet misrepresentation. with passionate endearments walther and eva have rushed into each other's arms. all is lost which depended upon his winning the title of master-singer. there is nothing further to hope from that quarter; no choice is left, they must fly together. "away, where liberty is!" he cries, "that is where i belong, there where i am master in the house!" he grows hot with anger at remembrance of the masters' treatment of him, but, even more, with loathing at the thought of his beloved sitting to-morrow in their midst, looked upon by them with covetous eyes as a possible bride. "and i would endure it, do you think? i would not fall upon them all, sword in hand?" the night-watchman's horn breaks across his heated outburst. he claps hand to his sword. eva draws him gently into the shadow of the linden-tree, to lie concealed until the watchman have passed, and leaves him a moment to go within. the night-watchman, with pike, horn, and lantern, comes down the lane, calling the hour of ten; he bids the householders look to their fires and lights, avoiding disaster, and so let god the lord be praised! he turns the corner, the sound of his horn dies away. sachs from behind his door has played the eavesdropper. "evil doings are under way! no less than an elopement! attention! this must not be!" eva creeps forth from her father's house, disguised for the journey in magdalene's things. "no stopping for reflection!" she cries; "away from here! away! oh, that we were already off and afar!"--"this way, through the lane...." walther draws her along with him. "at the city-gate we shall find servant and horses." but right across the lane falls suddenly a great shaft of light, projected from sachs's window, cast by a lamp placed behind a glass globe which magnifies it to intense brilliancy. the lovers find themselves standing in a bright illumination. eva pulls walther quickly back into the dark. "woe's me, the shoe-maker! if he were to see us!... hide! do not go near that man!"--"what other road can we take?"--"the street there--but it is a winding one, i am not well acquainted with it, and, besides, we should run into the night-watchman."--"well, then, through the lane!"--"the shoe-maker must first leave the window!"--"i will force him to leave it!" says walther, fiercely.--"he must not see you. he knows you."--"the shoe-maker?..."--"yes, it is sachs."--"hans sachs, my friend?"--"do not believe it! he had nothing but evil to say of you!"--"what, sachs? he, too?... i will put out his lamp!" she catches again at his arm, and even at that moment both are startled into immobility by the sound of a lute. some one approaches, testing as he comes the strings of a lute, if they be in tune. the light has disappeared from the shoe-maker's window. walther is again for dashing down the lane toward the city-gate and the horses. "but no! can't you hear?"--his lady hangs back. "some one else has come and taken up his station there."--"i hear it and see it. it is some street-musician. what is he doing so late at night?"--"it is beckmesser!"--"what, the marker? the marker in my power? there is one whose loafing in the street shall not trouble us long...." again she catches in terror at his arm, so ready ever to catch at the sword. "for the love of heaven, listen! do you wish to waken my father? the man will sing his song and then will go his way. let us hide behind the shrubs yonder." she draws her lover to the stone seat under the linden-tree. sachs at the sound of the lute has drawn in his light, become superfluous, since the road is effectually blocked for the lovers by the musical interloper. he overhears eva's exclamation, "beckmesser!" and has an idea. beckmesser shall be made of use to prevent the lovers as long as possible from moving any farther from the safe parental roof than that stone seat under the linden, where they huddle close, whispering together, while keeping a watchful eye on the actors of the comedy which follows. sachs, as one might know of him, loves a joke. he softly opens his door, places his work-bench and lamp right in the doorway, and sets himself at his work. when beckmesser, after impatiently preluding to bring to the window the figure he is expecting, clears his throat to begin the serenade, sachs, vigourously hammering on his last, prevents him by bursting forth on his own account in a lusty ditty with much loud ohe, ohe, trallalei!--a playful ditty, sweet at the core, about eve, the original mother, and the first pair of shoes, ordered for her from an angel by the lord himself, who was sorry to see the pitiful sinner, when turned out of paradise, go bruising her little feet, for which he had a tenderness, on the hard stones; and adam, too, stubbing his toes against the flints, the song tells how he on the same occasion was measured for boots. beckmesser can hardly contain his impatience and disgust till the first verse comes to an end. upon the last note of it, he addresses the shoe-maker with what sickly civility he can summon: "how is this, master? still up? so late at night?" sachs expresses an equal surprise to find the town-clerk moving abroad: "i suppose you are concerned for your shoes. i am at work on them, as you see; you shall have them to-morrow."--"devil take the shoes!" groans beckmesser; "what i want here is quiet!" but his words are lost amid sachs's hammer-blows and unmoderated voice launching forth upon the second verse. "you are to stop at once!" beckmesser, in mounting anger, orders sachs, as, hardly pausing to take breath, the shoe-maker is attacking the third verse. "is it a practical joke you are playing on me? do you make no distinction between the night and the day?" sachs looks at him in innocent surprise. "what does it matter to you that i should sing? you are anxious, are you not, to have your shoes finished?"--"shut yourself up indoors then and keep quiet!"--"nay, night-labour is burdensome; if i am to keep cheerful at my work, i must have air and light-hearted song. so hear how the third verse goes!" and he attacks it with a will. there is added to beckmesser's other troubles the fearful thought that the maiden may mistake this outrageous bellowing for his love-song. a second-story window in pogner's house has softly opened, a form is dimly outlined within the frame of it. "i am lost now," beckmesser desperately reflects, "if he goes on singing!" he resolutely steps up to sachs: "friend sachs, just listen to one word! how bent you seem upon those shoes! i truly had forgotten all about them. as a shoe-maker, the fact is, i hold you in great esteem, but as an artist and critic i honour you even more highly. i beseech you therefore to give your attention to a little song by which i hope to-morrow to win the prize. i am eager to be told whether you think well of it." while talking, he strums, as if casually, upon his lute, to keep the lady from leaving the window. "oh, no!" sachs replies; "you wish to catch me by my weak side. i have no wish for another berating. since your shoe-maker takes himself for a poet, it fares but ill with your footgear. i can see for myself that it is in a deplorable condition. and so i drop verse and rhyme, knowledge and erudition, and i make you the new shoes for to-morrow."--"let that be, do!" beckmesser adjures him; "that was only a joke. understand now what my true sentiments are. you stand high in honour with the people, and the daughter of pogner has a great opinion of you. now, if i intend to offer myself as a suitor for her to-morrow, can you not see how i might be destroyed by her not taking kindly to my song? therefore listen to me quietly, do, and when i have finished my song tell me what in it you like, and what not, that i may make my dispositions accordingly."--"go along! let me alone!" sachs still excuses himself; "how should so much honour accrue to me? my songs are but common street-songs; let me therefore, in my common way, sing them to the street!" he is taking up his noisy lay again about eve and shoes when beckmesser's rage explodes. quaking, the town-clerk pours forth reproach and insult. this conduct of the shoe-maker's has its source in envy, nothing else; envy of the dignity of marker which has never been bestowed upon him, and which now never will be, not so long as beckmesser lives and has influence with the masters. when he stops at last, for lack of breath, sachs asks artlessly: "was that your song?... somewhat irregular in form, but it sounded right spirited!" walther, in the shadow, clasping his troubled lady, who is unaccountably saddened by the untimely farce, struggles with a hysterical desire to laugh--it is all so like a fantastic dream. at last shoe-maker and town-clerk come to an arrangement. beckmesser shall sing his song, and sachs, whose criticism he so unwontedly desires, shall act as marker; but sachs, who contends that he is loath to stop work on his shoes, instead of marking with chalk, shall mark the singer's mistakes by blows of his hammer on the last, and so, peradventure, while listening, forward his work. a disgusting arrangement, but beckmesser is in such terror lest the lady leave her post before he have sung that he consents. "begin!" hollaes sachs, and beckmesser, after preluding, sings, while sachs punctuates the lines with smart taps on the last. these at first discompose the singer, and he stops at each tap to inquire angrily what it is that is not right; he shortly resolves, however, to pay no heed to the spiteful enemy, but cover over the interruptions with his voice. louder and louder and ever more breathlessly he sings, a lyric that is more prosy than prose, a piece of common statement of facts, tortured into verse, which attains metre only by throwing the accent continually, ludicrously, on the wrong syllables. the melody, nasal and snuffling, is the very prose, too, of music. a ridiculous, dead-in-earnest song, relating in three long verses the circumstances of the song-contest and the singer's tender hopes. by the end of the second verse, the teasing shoe-maker has tapped so much that the soles are solid with the vamps. he swings the finished shoes triumphantly before his customer, announcing that he has thought of an appropriate verse to write on the soles, and it is: "a good song must keep time!" but beckmesser does not stop for him. beckmesser disdainfully goes on, as if he and the lady were alone in the world, and he sang thus loud to overpower some such thing as the sea-surf. in his engrossment he fails to take account of various ominous signs. he does not see david appear at his chamber-window. in spite of eva's clothes which she is wearing, the boy recognises magdalene at the casement across the way. his jealousy is quick to suppose her cold treatment of himself due to an inclination toward this new admirer. the neighbours, too, begin to lean out of their windows and ask the reason of this abominable caterwauling. a crowd collects in the street, of persons trying to find out what is the matter. the apprentices come flocking, mischievous instigators to mischief, and the journeymen, little better than they. soon, there is difference and quarreling among those arriving to inquire the cause of the disturbance. neighbours pour into the street, men and women in night-attire; finally, the heavy burghers arrive, the masters themselves, noisy, almost disorderly, in their attempts to restore order. beckmesser, singing at the top of his lungs, does not wake to consciousness of his surroundings until a cudgel falls across his back, wielded by david. he flees--but is at every few steps overtaken again and beaten. the two figures, in flight and pursuit, waving lute and brandishing cudgel, disappear and reappear at intervals among the swaying crowd. in vain magdalene from above screams to david to let the gentleman go. pogner's hand draws her away from the window; in the dim light he mistakes her for eva. sachs, when the confusion is well under way, draws in his work-bench and closes his door ... again all but a crack, through which he can watch the two figures wrapped in a single cloak beneath the linden-tree. when the disorder is at its height, walther clasps the girl with his left arm, with his right bares his sword, and attempts a rush through the crowd, toward the gates and horses of freedom. quick as thought, sachs has cleared his way to the couple; he grasps walther by the arm. pogner at the same moment appears at his door, calling for lene. sachs pushes toward him eva, half-fainting, bereft by panic of all power to withstand the impulsion. pogner receives her in his arms and draws her within doors, not suspecting but that she is the faithful nurse whose garments she wears. with deft foot sachs propels david before him into the house; then, forcibly drawing walther with him across the threshold, fastens the door,--his object happily accomplished. the street-battle is still raging. but at this point women pour water from the windows on the heads of the combatants, as they would on fighting dogs. simultaneously, the horn of the night-watchman is heard. in the space of a yawn the scene is deserted; all down the street are fast-closed windows and doors; beckmesser hobbles off rubbing his back. the old night-watchman, reaching the spot, rubs his eyes, clearly wondering if he have dreamed that he heard alarming sounds from that quarter. after looking all around, he droningly calls the hour of eleven, enjoins the people to be on guard against phantoms and spooks, that no evil spirit may work harm to their souls, and so let god the lord be praised! the full moon rising above the housetops suddenly floods the quiet lane. the watchman slowly goes down it. as he vanishes around the corner, the curtain falls. iii the interior of sachs's workshop. the poet sits in an ample armchair, near the window, bathed in the morning sunshine, absorbed in a great book. the magnanimity of his mood, the beautiful deep calm following upon certain resolutions and sacrifices, the gently exalted melancholy of his meditations--half remembrance, and dreamy as if violet shades of evening softened them,--the composer has given us to apprehend all in the introduction to the third act. so rapt is sachs in the perusal of his great volume, or, as may be suspected, in images which float between the page and his eyes, that he does not see david enter carrying a basket of lene's bestowal filled with flowers and ribbons for the adornment of his person on this festival day, as well as with cake and sausage. the apprentice, when sachs does not speak, or, spoken to, answer, or make sign when he informs him that beckmesser's shoes have been duly delivered, believes him to be angry, and goes into a long apology for his misconduct on the night before, brightening finally with the relation of his making-up this morning with lene, who has satisfactorily explained all. sachs reads on, as little disturbed as by the buzzing of a fly on the pane. only when he has finished, and closed his book,--the unexpected clap of the covers so startles david that he stumbles to his knees--sachs looks around him, as if coming back from a dream. his eye is caught by the bright flowers and ribbons brought in by david. their effect of young gayety touches some chord in him more than usually sensitive at this moment. "flowers and ribbons i see over there," he muses audibly; "sweet and youthful they look! how come they in my house?" david is relieved to find him in this gentle mood, yet puzzled at the remoteness and abstraction from which the master is but slowly drawn. he has occasion for a moment to wonder even whether the master have perchance become hard of hearing.... fully returned at length to a sense of the common surrounding world, sachs asks david for his day's lesson, and the apprentice briskly sings his verse, first comically confusing the tune with that of beckmesser's serenade, still buzzing in his head, then, at sachs's gesture of astonishment, righting himself and acquitting himself of his task without slip. the verse is a playful bit, between psalm and street-song. it relates that when saint john was baptising on the banks of jordan there came to him a lady from nuremberg bringing her little son for baptism. when she got home, however, to german land, it proved that vainly had one on the banks of jordan been given the name of johannes, on the banks of the pegnitz he became hans! the pronouncing of the name brings to david's mind the remembrance suddenly that it is his master's name, that the day is therefore his name's-day. in an impulse of affectionate devotion he presses on him all the gay articles just received from lene, the flowers and ribbons, the magnificent cake, and, but shyly, as if it were not quite worthy of a poet, the sausage. with great gentleness, sachs thanks the lad and bids him keep the things for himself, adding a request that he make himself fine with those same flowers and ribbons to accompany him presently to the meadow outside the city gates where the song-contest is to be held. his stately herald he shall be. sachs's friendliness encourages the boy to venture a small liberty. "may i not rather go as your groom's-man? master, dear master, you must marry again!"--"you would be glad of a mistress in the house?" asks sachs dreamily.--"it would make, in my opinion, a much more imposing household!" there is popular talk and expectation of it, as an outcome of the coming song-contest, david intimates; "you will hardly have much trouble, as i think, in singing beckmesser out of the field; i hardly believe he will make himself very conspicuous to-day!"--"i hardly believe so, either," sachs smiles: "but go now, and be careful not to disturb his lordship. come back when you have made yourself fine." left alone, sachs sinks into thought again, sitting there with his book on his knees and his head propped on his hand. we are allowed to follow his reflections, those of a philosopher,--but not one standing apart and watching a little scornfully the vagaries of men; a very human being, taking part in them, without losing a humourous sense of their character. "illusion! illusion! everywhere illusion! whichever way i bend my inquiry, searching the chronicles of the city and those of the world, to discover the reason why people, in vain and frantic rage, torment and oppress themselves and one another to the point of bloodshed! no one has any good of it, or receives any thanks for it. through its working, the defeated and put to flight fancies himself chasing the foe. he is deaf to his own cry of pain. when he twists the knife in his own flesh, he has an idea that he is doing himself a pleasure! who shall find a name for it? one name, forsooth, befits it: ancient illusion it is, without which nothing happens, nothing either goes or stands still. if it halts in its career, it merely while slumbering gathers new force; it presently wakes up, and then see who can master it!..." he smiles whimsically, nodding to himself, at the contemplation of the instance of all this uppermost in his mind, the events of the evening before. "how peaceful, in its adherence to good customs, approved in conduct and deed, lies in the heart of germany my beloved nuremberg! but late upon a night, a man there is found totally void of counsel how to prevent a catastrophe, resulting from youth and hot blood. a shoe-maker in his shop tugs gently at the threads of illusion: how promptly up and down the lanes and streets the thing begins to rage; men, women, boys and children, fall upon one another like mad and blind; and the crack-brained spirit is not to be laid until a shower fall of blows--a shower of blows, kicks and cudgel-thwacks, to smother the angry conflagration. god knows how it all came about?" he smiles again, reflectively, over the recollection of the lovely quiet evening it was, the terrific discordant pother that arose,--the lovely and hushed night that presently resumed her reign. the incident looks fantastic now. "an imp must have had a hand in it!" is the poet's fanciful induction; "a glow-worm could not find his mate, it was he responsible for all the damage done! it was the fault of the elder-tree--of saint john's night! ... but now--" he broadly dismisses the fancies and aberrations of the warm mid-summer night, and turns his face toward the clear-defined duty of the day: "but now it is saint john's day! and now let us see how hans sachs shall contrive deftly to guide illusion to the working out of a noble purpose. for if the spirit will not let us rest even here in nuremberg, let it be for such works as seldom succeed by vulgar means, and succeed never without some grain of illusion in the perpetrator himself!" walther appears at the door of an inner chamber. sachs rises to meet and greet his guest. they had a good talk the night before, after the wise shoester's act of well-meant violence. walther was grateful, no doubt, upon calmer reflection, to have been saved from the ruinous folly he had projected. the two men are obviously fast friends. there is in sachs's attitude a touching deference toward the younger man, the heart-wholly acknowledged superior in talent. it is a pleasant spectacle, the grey meistersinger's eager glorying in the golden youth's simple, abundant, god-bestowed gift. the motif of his address to walther has a touch of charming courtliness. "god keep your lordship! did you find rest? you were up late--you did, however, finally sleep?"--"a little," walther answers, "but soundly and well." there is something hushed and fixed in walther's aspect, as if he listened to voices no one else could hear, gazed upon some vision invisible to others. he is still under the spell of a recent marvellous impression. "i have had--" he tells sachs, when the latter genially asks is he feeling, after his good sleep, in good form and of good courage, "i have had a wonderfully beautiful dream...."--"a good omen, that! tell me your dream!"--"i hardly dare to touch it with my thought, so do i fear to see it fade away."--"my friend," the older poet with fine amenity takes up the part of teacher, and his observations have a ripe, sunny, elevated wisdom, for which one should store them carefully as one does good fruit, "that exactly is the task of a poet, to mark dreams and interpret them. believe me, of all the illusions of man the most nearly approaching truth are those he comes into cognisance of through dreams. the whole art of poetry is but the interpretation of true-dreaming. what if this dream now should contain a hint how you may to-day be made a master?"--"no, no," walther rejects the idea with distaste; "in the presence of the guild and its masters, scant inspiration would animate my dream-picture!"--"but yet, suppose your dream contained the magic spell by which you might win over the guild?" walther shakes his head: "how do you cling to an illusion, if after such a rupture as you witnessed you still cherish such a hope!"--"nay, my hope stands undiminished, nor has anything so far occurred to overthrow it; if that were not so, believe me, instead of preventing your flight, i would myself have taken flight with you! pray you, therefore, let your resentment die! you are dealing with honourable men. they make mistakes and are fairly settled in the comfortable determination to be taken in their own way. those who offer prizes desire after all that one shall please them. your song scared them, and with reason, for, upon reflection, the like flaming poetry and passion are adapted for the luring of daughters into mad adventures, but the sentiment leading to the blessed married state finds words and notes of a different sort!" walther grins: "i know the sort--from hearing them last night; there was a good deal of noise out in the street." sachs laughs too; "yes! yes!... you heard likewise how i beat time. but let be all that, and follow my advice, good and short: summon up your energies for a master-song!"--"a beautiful song, and a master-song, how am i to seize the distinction between them?" asks the singer of the beautiful song which had been despised. "my friend," sachs explains, with a warmth as of tears and blood, "in the beautiful days of youth, when the bosom expands high and wide with the mighty transports of happy first love, many are they who can achieve a beautiful song: the spring-time it is which sings for them! but let summer come, autumn and winter, the sorrows and cares of life,--no dearth of wedded joys along-side!--christenings, business, discord and difficulties, those who still after all that can compass the singing of a beautiful song, those, mark me, are entitled masters!" aye, first, as a modern poet has said, warm natural drops of blood; later, the alchemist's laborious spheres of chemic gold. in youth, all-sufficient inspiration,--later, labour and rule, with meritorious concentration substituting for impetus and fire the beauty of careful form, and making durable in this the evanescent dreams of youth. "learn the master-rules in good season," sachs adds, "that they may be faithful guides to you, helping you to preserve safely that which in the gracious years of youth spring-time and love with exquisite throes bred in your unconscious heart, that you may store and treasure it, and it may not be lost!"--"but who--" walther asks, inclined to cavil where anything is concerned which relates to the master-singers, "who created these rules which stand in such high honour?"--"they were sorely-needy masters," sachs in his moved tones continues the charming lesson, "spirits heavily weighted with the weariness of life; in the wilderness of their distresses they created for themselves an image, that they might retain vivid and lasting the memory of young love, bearing the sign and stamp still, and breathing the fragrance, of spring!"--"but," walther objects, suspicious of that whole tribe of snuffy masters, for whom sachs has the same charity of a broad understanding which he has shown in walter's own case, "however can he for whom spring is long past fix the essence of it in an image?"--"he recreates it as well as he can," sachs sums with sudden curtness, recognising perhaps the futility of his attempt against this so lively dislike; and passes on to the point more important at this moment, to his thinking. "i beg you, therefore, sorely-needy man that i am, if i am to teach you the rules, that you should renew in me the sense of that which originally gave them rise. see, here are ink, pen, and paper. i will be your scribe, do you dictate."--"hardly should i know how to begin."--"relate to me your morning dream."--"nay, as a result of your teaching of rules, i feel as if it had faded quite away."--"the very point where the poet's art comes into requisition! recall your beautiful dream of the morning, for the rest, let it be hans sachs's care!" walther takes a moment to collect himself. sachs sits with quill poised over paper. then walther relates his dream, meeting sachs's request for a master-song by casting it as he goes, with the light ease of genius, into verse and melody,--his second astonishing improvisation, joyous as the first, but not agitated--reflective, as if he filled sordello's account of himself: "_i' mi son un che quando amore spira, noto, e quel che detta dentro vo significando._" i am one who when love breathes, do note, and that which he dictates within do go expressing. all things lovely seem to have congregated in this dream of his; it is no wonder that the lingering impression of it enveloped him with an atmosphere of paradise, and that he feared almost to breathe lest it be dispelled. just the words he has to use, without their relations, conjure up a flock of alluring images: morning-shine, roseate light, blossoms, perfume, air, joy,--unimaginable joy, a garden! the idea that a poet's song is as much a part of him as fruit is of the tree stands illustrated by the fact that the song which falls on our ear as in its ensemble so fresh, is yet composed in great part of the walther-motifs with which we have become familiar; his youth, his enthusiasm, his courage and his love, all go into the making of his song. as he said in answer to kothner, what should be put into his song unless the essence of all he had known and lived? glimmering beneath the rosy light of dawn, the air being laden with the scent of flowers, a garden, he sings, full of never before imagined attractions, had invited him to enter it.... "that was a stanza." sachs states, as walther pauses. "take careful heed now that the one following must be exactly like it."--"why exactly alike?" the free-born asks, ready to chafe at the shadow of a restriction. sachs, indulgent, makes play for this prodigious child's sake of the to him so grave business of song-making: "that one may see that you have selected a mate!" in that blissful garden a magnificent tree had proffered to his desire a sumptuous harvest of golden fruit.... such is the matter of the second stanza. "you did not," sachs critically considers, "close on the same tone. excruciating is that to the masters, but hans sachs learns from your doing it that in spring-time it must perforce be so! proceed now to the aftersong."--"what is that?" asks walther. "your success in finding a well-suited couple will appear now from their off-spring!" in the garden, by an exquisite miracle, he had found suddenly standing at his side a woman, more sweetly and graciously beautiful than any he had ever beheld. like a bride she had entwined her arms softly about him, and had guided him, with eyes and hand, toward the fruit of his desire, the fair fruit of the tree of life.... joyfully stirred as he is by the beauty of dream and song, sachs controls his emotion, to secure all he can from the young poet's momentary docility. "there's what i call an aftersong!" he exclaims cordially; "see, now, how rounded and fine is the whole first part. with the melody you deal, to be sure, a bit freely. i do not say, however, that it is a fault. but it makes the thing more difficult to retain, and that incenses our old men. let us have now a second part, that we may gain a clear idea of the first. i do not even know, so skilfully have you cast them into rhyme, what in your song was invention and what was dream...." with heavenly glow of sunset-light, day had departed, as he lay there drinking joy from her eyes, desire the sole power in possession of his heart. night had closed down, baffling the eyesight, when, through the branches, the rays of two bright stars had shed their light upon his face. the sound of a spring upon the quiet height had reached his ear, murmuring more musically than any spring heard theretofore; stars had appeared in multitude, dancing among the boughs overhead, until, instead of golden fruit, the laurel-tree had swarmed with a host of stars.... "friend!" cries sachs, striving against the full betrayal of his pleasure, lest it be an interrupting element, "your dream was an effectual guide! the second part is successful as the first. if now," he ventures, "you would compose a third, it might contain the interpretation of your dream...." but walther jumps up from his chair, suddenly weary of the game. "enough of words!" and sachs, with sympathetic understanding of the incalculable ways of poets, refrains from pressing him. that overbubbling inspiration he believes can be counted upon. "reserve then word and deed for the proper place. and i pray you hold fast in memory, this melody, a charming one it is to fit with words. and, against the moment of singing it in a more extended circle, hold fast likewise to your dream!"--"what have you in mind?" walther inquires. sachs does not directly enlighten him, but: "your faithful servant has, very seasonably, arrived with packs and porte-manteaux. the garments in which you intended to make yourself brave for wedding-ceremonials at home, he has brought here to the house. a little dove no doubt directed him to the nest where his master slept. come with me therefore to your chamber. fitting it is we both attire ourselves splendidly, when a splendid deed is to be dared!" walther without question places his hand, as if it held his whole confidence, in sachs's. they pass together out of the workshop. the stage remains for a moment empty. the air retains as if echoes, or fragrances, of the personalities which have but just withdrawn; it is sweetened with effluvia of walther's youth, of sachs's greatness of heart. suddenly, like a bar of bilious green across a shimmering mother-o'-pearl fabric, harmonies of a very different sort catch the attention, and beckmesser's face is seen peering in at the window. finding the workshop empty, he limps in. he is in holiday array, but there is little of holiday about him, save in his gaudily beribboned clothes. a long comedy-scene follows, in which beckmesser says never a word, but his thoughts are heard and his actions are eloquent. his body is one mass of aches and pains, his soul the battleground of anger, shame, thirst for vengeance. the din of the evening before fills his ears; he is chased, as if by furies, by memories of the indignities put upon him. he is so sore he cannot sit; when he goes his joints hurt rackingly. his restless moving about the room while he waits for sachs brings him to the master's writing-table: his eye falls on the sheet of music on which sachs has taken down walther's song; his attention is arrested; he reads it off mentally with ever-increasing agitation. no mistake possible, in his mind: sachs, who had declared that he would not enter the song-contest for pogner's daughter, has outrageously lied, and here is the proof of it, this song which he means to sing at the tournament. "now," bursts forth beckmesser, "everything becomes clear to me!" he jumps, hearing sachs at the door, and stuffs the paper into his pocket. sachs, in his handsome best-coat, meets him pleasantly. "you surely are not having any more trouble with the shoes?" beckmesser's wrath holds in but a moment before voiding itself upon sachs in accusation and threat. "be sure, friend sachs, i know you now!... that i may not stand in your way, you go so far even as to incite the mob to riot.... you have always been my enemy.... now hear, whether i see through you. the maiden whom i have chosen, who was verily born for me, to the frustration of all widowers there be,--of her you are in pursuit! in order that master sachs might gain the goldsmith's rich inheritance it was that at the council of masters he stood upon minor clauses. for that reason, fool that i was! with bawling and hammering he tried to drown my song,--that the child might not be made aware of another's ability! yes, yes! have i hit the mark? and finally from his cobbler's shop he egged after me boys with cudgels, that he might be rid of me.... ouch! ouch! green and blue was i beaten, made an object of derision to the beloved woman, so drubbed and maltreated that no tailor's flat-iron can smoothe me out! upon my very life an attempt was made! but i came out of it with sufficient spirit left to reward you for the deed. stand forth to-day and sing, do, and see how you prosper. beaten and bruised as i am, i shall certainly manage to throw you out of time!" sachs has unperturbedly let him spend himself. "my good friend, you are labouring under a delusion. you are free to attribute to me what actions you please... but i have not the least thought of competing." "lies and deceit!" roars beckmesser, "i know better!" sachs quietly repeats his statement. "what else i have in mind is no affair of yours. but concerning the contest you are in error."--"not in the contest? no competition-song?"--"certainly not." beckmesser produces the piece of music. "is that your hand?"--"yes," sachs owns, amused; "was that it?"--"i suppose you call it a biblical lay?"--"nay," laughs sachs, "any one guessing it to be such would hit wide enough of the mark."--"well, then?"--"what is it?"--"do you ask me?"--"what do you mean?"--"that you are, in all can dour, a rogue of the first magnitude!" sachs shrugs good-humouredly; "maybe! i have never, however, pocketed what i found upon another's table. that one may not think evil of you, dear sir, keep the paper, i make you a gift of it." beckmesser leaps in the air with incredulous joy: "lord god! a poem of sachs's!... but soft, that i may not be led into fresh troubles. you have, no doubt," he insinuates, "committed the thing perfectly to memory?"--"have no uneasiness with regard to that."--"you bestow the sheet on me then outright?"--"to prevent you being a thief."--"and suppose i made use of it?"--"you may do as you please."--"i may sing it, then?"--"if it is not too difficult."--"and if i should please my audience?"--"i should be greatly astonished!"--beckmesser misses the sly shoester's intention. "you are too modest altogether," he says; and goes on to explain in what dire need he stands of a new composition, since the song sung the night before as a serenade can have no chance, if sung again to-day, of charming the pognerin, for whom it must be associated, thanks to the cobbler's merry jests, with every undignified circumstance. and how can he, poor belaboured wretch, find the necessary peace of mind to compose a new one? yet, if he have not a new song, he must give up the hope of marriage. but a song of sachs's would enable him to overcome every obstacle; if he may have it, let all the disagreements which have kept them apart be forgotten and buried. but,--he suddenly holds in, and puckers his forehead,--if this were a trap? "even so late as yesterday," he says to sachs, "you were my enemy. how is it that after all the troubles between us you are to-day kindly disposed toward me?"--"i worked on your shoes until late at night," sachs disingenuously replies; "is that the sort of consideration one shows an enemy?"--"true, true. but now give me your word. whenever and under whatever circumstances you hear that song, you will never by any chance say that it is of your composing."--"i give you my word and oath," sachs assents, with a spice of wicked glee, "that i will never boast of that song being mine."--beckmesser's spirits rise to heights of mad exhilaration. "what more do i want? i am saved! beckmesser need trouble no further!"--"friend," sachs warns him, "in all kindness i advise you, study that song carefully. it is of no easy execution."--"friend sachs," beckmesser waives the warning, "you are a good poet, but in all that relates to tones and tunes there is no one goes ahead of me. but now, quickly home, to learn the thing by heart. hans sachs, my dear fellow, i have misunderstood you. my judgment was thrown off the track by that adventurer. just such a one was needed! but we masters made short work of him! good-bye! i must be off! elsewhere will i show my gratitude for your sweet friendliness. i will vote for you hereafter, i will buy your works. i will make you marker!" effusively he embraces him: "marker, marker, marker hans sachs!" hans sachs looks after the departing figure with a meditative smile. "so entirely ill-natured have i never yet found any one. he cannot fail to come to grief of some sort. many there be who squander their wits, but they reserve enough to keep house with. the hour of weakness comes for each one of us, when he turns fool and is open to parley." so entirely ill-natured beckmesser has been found that sachs feels no compunction at letting him run into the pitfall gaping ahead. he is willing to win an advantage by a deception, let him follow his head, why should honest sachs be tender of him? the joke is not severe beyond his deserts. he has candidly rejoiced that short work was made of that adventurer, von stolzing; why should he not be permitted to encounter the same sort of treatment? why indeed should not his dishonesty be turned to use? "that master beckmesser here turned thief," reflects sachs, "falls in excellently with my plan." eva appears in the doorway, eva dazzling in her white wedding-dress. "i was wondering," says sachs to himself at sight of her, "where she could be!" for, as walther was known to be in the house, it was thought she must before long find some pretext to stand beneath the same roof. she wears a little languid air; last evening was a sore trial to young nerves. a tinge of accusing plaintiveness is in her voice. she is markedly abstracted; her thoughts are wandering, of course, all about the house in search of _him_. she has her pretext ready, and meets sachs's warm compliment upon her appearance with a reproachful: "ah, master! so long as the tailor has done his work successfully, who ever will divine where i suffer inconvenience, where secretly my shoe pinches me?"--"the wicked shoe!" sachs is for a moment really deceived; "it was your humour yesterday not to try it on."--"you see? i had too much confidence. i was mistaken in the master."--"i am sorry, indeed i am!" he is on his knee at once: "let me look at it, my child, that i may help you, right off, quick!"--"as soon as i stand on it, it obliges me to go; and as soon as i go, it obliges me to stand."--"place your foot here on the stool, i will remedy the evil at once. now, what is wrong with it?"--"you can see, it is too wide!"--"child, that is pure vanity. the shoe is snug."--"that is what i said, and that is why it pinches my toes."--"here, at the left?"--"no, the right."--"at the instep?"--"no, the heel."--"what?" he asks incredulously, "something wrong too with the heel?"--"_ach_, master," she exclaims, "do you know better than i where my shoe pinches me?"--"i can only wonder," he replies, good-humouredly, "that your shoe should be loose and yet pinch you everywhere!" the door of the inner room opens at this moment, and walther stands upon the threshold in the rich gala costume of a young noble. eva at sight of him in his splendour utters a cry, and remains spell-bound, gazing. he stops short in the doorway, spell-bound equally at sight of her in her shimmering bride's-robe of white,--and from their eyes, fixed unwaveringly upon each other, their hearts travel forth on luminous beams to meet and mingle. sachs's back is toward walther; he has not see him, but the tell-tale light on eva's face, reflection of a sun-burst, has reported to him of the apparition. he pretends not to see. "aha! here is the trouble!" he speaks, as if nothing were; "now i see what the matter is! child, you were right, the seams are stiff. just wait and i will set the matter aright. stay where you are, i will take the shoe and put it on the last for a minute. after that it will give you no further trouble." he draws the shoe tenderly from her childish foot, and leaves her standing, statue-still, lost in her trance of contemplation, with her foot on the stool, while he takes the shoe to his bench and pretends to work at it. he cannot forbear,--while he plays his little comedy, and those two angelically beautiful beings, saved and aided by him, between whom he shares his big heart, stand hushed, drinking, in oblivion of all, the heavenly nectar of each other's glances,--he cannot forbear teasing the little lady a bit, giving her a little lesson, taking a very mild vengeance on her for the faintly perfidious wiles of yesterday. so he runs on, while making himself busy with her shoe: "forever to be cobbling! that is my fate. night nor day, no deliverance for me! child, listen! i have thought over what shall bring my shoe-making to an end. the best thing i can do will be after all to enter the contest for your hand. i might thus at least win something for myself as a poet!... you are not listening? yet it was yourself put the idea in my head.... oh, very well! i see! attend to your shoes! if at least," he slyly suggests, without turning, "some one would sing to me while i work! i heard to-day a regularly beautiful song. if just a third verse, equally successful, might be added to it!" like the hypnotised receiving a suggestion, walther, ready as a bird, breaks forth singing, his gaze never swerving from eva: "did the stars come to a pause in their charming dance? light and clear, above the clustering locks of the most beautiful of all women, glittered with soft brilliancy a crown of stars..." "listen, child," sachs bids eva, in the short pause between the verses, "that is a master-song!" "miracle upon miracle! a double radiance of day now illumines me, for, even as two suns of purest delight, two divinely beautiful eyes bend their light upon me...." "that," says sachs, "is the sort of thing you hear sung in my house nowadays!" "oh, gracious vision which my heart found boldness to approach! the wreath, which in the rays of the twin suns shows pale at once and green, tenderly and mildly she weaves about the consort's head. into the breast of the poet--born erst to joy, now elect to glory,--paradisal joy she pours, in love's dream!" sachs has been enabled to keep in hand his emotion at the sound of the ecstatic song by diligently busying himself with the shoe, uttering at intervals small insignificant remarks: "let us see, now, whether i have got my shoe aright. i believe i have finally succeeded, eh? try it, now!" he has slipped it on to her foot, "walk on it! tell me, does it still hurt?" but eva, who has stood breathlessly gazing and listening to the thrilling accents, new to her, of her lover, when the heart-searching voice is silent and the tension relaxes, bursts into passionate weeping, sinks on sachs's breast and clings to him, sobbing. walther with a quick stride is beside them; impulsively he grasps the hand of the good sachs, to whom he dimly feels he owes so much,--to whom he owes really more than he dreams. for a moment not one of them can speak. then it becomes too much for sachs, this soft beloved form trembling against his breast; he gently frees himself and allows the burden he relinquishes to slide upon the shoulder of walther. like a noble dog shaking his fur, he takes himself away and finds occupation at the further end of the room, trying by his commonplace playful talk to dispel the oppression of a too great emotion. again he must, all for her good, tease evchen a bit. "has not a shoe-maker his fill of troubles?" he grumbles; "were i not at the same time a poet, not another shoe would i make. so much hard work, such a perpetual calling upon you! this one's shoe is too loose, that one's too tight, here it claps, it hangs at the heel, there it presses, it pinches. the shoe-maker must know everything, mend everything that is torn, and if he be in addition a poet, then verily he is not allowed a moment's peace. but if, on top of all, he be a widower, then he is in all truth regarded as a very fool! the youngest of maidens, if a husband is wanted, request him to apply for them; let him understand them or let him not, it is all the same; let him say yes, let him say no, in the end he is told that he smells of pitch, and is called stupid, cantankerous, and impertinent! i wouldn't care so much," he concludes humourously, "but for my apprentice. he is losing all respect for me!..." the conscience-smitten girl flings her arms around him again: "oh, sachs, my friend, oh, noble heart, how can i ever repay you? without your love, what were i? what were i, without you? i should have remained a child forever, had you not awakened me. through you i won the things one prizes, through you i learned what a soul is. through you i awoke, through you alone i learned to think nobly, freely, courageously. you guided my growth, and brought me to flowering. oh, dear master, scold me, well you may!... but yet i was on the right track. for, had i any choice, you, no other, should be my husband. i would hold out the prize to you alone. as it is, i myself have been chosen--to never-before-dreamed-of torment! and if this day i am wedded, it will be without choice of my own. coercion i have suffered, have suffered violence. you know, master, that the force of it frightened even you!"--"my child," he replies, mildly, collectedly--if feelingly and a little sadly, to her impulsive confession, while a known, poignant strain, like a profound sigh, holds the ear for a moment, an echo from a different opera, "of tristan and isolde i know the sorrowful story. hans sachs was shrewd and would have none of king mark's happiness!" with a return to the lightness which is his policy of the moment, he adds, lest emotion too far unnerve them all: "full time it was that the right one should appear, or i should after all have run into the snare!... aha! there comes lene looking for you. hey, david, aren't you coming?" nurse and apprentice enter, one from outside and one from within, in their holiday garments. "the witnesses are here, the sponsors present, now quickly to the christening! take your places!" sachs directs. all look at him in wonder. he lays before them his idea of giving, with proper ceremony, a name to the master-song born in his house. it is a poet's fancy, an act of tender superstition on sachs's part, a form by which he tries to lay a helpful charm or blessing upon the new-born creation on which so much depends; send it forth equipped as well as possible with spiritual arms, that it may, as he says, "grow great without harm or mishap." the young melody's father, of course, is walther; the pognerin and he, sachs, will stand its sponsors; lene and david shall be witnesses. but as an apprentice is not a proper witness, david is promoted with the rite of a smart box on the ear from apprentice to journeyman. sachs suggests as the name of the new-born: song of interpretation of the blissful morning-dream, and the young godmother is requested to speak appropriate words over it. the point of what follows is hardly in eva's words, pretty as they are; the point is that one of the most extraordinary quintets that ever charmed human ear serves as baptismal send-off to the infant melody. each of the five singing together expresses, according to custom in concerted pieces, the aspect which the common subject, or the hour, has for him. and so dear sachs, while eva and walther rejoice on their side, and david and lene--to whom the apprentice's promotion opens vistas of mastership and marriage,--rejoice on theirs, sachs, adding a less glad but more serene voice to the glorious sheaf of song, reveals his heart,--with no one to listen, for all are singing. "full fain"--he sighs, "full fain had i been to sing before the winsome child, but need was that i should place restraint upon the sweet disorderly motions of the heart. a lovely evening dream it was, hardly dare i to think upon it...." but the wreath of immortal youth shall be the poet's reward. impertinent to pity the sturdy sachs, who has his poetry and his strong heart. and he has at all moments been wiser than his lovely evening dream. there has been really no renunciation on his part, for he had never allowed himself any serious parleying with the tender temptation. not for an instant does he present himself as a sentimental figure; but the generosity with which he employs himself to secure for others the happiness which, though in his good sense he had denied it to himself, his heart had yet caressed in its alluring evening dream, makes him a magnanimous one. it is time when they have finished to start for the seat of the saint john's day celebration. sachs sends eva home to her father, orders david to close the shop, and starts along with walther. while the curtain is lowered for the change of scene, one of those musical transformations takes place of which there are several instances in these operas. with elements we know, new elements begin to mingle; the old are withdrawn, and presently, musically, as ocularly, the scene is changed. we behold a green meadow on the banks of the pegnitz; in the distance, the city of nuremberg. the place is decorated for holiday. there is a great stand for the master-singers and judges in the song-contest. crowds of holiday-makers are on the spot already, more still arrive by the river in bright boats. the various guilds march in procession with their respective insignia, shoe-makers, tailors, bakers. apprentices and young girls dance together to a measure daintily gay as their fluttering ribbon-knots. conspicuous among them is david, so forgetful for the moment of lene and himself as to imprint a glowing kiss on his partner's cheek. frivolities stop short with the arrival of the masters. these assemble to the sound of what we will call their unofficial march; then, to their great march, they walk to their places on the stand, kothner waving the banner of the guild, and the people acclaiming. pogner escorts eva to the seat of honour. when all are in their places, a corps of young apprentices, filling the function to-day of heralds, and carrying staffs of office liberally be flowered, call out in latin the order for silence. quiet being established, sachs, spokesman for the occasion, rises. at once the silence is shattered by cheers for the popular poet, cries of joy at sight of him; there is waving of kerchiefs and hats. to show how every one knows and loves his songs, the people entone one of them all together and sing it jubilantly through; and "long live sachs!" they shout, "hans sachs! long live nuremberg's beloved hans sachs!" it is too much for poet to experience unmoved, and sachs's voice, when the people quiet down at last, to listen, only gradually regains its manly firmness. "you ease your own hearts and burden mine, in offering me, unworthy, too great honour. if i am not to sink crushed beneath it, let it be in the thought that it is the gift of your love. great honour already has fallen to my portion to-day, in that i have been elected to the dignity of spokesman. and the announcement which i have to make to you, believe me, is full of high honour!" he imparts to them pogner's project, but with these important modifications or omissions,--and it is they which constitute the stroke sachs has been preparing. no mention whatever is made of the limitations determined upon by the masters at the last meeting: that the singers contending must be members of the guild, and that the masters exclusively shall be judges. so the offer stands: a lovely girl and a rich inheritance shall be the portion of the singer who before the assembled people shall carry off the prize,--awarded, one naturally understands, since nothing different is stated, by popular acclamation. free candidature, therefore popular election! and sachs so presents the thing that the masters cannot very well object, if even they had the courage to chance the awkwardness of a public scene; they can hardly claim it is not fair that they, presumably superior in song to non-masters, should accept the contest on the same terms. sachs's peculiar audacity has lain in his taking the risk of a perfectly justified revolt on the part of the masters against his high-handed proceeding; he has counted on the restraining effect of the public occasion; has counted on luck, which proverbially follows the bold. high-handed, his course, undeniably, but too much was at stake for any narrow consideration to hold back sachs: the happiness of eva,--of, as he says, at the conclusion of his announcement, "the amiable stainless one, who must never be made to regret that nuremberg holds in such honour art and its professors!" hearty applause follows his words. pogner grasps his hand, moved, infinitely relieved. "oh, sachs, my friend, what thanks do i owe you! how did you know what was weighing on my heart?"--"much was staked upon that cast," replies sachs; "now pluck up heart!" he catches sight of beckmesser, who ever since arriving with the rest of the masters has been feverishly studying his bit of music-sheet, at intervals wiping the desperate sweat from his brow. "mr. marker, how are you getting on?"--"oh, this song!" groans the marker, "i cannot make head or tail of it, and i have worked over it, in all truth, hard enough!" sachs shows him, if he but knew it, a way of escape. "my friend, you are not obliged to use it."--"what is the good? my own song, through your fault, is done for. now be a kind dear fellow, it would be abominable of you to leave me in the lurch."--"it is my opinion that you had better give it up."--"give it up?... well, hardly! i can easily beat all the others, if only you will not sing. i am certain that no one will understand the song, but i am building upon your popularity." sachs abandons him to his fate, and declares the song-contest open. kothner summons the contestants, "and let the oldest," he calls, "come first. master beckmesser, pray begin. we are late!" the little heralds have piled up grassy sods into a sort of pedestal for the singers to stand on. they lead beckmesser to this. he stumbles in going, and can hardly from nervousness keep his balance on the none too secure elevation. the common people begin to titter. murmurs fly from one to the other: "what? that one? that is one of the suitors? why, he can't even walk!... keep quiet! he is an eminent master! he is the town-clerk.... lord, what a muff! he is toppling over!... be still, and stop your jokes; he has a seat and a voice in the committee!..."--"_silentium! silentium!_" calls the chorus of little heralds. and kothner: "begin!" beckmesser, after bowing to the queen of the day and to the assembly, gives forth, haltingly, walther's song as he remembers it, as it has become with passing through the medium of his mind. what he utters, with many an anxious peep at the crumpled manuscript, is nonsense of the most ludicrous. for every word he substitutes another of distantly the same sound, but different meaning, betraying how he has not understood a syllable. the melody, if so were he had mastered it, has completely dropped from his mind, and what he sings to the eccentric words is his own serenade, but perverted by the interference of the alien influence. the masters at the end of the first verse look at one another, mystified. "what is that? has he lost his senses? an extraordinary case! do our ears deceive us?" the people giggle and make remarks, not too loud as yet. at the end of the second verse, the masters inquire of one another, "what does it mean? has he gone mad? his song is one piece of nonsense!" while the people giggle louder and make remarks less and less respectful. at the end of the third verse, populace and masters burst into peals of laughter. beckmesser descends from his pedestal and hurls himself raging at sachs. "accursed cobbler! to you i owe this!--the song is none of mine," he excitedly informs the rest. "sachs here, whom you honour so, your sachs gave me the song. the scandalous wretch compelled me to sing it, he foisted off his miserable song on me!" he dashes the sorry-looking manuscript at sachs's feet, and rushes off like one pursued by a nest of hornets. amazement reigns among master-singers and people: "a song of sachs's? the matter grows more and more astonishing! the song is yours? be so good, sachs, as to explain!" sachs has picked up and smoothed out the crumpled page. "the song, as a matter of truth, is not of my composing. herr beckmesser is mistaken, in this respect as in others. how he obtained it let him tell you himself. but never should i be audacious to the point of boasting that so fine a song had been written by me, hans sachs."--"what?... fine?... that crazy rubbish? sachs is joking! he says that in fun!"--"i declare to you, gentlemen, that the song is beautiful. but it is obvious at a single glance that master beckmesser misrepresents it. i swear to you, however, that you would hear it with delight were one to sing it in this circle correctly as to word and melody. and one who should be able to do this would by that fact sufficiently prove that he is the author of the song, and that in all justice, if he found just judges, he would be called a master. i have been accused and must defend myself. let me therefore summon a witness. if any one is present who knows that right is on my side, let him come forward as a witness before this assembly." quietly and quickly, with his proudly-borne head and his light proud step, walther advances. a murmur of pleasure runs through the assembly at sight of him, in his resplendent clothes and plumed hat. the good populace on whom sachs had counted do not disappoint him: the gallant young figure finds instantaneous favour. "a proper witness, handsome and spirited," they comment, "from whom something proper may be expected!" the master-singers are not slow to recognise the intruder of yesterday, and to grasp the situation. they accept it good-humouredly enough, with artistic appreciation, no doubt, of sachs's well managed _coup de théâtre_. "ah, sachs, confess that you are a sly one! but, for this once, have your way!" "masters and people are agreed to try the worth of my witness," sachs announces; "herr walther von stolzing, sing the song. and you, masters, see if he render it aright." he hands them the manuscript. walther takes his stand on the flowery mound and starts singing the song we know already. presently however, the song lifts him away, and he alters, as with that power of inspiration behind him how could he help?--he amplifies, makes more beautiful still. but by that time the masters have become so interested that they withdraw their attention from the manuscript, and follow enthralled the voice of the singer alone. the song is in its final effect considerably different from the original one, being the fruit of the moment, like walther's other improvisations. it preserves, however, both in text and tune, a sufficient likeness to the first to prove it of an identical source. it is the same dream he tells, but expressed in different images. in a blessed love-dream, he had been led to a garden where, beneath a miraculous tree, he had beheld--vision promising fulfilment to love's wildest desire!--a woman of all-surpassing beauty: eve, in the garden of paradise.... in a poet's waking dream, he had been lured by the crystal murmur of a spring up a steep path. there, beneath a laurel-tree, he had beheld--and from her hand had received upon his brow water from the sacred fount,--a woman of a beauty grave and sublime: the muse of parnassus.... there is no doubt of the impression the song produces upon the audience. as he pauses between the verses, walther cannot but seize their irrepressible exclamations. "that is a very different matter! who would have thought it?" the people surrender heart-wholly. "how it soars,--so sweet, so far from earth, and yet it is all as if one had lived through it himself!"--"it is bold and unusual, but well-rhymed and singable!" the masters admit. the circumstances of this hearing are different enough from yesterday's. the infection of beckmesser's jealous spite is wanting; softening influences are in the lovely scene, the poetic occasion. the pure ecstasy of the song has a chance to work its spell, to transport them outside of their limitations. they are honourable men, as sachs assured walther; they have no _parti pris_ of bolts and shutters against the new; on occasion they can be generous. "yes, yes, i see, it is quite another thing," they say, "when it is sung aright!" sure of victory, already triumphant, walther leaps to the goal: "oh, day most rich in blessing, on which i awake from my dream! the paradise i saw in sleep lies before me in intensified splendour. the murmuring spring lures me along the way which leads to it,--and the one whose home is there, the elect of my heart, the loveliest of earth, my muse and inspiration, as holy and high as she is fair, i have boldly wooed her,--i have won, by the bright light of day, through the victory of song, both parnassus and paradise!" before the last note has died, all are clamouring together, awarding to walther the master-prize. "reach him the wreath! there is no lover or singer like him!" and then walther's exquisite morning-dream comes true. he kneels before the woman more graciously beautiful than any he had ever seen, while, bending upon him eyes luminous with joy as twin suns, she places upon his head the wreath of laurel and myrtle, the poet's and lover's crown. pogner wrings sachs's hand. "oh, sachs, to you i owe happiness and honour!" he draws a sigh of immense well-being. "lifted is the weight from my heart!" there are congratulations and rejoicings. in the general glow of good-humour, voices of master-singers call out to pogner: "up master pogner, and announce to his lordship his admission to the master-guild!" pogner takes the decoration of the order, the gold chain with the three medallions, and with the words, "i receive you into the master-guild," is casting it over the victorious singer's head, when walther starts back, as from something of horridly unpleasant association, and makes a gesture of uncompromising refusal. "not a master, no!... i mean to be happy without that title!" an uncomfortable silence follows upon the hard snub. all look toward sachs, whose face has clouded over with pain. he walks to walther, and seizing him by the hand, as one might a child, to bring it to reason, vigorously speaks the defence of the order to which he belongs. "despise not the masters, but, rather, honour their art. the great good you have this day received speaks loud in their praise. not to your ancestors, however great, not to your coat of arms, your spear or sword, but to the fact that you are a singer, that you have proved yourself a master, you owe to-day your highest happiness. if then you apply to the question a grateful mind: how can that art be of no account which holds such prizes? that our masters cared for it in their own way, that according to their lights they were faithful to it, that is what has preserved it. though it no longer is aristocratic, as in the times when it was fostered by princes and courts, yet despite the stress of evil years it has remained german, it has remained sincere. and if it had prospered nowhere but among us, with our burdens and restrictions, you can see in what honour it is held here. what more do you require of the masters?... have a care! evil contingencies threaten! should the day come when the german people and kingdom fall asunder, its princes, seduced by false outlandish splendours, would soon no longer understand the language of their own people, and outlandish error, outlandish vanities, would be sown by them in german soil. in that day, should it come, no one would know any longer what is german and genuine, did it not survive by grace of the german masters! then honour the german masters! by that spell shall you command good genii! and if you second them by your favour, holy rome may pass away in smoke: we shall still have our holy german art!" nobly and contritely walther bows his head, and sachs hangs about his neck the collar of the guild. eva, fired, takes from her lover's fair curls the laurel-wreath, and presses it upon the grisled head of the master. he stands radiant between the two whose happiness is his work. the populace wave their hats and kerchiefs, cheering, "hail, sachs! hans sachs! hail nuremberg's beloved hans sachs!" one cannot help imagining, in "meistersinger," a fragment of autobiography, a recollection of days when wagner must have heard on all sides concerning his work what we still occasionally hear, such words as he puts into the mouth of beckmesser: "_kein absatz wo, kein' coloratur! von melodei auch nicht eine spur!_" no pause anywhere for breath! no appropriate colouring! of melody not the remotest trace! no pause anywhere for breath! the headlong rush it has of genius. no appropriate colouring! the colouring happens merely to be new. of melody not the remotest trace,--when in this opera particularly the composer casts melodies up in the air like golden balls and juggles with them; when, like a conjurer, he goes on taking fresh roses in absurd abundance out of a horn that should naturally have been ten times empty! if we may translate the personages of this delicious play into types, walther must stand for the poet and singer by god's grace, fresh young genius, winged bringer of a new message. beckmesser for old school, where it has become fossil, where forms moulded on life have become void and dry, and rules are held sufficient without breath of inspiration. nay, inspiration, which jostles and disturbs rule, is regarded with suspicion. inspiration to beckmesser is as much an intruder as would be saint francis coming to visit some prior of his own order long after the spirit animating the saint had been hardened into forms. hans sachs, then, is a sort of ideal critic, with affection and allegiance toward the past, but with a fair and open mind toward the new. walther himself could have no more admirable attitude, more perfect temper, toward art, than sachs. it is only to be hoped that in his maturity he was as tolerant and broad-minded. the wise, the gentle sachs! it is a pity that in listening to an opera one hears so little of the words, for there fall from his genial lips precepts which it would be really worth while to impress upon the memory, among which could there be a more golden than his word to critics: "when you find that you are trying to measure by your own rules that which does not lie within the compass of your rules, the thing to do is to forget your rules and try to discover the rules of that which you wish to measure!". tristan and isolde tristan and isolde i the ouverture to tristan and isolde is singularly calculated to create the mood in which the opera needs to be heard. it discourses of nothing but love. it is long, it knocks and presses upon chords lying abysmally below thought, until these vibrate in response,--and the curtain goes up before an almost helplessly sympathetic listener. chief among the emotions expressed in this harmonious setting-forth of the argument,--rich in sighs, glances, caresses,--is certain tragic yearning, which seems of the very essence of love, the love in question; tragic, because it is a thirst which from the nature of things admits of no satisfaction upon the earth we know, since its demand is no less than fusion of one soul and flesh into another, so that each is completely possessed and neither knows any more which of the two he is; the condition we hear the lovers sigh for later on their bank of flowers in the warm summer night: "i," says the man, "shall be isolde, you will be tristan."--"i shall be tristan," the woman says, "and you isolde." nay, there shall be no more tristan, no more isolde, but nameless, indivisible, possessed of a single consciousness, they shall float in an eternal night of love to ever-new recognitions, ever-new ardours.... the story belongs to the period of king arthur and his round table. at that time cornwall, we learn, was subject to ireland, to the extent at least of owing tribute. but the subject country, with increase of power, had become impatient of the tax, and, when the irish hero morold was sent to collect it, a knight of the cornish court, tristan, fought and slew him, and in lieu of the exacted tribute sent back his head to ireland. tristan had not come forth unhurt from the combat in which morold had fallen. with the peculiar daring which earned him the fame of "hero without equal, wonder of all nations," he took the wound of which he was dying to the country of the enemy, to the very castle of the irish king whose daughter isolde's affianced he had slain. for isolde was renowned for her skill in the art of medicine. the queen, her mother, possessed even rarer secrets of magic. in a small skiff, almost unattended, tristan, obscuring his glory under the name of tantris, came to isolde to be healed. the high-born physician gave him faithful care. no one suspected him, until isolde, remarking a trifling notch in his sword, made the discovery that a steel splinter which she had removed from the severed head of morold fitted it. this man, then, completely in her power, was tristan, the enemy of her land, the slayer of her betrothed. the duty of a princess of the time was clear. she caught up the sword and approached his bed with the intention of avenging morold's death. but the wounded man unclosed his eyes, and glancing past the sword, past the hand which brandished it, looked into her eyes. and, inexplicably, she could not proceed; pity moved her, she let the sword sink. she kept the secret of his identity. she applied herself more than ever diligently to heal him, "that he might betake himself home, and burden her no more with the look of his eyes." he went at last with professions of eternal gratitude. the least he could have done, in accordance with these, so it seemed to her, was to preserve silence as she had preserved it, to let the incident have no more result than as if oblivion had engulfed it. instead of which, behold before long tristan arriving in his own resplendent person, with an embassy of cornish nobles, to arrange peace between the two countries and obtain the hand of the irish king's daughter for the cornish sovereign, mark, his uncle. now the irish, being, as we gather, at a disadvantage in any match of force with the insolent tributaries who had cast off their yoke, could not well refuse,--could not afford to give offence by refusing. the alliance was in truth a splendid one,--were it not for that old unavenged affront! even as matters stood, the proposal admitted of being looked upon in the light of reparation,--if one did not see in it, as did one of the principal personages involved, a second insult more intolerable than the first. the cornish suit was successful. the feud was publicly declared at an end, and peace sworn to. the heiress of the irish crown set sail for cornwall under the escort of tristan. the curtain rising shows the rich pavilion on ship-deck where isolde hides her face from the light against the cushions of a day-bed. her attendant, brangaene, stands gazing over the ship-side. the voice of a young sailor is heard from the rigging out of sight. now, though the cornish diplomats have comported themselves during their mission with delicacy, the crew accompanying them take less trouble to conceal the glee they feel over the humiliation of their former lords, signified in this present carrying off of ireland's proudest jewel. isolde, spite of all courteous forms, is regarded by them as, in a sense, a prize of war. some hint of this appears in the song of the young seaman, who permits himself references to the "wild and lovely irish maid," and asks whether they be her sighs which swell his sail. the words penetrate through isolde's absorption; she starts up in sudden fury, crying: "who dares to mock me?" and looks wildly around, as if she had been so engrossed in other scenes that she did not, on returning to the light of day, know for a moment where she was. then she recognises brangaene, and remembers, and inquires where they are. "streaks of blue are rising up out of the west," brangaene describes what she is watching, "softly and swiftly sails the ship; on a calm sea before evening we surely shall reach the land."--"what land?" isolde asks unexpectedly. "the verdant coast of cornwall."--"nevermore!" bursts from the princess, "not to-day! not to-morrow!" brangaene hurries to her, alarmed and wondering at the hurricane of passion she now lets loose,--calling upon the arts of magic to restore to her the lost power of commanding sea and storm, calling upon the winds and waves to wreck this insolent ship and drown everyone upon it! brangaene stands aghast. what she had but dimly apprehended, then, was true. she clings to her mistress, endeavouring to calm her. "what, dear heart, have you so long been concealing from me? not one tear did you shed at parting from father and mother. hardly a word of farewell did you speak to those remaining behind. coldly and dumbly you left the land of home; pale and silent you have been on the voyage, taking no food, taking no sleep, deeply troubled, rigid and wretched,--how am i to endure to see you thus, to be nothing to you, to stand before you as a stranger? oh, tell me what troubles you! tell me, make known to me what is torturing you! if she is to think herself in any measure dear to you, confide now in brangaene!" the unhappy isolde, suffocating, gasps for air: "air!... air!... my heart is smothering!... open! open wide!" brangaene hurriedly draws apart the tapestries which form the wall of the apartment at the back. the deck of the ship is seen from mainmast to stern; sailors busy with ropes, groups of knights and their esquires lounging. tristan stands apart from the rest, with folded arms, staring abstractedly over the water. his servant kurwenal lies idly outstretched at his feet. isolde's eyes at once find the half-averted figure; her absorption in it becomes equal to his in the unknown object of the thoughts engrossing him. she does not hear this time the sailor at the topmast singing over again the song she had before resented; "o irish maid, where tarriest thou? is it the force of thy sighs which fills my sails?" slow, involuntary, words drop from her lips, her inmost thoughts speaking to herself, while her eyes brood gloomily upon the unconscious head. "mine elected,--lost to me! lofty and beautiful,--brave and craven! death-devoted head! death-devoted heart!" starting awake at the ring of her own words, she laughs unpleasantly and, turning to brangaene: "what do you think of the lackey yonder?" brangaene's glance follows isolde's. she does not understand. "whom do you mean?"--"the hero over there who averts his glance from mine, who in shame and embarassment gazes away from me. tell me, how does he impress you?"--"are you inquiring, my dear lady," brangaene asks in wonder, "of tristan, the marvel of all nations, the man of exalted renown, the hero without equal, honour's treasure and vaunt?" isolde catches up her tone, to continue in scornful mimicry: "who terrified at his own achievement flies to refuge wherever he can, having won for his master a corpse to bride?... is my saying dark to you? go then and ask himself, the presumably free man, whether he dare to venture near me? all forms of reverence and considerate service he forgets toward his sovereign mistress, the shrinking hero, that of all things her glance may not light on him.... oh, he no doubt knows why!" suddenly overmastered by an impulse of her too-long controlled rancour: "go to the haughty one," she orders brangaene, "bear to him this message from his lady: let him come into my presence forthwith, prepared to do my command."--"am i to bid him come and offer his duty?" brangaene timidly interprets. "nay," isolde storms, "let the self-sufficient one be warned to fear the mistress! that do i bid him, i, isolde!" fixedly she watches the attendant moving along the deck, past the sailors at their work, toward the solitary figure of the knight. she watches the two fixedly while their interview lasts. kurwenal, catching sight of the woman approaching, tugs at his master's mantle: "attention, tristan! message from isolde!" tristan's start suggests how complete his abstraction, and what the effect of that name unexpectedly pronounced. _as brangaene comes before him_, the stage-directions say, _he rapidly composes himself_. deferently he inquires of his lady's wishes. bragaene tells him, barely, that her lady wishes to see him. then begins the series of his evasions, courteous as possible, but determined as courteous. "if she be weary of the long voyage, that is nigh ended. before sunset we shall touch land. whatsoever orders my lady have for me shall be faithfully carried out." brangaene repeats the order: "let sir tristan then go to her, such is our lady's will."--"yonder where the green meadows are still coloured blue to the eye, my king awaits my lady. that i may escort her to him, soon will i approach the bright one. to none would i yield the privilege." the maid repeats, still patiently: "tristan, my lord, listen and attend: my lady requests your service,--that you should betake yourself to the place where she awaits you."--"at what place soever i be found, faithfully do i serve her, to the greater honour of women. if i should forsake the helm at this moment, how could i safely guide the keel to king mark's land?" brangaene's temper flashes a faint reflection of isolde's fire. "tristan, my lord, are you mocking me? if the stupid handmaid cannot make her meaning clear to you, hear my mistress's own words. this she bade me say: be warned, a self-sufficient one, to fear the mistress! that is her behest,--isolde's!" without giving tristan time to hesitate, kurwenal jumps up: "may i frame an answer?"--"what would your answer be?" tristan asks, for the moment at a loss. and kurwenal, very loud, that his words may not fail to reach isolde's ears: "this say to madam isolde: that he who made over to the maid of ireland the crown of cornwall and the inheritance of england cannot be the chattel of that same maid, presented by himself to his uncle. a lord of the world,--tristan, the hero! i cry it aloud and do you report my words, though they should bring upon me the wrath of a thousand madam isoldes!" tristan has vainly tried to silence him. as brangaene indignantly hastens away, the irrepressible servant sings after her at the top of his voice a mocking fragment of ballad, popular no doubt in cornwall: "lord morold came over the sea to cornwall to collect tribute. an island floats in a lonely sea, there he now lies buried. his head, however, hangs in ireland, the tribute paid by england. hurrah for our lord tristan! what a one is he to pay tribute!" tristan drives the fellow off, orders him below. but the whole crew have taken up the last lines of the song and shout them with a will. brangaene drags together the curtains, shutting from sight the cruel rabble. isolde, who has with difficulty controlled herself, seems on the point of an outburst, but she quells it, and in the restored silence asks with forced composure: "but now, about tristan?--i wish to be told exactly." brangaene, at first unwilling, reports the interview. when she has finished, isolde, whose anger has made room for a sorrowful intense dejection, reveals to her what explains the humour, to her so far inexplicable, of her mistress. her deeply wounded feelings bleeding afresh at their exposure, isolde makes the relation almost tearfully. "you have been a witness to my humiliation, hear now what brought it about. they sing to me derisive songs. i could reply if i would! of a boat i could tell which, small and mean, drew to the coast of ireland. in it a sick and suffering man, in woful plight, at the point of death...." she tells the story of her recognition in this tantris of tristan; of her resolve to take immediate vengeance upon him; of the look which disarmed her, her dismissal of him, healed, that he "might go home and burden her no more with the look of his eyes!"--"oh, wonder!" breathes brangaene. "where were my eyes? the guest whom i once helped to nurse...?"--"you heard his praise a moment ago! 'hurrah for our lord tristan!' he was that unhappy man. he swore a thousand oaths of eternal gratitude to me, and truth. now hear how a hero keeps his word. he whom i dismissed unknown as tantris, as tristan comes boldly back. on a proud tall ship he draws to land, and desires the heiress of ireland in marriage for the worn king of cornwall, for mark, his uncle. in morold's lifetime who had ventured to offer us such an affront? to sue for the crown of ireland for the king of the tribute-owing cornish!... oh, woe is me! it was i, i, who in secret prepared for myself this shame! instead of smiting with the avenging sword, weak, i let it drop. now i am the servant of my own vassal!" brangaene, when all is told, does not apparently recognise in the situation cause for so much bitterness. "when peace, reconciliation, and friendship were sworn on all sides," she says wonderingly, "we all rejoiced to see the day. how could i suppose it was a source of affliction to you?" the point then appears of that bitterness, which would hardly in reality have been a point but for a sentiment not among those which isolde confesses to her confidante. that what she kept silent the other should reveal! that what he could only know and live to report through the weakness of her woman's heart, he should publicly make use of, to his own glory and his relative's advantage! she paints his attitude, as she imagines him, victory-flushed, hale and whole now, pointing at her and saying in loud, clear tones: "there were a treasure for you, my lord and uncle! what do you think of her as a wife? the pretty irish-woman i will bring to you here. by roads and by-paths well known to me, give the sign, i fly to ireland: isolde is yours! i delight in the adventure!" the picture goads her to very madness, and, with a cry for its mingling of ferocity with anguish like the roar of a baited and wounded lioness, she breaks into maledictions upon his head, calling down vengeance upon him, death upon him, nay,--at the climax of her rage and insupportable pain,--death upon them both! with impetuous tenderness brangaene showers words of endearment on the exhausted friend, hushes her with caresses, heaps, as it were, smothering flowers upon her angry coals. she forces her gently to a seat, comforting her with word and touch. then she holds up all in a different light, endeavours to make her see the thing reasonably, as it must appear to others. "what delusion is this? what idle raving? how can you stultify yourself till you neither can see nor hear? whatever debt of gratitude sir tristan owes you, tell me, could he better repay it than with the most magnificent of crowns? thus does he at the same time faithfully serve his noble uncle and bestow upon you the world's most enviable prize. he has renounced, generous and true-hearted, his own inheritance, and placed it at your feet, that he may call you queen. and if through him you are to wed mark, how should you find fault with the choice? can you fail to prize and honour the man? of great lineage and gentle nature, where is his equal in power and splendour? who would not wish to share his good fortune, as consort to tarry beside him, whom the greatest of heroes so devotedly serves?" isolde, but half heeding, has fallen again to her miserable brooding. brangaene's last words find their way to her brain and produce an image there which she stares at with gloomy and tragic eyes. as before, unconscious in her perturbation that she is doing it, she voices her inmost thoughts audibly, like a somnambulist: "unloved by him, to behold the unrivalled man ever near, how could i endure the torment?" brangaene catches the words, and innocently supposes them applied to king mark. she presses fondly against this unaccountably humble-minded mistress: "what are you dreaming, perverse one? unloved? where does the man live who would not love you? who could see isolde and not blissfully dissolve in love for her? but, if so were that he who has been chosen for you should be of a nature to that degree cold, if so were that some evil magic drew him away from you, i should know how very soon to bind the unkind one to you, the power of love should work its spell upon him...." she draws so near to isolde that she can speak without fear of being overheard. "do you forget your mother's magic? do you imagine that she, who ponders all things so sagely, has sent me void of counsel along with you to a strange land?"--"at the right moment i am reminded of my mother's counsel," isolde murmurs thoughtfully before her; "her art i prize and welcome its aid. vengeance it affords for the betrayal, peace in the need of the heart. bring the casket here to me."--"it contains what shall secure your happiness!" brangaene joyfully hurries to fetch the small golden coffer, lifts the lid, fingers the phials. "in this very order were they placed by your mother, the mighty magic potions. for hurts and wounds here is balm; here, for poison, is counterpoison...." she takes out and holds up before isolde with a significant smile a small flask. "the sweetest draught of all i hold here!" isolde pushes aside her hand and stretches her own to the casket. "you are mistaken. i know better which one that is. i marked it with a deep incision. here is the draught which shall serve my turn!" brangaene stares at the phial which isolde has taken from among the rest. "the death-potion!" she gasps, recoiling. a sing-song shout interrupts them, the voices of the sailors hauling at ropes, taking in sail,--a reminder to isolde that the land, the terrible land, is near. kurwenal hurries in: "up, up, you ladies! briskly and cheerily! quickly prepare to land! ready at once, nimble and spry! and to madam isolde i was to say from tristan, my master: the pennant of joy waves merrily from the mast, making her approach known in mark's royal castle. wherefore he begs madam isolde to haste and make ready, that he may escort her ashore." isolde, for a minute convulsed with a shuddering horror at her realization of the decisive moment so near, reconquers her composure, and replies with contrasting dignity and calm to kurwenal's familiar and rude pressing of the high-born ladies to haste. "to sir tristan bear my greetings and report to him what i say. if he look to have me walk at his side and stand before king mark, as custom and seemliness demand, let him know that this shall in no wise happen if he have not before sought pardon of me for an uncondoned offence. let him therefore cast himself upon my clemency!" as kurwenal by a gesture signifies his stiff-necked resistance to her command, she repeats it, more regally peremptory than before: "take careful heed of what i say and carefully report it. i refuse to make ready to accompany him to land, i refuse to walk beside him and stand before king mark, unless he have before, as is fit and becoming, sued for forgiveness and forgetfulness of an unexpiated fault. let him hope these from my grace!"--"be quite sure that i shall tell him!" the bluff serving-man replies, turning to go: "now wait and see how he takes it!" isolde flings her arms around brangaene: "farewell, brangaene! commend me to the world! commend me to my father and mother!"--"what is it?" the handmaid asks, not understanding, yet half frightened; "what are you meditating? are you planning flight? whither must i follow you?"--"nay, did you not hear? i shall remain where i am. i intend to await tristan. follow faithfully my command. at once prepare the peace-draught,--you know the one i showed you."--"what draught do you mean?" brangaene asks, not daring to understand. isolde takes it out of the coffer once more and holds it up for brangaene to see well, the little deadly phial. "this draught! pour it into the golden goblet; it will contain the whole without brimming over.--mind you are true to me!" she adds, forcing it into the maid's hand. "but this drink..." falters the appalled girl, "for whom?"--"for him who betrayed me!"--"tristan?"--"shall drink to our peace-making!" brangaene falls at isolde's feet, entreating her to spare her. "do you spare me, disloyal girl!" isolde passionately chides. what was the purpose, she asks, of that provision made by her mother for their assistance in a strange land? for hurts and wounds she had given balm; for poison, antidote; for deepest woe, for utmost affliction, she had given the death-draught: thanks be rendered to her now--by death! brangaene still resisting, isolde imperiously presses her command. their struggle is cut short by kurwenal announcing tristan. brangaene staggers to the back. isolde visibly summons up all her courage, all her strength, and with queenly self-possession bids tristan approach. the music introducing the following scene has the effect of lifting the story on to a plane of larger things. the proportions of the personages, in the light of the magnifying music, are seen to be heroic, their natures vast, their passions, in their very tremendousness, august. tristan stops at the entrance and waits deferentially. constraint makes him into a man of chill iron. there is a long moment of heavy-laden silence. he is first to speak: "make known to me, lady, your wish!" she comes to the point at once. "do you not know my wish, when the dread of fulfilling it has kept you afar from my glance?" he evades her, as he had before evaded brangaene. "reverence laid its compulsion upon me!"--"small reverence have you shown me. with overt scorn you have refused obedience to my command."--"obedience alone restrained me."--"paltry cause should i have to thank your master, if his service required of you discourtesy to his own consort."--"custom demands," he quietly meets this, "where i have lived, that the escort of the bride, while bringing her home, should keep afar from her presence."--"for what reason?"--stiffly as he stands, his answer resembles a shrug. "ask of custom!"--"since you cherish so great a regard for custom, my lord tristan," isolde mocks, "let me remind you of what likewise is a custom: to make peace with the enemy, if he is to report you as his friend." "and what enemy?" he questions, unmoved. "inquire of your terror!... blood-guiltiness stands between us!"--"that was made good!"--"not between us!"--"in the open field, before the assembled people, a solemn oath was sworn to let vengeance rest."--"not there was it, not in the open field, that i kept tantris concealed, that tristan lay at my mercy. in the open field he stood magnificent, hale and brave; the thing however which he swore, i fore bore to swear. i had learned to keep silence. when he lay languishing in the hushed chamber, and i stood silent before him with the sword, though my mouth no made sound, though my hand refrained, yet the thing which i had sworn with hand and mouth i silently renewed my oath to perform. i now intend to keep it."--"what did you swear, lady?" tristan asks simply, without effect of defiance. "vengeance for morold!" she hurls at him. he seems to wonder. a sort of numbness has been creeping over him; an atmosphere of dream has closed around him; her neighbourhood, her voice, no matter what words she is saying, even these angry and cruel ones, have an effect of lulling, of making the real world seem unreal. "are you concerned for that?" he asks, with the sincerity of that state of having lost grasp on things as it is agreed to pretend they are. "dare you to mock me?" she rages, "he was affianced to me, the gallant irish hero. i had consecrated his arms, for me he went into battle. when he fell, my honour fell with him. in the heaviness of my heart i swore an oath that if no man would take vengeance for his murder, i, a woman, would find the hardihood for it. why, when sick and feeble you lay in my power, i did not strike, explain to yourself by easy interpretation: i cared for your wound, that a man in sound health should be struck down by the vengeful hand of him who won isolde. judge for yourself now what your doom shall be. since the men are all your adherents, who is to smite tristan?" more than ever it seems like the atmosphere of a dream closing down upon him, a dream in which they move, projecting incredible things. but he has perfectly seized her meaning, and even in a dream a man acts in character. pale and self-contained, he hands her his unsheathed sword, and his voice shows a first tinge of emotion as he speaks the name of morold, whom, it would almost seem, she had loved. "if marold was so dear to you, again take up the sword, and drive it surely and steadfastly, that it may not drop from your grasp!" if she seemed somewhat like a lioness before, striding and chafing in her regal rage, she is again, it must be confessed, a little like one now, but presenting a different aspect of the great feline, a sort of cruelty, a need to torment before sacrificing. "what would king mark say if i were to slay his best servant, the most faithful of his retainers, who won for him crown and land? does it seem to you such a paltry matter, that for which he stands indebted to you, bringing home to him the irish bride, that he would not chide, should i slay the envoy who so faithfully delivers into his hands the hostage of the peace-compact?... put up your sword! when upon a time i brandished it, my heart hot with desire for vengeance, at your gazing upon me with an eye that took my measure, to see if i would answer as a wife for king mark"--(there, there is point of insufferable bitterness!)--"i let the sword sink. let us drink now to our reconciliation!" by a sign she orders brangaene to bring the draught. the poor creature shrinks away shuddering. isolde, by a gesture more peremptory still, repeats her command, and brangaene is seen tremulously busying herself with the golden casket and the golden cup. again the sing-song chorus is heard, of the sailors hauling in the topsail. the sound falls with a shock upon tristan's ear. "where are we?" he cries, in bewilderment. "close to our destination!" isolde replies significantly. they are so close indeed to the end of their voyage that anything there is to say must be said now, and she invites, with a first suspicion of softness, some expression from him of regret, some explanation before they die, some attempt at justification of his so unkind-seeming return to the woman who had nursed and saved him. "tristan, shall i obtain amends? what have you to say to me?" but he is guarded now as earlier; the compulsion of honour is no less strong upon him than before. "the lady of silence," he replies darkly, "teaches me to be silent. i apprehend, mayhap, what she concealed.... i conceal what she does not apprehend!"--"i shall apprehend the reason of your silence," she exclaims angrily, "if you mean to elude me. do you refuse to drink to our peace-making?" brangaene has brought the cup. tristan gazes rigidly into isolde's eyes as she approaches him bearing it. "the voyage nears its end. in brief space we shall stand," her lip curls with irony, "before king mark! as you lead me to him, should you not deem it an apt speech to make: my lord and uncle, look at her well! a meeker woman you could never hope to win. i slew her affianced, i sent home to her his head; the wound made by his weapon she graciously healed. my life lay in her power; the gentle maid made me a gift of it, and gave her consent to the dishonour and degradation of her country that she might become your wife. in kind acknowledgment of my good gifts to her, she mixed me a sweet peace-draught; of her grace she tendered this to me, to make all offences forgotten!" no, tristan can hardly entertain a doubt of the cup's contents which the princess holds toward him with her ambiguous smile. but her right, aside from any other consideration, is recognised as indubitable to the life which she saved. we have from his own lips later what his emotions were in this moment so pregnant with fate. what we see is that he stands like a man in a dream. a voice is heard outside shouting orders to the sailors: "up with the cable! free the anchor!" he starts awake--he rises as if with a spring to the height of the moment. "anchor loose!" he cries wildly. "helm to the stream! sails and mast to the wind!" ay, let go all regards and restraints of life, since life itself is about to be tossed over. there is zest in doing it, and then rid at once forever of the puzzling world of duty and prudence and heart-starvation! he snatches the goblet from isolde's hand: "well do i know ireland's queen and the magic power of her arts. i made use of the balm which she proffered, i take the cup from her now, that i to-day may completely recover. and do you mark the pledge with which, grateful, i drink to our peace!" it is an answer, this enigmatic pledge, to her wistful question: "what have you to say to me?" he cannot pass into silence, and leave her forever with her unmingled contempt for him. by broken intimations he flashes light upon the thing which his lips are interdicted from revealing. charged with emotion, the words chime slowly: "tristan's honour,--highest truth!... tristan's misery,--cruellest spite!... lure of the heart!... dream-intuitions!... sole comforter of an eternal woe, merciful draught of forgetfulness, unwaveringly i drink!" he sets the cup to his lips and is drinking as he said, when with the cry: "defrauded here too! mine, one half!" isolde wrests the goblet from him: "traitor, i drink to you!" and drains it, unwavering as he. the empty cup drops from her hand. they stand in suspense, gazing at each other, as defiantly they await death. the searching potion in a moment begins to take effect; each sees in the eyes of the other a new thing dawning, strange and beautiful; a trembling seizes upon their limbs. they press their hands convulsively to their hearts, the seat of an incomprehensible trouble, then to their foreheads, within which the brain seems to have become subject to over-wild delusions. their eyes meet again, and are averted in a confused terror; but, invincibly allured, again seek the other--and both gaze with increasing, at last unconquerable, yearning. with tremulous lips she speaks his name,--a complete confession in the one word so spoken. passionately he calls hers,--confession for confession. she sinks overpowered on his breast. he clasps her ardently to him. brangaene wrings her hands at sight of them locked in their long, mute embrace. her work this, the work of her disobedient hands which, too weak for the stern task assigned them, poured out the love-potion in place of the death-draught. "woe, woe," she wails, "eternal, irredeemable woe, instead of brief death! behold the pernicious work of a foolish fondness blossoming heavenward in lamentation!" the two move apart for a moment in order better to gaze at each other. "what was i dreaming," he falters, "of tristan's honour?" "what was i dreaming," she wonderingly asks, "of indignities to isolde?"--"you, lost to me?" could man have imagined so wild a thing! "you repulsing me?" probable, it seems, as he stretches to her those yearning arms! it has all been a malignant trick, then, of evil sorcery! restored at length from that delusion, they yield themselves exultantly to the tide of passion that has caught them away and shall carry them whither it will, scornful of the whole world, lost in each other, conscious of a sweetness in the surrender surpassing all that life had given them to suspect. the peculiar action of the potion is detected from the above. it seems less to create passion than to remove all that obscured and controlled it, dissolve the barriers which up to the moment of drinking stood so effectively between the two. tristan's will crumbles under it, the will which had kept him loyal to mark, which had made him, to the point of offence, shun the radius of her dangerous magnetism. isolde's pride melts under it, which had enabled her to keep up with herself and him a fiction of hate for the man who had wronged her. all that keeps love within bounds being burned away, it towers in a sublime conflagration. their sense of the change is that they have awakened from a dream; but the effect of the potion has been in truth rather more to plunge them into a state of dream, in which while one emotion is in the ascendant the others sleep,--reason sleeps, will sleeps, all other interests and considerations sleep, leaving love free to reach proportions and an intensity unknown during wakefulness. they have not heard or heeded the cries of the crew: "hail, hail, king mark!" the curtains of the pavilion are suddenly drawn wide apart. the ship's company crowds the deck; all are gazing toward the land. tristan and isolde take account of nothing, their senses fast sealed to all but the contemplation of each other. brangaene and other women place on isolde's unconscious shoulders the royal mantle, and deck her, unaware of it, with jewels. kurwenal comes running to his master: "hail, tristan, fortunate hero! king mark, with rich rout of courtiers, approaches in a barge. ha! he looks well pleased, coming to meet the bride!" tristan asks, dazed: "who approaches?"--"the king!"--"what king?"--kurwenal points overboard. tristan stares landward, not comprehending. the men shout and wave their caps. "hail, king mark!"--"what is it?" isolde inquires, reached in her trance by the clamour; "brangaene, what cry is that?"--"isolde, mistress," the distraught brangaene implores, "self-control for this one day!"--"where am i?" the bewildered lady asks helplessly. "am i alive?..." what, the question asks itself, what is this still familiar surrounding scene, when they ought, by true working of the drug, to be dead? if any thought had accompanied the overmastering impulse which she had blindly followed, it had been that before death all disguises drop, that in dying one is sincere. but since death had not followed the drinking of the draught--"ha! what draught was that?" she asks in consternation. brangaene gives the desperate truth. "the love-draught!" isolde's eyes widen with horror, and turning from brangaene fix themselves upon tristan. the situation flashes before her for one shocked moment in its true colours; and as before her calling his name had revealed all love, it reveals now her sense of an unspeakable awfulness in what has happened to them. as he calls her name, too, it expresses, with his boundless tenderness, pity and a tragic recognition of the black ingredient in the cup which had lifted them to such heights of intoxication. "must i live?" speaks the last glimmer of the old isolde, provided normally with a moral nature; and overwhelmed by the greatness of the catastrophe she sinks fainting upon his breast. a last glimmer of the old tristan groans aloud: "o rapture beset with snares! bliss on betrayal built!" trumpets are heard. the eager expectancy of all indicates that the king's barge is close at hand. the curtain falls. ii the introduction to the second act opens with the motif of the day. it is no tender dawn described, with tremulous lights among the clouds; it has little of the touching _morgenpracht_ in parsifal. it is a startling announcement of a fateful fact, an obtruder feared and unloved; it is like a clash of cymbals or call of trumpets summoning to unwelcome tasks, away from delights and dreams. it is indeed the day as it appears to lovers when, dispelling the gentle night which united them, with cruel golden shafts it drives them apart. the musical rendering follows upon it of love's impatient heart-beats, love's ungovernable eagerness for the beloved's presence, love listening for the footsteps of the beloved. the curtain rises upon a garden under a cloudless summer night. beside the door of isolde's apartment a torch is burning. the sound is heard of hunting-horns gradually retreating. brangaene stands on the castle-steps, listening to these. isolde, all in a happy agitation, hurries forth to ask if they still be audible. she herself cannot hear them any more. but to brangaene's ear the sound is still distinct. isolde listens again: no! brangaene, she believes, is deceived by her over-great anxiety, deceived by the rustling of the leaves. "you," brangaene retorts, "are deceived by the impetuosity of your desire! i hear the sound of the horns." isolde again listens. "no!" she discourses in her over-running tender exhilaration, "the sound of horns was never so pleasing as that! it is the soft purling of the fountain whose music comes so sweetly borne to us; how could i hear it, if hunting-horns were still blaring near by? in the silence, all i hear is the murmured laughter of the fountain. the one who is waiting for me in the hushed night, are you determined to keep him away from me as if horns were still close at hand?"--"the one who is waiting for you--do but listen to my warning," brangaene pleads, "there are spies in the night lying in wait for him! because you are blind, do you believe the eyes of the world dulled to your actions and his?" against melot she warns her, melot, who, when he came aboard the ship with king mark to receive the bride,--and the kindly king was engrossed by anxiety for the condition of the pale and fainting princess,--with treacherous, suspicious eye, brangaene had seen it, scrutinised the countenance of tristan, to read in it what might thereafter serve his purpose. often since then she has come upon him eavesdropping. against melot let isolde be warned!... melot? isolde rejects the idea with light scorn. is not he tristan's dearest friend? when tristan is forced to keep afar from her, with whom does he spend the time but sir melot? "the thing which makes him suspicious to me, to you endears him!" cries brangaene, in despair at such wilful blindness. "from tristan to mark lies melot's road. he there sows evil seed. this nocturnal hunting-party, so hurriedly concerted, has in view a nobler quarry than your fancy deems!"--"melot," isolde persists in his defence, "invented the stratagem, out of compassion for his friend. and do you make it into a reproach to him? he cares for me better than do you. he opens to me that which you close. oh, spare me the misery of hesitation! the signal, brangaene, give the signal! extinguish the light to its last flicker. beckon to the night, that she may completely bend over us. already she has poured her silence upon grove and house. already she has filled the heart with her happy trepidation. quench the light! smother its frightening glare! throw open the way to my beloved!"--"oh, let the torch of warning stand!" brangaene struggles with her still, "let it stand to illumine your danger!" and she wrings her hands anew, lamenting over this which is the work of those unfaithful hands, in a single instance disobedient to the mistress's will. "your work?" isolde smiles, with that mortal lightness which is upon her to-night; "oh, foolish girl! do you not know the lady of love? do you not know her power, her miracles? queen of high hearts, ruler of earth's destinies, life and death are subject to her. she weaves them out of pain and pleasure. she can change hate into love. presumptuous, i took in hand the work of death. the lady of love wrested it from me. the death-devoted she took into her keeping, she seized the work in her own hands. to whatever purpose she will to turn it, however she will to end it, whatever the doom she appoint me, i am become her own. let me then show myself obedient to her!" clearly, isolde to-night is _fey_. a rapturous madness is upon her. aphrodite, the lady of love, possesses her indeed, and no impression is to be made upon her great mood by anything brangaene can say. the girl might talk more hopefully to a gust of summer wind. poor-spirited and grey-hued she appears, with her anguish and forebodings, beside the glowing, rosily-smiling queen, in her secure expectation. still she presses the prayer of her terror: just this one night let isolde listen to her pleading! just this one night let her not put out the light! but the mad queen declares bafflingly that _frau minne_, madam love, desires that it shall become night, that she herself may illumine the place whence brangaene's torch banishes her. to the watch-turret with brangaene, whence let her keep faithful look-out. "the torch," isolde cries, grasping it, "were it the light of my life, laughing, without a tremor, i would put it out!" she dashes it to the ground, where it slowly dies. the troubled brangaene disappears with heavy step up the stairway to the battlements. then is heard the motif again of love's impatience, of love listening. isolde peers down the avenue of trees, strains her ear for the sound of footsteps. she waves her veil, which glimmers white in the darkness; she waves it, in her impatience, more and more quickly. she has caught sight of him, as an ecstatic gesture betrays. she hurries to the top of the stairs, the better to see him from afar and wave welcome to him. she rushes at last to meet him and they are gathered in each other's arms. so over-great is their joy that neither can believe the witness of his senses; nothing so good could be true as that this verily which can be seen and clasped should be the so sorely desired one. they vent themselves in such childish, fond, incredulous exclamations as: is it you yourself? are they your eyes? are they your lips? have i here your hand? have i here your heart? is it i? is it you? do i hold you close? is it no fancy? is it no dream? and, as if finally convinced, they burst forth in a hymn of thanksgiving and joy. "the light! the light! oh, that light!" the lover voices his grudge against it. "how long ere it went out! the sun sank, day departed, but the ill-will of the day was still unsated. it lit a fearful danger-signal and fastened it at the beloved's door, to prevent me coming to her!"--"but the hand of the beloved extinguished the light," isolde pacifies him; "what the handmaid refused, i feared not to do. at the command and under the protection of great love, i cried defiance to the day!"--"the day! the day! the malignant day!" he inveighs; "to that implacable enemy hate and reproach! oh, might i, even as you quenched the light, put out the torches of the insolent day, in vengeance for all the sufferings of love!" there is a great deal in the often fanciful, yet ever earnest, conversation between the lovers, about the day and the night; the day being devoted to their hate, the night to their worship. it is not only, however, that the day divides them, and their trysts belong to the night. they make the image of day to stand for falsehood and evil illusion, while night represents truth. the reason of this is not far to seek. their love is not like the love of other mortals. inevitably in the latter many elements enter. will controls it, at least to some extent; reason guides and bounds it; sense of humour even qualifies it. a thousand things besides love find room in the most enamoured human heart and brain: other persons, pursuits, interests,--what rossetti calls "all life's confederate pleas, work, contest, fame." the many-sided nature of man is appealed to by myriad things. only for brief moments do lovers stand on the high peaks of pure passion where tristan and isolde perpetually reside. love they never so truly, lovers who have not quaffed the magic potion love great part of the time almost unconsciously, in a divine under-current,--no otherwise indeed than tristan before the potion, when, despite the image in his heart, he devoted thought to his career, cherished dreams of ambition. but after the cup tristan and isolde are lovers, nothing more,--or less. all the furniture of the day which has nothing to do with their love is therefore an impertinence, an obtrusion; all day's pageants and activities are a vanity, and a pernicious vanity; a glaring mask hiding from sight the only true and beautiful. everything that the garish daylight shows, which can never show them the depths of the other's heart, is a false show, an ugly delusion. the night, during which all the troublesome, battering appeals of the day are suspended, in which everything fades from the eye, leaving it free to fix itself upon the only reality, love,--the night is fosterer and patroness of truth. to love the night, to yearn for it, to wish it forever prolonged, is natural in these lovers who have drank of the cup; and, by a natural step further, since earthly life affords no such night, to wish for the night of death, as we hear them presently doing, a night in which they picture themselves eternally floating in a state of ever-renewed joy in each other, ever fresh ardour, two and yet one. it is not in the least like paradise. paradise, with its interfering light and shows and other-souls-in-bliss, could be to them but another version of the day. the paradise of their desire is an eternal twilight, and nothing more asked for each than the heaven of the other. meanwhile they are talking together like commoner lovers, of the past, of their first meeting, the beginnings of their love. how, she asks him, very humanly, how could he do to her the thing he did, betray her as he had done, claim her for another, give her over to death? "it was the day!" he explains. "the day, shining about me, which showed isolde, where she stood sun-like, in the splendour of glory and greatness, infinitely far removed. that which so ravished my eye, weighted down my heart to the earth. how, in the brilliant light of the day, how could isolde be mine?"--"was she not yours, whose elect you were? what falsehoods did the evil day tell you, that you should betray the faithful one, who had preferred you?" the love of glory it had been, he avows, which moved him. that sun of the day, worldly honour, with its idle and false rays had allured him. an image all the while lay in the deepest shrine of his heart, an unsleeping image which had impressed itself while he was hardly aware, and lived in the chaste night there, closely shut in. till a ray of the day had penetrated even so deep, and that which was so secret and sacred that his eyes scarcely trusted themselves to look at it, that image, smitten by daylight, lay brilliantly revealed. and, day-deluded, he had vaunted before the whole army that which seemed to him so desirable and beautiful, the fairest king's-bride of all the earth; and to silence the envy and hatred which had begun to make his honours heavy to him, to maintain his glory, he had undertaken that boldest exploit, his quest to ireland. "vain slave of the day!" isolde calls him. she tells her part of the story, and we are enlightened concerning the mood in which she proffered to him the death-draught: how, deceived she too by the day, tortured in her love for him, she had, while ardently loving him, hated him to the bottom of her heart. from the light of day, which showed him an ingrate and a traitor, she had longed to flee, to draw him along with her into the night, where her heart foretold an end of the mistake, a dispelling of the apprehended delusion; to drink to him eternal love and enter death simultaneously with him. we learn thereupon the mood in which he accepted the cup from her. "when i recognised the sweet draught proffered by your hand, when intuition clearly and surely told me what it was the peace-drink promised me, there dawned in my bosom, mild and divine, the night--my day had reached its close!" in other words, when he had stood facing, as he knew, death, all the vain shows and disguises of the day had melted away, he had seen for the first time clearly in his own heart. "o hail to the draught!" he exclaims, "hail to its sublime magic! at the portal of death, where i quaffed it, it opened wide to me the region where i theretofore had wandered but in dream, the wonder-kingdom of the night! from the face in the innermost shrine of the heart it dispelled the deceiving glare of the day, that my eyes, grown accustomed to the night, might see it in its truth." but the day, she carries on the conceit with gathering sadness, had its revenge! the day entered into league with his sins, and that face which the night had vouchsafed him to see he had been forced to surrender to the royal power of the day, and behold it shining lonesomely afar, in barren magnificence. "how have i endured it?" she moans, "how do i still endure it?" nay, he comforts her, "we are now become the initiate of the night. the malevolent day, the cruel, can divide, but no longer deceive us. they whose eyes the night has consecrated laugh to scorn day's idle splendour, his braggart brilliancy. the fugitive flashes of his lightning cannot dazzle them more. he who has gazed longingly into the night of death, he to whom that night has confided her deep secret, the lies of the day, honour and glory, power and gain, lovely and shining though they be, like idle star-dust he sees them float past. amid the vain delusions of the day he is possessed by a single longing, the longing for the holy night, in which the one thing from all eternity true, love with its rapture, awaits him!" he draws her gently to a flowery bank, sinks kneeling before her and lays his head within her arm. and they breathe forth together, with an equal dreamy devoutness, their invocation to the night. "oh, close around us, night of love! give forgetfuless of life! gather us up in your arms, release us from the world!..." quenched is the last torch, quenched all thought, all memory. in a sacred twilight full of wondrous divinations, the dread illusions of the world melt away, leaving free the spirit. and the sun in the breast having set, softly shine forth the stars of joy. and when, heart upon heart, lip against lip, breathing one breath, the lovers' eyes are blinded with joy, the world with its dazzling deceits fades from sight, the world which the day had flashed before their eyes for their delusion, and they themselves are the world, and the world is life, is love, is joy, is a beautiful wish come true, from which there shall be no awakening.... reaching completely the state they describe, of forgetfulness of the world and the day, each the whole world to the other, they sink back side by side, cheek to cheek, among the flowers. from the turret comes the lonely voice of brangaene, warning the lovers to have a care, have a care, the night is nearly over! there is a leisurely moment. isolde stirs: "hark, beloved!" but tristan, too deeply steeped in the languor of night and dreams, replies with a sigh: "let me die!" isolde raises herself a little: "oh, envious sentinel!" tristan remains reclining: "never to waken!"--"but the day must rouse tristan?" she softly exhorts. "let the day yield unto death!" she considers this quietly: "day and death then with a simultaneous stroke shall overtake our love?" he comes a little more awake to protest that death cannot destroy such love as theirs, that love is stronger than death, is eternally living, that all that could die in death would be the disturbing things which now prevent him from being always with her, whereas were they to die,--inseparable,--to all eternity one,--nevermore to awake,--nevermore to know fear,--nameless, close enfolded in love,--belonging singly to themselves,--they should live wholly for love!... she says the words after him, dreamily, charmed, allured by the vista they open before her. and when brangaene's voice is heard again from her turret warning them to have a care, have a care, day is at hand, and tristan bends over her smiling to ask: "shall i heed?" she sighs, as he had done before: "let me die!"--"shall i awake?" he very gently teases. "never to wake again!"--"must the day rouse tristan?"--"let the day yield unto death!"--"we will brave then the threats of the day?" with increasing earnestness she cries: "to be rid of his malice forever!"--"day-break shall never more frighten us apart?"--"eternal shall be our night!" this is really but a lovers' device for clinging together a little longer; one does not feel that they have seriously determined to remain where they are till they shall have been discovered and sacrificed on the altar of a husband's honour. they plainly are in the state they have described: quenched is thought, is memory; they are intoxicated with the _liebes-wonne_ they celebrate, and so while day is whitening overhead, feeling really, as far as they are capable of thought, besottedly secure,--frau minne will protect!--they caress, clasped in each other's arms, the thought of the eternal night lying beyond the death they would die for love, where far from the sun, far from the lamentation of day-decreed partings, delivered from fear, delivered from all ill, they shall dream, in exquisite solitude and in unbounded space, a super-adorable dream. he shall be isolde, she tristan,--but no, there shall be no more tristan, no more isolde, but undivided, inexpressible, they shall move to ever-new recognitions, new ardours, possessed in everlasting of a single consciousness--ineffable joy of love! their voices soar with these flights of fancy.... of a sudden, as if with a crash, the sweet harmonies turn to discord. a shriek is heard from brangaene. kurwenal rushes in with drawn sword, crying: "save yourself, tristan!" hard upon his heels come mark, melot, and a flock of courtiers in hunting-attire. they stop in consternation before the lovers, who have seen nothing, heard nothing, and stand quietly lost in each other's embrace. it is only when brangaene seizes her that isolde becomes aware of the spectators. with a natural impulse of womanly shame she averts her face from all those eyes and hides it against the flowery bank. tristan with one arm holds his mantle wide outspread so that it screens her from sight, and for long moments continues so, motionless, gazing rigidly at the motionless men who return his gaze in silence. in the pale first glimmer of dawn, he might well think them unreal, creations of a bad dream. the spell of silence is broken by the cry bursting from his lips: "the desolate day--for the last time!" melot steps forward and points at him: "you shall now tell me," he speaks to mark, "whether i rightfully accused him? whether i am to retain my head which i placed at stake? i have shown him to you in the very act. i have faithfully preserved your name and honour from stain." the king is deeply shaken. no anger is in his unsteady voice, but utter sorrow. something deeper has been reached than his pride in his honour, and that is not his love for isolde, but his faith in tristan. "have you really?" he bitterly takes up melot's last assurance and his boast of fidelity. "do you imagine it? behold him there, the most loyal among the loyal! look upon him, the friendliest of friends! the most generous act of his devotion he has used to stab my heart with deadliest perfidy. if tristan then has betrayed me, am i to hope that my honour, which his treason has struck at, has been loyally defended by melot?" these are strange words for tristan the knight to hear. applied to himself, such words as perfidy, treason.... he brushes his arm wildly across his eyes: "phantoms of the day! morning-dreams! empty and lying,--vanish, disperse!" the heart-broken king, with a gentleness more effectual in punishing than the angriest objurgations, goes on to sear the false friend's conscience by holding up before him, simply, what he has done; comparing the image of him as he has in fact proved with the image of him which mark had cherished. the reproach is intolerable in view of what mark himself is: noble, gentle, great-hearted, and toward tristan so full of affection! "to me--this? this, tristan, to me? where now shall one look for truth, since tristan has deceived me? where look for honour and uprightness, since the pattern of all honour, tristan, has lost them? whither has virtue fled, since she is gone from tristan, who had made her into his shield and defence, yet has now betrayed me?" tristan's eyes, which had been fixed steadily upon mark, slowly sink to the ground; a wondering sadness overspreads his countenance, heavier and heavier as the royal master proceeds with his arraignment. why tristan's innumerable services, the greatness he had won for his king, if they were to be paid with the receiver's dishonour? was it too small a reward that the king had made him his heir? so dearly he had loved him that, having lost his wife, and being childless, he had resolved for his sake not to wed again. he had been obdurate to the prayers of his people, to tristan's own entreaties, until tristan had threatened to leave the kingdom unless he were himself despatched to bring home a bride for the king. and his courage had won for mark this woman, lovely to a wonder, whom who could know, who behold, who proudly call his own, without accounting himself blessed? this one, to whom he, mark, would never have presumed to aspire, tristan, braving enemies and danger, had brought home to him. and now that through such a possession his heart had become more vulnerable to pain than before, wherefore wound him in the very spot where it was tenderest?--destroy his faith in his friend, fill his frank heart with distrust, bring him to the degradation of dogging his friend by night and listening covertly? "wherefore to me this hell which no heaven can deliver me from? wherefore to me this indignity which no suffering can wash out? the dreadful, deep, undiscoverable, thrice-mysterious reason,--who will reveal it to the world?" tristan's eyes, as, thus questioned, he lifts them at last again to mark's, express boundless compassion. "oh! king, i cannot answer; and that which you ask you never can learn!" no, for it is as strange, as full of black mystery, to tristan as to mark. it is the very impossible which has happened, the never to be accounted for. tristan, the soul of honour, has betrayed his friend, and with all those circumstances of aggravation which the friend has just counted off. nothing can explain it. it is surely like a dream, a curious dream, the worst of the day's lies. but in a dream also, as we remarked before, there is a right thing to do, for a man of heart. tristan is not long deciding upon his course. but before acting he turns to isolde, where she sits with eyes of undiminished love raised toward the companion in shame and agony. in following the call of honour he has no mind to forsake her. "whither tristan now departs, will you, isolde, follow him? the country tristan means no beam of the sun illumines. it is the dim nocturnal land from which my mother sent me forth, when dying she gave to the light a dead man's child. the refuge to which, having borne me, she carried her love, the wonder-kingdom of the night from which of old i woke. that is what tristan offers. thither he goes before. if she will follow, kind and true, let now isolde say!" with touching more-than-readiness isolde, trustful and unashamed, declares: "when once before the friend bade her to a strange land, isolde, kind and true, must follow the unkind one. but now you lead to your own dominions, to show me your heritage. how should i avoid the realm which lies about the whole world? where tristan's house and home, there let isolde take her abode. that she may follow, kind and true, let him now show isolde the way!" again for a moment so lost in her that it is no else than as if they were alone in all the world, he slowly bends over her and kisses her forehead. a cry of indignation breaks from melot. "traitor! ha, king, revenge! shall you endure this outrage?" but tristan has suddenly cast off the inertia of dreams, bared his sword, and turned about. "who will match his life against mine?" he gazes full into melot's face. "he was my friend. he loved me, he held me high. he, more than any, was concerned for my honour, my fame. he made proud my heart to arrogance. he headed the band of those who urged me on to augment my glory and renown by wedding you to the king. your eye, isolde, has dazzled him too. from envy he betrayed me to the king--whom i betrayed!" with a feint of attack he springs toward melot. "defend yourself, melot!" melot quickly thrusts with his sword. tristan who has not parried, who has let the sword drop from his hand, sinks back wounded in kurwenal's arms. isolde casts herself upon his breast. the music makes a brief sorrowful comment--and the curtain falls. iii the introduction to the third act not only presents the emotions belonging to what shall follow, heaving deep heart-groans and expending itself in pity over the stricken hero; it paints with strange clearness a scene: the sea stretching to the horizon, under leaden sunshine, empty of every sail--the sea which lies in fact before us when the curtain rises, fading off into the sky beyond low battlements which enclose on the outer-side a neglected castle-garden. tristan lies with closed eyes upon a couch, in the shadow of a tree. kurwenal, sitting at his head, bends a careworn face to listen for his breathing. a shepherd's pipe is heard playing a little wavering tune, melancholy in its simplicity to heartbreak. the tune grieves itself out. a shepherd looks over the wall and, after a moment watching, calls to kurwenal, asking if _he_ does not yet awake? kurwenal sadly shakes his head. "even if he should awake, it would only be to take his leave forever, unless the physician, the only one who can help us, should first arrive...." has he seen nothing, he inquires, no ship on the sea? "in that case you should hear a different tune," the shepherd answers, "as merry a one as i can play! but tell me the truth, old friend, what has happened to our master?"--"let be that question!" kurwenal heavily turns from it: "not for any asking can you learn! keep diligent look-out; go, and when you see a ship pipe loud and merrily." the shepherd shades his eyes and looks off over the endless blue waste of the waters. "barren and empty the sea!" he sets his pipe to his lips again and plays over, withdrawing, the hauntingly melancholy tune of before. without premonitory sign of returning consciousness, tristan's lips move. his voice comes very faint: "the ancient tune.... what does it wake me?" he opens his hollow eyes. "where am i?" kurwenal starts up with a shout of joy: "ha, that voice! his voice! tristan, my master! my hero! my tristan!" tristan by a great effort brings his mind to consider these sounds, and with great effort speaks: "who... calls me?"--"at last! at last!" kurwenal's heart overflows. "life! oh, life! sweet life, given back to my tristan!" tristan knows him now. "kurwenal... is it you? where have i been?... where am i?" kurwenal on the spot assumes that ultra-joyous tone of persons about a sick-bed when their faces are turned toward the patient whom they are determined to infect with hope. "where you are? in peace, in safety, in freedom! at kareol, master! do you not recognise the castle of your fathers.?"--"of my fathers?" tristan murmurs stupidly. "just look about you!"--"what--" the sick man asks after a vague glance, "what was the sound i heard?"--"the shepherd's pipe you heard again, after so many days! on the hillside he keeps your flocks."--"my flocks?..."--"master, that is what i said! this is your house, your court and castle. your people, loyal to the beloved lord, saved for you, as well as they could, the patrimony which my hero once made over to them outright, when he forsook all to travel to a distant land."--"to what land?"--"cornwall, to be sure!" and the anxious grey-bearded nurse, to rouse in the patient some gleam of joy in being, of pride in past prowess, breaks enthusiastically forth: "oh, what good fortune tristan, brave and bonny, met with there! what splendour of glory, what honors he won in the teeth of his enemies!"--"am i in cornwall?" tristan asks discouragingly. "no, no, i have told you! at kareol."--"how did i get here?" kurwenal almost laughs, and in the pride of the unhoped-for hour cracks a joke. "how you got here? not on horseback! a little ship brought you, but to the ship i carried you on these shoulders of mine. they are broad, they bore you to the shore. and now you are safe at home, on your own land, the right land, the native land, where amid familiar pastures and homely joys, under the rays of the old sun, from death and wounds you blessedly shall recover!" the rough fellow presses his cheek to his master's breast, like a woman. there is silence. tristan stares vacantly ahead, vaguely pondering the servant's last words, of which the echo has lingered teasingly in his ear. "do you believe so?" he says at last. "i know a different thing--but the manner of it i cannot tell you! this where i have awakened is not the place where i have been,--but where i have been--i cannot tell you! i did not see the sun, i saw no earthly scene, nor any people, but what i saw--i cannot tell you! i found myself--where from everlasting i was, whither to everlasting i go: in the boundless realm of the night which girds the world. one knowledge alone belongs to us there,--divine eternal perfection of oblivion! how"--he faintly wails, with a beginning of restlessness--"how have i lost the sense of it? is it you again, unforgotten longing, driving me back to the light of the day? all that still survives in me, a pitiless torturing love, impels me forth to gaze upon the light which, deceivingly bright and golden, shines, isolde, upon you!" with the memory of isolde becoming clear-defined again, as he emerges more completely from the deathlike stupor which had chained him, agitation seizes upon him, greater from moment to moment. isolde still in the region of the sunshine! still in the light of the day, isolde! unendurable longing to see her repossesses him. for that it is he has turned back from the portals of death, come back from among the shadows, to seek for her, to behold her, to find her, in whom alone it is granted to tristan to lose himself and cease to be! his old hatred of the day is upon him, and one's sympathy feels, well enough, the distress to his fever of being thus drawn from the dark of unconsciousness and thrust into this glare of summer. by a natural confusion of ideas, as his agitation turns to delirium, this day torturing him, this day upon which he calls a malediction, becomes his old enemy, the day which used to keep him from her,--and shifts from that into the signal-light which even at night used to warn him off. his delusion complete, he calls imploringly to isolde, sweetest, loveliest, "when, oh, finally, when, will you quench the torch, that it may announce to me my happiness? the light... when will it go out?... when will the house be wrapped in rest?" he falls back exhausted. kurwenal, whose joy of a little while before has dropped at the contemplation of this torment, takes heart again from his hope in the good news he has to impart. "the one whom of old i braved, from devotion to you, how am i brought to longing for her now! rely upon my word, you shall see her, here, and this very day, if only she be still among the living!" the meaning of his words has not penetrated. tristan is far away among old scenes. "the torch has not yet gone out! not yet is the house wrapped in darkness!... isolde lives and keeps watch.... she called to me out of the night!"--"if then she lives," kurwenal eagerly, seizes the cue, "let hope comfort you. dullard as you must esteem kurwenal, this time you shall not chide him. ever since the day when melot, the infamous, dealt you the wound, you lay like one dead. the evil wound, how to heal it? then i, thick-witted fellow, reflected that the one who closed the wound made by morold could find easy remedy to the injury from melot's sword. not long was i deciding upon the best physician! i have sent to cornwall,--a trusty fellow. it cannot be but that he will bring isolde over the sea here to you!" he has understood, tristan has understood, and started up ablaze, so beside himself with joy that after the great incredulous cry: "isolde is coming! isolde is near!" he struggles vainly for breath and words. then his overflowing gratitude finds an immediate, a pertinent thing to do, and kurwenal has all in a moment the reward of his long passionately-devoted service. the master in his madness of joy throws his arms around the servant to whom he owes the hope which in a moment has made him strong and well again. "my kurwenal, you faithful friend, whose loyalty knows no wavering, how shall tristan ever thank you? my shield and defence in battle and warfare, in pleasure and pain equally prompt at command,--whom i have hated, you have hated, whom i have cherished, you have cherished; when in all truth i served the good mark, how were you true to him as gold! when i must betray the noble king, how willingly did you deceive him! not your own, but wholly mine, you suffer with me when i suffer, but what i suffer--that you cannot suffer!" as before the excitement of his pain, now the excitement of his joy is gradually turning to delirium. "this dreadful longing which consumes me, this languishing fire which devours me, if i could describe it, if you could comprehend it, not here would you loiter but would haste to the watch-tower, with every sense astrain longingly would you reach out and spy toward the point where her sail shall appear, where, blown by the wind and urged on by the fire of love, isolde comes steering to me!... there it comes!..." he points wildly, "there it comes, with brave speed!... see it wave, see it wave, the pennant at the mast!... the ship! the ship! it streaks along the reef! do you not see it?... kurwenal, do you not see it?" with watchful intensity he scans kurwenal's face. kurwenal hesitates, between the wish to humour him by going to the watch-tower, and the fear of leaving him, when the shepherd's pipe is heard again in the same plaintive tune, and kurwenal has no heart to pretend. "no ship as yet on the sea!" he announces heavily. tristan's excitement, as the notes spin out their thin music, whose message he seems to divine, gradually dies; the happy delusion fades; a deeper sadness than ever, of reaction, closes down upon him. the minor strains which now for a moment hold his flickering attention are full of associations for him, all sorrowful. the sound of them came wafted to him upon the breath of evening when as a child he was told the manner of his father's death; it came again, plaintive and more deeply plaintive, in the morning grey, when he learned his mother's fate. and in their day, he wanderingly reflects, "when leaving an unborn son he died; when she in dying gave me birth, the ancient air, full of yearning and foreboding, no doubt pierced its sorrowful way to them too,--the ancient air, which has asked me before this, and asks me again in this hour, to what possible end, what destiny, i was born into the world?... to what destiny?... the ancient song tells me over again: to spend myself in longing and to die!... "no! no!" he in a moment corrects himself, and his misery surges back upon him in all its violence, "that is not what it says! longing! longing! to spend myself in longing, not in longing to find death! this longing which cannot die to the distant physician calls out for the peace of death!" confused images crowd upon him of the beginning of this affliction. the voyage to ireland, the wound of which he was dying, her healing of his wound--only to open it again; her offering him the poisoned cup which when he drank, hoping to be cured of ills forever, a fiery charm was upon him, dooming him never to die, but exist eternally in torture! we remember how in the fragrant summer night and the balmy presence of isolde he blessed the magic draught which opened the region of all enchantment; but in this hour, parted from her, it seems, forever, the draught which keeps him vainly aching for her presence, which will not let him die apart from her, or find a little rest, which makes him a spectacle of torture for the day to feed its eyes upon, the draught seems to him verily no blessing. they are the bitter dregs he is drinking now of the cup of wonder. "the dreadful draught," he terms it, and reaching, with the enumeration of his sufferings, the point of cursing it, he has the flashed intuition of a truth; by a poet's spring reaches a conclusion worthy of a philosopher: that he, he himself is responsible for the effect upon him of the drink. "the dreadful draught," he cries, "which devoted me to torment, i myself, i myself, i brewed it! from my father's anguish and my mother's woe, from the tears of love of all my life, from laughing and weeping, joys and hurts, i furnished the poisoned ingredients of the cup!" he had, more plainly, if we seize the sense of his raving, fed and fostered an inherited emotional nature which made him the cup's easy victim. and recognising it, he adds to his curse upon the dreadful cup, with all the strength of his tortured heart, his curse upon him who brewed it,--and exhausted with his own delirious violence drops back in a swoon. kurwenal, who has vainly striven to calm his frenzy, now sees him with horror relapsed into deathlike stillness; he calls him, laments over him and over this fatal love, the world's loveliest madness, which rewards so ill those who follow its lure. "are you then dead?" he weeps, "do you still live?... have you succumbed to the curse?" he listens almost hopelessly for his breathing, and starts up with a return of joy: "no! he lives! he rises! how softly his lips stir...."--"the ship!" tristan murmurs, "do you not see it yet?"--"the ship?... certainly!" the poor nurse answers, with his determined cheerfulness, "it will arrive this very day.... it cannot delay much longer!"--"and upon it"--tristan describes the vision which is calling back the light to his eyes--"upon it, isolde. how she beckons, how graciously she drinks to our peace! do you see her?... do you not see her yet?... how sweetly, lovely and gentle, she comes wandering over the plains of the sea. on soft billows of joyous flowers she advances, luminous, toward the land. she smiles comfort to me and delicious rest, she brings me utmost relief.... ah, isolde, isolde! how kind, how fair are you!... what, kurwenal," he breaks off with that return to agitation toward which his fever by its law begins from the moment of returning consciousness to drive his poor brain, till, reaching a violence his strength cannot support, it plunges him back exhausted into unconsciousness, "what, kurwenal, you do not see her? away, to the watch-tower, dull-witted churl, that the sight may not escape you which is so plain to me! do you not hear me?... to the tower! quick, to the tower!... are you there?... the ship! the ship! isolde's ship! you must--must see it! the ship!... is it possible," he cries despairingly, "that you do not see it yet?" he has been starting up from his bed, in his eagerness. kurwenal has struggled with him to keep him down. while he hesitates as before between obedience and fear to leave his patient, the servant realises that the shepherd's pipe has changed its tune,--has changed it for a shrill, lively, tripping air. he listens with all his soul for a second, then with a shout of triumph dashes to the battlements and sends his eyes sweeping the sea. "ha! the ship!... i see it nearing from the north!"--"did i not know it?" tristan exults like a child. "did i not say so? did i not say she lived and knit me still to life? from the world which for me contains her only, how should isolde have departed?" his joy is new life poured into him; his agitation this time produces no exhaustion, he has strength for the moment to squander. "hahei! hahei!" shouts kurwenal from his post, "how boldly it steers, how the sails strain in the wind! how it chases, how it flies!"--"the pennant?... the pennant?" tristan holds his breath for the answer. "the bright pennant of joy floats gaily from the topmast!"--"cheer! the pennant of joy!... in the bright light of day, isolde coming to me! to me, isolde!... do you see her self?"--"the ship has disappeared behind the reef..." tristan's joy drops like a shot bird. one seems to feel his heart stop. "the reef?..." he asks trembling, "is there danger in it?... that is where the surf rages, the ships founder.... who is at the helm?"--"the safest of sea-men."--"could he betray me? might he be a confederate of melot's?"--"trust him as you would myself!"--"but you, wretch, are a traitor too!... do you see her again?"--"not yet!"--"lost!" wails tristan--but at kurwenal's shout in a moment more that the ship has cleared the rocks and is sailing up the safe channel into port, springs again to the peaks of joy and promises kurwenal the bequest of all his worldly goods. and now kurwenal from his outlook communicates that he sees isolde,--she is waving,--the keel is in the harbour,--isolde has sprung ashore. "down!" tristan orders wildly, "down to the shore! assist her! assist my lady!"--"i will bring her up here in my arms--trust to them! but you, tristan," the poor nurse stops on his hurried way down to enjoin, "stay reliably on the bed!" tristan, left alone, falls to tossing and writhing with impatience. his burning fever is confused to his sense with the heat of the sun, and this day of joy he calls the sunniest of all days. this tumult of the blood, this julibant urge to action, this immeasurable delight, this frenzy of joy, how, how to endure them prostrate upon the couch? up, bravely up and away, where hearts are alive and throbbing! we can see his fever again working itself toward delirium. it reaches this time complete madness. with the proud cry: "tristan, the hero, in jubilant strength has raised himself up from death!" he in fact lifts himself suddenly quite up. and then no doubt some reminder, at the violent motion, of his wound, suggests to his madness its next wild fancy, that a sort of glory is in a streaming wound, such as he bore while fighting morold, that he will meet isolde in the same manner, gloriously bleeding, not ignobly constrained by a bandage. and prompted by some obscure instinct perhaps to relieve a torture of which his flaming brain will not permit him duly to take account, he tears the wrappings from his wound, shouting with gladness, and bidding his blood now flow merrily forth. he jumps from the couch, he goes a few feet in swaying progress toward the castle-gate: she who shall heal the wound forever draws near like a hero, draws near bringing health, let the world fade away before his victorious haste!... the victorious haste has taken him a staggering step or two, when isolde's voice comes borne to him, calling before she appears. "tristan, tristan! beloved!" he stops short and listens, shocked out of the idea of what he was trying to do, losing his grasp on the present. "what?... do i hear the light?" he falters, taken back by the spell of that voice to the old time, when never the light called to him, or never the beloved called to him out of the light, but ever and only out of the night. the suggestion of the darkness now gathering over his eyes is that the torch is going out,--her signal to him to come. "to her!" therefore he cries, "to her!" and is making such effort to hurry as one makes in a dream, when behold, there she is! there she comes flying to him through the castle-gate, breathless with her haste. he has strength enough still, in his transporting joy, to get as far as her arms; but, with the relief of being caught in them, all relaxes, he sinks to the earth. frightened, she calls him. he turns his eyes upon her with the last of their long yearning, and softly breathes forth his life upon her name. he could not die before she came, but now at once it is grown sweet and easy. isolde cannot believe this which she seems to see. she falls on her knees beside him, beseeches, coaxes, reproaches him, and wrings her hands over his obdurate unresponse. "just for one hour! just for one hour, be awake to me still! such long days of terror and yearning isolde has endured for the sake of one hour to spend with you! will tristan defraud her, defraud isolde of this single infinitely-short last earthly joy? the wound,--where? let me heal it, that we may have the joyous night together!... oh, do not die of the wound! let the light of life go out for us clasped together!... too late! too late!... hard-hearted!... do you punish me so with ruthless sentence? do you shut your heart to my complaint?... only once... only once more!... look, he wakes! beloved!..." consciousness mercifully forsakes her. she sinks senseless upon his body. kurwenal has been standing apart with eyes bent in dumb and rigid despair upon his master. a confused tumult of arms is heard. the shepherd climbs hurriedly over the parapet with the announcement: "a second ship!" kurwenal starts from his trance of grief and rushes to look off. he breaks into curses, recognising mark and melot among the men just landed. his resolution is instantly taken. "arms and stones! help me! to the gate!" with the shepherd's help he is fastening and barricading the castle-gate, when isolde's skipper hurries in with the cry: "mark is behind me with men-of-arms and folk. vain to attempt defence, we are overpowered!" kurwenal does not pause in his preparations: "while i live, no one shall look in here! take your post and help!" brangaene's voice is heard, calling her mistress. kurwenal's excitement, his rage of determination to keep the sight of those helpless embraced bodies sacred from profane eyes, shuts his reason to every sign. brangaene's cry to him not to close the gate he takes to signify that she is in league with the enemy. melot's voice, just outside: "back, madman! bar not the way!" calls forth a fierce laugh: "hurrah for the day which gives me the chance to have at you!" the gate resists but a moment; melot is first to break in. kurwenal with a savage cry cuts him down. brangaene is heard calling to him that he labours under a mistake; mark calling upon him to desist from this insanity. he sees, understands but one thing, to keep out these enemies of tristan's, defend the master to the last against this intrusion. he orders one of his party to throw back brangaene, who is coming by the way of the wall; he hurls himself at the invaders now crowding in. in self-defence they draw arms upon the slashing madman. he extorts his death-wound as it were by force from one of them... painfully he drags himself along the earth, until he can touch his master's hand: "tristan, dear lord! chide not that the faithful one comes along too!" the last note about him as he expires is a fragment of the theme of determined cheerfulness, his pitiful sick-nurse encouragements to tristan. brangaene has reached isolde and is making frightened efforts to restore her. mark stands regarding the still forms with profound emotion. reproach is in his tone when he now speaks, as earlier, the gentle complainingness of one in all things blameless, who, doing all for the best, has met with unmerited suffering. "dead! all dead!" he mourns, "my hero! my tristan! most tenderly-beloved friend! to-day again must you betray your friend, to-day when he comes to give you proof of highest faith. awake! awake at the voice of my sorrow, o faithless, faithfullest friend!" brangaene's ministrations have brought back a little life to isolde. brangaene holds her in her arms and labours to reassure her. "hear me, sweetest lady, happy news let me report. would you not trust brangaene? for her blind fault she has made amends. when you disappeared, quickly she sought the king. no sooner had the secret of the potion been made known to him than in all haste he put to sea, to overtake you, to renounce you, to lead you himself to the friend!" mark completes the revelation: "when i was brought to understand what before i could not grasp, how happy was i to find my friend free from blame! to wed you to the peerless hero with full sails i flew in your wake,--but how does ravaging misfortune overtake him who came bringing peace! i but made greater the harvest of death! madness heaped the measure of disaster!" isolde has neither heard what they say, nor does she appear to recognise them. half of her clearly has gone with tristan, the rest is near taking wing, according to her word: "where tristan's house and home, there will isolde abide." her own swan-song takes us a little way with her into her _liebes-tod_, her love-death. her eyes, fixed in contemplation of his face, have the vision of it returning to life. she sees him re-arise, powerful and loving, growing in glory till he assumes transcendent splendour. "do you see it, friends,--do you not see it?" she asks, of what shines so vividly before her that her face is transfigured as if with reflected light. and music is shed from this luminous ascending form.... "am i alone to hear it?" she exclaims, it is so clear to her,--music wonderful and soft, which says everything, which gently reconciles one to all. it grows, it swells, it penetrates, uplifts.... and what is this enfolding her? floods of soft air! billows of perfume! they softly surge and murmur around her.... she is in wonder whether to inhale, or to listen, or drink and be immersed and yield up the breath sweetly amid perfumes.... ah, yes, in the billowing surge, in the great harmony, in the breath of the spheres, to sink under, to drown, to be lost... that, that will be the supreme ecstasy!... as the mysterious experiences she describes absorb her soul, her body sinks softly upon tristan's. mark extends his hands in blessing over the dead. and so the curtain fans on this wonderful and moving drama, and the thousands scatter in an exalted mood, impressed once more with the incomprehensible loveliness of love. the point of fascination of this work does not lie surely in any celebration of enviable joys, or sorrows nearly as enviable; it is not that it is spiritual, which would strengthen its appeal for some, neither that it is sensuous, which would make it alluring to others; it is that it breathes love,--love, indefinable but unmistakable, mysterious but absolute, understood of all, explainable by none, and of greater, or at least more universal, interest than any other emotion. those equally fitted to enjoy all wagner's operas show, it is observed, a predilection usually for tristan and isolde. if the pre-eminent beauty of the music accounts for this, the fact suggests none the less that wagner could reach his utmost eloquence on the theme. it is as if the composer had wished for once a fair field to render all he felt and understood of love, and so had chosen a story in which it moves free from ordinary trammels and is permitted an intensity more prolonged, more fervid deeps, languors more abandoned, than love in the shackles of thought and will. a thing which must not be forgotten. the love of tristan and isolde is not to be brought under the head of what is vulgarly termed a guilty love. we have seen how mark learning the secret of the potion instantly and completely exonerated them and rejoiced that he could return to his faith in tristan. we know little of love-potions, and had best forget such attempts at rational explanation of them as we may have read, accepting the old story as it is offered, with its cup of magic by which all struggle against the power of love became vain. the lovers must be regarded as essentially innocent. the language of their hearts is always perfectly noble, their music is never sultry. it seems to matter less, in the case of this opera than of wagner's other operas, that one should be able to distinguish the motifs. when fasolt falls, or the dragon, or mime, it is distinctly interesting to know that the conspicuous phrase thrilling the air is the curse of the ring; but we are easily willing to let glances and sighs and the effect of the love-draught melt into one general fire of tenderness. there is likewise less need in the case of this opera than, i think, any other of wagner's, to be familiar beforehand with the argument. any one seeing the rhine-gold unprepared would probably not understand anything whatever, as far as the story is concerned. the same is in some degree true of walkuere and goetterdaemmerung; even of parsifal one need to know the inwardness of the plot. but tristan and isolde can be grasped through the eye by the dullest. a woman is seen expressing great anger; there is a scene of coldness and incrimination between her and a man. they drink from a golden cup and are from that moment lovers. they talk lengthily and most mellifluously of love in a garden at night. they are surprised by one with an evident right to be incensed. the lover is wounded. in a different scene he lies dying. his love comes to him. he expires in her arms and she follows him in death. any one can understand, everyone sympathises. in spite of which the study of the original text is full of great reward; not only because one will hear the music after all with a richer intellectual enjoyment, but even if one had no hope of hearing the music. the text produces upon one to a singular extent--or do we imagine it?--the effect of music. its musical counterpart is contained somehow in the written poetry, and mists rise before our eyes when the small black type informs us that isolde cries in the ears of deaf love: "_isolde rutt!... isolde kam!_" no otherwise than if the violins played upon our hearts. lohengrin lohengrin i henry the fowler, the german king, coming to brabant to levy men-of-arms for assistance against the hungarian, has found the country distracted with internal dissension, troubles in high places. these, as its feudal head, he must settle before proceeding further. he summons together the nobles of brabant and holds his court in the open, beneath the historical oak of justice, on the banks of the scheldt, by antwerp. he calls upon friedrich von telramund, conspicuously involved in the quarrel disturbing the land, to lay before him the causes of this. the subject complies: the duke of brabant had on dying placed under his guardianship his two children, the young girl elsa and the boy gottfried. as next heir to the throne, his honour was very particularly implicated in his fidelity to this trust, the boy's life was the jewel of his honour. let the king judge then of his grief at being robbed of that jewel! elsa had taken her young brother to the forest, ostensibly for the pleasure of woodland rambling, and had returned without him, inquiring for him with an anxiety which telramund judged to be feigned, saying that she had accidentally lost him a moment from sight and upon looking for him failed to find trace of him. all search for the lost child had proved fruitless. elsa, accused and threatened by her guardian, had by blanched face and terrified demeanour, he states, confessed guilt. a fearful revulsion of feeling toward her had thereupon taken place in him; he had relinquished the right to her hand, bestowed upon him by her father, and taken to himself a wife more according to his heart, ortrud, descended from radbot, prince of the frisians. telramund presents to the king the sombre-browed, haughty-looking princess at his side. "and now," he declares, "i here arraign elsa von brabant. i charge her with the murder of her brother, and i lay claim in my own right upon this land, to which my title is clear as next of kin to the deceased duke; my wife belonging, besides, to the house which formerly gave sovereigns to this land." a murmur passes through the assembly, in part horror, in part incredulity of so monstrous a crime. "what dreadful charge is this you bring?" asks the king, in natural doubt; "how were guilt so prodigious possible?" telramund offers as explanation a further accusation, and in doing it gives a hint, not of his motive in accusing elsa, for the violent ambitious personage is honest in thinking her guilty, but of the disposition of mind toward her which had made him over-ready to believe evil of her: "this vain and dreamy girl, who haughtily repelled my hand, of a secret amour i accuse her. she thought that once rid of her brother she could, as sovereign mistress of brabant, autocratically reject the hand of the liegeman, and openly favour the secret lover." his excess of vehemence in accusation for a moment almost discredits him. the king demands to see the accused. the trial shall proceed at once. he apprehends difficulty in the case: a charge so black against one so young and a woman, made by a man so impassioned and almost of necessity prejudiced, yet of long confirmed reputation for stern integrity of honour as for bravery. "god give me wisdom!" the king publicly prays. the king's herald asks if the court of justice shall be held on the spot? the king in answer hangs his shield on the justice-tree, declaring that this shield shall not cover him until he shall have spoken judgment, stern yet tempered with mercy. the nobles all bare their swords, declaring that these shall not be restored to their scabbards until they shall have seen justice done. the herald in loud tones summons the accused, elsa von brabant, to appear before this bar. there advances slowly, followed by her women, a very young, very fair girl, whose countenance and every motion are stamped with gentle modesty. between the dignity which upbears her and the sorrow which crushes her, she is pathetic as a bruised lily. she looks dreamy withal, as telramund described her; her expression is mournfully abstracted, her eyes are on the ground. the murmur passes from lip to lip at sight of her: "how innocent she looks! the one who dared to bring against her such a heavy accusation must be sure indeed of her guilt." she answers the king's first question, of her identity, by a motion of the head alone. one divines that she has wept so much she could only with difficulty summon up voice to speak. "do you acknowledge me as your rightful judge?" the king proceeds. she lifts her eyes for a moment to read his, and slowly nods assent. "do you know," he asks further, "whereof you are accused?" her eyes slide for a second toward telramund and ortrud, and she answers by an involuntary shudder. "what have you to reply to the accusation?" with infinite dignity she sketches a meek gesture signifying, "nothing!"--"you acknowledge then your guilt?" a faint cry, hardly more than a sigh, breaks from her lips: "my poor brother!" and she remains staring sorrowfully before her, as if upon a face invisible to the others. struck and moved, the good king, whom we heard promise that his sentence should be _streng und mild_, severe yet merciful, speaks kindly now to this strange girl, standing in such danger, yet engrossed in other things,--invites her confidence. "tell me, elsa, what have you to impart to me?" with her eyes fixed upon vacancy, she answers, almost as if she spoke in sleep: "in the darkness of my lonely days, i cried for help to god. i poured forth the deep lament of my heart in prayer. among my moans there went forth one so plaintive, so piercing, it travelled with mighty vibrations far upon the air. i heard it resound at a vast distance ere it died upon my ear. my eyelids thereupon dropped, i sank into sweet slumber...." all look at her in amazement. she stands before a tribunal on a matter of life and death, and with that rapt look offers a plea of such irrelevancy! "is she dreaming?" ask some, under-breath, and others, "is she mad?" the king tries to bring her to a sense of reality, a sense of her peril. "elsa!" he cries urgently, "speak your defence before this court of justice!" but she goes on, with an air of dreamy ecstasy: "all in the radiance of bright armour, a knight drew near to me, of virtue so luminous as never had i seen before! a golden horn hung at his side, he leaned upon his sword. he came to me out of the air, the effulgent hero. with gentlest words and action he comforted me. i will await his coming, my champion he shall be!" her audience is impressed by the look of inspiration with which she tells her tale of vision. "the grace of heaven be with us," they say, "and assist us to see clearly who here is at fault!" the king in doubt turns to telramund: "friedrich, worthy as you are of all men's honour, consider well who it is you are accusing!" "you have heard her," the haughty lord answers excitedly; "she is raving about a paramour! i am not deceived by her dreamy posturing. that which i charge her with, i have certain ground for. her crime was authoritatively proved to me. but to satisfy your doubt by producing testimony, that, verily, would ill become my pride. here i stand! here is my sword! who among you will fight with me, casting slur upon my honour?"--"none of us!" comes promptly from the brabantians, "we only fight for you!" the high-tempered gentleman turns somewhat violently upon the king: "and you, king, do you forget my services, my victories in battle over the wild dane?" the king answers pacifyingly that it would ill beseem him to need reminding of these, that he renders to telramund the homage due to highest worth, and could not wish the country in any keeping but his. god alone, in conclusion, shall decide this matter, too difficult obviously for human faculty. "i ask you, therefore, friedrich, count von telramund, will you, in life and death combat, entrust your cause to the judgment of god?" telramund gives assent. "and you i ask, elsa von brabant, will you entrust your cause to a champion who shall fight for you under the judgment of god?" she assents likewise. "whom do you choose for your champion?" the king asks of her. "now--" eagerly interjects telramund, "now you shall hear the name of her lover!"--"listen!" say the rest, with sharpened curiosity. the girl has fixed her eyes again upon the vacancy which to her apparently is full of things to see. "i will await the knight. my champion he shall be! hear what to the messenger of god i offer in guerdon. in my father's dominions let him wear the crown. happy shall i hold myself if he take all that is mine, and if he please to call me consort i give him all i am!" four trumpeters turn to the four points of the compass and blow a summons. the herald calls loud: "he who will do battle here, under judgment of god, as champion for elsa van brabant, let him appear,--let him appear!" the vibrations die of horns and herald's voice. there is silence and tension. no one appears, nothing happens. elsa, at first calm in her security of faith, gives evidence of anxiety. telramund calls attention to her: "now witness, witness if i have accused her falsely. right, by that token, is on my side!" elsa with childish simplicity appeals to the king: "oh, my kind sovereign, let me beseech you, one more call for my champion! he is far away, no doubt, and has not heard!" at the king's command, the trumpets sound again, the herald repeats his summons. there is no answer. the surrounding stillness is unbroken by movement or sound. "by gloomy silence," the men murmur, "god signifies his sentence!" elsa falls upon her knees: "thou didst bear to him my lament, he came to me by thy command. oh, lord, now tell my knight that he must help me in my need! vouchsafe to let me see him as i saw him before, even as i saw him before let him come to me now!" the women kneel beside her, adding their prayers to hers. elsa's last word has but died when a cry breaks from certain of the company standing upon an eminence next the river. "look! look! what a singular sight!"--"what is it?" ask the others. all eyes turn toward the river. "a swan! a swan, drawing a skiff!... a knight standing erect in it.... how his armour gleams! the eye cannot endure such brightness.... see, he is coming toward us. the swan draws the skiff by a golden chain! a miracle! a miracle!" elsa stands transfixed, not daring to look around; but her women look, and hail the approaching figure as that of the prayed-for champion. amazement at sight of him strikes telramund dumb. ortrud upon a glance at the swan wears for one startled moment an expression of unconcealable fear. he stands, the stranger, leaning on his sword, in the swan-drawn boat; adorned with that excess of lovely attribute not looked for save in figures of dream or of legend, knightly in one and archangelic, with his flashing silver mail and flowing locks and unearthly beauty. as the boat draws to land all involuntarily bare their heads. elsa at last finds hardihood to turn; a cry of rapturous recognition breaks from her lips. he steps ashore. all in spell-bound attention watch for his first action, his first words. these are for the swan, and contain not much enlightenment for the breathless listeners. "receive my thanks, beloved swan. return across the wide flood yonder from whence you brought me. when you come back, let it be to our joy! faithfully fulfil your service. farewell, farewell, my beloved swan!" the mysterious bird slowly draws away from shore and breasts the river in the direction from whence it came. the knight looks after the diminishing form with such effect of regret as would accompany the departure of a cherished friend. voices of wonder pass from person to person; wonder at his impressive beauty, and at themselves for the not unpleasant terror it inspires, the spell it casts over them. he turns at last and advancing toward the king salutes him; "hail, king henry! god's blessing stand by your sword! your great and glorious name shall never pass from earth!" the king, who from his throne beneath the oak has been able to watch the stranger from the moment of his entering the story, is not of two minds concerning so luminous an apparition. "if i rightly recognise the power," he speaks, "which has brought you to this land, you come to us sent by god?"--"i am sent," replies the knight, "to do battle for a maid against whom a dark accusation has been brought. let me see now if i shall tell her from among the rest." with but a passing glance at the group of women, unhesitatingly he singles out elsa, undistinguishable from the others by any sign of rank. "speak, then, elsa von brabant! if i am chosen as your champion, will you without doubt or fear entrust yourself to my protection?" elsa, who from the moment of seeing him has stood in a heavenly trance, answers this with no discreet and grudging acquiescence; she falls upon her knees at the feet of this her deliverer and hero, and with innocent impetuousness offers him, not assurance of confidence in his arm, or gratitude for his succour, but the whole of herself, made up solely of such confidence and gratitude. "will you," asks the knight, while a divine warmth of tenderness invests voice and face, "if i am victorious in combat for you, will you that i become your husband?"--"as i lie here at your feet," the girl replies with passionate humility, "i give over unto you body and soul!" full of responsive love as is his face, bent upon so much beauty and innocence and adoration, he does not at once gather her up from her knees to his arms. strangely, he stops to make conditions. "elsa, if i am to be called your husband, if i am to defend your land and people, if nothing is ever to tear me from your side, one thing you must promise me: never will you ask me, nor be concerned to know, from whence i came to you, nor what my name and race."--"never, my lord, shall the question rise to my lips!" she has spoken too readily, too easily, as if she scarcely considered. "elsa, have you perfectly understood?" he asks earnestly, and repeats his injunction more impressively still: "never shall you ask me, nor be concerned to know, from whence i came to you, nor what my name and race!" but she, how should she in this moment not promise whatever he asked or do whatever be required? there is no question of pondering any demand of this exquisite dream made flesh, this angelic being come in the darkest hour to make all the difference to her between life and death. as he has asked more earnestly, she replies more emphatically. "my defender, my angel, my deliverer, who firmly believes in my innocence! could any doubt be more culpable than that which should disturb my faith in you? even as you will protect me in my need, even so will i faithfully obey your command!" he lifts her then to his breast with looks of radiant love, uttering the words which confirm his action and make him her affianced. the people around them gaze in moved wonder, confessing an emotion at sight of the _wonnigliche mann_ beyond natural, suggesting magic. the silver knight steps into the midst of the circle about the justice-oak, and declares: "hear me! to you nobles and people i proclaim it: free from all guilt is elsa von brabant. that you have falsely accused her, count von telramund, shall now through god's judgment be confirmed to you!" telramund, obviously in grave doubt, gazes searchingly in the face of this extraordinary intruder. he is sure of his own integrity, relies perfectly on his private information against elsa; what then is an agent of heaven's doing on the opposite side? how can this be an agent of heaven's at all? while he hesitates, the brabantian nobles warn him in undertones: "keep from the fight! if you undertake it, never shall you come forth victorious! if he be protected by supernal power, of what use to you is your gallant sword?" but friedrich, true to his stiff necked, proud self, bursts forth: "rather dead than afraid!" and violently addresses the stranger: "whatever sorcery have brought you here, stranger, who wear such a bold front, your haughty threats in no wise move me, since never have i intended deceit. i accept your challenge, and look to triumph by the course of justice!" the lists are set, the ground of the duel is marked off with spears driven into the earth. when all is ready, the herald in solemn proclamation warns all present to refrain from every sort of interference, the penalty for any infringement of this rule to be, in the case of a noble, the loss of his hand, in the case of a churl, the loss of his head. he then addresses himself to the combatants, warning them to loyally observe the rules of battle, not by any evil art or trick of sorcery to disturb the virtue of the judgment. god is to judge them according to custom in such ordeals; in him let them place their trust and not in their own strength. the two champions with equal readiness declare themselves prepared to obey this behest. the king descends from his throne, removes his regal crown, and, while all beside uncover and unite in his prayer, solemnly he makes over, as it were, his function of judge to god. "my lord and my god, i call upon thee, that thou be present at this combat. through victory of the sword speak thy sentence, and let truth and falsehood clearly appear. to the arm of the righteous lend heroic strength, unstring the sinews of the false! help us thou, o god, in this hour, for our best wisdom is folly before thee!" each of the persons present feels certain of victory for his own side, even dark ortrud, with the black secrets of her conscience, who believes in no messengers from god, and pins her faith to the well-tested strength of her husband's arm. at the thrice-repeated blow of the king's sword upon his shield, the combatants enter the lists. the duel lasts but a moment. friedrich falls, not from any wound, but from the lightening flash of the adversary's sword, brought down upon him with a great sweep. the mysterious weight of it crushes him to the earth, overthrows him, deprives him of force to rise again. the gleaming enemy stands over him with sword-point at his throat: "by victory through god your life now belongs to me. i give it you. make use of it to repent!" in the rejoicings that follow, the acclamations of the victorious champion of innocence, no one takes any thought further of the vanquished. unnoticed he writhes, appalled at the recognition that very god has beaten him, that honour--honour is lost! the wife struggles with a different emotion. her eyes, unimpressed by his splendour, unconvinced by his victory, boldly scrutinise the countenance of the swan-brought, to discover the thing he had forbidden elsa to inquire, what manner of man he be. who is this, she asks herself, that has overcome her husband, that has placed a term to her power? is it one whom verily she need fear? must she give up her hopes because of him? ii. the second act shows the great court in the citadel of antwerp, bounded at the back by the palace, where the knights are lodged; at the left, by the kemenate, the women's apartments; at the right, by the minster. it is night. the windows of the palace are brightly lighted; smothered bursts of music from time to time issue forth from them. telramund and ortrud, in the poor garb of plebeians, sit on the church-steps. excommunication and banishment, following the condemnation of god signified by such defeat as telramund has suffered, have made of them beggars and fugitives. telramund is sunk in dark reflection. ortrud, half-crouched like a dangerous animal lying in wait, stares intently at the lighted windows. with sudden effort of resolve telramund rouses himself and gets to his feet. "come, companion of my disgrace!" he speaks to the woman beside him; "daybreak must not find us here." she does not stir. "i cannot move from here," she answers; "i am spell-bound upon this spot. from the contemplation of this brilliant banqueting of our enemies let me absorb a fearful mortal venom, whereby i shall bring to an end both our ignominy and their rejoicing!" friedrich shudders, in spite of himself, at such incarnate malignity as seems represented by that crouching form, those hate-darting eyes. the sense seizes him, too, in the dreadful soreness of his lacerated pride, how much this woman is responsible for what he has suffered. "you fearful woman!" he cries, "what is it keeps me still bound to you? why do i not leave you alone, and flee by myself away, away, where my conscience may find rest? through you i must lose my honour, the glory i had won. the praise that attaches to fair fame follows me no more. my knighthood is turned to a mock! outlawed, proscribed am i, shattered is my sword, broken my escutcheon, anathemised my house! whatever way i turn, all flee from me, accursed! the robber himself shuns the infection of my glance. oh, that i had chosen death sooner than life so abject and miserable!..." with the agonised cry, "my honour, oh, my honour! i have lost my honour!" he casts himself face downward upon the ground. ortrud has not stirred, or taken her eyes from the bright orange-gold windows. as telramund's harsh voice ceases, music is heard again from the banquet-hall. ortrud listens till it has died away; then asks, with cold quiet: "what makes you waste yourself in these wild complaints?"--"that the very weapon should have been taken from me with which i might have struck you dead!" he cries, stung to insanity. scornfully calm and cold as before, "friedrich, you count of telramund, for what reason," she asks, "do you distrust me?" hotly he pours forth his reasons. "do you ask? was it not your testimony, your report, which induced me to accuse that innocent girl? you, living in the dusky woods, did you not mendaciously aver to me that from your wild castle you had seen the dark deed committed? with your own eyes seen how elsa drowned her brother in the tarn? and did you not ensnare my ambitious heart with the prophecy that the ancient princely dynasty of radbot soon should flourish anew and reign over brabant, moving me thereby to withdraw my claim to the hand of elsa, the immaculate, and take to wife yourself, because you were the last descendant of radbot?"--"ha! how mortally offensive is your speech!" she speaks, but suppresses her natural annoyance to continue: "very true, all you have stated, i did say, and confirmed it with proof."--"and made me, whose name stood so high in honour, whose life had earned the prize due to highest virtue, made me into the shameful accomplice of your lie!"--"who lied?" she asks coolly. "you!" he unceremoniously flings at her; "has not god because of it, through his judgment, brought me to shame?"--"god?..." she utters the word with such vigour of derision that he involuntarily starts back. "horrible!" he shudders after a moment; "how dreadful does that name sound upon your lips!"--"ha! do you call your own cowardice god?" he raises against her his maddened hand: "ortrud!..."--"do you threaten me? threaten a woman?" she sneers, unmoved; "oh, lily-livered! had you been equally bold in threatening him who now sends us forth to our miserable doom, full easily might you have earned victory in place of shame. ha! he who should manfully stand up to the encounter with him would find him weaker than a child!"--"the weaker he," telramund observes, ill-pleased, "the more mightily was exhibited the strength of god!"--"the strength of god!... ha, ha!" laughs loud ortrud, with the same unmoderated effect of scorn and defiance, which sends her husband staggering back it step, gasping. "give me the opportunity," she proceeds, with a return to that uncanny quiet of hers, "and i will show you, infallibly, what a feeble god it is protects him!" telramund is impressed. she is telling him after all that which he would like to believe. still, the impression of the day's events is strong upon him,--his overthrow at god's own hand. after that, how dare he trust her? and yet-but then again-"you wild seeress," he exclaims, torn with doubt, "what are you trying, with your mysterious hints, to entangle my soul afresh?" she points at the palace, from the windows of which the lights have disappeared. "the revellers have laid them down to their luxurious repose. sit here beside me! the hour is come when my seer's eye shall read the invisible for you." telramund draws nearer, fascinated, reconquered to her by this suggestion of some dim hope rearising upon his blighted life. he sits down beside her and holds close his ear for her guarded tones. "do you know who this hero is whom a swan brought to the shore?"--"no!"--"what would you give to know? if i should tell you that were he forced to reveal his name and kind there would be an end to the power which laboriously he borrows from sorcery?"--"ha! i understand then his prohibition!"--"now listen! no one here has power to wring from him his secret, save she alone whom he forbade so stringently ever to put to him the question!"--"the thing to do then would be to prevail upon elsa not to withhold from asking it!"--"ha! how quickly and well you apprehend me!"--"but how should we succeed in that?"--"listen! it is necessary first of all not to forsake the spot. wherefore, sharpen your wit! to arouse well-justified suspicion in her, step forward, accuse him of sorcery, whereby he perverted the ordeal!"--"ha! by sorcery it was, and treachery!"--"if you fail, there is still left the expedient of violence."--"violence?"--"not for nought am i learned in the most hidden arts. every being deriving his strength from magic, if but the smallest shred of flesh be torn from his body, must instantly appear in his original weakness."--"oh, if it might be that you spoke true!" wistfully groans telramund. "if in the encounter you had struck off one of his fingers," ortrud continues, "nay, but one joint of a finger, that hero would have been in your power!" rage and excitement possess telramund at the retrospect of the combat in which he had been beaten, not, as he had supposed, by god, but by the tricks of a sorcerer, and at the prospect of avenging his disgrace, proving his uprightness, recovering his honour. but--he is checked by a sudden return of suspicion of this dark companion and adviser. "oh, woman, whom i see standing before me in the night," he addresses the dim figure, "if you are again deceiving me, woe to you, i tell you, woe!" she quiets him with the promise of teaching him the sweet joys of vengeance. a foretaste of these they have, sitting on the minster-steps, gloating upon the walls which enclose the unconscious foes. "oh, you, sunk in sweet slumber, know that mischief is awake and lying in wait for you!" a door opens in the upper story of the kemenate. a white figure steps out on to the balcony and leans against the parapet, head upon hand. the pair in the shade watch with suspended breath, recognising elsa. she is too happy, obviously, to sleep; her heart is too heavily oppressed with gratitude for all that this wonderful day has brought. the well-born gentle soul that she is must be offering thanks to everything that has contributed to this hour; and so, girlishly, she speaks to the wind: "you breezes, whom i used so often to burden with my sadness and complaints, i must tell you in very gratitude what happy turn my fortunes have taken! by your means he came travelling to me, you smiled upon his voyage, on his way over the wild waves you kept him safe. full many a time have i troubled you to dry my tears. i ask you now of your kindness to cool my cheek aglow with love!" ortrud has kept basilisk eyes fixed upon the sweet love-flushed face touched with moonlight. "she shall curse the hour," speaks the bitter enemy in her teeth, "in which my eyes beheld her thus!" she bids telramund under-breath leave her for a little while. "wherefore?" he asks. "she falls to my share," comes grimly from the wife; "take her hero for yours!" telramund slips obediently away into the black shadow. ortrud watches elsa for a time breathing her innocent fancies to the wind; then abruptly cuts short the pastime, calling her name in a loud, deliberately-plaintive tone. elsa peers anxiously down in the dark court. "who calls me? how lamentably did my name come shuddering through the night!"--"elsa, is my voice so strange to you? is it your mind to disclaim all acquaintance with the wretch whom you have driven forth to exile and misery?"--"ortrud, is it you? what are you doing here, unhappy woman?"--"unhappy woman?..." ortrud repeats after her, giving the turn of scorn to the young girl's pitying intonation; "ample reason have you indeed to call me so!" with dark artfulness she rouses in elsa more than proportionate compassion for her plight, by casting upon the tender-conscienced creature the whole blame for it. in no scene does the youthfulness of telramund's ward appear more pathetically than in this. "in the solitary forest, where i lived quiet and at peace, what had i done to you," ortrud upbraids, "what had i done to you? living there joylessly, my days solely spent in mourning over the misfortunes that had long pursued my house, what had i done to you,--what had i done to you?"--"of what, in god's name, do you accuse me?" asks elsa, bewildered. ortrud pursues in her chosen line of incrimination at all cost: "however could you envy me the fortune of being chosen for wife by the man whom you had of your free will disdained?"--"all-merciful god," exclaims elsa, "what is the meaning of this?"--"and if, blinded by an unhappy delusion, he attributed guilt to you, guiltless, his heart is now torn with remorse; grim indeed has his punishment been. oh, you are happy! after brief period of suffering, mitigated by conscious innocence, you see all life smiling unclouded before you. you can part from me well-pleased, and send me forth on my way to death, that the dull shadow of my grief may not disturb your feasts." ortrud's policy is completely successful; this last imputation is intolerable to the generous girl, made even more tender-hearted than wont by her overflowing happiness. "what mean sense of thy mercies would i be showing," she cries, "all-powerful, who have so greatly blessed me, should i repulse the wretched bowed before me in the dust! oh, nevermore! ortrud, wait for me! i myself will come down and let you in!" she hurries indoors. ortrud has gained what she wanted, intimate access to the young duchess's ear, that she may pour her poison into it. she has a moment's joy of triumph, while the fair dupe is hastening down to her within. we discover at this point that she is no christian like the rest; that the secret gods of the secret sorceress are the old superseded ones, wotan and freia. for that reason it was the silver knight did not impress her as he did the others. she could not admit that he came from god, the false god whose name we heard her pronounce with such unconcealable scorn; but, herself a witch, supposed that he performed the feat through wizardry. she had explained the phenomenon to her husband in good faith; she believed what she said, that were he forced to tell his name, or might a shred of flesh be torn from him, he would stand before them undisguised, shorn of his magic power. wild with evil joy at the success of her acting, she calls upon her desecrated gods to help her further against the apostates. "wotan, strong god, i appeal to you! freia, highest goddess, hear me! vouchsafe your blessing upon my deceit and hypocrisy, that i may happily accomplish my vengeance!" at the sound of elsa's voice calling: "ortrud, where are you?" she assumes the last abjectness. "here!" she replies, cowering upon the earth. "here at your feet!" simple elsa's heart melts at the sight, really out of all reason soft, out of all reason unsuspecting. yet she is infinitely sweet, in her exaggeration of goodness, when she not only pardons, but begs pardon of this fiendish enemy for what the latter may have had to suffer through her. she eagerly puts out her hands to lift ortrud from her knees. "god help me! that i should see you thus, whom i have never seen save proud and magnificent! oh, my heart will choke me to behold you in so humble attitude. rise to your feet! spare me your supplications! the hate you have borne me i forgive you, and i pray you to forgive me too whatever you have had to suffer through me!"--"receive my thanks for so much goodness!" exclaims feelingly the accomplished actress. "he who to-morrow will be called my husband," continues elsa, in her young gladness to heap benefits, "i will make appeal to his gentle nature, and obtain grace for friedrich likewise."--"you bind me to you forever with bonds of gratitude!" with light innocent hand elsa places the crowning one on top of her magnanimous courtesies. "at early morning let me see you ready prepared. adorned in magnificent attire, you shall walk with me to the minster. there i am to await my hero, to become his wife before god. his wife!..." the sweet pride with which she says the word, the soft ecstasy that falls upon her at the thought, stir in ortrud such hatred that she cannot forbear, even though the time can hardly be ripe, taking the first step at once which is to result in the quick ruin of the poor child's dreams. "how shall i reward you for so much kindness, powerless and destitute as i am? though by your grace i should dwell beside you, i should remain no better than a beggar. one power, however, there is left me; no arbitrary decree could rob me of that. by means of it, peradventure, i shall be able to protect your life and preserve it from regret."--"what do you mean?" asks elsa lightly. "what i mean is--that i warn you not too blindly to trust in your good fortune; let me for the future have care for you, lest disaster entangle you unaware." elsa shrinks back a little, murmuring, "disaster?" ortrud speaks with impressive mystery close to her ear: "could you but comprehend what marvellous manner of being is the man--of whom i say but this: may he never forsake you through the very same magic by which he came to you!" elsa starts away from ortrud, in horror at such impiety,--disbelief in the highest. but in a moment her displeasure gives way to sadness and pity for the darkness in which this other woman lives. "poor sister!" she speaks, most gently, "you can hardly conceive how unsuspecting is my heart! you have never known, belike, the happiness that belongs to perfect faith. come in with me! let me teach you the sweetness of an untroubled trust. let me convert you to the faith that there exists a happiness without leaven of regret!" this warm young generous sweetness which makes elsa open to any appeal, blind to grossest fraud, merely exasperates ortrud's ill-will. she reads in it plain pride of superiority. as she could not admit in the knight of the swan a god-sent hero, she cannot see in elsa an uncommonly good-hearted girl. "oh, that arrogance!" she is muttering while elsa is exhorting her; "it shall teach me how i may undo that trustfulness of hers! against it shall the weapons be turned, her pride shall bring about her fall!"--elsa by gesture inviting, the other feigning confusion at so great kindness, the two pass into the house together. the first grey of dawn lightens the sky. telramund, who has been spying unseen, exults to see mischief in the person of his wife entering the house of the enemy. he is not an evil man, he cares beyond all for honour, and his consciousness of a certain unfairness in the methods his wife will use is implied in his exclamation; but the violent man so rages under a sense of injustice that all weapons to him are good which shall bring about the ruin of those who have ruined him. "thus does mischief enter that house! accomplish, woman, what your subtlety has devised. i feel no power to check you at your work. the mischief began with my downfall; now shall you plunge after me, you who brought me to it! one thing alone stands clear before me: the robbers of my honour shall see destruction!" daylight brightens. the warders sound the reveillé from the turret. telramund conceals himself behind a buttress of the minster. the business of the day is gradually taken up in the citadel court. the porter unlocks the tower-gate that lets out on to the city-road; servants come and go about their work, drawing water, hanging festive garlands. at a summons from the king's trumpeters, nobles and burghers assemble in great number before the minster. the king's herald coming out on the palace-steps makes the following announcements: firstly: banished and outlawed is friedrich von telramund, for having undertaken the ordeal with a knowledge of his own guilt. any one sheltering or associating with him shall according to the law of the realm come under the same condemnation. secondly: the king invests the unknown god-sent man, about to espouse elsa, with the lands and the crown of brabant; the hero to be called, according to his preference, not duke, but protector of brabant. thirdly: the protector will celebrate with them this day his nuptial feast, but they shall join him tomorrow in battle-trim, to follow, as their duty is, the king's arms. he himself, renouncing the sweetness of repose, will lead them to glory. these proclamations are followed by general assent and gladness. a small group there is, however, of malcontents, former adherents of telramund's, who grumble: "hear that! he is to remove us out of the country, against an enemy who has never so much as threatened us! such a bold beginning is ill-beseeming. who will stand up against him when he is in command?"--"i will!" comes from a muffled figure that has crept among them, and friedrich uncovers his countenance. "how dare you venture here, in danger as you are from the hand of every churl?" they ask him, frightened. "i shall dare and venture more than this ere long, and the scales will drop from your eyes. he who presumptuously calls you forth to war, i will accuse him of treason in the things of god." the brabantian gentlemen, afraid of his being overheard or recognised, conceal the rash lord among them, and compel him toward the church, out of sight. forerunners of the wedding-procession, young pages come from the kemenate, and clear a way through the crowd to the church-door. a long train of ladies walk before the bride. there are happy cheers when she appears, dazzling in her wedding-pomp; there are blessings and the natural expressions of devotion from loyal subjects. the pages and ladies stand massed at either side of the minster-door to give their mistress precedence in entering. she is slowly, with bashful lowered eyes, mounting the stairs, when ortrud, who in magnificent apparel has been following in her train, steps quickly before her, with the startling command, given in a furious voice: "back, elsa! i will no longer endure to follow you like a serving-maid! everywhere shall you yield me precedence, and with proper deference bow before me!" this is, we believe, no part of any deep-laid plan of ortrud's, though it does in the event help along her scheme; it is an uncontrollable outburst of temper at sight of elsa in her eminence of bridal and ducal glory. "what does the woman mean?" ask the people of one another, and step between elsa and her. "what is this?" cries elsa, painfully startled; "what sudden change has taken place in you?"--"because for an hour i forgot my proper worth," radbot's daughter continues violently, "do you think that i am fit only to crawl before you? i will take measures to wipe out my abasement. that which is due to me i am determined to receive!"--"woe's me!" complains elsa, "was i duped by your feigning, when you stole to me last night with your pretended grief? and do you now haughtily demand precedence of me, you, the wife of a man convicted by god?" ortrud sees here her opportunity again to introduce the wedge of suspicion into her victim's mind. "though a false sentence banished my husband, his name was honoured throughout the land, he was never spoken of save as the pattern of virtue. his sword was well-tested and was feared--but yours, tell me, who that is present knows him? you cannot even yourself call him by his name!... nay, but can you?" she taunts the shocked, pale-grown bride, who has found no more than force to gasp,--"what does she say? she blasphemes! stop her lips!"--"can you tell us whether his lineage, his nobility, be well attested? from whence the river brought him and whither he will go when he leaves? no, you cannot! the matter, no doubt, would present difficulties, wherefore the astute hero forbade all questioning!" elsa has found her voice at last, and speaks right hotly: "you slanderer! abandoned woman! hear, whether i can answer you! so pure and lofty is his nature, so filled with virtue is that noblest man, that never shall the person obtain forgiveness who presumes to doubt his mission! did not my hero overcome your husband by the power of god in singular combat? you shall tell me then, all of you, which of the two must lawfully be held true?"--"ha! that truth of your hero's!" mocks ortrud, fearfully ready of tongue; "how soon were it cast in doubt, should he be forced to confess the sorcery by which he practises such power! if you fear to question him concerning it, all may believe with good right that you are not free yourself from the suspicion that his truth must not be too closely looked into!" elsa is near fainting with the anguish of this encounter; her women surround and comfort her. the doors of the palace have opened, the king and the knight of the swan, with great retinue of nobles, issue forth, bound for the church and wedding-ceremony. they arrive upon the scene before the confusion is allayed occasioned by the quarrel between vulture and dove. elsa runs to the arms of the protector. receiving her and glancing naturally about for explanation, he beholds the dangerous ortrud, whom his clear eye reads, restored to splendour, part of the wedding-train, and remarks upon it with amazement to the trembling bride. "what do i see? that unhappy woman at your side?"--"my deliverer," weeps elsa, "shield me from her! scold me, for having disobeyed you! i found her in tears here before my door; i took her in out of her wretchedness. now see how dreadfully she rewards my kindness!... she taunts me for my over-great trust in you!" the knight fixes his eyes sternly upon the offender, who somehow cannot look back bold insult as she would wish, but stands spell-bound under the calm severity of his glance. "stand off from her, you fearful woman. here shall you never prevail!--tell me, elsa," he bends over her tearful face, "tell me that she tried vainly to drop her venom into your heart?" elsa hides her face against his breast without answering. but the gesture with its implied confidence satisfies him; the tears increase his protecting tenderness. "come!" he draws her toward the church; "let your tears flow in there as tears of joy!" the wedding-train forms again and moves churchward in wake of king and bride and groom. but the wedding to-day is not to come off without check and interruption--an ill omen, according to the lore of all peoples. as the bridal party is mounting the minster-steps, there starts up in front of it, before the darkly gaping door, the figure of telramund. the crowd sways back as if from one who should spread infection, so tainted did a man appear against whom god through his ordeal had spoken judgment. "oh, king, oh, deluded princes, stand!" he cries, barring their way. he will not be silenced by their indignant threats; he makes himself heard in spite of shocked and angry prohibitions. "hear me to whom grim injustice has been done! god's judgment was perverted, falsified! by the tricks of a sorcerer you have been beguiled!" the king's followers are for seizing and thrusting him aside; but the soldier, famous no longer ago than yesterday for every sort of superiority, stands his ground and says what he is determined to say. "the man i see yonder in his magnificence, i accuse of sorcery! as dust before god's breath, let the power be dispersed which he owes to a black art! how ill did you attend to the matters of the ordeal which was to strip me of honour, refraining as you did from questioning him, when he came to undertake god's fight! but you shall not prevent the question now, i myself will put it to him. of his name, his station, his honours, i inquire aloud before the whole world. who is he, who came to shore guided by a wild swan? one who keeps in his service the like enchanted animals is to my thinking no true man! let him answer now my accusation. if he can do so, call my condemnation just, but if he refuse, it must be plain to all that his virtue will not bear scrutiny!" all eyes turn with unmistakable interest of expectation toward the man thus accused; wonder concerning what he will reply is expressed in undertones. he refuses point-blank, with a bearing of such superiority as an attack of the sort can hardly ruffle. "not to you, so forgetful of your honour, have i need here to reply. i set aside your evil aspersion; truth will hardly suffer from the like!"--"if i am in his eyes not worthy of reply," friedrich bitterly re-attacks, "i call upon you, king, high in honour indeed. will he, on the ground of insufficient nobility, refuse likewise to answer you?" aye, the knight refuses again, with an assurance partaking in no wise of haughtiness, but speaking a noble consciousness of what he is which places him above men's opinions. "yes! even the king i must refuse to answer, and the united council of all the princes! they will not permit doubt of me to burden them, they were witnesses of my good deed. there is but one whom i must answer. elsa!" he turns toward her with bright face of confidence, and stops short at sight of her, so troubled, so visibly torn by inward conflict, her bosom labouring, her face trembling. there is no concealing it, she would have wished him to answer loudly and boldly, to crush those mocking enemies, ortrud and telramund, with the mention of a name, a rank, which should have bowed them down before him in the dust, abject. there is silence, while all, entertaining their respective reflections, watch elsa, and she struggles with herself, staring blindly ahead. his secret no doubt,--thus run her pitiable feminine thoughts,--if revealed publicly like this would involve him in some danger. ungrateful indeed were it in her, saved by him, to betray him by demanding the information here. if she knew his secret, however, she would surely keep it faithfully.... but--but--she is helpless against it, doubt is upheaving the foundations of her heart! it is the good king who speaks the right, the pertinent word. "my hero, stand up undaunted against yonder faithless man! you are too indubitably great to consider accusations of his!" the nobles readily accept the king's leadership, in this as in other matters. "we stand by you," they say to the knight. "your hand! we believe that noble is your name, even though it be not spoken."--"never shall you repent your faith!" the knight assures them. while the nobles crowd about him; offering their hands in sign of allegiance, and elsa stands apart blindly dealing with her doubt, telramund steals unperceived to her side and whispers to her: "rely on me! let me tell you a method for obtaining certainty!" she recoils, frightened, yet without denouncing him aloud. "let me take from him the smallest shred of flesh," he continues hurriedly, "the merest tip of a finger, and i swear to you that what he conceals you shall see freely for yourself...." in his eagerness, forgetful really at last of honour, he adds the inducement, "and, true to you forever, he will never leave you!"--"nevermore!" cries elsa, not so vigourously, however, but that he finds it possible still to add: "i will be near to you at night. do but call me, without injury to him it shall be quickly done!" the knight has caught sight of him and is instantly at elsa's side, crying astonished, "elsa, with whom are you conversing?" the poor girl sinks overwhelmed with trouble and confusion at his feet. "away from her, you accursed!" speaks the knight in a terrible authoritative voice to the evil pair; "let my eye never again behold you in her neighbourhood!" gently he lifts the bride; he scans her face wistfully: "in your hand, in your loyalty, lies the pledge of all happiness! have you fallen into the unrest of doubt? do you wish to question me?" he asks it so frankly and fearlessly, albeit sorrowfully; he stands there so convincingly brave-looking and clear-eyed, full of the calm effect of power, that elsa gazing at him comes back to her true self and answers with all her heart: "oh, my champion, who came to save me! my hero, in whom i must live and die! high above all power of doubt my love shall stand!" he clasps her in his arms, solemnly saluting her.... and once more the wedding-party sets itself upon the way to church. organ-music pours forth from the minster-portals. with her foot on the threshold the bride turns an eager, instinctive, searching, almost frightened look upon the groom. in answer, he folds reassuring arms around her. but, even so held, woman-like she looks back, in spite of herself, over her shoulder, toward ortrud, who receives the timid glance with a detestable gesture of triumph. properly frightened, the bride turns quickly away, and the procession enters the church. iii it is night. the stately bridal apartment awaits its guests. music is heard, very faint at first, as if approaching through long corridors. preceded by pages with lights, there enter by different doors a train of women leading elsa, a train of nobles and the king leading the knight. the epithalamium is sung to its end. after grave and charming ceremony, with blessings and good wishes, all withdraw, leaving the bride and groom alone. elsa's face is altogether clear again of its clouds; all is forgotten save the immeasurable happiness which, as soon as the doors discreetly close, impels her to his arms; clasped together, seated upon the edge of a day-bed, they listen in silence to their wedding-music dying slowly away. when all is still at last, in the dear joy of being "alone, for the first time alone together since first we saw each other," life seems to begin for each upon new and so incredibly sweeter terms. the stranger knight, whom mystery enwraps, shows himself, despite certain sweet loftiness which never leaves him, most convincingly human. in the simplest warm way, a way old-fashioned as love, we hear him rejoice: "now we are escaped and hidden from the whole world. none can overhear the exchange of greetings between our hearts. elsa, my wife! you sweet white bride! you shall tell me now whether you are happy!"--"how cold must i be to call myself merely happy," she satisfies him liberally, "when i possess the whole joy of heaven! in the sweet glowing toward you of my heart, i know such rapture as god can alone bestow!" he meets her gratitude with an equal and just a little over. "if, of your graciousness, you call yourself happy, do you not give to me too the very happiness of heaven? in the sweet glowing toward you of my heart, i know indeed such rapture as god can alone bestow!" he falls naturally, happy-lover-like, into talking of their first meeting and beginning love: "how wondrous do i see to be the nature of our love! we had never seen, but yet had divined, each other! choice had been made of me for your champion, but it was love showed me my way to you. i read your innocence in your eyes, by a glance you impressed me into the service of your grace!"--"i too," she eagerly follows, "had seen you already, you had come to me in a beatific dream. then when wide-awake i saw you standing before me, i knew that you were there by god's behest. i would have wished to dissolve beneath your eyes and flow about your feet like a brook. i would have wished like a flower shedding perfume out in the meadow to bow in gladness at your footfall. is this love?... ah, how do my lips frame it, that word so inexpressibly sweet as none other, save alas! your name... which i am never to speak, by which i am never to call the highest that i know!" there is no return indicated in this of any doubt of him. elsa is in this moment certainly all trust. it is but an expression of love chafing a little at the reticence which seems a barrier one must naturally wish away, if hearts are to flow freely together. hardly warningly, just lovingly, he interrupts her: "elsa!"--"how sweetly" she remarks enviously, "my name drops from your lips! do you grudge me the dear sound of yours? nay, you shall grant me this boon, that just in the quiet hours of love's seclusion my lips should speak it...." he checks her, as before, unalarmed, without reproach, by an exclamation of love. "my sweet wife!"--"just when we are alone," she coaxes, "when no one can overhear! never shall it be spoken in hearing of the outside world." instead of answering directly, he draws her to him and turns to the open casement overlooking the garden; he gazes thoughtfully out into the summer night and answers by a sort of tender object-lesson. "come, breathe with me the mild fragrance of the flowers.... oh, the sweet intoxication it affords! mysteriously it steals to us through the air, unquestioningly i yield myself to its spell. a like spell it was which bound me to you when i saw you, sweet, for the first time. i did not need to ask how you might be descended, my eye beheld you, my heart at once understood. even as this fragrance softly captures the senses, coming to us wafted from the enigmatic night, even so did your purity enthrall me, despite the dark suspicion weighing upon you!" that she owes him much she is ready and over-ready to own. it is almost embarassing to owe so much, to owe everything, and no means of repaying, because the whole of oneself is after all so little. "oh, that i might prove myself worthy of you!" she sighs, "that i need not sink into insignificance before you! that some merit might lift me to your level, that i might suffer some torture for your sake! if, even as you found me suffering under a heavy charge, i might know you to be in distress! if bravely i might bear a burden for you, might know of some sorrow threatening you! can it be that your secret is of such a nature that your lip must keep it from the whole world? disaster perhaps would overtake you, were it openly published. if this were so, and if you would tell it to me, would place your secret in my power, oh, never by any violence should it be torn from me, for you i would go to death!" the bridegroom cannot but be touched by such devoted gallant words from the fairest lips. off guard, he murmurs fondly, "beloved!"--"oh, make me proud by your confidence, that i may not so deeply feel my unworthiness!" she pleads, eagerly following up the advantage of his not having yet remonstrated; "let me know your secret, that i may see plainly who you are!" wilfully deaf to his imploring, "hush, elsa!" more and more urgently she presses: "to my faithfulness reveal your whole noble worth! without fear of regret, tell me whence you came. i will prove to you how strong in silence i can be!" her words, all at once, their significance penetrating fully, have brought a change in him. gravely he moves apart from her, and his voice is for a moment stern as well as sorrowful: "highest confidence already have i shown you, placing trust as i unhesitatingly did in your oath. if you will never depart from the command you swore to observe, high above all women shall i deem you worthy of honour." but he cannot continue in that tone, the altogether human bridegroom. at sight of the pained look his severity has produced, he goes quickly again to her, he makes instant reparation for his momentary harshness. "come to my breast, you sweet, you white one!" he profusely caresses and consoles; "be close to the warmth of my heart! bend upon me the soft light of your eye in which i saw foreshining my whole happiness!..." and just to satisfy her so far as he can, to prove still further his great love, he proceeds: "oh, greatly must your love compensate me for that which i relinquished for your sake! no destiny in god's wide world could be esteemed nobler than mine. if the king should offer me his crown, with good right i might reject it. the only thing which can repay me for my sacrifice, i must look for it in your love. then cast doubt aside forever. let your love be my proud security! for i came to you from no obscure and miserable lot. from splendour and joy am i come to you!" oh, the ill-inspired speech! what he dreamed must unite closer, in the momentary mood of the incalculable feminine being he is dealing with, divides further. the thought is instantly back in her mind which she had smothered and then forgotten, the idea suggested by ortrud, implied by friedrich, that mysteriously as he came the unknown knight may presently be going away from her. the hour that should have been so sweet and quiet in the "fragrant chamber adorned for love" of the wedding-song, is turned to strain and dreadfulness. "god help me!" wails her passionate alarm, "what must i hear? what testimony from your own lips! in your wish to beguile me, you have announced my lamentable doom! the condition you forsook, your highest happiness lay bound in that. you came to me from splendour and joy, and are longing to go back. how could i, poor wretch, believe that my faithful devotion would suffice you? the day will come which will rob me of you, your love being turned to rue!"--"forbear, forbear thus to torture yourself!"--"nay, it is you, why do you torture me? must i count the days during which i still may keep you? in haunting fear of your departure, my cheek will fade; then you will hasten away from me, i shall be left forlorn."--"never" he endeavours to quiet her, "never will your winning charm lessen, if you but keep suspicion from your heart."--"how should i tie you to me?" she pursues undeterred her fatal train of thought; "how might i hope for such power? a creature of weird arts are you, you came here by a miracle of magic. how then should it fare but ill with me? what security for you can i hold?" she shrinks together in sudden terror and listens. "did you hear nothing? did you not distinguish footsteps?"--"elsa!"--"no, it is not that!... but there..." she stares vacantly ahead, pointing,--her face how changed from the sweet, glowing face of so short a time ago!--and describes what her over-excited fancy paints on the empty air before her: "look there! the swan! the swan! there he comes, over the watery flood.... you call him, he draws the boat to shore...."--"stop, elsa! master these mad imaginings!" the poor lover strives with her, in despair.--"nay, nothing can give me rest," she declares, wholly unmanageable, wholly unreasonable, "nothing can turn me from these imaginings, but, though i should pay for it with my life, the knowledge who you are!"--"elsa, what are you daring to do?"--"uncannily beautiful man, hear what i must demand of you: tell me your name!"--"forbear!"--"whence are you come?"--"alas!"--"what manner of man are you?"--"woe, what have you done?" elsa utters a shriek, catching sight of telramund with a handful of armed men stealing in by the door behind her husband's back,--the explanation of the sound she had heard. with a cry of warning, she runs for her husband's sword and hands it to him. quickly turning he rewards friedrich's ineffectual lunge with a blow that stretches him dead. the appalled accomplices drop their swords and fall to their knees. elsa, who had cast herself against her husband's breast, slides swooning to the floor. there is a long silence. the knight stands, deeply shaken, coming to gradual realisation of the whole sorrowful situation. all the light, the bridegroom joy, have faded from his face. with a quiet suggestive of infinite patience and some strange superiority of strength, some unearthly resource, he considers this ruin, his audible comment on it a single sigh, more poignant than if it were less restrained: "woe! now is all our happiness over!" very gently he lifts elsa, sufficiently revived to realise that she has somehow worked irreparable destruction, and decisively places her away from him. by a sign he orders telramund's followers to their feet and bids them carry the dead man to the king's judgment-place. he rings a bell; the women who appear in answer, he instructs: "to accompany her before the king, attire elsa, my sweet wife! there shall she receive my answer, and learn her husband's name and state." at daybreak the brabantian lords and their men-at-arms are assembling around the justice-oak in readiness to follow the king. the king, with noble expressions of gratitude for their loyalty, takes command of them. "but where loiters," he is inquiring, "the one whom god sent to the glory, the greatness of brabant?" when a covered bier is borne before him and set down in the midst of the wondering company, by men whom they recognise as former retainers of telramund's. this is done, explain these last, by order of the protector of brabant. elsa attended by her ladies appears at the place of gathering. her pale and sorrow-struck looks are attributed naturally to the impending departure of her husband for the field. armed in his flashing silver mail, as he was first seen of them, he now appears on the spot. cheers greet him from those whom he is to lead to battle and victory. when their shouts die, he makes, standing before the king, the startling announcement that he cannot lead them to battle, the brave heroes he has convoked. "i am not here as your brother-of-arms," he informs their consternation; "you behold me in the character of complainant. and, firstly..." he solemnly draws the pall from the dead face of telramund, "i make my charge aloud before you all, and ask for judgment according to law and custom: this man having surprised and assailed me by night, tell me, was i justified in slaying him?"--"as your hand smote him upon earth," the horrified spectators cry in a voice, "may god's punishment smite him yonder!"--"another accusation must you hear," the knight continues; "i speak my complaint before you all. the woman whom god had given to my keeping has been so far misguided as to forget her loyalty to me!" there is an outcry of sorrowful incredulity. "you all heard," he proceeds, steeled to severity, "how she promised me never to ask who i am? she has broken that sacred oath. to pernicious counsel she yielded her heart. no longer may i spare to answer the mad questioning of her doubt. i could deny the urgency of enemies, but must make known, since she has willed it, my name,--must reveal who i am! now judge if i have reason to shun the light! before the whole world, before the king and kingdom, i will in all truth declare my secret. hear, then, if i be not equal in nobility to any here!" there runs a murmur through all the impressed multitude, not of curiosity, but regret that he should be forced to speak; the uneasy wish is felt that he might not. his face has cleared wonderfully. as his inward eye fixes itself upon images of the home, the _glanz und wonne_, he is about to describe, memory lights his countenance as if with the reflection of some place of unearthly splendour. "in a far land," his words fall measured and sweet, "unapproachable to footsteps of yours, a fastness there stands called monsalvat. in the centre of it, a bright temple, more precious than anything known upon earth. within this is preserved as the most sacred of relics a vessel of blessed and miraculous power. it was brought to earth by a legion of angels, and given into the guardianship of men, to be the object of their purest care. yearly there descends from heaven a dove, to strengthen anew its miraculous power. it is called the grail, and there is shed from it into the hearts of the knights that guard it serene and perfect faith. one chosen to serve the grail is armed by it with over-earthly power; against it no evil art can prevail, before the vision of it the shades of death disperse. one sent by it to distant countries to champion the cause of virtue retains the holy power derived from it as long as he remains unknown. of nature so mysteriously sublime is the blessing of the grail that if disclosed to the layman's eye it must withdraw. the identity of a knight of the grail must therefore not be suspected. if he is recognised--he must depart! now hear my reply to the forbidden question. by the holy grail was i sent to you here. my father parsifal in monsalvat wears the crown. a knight of the grail am i and my name is lohengrin!" the people gaze at him in awe and worshipping wonder. the unhapppy elsa, feeling the world reel and grow dark, gasps for air and is falling, when lohengrin catches her in his arms, all his sternness melting away, his grief and love pouring forth in tender reproach. "oh, elsa, what have you done to me? from the first moment of beholding you, i felt love for you enkindling my heart, i became aware of an unknown happiness. the high faculty, the miraculous power, the strength involved in my secret, i wished to place them all at the service of your purest heart. why did you wrest from me my secret? for now, alas, i must be parted from you!" she expends herself in wild prayers to be forgiven, to be punished by whatsoever affliction, only not to lose him. he feels sorrow enough, immeasurable sorrow, heart-break, but not for an instant hesitation. "the grail already is offended at my lagging! i must--must go! there is but one punishment for your fault, and its hard anguish falls equally upon me. we must be parted,--far removed from each other!" he turns to the king and nobles imploring him to remain and lead them as he had promised against the enemy. "oh, king, i may not stay! a knight of the grail, when you have recognised him, should he disobediently remain to fight with you, would have forfeited the strength of his arm. but hear me prophesy: a great victory awaits you, just and single-hearted king! to the remotest days shall the hordes of the east never march in triumph upon germany!" from the river-bank comes a startling voice: "the swan! the swan!" all turn to look. a cry of horror breaks from elsa. the swan is seen approaching, drawing the empty boat. less master of himself than theretofore, lohengrin, realising the last parting so near, gives unmistakable outward sign of his inward anguish. "the grail already is sending for the dilatory servant!..." going to the water's edge he addresses to the snowy bird words which no one can quite comprehend. "my beloved swan, how gladly would i have spared you this last sorrowful voyage. in a year, your period of service having expired, delivered by the power of the grail, in a different shape i had thought to see you.--oh, elsa," he returns to her side, "oh, that i might have waited but one year and been witness of your joy when, under protection of the grail, your brother had returned to you, whom you thought dead!... when in the ripeness of time he comes home, and i am far away from him in life, you shall give him this horn, this sword, this ring...." he places in her hands the great double-edged sword, the golden horn from his side, the ring from his finger. "this horn when he is in danger, shall procure him help. this sword, in the fray, shall assure him victory. but when he looks at the ringlet him think of me who upon a time delivered you from danger and distress. farewell, farewell! my sweet wife, farewell! the grail will chide if i delay longer.... farewell!" he has kissed over and over again the face of the poor woman who, annihilated by grief, has not the power to make motion or sound. he places her, with terrible effort of resolution, in the arms at last of others, and hastens, amid general lamentation, to the shore. ortrud, lost in the crowd, has watched all. she has in reality gained nothing by the disaster to elsa, but she exults in it. further revenge for what she has suffered from elsa's mere existence, for the bitterness of her husband's death at the hand of elsa's husband, she seeks recklessly in a revelation which cannot but hold danger for herself. in the insanity of her mingled despair and gloating hate, her hurry to hurt, she does not wait until the powerful antagonist be well out of the way of retorting--lohengrin has but one foot as yet in the boat,--before she cries, "go your way home, go your way, o haughty hero, that gleefully i may impart to this fair fool who it is drawing you in your boat. by the golden chain which i wound about him, i recognised that swan. that swan was the heir of brabant!--i thank you," she mockingly addresses elsa, "i thank you for having driven away the knight. the swan must now betake himself home with him. if he had remained here longer, that hero, he would have delivered your brother too!" the whole dark scheme of ortrud's ambition now lies bare: she had compassed the disappearance of the heir to the crown of brabant, changing him by magic art into a swan; had cast the guilt of his disappearance upon elsa, and married the man who upon elsa's condemnation would have become duke. through no neglect of her own was ortrud's brow still bare of the crown. at the cry of execration that greets her revelation, she faces them all, drawn up to her proud height, and announces: "thus do they revenge themselves, the gods from whom you turned your worship!" but lohengrin had not been too far, nor too engrossed in going, to hear her words. the knight of the grail has sunk on his knees and joined his hands in prayer. all eyes are upon him, his eyes earnestly heavenward. for a long moment all is in motionless suspense. a white dove flies into sight, and hovers over the boat. with the gladness of one whose prayer is heard, lohengrin rises and unfastens the chain from the swan; this vanishes from sight, leaving in its place a beautiful boy in shining garments, whom lohengrin lifts to the bank. "behold the duke of brabant! your leader he shall be!" at sight of him, ortrud utters a cry of terror, elsa, drawn for a moment out of her stupor, a cry of joy. she catches the brother in her arms--but looking up, after the first transport of gladness, and seeing the place empty where her husband had stood, his boat gone from sight, forgetting all else, she sends after him a despairing cry, "my husband! my husband!" in the distance, at a bend of the river, the boat reappears for a moment, drawn now by the dove of the grail. the silver knight is seen standing in it, leaning on his shield, his head mournfully bowed. sounds of sorrow break from all lips. the sight pierces like a sword through the heart of the forsaken bride. she sinks to the ground _entseelt_--exanimate. such figures as play their part in this story, the silver knight, with his swan and faery skiff, the fair falsely-accused damsel, the wicked sorceress, could hardly be painted in flagrant life-colours. the music of lohengrin brings to mind pictures one seems to remember on vellum margins of old books of legend, where against a golden background shine forth vivid yet delicate shapes, in tints brilliant yet soft as distance, the green of april, the rose of day-break, the blue of remote horizons. there is an older story on these same lines, the story of cupid and psyche, an allegory, we are told, of love and the soul. and an allegory is meant to teach somewhat. and what does this teach--but that one must be great? not enough to be innocent, kind, loving, pure as snow, like elsa, a being golden and lovely through and through, such as could lure down a sort of angel from his heaven. beside it all, great one must be. life, the sphinx, requires upon occasion that one be great. just a little greatness, so to speak, and elsa would first of all have recognised the obligation to keep her word; would further have trusted what must have been her own profound instinct about the man she loved, rather than the suggestions of others troubling her shallow mind-surface. had she been great, we may almost affirm, she would have known that he was great; she would have trusted truth and greatness though they came to her unlabelled. but life, the sphinx, proposed to her a riddle, and because she was no more than a poor, sweet, limited woman she could not solve it, and life ground her in its teeth and swallowed her up. tannhäuser tannhäuser i. we are shown in the ouverture of tannhäuser the power which contended for the young knight and minstrel's soul: the appeal of good is symbolised by the solemn chant of the pilgrims; of evil, by the voice of venus, the song of the sirens, the bacchic dance. we are not informed how he came into the hill of venus, but when we see him at the landgrave's court, which we are told he forsook of yore in offended pride, we think we divine. he is more greatly gifted than any of his associates. by his sense of superiority he is made--young and hot-blooded as he is,--haughty, quick, impatient. they cannot suffer his overbearing way. we can imagine how upon an occasion he left them, after a round quarrel, in a fury of vexation, sick with disgust at the whole world of such slow, limited creatures, the whole world of petty passions and narrow circumstances, in a mood to sell himself to the devil for something in life which should seem to him worth while, of satisfactory size, peer to himself. and so his feet had come in the familiar valley suddenly upon a new path, and been led to the interior of the mountain where venus, driven from the surface of the earth by the usurping cross, had taken refuge with all her pagan train. there the queen of love herself had contented him, and his thirsty youth had thought this no doubt a sufficient crown of life; this had met all his vast desires, appeased all his boundless pride. he had lived in the rosy atmosphere there he knew not how long, existence one feast, at which everything in man was satisfied, heart, imagination, senses--everything but his soul. we first have sight of him lying at the feet of venus, his head pillowed on her lap. there are dances and revels for their delight, but he has fallen asleep,--and in his dream he hears, through the song of stupefying sweetness in which the sirens hold forth enkindling promises, a fragment of anthem, the long-forgotten music of church-bells. he starts awake. the tender queen draws down-his head again with a caress. "beloved, where are your thoughts?" but his neglected soul has in dream made its claim. the sweetness of all this other is found by sudden revulsion cloying to the point of despair. "too much!" he cries wildly, "too much! oh, that i might awaken!" at just that touch, that sound in sleep of bells, his whole poor humanity has flooded back upon him, and at the goddess's indulgent "tell me what troubles you?" his weak infinite homesickness breaks bounds. "it seemed to me, in my dream, that i heard--what so long has been foreign to my ear!--the pleasant pealing of bells. oh, tell me, how long is it that i hear them no more? i cannot measure the length of my sojourn here. there are no longer for me days or months, since i no longer see the sun or the sky's friendly constellations. the grass-blade i see no more, which, clothing itself with fresh green, brings in the new summer. the nightingale i hear no more announcing the return of spring. am i never to hear them, never to see them more?" venus, mildly amazed at folly so prodigious, reproaches him for this complaining, these regrets. what, is he so soon weary of the marvels with which her love surrounds him? discontented so soon with being a god? has he so soon forgotten the old unhappiness? "my minstrel, up! take your harp! sing the praise of love, which you celebrate so gloriously that you won the goddess of love herself." tannhäuser, thus bidden, seizes the harp and warmly entones a hymn of praise to her, which from its climax of ardour, suddenly--as if his lips were tripped by the word "mortal" occurring in the song,--turns into a prayer to her to release him. "but mortal, alas, i have remained, and your love is over-great for me. a god has the capacity to enjoy perpetually, but i am the creature of change. not joy alone can satisfy my heart, after pleasure i yearn for sorrow. forth from your kingdom i must fare. oh, queen, goddess, let me depart!" reproachful questions succeed on her part: of what neglect has her love been guilty, of what can he accuse her? in reply, grasping his harp again, he adds fiery praise to praise of her greatness, the wonders of her kingdom,--to drop again into his prayer for release: "but i, amid these rosy perfumes, i yearn for the odour of the forest, yearn for the pure blue of our skies, the fresh green of our sward, the sweet song of our birds, the dear sound of our bells! forth from your kingdom i must fare. o queen, goddess, let me depart!" the beautiful queen's surprise is turning to anger, without ceasing to be surprise. "you sing the praise of my love, and wish at the same time to flee from it? my beauty, is it possible, has brought surfeit?" he tells her, disarmingly as he may, what must fall incomprehensibly on her pagan ears, that it is that over-great beauty of hers he must shun, that never was his love greater, never sincerer, than in this moment when he must flee from her forever. she drops chiding then, truly alarmed, and tempts. she paints to him with glowing art the delights awaiting them; to these she bids him with the persuasive voice of love. when the goddess of beauty thus invites a mortal, she feels secure in counting upon his forgetting all else. but this tannhäuser, with the dreamy echo in his earth-born ears of the church-bells of home, he catches, instead of her beautiful form to his breast, his harp again. he grants that her beauty is the source of all beauty, that every lovely marvel has its origin in her: against the whole world, he promises, he will thereafter be her champion, but--back to the world of earth go he must, for here he can but become a slave. freedom, for freedom he thirsts! battle and struggle he must have, though he should meet through them defeat and death. forth from her kingdom he must fare! queen, goddess, let him depart! "go, then, madman, go!" she bids him in lovely wrath. "traitor, see, i do not hold you back! i leave you free, go your way, go your way! let your doom be to have that which you yearn for! go back to cold mankind, before whose gross dismal delusion we gods of joy fled deep into the warm bosom of the earth. go back to them, infatuated! seek your soul's welfare and find it never! not long before your proud heart will surrender. i shall see you humbly draw near. broken, trampled, you will come seeking me, will invoke the wonders of my power!" unheedful of the remainder, he seizes avidly upon his dismissal. "ah, lovely goddess, farewell! never will i return!" what--never return? she threatens with her curse, if he shall not return, him and the whole human race: in vain let them go seeking for her miracles, let the world become a wilderness and have for its hero a slave! but yet--he cannot have meant what he said, he will come back, let him say that he will come back! "nevermore!" cries the captive of this suffocating prison-house of love, as he pants upon the threshold of freedom, "nevermore let joy of love delight me!"--"come back" she desperately entreats, "when your heart impels you!"--"forever your beloved flees!"--"come back when the whole world rejects you!"--"through penance i shall be absolved from sin!"--"never shall you gain forgiveness! come back if the gates of salvation close to you!"--"salvation!... my hope of salvation lies in the blessed mary!" at that name, venus uttering a cry vanishes, and with her the dim-lit subterranean kingdom.... tannhäuser finds himself standing in a sunny well-known valley, near to a road-side shrine of the blessed mary at whose hem he had caught. the wartburg is in sight, where he was used in former days to take part in song-tournaments. in dim distance looms the hörselberg, concerning which a sinister rumour ran: that in the heart of it the pagan goddess venus still lived and held her court. all the landscape smiles, the trees are in blossom, nature is altogether at her loveliest. oh, so sweeter to the ears of the resuscitated knight than the song of sirens, comes the homely tinkle of sheepbells. a little shepherd pipes and sings in joy over the return of may. tannhäuser stands statue-still, as if he feared by the slightest movement to wake himself, to dispel the vision. a band of penitents, starting on a pilgrimage to far-off rome, defile past the virgin's shrine, saluting her and asking her grace upon their pilgrimage. their pious chant stirs in tannhäuser deep, long-untouched chords. at the same moment that the aroused sense of pollution would overwhelm him, the reminder shines forth to him in the pilgrims' words of the possibility of forgiveness and regeneration through repentance and penitential practices. a very miracle of god's grace it seems to him, by which he sees the door of hope open to him anew. the weight of his emotion forces him to his knees; he makes his own the words of the pilgrims wending their way out of sight: "ah, heavily oppresses me the burden of sin, no longer can i carry it. no more will i therefore of ease and rest, but choose for my portion pain and effort." the pilgrims' voices come drifting more and more dyingly, the breeze wafts sounds of church-bells. with tears tannhäuser bows his head and sinks into prayer. cheerful hunting-horns breaking upon the air do not rouse him, nor the approach of the hunters. they are the landgrave and a group of his favorite minstrel-knights. catching sight of the kneeling figure, they stop to observe it. the minstrel wolfram recognises their old companion, heinrich, who had left them, time gone, to disappear utterly. the circumstances of their parting are suggested by the first words uttered when tannhäuser starts to his feet and faces them. "is it truly yourself?" asks the landgrave; "have you come back to the community which you forsook in impatient arrogance?"--"tell us what is implied by your return?" says the minstrel biterolf; "reconciliation? or renewed battle?"--"do you come as friend or foe?" asks the minstrel walther. so much the more probable thing does it seem that he comes as foe that there is a challenging note in the address of all--save wolfram. the latter, the gentlest soul among them, has taken account of the old companion's countenance; his sympathy is quick to interpret it, by a word he changes the mood toward him of all the others. "as a foe? how can you ask? is that the bearing of arrogance? oh, welcome back among us, you singer bold, who