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	}	Smugglers.
El Remendado

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:

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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:

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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:

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[Listen]

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:

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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!"

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