With his next opera—for Tosca is the only one of his works so entitled by the composer—Puccini made a rather curious reversal of the proceedings as compared with La BohÈme, taking it from an Italian story treated from the French point of view. From the old world story of Murger, Puccini turned to a notable example of modern French stagecraft, in Sardou's drama of La Tosca. His librettists again were Giocosa and Illica, and they provided the composer with a strikingly apt presentation of the grim story; not one, perhaps, that lends itself altogether to musical expression, but one which certainly grips the attention and carries the hearer along. By Tosca, Puccini certainly sustained his now universal popularity made manifest by the preceding La BohÈme. It was given first at the Costanzi Theatre, Rome, on January 14, 1900, conducted by Mugnone, and cast as follows:

London saw it in the summer of the same year at Covent Garden, where it was given on July 12 with the following cast, Mancinelli being the conductor.

In America, Tosca was first given in Italian on February 4, 1901, at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, by Maurice Grau's company, the cast and conductor being the same as that for the first Covent Garden performance, with the substitution of Cremonini for De Lucia as Cavaradossi.

Its first American production in English was by Henry W. Savage's company, at the Teck Theatre, Buffalo, and cast as follows, Emanuel being the conductor:

In the music of Tosca Puccini reveals, more powerfully perhaps than anywhere, that quick instinct of the theatre which may be called dramatic, or merely a very clever fitting of music to the mood of the moment. It is, in fact, very purely melodramatic, the word being used here not in its accepted sense of the traditional "tootle-tootle" in the orchestra when the wicked villain pursues the innocent and sorely tried heroine. The story is tragic in all conscience, but it hardly reaches the level of true tragedy, since it is more horrible than impressive, and lacks that restraint and poetry which are two necessary qualities. This much must be said for the operatic version. It is a shade less revolting, less purely realistic than the drama, and it undoubtedly provides a splendid acting rÔle for the exponent of the name part; while the lover, and the villain—Scarpia, the chief of the police—are provided with opportunities, very little behind, in point of vocal and dramatic effect. One could very well imagine a production, on prevailing lines set upon elaboration of detail, in which Puccini's music, or a great deal of it, was used purely as incidental music. This suggestion, however, must in no way be taken to mean that as a whole the music of this opera lacks continuity of interest or fails to exhibit the close and essential union between speech and song. There are many pages of strong and definite lyrical charm, but somehow the main interest lies in the action which fascinates the spectator, rather, one feels, against his better—or more calm—judgment. It is, in short, a most moving picture of love, hate, jealousy, passion and intrigue. These, after all, form the great bulk of the material for operatic treatment; and without entering into the question whether Tosca is or is not a work for all time, it has certain very "live" attributes which make it a notable achievement.

The scene in the first act shows the Attavanti Chapel in the Church of Saint Andrea della Valle in Rome. The strenuous, shuddering chords which preface the short prelude are representative of the cruel nature of Scarpia, whose personality dominates the scene—more than this, the figure seems to give at once the atmosphere of stress, and hints at a wealth of incident which characterises the whole of that which is to follow.

A man in prison garb, harassed, dishevelled, well-nigh breathless with fear and haste, comes in and glances hastily this way and that. This is Angelotti, a victim of Papal tyranny, who has escaped from the Castle of S. Angelo; and his entrance, it will be noted, is also characterised by a theme always associated with him throughout the work.

On a pillar is an image of the Virgin, and underneath it a stoup. "My sister wrote to tell me of this spot," says Angelotti, as he searches for the key which will open the chapel and allow him to escape. While he searches in feverish haste the string of chromatic chords carries on the idea of his agitation. With yet another glance to reassure himself that he has not been followed, he opens the gate in the grille of the chapel and disappears.

A light tripping figure ushers in the Sacristan, and it continues for a space while he walks to the daÏs, on which is an easel and a covered picture. He complains of the bother he has in washing the brushes of the artist who is painting an altar-piece. He is surprised not to find Cavaradossi painting. The Angelus rings, and the Sacristan kneels and continues the prayer.

Cavaradossi now comes in, and a broad melodious phrase is heard as he ascends the daÏs and uncovers the picture. The Sacristan is amazed to find that it represents the features of a lady who has been frequently to pray in the church, and is further shocked when the artist draws forth a miniature and compares it with his figure, into whose features he has incorporated the dusky glow and peach-like bloom of his beloved Floria. The phrase indicated at Cavaradossi's entrance now swells out in a lyrical melody in which he sings that his Madonna's eyes are blue, while Tosca's are dark as a moonless night, the Sacristan punctuating the rhapsody with a pious ejaculation to the effect that the artist scorns the saints and jests with the ungodly.

After the Sacristan's departure to a snatch of his characteristic phrase, Angelotti, believing the church empty, comes out of the chapel. Cavaradossi does not at first recognise, in this prison-worn creature, his friend the Consul of the Republic. Tosca's voice is heard, and the artist makes a sign to Angelotti to remain yet a little while in hiding, and on hearing that the fugitive is spent with hunger, he gives him the basket left, for his refreshment, by the Sacristan.

A quick moving figure, accompanied by triplets, announces Tosca's entrance, and she thinks that she has heard her lover conversing with another woman, and even declares she heard the swish of skirts. Cavaradossi attempts to embrace her, but she reproves him, and first makes an offering before the Virgin's shrine. This done, she tells him that although she is singing at the theatre that evening, the piece is a short one, and proceeds to sing in a delightfully suave melody, which increases gradually in intensity, of the delights of love in a quiet secluded cottage far away from all worldly distractions. Cavaradossi comes in at the close with an impassioned burst on a characteristic high note, in which he says that he is caught in the toils of her enchantment. The artist makes as his excuse for her quick dismissal the need of continuing his work on the picture, but his frequent glances towards the chapel show that his anxiety for his friend is the cause of his agitation. But Tosca now comes in sight of the picture, and is struck by the resemblance of the face to some one she has seen. She immediately connects the whispering she has heard before arriving upon the scene and the anxious looks towards the chapel together as a proof that Cavaradossi has been meeting the original of the picture. The incident, however, leads up to a further avowal of devotion on the part of Cavaradossi, and their voices blend together for a brief space in a delicious bit of melody. Tosca elects to be comforted, and with a final thrust she goes out, requesting her lover to change the lady's eyes to black ones.

Angelotti now comes out of the chapel and tells of his plan of escape. Cavaradossi gives him the key of his villa, and indicates the way he may reach it. Angelotti takes up the bundle of clothes left by his sister for his disguise—the sister being the lady who has been frequenting the church of late, and who has attracted the artist's attention—and goes off, while his friend tells him, as a final precaution in case of urgent need, of a passage that leads down to a cellar. Just as Angelotti is going the cannon sound from the fortress, giving the signal that the prisoner's escape has been discovered.

On their exit, the Sacristan enters, followed by choir boys, acolytes and a crowd of people. The Sacristan tells them the news of Bonaparte's defeat, that there will be rejoicings and a new cantata for the occasion sung by Tosca, and his snatch of melody is cleverly derived from the theme heard on his first entrance. The choir boys burst out into a great riot of joyous merrymaking, beginning with "Te Deum" and "Gloria," and breaking out into "Long live the King," the Sacristan trying his best to drive them into the sacristy to vest for the festival service. Their jollity is cut short by the entrance of Scarpia—whose sinister theme breaks in characteristically, as always—followed by Spoletta and others of his staff. After bidding them curtly prepare for the solemn "Te Deum," he motions the rather frightened Sacristan to his side, and tells him that a State prisoner has escaped, and from information received has been tracked here. He asks which is the Attavanti Chapel, and the facts that the gate is open and that a new key is in the lock give at once a clue.

A police agent comes out of the chapel and brings with him the basket given to Angelotti by Cavaradossi; and Scarpia, after a little more judicious questioning of the Sacristan, is able to guess that the fugitive has been assisted by the painter.

Tosca now comes back, and after signalling to the Sacristan, Scarpia retires behind a pillar, watching her as she looks about for Cavaradossi. To serve his own ends, he decides to rouse the jealousy of the woman; and after a little flattery, expressed in a suave, flowing melody, he brings out a fan and mildly inquires whether it forms any part of the customary outfit of a painter. From the coronet on it Tosca recognises it as belonging to the Marchioness Attavanti, who is the sister of Angelotti, and a member of the family to whom the chapel is dedicated. Forgetful of Scarpia's presence and the place where she is, Tosca, in a finely emotional passage—broken into now and again by Scarpia, who rams home his poisonous suggestions—bewails the weakness of her lover; and the wily Scarpia, after tenderly escorting her to the church door, despatches an agent to watch her closely. His exultation at having fired her jealousy is punctuated twice by the sound of cannon; and into the rather curious triplet accompaniments is worked the opening phrases of the organ, which signals the approach of the procession of the Chapter, with the Cardinal, to whom Scarpia makes a reverence as he passes him.

"Our help is in the name of the Lord, who hath made heaven and earth," sing the Chapter and monks, while Scarpia continues his musings as to the business he has on hand. From the mere catching of the escaped prisoners his thoughts turn to lustful possession of Tosca; and the whole scene, finely contrasted, is worked up with superb force into one of those magnificently solid finales which reveal the technic of Puccini so emphatically. The cannon continue to go off—the sound is managed, by the way, by striking a huge cone over which is stretched, drum-fashion, a tight skin—the whole crowd turn towards the high altar, the stately "Te Deum" swells through the church, and at the end, Scarpia, after saying that for Tosca he would renounce his hopes of heaven, joins in the last phrase: "All the earth shall worship Thee, the Father everlasting." The curtain descends quickly to the harsh progression of chords forming the Scarpia theme.

The second act shows us Scarpia's room in the Farnese Palace. It is on an upper floor. To the left a table is laid, and at the back a large window looks over the courtyard.

Scarpia is at supper, and looks at his watch from time to time impatiently. "Tosca is a famous decoy," he sings; "to-morrow's sunrise shall see the two conspirators hanging side by side on my tallest gallows." Ringing a handbell, which is answered by Sciarrone, he inquires whether Tosca is in the Palace, and learns that she has been summoned thither. Scarpia orders the window to be thrown open, and borne on the evening air comes the sound of a gavotte from the orchestra which is playing in one of the lower rooms at an entertainment given by Queen Caroline. Very skilfully is this graceful little melody, just sufficiently archaic in its mould to be characteristic of the period, used as a background for the clever dialogue which follows, from which we learn that Tosca is to be lured to the Palace in the hope of seeing Cavaradossi. Spoletta comes in to give an account of his visit to the villa, and enrages Scarpia by telling him of Angelotti's escape. The minister is somewhat mollified when Spoletta tells him that he promptly secured the painter. Now, with striking effect, the dance measure gives place to a cantata, proving that Tosca is in the Palace in the Queen's apartments. Scarpia's directions as to securing Cavaradossi are worked into the musical fabric with consummate effect, and continue as the painter, now a prisoner, is led in. Cavaradossi breaks off from his curt and guarded replies to Scarpia's questioning on hearing Tosca's voice. He denies strenuously that Angelotti received any aid from him, and even laughs at his examiner. Scarpia shuts the window in anger, and the repetition of his characteristic similar phrase leads up to a strenuous passage in which determination is skilfully depicted in contrast to the almost colloquial movement of the preceding passages. "Once more," says Scarpia, "where is Angelotti?" and from a remark by Spoletta the application of the process torture to wring a confession from the prisoner is hinted at. Tosca now enters, and runs quickly to her lover, who tells her quickly in an undertone not to say a word of what she has seen at the villa. As Scarpia signals to Sciarrone to slide back the panel which leads to the torture chamber, he says formally, "Mario Cavaradossi, the judge is wanting to take your depositions." Sciarrone then gives the directions to Roberto, an underling, to at first apply the usual pressure, and to increase it as he will direct him.

Then follows a highly dramatic scene, ushered in with a characteristic theme indicating the torture which Tosca's lover is to undergo, between Scarpia and Tosca, in which the latter dismisses the fan episode as a feeble trick to rouse her jealousy. Scarpia, however, comes very quickly to plain speaking, and tells Tosca that she had better confess all that she knows as to the escape of Angelotti if she wishes to spare Cavaradossi an hour of anguish. Tosca learns with horror that a fillet of steel, gradually tightening round the temples, is being applied to Cavaradossi's head, and on hearing his groan of pain, she relents and bursts out that she will speak if he is released. But Mario from within calls on Tosca to be silent, and that he despises the pain. Scarpia directs further pressure to be applied. Tosca is allowed to gaze through the open door, and, distracted by what she sees, signifies her intention of revealing all she knows. Her mind is made up when she hears another groan of anguish, and she tells Scarpia that Angelotti is to be found in the well in the garden of the villa. Scarpia now orders Cavaradossi to be brought in. From Scarpia's directions to Spoletta, the fainting victim, nearly at his last gasp by what he had endured, learns of Tosca's treachery, and curses her. This painful scene, finely worked up as it is in intensity, comes to a climax by the news brought in by Sciarrone of the victory at Marengo by Bonaparte. This enrages Scarpia, but he will at least keep the victim he has in hand; and Cavaradossi, exulting as he foresees the downfall of the minister, is borne off. Tosca now turns to Scarpia, and implores him to save Cavaradossi. Splendidly dramatic is the closing scene, beginning with Scarpia's light and airy remark that his little supper was interrupted, and rising to heights of emotional fulness when Tosca asks him outright to name his price for saving her lover's life. Tosca's horrified scream, to a rising passage of two high notes, when she listens to Scarpia's lascivious proposals, thoroughly fits the situation. The drums are used cleverly to indicate the march of the prisoners to their doom, and the setting up of the gallows for Cavaradossi, and in contrast to Scarpia's sinister passages, comes the broad lyrical and impassioned prayer of Tosca, who rails at God for having forsaken her in her hour of need. Scarpia presses his infamous proposals, when Spoletta returns, and speaking outside brings the news that Angelotti has poisoned himself rather than allow himself to be taken. A question as to the disposal of Cavaradossi brings the climax, and Tosca, by taking upon herself to give directions as to this, indicates her consent to Scarpia's wishes. But this master of deceit will not allow the release to be managed in any but his own way. He tells Spoletta that there will be an execution, but it will be a sham one, as in the case of another prisoner, by name Palmieri, the guns being loaded with blank cartridge only, and the victim instructed to fall and feign death. But Tosca wants more than this on her side of the bargain. Scarpia must give them both a passport out of the place, and as he goes to the table to write it Tosca's eyes catch sight of a knife on the table. In an instant her mind is made up, and as he returns to give her the paper, and to clasp her in a feverish embrace, she plunges the knife into his heart. The death-scene is perhaps a little prolonged, but seeing that it has been preceded by the torturing of Cavaradossi, it is at least logical that Tosca should remind him of the ghastly torture he inflicted on her loved one. The intensity of the scene is rounded off by the expressive phrase on a low monotone of Tosca, "And yesterday all Rome lay at this man's feet." The action to the finishing notes of this moving scene follows that of the play. Tosca searches for the passport, and snatches it from the fast locking palms of the dead man. With a shudder she rinses her finger with a serviette dipped in the carafe, and then puts the candles from the supper table at the head of the corpse, and taking a crucifix from the wall, places it on the breast, as the Scarpia theme in long-drawn chords is played softly by the orchestra. She goes out quietly as the curtain falls.

The third act takes place on an open space or platform within the Castle of S. Angelo. At the back we see the dome of S. Peter's and the Vatican. The expressive prelude, and the opening song by a shepherd, are musically of great interest. It begins with a horn passage, and at the rise of the curtain it is still night, and we see the dawn break, and hear the many bells from the church towers, one of the most striking sounds of the Eternal city.

The pastoral melody of the shepherd has a plaintive character, and he sings:

Day now is breaking,
The weary world awaking,
Lending new sorrow
And sadness to the morrow. And the sheep-bells come in with their jangle as the shepherd continues, with a suggestion of a love theme:

If you could prize me
To live I might try,
But if you despise me
I may as well die.

Then the church bells continue the strain, now near, now afar.

A gaoler enters and looks over the parapet to see if the soldiers to whom is entrusted the grim task of execution have arrived. Led by a sergeant, the picket enters, bringing Cavaradossi. The gaoler, after making him sign a paper, tells him that he has an hour, and that a priest is at his disposal. Cavaradossi, after giving a ring to the gaoler as the price of the favour, is allowed to write a letter, and sings his beautiful air, one of the chief lyrical gems of the opera, "E luce van stelle." It ends emotionally, and the singer bursts into tears with the thought that never was life so dear to him as now when he is within sight of death.

Spoletta comes in bringing Tosca, and is amazed to find that she brings a safe-conduct. Tosca and Cavaradossi join in a finely expressive duet, in which the latter learns of her devotion, and how for him she killed Scarpia. Towards the close the voices are unsupported, and the whole number has a very characteristic force and movement.

The sky has gradually been getting lighter, and the passage of time is marked by the striking of the hour of four by the church clock. Then Tosca gives the final instructions to the condemned man. "As soon as they fire, fall down." Cavaradossi, in his joy at his coming release, is even able to be humorous, and suggests that he will be acting like Tosca.

Tosca watches the supposed execution from the parapet. "How well he acts!" she cries, after she has covered her ears with her hands to shut out the sound of the shooting, and then sees her lover prostrate on the ground. Leaning over, she calls to him: "Get up, Mario, now. Quickly away, Mario, Mario." Then with a heart-piercing cry she learns that Scarpia has been false to the end, and that the execution has in very truth taken place. By this time the news of Scarpia's death has come out, and Spoletta naturally fixes on Tosca as the murderess. The soldiers' voices are heard joining in the hue and cry, and Sciarrone comes in to seize Tosca. Tosca after thrusting back Spoletta nearly to the ground, hurls herself from the parapet. Her last thoughts are of the tyrant who has so cruelly wronged her, and her last words are: "O Scarpia, we shall face God together!"

In pure orchestration, Puccini in Tosca shows an advance on La BohÈme, in the general symphonic fulness and in the more extended use of representative themes. The orchestra employed is the usual large orchestra of the moderns, and Puccini adds a third flute, a contrabassoon, a celesta, and for the special effects in the opening of the third act a set of bells. There are several places where more work than hitherto is obtained from the dividing of the strings, but not in any way like the Strauss method, for example, of subdividing them into several distinct groups. As will have been seen during the progress of the story, the themes stand out as invariably characteristic, and at the first entrance of Tosca the theme is delightful, given out by the flute against the plucked strings. There is excellent work by the wood wind in the impressive finale of the first act, which is mainly developed out of the bell theme.

In the pastoral music at the opening of the third act Puccini uses with characteristic force a passage of fifths—one which he is always very fond of employing, and which, curiously enough, always has the effect of bringing about the special flavour or atmosphere it is intended to convey in any one particular place.

In the Daily Telegraph the critic prefaces his column notice, which appeared the day after the first production, with a protest against the conjunction of a pure and beautiful art—music—with the workings of a humanity that has gone to the devil. But apart from these considerations, the writer has little but praise for the singularly lucid libretto.

"The first and all important remark to make concerning the music," he proceeds, "has to do with its Italian character. There is very little that can be regarded as common to it and to the typical German opera. The pedestal is not on the stage and the statue in the orchestra. Tosca does not offer us declamation as a key to symphonic music nor symphonic music as a key to declamation. The work does not follow the old operatic lines into matter of detail. All is subordinate to the changing situations and emotions of the stage. So far Tosca is modern; for the rest it presents the characteristics which have always distinguished Italian opera—long reaches of tender or passionate melody, intense climaxes, and a disposition to proceed everywhere on broad and direct lines to the desired goal."

The charm of the light music of the first act, the beautiful soul of Cavaradossi to the picture he has painted, the piling up of the effects in the finale, the vigour of the music in the second act, particularly where Scarpia presses his suit, and the duet of the lovers at S. Angelo, are the points which call forth praise, while, on the other hand, this critic finds most of the music allotted to Angelotti and Scarpia dull. The notice ends with a tribute to the art of Ternina, who "acted with the grace and directness of a true tragedian."

Mr. Arthur Hervey, in the Morning Post, sets out, very clearly and characteristically, a plain and straightforward account of the music and story. The curious succession of chords at the opening of the prelude, the suggestion of the amorous nature of Scarpia's character by the opening notes of the second act, the pleasing effect of the gavotte heard during Scarpia's monologue, when he awaits the arrival of his spies, the beautiful song for Tosca, "Vissi d'arte d'amor," the beauty of the music in the last act, the ingenuity, finish and resource of the orchestration as a whole, are points which are fully expressed by this discerning critic. With regard to the interpretation, he does not find Signor Scotti's Scarpia entirely satisfactory, while he joins in the fullest praise for Ternina's masterly performance in the name part. It ends, that the opera was received with every sign of success, and that the composer, Mancinelli, the conductor, and the exponents were called many times before the curtain.

The Times critic makes an interesting comparison at the outset of his notice, referring to the masterly finale of the first act: "The scene is one in which Meyerbeer would have delighted, but it is treated by Puccini with far greater sincerity than Meyerbeer could ever command, and with a knowledge of effect at least equal to his." With regard to the use of representative themes, the writer finds that the one associated with the passion of Scarpia—a phrase with an arpeggio in it, appears to be derived from the woman's charm in the "Ring." Referring to the gavotte and cantata at the opening of the second act, the writer says they are "in excellent style and belong to the period of the action or a little before it, as it may be doubted whether the Roman composers of 1800 were capable of producing so interesting a piece of solid workmanship as the cantata, or so graceful and original a composition as the gavotte."