Gustav KobbE

THE composer of "Lucia di Lammermoor," an opera produced in 1835, but seemingly with a long lease of life yet ahead of it, was born at Bergamo, November 29, 1797. He composed nearly seventy operas.

His first real success, "Anna Bolena," was brought out in Rome, in 1830. Even before that, however, thirty-one operas by him had been performed. Of his many works, the comparatively few still heard nowadays are, in the order of their production, "L'Elisire d'Amore," "Lucrezia Borgia," "Lucia di Lammermoor," "La Figlia del Reggimento," "La Favorita," "Linda di Chamounix," and "Don Pasquale." A clever little one-act comedy opera, "Il Campanello di Notte" (The Night Bell) was revived in New York in the spring of 1917.

With a gift for melody as facile as Bellini's, Donizetti is more dramatic, his harmonization less monotonous, and his orchestration more careful. This is shown by his choice of instruments for special effects, like the harp solo preceding the appearance of Lucia, the flute obligato in the mad scene in the opera of which she is the heroine, and the bassoons introducing "Una furtiva lagrima," in "L'Elisire d'Amore." He is a distinct factor in the evolution of Italian opera from Rossini to and including Verdi, from whom, in turn, the living Italian opera composers of note derive.

Donizetti's father was a weaver, who wished his son to become a lawyer. But he finally was permitted to enter the conservatory at Bergamo, where, among other teachers, he had J.H. Mayr in harmony. He studied further, on Mayr's recommendation, with Padre Martini.

As his father wanted him to teach so that he would be self-supporting, he enlisted in the army, and was ordered to Venice. There in his leisure moments he composed his first opera, "Enrico di Borgogna," produced, Venice, 1818. In 1845 he was stricken with paralysis. He died at Bergamo, April 8, 1848.

L’ELISIRE D’AMORE
THE ELIXIR OF LOVE

Opera, in two acts. Music by Donizetti; words by Felice Romani. Produced, Milan, May 12, 1832; London, December 10, 1836; New Orleans, March 30, 1842; New York, Academy of Music, 1883-84, with Gerster; Metropolitan Opera House, 1904, with Sembrich, Caruso, Scotti, and Rossi.

Characters

Nemorino, a young peasant	Tenor
Adina, wealthy, and owner of a farm	Soprano
Belcore, a sergeant	Baritone
Dulcamara, a quack doctor	Bass
Giannetta, a peasant girl	Soprano

Time—Nineteenth Century.

Place—A small Italian village.

Act I. Beauty and riches have made the young peasant woman, Adina, exacting. She laughs at the embarrassed courting of the true-hearted peasant lad, Nemorino; she laughs at the story of "Tristan and Isolde," and rejoices that there are now no more elixirs to bring the merry heart of woman into slavish dependence on love. Yet she does not seem so much indifferent to Nemorino as piqued over his lack of courage to come to the point.

Sergeant Belcore arrives in the village at the head of a troop of soldiers. He seeks to win Adina's heart by storm. The villagers tease Nemorino about his soldier rival. The young peasant is almost driven to despair by their raillery. Enter the peripatetic quack, Dr. Dulcamara. For a ducat Nemorino eagerly buys of him a flask of cheap Bordeaux, which the quack assures him is an elixir of love, and that, within twenty-four hours, it will enable him to win Adina. Nemorino empties the flask at a draught. A certain effect shows itself at once. Under the influence of the Bordeaux he falls into extravagant mirth, sings, dances—and grieves no more about Adina, who becomes piqued and, to vex Nemorino, engages herself to marry Sergeant Belcore. An order comes to the troops to move. The Sergeant presses for an immediate marriage. To this Adina, still under the influence of pique, consents. Nemorino seeks to console himself by louder singing and livelier dancing.

Act II. The village is assembled on Adina's farm to celebrate her marriage with the Sergeant. But it is noticeable that she keeps putting off signing the marriage contract. Nemorino awaits the effect of the elixir. To make sure of it, he buys from Dulcamara a second bottle. Not having the money to pay for it, and Belcore being on the lookout for recruits, Nemorino enlists and, with the money he receives, pays Dulcamara. The fresh dose of the supposed elixir makes Nemorino livelier than ever. He pictures to himself the glory of a soldier's career. He also finds himself greatly admired by the village girls, for enlisting. Adina also realizes that he has joined the army out of devotion to her, and indicates that she favours him rather than Belcore. But he now has the exalted pleasure of treating her with indifference, so that she goes away very sad. He attributes his luck to the elixir.

Hempel and Caruso

Photo by White

Hempel (Adina) and Caruso (Nemorino) in “L’Elisir d’Amore”

The villagers have learned that his rich uncle is dead and has left a will making him his heir. But because this news has not yet been communicated to him, he thinks their attentions due to the love-philtre, and believes the more firmly in its efficacy. In any event, Adina has perceived, upon the Sergeant's pressing her to sign the marriage contract, that she really prefers Nemorino. Like a shrewd little woman, she takes matters into her own hands, and buys back from Sergeant Belcore her lover's enlistment paper. Having thus set him free, she behaves so coyly that Nemorino threatens to seek death in battle, whereupon she faints right into his arms. The Sergeant bears this unlucky turn of affairs with the bravery of a soldier, while Dulcamara's fame becomes such that he can sell to the villagers his entire stock of Bordeaux for love elixir at a price that makes him rich.

The elixir of life of this "Elixir of Love" is the romance for tenor in the second act, "Una furtiva lagrima" (A furtive tear), which Nemorino sings as Adina sadly leaves him, when she thinks that he has become indifferent to her. It was because of Caruso's admirable rendition of this beautiful romance that the opera was revived at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, in 1904. Even the instrumental introduction to it, in which the bassoons carry the air, is captivating.

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Act I is laid on Adina's farm. Adina has a florid air, "Chiedi all'aura lusinghiera" (Go, demand of yon light zephyr), with which she turns aside from Nemorino's attentions.

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Chiedi all'aura lusinghiera,

The scene then changes to a square in the village. Here Dr. Dulcamara makes his entry, singing his buffo air, "Udite, udite, o rustici" (Give ear, now, ye rustic ones). There are two attractive duets in this scene. One is for Nemorino and Dr. Dulcamara, "Obbligato! obbligato!" (Thank you kindly! thank you kindly!).

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The other, for Adina and Nemorino, is "Esulti pur la barbara per poco alle mie pene" (Tho' now th' exulting cruel one can thus deride my bitter pain).

Act II, which shows a room in Adina's farmhouse, opens with a bright chorus of rejoicing at her approaching wedding. Dulcamara brings out a piece of music, which he says is the latest thing from Venice, a barcarole for two voices. He and Adina sing it; a dainty duet, "Io son ricco, e tu sei bella" (I have riches, thou hast beauty) which figures in all the old potpourris of the opera.

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There is a scene for Nemorino, Giannetta, and the peasants, in which Nemorino praises the elixir, "Dell'elisir mirabile" (Of this most potent elixir). Later comes another duet for Adina and Dulcamara, "Quanto amore!" (What affection!) in which Adina expresses her realization of the death of Nemorino's affection for her.

"The score of 'Elisire d'Amore,'" says the Dictionnaire des OpÉras, "is one of the most pleasing that the Bergamo composer has written in the comic vein. It abounds in charming motifs and graceful melodies. In the first act the duet for tenor and bass between the young villager and Dr. Dulcamara is a little masterpiece of animation, the accompaniment of which is as interesting as the vocal parts. The most striking passages of the second act are the chorus, 'Cantiamo, facciam brindisi'; the barcarole for two voices, 'Io son ricco, e tu sei bella'; the quartet, 'Dell'elisir mirabile'; the duet between Adina and Dulcamara, 'Quanto amore'; and finally the lovely and smoothly-flowing romance of Nemorino, 'Una furtiva lagrima,' which is one of the most remarkable inspirations of Donizetti."

LUCREZIA BORGIA

When an opera, without actually maintaining itself in the repertory, nevertheless is an object of occasional revival, it is sure to contain striking passages that seem to justify the experiment of bringing it forward again. "Lucrezia Borgia" has a male character, Maffio Orsini, sung by a contralto. Orsini's ballata, "Il segreto per esser felici" (O the secret of bliss in perfection), is a famous contralto air which Ernestine Schumann-Heink, with her voice of extraordinary range, has made well known all over the United States.

I quote the lines from the Ditson libretto:

The music has all the dash and abandon that the words suggest. Orsini sings it at a banquet in Ferrara. Suddenly from a neighbouring room comes the sound of monks' voices chanting a dirge. A door opens. The penitents, still chanting, enter. The lights grow dim and one by one go out. The central doors swing back. Lucrezia Borgia appears in the entrance. The banqueters are her enemies. She has poisoned the wine they have just quaffed to Orsini's song. They are doomed. The dirge is for them. But—what she did not know—among them is Gennaro, her illegitimate son, whom she dearly loves. She offers him an antidote, but in vain. He will not save himself, while his friends die. She then discloses the fact that she is his mother. But, even then, instead of accepting her proffered aid to save his life, he repulses her. Lucrezia herself then drains the poisoned cup from which he has quaffed, and sinks, dying, upon his prostrate form. Such is the sombre setting for the Brindisi—the drinking song—"the secret of bliss in perfection"—when heard in the opera.

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The tenor rÔle of Gennaro also has tempted to occasional revivals of the work. Mario introduced for this character as a substitute for a scene in the second act, a recitative and air by Lillo, "Com'È soave quest'ora di silenzio" (Oh! how delightful this pleasing hour of silence), a change which is sometimes followed.

Prologue. Terrace of the Grimani palace, Venice. Festival by night. Gennaro, weary, separates from his friends and falls asleep on a stone bench of the terrace. Here he is discovered by Lucrezia, who is masked. She regards him with deep affection. "Com'È bello quale incanto" (Holy beauty, child of nature) she sings.

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Com'È bello quale incanto

Gennaro awakens. In answer to her questions he tells her that he has been brought up by a poor fisherman, "Di pescatore ignobile" (Deem'd of a fisher's lowly race).

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Di pescatore ignobile

The youth's friends come upon the scene. Maffio Orsini tears the mask from Lucrezia's face, and in a dramatic concerted number he and his friends remind Lucrezia, for the benefit of Gennaro, who had been struck by her beauty and was unaware that she was the hated Borgia, how each has lost a brother or other relative through her. "Maffio Orsini, signora, son'io cui svenaste il dormente fratello" (Madam, I am Orsini. My brother you did poison, the while he was sleeping). And so each one in order.

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Maffio Orsini, signora, son'io

Gennaro turns from her in loathing. She faints.

Act I. A public place in Ferrara. On one side a palace. Alfonso, who, incidentally, is Lucrezia's fourth husband, she having done away with his predecessors by poison, or other murderous means, is jealous of Gennaro. Like the youth himself, he is ignorant that Lucrezia is his mother, and is persuaded that he is her paramour. He has two solos. The first is "Vieni, la mia vendetta" (Haste then to glut a vengeance); the second, "Qualunque sia l'evento" (On this I stake my fortune).

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Qualunque sia l'evento che puÒ recar fortuna,

Gennaro and his friends come into the Plaza. They see the letters borgia under the escutcheon of the palace. Gennaro, to show his detestation of Lucrezia's crimes, rushes up the steps and with his sword hacks away the first letter of the name, leaving only orgia. At the command of the Duke, he is arrested.

Lucrezia, not knowing who has committed the outrage, demands of her husband that its perpetrator be put to death. Alfonso, with cynical readiness, consents. Gennaro is led in. Lucrezia now pleads for his life. The Duke is firm, even though Lucrezia quite casually reminds him that he is her fourth husband and may share the fate of the other three. ("Aye, though the fourth of my husbands, you lord it.") His comment is the command that Gennaro shall meet death by quaffing a goblet of poisoned wine handed to him by Lucrezia herself. There is here a strong trio for Lucrezia, Gennaro, and Alfonso, as Alfonso pours wine for himself and Lucrezia from a silver flagon, while he empties the poisoned contents of a gold vessel, "the Borgia wine," into Gennaro's cup. But Lucrezia has the antidote; and, the Duke having left her with Gennaro, in order that she shall have the pleasure of watching the death of the man of whom he suspects her to be enamored, she gives it to Gennaro, and bids him flee from Ferrara.

Act II is laid in the Negroni palace, and is the scene of the banquet, which has already been described.

When "Lucrezia Borgia" was produced in Paris, in 1840, Victor Hugo, author of the drama upon which the libretto is based, objected. The French have long gone much further than we do in protecting the property rights of authors and artists in their creations. The producers of the opera were obliged to have the libretto rewritten. The title was changed to "La Rinegata" and the scene was transferred to Turkey.

LUCIA DI LAMMERMOOR

"Lucia di Lammermoor" is generally held to be Donizetti's finest work. "In it the vein of melody—now sparkling, now sentimental, now tragic—which embodies Donizetti's best claim on originality and immortality, finds, perhaps, freest and broadest development." These words are quoted from Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, a volume that rarely pauses to comment on an individual work. "Lucia" is indeed its composer's masterpiece; and a masterpiece of Italian opera in the older definition of that term. Its melodies are many and beautiful, and even when ornate in passages, are basically expressive of the part of the tragic story to which they relate. Moreover, the sextet at the end of the second act when Edgar of Ravenswood appears upon the scene just as Lucy with trembling hand has affixed her signature to the contract of marriage between Lord Bucklaw and herself, ranks as one of the finest pieces of dramatic music in all opera, and as a concerted number is rivalled, in Italian opera, by only one other composition, the quartet in "Rigoletto."

The sextet in "Lucia" rises to the full height of the dramatic situation that has been created. It does so because the music reflects the part each character plays in the action. It has "physiognomy"—individual aspect and phraseology for each participant in the drama; but, withal, an interdependence, which blends the voices, as they are swept along, into one grand, powerful, and dramatic climax.

Another number, the mad scene in the third act, gives coloratura sopranos an opportunity for technical display equal to that afforded by the lesson scene in "Il Barbiere di Siviglia"; and, unlike the latter, the music does not consist of interpolated selections, but of a complete scena with effective recitatives and brilliant solos, that belong to the score.

In the story of "Lucia," the heroine's brother, Lord Henry Ashton of Lammermoor, in order to retrieve his fallen fortunes, and extricate himself from a perilous situation in which his participation in political movements directed against the King has placed him, arranges a marriage between his sister and Lord Arthur Bucklaw. Lucy herself knows nothing of this arrangement. Henry, on the other hand, is equally ignorant of an attachment which exists between Lucy and Edgar of Ravenswood, between whose family and his own there long has been a deadly feud. When he discovers it, he uses the most underhand methods to break it off.

Edgar of Ravenswood is the last of his race. While he is absent on a mission to France in the interests of Scotland, he despatches many letters to Lucy. These letters are intercepted by Henry who also arranges that a forged paper, tending to prove the infidelity of Edgar, is shown to Lucy. Urged by the necessities of her brother, and believing herself deserted by her lover, Lucy unwillingly consents to become the bride of Lord Arthur Bucklaw. But, just as she has signed the marriage contract, Edgar of Ravenswood suddenly appears. He has returned from France, and now comes to claim the hand of Lucy—but too late. Convinced that Lucy has betrayed his love, he casts the ring she gave him at her feet and invokes imprecations upon her and his ancient enemies, the House of Lammermoor.

At night he is sought out in his gloomy castle by Henry. They agree upon a duel to be fought near the tombs of the Ravenswoods, on the ensuing morning, when Edgar, weary of life, and the last of a doomed race, intends to throw himself on his adversary's weapon. But the burden of woe has proved too much for Lucy to bear. At night, after retiring, she goes out of her mind, slays her husband, and dies of her sorrows.

Edgar awaits his enemy in the churchyard of Ravenswood. But Ashton has fled. Instead, Edgar's solitude is interrupted by a train of mourners coming from the Castle of Lammermoor. Upon hearing of Lucy's death he plunges his dagger into his breast, and sinks down lifeless in the churchyard where repose the remains of his ancestors.

On the stage this story is developed so that shortly after the curtain rises on Act I, showing a grove near the Castle of Lammermoor, Henry learns from Norman the latter's suspicions that Lucy and Edgar have been meeting secretly in the park of Lammermoor. Norman has despatched his huntsmen to discover, if they can, whether or not his suspicions are correct. "Cruda funesta smania" (each nerve with fury trembleth) sings Henry.

Returning, the hunters relate, in a brisk chorus, that

finally to learn by questioning a falconer that the intruder upon the domain of Lammermoor was none other than Edgar of Ravenswood. Rage and the spirit of revenge are expressed in Henry's vigorous aria, "La pietade in suo favore" (From my breast I mercy banish).

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La pietade in suo favore

The scene changes to the park near a fountain. What now occurs is usually as follows. The curtain rises, and shows the scene—evening and moonlight. There is played a beautiful harp solo, an unusual and charming effect in opera. Having prepared the mood for the scene which is to follow, it is promptly encored and played all over again. Then Lucy appears with her companion, Alice. To her she relates the legend of the fountain, "Regnava nel silenzio" (Silence o'er all was reigning).

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Regnava nel silenzio

This number gives an idea of the characteristics of Lucy's principal solos. It is brilliant in passages, yet its melody is dreamy and reflective. Largely due to this combination of traits is the popularity of "Lucia di Lammermoor," in which, although there is comparatively little downright cheerful music, it is relieved of gloom by the technical brilliancy for which it often calls;—just as, in fact, Lucy's solo following the legend of the fountain, dispels the dark forebodings it inspired. This second solo for Lucy, one of the best-known operatic numbers for soprano, is the "Quando rapito" (Then swift as thought).

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Quando rapito in estasi del piÙ cocente ardore

Another beautiful and familiar number is the duet between Lucy and Edgar, who has come to tell her of his impending departure for France and to bid her farewell: "Verranno a te sull'aure" (My sighs shall on the balmy breeze).

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Verranno a te sull'aure i miei sospiri ardenti

Act II. Apartment in the Castle of Lammermoor. "Il pallor funesto, orrendo" (See these cheeks so pale and haggard).

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Il pallor funesto, orrendo

In this sad air Lucy protests to her brother against the marriage which he has arranged for her with Bucklaw. Henry then shows her the forged letter, which leads her to believe that she has been betrayed by her lover. "Soffriva nel pianto, languia nel dolore" (My sufferings and sorrow I've borne without repining) begins the duet between Lucy and Henry with an especially effective cadenza—a dramatic number.

Though believing herself deserted by Edgar, Lucy still holds back from the thought of marriage with another, and yields only to save her brother from a traitor's death, and even then not until she has sought counsel from Raymond, the chaplain of Lammermoor, who adds his persuasions to Henry's.

The scene of the signing of the dower opens with a quick, bright chorus of guests who have assembled for the ceremony.

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There is an interchange of courtesies between Henry and Arthur; and then Lucy enters. The sadness of her mien is explained by her brother to Arthur on the ground that she is still mourning the death of her mother. Desperate, yet reluctant, Lucy signs the contracts of dower; and at that moment, one of the most dramatic in opera, Edgar, a sombre figure, but labouring under evident though suppressed tension, appears at the head of the broad flight of steps in the background, and slowly comes forward.

The orchestra preludes briefly:

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Caruso

Photo by Mishkin

Caruso as Edgardo in “Lucia di Lammermoor”

Galli-Curci

Photo copyright, 1916, by Victor Georg

Galli-Curci as Lucia in “Lucia di Lammermoor”

The greatest ensemble number in Italian opera, the sextet, has begun. Edgardo: "Chi mi frena in tal momento? Chi troncÒ dell'ire il corso?" (What restrains me at this moment? Why my sword do I not straightway draw?):

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Chi mi frena in tal momento?

Because he sees Lucy "as a rose 'mid tempest bending":

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Even Henry is moved to exclaim, "To my own blood I am a traitor":

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The chorus swells the volume of sound, but Lucy's voice soars despairingly above all:

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Lucy and Edgar—they are the victims of Henry's treachery, as will soon transpire.

Act III. The first scene is laid in Edgar's gloomy castle, whither at night comes Henry to challenge him to a duel at morn.

The scene then changes back to Lammermoor, where the wedding guests still are feasting. Their revels are halted by Raymond, who, horror-stricken, announces to them that Lucy has gone mad and slain her husband; and soon the unhappy bride herself appears. Then follows the mad scene, one of the greatest "show numbers" for soprano, with the further merit that it fits perfectly into the scheme of the work.

This is an elaborate scena. In an earlier part of the opera Donizetti made effective use of a harp. In the mad scene he introduces a flute obligato, which plays around the voice, joins with it, touches it with sharp, brilliant accentuations, and glides with it up and down the scale in mellifluous companionship.

In a brief article in The Musician, Thomas Tapper writes that "to perform the mad scene has been an inspiration and incentive to attainment for many singers. Its demands are severe. There must be the 'mood,' that is, the characterization of the mental state of Lucy must be evidenced both in vocal tone and physical movement. The aria requires an unusual degree of facility. Its transparency demands adherence to pitch that must not vary a shade from the truth (note the passage where voice and flute are in unison). The coloratura soprano is here afforded unusual opportunity to display fluency and flexibility of voice, to portray the character that is 'as Ophelia was'; the dramatic intensity is paramount and must be sustained at a lofty eminence. In brief, the aria is truly a tour de force."

One of the best things in the above is its insistence on the "mood," the emotional situation that underlies the music. However brilliant the singing of the prima donna, something in her performance must yet convey to her hearers a sense of the sad fortunes of Lucy of Lammermoor.

To the accomplishment of this Donizetti lends a helping hand by introducing, as a mournful reminiscence, the theme of the first act love duet for Lucy and Edgar ("My sighs shall on the balmy breeze"); also by the dreaminess of the two melodies, "Alfin son tua" (Thine am I ever);

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and "Spargi d'amaro pianto" (Shed thou a tear of sorrow).

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Preceding the first of these, and also between the two, are dramatic recitatives, in which the flute, possibly introduced merely for musical effect, yet, with its clear, limpid notes, by no means untypical of Lucy's pure and spiritual personality, is prominent in the instrumental part of the score. Upon a brilliant phrase of vocalization, like "Yet shall we meet, dear Edgar, before the altar,"

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Qui ricovriamo, Edgardo, a piÈ dell'ara

it follows with this phrase:

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which simple, even commonplace, as it seems, nevertheless, in place, has the desired effect of ingenuousness and charm; while the passage beginning,

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has decided dramatic significance.

I also give an example of a passage in which flute and voice combine in a manner that requires impeccable intonation on the singer's part.

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a noi sarÀ, la vita etc.

The scena ends with a stretto, a concluding passage taken in more rapid tempo in order to enhance the effect.

It is always interesting to me to hear this scene, when well rendered, and to note the simple means employed by the composer to produce the impression it makes.

The flute is an instrument that long has been the butt of humorists. "What is worse than one flute?"—"Two flutes." This is a standard musical joke. The kind suggestion also has been volunteered that Lucy of Lammermoor went out of her head, not because she was deserted by Edgar, but because she was accompanied by a flute.

Nevertheless the flute is precisely the instrument required as an obligato to this scene. Italian composers, as a rule, pay little attention to instrumentation. Yet it is a fact that, when they make a special choice of an instrument in order to produce a desired effect, their selection usually proves a happy inspiration. The flute and the harp in "Lucia" are instances; the bassoons in the introduction to "Una furtiva lagrima" (A furtive tear) in "L'Elisire d'Amore" furnish another; and the wood-wind in the "Semiramide" duet, "Giorno d'orrore" (Dark day of horror) may also be mentioned.

There is a point in the mad scene where it is easy to modulate into the key of G major. Donizetti has written in that key the aria "PerchÈ non ho del vento" (Oh, for an eagle's pinions) which sopranos sometimes introduce during the scene, since it was composed for that purpose.

Probably the air is unfamiliar to opera-goers in this country. Lionel Mapleson, the librarian of the Metropolitan Opera House, never has heard it sung there, and was interested to know where I had found it. As it is a florid, brilliant piece of music, and well suited to the scene, I quote a line of it, as a possible hint to some prima donna.

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PerchÈ non ho del vento l'infaticabil vole

During the finale of the opera, laid near the churchyard where lie the bones of Edgar's ancestors, Lucy's lover holds the stage. His final aria, "Tu che a Dio spiegasti l'ali" (Tho' from earth thou'st flown before me), is a passage of mournful beauty, which has few equals in Italian opera.

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Tu che a Dio spiegasti l'ali, o bell'alma innamorata

Of the singers of former days who have been heard here as Lucia, Adelina Patti interpreted the rÔle with the least effort and the greatest brilliancy. Hers was a pure flexible soprano, which seemed to flow forth spontaneously from an inexhaustible reservoir of song. Unfortunately she was heard here by many long after her day had passed. She had too many "farewells." But those who heard her at her best, always will remember her as the possessor of a naturally beautiful voice, exquisitely trained.

Italo Campanini, a tenor who was in his prime when Mapleson was impresario at the Academy of Music, was one of the great Edgardos. He was an elder brother of Cleofante Campanini, orchestral conductor and director of the Chicago Opera Company.

As for Caruso, rarely have I witnessed such excitement as followed the singing of the sextet the evening of his first appearance as Edgardo at the Metropolitan Opera House. It is a fact that the policeman in the lobby, thinking a riot of some sort had broken loose in the auditorium, grabbed his night stick and pushed through the swinging doors—only to find an audience vociferously demanding an encore. Even granted that some of the excitement was "worked up," it was, nevertheless, a remarkable demonstration.

The rÔle of Enrico, though, of course, of less importance than Edgardo, can be made very effective by a baritone of the first rank. Such, for example, was Antonio Galassi, who, like Campanini, was one of Mapleson's singers. He was a tall, well-put-up man; and when, in the sextet, at the words "È mio rosa inaridita" (Of thine own blood thou'rt the betrayer), he came forward in one stride, and projected his voice into the proceedings, it seemed as if, no matter what happened to the others, he could take the entire affair on his broad shoulders and carry it through to success.

LA FIGLIA DEL REGGIMENTO
LA FILLE DU RÉGIMENT—THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT.

Act I. A passage in the Tyrolese mountains. On the right is a cottage, on the left the first houses of a village. Heights in the background. Tyrolese peasants are grouped on rising ground, as if on the lookout. Their wives and daughters kneel before a shrine to the Virgin. The Marquise de Birkenfeld is seated on a rustic bench. Beside her stands Hortensio, her steward. They have been caught in the eddy of the war. An engagement is in progress not far away. The Tyrolese chorus sings valiantly, the women pray; the French are victorious. And why not? Is not the unbeaten Twenty-first Regiment of Grenadiers among them?

One of them is coming now, Sergeant Sulpice, an old grumbler. After him comes a pretty girl in uniform, a vivandiÈre—Marie, the daughter of the regiment, found on the field of battle when she was a mere child, and brought up by a whole regiment of fathers, the spoiled darling of the grenadiers. She sings "Apparvi alla luce, sul campo guerrier"

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(I first saw the light in the camp of my brave grenadiers), which ends in a brilliant cadenza.

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This indicates why the revival of this opera attends the appearance upon the horizon of a coloratura star. It is typical of the requirements of the character.

The Sergeant puts her through a drill. Then they have a "Rataplan" duet, which may be called a repetition of Marie's solo with an accompaniment of rataplans. The drum is the music that is sweetest to her; and, indeed, Marie's manipulation of the drumsticks is a feature of the rÔle.

But for a few days Marie has not been as cheerful as formerly. She has been seen with a young man. Sulpice asks her about him. She tells the Sergeant that this young man saved her life by preventing her from falling over a precipice. That, however, establishes no claim upon her. The regiment has decreed that only a grenadier shall have her for wife.

There is a commotion. Some soldiers drag in Tonio, whom they charge as a spy. They have discovered him sneaking about the camp. His would have been short shrift had not Marie pleaded for him, for he is none other than her rescuer. As he wants to remain near Marie, he decides to become a soldier. The grenadiers celebrate his decision by drinking to his health and calling upon Marie to sing the "Song of the Regiment," a dapper tune, which is about the best-known number of the score: "Ciascun lo dice, ciascun lo sÀ! È il Reggimento, ch'egual non ha."

Music

[Listen]

There is then a love scene for Marie and Tonio, followed by a duet for them, "A voti cosÌ ardente" (No longer can I doubt it).

Afterwards the grenadiers sing a "Rataplan" chorus.

Music

[Listen]

Rataplan, rataplan, rataplan,

But, alas, the Sergeant has been informed that the Marquise de Birkenfeld desires safe conduct. Birkenfeld! That is the very name to which were addressed certain papers found on Marie when she was discovered as a baby on the battlefield. The Marquise examines the papers, declares that Marie is her niece and henceforth must live with her in the castle. Poor Tonio has become a grenadier in vain. The regiment cannot help him. It can only lament with him that their daughter is lost to them. She herself is none too happy. She sings a sad farewell, "Convien partir! o miei compagni d'arme" (Farewell, a long farewell, my dear companions).

Act II. In the castle of the Marquise. Marie is learning to dance the minuet and to sing classical airs. But in the midst of her singing she and Sulpice, whom the Marquise also has brought to the castle, break out into the "Song of the Regiment" and stirring "rataplans." Their liveliness, however, is only temporary, for poor Marie is to wed, at her aunt's command, a scion of the ducal house of Krakenthorp. The march of the grenadiers is heard. They come in, led by Tonio, who has been made a captain for valour. Sulpice can now see no reason why Marie should not marry him instead of the nobleman selected by her aunt. And, indeed, Marie and Tonio decide to elope. But the Marquise confesses to the Sergeant, in order to win his aid in influencing Marie, that the girl really is her daughter, born out of wedlock. Sulpice informs Marie, who now feels that she cannot go against her mother's wishes.

In the end, however, it is Marie herself who saves the situation. The guests have assembled for the signing of the wedding contract, when Marie, before them all, sings fondly of her childhood with the regiment, and of her life as a vivandiÈre, "Quando il destino, in mezzo a strage ria" (When I was left, by all abandoned).

The society people are scandalized. But the Marquise is so touched that she leads Tonio to Marie and places the girl's hand in that of her lover. The opera ends with an ensemble, "Salute to France!"

LA FAVORITA
THE FAVORITE

Opera in four acts, by Donizetti; words by Alphonse Royer and Gustave Waez, adapted from the drama "Le Comte de Comminges," of Baculard-Darnaud. Produced at the Grand OpÉra, Paris, December 2, 1840. London, in English, 1843; in Italian, 1847. New York, Park Theatre, October 4, 1848.

Characters

Courtiers, guards, monks, ladies of the court, attendants.

Time—About 1340.

Place—Castile, Spain.