  VERDI ranks as the greatest Italian composer of opera. There is a marked distinction between his career and those of Bellini and Donizetti. The two earlier composers, after reaching a certain point of development, failed to advance. No later opera by Bellini equals "La Sonnambula"; none other by Donizetti ranks with "Lucia di Lammermoor." But Verdi, despite the great success of "Ernani," showed seven years later, with "Rigoletto," an amazing progress in dramatic expression and skill in ensemble work. "Il Trovatore" and "La Traviata" were other works of the period ushered in by "Rigoletto." Eighteen years later the composer, then fifty-eight years old, gave evidence of another and even more notable advance by producing "AÏda," a work which marks the beginning of a new period in Italian opera. Still not satisfied, Verdi brought forward "Otello" (1887) and "Falstaff" (1893), scores which more nearly resemble music-drama than opera. Thus the steady forging ahead of Verdi, the unhalting development of his genius, is the really great feature of his career. In fact no Italian composer since Verdi has caught up with "Falstaff," which may be as profitably studied as "Le Nozze di Figaro," "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," "Die Meistersinger," and "Der Rosenkavalier." Insert "Falstaff" in this list, in its proper place between "Meister In the article on "Un Ballo in Maschera," the political use made of the letters of Verdi's name is pointed out. See p. 428. Verdi was born at Roncole, near Busseto, October 9, 1813. He died at Rome, January 27, 1901. There remains to be said that, at eighteen, he was refused admission to the Milan Conservatory "on the score of lack of musical talent." What fools these mortals be!
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| Don Carlos, King of Castile | Baritone |
| Don Ruy Gomez di Silva, Grandee of Spain | Bass |
| Ernani, or John of Aragon, a bandit chief | Tenor |
| Don Riccardo, esquire to the King | Tenor |
| Jago, esquire to Silva | Bass |
| Elvira, kinswoman to Silva | Soprano |
| Giovanna, in Elvira's service | Soprano |
Mountaineers and bandits, followers of Silva, ladies of Elvira, followers of Don Carlos, electors and pages.
Time—Early sixteenth century.
Place—Spain.
John of Aragon has become a bandit. His father, the Duke of Segovia, had been slain by order of Don Carlos's father. John, proscribed and pursued by the emissaries of the King, has taken refuge in the fastnesses of the mountains of Aragon, where, under the name of Ernani, he has become leader of a large band of rebel mountaineers. Ernani is in
Don Carlos, afterwards Emperor Charles V., also has fallen violently in love with Elvira. By watching her windows he has discovered that at dead of night a young cavalier (Ernani) gains admission to her apartments. He imitates her lover's signal, gains admission to her chamber, and declares his passion. Being repulsed, he is about to drag her off by force, when a secret panel opens, and he finds himself confronted by Ernani. In the midst of a violent scene Silva enters. To allay his jealousy and anger, naturally aroused by finding two men, apparently rival suitors, in the apartment of his affianced, the King, whom Silva has not recognized, reveals himself, and pretends to have come in disguise to consult him about his approaching election to the empire, and a conspiracy that is on foot against his life. Then the King, pointing to Ernani, says to Silva, "It doth please us that this, our follower, depart," thus insuring Ernani's temporary safety—for a Spaniard does not hand an enemy over to the vengeance of another.
Believing a rumour that Ernani has been run down and killed by the King's soldiers, Elvira at last consents to give her hand in marriage to Silva. On the eve of the wedding, however, Ernani, pursued by the King with a detachment of troops, seeks refuge in Silva's castle, in the disguise of a pilgrim. Although not known to Silva, he is, under Spanish tradition, his guest, and from that moment entitled to his protection.
Elvira enters in her bridal attire. Ernani is thus made aware that her nuptials with Don Silva are to be celebrated on the morrow. Tearing off his disguise, he reveals himself to Silva, and demands to be delivered up to the King, preferring death to life without Elvira. But true to his
The King has gone. From the wall Silva takes down two swords, releases his guest from his hiding place, and bids him cross swords with him to the death. Ernani refuses. His host has just protected his life at the danger of his own. But, if Silva insists upon vengeance, let grandee and bandit first unite against the King, with whom the honour of Elvira is unsafe. Elvira rescued, Ernani will give himself up to Silva, to whom, handing him his hunting horn, he avows himself ready to die, whenever a blast upon it shall be sounded from the lip of the implacable grandee. Silva, who has been in entire ignorance of the King's passion for Elvira, grants the reprieve, and summons his men to horse.
He sets on foot a conspiracy against the King. A meeting of the conspirators is held in the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle, in the vault, within which stands the tomb of Charlemagne. Here it is resolved to murder the King. A ballot decides who shall do the deed. Ernani's name is drawn.
The King, however, has received information of the time
"The herd to the dungeon, the nobles to the headsman," he commands.
Ernani advances, discovers himself as John of Aragon, and claims the right to die with the nobles—"to fall, covered, before the King." But upon Elvira's fervent plea, the King, now also Emperor, commences his reign with an act of grace. He pardons the conspirators, restores to Ernani his titles and estates, and unites him with Elvira.
Silva, thwarted in his desire to marry Elvira, waits until Ernani and Elvira, after their nuptials, are upon the terrace of Ernani's castle in Aragon. At their most blissful moment he sounds the fatal horn. Ernani, too chivalrous to evade his promise, stabs himself in the presence of the grim avenger and of Elvira who falls prostrate upon his lifeless body.
In the opera, this plot develops as follows: Act I opens in the camp of the bandits in the mountains of Aragon. In the distance is seen the Moorish castle of Silva. The time is near sunset. Of Ernani's followers, some are eating and drinking, or are at play, while others are arranging their weapons. They sing, "Allegri, beviamo" (Haste! Clink we our glasses).
Ernani sings Elvira's praise in the air, "Come rugiada al cespite" (Balmier than dew to drooping bud).
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Come rugiada al cespite
This expressive number is followed by one in faster time, "O tu, che l'alma adora" (O thou toward whom, adoring soul).
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| O tu, che l'alma adora, Vien, vien, la mia vita infiora, |
Enthusiastically volunteering to share any danger Ernani may incur in seeking to carry off Elvira, the bandits, with their chief at their head, go off in the direction of Silva's castle.
The scene changes to Elvira's apartment in the castle. It is night. She is meditating upon Ernani. When she thinks of Silva, "the frozen, withered spectre," and contrasts with him Ernani, who "in her heart ever reigneth," she voices her thoughts in that famous air for sopranos, one of Verdi's loveliest inspirations, "Ernani! involami" (Ernani! fly with me).
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| Ernani! Ernani! involami All'abborrito amplesso. |
It ends with a brilliant cadenza, "Un Eden quegli antri a me" (An Eden that opens to me).
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un Eden quegli antri a me.
Young maidens bearing wedding gifts enter. They sing a chorus of congratulation. To this Elvira responds with a graceful air, the sentiment of which, however, is expressed as an aside, since it refers to her longing for her young, handsome and chivalrous lover. "Tutto sprezzo che d'Ernani" (Words that breathe thy name Ernani).
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Tutto sprezzo che d'Ernani
The young women go. Enter Don Carlos, the King. There is a colloquy, in which Elvira protests against his presence; and then a duet, which the King begins, "Da quel dÌ che t'ho veduta" (From the day, when first thy beauty).
A secret panel opens. The King is confronted by Ernani, and by Elvira, who has snatched a dagger from his belt. She interposes between the two men. Silva enters. What he beholds draws from him the melancholy reflections—"Infelice! e tu credevi" (Unhappy me! and I believed thee),
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Infelice! e tu credevi
an exceptionally fine bass solo. He follows it with the vindictive "Infin, che un brando vindice" (In fine a swift, unerring blade).
Men and women of the castle and the King's suite have come on. The monarch is recognized by Silva, who does him obeisance, and, at the King's command, is obliged to let Ernani depart. An ensemble brings the act to a close.
Act II. Grand hall in Silva's castle. Doors lead to various apartments. Portraits of the Silva family, surmounted by ducal coronets and coats-of-arms, are hung on the walls. Near each portrait is a complete suit of equestrian armour, corresponding in period to that in which lived the ancestor represented in the portrait. A large table and a ducal chair of carved oak.
The persistent chorus of ladies, though doubtless aware that Elvira is not thrilled at the prospect of marriage with her "frosty" kinsman, and has consented to marry him only because she believes Ernani dead, enters and sings "Esultiamo!" (Exultation!), then pays tribute to the many virtues and graces of the bride.
To Silva, in the full costume of a Grandee of Spain, and
"Ah, morir potessi adesso" (Ah, to die would be a blessing) is the impassioned duet sung by Elvira and Ernani, when Silva leaves them together.
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| Ah, morir potessi adesso O mio Ernani sul tuo petto |
Silva, even when he returns and discovers Elvira in Ernani's arms, will not break the law of Spanish hospitality, preferring to wreak vengeance in his own way. He therefore hides Ernani so securely that the King's followers, after searching the castle, are obliged to report their complete failure to discover a trace of him. Chorus: "Fu esplorato del castello" (We have now explored the castle).
Then come the important episodes described—the King's demand for the surrender of Silva's sword and threat to execute him; Elvira's interposition; and the King's sinister action in carrying her off as a hostage, after he has sung the significant air, "Vieni meco, sol di rose" (Come with me, a brighter dawning waits for thee).
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Vieni meco, sol di rose
Ernani's handing of his hunting horn to Silva, and his arousal of the grandee to an understanding of the danger that threatens Elvira from the King, is followed by the finale, a spirited call to arms by Silva, Ernani, and chorus,
Silva and Ernani distribute weapons among the men, which they brandish as they rush from the hall.
Act III. The scene is a sepulchral vault, enclosing the tomb of Charlemagne in the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle. The tomb is entered by a heavy door of bronze, upon which is carved in large characters the word "Charlemagne." Steps lead to the great door of the vault. Other and smaller tombs are seen and other doors that give on other passageways. Two lamps, suspended from the roof, shed a faint light.
It is into this sombre but grandiose place the King has come in order to overhear, from within the tomb of his greatest ancestor, the plotting of the conspirators. His soliloquy, "Oh, de' verd'anni miei" (Oh, for my youthful years once more), derives impressiveness both from the solemnity of the situation and the music's flowing measure.
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Oh de' verd'anni miei
The principal detail in the meeting of the conspirators is their chorus, "Si ridesti il Leon di Castiglia" (Let the lion awake in Castilia). Dramatically effective, too, in the midst of the plotting, is the sudden booming of distant cannon. It startles the conspirators. Cannon boom again. The bronze door of the tomb swings open.
Then the King presents himself at the entrance of the tomb. Three times he strikes the door of bronze with the hilt of his dagger. The principal entrance to the vault opens. To the sound of trumpets six Electors enter, dressed in cloth of gold. They are followed by pages carrying, upon velvet cushions, the sceptre, crown, and other imperial insignia. Courtiers surround the Emperor. Elvira approaches. The banners of the Empire are displayed.
Act IV, on the terrace of Ernani's castle, is brief, and there is nothing to add to what has been said of its action. Ernani asks Silva to spare him till his lips have tasted the chalice filled by love. He recounts his sad life: "Solingo, errante, misero" (To linger in exiled misery).
Silva's grim reply is to offer him his choice between a cup of poison and a dagger. He takes the latter. "Ferma, crudele, estinguere" (Stay thee, my lord, for me at least) cries Elvira, wishing to share his fate. In the end there is left only the implacable avenger, to gloat over Ernani, dead, and Elvira prostrate upon his form.
"Ernani," brought out in 1844, is the earliest work by Verdi that maintains a foothold in the modern repertoire, though by no means a very firm one. And yet "Ernani" is in many respects a fine opera. One wonders why it has not lasted better. Hanslick, the Viennese critic, made a discriminating criticism upon it. He pointed out that whereas in Victor Hugo's drama the mournful blast upon the hunting horn, when heard in the last act, thrills the listener with tragic forebodings, in the opera, after listening to solos, choruses, and a full orchestra all the evening, the audience is but little impressed by the sounding of a note upon a single instrument. That comment, however, presupposes considerable subtlety, so far undiscovered, on the part of operatic audiences.
The fact is, that since 1844 the whirligig of time has made one—two—three—perhaps even four revolutions, and with each revolution the public taste that prevailed, when the first audience that heard the work in the Teatro Fenice, went wild over "Ernani Involami" and "Sommo Carlo," has become more remote and undergone more and more
Early in its career the opera experienced various vicissitudes. The conspiracy scene had to be toned down for political reasons before the production of the work was permitted. Even then the chorus, "Let the lion awake in Castilia," caused a political demonstration. In Paris, Victor Hugo, as author of the drama on which the libretto is based, raised objections to its representation, and it was produced in the French capital as "Il Proscritto" (The Proscribed) with the characters changed to Italians. Victor Hugo's "Hernani" was a famous play in Sarah Bernhardt's repertoire during her early engagements in this country. Her DoÑa Sol (Elvira in the opera) was one of her finest achievements. On seeing the play, with her in it, I put to test Hanslick's theory. The horn was thrilling in the play. It certainly is less so in the opera.
Opera in three acts, by Verdi; words by Francesco Maria Piave, founded on Victor Hugo's play, "Le Roi s'Amuse." Produced, Fenice Theatre, Venice, March 11, 1851; London, Covent Garden, May 14, 1853; Paris, ThÉÂtre des Italiens, January 19, 1857; New York, Academy of Music, November 4, 1857, with Bignardi and Frezzolini. Caruso made his dÉbut in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, as the Duke in "Rigoletto," November 23, 1903; Galli-Curci hers, as Gilda, Chicago, November 18, 1916.
Characters
| The Duke of Mantua | Tenor | |||
| Rigoletto, his jester, a hunchback | Baritone | |||
| Count Ceprano | } | Nobles | { | Bass |
| Count Monterone | } | { | Baritone | |
| Sparafucile, a bravo | Bass | |||
| Borsa, in the Duke's service | Tenor | |||
| Marullo | Bass | |||
| Countess Ceprano | Soprano | |||
| Gilda, daughter of Rigoletto | Soprano | |||
| Giovanni, her duenna | Soprano | |||
| Maddalena, sister to Sparafucile | Contralto | |||
Courtiers, nobles, pages, servants.
Time—Sixteenth century.
Place—Mantua.
"Rigoletto" is a distinguished opera. Composed in forty days in 1851, nearing three-quarters of a century of life before the footlights, it still retains its vitality. Twenty years, with all they imply in experience and artistic growth, lie between "Rigoletto" and "AÏda." Yet the earlier opera, composed so rapidly as to constitute a tour de force of musical creation, seems destined to remain a close second in popularity to the more mature work of its great composer.
There are several reasons for the public's abiding interest in "Rigoletto." It is based upon a most effective play by Victor Hugo, "Le Roi s'Amuse," known to English playgoers in Tom Taylor's adaptation as "The Fool's Revenge." The jester was one of Edwin Booth's great rÔles. This rÔle of the deformed court jester, Rigoletto, the hunchback, not only figures in the opera, but has been vividly characterized by Verdi in his music. It is a vital, centralizing force in the opera, concentrating and holding attention, a character creation that appeals strongly both to the singer who enacts it and to the audience who sees and hears it. The rÔle has appealed to famous artists. Ronconi (who taught singing in New York for a few years, beginning in 1867) was a notable Rigoletto; so was Galassi, whose intensely dramatic performance still is vividly recalled by the older opera-goers; Renaud at the Manhattan Opera House, Titta Ruffo at the Metropolitan Opera House, Philadelphia, both made their American dÉbuts as Rigoletto.
But the opera offers other rÔles of distinction. Mario was a famous Duke in other days. Caruso made his sensational dÉbut at the Metropolitan in the character of the volatile Duca di Mantua, November 23, 1903. We have had as Gilda Adelina Patti, Melba, and Tetrazzini, to mention but a few; and the heroine of the opera is one of the rÔles of Galli-Curci, who appeared in it in Chicago, November 18, 1916. No coloratura soprano can, so to speak, afford to be without it.
Thus the opera has plot, a central character of vital dramatic importance, and at least two other characters of strong interest. But there is even more to be said in its behalf. For, next to the sextet in "Lucia," the quartet in the last act of "Rigoletto" is the finest piece of concerted music in Italian opera—and many people will object to my placing it only "next" to that other famous ensemble, instead of on complete equality with, or even ahead of it.
The "argument" of "Rigoletto" deals with the amatory escapades of the Duke of Mantua. In these he is aided by Rigoletto, his jester, a hunchback. Rigoletto, both by his caustic wit and unscrupulous conduct, has made many enemies at court. Count Monterone, who comes to the court to demand the restoration of his daughter, who has been dishonoured by the Duke, is met by the jester with laughter and derision. The Count curses Rigoletto, who is stricken with superstitious terror.
For Rigoletto has a daughter, Gilda, whom he keeps in strict seclusion. But the Duke, without being aware who she is, has seen her, unknown to her father, and fallen in love with her. Count Ceprano, who many times has suffered under Rigoletto's biting tongue, knowing that she is in some way connected with the jester, in fact believing her to be his mistress, and glad of any opportunity of doing him an injury, forms a plan to carry off the young girl, and so
Act I opens in a salon in the Duke's palace. A suite of other apartments is seen extending into the background. All are brilliantly lighted for the fÊte that is in progress. Courtiers and ladies are moving about in all directions. Pages are passing to and fro. From an adjoining salon music is heard and bursts of merriment.
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There is effervescent gayety in the orchestral accompaniment to the scene. A minuet played by an orchestra on the
Among a group of his guests the Duke sees the Countess Ceprano, whom he has been wooing quite openly, in spite of the Count's visible annoyance. The dashing gallant cares nothing about what anyone may think of his escapades, least of all the husbands or other relatives of the ladies. "Questa o quella per me pari sono" (This one, or that one, to me 'tis the same).
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This music floats on air. It gives at once the cue to the Duke's character. Like Don Giovanni he is indifferent to fate, flits from one affair to another, and is found as fascinating as he is dangerous by all women, of whatever degree, upon whom he confers his doubtful favours.
Rigoletto, hunchbacked but agile, sidles in. He is in cap and bells, and carries the jester's bauble. The immediate object of his satire is Count Ceprano, who is watching his wife, as she is being led off on the Duke's arm. Rigoletto then goes out looking for other victims. Marullo joins the nobles. He tells them that Rigoletto, despite his hump, has an inamorata. The statement makes a visible impression upon Count Ceprano, and when the nobles, after another sally from the jester, who has returned with the Duke, inveigh against his bitter tongue, the Count bids them meet him at night on the morrow and he will guarantee them revenge upon the hunchback for the gibes they have been obliged to endure from him.
The gay music, which forms a restless background to the recitatives of which I have given the gist,
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trips buoyantly along, to be suddenly broken in upon by the voice of one struggling without, and who, having freed himself from those evidently striving to hold him back, bursts in upon the scene. It is the aged Count Monterone. His daughter has been dishonoured by the Duke, and he denounces the ruler of Mantua before the whole assembly. His arrest is ordered. Rigoletto mocks him until, drawing himself up to his full height, the old noble not only denounces him, but calls down upon him a father's curse.
Rigoletto is strangely affrighted. He cowers before Monterone's malediction. It is the first time since he has appeared at the gathering that he is not gibing at someone. Not only is he subdued; he is terror-stricken.
Monterone is led off between halberdiers. The gay music again breaks in. The crowd follows the Duke. But Rigoletto?
The scene changes to the street outside of his house. It is secluded in a courtyard, from which a door leads into the street. In the courtyard are a tall tree and a marble seat. There is also seen at the end of the street, which has no thoroughfare, the gable end of Count Ceprano's palace. It is night.
As Rigoletto enters, he speaks of Monterone's curse. His entrance to the house is interrupted by the appearance of Sparafucile, an assassin for hire. In a colloquy, to which the orchestra supplies an accompaniment, interesting because in keeping with the scene, he offers to Rigoletto his
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Rigoletto has no immediate need of him, but ascertains where he can be found.
Sparafucile goes. Rigoletto has a soliloquy, beginning, "How like are we!—the tongue, my weapon, the dagger his! to make others laugh is my vocation,—his to make them weep!... Tears, the common solace of humanity, are to me denied.... 'Amuse me buffoon'—and I must obey." His mind still dwells on the curse—a father's curse, pronounced upon him, a father to whom his daughter is a jewel. He refers to it, even as he unlocks the door that leads to his house, and also to his daughter, who, as he enters, throws herself into his arms.
He cautions her about going out. She says she never ventures beyond the courtyard save to go to church. He grieves over the death of his wife—Gilda's mother—that left her to his care while she was still an infant. "Deh non parlare al misero" (Speak not of one whose loss to me).
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Deh non parlare al misero
He charges her attendant, Giovanna, carefully to guard her. Gilda endeavours to dispel his fears. The result is the duet for Rigoletto and Gilda, beginning with his words to Giovanna, "Veglia, o donna, questo fiore" (Safely guard this tender blossom).
Photo copyright, 1916, by Victor Georg
Galli-Curci as Gilda in “Rigoletto”
Copyright photo by Dupont
Caruso as the Duke in “Rigoletto”
Rigoletto hears footsteps in the street and goes out through
When he has gone Gilda worries because fear drove her to refrain from revealing to her father that a handsome youth has several times followed her from church. This youth's image is installed in her heart. "I long to say to him 'I lo—'"
The Duke steps out of the tree's shadow, motions to Giovanna to retire and, throwing himself at Gilda's feet, takes the words out of her mouth by exclaiming, "I love thee!"
No doubt taken by surprise, yet also thrilled with joy, she hearkens to him rapturously as he declares, "È il sol dell'anima, la vita È amore" (Love is the sun by which passion is kindled).
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È il sol dell'anima, la vita È amore,
The meeting is brief, for again there are footsteps outside. But their farewell is an impassioned duet, "Addio speranza ed anima" (Farewell, my hope, my soul, farewell).
He has told her that he is a student, by name Walter MaldÈ. When he has gone, she muses upon the name, and, when she has lighted a candle and is ascending the steps to her room, she sings the enchanting coloratura air, "Caro nome che il mio cor" (Dear name, my heart enshrines).
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| Caro nome che il mio cor Festi primo palpitar, |
If the Gilda be reasonably slender and pretty, the scene, with the courtyard, the steps leading up to the room, and the young maiden gracefully and tenderly expressing her heart's first romance, is charming, and in itself sufficient to account for the attraction which the rÔle holds for prima donnas.
Tiptoeing through the darkness outside come Marullo, Ceprano, Borsa, and other nobles and courtiers, intent upon seeking revenge for the gibes Rigoletto at various times has aimed at them, by carrying off the damsel, whom they assume to be his inamorata. At that moment, however, the jester himself appears. They tell him they have come to abduct the Countess Ceprano and bear her to the Ducal palace. To substantiate this statement Marullo quickly has the keys to Ceprano's house passed to him by the Count, and in the darkness holds them out to Rigoletto, who, his suspicions allayed because he can feel the Ceprano crest in basso-relievo on the keys, volunteers to aid in the escapade. Marullo gives him a mask and, as if to fasten it securely, ties it with a handkerchief, which he passes over the piercings for the eyes. Rigoletto, confused, holds a ladder against what he believes to be the wall of Ceprano's house. By it, the abductors climb his own wall, enter his house, gag, seize, and carry away Gilda, making their exit from the courtyard, but in their hurry failing to observe a scarf that has fluttered from their precious burden.
Rigoletto is left alone in the darkness and silence. He tears off his mask. The door to his courtyard is open. Before him lies Gilda's scarf. He rushes into the house, into her room; reappears, staggering under the weight of the disaster, which, through his own unwitting connivance, has befallen him.
"Ah! La maledizione!" he cries out. It is Monterone's curse.
Act II has its scene laid in the ducal palace. This salon
The Duke is disconsolate. He has returned to Rigoletto's house, found it empty. The bird had flown. The scamp mourns his loss—in affecting language and music, "Parmi veder le lagrime" (Fair maid, each tear of mine that flows).
In a capital chorus he is told by Marullo and the others that they have abducted Rigoletto's inamorata.
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Scorrendo uniti remota via
The Duke well knows that she is the very one whose charms are the latest that have enraptured him. "Possente amor mi chiama" (To her I love with rapture).
He learns from the courtiers that they have brought her to the palace. He hastens to her, "to console her," in his own way. It is at this moment Rigoletto enters. He knows his daughter is in the palace. He has come to search for her. Aware that he is in the presence of those who took advantage of him and thus secured his aid in the abduction of the night before, he yet, in order to accomplish his purpose, must appear light-hearted, question craftily, and be diplomatic, although at times he cannot prevent his real feelings breaking through. It is the ability of Verdi to give expression to such varied emotions which make this scene one of the most significant in his operas. It is dominated by an orchestral motive, that of the clown who jests while his heart is breaking.
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La rÀ, la rÀ, la la, la rÀ, la rÀ, la rÀ, la rÀ etc.
Finally he turns upon the crowd that taunts him, hurls invective upon them; and, when a door opens and Gilda, whose story can be read in her aspect of despair, rushes into his arms, he orders the courtiers out of sight with a sense of outrage so justified that, in spite of the flippant words with which they comment upon his command, they obey it.
Father and daughter are alone. She tells him her story—of the handsome youth, who followed her from church—"Tutte le feste al tempio" (One very festal morning).
Then follows her account of their meeting, his pretence that he was a poor student, when, in reality, he was the Duke—to whose chamber she was borne after her abduction. It is from there she has just come. Her father strives to comfort her—"Piangi, fanciulla" (Weep, my child).
At this moment he is again reminded of the curse pronounced upon him by the father whose grief with him had been but the subject of ribald jest. Count Monterone, between guards, is conducted through the apartment to the prison where he is to be executed for denouncing the Duke. Then Rigoletto vows vengeance upon the betrayer of Gilda.
But such is the fascination which the Duke exerts over women that Gilda, fearing for the life of her despoiler, pleads with her father to "pardon him, as we ourselves the pardon of heaven hope to gain," adding, in an aside, "I dare not say how much I love him."
It was a corrupt, carefree age. Victor Hugo created a debonair character—a libertine who took life lightly and flitted from pleasure to pleasure. And so Verdi lets him flit from tune to tune—gay, melodious, sentimental. There still are plenty of men like the Duke, and plenty of women like Gilda to love them; and other women, be it recalled, as
To Act III might be given as a sub-title, "The Fool's Revenge," the title of Tom Taylor's adaptation into English of Victor Hugo's play. The scene shows a desolate spot on the banks of the Mincio. On the right, with its front to the audience, is a house two stories high, in a very dilapidated state, but still used as an inn. The doors and walls are so full of crevices that whatever is going on within can be seen from without. In front are the road and the river; in the distance is the city of Mantua. It is night.
The house is that of Sparafucile. With him lives his sister, Maddalena, a handsome young gypsy woman, who lures men to the inn, there to be robbed—or killed, if there is more money to be had for murder than for robbery. Sparafucile is seen within, cleaning his belt and sharpening his sword.
Outside are Rigoletto and Gilda. She cannot banish the image of her despoiler from her heart. Hither the hunchback has brought her to prove to her the faithlessness of the Duke. She sees him in the garb of a soldier coming along the city wall. He descends, enters the inn, and calls for wine and a room for the night. Shuffling a pack of cards, which he finds on the table, and pouring out the wine, he sings of woman. This is the famous "La donna È mobile" (Fickle is woman fair).
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| La donna È mobile Qual piuma al vento, |
It has been highly praised and violently criticized; and usually gets as many encores as the singer cares to give.
At a signal from Sparafucile, Maddalena joins the Duke. He presses his love upon her. With professional coyness she pretends to repulse him. This leads to the quartet, with its dramatic interpretation of the different emotions of the four participants. The Duke is gallantly urgent and pleading: "Bella figlia dell'amore" (Fairest daughter of the graces).
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Maddalena laughingly resists his advances: "I am proof, my gentle wooer, 'gainst your vain and empty nothings."
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Gilda is moved to despair: "Ah, thus to me of love he spoke."
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Rigoletto mutters of vengeance.
It is the Duke who begins the quartet; Maddalena who first joins in by coyly mocking him; Gilda whose voice next falls upon the night with despairing accents; Rigoletto whose threats of vengeance then are heard. With the return of the theme, after the first cadence, the varied elements are combined.
They continue so to the end. Gilda's voice, in brief cries of grief, rising twice to effective climaxes, then becoming even more poignant through the syncopation of the rhythm.
Rising to a beautiful and highly dramatic climax, the quartet ends pianissimo.
This quartet usually is sung as the piÈce de rÉsistance of the opera, and is supposed to be the great event of the performance. I cannot recall a representation of the work with Nilsson and Campanini in which this was not the case, and it was so at the Manhattan when "Rigoletto" was sung there by Melba and Bonci. But at the Metropolitan, since Caruso's advent, "Rigoletto" has become a "Caruso opera," and the stress is laid on "La donna È mobile," for which numerous encores are demanded, while with the quartet, the encore is deliberately side-stepped—a most interesting process for the initiated to watch.
Photo by Hall
The Quartet in “Rigoletto”
The Duke (Sheehan), Maddalena (Albright), Gilda (Easton), Rigoletto (Goff)
After the quartet, Sparafucile comes out and receives from Rigoletto half of his fee to murder the Duke, the balance to be paid when the body, in a sack, is delivered to the hunchback. Sparafucile offers to throw the sack into the river, but that does not suit the fool's desire for revenge.
A storm now gathers. There are flashes of lightning; distant rumblings of thunder. The wind moans. (Indicated by the chorus, À bouche fermÉe, behind the scenes.) The Duke has gone to his room, after whispering a few words to Maddalena. He lays down his hat and sword, throws himself on the bed, sings a few snatches of "La donna È mobile," and in a short time falls asleep. Maddalena, below, stands by the table. Sparafucile finishes the contents of the bottle left by the Duke. Both remain silent for awhile.
Maddalena, fascinated by the Duke, begins to plead for his life. The storm is now at its height. Lightning plays vividly across the sky, thunder crashes, wind howls, rain falls in torrents. Through this uproar of the elements, to which night adds its terrors, comes Gilda, drawn as by a magnet to the spot where she knows her false lover to be. Through the crevices in the wall of the house she can hear Maddalena pleading with Sparafucile to spare the Duke's life. "Kill the hunchback," she counsels, "when he comes with the balance of the money." But there is honour even among assassins as among thieves. The bravo will not betray a customer.
Maddalena pleads yet more urgently. Well—Sparafucile will give the handsome youth one desperate chance for life: Should any other man arrive at the inn before midnight, that man will he kill and put in the sack to be thrown into the river, in place of Maddalena's temporary favourite. A clock strikes the half-hour. Gilda is in male attire. She determines to save the Duke's life—to sacrifice hers for his. She knocks. There is a moment of surprised suspense within. Then everything is made ready. Maddalena opens the
The storm is abating. The rain has ceased; the lightning become fitful, the thunder distant and intermittent. Rigoletto returns. "At last the hour of my vengeance is nigh." A bell tolls midnight. He knocks at the door. Sparafucile brings out the sack, receives the balance of his money, and retires into the house. "This sack his winding sheet!" exclaims the hunchback, as he gloats over it. The night has cleared. He must hurry and throw it into the river.
Out of the second story of the house and on to the wall steps the figure of a man and proceeds along the wall toward the city. Rigoletto starts to drag the sack with the body toward the stream. Lightly upon the night fall the notes of a familiar voice singing:
| La donna È mobile Qual piuma al vento; Muta d'accento, E di pensiero. (Fickle is woman fair, Like feather wafted; Changeable ever, Constant, ah, never.) |
It is the Duke. Furiously the hunchback tears open the sack. In it he beholds his daughter. Not yet quite dead, she is able to whisper, "Too much I loved him—now I die for him." There is a duet: Gilda, "LassÙ in cielo" (From yonder sky); Rigoletto, "Non morir" (Ah, perish not).
"Maledizione!"—The music of Monterone's curse upon the ribald jester, now bending over the corpse of his own despoiled daughter, resounds on the orchestra. The fool has had his revenge.
For political reasons the performance of Victor Hugo's
THE TROUBADOUR
Opera in four acts, by Verdi; words by Salvatore Cammarano, based on the Spanish drama of the same title by Antonio Garcia Gutierrez. Produced, Apollo Theatre, Rome, January 19, 1853. Paris, ThÉÂtre des Italiens, December 23, 1854; Grand OpÉra, in French as "Le TrouvÈre," January 12, 1857. London, Covent Garden, May 17, 1855; in English, as "The Gypsy's Vengeance," Drury Lane, March 24, 1856. America: New York, April 30, 1855, with Brignoli (Manrico), Steffanone (Leonora), Amodio (Count di Luna), and Vestvali (Azucena); Philadelphia, Walnut Street Theatre, January 14, 1856, and Academy of Music, February 25, 1857; New Orleans, April 13, 1857. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, in German, 1889; 1908, Caruso, Eames, and Homer. Frequently performed at the Academy of Music, New York, with Campanini (Manrico), Nilsson (Leonora), and Annie Louise Cary (Azucena); and Del Puente or Galassi as Count di Luna.
Characters
| Count di Luna, a young noble of Aragon | Baritone |
| Ferrando, di Luna's captain of the guard | Bass |
| Manrico, a chieftain under the Prince of Biscay, and reputed son of Azucena | Tenor |
| Ruiz, a soldier in Manrico's service | Tenor |
| An Old Gypsy | Baritone |
| Duchess Leonora, lady-in-waiting to a Princess of Aragon | Soprano |
| Inez, confidante of Leonora | Soprano |
| Azucena, a Biscayan gypsy woman | Mezzo-Soprano |
Followers of Count di Luna and of Manrico; messenger, gaoler, soldiers, nuns, gypsies.
Time—Fifteenth century.
Place—Biscay and Aragon.
Copyright photo by Dupont
Riccardo Martin as Manrico in “Il Trovatore”
For many years "Il Trovatore" has been an opera of world-wide popularity, and for a long time could be accounted the most popular work in the operatic repertoire of practically every land. While it cannot be said to retain its former vogue in this country, it is still a good drawing card, and, with special excellences of cast, an exceptional one.
The libretto of "Il Trovatore" is considered the acme of absurdity; and the popularity of the opera, notwithstanding, is believed to be entirely due to the almost unbroken melodiousness of Verdi's score.
While it is true, however, that the story of this opera seems to be a good deal of a mix-up, it is also a fact that, under the spur of Verdi's music, even a person who has not a clear grasp of the plot can sense the dramatic power of many of the scenes. It is an opera of immense verve, of temperament almost unbridled, of genius for the melodramatic so unerring that its composer has taken dance rhythms, like those of mazurka and waltz, and on them developed melodies most passionate in expression and dramatic in effect. Swift, spontaneous, and stirring is the music of "Il Trovatore." Absurdities, complexities, unintelligibilities of story are swept away in its unrelenting progress. "Il Trovatore" is the Verdi of forty working at white heat.
One reason why the plot of "Il Trovatore" seems such a jumbled-up affair is that a considerable part of the story is supposed to have transpired before the curtain goes up. These events are narrated by Ferrando, the Count di Luna's
| This is the story of "Il Trovatore." |
What is supposed to have happened before the curtain goes up on the opera is as follows: The old Count di Luna, sometime deceased, had two sons nearly of the same age. One night, when they still were infants, and asleep, in a nurse's charge in an apartment in the old Count's castle, a gypsy hag, having gained stealthy entrance into the chamber, was discovered leaning over the cradle of the younger child, Garzia. Though she was instantly driven away, the child's health began to fail and she was believed to have bewitched it. She was pursued, apprehended and burned alive at the stake.
Her daughter, Azucena, at that time a young gypsy woman with a child of her own in her arms, was a witness to the death of her mother, which she swore to avenge. During the following night she stole into the castle, snatched the younger child of the Count di Luna from its cradle, and hurried back to the scene of execution, intending to throw the baby boy into the flames that still raged over the spot where they had consumed her mother. Almost bereft of her senses, however, by her memory of the horrible scene she had witnessed, she seized and hurled into the flames her own child, instead of the young Count (thus preserving, with an almost supernatural instinct for opera, the baby that was destined to grow up into a tenor with a voice high enough to sing "Di quella pira").
Thwarted for the moment in her vengeance, Azucena was not to be completely baffled. With the infant Count in her arms she fled and rejoined her tribe, entrusting her secret to no one, but bringing him up—Manrico, the Troubadour—as her own son; and always with the thought that through him she might wreak vengeance upon his own kindred.
When the opera opens, Manrico has grown up; she has become old and wrinkled, but is still unrelenting in her quest of vengeance. The old Count has died, leaving the elder son, Count di Luna of the opera, sole heir to his title and possessions, but always doubting the death of the younger, despite the heap of infant's bones found among the ashes about the stake.
"After this preliminary knowledge," quaintly says the English libretto, "we now come to the actual business of the piece." Each of the four acts of this "piece" has a title: Act I, "Il Duello" (The Duel); Act II, "La Gitana" (The Gypsy); Act III, "Il Figlio della Zingara" (The Gypsy's Son); Act IV, "Il Supplizio" (The Penalty).
Act I. Atrium of the palace of Aliaferia, with a door leading to the apartments of the Count di Luna. Ferrando, the captain of the guard, and retainers, are reclining near the door. Armed men are standing guard in the background. It is night. The men are on guard because Count di Luna desires to apprehend a minstrel knight, a troubadour, who has been heard on several occasions to be serenading from the palace garden, the Duchess Leonora, for whom a deep, but unrequited passion sways the Count.
Weary of the watch, the retainers beg Ferrando to tell them the story of the Count's brother, the stolen child. This Ferrando proceeds to do in the ballad, "Abbietta zingara" (Sat there a gypsy hag).
Ferrando's gruesome ballad and the comments of the horror-stricken chorus dominate the opening of the opera.
The scene changes to the gardens of the palace. On one side a flight of marble steps leads to Leonora's apartment. Heavy clouds obscure the moon. Leonora and Inez are in the garden. From the confidante's questions and Leonora's answers it is gathered that Leonora is enamoured of an unknown but valiant knight who, lately entering a tourney, won all contests and was crowned victor by her hand. She knows her love is requited, for at night she has heard her Troubadour singing below her window. In the course of this narrative Leonora has two solos. The first of these is the romantic "Tacea la notte placida" (The night calmly and peacefully in beauty seemed reposing).
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| Tacea la notte placida, E bella in ciel sereno; |
It is followed by the graceful and engaging "Di tale amor che dirsi" (Of such a love how vainly),
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Di tale amor che dirsi
with its brilliant cadenza.
Leonora and Inez then ascend the steps and retire into the palace. The Count di Luna now comes into the garden. He has hardly entered before the voice of the Troubadour, accompanied on a lute, is heard from a nearby thicket singing the familiar romanza, "Deserto sulla terra" (Lonely on earth abiding).
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Deserto sulla terra
From the palace comes Leonora. Mistaking the Count in the shadow of the trees for her Troubadour, she hastens toward him. The moon emerging from a cloud, she sees the figure of a masked cavalier, recognizes it as that of her lover, and turns from the Count toward the Troubadour. Unmasking, the Troubadour now discloses his identity as Manrico, one who, as a follower of the Prince of Biscay, is proscribed in Aragon. The men draw their swords. There is a trio that fairly seethes with passion—"Di geloso amor sprezzato" (Fires of jealous, despised affection).
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These are the words, in which the Count begins the trio. It continues with "Un istante almen dia loco" (One brief moment thy fury restraining).
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Un istante almen dia loco
The men rush off to fight their duel. Leonora faints.
Act II. An encampment of gypsies. There is a ruined house at the foot of a mountain in Biscay; the interior partly exposed to view; within a great fire is lighted. Day begins to dawn.
Azucena is seated near the fire. Manrico, enveloped in his mantle, is lying upon a mattress; his helmet is at his feet; in his hand he holds a sword, which he regards fixedly. A band of gypsies are sitting in scattered groups around them.
Since an almost unbroken sequence of melodies is a characteristic of "Il Trovatore," it is not surprising to find at the opening of this act two famous numbers in quick succession;—the famous "Anvil Chorus,"
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in which the gypsies, working at the forges, swing their hammers and bring them down on clanking metal in rhythm with the music; the chorus being followed immediately by Azucena's equally famous "Stride la vampa" (Upward the flames roll).
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Stride la vampa!
In this air, which the old gypsy woman sings as a weird, but impassioned upwelling of memories and hatreds, while the tribe gathers about her, she relates the story of her mother's death. "Avenge thou me!" she murmurs to Manrico, when she has concluded.
The corps de ballet which, in the absence of a regular ballet in "Il Trovatore," utilizes this scene and the music of the "Anvil Chorus" for its picturesque saltations, dances off. The gypsies now depart, singing their chorus. With a pretty effect it dies away in the distance.
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Swept along by the emotional stress under which she labours, Azucena concludes her narrative of the tragic events at the pyre, voice and orchestral accompaniment uniting in a vivid musical setting of her memories. Naturally, her words arouse doubts in Manrico's mind as to whether he really is her son. She hastens to dispel these; they were but wandering thoughts she uttered. Moreover, after the recent battle of Petilla, between the forces of Biscay and Aragon, when he was reported slain, did she not search for and find him, and has she not been tenderly nursing him back to strength?
The forces of Aragon were led by Count di Luna, who but a short time before had been overcome by Manrico in a
Manrico's reply is couched in a bold, martial air, "Mal reggendo all'aspro assalto" (Ill sustaining the furious encounter).
But at the end it dies away to pp, when he tells how, when the Count's life was his for a thrust, a voice, as if from heaven, bade him spare it—a suggestion, of course, that although neither Manrico nor the Count know that they are brothers, Manrico unconsciously was swayed by the relationship, a touch of psychology rare in Italian opera librettos, most unexpected in this, and, of course, completely lost upon those who have not familiarized themselves with the plot of "Il Trovatore." Incidentally, however, it accounts for a musical effect—the pp, the sudden softening of the expression, at the end of the martial description of the duel.
Enter now Ruiz, a messenger from the Prince of Biscay, who orders Manrico to take command of the forces defending the stronghold of Castellor, and at the same time informs him that Leonora, believing reports of his death at Petilla, is about to take the veil in a convent near the castle.
The scene changes to the cloister of this convent. It is night. The Count and his followers, led by Ferrando, and heavily cloaked, advance cautiously. It is the Count's plan to carry off Leonora before she becomes a nun. He sings of his love for her in the air, "Il Balen" (The Smile)—"Il balen del suo sorriso" (Of her smile, the radiant gleaming)—which is justly regarded as one of the most chaste and beautiful baritone solos in Italian opera.
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Il balen del suo sorriso
It is followed by an air alla marcia, also for the Count, "Per me ora fatale" (Oh, fatal hour impending).
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Per me ora fatale,
A chorus of nuns is heard from within the convent. Leonora, with Inez, and her ladies, come upon the scene. They are about to proceed from the cloister into the convent when the Count interposes. But before he can seize Leonora, another figure stands between them. It is Manrico. With him are Ruiz and his followers. The Count is foiled.
"E deggio!—e posso crederlo?" (And can I still my eyes believe!) exclaims Leonora, as she beholds before her Manrico, whom she had thought dead. It is here that begins the impassioned finale, an ensemble consisting of a trio for Leonora, Manrico, and the Count di Luna, with chorus.
Act III. The camp of Count di Luna, who is laying siege to Castellor, whither Manrico has safely borne Leonora. There is a stirring chorus for Ferrando and the soldiers.
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The Count comes from his tent. He casts a lowering gaze at the stronghold from where his rival defies him. There is a commotion. Soldiers have captured a gypsy woman found prowling about the camp. They drag her in. She is Azucena. Questioned, she sings that she is a poor wanderer, who means no harm. "Giorni poveri vivea" (I was poor, yet uncomplaining).
Copyright photo by Dupont
Schumann-Heink as Azucena in “Il Trovatore”
But Ferrando, though she thought herself masked by the grey hairs and wrinkles of age, recognizes her as the gypsy
The scene changes to a hall adjoining the chapel in the stronghold of Castellor. Leonora is about to become the bride of Manrico, who sings the beautiful lyric, "Amor—sublime amore" ('Tis love, sublime emotion).
Its serenity makes all the more effective the tumultuous scene that follows. It assists in giving to that episode, one of the most famous in Italian opera, its true significance as a dramatic climax.
Just as Manrico takes Leonora's hand to lead her to the altar of the chapel, Ruiz rushes in with word that Azucena has been captured by the besiegers and is about to be burned to death. Already through the windows of Castellor the glow of flames can be seen. Her peril would render delay fatal. Dropping the hand of his bride, Manrico, draws his sword, and, as his men gather, sings "Di quella pira l'orrendo foco" (See the pyre blazing, oh, sight of horror), and rushes forth at the head of his soldiers to attempt to save Azucena.
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The line, "O teco almeno, corro a morir" (Or, all else failing, to die with thee), contains the famous high C.
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O teco almeno corro a morir
This is a tour de force, which has been condemned as vulgar and ostentatious, but which undoubtedly adds to the effectiveness of the number. There is, it should be remarked, no high C in the score of "Di quella pira." In no way is Verdi responsible for it. It was introduced by a tenor, who saw a chance to make an effect with it, and succeeded so well that it became a fixture. A tenor now content to sing "O teco almeno" as Verdi wrote it
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would never be asked to sing it.
Dr. Frank E. Miller, author of The Voice and Vocal Art Science, the latter the most complete exposition of the psycho-physical functions involved in voice-production, informs me that a series of photographs have been made (by an apparatus too complicated to describe) of the vibrations of Caruso's voice as he takes and holds the high C in "Di quella pira." The record measures fifty-eight feet. While it might not be correct to say that Caruso's high C is fifty-eight feet long, the record is evidence of its being superbly taken and held.
Not infrequently the high C in "Di quella pira" is faked for tenors who cannot reach it, yet have to sing the rÔle of Manrico, or who, having been able to reach it in their younger days and at the height of their prime, still wish to maintain their fame as robust tenors. For such the number is transposed. The tenor, instead of singing high C, sings B-flat, a tone and a half lower, and much easier to take. By flourishing his sword and looking very fierce he usually manages to get away with it. Transpositions of operatic airs, requiring unusually high voices, are not infrequently
Act IV. Manrico's sortie to rescue his supposed mother failed. His men were repulsed, and he himself was captured and thrown into the dungeon tower of Aliaferia, where Azucena was already enchained. The scene shows a wing of the palace of Aliaferia. In the angle is a tower with window secured by iron bars. It is night, dark and clouded.
Leonora enters with Ruiz, who points out to her the place of Manrico's confinement, and retires. That she has conceived a desperate plan to save her lover appears from the fact that she wears a poison ring, a ring with a swift poison concealed under the jewel, so that she can take her own life, if driven thereto.
Unknown to Manrico, she is near him. Her thoughts wander to him;—"D'amor sull'ali rosee" (On rosy wings of love depart).
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D'amor sull'ali rosee
It is followed by the "Miserere," which was for many years and perhaps still is the world over the most popular of all melodies from opera, although at the present time
The "Miserere" is chanted by a chorus within.
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Against this as a sombre background are projected the heart-broken ejaculations of Leonora.
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Then Manrico's voice in the tower intones "Ah! che la morte ognora" (Ah! how death still delayeth).
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One of the most characteristic phrases, suggestions of which occur also in "La Traviata" and even in "AÏda," is the following:
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a chi desia, a chi desia morir!
Familiarity may breed contempt, and nothing could well be more familiar than the "Miserere" from "Il Trovatore." Yet, well sung, it never fails of effect; and the gaoler always has to let Manrico come out of the tower and acknowledge the applause of an excited house, while Leonora stands by and pretends not to see him, one of those little
The Count enters, to be confronted by Leonora. She promises to become his wife if he will free Manrico. Di Luna's passion for her is so intense that he agrees. There is a solo for Leonora, "Mira, di acerbe lagrime" (Witness the tears of agony), followed by a duet between her and the Count, who little suspects that, Manrico once freed, she will escape a hated union with himself by taking the poison in her ring.
The scene changes to the interior of the tower. Manrico and Azucena sing a duet of mournful beauty, "Ai nostri monti" (Back to our mountains).
| Music | Music |
| [Listen] | [Listen] |
| Ai nostri monti | Riposa o madre, io prono e muto |
Leonora enters and bids him escape. But he suspects the price she has paid; and his suspicions are confirmed by herself, when the poison she has drained from beneath the jewel in her ring begins to take effect and she feels herself sinking in death, while Azucena, in her sleep, croons dreamily, "Back to our mountains."
The Count di Luna, coming upon the scene, finds Leonora dead in her lover's arms. He orders Manrico to be led to the block at once and drags Azucena to the window to witness the death of her supposed son.
"It is over!" exclaims Di Luna, when the executioner has done his work.
"The victim was thy brother!" shrieks the gypsy hag. "Thou art avenged, O mother!"
She falls near the window.
"And I still live!" exclaims the Count.
With that exclamation the cumulative horrors, set to the most tuneful score in Italian opera, are over.
THE FRAIL ONE
Opera in three acts by Verdi; words by Francesco Maria Piave, after the play "La Dame aux CamÉlias," by Alexandre Dumas, fils. Produced Fenice Theatre, Venice, March 6, 1853. London, May 24, 1856, with Piccolomini. Paris, in French, December 6, 1856; in Italian, October 27, 1864, with Christine Nilsson. New York, Academy of Music, December 3, 1856, with La Grange (Violetta), Brignoli (Alfredo), and Amodio (Germont, pÈre). Nilsson, Patti, Melba, Sembrich and Tetrazzini have been among famous interpreters of the rÔle of Violetta in America. Galli-Curci first sang Violetta in this country in Chicago, December 1, 1916.
Characters
| Alfredo Germont, lover of Violetta | Tenor |
| Giorgio Germont, his father | Baritone |
| Gastone de LetoriÈres | Tenor |
| Baron Douphol, a rival of Alfredo | Bass |
| Marquis d'Obigny | Bass |
| Doctor Grenvil | Bass |
| Giuseppe, servant to Violetta | Tenor |
| Violetta ValÉry, a courtesan | Soprano |
| Flora Bervoix, her friend | Mezzo-Soprano |
| Annina, confidante of Violetta | Soprano |
Ladies and gentlemen who are friends and guests in the houses of Violetta and Flora; servants and masks; dancers and guests as matadors, picadors, and gypsies.
Time—Louis XIV.
Place—Paris and vicinity.
Copyright photo by Mishkin
Galli-Curci as Violetta in “La Traviata”
At its production in Venice in 1853 "La Traviata" was a failure, for which various reasons can be advanced. The younger Dumas's play, "La Dame aux CamÉlias," familiar to English playgoers under the incorrect title of "Camille," is a study of modern life and played in modern costume. When Piave reduced his "Traviata" libretto from the play, he retained the modern period. This is said to have nonplussed an audience accustomed to operas laid in the past and given in "costume." But the chief blame for the fiasco
When the opera was brought forward again a year later, the same city which had decried it as a failure acclaimed it a success. On this occasion, however, the period of the action differed from that of the play. It was set back to the time of Louis XIV., and costumed accordingly. There is, however, no other opera today in which this matter of costume is so much a go-as-you-please affair for the principals, as it is in "La Traviata." I do not recall if Christine Nilsson dressed Violetta according to the Louis XIV. period, or not; but certainly Adelina Patti and Marcella Sembrich, both of whom I heard many times in the rÔle (and each of them the first time they sang it here) wore the conventional evening gown of modern times. To do this has become entirely permissible for prima donnas in this character. Meanwhile the Alfredo may dress according to the Louis XIV. period, or wear the swallow-tail costume of today, or compromise, as some do, and wear the swallow-tail coat and modern waistcoat with knee-breeches and black silk stockings. As if even this diversity were not yet quite enough, the most notable Germont of recent years, Renaud, who, at the Manhattan Opera House, sang the rÔle with the most exquisite refinement, giving a portrayal as finished as a genre painting by Meissonnier, wore the costume of a gentleman of Pro
Act I. A salon in the house of Violetta. In the back scene is a door, which opens into another salon. There are also side doors. On the left is a fireplace, over which is a mirror. In the centre of the apartment is a dining-table, elegantly laid. Violetta, seated on a couch, is conversing with Dr. Grenvil and some friends. Others are receiving the guests who arrive, among whom are Baron Douphol and Flora on the arm of the Marquis.
The opera opens with a brisk ensemble. Violetta is a courtesan (traviata). Her house is the scene of a revel. Early in the festivities Gaston, who has come in with Alfred, informs Violetta that his friend is seriously in love with her. She treats the matter with outward levity, but it is apparent that she is touched by Alfred's devotion. Already, too, in this scene, there are slight indications, more emphasized as the opera progresses, that consumption has undermined Violetta's health.
First in the order of solos in this act is a spirited drinking song for Alfred, which is repeated by Violetta. After each measure the chorus joins in. This is the "Libiamo ne' lieti calici" (Let us quaff from the wine cup o'erflowing).
Music
[Listen]
Libiamo, libiamo ne' lieti calici
Music is heard from an adjoining salon, toward which the guests proceed. Violetta is about to follow, but is seized with a coughing-spell and sinks upon a lounge to recover. Alfred has remained behind. She asks him why he has not joined the others. He protests his love for her. At first
In this the words, "Di quell'amor ch'È palpito" (Ah, 'tis with love that palpitates) are set to a phrase which Violetta repeats in the famous "Ah, fors'È lui," just as she has previously repeated the drinking song.
Verdi thus seems to intend to indicate in his score the effect upon her of Alfred's genuine affection. She repeated his drinking song. Now she repeats, like an echo of heartbeats, his tribute to a love of which she is the object.
It is when Alfred and the other guests have retired that Violetta, lost in contemplation, her heart touched for the first time, sings "Ah fors'È lui che l'anima" (For him, perchance, my longing soul).
Music
[Listen]
Ah, fors'È lui che l'anima solinga ne' tumulti, solinga ne' tumulti
Then she repeats, in the nature of a refrain, the measures already sung by Alfred. Suddenly she changes, as if there were no hope of lasting love for woman of her character, and dashes into the brilliant "Sempre libera degg'io folleggiare di gioja in gioja" (Ever free shall I still hasten madly on from pleasure to pleasure).
Music
[Listen]
Sempre libera degg'io folleggiare
With this solo the act closes.
Act II. Salon on the ground floor of a country house near Paris, occupied by Alfred and Violetta, who for him has deserted the allurements of her former life. Alfred enters in sporting costume. He sings of his joy in possessing
From Annina, the maid of Violetta, he learns that the expenses of keeping up the country house are much greater than Violetta has told him, and that, in order to meet the cost, which is beyond his own means, she has been selling her jewels. He immediately leaves for Paris, his intention being to try to raise money there so that he may be able to reimburse her.
After he has gone, Violetta comes in. She has a note from Flora inviting her to some festivities at her house that night. She smiles at the absurdity of the idea that she should return, even for an evening, to the scenes of her former life. Just then a visitor is announced. She supposes he is a business agent, whom she is expecting. But, instead, the man who enters announces that he is Alfred's father. His dignity, his courteous yet restrained manner, at once fill her with apprehension. She has foreseen separation from the man she loves. She now senses that the dread moment is impending.
The elder Germont's plea that she leave Alfred is based both upon the blight threatened his career by his liaison with her, and upon another misfortune that will result to the family. There is not only the son; there is a daughter. "Pura siccome un angelo" (Pure as an angel) sings Germont, in the familiar air:
Music
[Listen]
Pura siccome un angelo
Copyright photo by Dupont
Farrar as Violetta in “La Traviata”
Photo by Mishkin
Scotti as Germont in “La Traviata”
Should the scandal of Alfred's liaison with Violetta continue, the family of a youth, whom the daughter is to marry, threaten to break off the alliance. Therefore it is not only on behalf of his son, it is also for the future of his daughter, that the elder Germont pleads. As in
Finally she yields: "Dite alla giovine" (Say to thy daughter); then "Imponete" (Now command me); and, after that, "MorrÒ—la mia memoria" (I shall die—but may my memory).
Germont retires. Violetta writes a note, rings for Annina, and hands it to her. From the maid's surprise as she reads the address, it can be judged to be for Flora, and, presumably, an acceptance of her invitation. When Annina has gone, she writes to Alfred informing him that she is returning to her old life, and that she will look to Baron Douphol to maintain her. Alfred enters. She conceals the letter about her person. He tells her that he has received word from his father that the latter is coming to see him in an attempt to separate him from her. Pretending that she leaves, so as not to be present during the interview, she takes of him a tearful farewell.
Alfred is left alone. He picks up a book and reads listlessly. A messenger enters and hands him a note. The address is in Violetta's handwriting. He breaks the seal, begins to read, staggers as he realizes the import, and would collapse, but that his father, who has quietly entered from the garden, holds out his arms, in which the youth, believing himself betrayed by the woman he loves, finds refuge.
"Di Provenza il mar, il suol chi dal cor ti cancellÒ" (From fair Provence's sea and soil, who hath won thy
Music
[Listen]
Di Provenza il mar, il suol
Alfred rouses himself. Looking about vaguely, he sees Flora's letter, glances at the contents, and at once concludes that Violetta's first plunge into the vortex of gayety, to return to which she has, as he supposes, abandoned him, will be at Flora's fÊte.
"Thither will I hasten, and avenge myself!" he exclaims, and departs precipitately, followed by his father.
The scene changes to a richly furnished and brilliantly lighted salon in Flora's palace. The fÊte is in full swing. There is a ballet of women gypsies, who sing as they dance "Noi siamo zingarelle" (We're gypsies gay and youthful).
Gaston and his friends appear as matadors and others as picadors. Gaston sings, while the others dance, "È Piquillo, un bel gagliardo" ('Twas Piquillo, so young and so daring).
It is a lively scene, upon which there enters Alfred, to be followed soon by Baron Douphol with Violetta on his arm. Alfred is seated at a card table. He is steadily winning. "Unlucky in love, lucky in gambling!" he exclaims. Violetta winces. The Baron shows evidence of anger at Alfred's words and is with difficulty restrained by Violetta. The Baron, with assumed nonchalance, goes to the gaming table and stakes against Alfred. Again the latter's winnings are large. A servant's announcement that the banquet is ready is an evident relief to the Baron. All retire to an adjoining salon. For a brief moment the stage is empty.
Violetta enters. She has asked for an interview with Alfred. He joins her. She begs him to leave. She fears
Alfred tears open the doors to the salon where the banquet is in progress. "Come hither, all!" he shouts.
They crowd upon the scene. Violetta, almost fainting, leans against the table for support. Facing her, Alfred hurls at her invective after invective. Finally, in payment of what she has spent to help him maintain the house near Paris in which they have lived together, he furiously casts at her feet all his winnings at the gaming table. She faints in the arms of Flora and Dr. Grenvil.
The elder Germont enters in search of his son. He alone knows the real significance of the scene, but for the sake of his son and daughter cannot disclose it. A dramatic ensemble, in which Violetta sings, "Alfredo, Alfredo, di questo core non puoi comprendere tutto l'amore" (Alfred, Alfred, little canst thou fathom the love within my heart for thee) brings the act to a close.
Act III. Violetta's bedroom. At the back is a bed with the curtains partly drawn. A window is shut in by inside shutters. Near the bed stands a tabouret with a bottle of water, a crystal cup, and different kinds of medicine on it. In the middle of the room is a toilet-table and settee. A little apart from this is another piece of furniture upon which a night-lamp is burning. On the left is a fireplace with a fire in it.
Violetta awakens. In a weak voice she calls Annina, who, waking up confusedly, opens the shutters and looks down into the street, which is gay with carnival preparations. Dr. Grenvil is at the door. Violetta endeavours to rise, but falls back again. Then, supported by Annina,
Violetta has received a letter from the elder Germont telling her that Alfred has been apprised by him of her sacrifice and has been sent for to come to her bedside as quickly as possible. But she has little hope that he will arrive in time. She senses the near approach of death. "Addio del passato" (Farewell to bright visions) she sighs. For this solo,
Music
[Listen]
Addio del passato bei sogni ridenti,
when sung in the correct interpretive mood, should be like a sigh from the depths of a once frail, but now purified soul.
A bacchanalian chorus of carnival revellers floats up from the street. Annina, who had gone out with some money which Violetta had given her to distribute as alms, returns. Her manner is excited. Violetta is quick to perceive it and divine its significance. Annina has seen Alfred. He is waiting to be announced. The dying woman bids Annina hasten to admit him. A moment later he holds Violetta in his arms. Approaching death is forgotten. Nothing again shall part them. They will leave Paris for some quiet retreat. "Parigi, o cara, noi lasceremo" (We shall fly from Paris, beloved), they sing.
Music
[Listen]
Parigi, o cara, noi lasceremo
But it is too late. The hand of death is upon the woman's brow. "Gran Dio! morir sÌ giovine" (O, God! to die so young).
The elder Germont and Dr. Grenvil have come in. There is nothing to be done. The cough that racked the poor frail body has ceased. La traviata is dead.
Not only were "Il Trovatore" and "La Traviata" produced in the same year, but "La Traviata" was written between the date of "Trovatore's" premiÈre at Rome (January 19th) and March 6th. Only four weeks in all are said to have been devoted to it, and part of the time Verdi was working on "Trovatore" as well. Nothing could better illustrate the fecundity of his genius, the facility with which he composed. But it was not the fatal facility that sacrifices real merit for temporary success. There are a few echoes of "Trovatore" in "Traviata"; but the remarkable achievement of Verdi is not in having written so beautiful an opera as "La Traviata" in so short a time, but in having produced in it a work in a style wholly different from "Il Trovatore." The latter palpitates with the passions of love, hatred, and vengeance. The setting of the action encourages these. It consists of palace gardens, castles, dungeons. But "La Traviata" plays in drawing-rooms. The music corresponds with these surroundings. It is vivacious, graceful, gentle. When it palpitates, it is with sorrow. The opera also contains a notably beautiful instrumental number—the introduction to the third act. This was a favourite piece with Theodore Thomas. Several times—years ago—I heard it conducted by him at his Popular Concerts.
Oddly enough, although "Il Trovatore" is by far the more robust and at one time was, as I have stated, the most popular opera in the world, I believe that today the advantage lies with "La Traviata," and that, as between the two, there belongs to that opera the ultimate chance of survival. I explain this on the ground that, in "Il Trovatore" the hero and heroine are purely musical creations, the real character drawing, dramatically and musically, being in the
In fact, operas survive because the librettist has known how to create a character and the composer how to match it with his musical genius. Recall the dashing Don Giovanni; the resourceful Figaro, both in the Mozart and the Rossini opera; the real interpretive quality of a mild and gracious order in the heroine of "La Sonnambula"—innocence personified; the gloomy figure of Edgardo stalking through "Lucia di Lammermoor"; the hunchback and the titled gallant in "Rigoletto," and you can understand why these very old operas have lived so long. They are not make-believe; they are real.
THE MASKED BALL
Opera in three acts, by Verdi; words by Somma, based on Scribe's libretto for Auber's opera, "Gustave III., ou Le Bal MasquÉ" (Gustavus III., or the Masked Ball). Produced, Apollo Theatre, Rome, February 17, 1859. Paris, ThÉÂtre des Italiens, January 13, 1861. London, June 15, 1861. New York, February 11, 1861. Revivals, Metropolitan Opera House, N.Y., with Jean de Reszke, 1903; with Caruso, Eames,
Characters
| Richard, Count of Warwick and Governor of Boston (or Riccardo, Duke of Olivares and Governor of Naples) | Tenor | ||
| Amelia (Adelia) | Soprano | ||
| Reinhart (Renato), secretary to the Governor and husband of Amelia | Baritone | ||
| Samuel | } | enemies of the Governor | Bass |
| Tom (Tommaso) | } | ||
| Silvan, a sailor | Soprano | ||
| Oscar (Edgardo), a page | Soprano | ||
| Ulrica, a negress astrologer | Contralto | ||
A judge, a servant of Amelia, populace, guards, etc., conspirators, maskers, and dancing couples.
Place—Boston, or Naples.
Time—Late seventeenth or middle eighteenth century.
The English libretto of "Un Ballo in Maschera," literally "A Masked Ball," but always called by us "The Masked Ball," has the following note:
"The scene of Verdi's 'Ballo in Maschera' was, by the author of the libretto, originally laid in one of the European cities. But the government censors objected to this, probably, because the plot contained the record of a successful conspiracy against an established prince or governor. By a change of scene to the distant, and, to the author, little-known, city of Boston, in America, this difficulty seems to have been obviated. The fact should be borne in mind by Bostonians and others, who may be somewhat astonished at the events which are supposed to have taken place in the old Puritan city."
Certainly the events in "The Masked Ball" are amazing for the Boston of Puritan or any other time, and it was only through necessity that the scene of the opera was laid there. Now that political reasons for this no longer exist, it is usually played with the scene laid in Naples.
Auber produced, in 1833, an opera on a libretto by Scribe, entitled "Gustave III., ou Le Bal MasquÉ." Upon this Scribe libretto the book of "Un Ballo in Maschera" is based. Verdi's opera was originally called "Gustavo III.," and, like the Scribe-Auber work, was written around the assassination of Gustavus III., of Sweden, who, March 16, 1792, was shot in the back during a masked ball at Stockholm.
Verdi composed the work for the San Carlo Theatre, Naples, where it was to have been produced for the carnival of 1858. But January 14th of that year, and while the rehearsals were in progress, Felice Orsini, an Italian revolutionist, made his attempt on the life of Napoleon III. In consequence the authorities forbade the performance of a work dealing with the assassination of a king. The suggestion that Verdi adapt his music to an entirely different libretto was put aside by the composer, and the work was withdrawn, with the result that a revolution nearly broke out in Naples. People paraded the street, and by shouting "Viva Verdi!" proclaimed, under guise of the initials of the popular composer's name, that they favoured the cause of a united Italy, with Victor Emanuel as King; viz.: Vittorio Emmanuele Re D'Italia (Victor Emanuel, King of Italy). Finally the censor in Rome suggested, as a way out of the difficulty, that the title of the opera be changed to "Un Ballo in Maschera" and the scene transferred to Boston. For however nervous the authorities were about having a king murdered on the stage, they regarded the assassination of an English governor in far-off America as a quite harmless diversion. So, indeed, it proved to be, the only excitement evinced by the audience of the Apollo Theatre, Rome, on the evening of February 18, 1859, being the result of its enthusiasm over the various musical numbers of the work, this enthusiasm not being at all dampened by the fact that, with the transfer to Boston, two of the conspirators,
The sensible change of scene from Boston to Naples is said to have been initiated in Paris upon the instance of Mario, who "would never have consented to sing his ballad in the second act in short pantaloons, silk stockings, red dress, and big epaulettes of gold lace. He would never have been satisfied with the title of Earl of Warwick and the office of governor. He preferred to be a grandee of Spain, to call himself the Duke of Olivares, and to disguise himself as a Neapolitan fisherman, besides paying little attention to the strict accuracy of the rÔle, but rather adapting it to his own gifts as an artist." The ballad referred to in this quotation undoubtedly is Richard's barcarolle, "Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta" (Declare if the waves will faithfully bear me).
Act I. Reception hall in the Governor's house. Richard, Earl of Warwick, is giving an audience. Oscar, a page, brings him the list of guests invited to a masked ball. Richard is especially delighted at seeing on it the name of Amelia, the wife of his secretary, Reinhart, although his conscience bitterly reproaches him for loving Amelia, for Reinhart is his most faithful friend, ever ready to defend him. The secretary also has discovered a conspiracy against his master; but as yet has been unable to learn the names of the conspirators.
At the audience a judge is announced, who brings for signature the sentence of banishment against an old fortune teller, the negress Ulrica. Oscar, however, intercedes for the old woman. Richard decides to visit her in disguise and test her powers of divination.
The scene changes to Ulrica's hut, which Richard enters disguised as a fisherman. Without his knowledge, Amelia also comes to consult the negress. Concealed by a curtain he hears her ask for a magic herb to cure her of the love
Act II. Midnight, beside the gallows. Amelia, deeply veiled, comes to pluck the magic herb. Richard arrives to protect her. Amelia is unable to conceal her love for him. But who comes there? It is Reinhart. Concern for his master has called him to the spot. The conspirators are lying in wait for him nearby. Richard exacts from Reinhart a promise to escort back to the city the deeply veiled woman, without making an attempt to learn who she is, while he himself returns by an unfrequented path. Reinhart and his companion fall into the hands of the conspirators. The latter do not harm the secretary, but want at least to learn who the Governor's sweetheart is. They lift the veil. Reinhart sees his own wife. Rage grips his soul. He bids the leaders of the conspiracy to meet with him at his house in the morning.
Act III. A study in Reinhart's dwelling. For the disgrace he has suffered he intends to kill Amelia. Upon her plea she is allowed to embrace her son once more. He reflects that, after all, Richard is much the more guilty of the two. He refrains from killing her, but when he and the conspirators draw lots to determine who shall kill Richard,
In the brilliant crowd of maskers, the scene having changed to that of the masked ball, Reinhart learns from Oscar what disguise is worn by Richard. Amelia, who, with the eyes of apprehensive love, also has recognized Richard, implores him to flee the danger that threatens him. But Richard knows no fear. In order that the honour of his friend shall remain secure, he has determined to send him as an envoy to England, accompanied by his wife. Her, he tells Amelia, he will never see again. "Once more I bid thee farewell, for the last time, farewell."
"And thus receive thou my farewell!" exclaims Reinhart, stabbing him in the side.
With his last words Richard assures Reinhart of the guiltlessness of Amelia, and admonishes all to seek to avenge his death on no one.
It is hardly necessary to point out how astonishing these proceedings are when supposed to take place in Colonial Boston. Even the one episode of Richard, Earl of Warwick, singing a barcarolle in the hut of a negress who tells fortunes is so impossible that it affects the whole story with incredibility. But Naples—well, anything will go there. In fact, as truth is stranger than fiction, we even can regard the events of "The Masked Ball" as occurring more naturally in an Italian city than in Stockholm, where the assassination of Gustavus III. at a masquerade actually occurred.
Although the opera is a subject of only occasional revival, it contains a considerable amount of good music and a quintet of exceptional quality.
Early in the first act comes Richard's solo, "La rivedrÀ nell'estasi" (I shall again her face behold).
Music
[Listen]
La rivedrÀ nell'estasi
This is followed by the faithful Reinhart's "Alla vita che t'arride" (To thy life with joy abounding), with horn solo.
Strikingly effective is Oscar's song, in which the page vouches for the fortune-teller. "Volta la terrea fronte alle stelle" (Lift up thine earthly gaze to where the stars are shining).
Music
[Listen]
Volta la terrea fronte alle stelle
In the scene in the fortune-teller's hut are a trio for Amelia, Ulrica, and Richard, while the latter overhears Amelia's welcome confession of love for himself, and Richard's charming barcarolle addressed to the sorceress, a Neapolitan melody, "Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta" (Declare if the waves will faithfully bear me).
Music
[Listen]
Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta,
The quintet begins with Richard's laughing disbelief in Ulrica's prophecy regarding himself, "È scherzo od È follia" ('Tis an idle folly).
Concluding the scene is the chorus, in which, after the people have recognized Richard, they sing what has been called, "a kind of 'God Save the King' tribute to his worth"—"O figlio d'Inghilterra" (O son of mighty England).
The second act opens with a beautiful air for Amelia, "Ma dall'arido stelo divulsa" (From the stem, dry and withered, dissevered).
An impassioned duet occurs during the meeting at the place of the gibbet between Richard and Amelia: "O qual soave brivido" (Oh, what delightful ecstasies).
The act ends with a quartet for Amelia, Reinhart, Samuel, and Tom.
In the last act is Amelia's touching supplication to her husband, in which "The weeping of the violoncello and the veiled key of E-flat minor stretch to the last limits of grief this prayer of the wife and mother,"—"MorrÒ, ma prima in grazia" (I die, but first in mercy).
"O dolcezze perdute!" (O delights now lost for ever) sings her husband, in a musical inspiration prefaced by harp and flute.
During the masked ball there is a quintet for Amelia, Oscar, Reinhart, Samuel, and Tom, from which the sprightly butterfly allegro of Oscar, "Di che fulgor, che musiche" (What brilliant lights, what music gay) detaches itself, while later on the Page has a buoyant "tra-la-la" solo, beginning, in reply to Reinhart's question concerning Richard's disguise, "Saper vorreste di che si veste" (You'd fain be hearing what mask he's wearing).
There is a colloquy between Richard and Amelia. Then the catastrophe.
Prior to proceeding to a consideration of "AÏda," I will refer briefly to certain works by Verdi, which, although not requiring a complete account of story and music, should not be omitted from a book on opera.
At the Teatro San Carlo, Naples, December 8, 1849, Verdi brought out the three-act opera "
The story is a gloomy one. The first act is entitled "Love," the second "Intrigue," the third "Poison."
Characters
| Count Walter | Bass |
| Rodolfo, his son | Tenor |
| Miller, an old soldier | Bass |
| Luisa, his daughter | Soprano |
| Frederica, Duchess of Ostheim, Walter's niece | Contralto |
| Laura, a peasant girl | Contralto |
Ladies attending the Duchess, pages, servants, archers, and villagers.
Luisa is the daughter of Miller, an old soldier. There is ardent love between her and Rodolfo, the son of Count Walter, who has concealed his real name and rank from her and her father and is known to them as a peasant named Carlo. Old Miller, however, has a presentiment that evil will result from their attachment. This is confirmed on his being informed by Wurm that Carlo is Rodolfo, his master's son. Wurm is himself in love with Luisa.
The Duchess Frederica, Count Walter's niece, arrives at the castle. She had been brought up there with Rodolfo, and has from childhood cherished a deep affection for him; but, compelled by her father to marry the Duke d'Ostheim, has not seen Rodolfo for some years. The Duke, however, having died, she is now a widow, and, on the invitation of Count Walter, who has, unknown to Rodolfo, made proposals of marriage to her on his son's behalf, she arrives
Luisa's father has been seized and imprisoned by the Count's order. She, to save his life, consents, at the instigation of Wurm, to write a letter in which she states that she had never really loved Rodolfo, but only encouraged him on account of his rank and fortune, of which she was always aware; and finally offering to fly with Wurm. This letter, as the Count and his steward have arranged, falls into the hands of Rodolfo, who, enraged by the supposed treachery of the woman he loves, consents to marry the Duchess, but ultimately resolves to kill Luisa and himself.
Luisa also has determined to put an end to her existence. Rodolfo enters her home in the absence of Miller, and, after extracting from Luisa's own lips the avowal that she did write the letter, he pours poison into a cup. She unwittingly offers it to him to quench his thirst. Afterwards, at his request, she tastes it herself. She had sworn to Wurm that she would never reveal the fact of the compulsion under which she had written the letter, but feeling herself released from her oath by fast approaching death, she confesses the truth to Rodolfo. The lovers die in the presence of their horror-stricken parents.
The principal musical numbers include Luisa's graceful
There also should be mentioned Luisa's air in the last act, "La tomba È un letto sparso di fiori" (The tomb a couch is, covered with roses).
"
There is one famous number in the "The Sicilian Vespers." This is the "Bolero," sung by HÉlÈne—"MercÉ, dilette amiche" (My thanks, beloved companions).
At Petrograd, November 10, 1862, there was brought out Verdi's opera in four acts, "
Don Alvaro is about to elope with Donna Leonora, daughter of the Marquis, when the latter comes upon them and is accidentally killed by Don Alvaro. The Marquis curses his daughter with his dying breath and invokes the vengeance of his son, Don Carlo, upon her and her lover. She escapes in male attire to a monastery, confesses to the Abbot, and is conducted by him to a cave, where he assures her of absolute safety.
Don Alvaro and Don Carlo meet before the cave. They fight a duel in which Don Alvaro mortally wounds Don Carlo. Donna Leonora, coming out of the cave and finding her brother dying, goes to him. With a last effort he stabs her in the heart. Don Alvaro throws himself over a nearby precipice.
"Madre, pietosa Vergine" (Oh, holy Virgin) is one of the principal numbers of the opera. It is sung by Donna Leonora, kneeling in the moonlight near the convent, while from within is heard the chant of the priests.
The "Madre pietosa" also is utilized as a theme in the overture.
"
The characters are Philip II., of Spain, bass; Don Carlos, his son, tenor; Rodrigo, Marquis de Posa, baritone; Grand Inquisitor, bass; Elizabeth de Valois, Queen of Philip II., and stepmother of Don Carlos, soprano; Princess Eboli, soprano. In the original production the fine rÔle of Rodrigo was taken by Faure.
Don Carlos and Elizabeth de Valois have been in love with each other, but for reasons of state Elizabeth has been obliged to marry Philip II., Don Carlos's father. The son is counselled by Rodrigo to absent himself from Spain by obtaining from his father a commission to go to the Netherlands, there to mitigate the cruelties practised by the Spaniards upon the Flemings. Don Carlos seeks an audience with Elizabeth, in order to gain her intercession with Philip. The result, however, of the meeting, is that their passion for each other returns with even greater intensity than before. Princess Eboli, who is in love with Don Carlos, becomes cognizant of the Queen's affection for her stepson, and informs the King. Don Carlos is thrown into prison. Rodrigo, who visits him there, is shot by order of Philip, who suspects him of aiding Spain's enemies in the Low Countries. Don Carlos, having been freed, makes a tryst with the Queen. Discovered by the King, he is handed over by him to the Inquisition to be put to death.
"La Forza del Destino" and "Don Carlos" lie between Verdi's middle period, ranging from "Luisa Miller" to "Un Ballo in Maschera" and including "Rigoletto," "Il Trovatore," and "La Traviata," and his final period, which began with "AÏda." It can be said that in "La Forza" and "Don Carlos" Verdi had absorbed considerable of Meyerbeer and Gounod, while in "AÏda," in addition to these, he had assimilated as much of Wagner as is good for an Italian. The enrichment of the orchestration in the two immediate predecessors of "AÏda" is apparent, but not
Grand opera in four acts by Giuseppe Verdi. Plot by Mariette Bey. Written in French prose by Camille du Locle. Translated into Italian verse by Antonio Ghislanzoni.
Produced in Cairo, Egypt, December 24, 1871; La Scala, Milan, under the composer's direction, February 8, 1872; ThÉÂtre Italien, Paris, April 22, 1876; Covent Garden, London, June 22, 1876; Academy of Music, New York, November 26, 1873; Grand OpÉra, Paris, March 22, 1880; Metropolitan Opera House, with Caruso, 1904.
Characters
| AÏda, an Ethiopian slave | Soprano |
| Amneris, daughter of the King of Egypt | Contralto |
| Amonasro, King of Ethiopia, father of AÏda | Baritone |
| Rhadames, captain of the Guard | Tenor |
| Ramphis, High Priest | Bass |
| King of Egypt | Bass |
| Messenger | Tenor |
Priests, soldiers, Ethiopian slaves, prisoners, Egyptians, etc.
Time—Epoch of the Pharaohs.
Place—Memphis and Thebes.
"AÏda" was commissioned by Ismail Pacha, Khedive of Egypt, for the Italian Theatre in Cairo, which opened in November, 1869. The opera was produced there December 24, 1871; not at the opening of the house, as sometimes is erroneously stated. Its success was sensational.
Equally enthusiastic was its reception when brought out at La Scala, Milan, February 7, 1872, under the direction of Verdi himself, who was recalled thirty-two times and presented with an ivory baton and diamond star with the name of AÏda in rubies and his own in other precious stones.
It is an interesting fact that "AÏda" reached New York before it did any of the great European opera houses save La Scala. It was produced at the Academy of Music under the direction of Max Strakosch, November 26, 1873. I am glad to have heard that performance and several other performances of it that season. For the artists who appeared in it gave a representation that for brilliancy has not been surpassed if, indeed, it has been equalled. In support of this statement it is only necessary to say that Italo Campanini was Rhadames, Victor Maurel Amonasro, and Annie Louise Cary Amneris. No greater artists have appeared in these rÔles in this country. Mlle. Torriani, the AÏda, while not so distinguished, was entirely adequate. Nannetti as Ramphis, the high priest, Scolara as the King, and Boy as the Messenger, completed the cast.
I recall some of the early comment on the opera. It was said to be Wagnerian. In point of fact "AÏda" is Wagnerian only as compared with Verdi's earlier operas. Compared with Wagner himself, it is Verdian—purely Italian. It was said that the fine melody for the trumpets on the stage in the pageant scene was plagiarized from a theme in the Coronation March of Meyerbeer's "ProphÈte." Slightly reminiscent the passage is, and, of course, stylistically the entire scene is on Meyerbeerian lines; but these resemblances no longer are of importance.
Paris failed to hear "AÏda" until April, 1876, and then at the ThÉÂtre Italien, instead of at the Grand OpÉra, where it was not heard until March, 1880, when Maurel was the Amonasro and Édouard de Reszke, later a favourite basso at the Metropolitan Opera House, the King. In 1855 Verdi's opera, "Les VÊpres Siciliennes" (The Sicilian Vespers) had been produced at the Grand OpÉra and occurrences at the rehearsals had greatly angered the composer. The orchestra clearly showed a disinclination to follow the composer's minute directions regarding the manner in
When the Khedive asked Verdi to compose a new opera especially for the new opera house at Cairo, and inquired what the composer's terms would be, Verdi demanded $20,000. This was agreed upon and he was then given the subject he was to treat, "AÏda," which had been suggested to the Khedive by Mariette Bey, the great French Egyptologist. The composer received the rough draft of the story. From this Camille du Locle, a former director of the OpÉra Comique, who happened to be visiting Verdi at Busseto, wrote a libretto in French prose, "scene by scene, sentence by sentence," as he has said, adding that the composer showed the liveliest interest in the work and himself suggested the double scene in the finale of the opera. The French prose libretto was translated into Italian verse by Antonio Ghislanzoni, who wrote more than sixty opera librettos, "AÏda" being the most famous. Mariette Bey brought his archeological knowledge to bear upon the production. "He revived Egyptian life of the time of the Pharaohs; he rebuilt ancient Thebes, Memphis, the Temple of Phtah; he designed the costumes and arranged the scenery. And under these exceptional circumstances, Verdi's new opera was produced."
Verdi's score was ready a year before the work had its premiÈre. The production was delayed by force of circumstances. Scenery and costumes were made by French artists. Before these accessories could be shipped to Cairo, the Franco-Prussian war broke out. They could not be gotten out of Paris. Their delivery was delayed accordingly.
Does the score of "AÏda" owe any of its charm, passion, and dramatic stress to the opportunity thus afforded Verdi of going over it and carefully revising it, after he had considered it finished? Quite possibly. For we know that he made changes, eliminating, for instance, a chorus in the style of Palestrina, which he did not consider suitable to the priesthood of Isis. Even this one change resulted in condensation, a valuable quality, and in leaving the exotic music of the temple scene entirely free to exert to the full its fascination of local colour and atmosphere.
The story is unfolded in four acts and seven scenes.
Act I. Scene 1. After a very brief prelude, the curtain rises on a hall in the King's palace in Memphis. Through a high gateway at the back are seen the temples and palaces of Memphis and the pyramids.
It had been supposed that, after the invasion of Ethiopia by the Egyptians, the Ethiopians would be a long time in recovering from their defeat. But Amonasro, their king, has swiftly rallied the remnants of his defeated army, gathered new levies to his standard, and crossed the frontier—all this with such extraordinary rapidity that the first news of it has reached the Egyptian court in Memphis through a messenger hot-foot from Thebes with the startling word that the sacred city itself is threatened.
Copyright photo by Dupont
Emma Eames as AÏda
Copyright photo by Dupont
SalÉza as Rhadames in “AÏda”
While the priests are sacrificing to Isis in order to learn from the goddess whom she advises them to choose as leader of the Egyptian forces, Rhadames, a young warrior, indulges in the hope that he may be the choice. To this hope he
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Celeste AÏda
It ends effectively with the following phrase:
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un trono vicino al sol, un trono vicino al sol
He little knows that AÏda is of royal birth or that Amneris herself, the Princess Royal, is in love with him and, having noted the glances he has cast upon AÏda, is fiercely jealous of her—a jealousy that forms the mainspring of the story and leads to its tragic dÉnouement.
A premonition of the emotional forces at work in the plot is given in the "Vieni, O diletta" (Come dearest friend), beginning as a duet between Amneris and AÏda and later becoming a trio for them and Rhadames. In this the Princess feigns friendship for AÏda, but, in asides, discloses her jealous hatred of her.
Meanwhile the Egyptian hosts have gathered before the temple. There the King announces that the priests of Isis have learned from the lips of that goddess the name of the warrior who is to lead the army—Rhadames! It is the Princess herself who, at this great moment in his career, places the royal standard in his hands. But amid the acclaims that follow, as Rhadames, to the strains of march and chorus, is conducted by the priests to the temple of Phtah to be invested with the consecrated armour, Amneris notes the fiery look he casts upon AÏda. Is this the reason Rhadames,
Meanwhile AÏda herself is torn by conflicting emotions. She loves Rhadames. When the multitude shouts "Return victorious!" she joins in the acclamation. Yet it is against her own people he is going to give battle, and the Ethiopians are led by their king, Amonasro, her father. For she, too, is a princess, as proud a princess in her own land as Amneris, and it is because she is a captive and a slave that her father has so swiftly rallied his army and invaded Egypt in a desperate effort to rescue her, facts which for obvious reasons she carefully has concealed from her captors.
It is easy to imagine AÏda's agonized feelings since Rhadames has been chosen head of the Egyptian army. If she prays to her gods for the triumph of the Ethiopian arms, she is betraying her lover. If she asks the gods of victory to smile upon Rhadames, she is a traitress to her father, who has taken up arms to free her, and to her own people. Small wonder if she exclaims, as she contemplates her own wretched state:
"Never on earth was heart torn by more cruel agonies. The sacred names of father, lover, I can neither utter nor remember. For the one—for the other—I would weep, I would pray!"
This scene for AÏda, beginning "Ritorna vincitor" (Return victorious), in which she echoes the acclamation of the martial chorus immediately preceding, is one of the very fine passages of the score. The lines to which it is set also have been highly praised. They furnished the composer with opportunity, of which he made full use, to express conflicting emotions in music of dramatic force and, in its concluding passage, "Numi pietÀ" (Pity, kind heaven), of great beauty.
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| Numi pietÀ Del mio soffrir! Speme non v'ha pel mio dolor. |
Scene 2. Ramphis, the high priest, at the foot of the altar; priests and priestesses; and afterwards Rhadames are shown in the Temple of Vulcan at Memphis. A mysterious light descends from above. A long row of columns, one behind the other, is lost in the darkness; statues of various deities are visible; in the middle of the scene, above a platform rises the altar, surmounted by sacred emblems. From golden tripods comes the smoke of incense.
A chant of the priestesses, accompanied by harps, is heard from the interior. Rhadames enters unarmed. While he approaches the altar, the priestesses execute a sacred dance. On the head of Rhadames is placed a silver veil. He is invested with consecrated armor, while the priests and priestesses resume the religious chant and dance.
The entire scene is saturated with local colour. Piquant, exotic, it is as Egyptian to the ear as to the eye. You see the temple, you hear the music of its devotees, and that music sounds as distinctively Egyptian as if Mariette Bey had unearthed two examples of ancient Egyptian temple music and placed them at the composer's disposal. It is more likely, however, that the themes are original with Verdi and that the Oriental tone colour, which makes the music of the scene so fascinating, is due to his employment of certain intervals peculiar to the music of Eastern people. The interval, which, falling upon Western ears, gives an Oriental clang to the scale, consists of three semi-tones. In the very Eastern sounding themes in the temple scenes in "AÏda," these intervals are G to F-flat, and D to C-flat.
The sacred chant,
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twice employs the interval between D and C-flat, the first time descending, the second time ascending, in which latter it sounds more characteristic to us, because we regard the scale as having an upward tendency, whereas in Oriental systems the scale seems to have been regarded as tending downward.
In the sacred dance,
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the interval is from G to F-flat. The intervals, where employed in the two music examples just cited, are bracketed. The interval of three semi-tones—the characteristic of the Oriental scale—could not be more clearly shown than it is under the second bracket of the sacred dance.
Act II. Scene 1. In this scene, which takes place in a hall in the apartments of Amneris, the Princess adopts strategy to discover if AÏda returns the passion which she suspects in Rhadames. Messengers have arrived from the front with news that Rhadames has put the Ethiopians to utter rout and is returning with many trophies and captives. Naturally AÏda is distraught. Is her lover safe? Was her father slain? It is while AÏda's mind and heart are agitated by these questions that Amneris chooses the moment to test her feelings and wrest from her the secret she longs yet dreads to fathom. The Princess is reclining on a couch
| While on thy tresses rain Laurels and flowers interwoven, Let songs of glory mingle With strains of tender love. |
In the midst of these festive preparations AÏda enters, and Amneris, craftily feigning sympathy for her lest she be grieving over the defeat of her people and the possible loss in battle of someone dear to her, affects to console her by telling her that Rhadames, the leader of the Egyptians, has been slain.
It is not necessary for the Princess to watch the girl intently in order to note the effect upon her of the sudden and cruelly contrived announcement. Almost as suddenly, having feasted her eyes on the slave girl's grief, the Princess exclaims: "I have deceived you; Rhadames lives!"
"He lives!" Tears of gratitude instead of despair now moisten AÏda's eyes as she raises them to Heaven.
"You love him; you cannot deny it!" cries Amneris, forgetting in her furious jealousy her dignity as a Princess. "But know, you have a rival. Yes—in me. You, my slave, have a rival in your mistress, a daughter of the Pharaohs!"
Having fathomed her slave's secret, she vents the refined cruelty of her jealous nature upon the unfortunate girl by commanding her to be present at the approaching triumphant entry of Rhadames and the Egyptian army:
"Come, follow me, and you shall learn if you can contend with me—you, prostrate in the dust, I on the throne beside the king!"
What has just been described is formulated by Verdi in a duet for Amneris and AÏda, "Amore! gaudio tormento" (Oh, love! Oh, joy and sorrow!), which expresses the craftiness and subtlety of the Egyptian Princess, the conflicting emotions of AÏda, and the dramatic stress of the whole episode.
This phrase especially seems to express the combined haughtiness and jealousy in the attitude of Amneris toward AÏda:
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Scene 2. Brilliant indeed is the spectacle to which AÏda is compelled to proceed with the Princess. It is near a group of palms at the entrance to the city of Thebes that the King has elected to give Rhadames his triumph. Here stands the temple of Ammon. Beyond it a triumphal gate has been erected. When the King enters to the cheers of the multitude and followed by his gaudily clad court, he takes his seat on the throne surmounted by a purple canopy. To his left sits Amneris, singling out for her disdainful glances the most unhappy of her slaves.
A blast of trumpets, and the victorious army begins its defile past the throne. After the foot soldiers come the chariots of war; then the bearers of the sacred vases and statues of the gods, and a troupe of dancing girls carrying the loot of victory. A great flourish of trumpets, an outburst of acclaim, and Rhadames, proudly standing under a canopy borne high on the shoulders of twelve of his officers, is carried through the triumphal gate and into the presence of his King. As the young hero descends from the canopy, the monarch, too, comes down from the throne and embracing him exclaims:
"Savior of your country, I salute you. My daughter with her own hand shall place the crown of laurels upon
Copyright photo by Dupont
Louise Homer as Amneris in “AÏda”
Copyright photo by Mishkin
Rosina Galli in the Ballet of “AÏda”
But although no wish is nearer the heart of Rhadames than to obtain freedom for AÏda, he does not consider the moment as yet opportune. Therefore he requests that first the prisoners of war be brought before the King. When they enter, one of them, by his proud mien and spirited carriage, easily stands forth from the rest. Hardly has AÏda set eyes upon him than she utters the startled exclamation, "My father!"
It is indeed none other than Amonasro, the Ethiopian king, who, his identity unknown to the Egyptians, has been made captive by them. Swiftly gliding over to where AÏda stands, he whispers to her not to betray his rank to his captors. Then, turning to the Egyptian monarch, he craftily describes how he has seen the king of Ethiopia dead at his feet from many wounds, and concludes by entreating clemency for the conquered. Not only do the other captives and AÏda join in his prayer, but the people, moved by his words and by his noble aspect, beg their king to spare the prisoners. The priests, however, protest. The gods have delivered these enemies into the hands of Egypt; let them be put to death lest, emboldened by a pardon so easily obtained, they should rush to arms again.
Meanwhile Rhadames has had eyes only for AÏda, while Amneris notes with rising jealousy the glances he turns upon her hated slave. At last Rhadames, carried away by his feelings, himself joins in the appeal for clemency. "Oh, King," he exclaims, "by the sacred gods and by the splendour of your crown, you swore to grant my wish this day! Let it be life and liberty for the Ethiopian prisoners." But the high priest urges that even if freedom is granted
"Rhadames, the country owes everything to you. Your reward shall be the hand of Amneris. With her one day you shall reign over Egypt."
A great shout goes up from the multitude. Unexpectedly Amneris sees herself triumphant over her rival, the dream of her heart fulfilled, and AÏda bereft of hope, since for Rhadames to refuse the hand of his king's daughter would mean treason and death. And so while all seemingly are rejoicing, two hearts are sad and bewildered. For AÏda, the man she adores appears lost to her forever and all that is left to her, the tears of hopeless love; while to Rhadames the heart of AÏda is worth more than the throne of Egypt, and its gift, with the hand of Amneris, is like the unjust vengeance of the gods descending upon his head.
This is the finale of the second act. It has been well said that not only is it the greatest effort of the composer, but also one of the grandest conceptions of modern musical and specifically operatic art. The importance of the staging, the magnificence of the spectacle, the diversity of characterization, and the strength of action of the drama all conspire to keep at an unusually high level the inspiration of the composer. The triumphal chorus, "Gloria all'Egitto" (Glory to Egypt), is sonorous and can be rendered with splendid effect.
It is preceded by a march.
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Then comes the chorus of triumph.
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Voices of women join in the acclaim.
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The trumpets of the Egyptian troops execute a most brilliant modulation from A-flat to B-natural.
The reference here is to the long, straight trumpets with three valves (only one of which, however, is used). These trumpets, in groups of three, precede the divisions of the Egyptian troops. The trumpets of the first group are tuned in A-flat.
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When the second group enters and intones the same stirring march theme in B-natural, the enharmonic modulation to a tone higher gives an immediate and vastly effective "lift" to the music and the scene.
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The entrance of Rhadames, borne on high under a canopy by twelve officers, is a dramatic climax to the spectacle. But a more emotional one is to follow.
The recognition of King Amonasro by his daughter; the supplication of the captives; the plea of Rhadames and the people in their favour; the vehement protests of the priests who, in the name of the gods of Egypt, demand their death; the diverse passions which agitate Rhadames, AÏda, and Amneris; the hope of vengeance that Amonasro cherishes—all these conflicting feelings are musically expressed with complete success. The structure is reared upon Amonasro's plea to the King for mercy for the Ethiopian captives, "Ma tu, re, tu signore possente" (But thou, O king, thou puissant lord).
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When the singer who takes the rÔle of Amonasro also is a good actor, he will know how to convey, between the lines of this supplication, his secret thoughts and unavowed hope for the reconquest of his freedom and his country. After the Egyptian King has bestowed upon Rhadames the hand of Amneris, the chorus, "Gloria all'Egitto," is heard again, and, above its sonorous measures, AÏda's cry:
| What hope now remains to me? To him, glory and the throne; To me, oblivion—the tears Of hopeless love. |
It is largely due to Verdi's management of the score to this elaborate scene that "AÏda" not only has superseded all spectacular operas that came before it, but has held its own against and survived practically all those that have come since. The others were merely spectacular. In "AÏda" the surface radiates and glows because beneath it seethe the fires of conflicting human passion. In other operas spectacle is merely spectacle. In "AÏda" it clothes in brilliant habiliments the forces of impending and on-rushing tragedy.
Act III. That tragedy further advances toward its consummation in the present act.
It is a beautiful moonlight night on the banks of the Nile—moonlight whose silvery rays are no more exquisite than the music that seems steeped in them.
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Half concealed in the foliage is the temple of Isis, from which issues the sound of women's voices, softly chanting. A boat approaches the shore and out of it steps Amneris and the high priest, with a train of closely veiled women and several guards. The Princess is about to enter upon a vigil in the temple to implore the favour of the goddess before her nuptials with Rhadames.
For a while after they have entered the temple, the shore seems deserted. But from the shadow of a grove of palms AÏda cautiously emerges into the moonlight. In song she breathes forth memories of her native land: Oh, patria mia!—O cieli azzurri! (Oh, native land!—Oh, skies of tender blue!).
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O cieli azzurri, o dolci aure native,
The phrase, O patria mia! mai piÙ ti rivedrÒ (Oh, native land! I ne'er shall see thee more)—a little further on—recalls the famous "Non ti scordar" from the "Miserere" in "Trovatore." Here Rhadames has bid AÏda meet him. Is it for a last farewell? If so, the Nile shall be her grave. She hears a swift footfall, and turning, in expectation of seeing Rhadames, beholds her father. He has fathomed her secret and divined that she is here to meet Rhadames—the betrothed of Amneris! Cunningly Amonasro works upon her feelings. Would she triumph over her rival? The
At first the thought is abhorrent to AÏda; but her father by craftily inciting her love of country and no less her jealousy and despair, at last is able to wrest consent from her; then draws back into the shadow as he hears Rhadames approaching.
This duet of AÏda and Amonasro is and will remain one of the beautiful dramatic efforts of the Italian repertory. The situation is one of those in which Verdi delights; he is in his element.
It is difficult to bring AÏda to make the designs of her father agree with her love for the young Egyptian chief. But the subtlety of the score, its warmth, its varied and ably managed expression, almost make plausible the submission of the young girl to the adjurations of Amonasro, and excusable a decision of which she does not foresee the consequences. To restore the crown to her father, to view again her own country, to escape an ignominious servitude, to prevent her lover becoming the husband of Amneris, her rival,—such are the thoughts which assail her during this duet, and they are quite capable of disturbing for a moment her better reason. Amonasro sings these phrases, so charming in the Italian:
| Rivedrai le foreste imbalsamate, Le fresche valli, i nostri templi d'or! Sposa felice a lui che amasti tanto, Tripudii immensi ivi potrai gioir!... (Thou shalt see again the balmy forests, The green valleys, and our golden temples. Happy bride of him thou lovest so much, Great rejoicing thenceforth shall be thine.) |
As she still is reluctant to lure from her lover the secret of the route by which, in the newly planned invasion of her country, the Egyptians expect to enter Ethiopia, Amonasro changes his tactics and conjures up for her in music a vision of the carnage among her people, and finally invokes her mother's ghost, until, in pianissimo, dramatically contrasting with the force of her father's savage imprecation, she whispers, O patria! quanto mi costi! (Oh, native land! how much thou demandest of me!).
Amonasro leaves. AÏda awaits her lover. When she somewhat coldly meets Rhadames's renewed declaration of love with the bitter protest that the rites of another love are awaiting him, he unfolds his plan to her. He will lead the Egyptians to victory and on returning with these fresh laurels, he will prostrate himself before the King, lay bare his heart to him, and ask for the hand of AÏda as a reward for his services to his country. But AÏda is well aware of the power of Amneris and that her vengeance would swiftly fall upon them both. She can see but one course to safety—that Rhadames join her in flight to her native land, where, amid forest groves and the scent of flowers, and all forgetful of the world, they will dream away their lives in love. This is the beginning of the dreamy yet impassioned love duet—"Fuggiam gli ardori inospiti" (Ah, fly with me). She implores him in passionate accents to escape with her. Enthralled by the rapture in her voice, thrilled by the vision of happiness she conjures up before him, he forgets for the moment country, duty, all else save love; and exclaiming, "Love shall be our guide!" turns to fly with her.
This duet, charged with exotic rapture, opens with recitativo phrases for AÏda. I have selected three passages for quotation: "LÀ tra foreste vergini" (There 'mid the virgin forest groves); "Di fiori profumate" (And 'mid the scent of
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LÀ tra foreste vergini,
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In estasi beate la terra scorderem,
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in estasi la terra scorderem,
But AÏda, feigning alarm, asks:
"By what road shall we avoid the Egyptian host?"
"The path by which our troops plan to fall upon the enemy will be deserted until tomorrow."
"And that path?"
"The pass of Napata."
A voice echoes his words, "The pass of Napata."
"Who hears us?" exclaims Rhadames.
"The father of AÏda and king of the Ethiopians," and Amonasro issues forth from his hiding place. He has uncovered the plan of the Egyptian invasion, but the delay has been fatal. For at the same moment there is a cry of "Traitor!" from the temple.
It is the voice of Amneris, who with the high priest has overheard all. Amonasro, baring a dagger, would throw himself upon his daughter's rival, but Rhadames places himself between them and bids the Ethiopian fly with AÏda. Amonasro, drawing his daughter away with him, disappears in the darkness; while Rhadames, with the words, "Priest, I remain with you," delivers himself a prisoner into his hands.
Act IV. Scene 1. In a hall of the Royal Palace Amneris
He is conducted to the dungeon, from where, as from the bowels of the earth, she hears the sombre voices of the priests.
Ramfis. (Nel sotterraneo.) Radames—Radames: tu rivelasti
Della patria i segreti allo straniero....
Sacer. Discolpati!
Ramfis. Egli tace.
Tutti. Traditor!
Ramphis. (In the subterranean hall.) Rhadames, Rhadames, thou didst reveal
The country's secrets to the foreigner....
Priests. Defend thyself!
Ramphis. He is silent.
All. Traitor!
The dramatically condemnatory "Traditor!" is a death knell for her lover in the ears of Amneris. And after each accusation, silence by Rhadames, and cry by the priests of "Traitor!" Amneris realizes only too well that his approaching doom is to be entombed alive! Her revulsions of feeling from hatred to love and despair find vent in highly dramatic musical phrases. In fact Amneris dominates this scene, which is one of the most powerful passages for mezzo-soprano in all opera.
Scene 2. This is the famous double scene. The stage setting is divided into two floors. The upper floor represents the interior of the Temple of Vulcan, resplendent with light and gold; the lower floor a subterranean hall and long rows of arcades which are lost in the darkness. A colossal
In the temple Amneris and the priestesses kneel in prayer. And Rhadames? Immured in the dungeon and, as he thought, to perish alone, a form slowly takes shape in the darkness, and his own name, uttered by the tender accents of a familiar voice, falls upon his ear. It is AÏda. Anticipating the death to which he will be sentenced, she has secretly made her way into the dungeon before his trial and there hidden herself to find reunion with him in death. And so, while in the temple above them the unhappy Amneris kneels and implores the gods to vouchsafe Heaven to him whose death she has compassed, Rhadames and AÏda, blissful in their mutual sacrifice, await the end.
From "Celeste AÏda," Rhadames's apostrophe to his beloved, with which the opera opens, to "O, terra, addio; addio, valle di pianti!" (Oh, earth, farewell! Farewell, vale of tears!),
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O terra addio; addio valle di pianti
which is the swan-song of Rhadames and AÏda, united in death in the stone-sealed vault,—such is the tragic fate of love, as set forth in this beautiful and eloquent score by Giuseppe Verdi.
OTHELLO
Opera in four acts, by Verdi. Words by Arrigo BoÏto, after Shakespeare. Produced, La Scala, Milan, February 5, 1887, with Tamagno (Otello), and Maurel (Iago). London, Lyceum Theatre, July 5, 1889. New York, Academy of Music, under management of Italo Campanini, April 16, 1888, with Marconi, Tetrazzini, Galassi, and Scalchi. (Later in the engagement Marconi was succeeded by Campanini.); Metropolitan Opera House, 1894, with Tamagno, Albani, Maurel; 1902, Alvarez, Eames, and Scotti; later with Slezak, Alda, and Scotti; Manhattan Opera House, with Zenatello, Melba, and Sammarco.
Characters
| Othello, a Moor, general in the army of Venice | Tenor |
| Iago, ancient to Othello | Baritone |
| Cassio, lieutenant to Othello | Tenor |
| Roderigo, a Venetian | Tenor |
| Lodovico, Venetian ambassador | Bass |
| Montano, Othello's predecessor in the government of Cyprus | Bass |
| A Herald | Bass |
| Desdemona, wife of Othello | Soprano |
| Emilia, wife of Iago | Mezzo-Soprano |
Soldiers and sailors of the Republic of Venice; men, women, and children of Venice and of Cyprus; heralds; soldiers of Greece, Dalmatia, and Albania; innkeeper and servants.
Time—End of fifteenth century.
Place—A port of the island of Cyprus.
Three years after the success of "AÏda," Verdi produced at Milan his "Manzoni Requiem"; but nearly sixteen years were to elapse between "AÏda" and his next work for the lyric stage. "AÏda," with its far richer instrumentation than that of any earlier work by Verdi, yet is in form an opera. "Otello" more nearly approaches a music-drama, but still is far from being one. It is only when Verdi is compared with his earlier self that he appears Wagnerian. Compared with Wagner, he remains characteristically Italian—true to himself, in fact, as genius should be.
Nowhere, perhaps, is this matter summed up as happily as in Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians: "Undoubtedly influenced by his contemporaries Meyerbeer, Gounod, and Wagner in his treatment of the orchestra, Verdi's dramatic style nevertheless shows a natural and individual development, and has remained essentially Italian as an orchestral accompaniment of vocal melody; but his later instrumentation is far more careful in detail and luxuriant than that of the earlier Italian school, and his melody more passionate and poignant in expression."
"Otello" is a well-balanced score, composed to a libretto by a distinguished poet and musician—the composer of "Mefistofele." It has vocal melodies, which are rounded off and constitute separate "numbers" (to employ an expression commonly applied to operatic airs), and its recitatives are set to a well thought out instrumental accompaniment.
It is difficult to explain the comparative lack of success with the public of Verdi's last two scores for the lyric stage, "Otello" and "Falstaff." Musicians fully appreciate them. Indeed "Falstaff," which followed "Otello," is considered one of the greatest achievements in the history of opera. Yet it is rarely given, and even "Otello" has already reached the "revival" stage, while "AÏda," "Rigoletto," "La Traviata," and "Il Trovatore" are fixtures, although "Rigoletto" was composed thirty-six years before "Otello" and forty-two before "Falstaff." Can it be that critics (including myself) and professional musicians have been admiring the finished workmanship of Verdi's last two scores, while the public has discovered in them a halting inspiration, a too frequent substitution of miraculous skill for the old-time flair, and a lack of that careless but attractive occasional laissez faire aller of genius, which no technical perfection can replace? Time alone can answer.
When "Otello" opens, Desdemona has preceded her husband to Cyprus and is living in the castle overlooking the port. There are a few bars of introduction.
Photo by White
Alda as Desdemona in “Otello”
Act I. In the background a quay and the sea; a tavern with an arbour; it is evening.
Through a heavy storm Othello's ship is seen to be making port. Among the crowd of watchers, who exclaim upon the danger to the vessel, are Iago and Roderigo. Othello ascends the steps to the quay, is acclaimed by the crowd, and proceeds to the castle followed by Cassio, Montano, and
It transpires in talk between Iago and Roderigo that Iago hates Othello because he has advanced Cassio over him, and that Roderigo is in love with Desdemona.
The fire dies out, the storm has ceased. Cassio has returned from the castle. Now comes the scene in which Iago purposely makes him drunk, in order to cause his undoing. They, with others, are grouped around the table outside the tavern. Iago sings his drinking song, "Inaffia l'ugola! trinca tracanna" (Then let me quaff the noble wine, from the can I'll drink it).
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Inaffia l'ugola! trinca, tracanna,
Under the influence of the liquor Cassio resents the taunts of Roderigo, instigated by Iago. Montano tries to quiet him. Cassio draws. There follows the fight in which Montano is wounded. The tumult, swelled by alarums and the ringing of bells, brings Othello with Desdemona to the scene. Cassio is dismissed from the Moor's service. Iago has scored his first triumph.
The people disperse. Quiet settles upon the scene. Othello and Desdemona are alone. The act closes with their love duet, which Desdemona begins with "Quando narravi" (When thou dids't speak).
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Act II. A hall on the ground floor of the castle. Iago, planning to make Othello jealous of Desdemona, counsels
Iago, seeing Othello approach, leans against a column and looks fixedly in the direction of Desdemona and Cassio, exclaiming, as Othello enters, "I like not that!" As in the corresponding scene in the play, this leads up to the questioning of him by Othello and to Iago's crafty answers, which not only apply the match to, but also fan the flame of Othello's jealousy, as he watches his wife with Cassio.
Children, women, and Cypriot and Albanian sailors now are seen with Desdemona. They bring her flowers and other gifts. Accompanying themselves on the cornemuse, and small harps, they sing a mandolinata, "Dove guardi splendono" (Wheresoe'er thy glances fall). This is followed by a graceful chorus for the sailors, who bring shells and corals.
The scene and Desdemona's beauty deeply move the Moor. He cannot believe her other than innocent. But, unwittingly, she plays into Iago's hand. For her first words on joining Othello are a plea for Cassio. All the Moor's jealousy is re-aroused. When she would apply her handkerchief to his heated brow, he tears it from her hand, and throws it to the ground. Emilia picks it up, but Iago takes it from her. The scene is brought to a close by a quartet for Desdemona, Othello, Iago, and Emilia.
Othello and Iago are left together again. Othello voices the grief that shakes his whole being, in what Mr. Upton happily describes as "a pathetic but stirring melody." In
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Addio sante memorie, addio sublimi incanti del pensier
To such a fury is the Moor aroused that he seizes Iago, hurls him to the ground, and threatens to kill him should his accusations against Desdemona prove false. There is a dramatic duet in which Iago pledges his aid to Othello in proving beyond doubt the falseness of Desdemona.
Act III. The great hall of the castle. At the back a terrace. After a brief scene in which the approach of a galley with the Venetian ambassadors is announced, Desdemona enters. Wholly unaware of the cause of Othello's strange actions toward her, she again begins to plead for Cassio's restoration to favour. Iago has pretended to Othello that Desdemona's handkerchief (of which he surreptitiously possessed himself) had been given by her to Cassio, and this has still further fanned the flame of the Moor's jealousy. The scene, for Othello, is one of mingled wrath and irony. Upon her knees Desdemona vows her constancy: "Esterrefatta fisso lo sguardo tuo tremendo" (Upon my knees before thee, beneath thy glance I tremble). I quote the phrase, "Io prego il cielo per te con questo pianto" (I pray my sighs rise to heaven with prayer).
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Io prego il cielo per te con questo pianto
Othello pushes her out of the room. He soliloquizes: "Dio! mi potevi scagliar tutti i mali della miseria" (Heav'n had it pleased thee to try me with affliction).
Iago, entering, bids Othello conceal himself; then brings in Cassio, who mentions Desdemona to Iago, and also is led by Iago into light comments on other matters, all of which Othello, but half hearing them from his place of concealment, construes as referring to his wife. Iago also plays the trick with the handkerchief, which, having been conveyed by him to Cassio, he now induces the latter (within sight of Othello) to draw from his doublet. There is a trio for Othello (still in concealment), Iago, and Cassio.
The last-named having gone, and the Moor having asked for poison with which to kill Desdemona, Iago counsels that Othello strangle her in bed that night, while he goes forth and slays Cassio. For this counsel Othello makes Iago his lieutenant.
The Venetian ambassadors arrive. There follows the scene in which the recall of Othello to Venice and the appointment of Cassio as Governor of Cyprus are announced. This is the scene in which, also, the Moor strikes down Desdemona in the presence of the ambassadors, and she begs for mercy—"A terra—sÌ—nel livido fango" (Yea, prostrate here, I lie in the dust); and "Quel sol sereno e vivido che allieta il cielo e il mare" (The sun who from his cloudless sky illumes the heavens and sea).
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Quel Sol sereno e vivido che allieta il cielo e il mare
After this there is a dramatic sextet.
All leave, save the Moor and his newly created lieutenant. Overcome by rage, Othello falls in a swoon. The people, believing that the Moor, upon his return to Venice, is to receive new honours from the republic, shout from outside, "Hail, Othello! Hail to the lion of Venice!"
"There lies the lion!" is Iago's comment of malignant triumph and contempt, as the curtain falls.
Act IV. The scene is Desdemona's bedchamber. There is an orchestral introduction of much beauty. Then, as in the play, with which I am supposing the reader to be at least fairly familiar, comes the brief dialogue between Desdemona and Emilia. Desdemona sings the pathetic little willow song, said to be a genuine Italian folk tune handed down through many centuries.
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Piangea cantando nell'erma landa, piangea la mesta.... O Salce!
Emilia goes, and Desdemona at her prie-Dieu, before the image of the Virgin, intones an exquisite "Ave Maria," beginning and ending in pathetic monotone, with an appealing melody between.
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Prega per chi adorando a te si prostra, Ave! Amen!
Othello's entrance is accompanied by a powerful passage on the double basses.
Then follows the scene of the strangling, through which
Opera in three acts, by Verdi; words by Arrigo BoÏto, after Shakespeare's "Merry Wives of Windsor" and "King Henry IV." Produced, La Scala, Milan, March 12, 1893. Paris, OpÉra Comique, April 18, 1894. London, May 19, 1894. New York, Metropolitan Opera House, February 4, 1895. This was the first performance of "Falstaff" in North America. It had been heard in Buenos Aires, July 19, 1893. The Metropolitan cast included Maurel as Falstaff, Eames as Mistress Ford, ZÉlie de Lussan as Nannetta (Anne), Scalchi as Dame Quickly, Campanini as Ford, Russitano as Fenton. Scotti, Destinn, Alda, and Gay also have appeared at the Metropolitan in "Falstaff." The London production was at Covent Garden.
Characters
| Sir John Falstaff | Baritone | |||
| Fenton, a young gentleman | Tenor | |||
| Ford, a wealthy burgher | Baritone | |||
| Dr. Cajus | Tenor | |||
| Bardolph | } | followers of Falstaff | { | Tenor |
| Pistol | } | { | Bass | |
| Robin, a page in Ford's household | ||||
| Mistress Ford | Soprano | |||
| Anne, her daughter | Soprano | |||
| Mistress Page | Mezzo-Soprano | |||
| Dame Quickly | Mezzo-Soprano | |||
Burghers and street-folk, Ford's servants, maskers, as elves, fairies, witches, etc.
Time—Reign of Henry IV.
Scene—Windsor.
Note. In the Shakespeare comedy Anne Ford is Anne Page.
Shakespeare's comedy, "The Merry Wives of Windsor," did not have its first lyric adaptation when the composer of "Rigoletto" and "AÏda," influenced probably by his distinguished librettist, penned the score of his last work for the stage. "Falstaff," by Salieri, was produced in Vienna
The comedy of the "Merry Wives," however, was not the only Shakespeare play put under contribution by BoÏto. At the head of the "Falstaff" score is this note: "The present comedy is taken from 'The Merry Wives of Windsor' and from several passages in 'Henry IV.' by Shakespeare."
Falstaff, it should be noted, is a historic figure; he was a brave soldier; served in France; was governor of Honfleur; took an important part in the battle of Agincourt, and was in all the engagements before the walls of Orleans, where the English finally were obliged to retreat before Joan of Arc. Sir John Falstaff died at the age of eighty-two years in county Norfolk, his native shire, after numerous valiant exploits, and having occupied his old age in caring for the interests of the two universities of Oxford and Cambridge, to the foundation of which he had largely contributed. To us, however, he is known almost wholly as an enormously stout comic character.
The first scene in the first act of the work by BoÏto and Verdi shows Falstaff in a room of the Garter Inn. He is accompanied by those two good-for-nothings in his service, Bardolph and Pistol, ragged blackguards, whom he treats with a disdain measured by their own low standards. Dr. Cajus enters. He comes to complain that Falstaff has
Falstaff has written two love letters and despatched them to two married belles of Windsor—Mistress Alice Ford and Mistress Meg Page, asking each one for a rendezvous.
The scene changes to the garden of Ford's house, and we are in presence of the "merry wives"—Alice Ford, Meg Page, and Mistress Quickly. With them is Anne Ford, Mistress Ford's daughter. Besides the garden there is seen part of the Ford house and the public road. In company with Dame Quickly, Meg has come to pay a visit to Alice Ford, to show her a letter which she has just received from Falstaff. Alice matches her with one she also has received from him. The four merry women then read the two letters, which, save for the change of address, are exactly alike. The women are half amused, half annoyed, at the pretensions of the fat knight. They plan to avenge themselves upon him. Meanwhile Ford goes walking before his house in company with Cajus, young Fenton (who is in love with Anne), Bardolph, and Pistol. The last two worthies have betrayed their master. From them Ford has learned that Falstaff is after his wife. He too meditates revenge, and goes off with the others, except Fenton, who lingers, kisses Anne through the rail fence of the garden, and sings a love duet with her. The men return. Fenton rejoins them. Anne runs back to her mother, and the four women are seen up-stage, concocting their conspiracy of revenge.
The second act reverts to the Garter Inn, where Falstaff is still at table. Dame Quickly comes with a message from Alice to agree to the rendezvous he has asked for. It is at the Ford house between two and three o'clock, it being Ford's custom to absent himself at that time. Falstaff is pompously delighted. He promises to be prompt.
Hardly has Dame Quickly left, when Ford arrives. He
The next scene takes place in Ford's house, where the four women get ready to give Falstaff the reception he merits. One learns here, quite casually from talk between Mistress Ford and Anne, that Ford wants to marry off the girl to the aged pedant Cajus, while she, of course, will marry none but Fenton, with whom she is in love. Her mother promises to aid her plans.
Falstaff's arrival is announced. Dame Quickly, Meg, and Anne leave Mistress Ford with him, but conceal themselves in readiness to come in response to the first signal. They are needed sooner than expected. Ford is heard approaching. Quick! The fat lover must be concealed. This is accomplished by getting him behind a screen. Ford enters with his followers, hoping to surprise the rake. With them he begins a search of the rooms. While they are off exploring another part of the house the women hurry Falstaff into a big wash basket, pile the soiled clothes over him, and fasten it down. Scarcely has this been done when Ford comes back, thinking of the screen. Just then he hears the sound of kissing behind this piece of furniture. No longer any doubt! Falstaff is hidden there with his wife. He knocks down the screen—and finds behind it Anne and Fenton, who have used to their own purpose the diversion of attention from them by the hunt for Falstaff. Ford, more furious than ever, rushes out. His wife and her friends call in the servants, who lift the basket and empty it out of the window into the Thames, which flows below. When Ford comes back, his wife leads him to the window and shows him Falstaff striking out
In the third act Dame Quickly is once more seen approaching Falstaff, who is seated on a bench outside the Garter Inn. In behalf of Mistress Ford, she offers him another rendezvous. Falstaff wants to hear no more, but Dame Quickly makes so many good excuses for her friend that he decides to meet Mistress Ford at the time and place asked for by her—midnight, at Herne's oak in Windsor forest, Falstaff to appear in the disguise of the black huntsman, who, according to legend, hung himself from the oak, with the result that the spot is haunted by witches and sprites.
Falstaff, in the forest at midnight, is surrounded by the merry women, the whole Ford entourage, and about a hundred others, all disguised and masked. They unite in mystifying, taunting, and belabouring him, until at last he realizes whom he has to deal with. And as it is necessary for everything to end in a wedding, it is then that Mistress Ford persuades her husband to abandon his plan to take the pedantic Dr. Cajus for son-in-law and give his daughter Anne to Fenton.
Even taking into account "Otello," the general form of the music in "Falstaff" is an innovation for Verdi. All the scenes are connected without break in continuity, as in the Wagnerian music-drama, but applied to an entirely different style of music from Wagner's. "It required all the genius and dramatic experience of a Verdi, who had drama in his blood, to succeed in a lyrical adventure like 'Falstaff,' the whole score of which displays amazing youthfulness, dash, and spirit, coupled with extraordinary grace." On the other hand, as regards inspiration pure and simple, it has been said that there is not found in "Falstaff" the freshness of imagination or the abundance of ideas of the earlier Verdi, and that one looks in vain for one of those motifs di prima intenzione, like the romance of Germont in "La Traviata," the song of the Duke in "Rigoletto," or the
Notwithstanding the above writer's appreciative words regarding the instrumentation of "Falstaff," he has fallen foul of the work, because he listened to it purely in the spirit of an opera-goer, and judged it as an opera instead of as a music-drama. If I may be pardoned the solecism, a music-drama "listens" different from an opera. A person accustomed only to opera has his ears cocked for song soaring above an accompaniment that counts for nothing save as a support for the voice. The music-lover, who knows what a music-drama consists of, is aware that it presents a well-balanced score, in which the orchestra frequently changes place with the voice in interpreting the action. It is because in "Falstaff" Verdi makes the orchestra act and sing—which to an opera-goer, his ears alert for vocal melody, means nothing—that the average audience, expecting something like unto what Verdi has given them before, is disappointed. Extremists, one way or another, are one-sided. Whoever is able to appreciate both opera and music-drama, a catholicity of taste I consider myself fortunate in possessing, can admire "Rigoletto," "Il Trovatore," and "La Traviata" as much as the most confirmed devotee of opera; but can also go further, and follow Verdi into regions where the intake is that of the pure spirit of comedy at times exhaled by the voice, at times by the orchestra.
While not divided into distinct "numbers," there are passages in "Falstaff" in which Verdi has concentrated his attention on certain characteristic episodes. In the first
Music
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(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)
The same scene has the honour monologue from "King Henry IV.," which is purely declamatory, but with a remarkably vivid and characteristic accompaniment, in which especially the bassoons and clarinets comment merrily on the sarcastic sentences addressed to Bardolph and Pistol.
In the second scene of Act I, besides the episodes in which Mistress Ford reads Falstaff's letter, the unaccompanied quartet for the women ("Though shaped like a barrel, he fain would come courting"), the quartet for the men, and the close of the act in which both quartets take part, there is the piquant duet for Anne and Fenton, in which the lovers kiss each other between the palings of the fence. From this duet I quote the amatory exchange of phrases, "Labbra di foco" (Lips all afire) and "Labbra di fiore" (Lips of a flower) between Anne and Fenton.
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(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)
As the curtain falls Mistress Ford roguishly quotes a line from Falstaff's verses, the four women together add another
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(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)
In Act II, the whole scene between Falstaff and Dame Quickly is full of witty commentary by the orchestra. The scene between Falstaff and Ford also derives its significance from the instrumentation. Ford's monologue, when he is persuaded by Falstaff's boastful talk that his wife is fickle, is highly dramatic. The little scene of Ford's and Falstaff's departure—Ford to expose his betrayal by his wife, Falstaff for his rendezvous with her—"is underscored by a graceful and very elegant orchestral dialogue."
The second scene of this act has Dame Quickly's madcap narrative of her interview with Falstaff; and Falstaff's ditty sung to Mistress Ford, "Quand'ero paggio del Duca di Norfolk" (When I was page to the Duke of Norfolk). From the popular point of view, this is the outstanding musical number of the work. It is amusing, pathetic, graceful, and sad; irresistible, in fact, in its mingled sentiments of comedy and regret. Very brief, it rarely fails of encores from one to four in number. I quote the following:
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Quand'ero paggio del Duca di Norfolk ero sottile, sottile, sottile,
(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)
The search for Falstaff by Ford and his followers is most humorously treated in the score.
In Act III, in the opening scene, in which Falstaff soliloquizes over his misadventures, the humour, so far as the music is concerned, is conveyed by the orchestra.
From Fenton's song of love, which opens the scene at Herne's oak in Windsor forest, I quote this expressive passage:
Music
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(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)
Another delightful solo in this scene is Anne's "Erriam sotto la luna" (We'll dance in the moonlight).
Music
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(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)
There are mysterious choruses—sibilant and articulately vocalized—and a final fugue.
(MEPHISTOPHELES)
Opera in four acts; words and music by Arrigo BoÏto, the book based on Goethe's Faust. Produced, without success, La Scala, Milan, March 5, 1868; revised and revived, with success, Bologna, October 4, 1875. London, Her Majesty's Theatre, July 1, 1880. New York,
Characters
| Mefistofele | Bass |
| Faust | Tenor |
| Margherita | Soprano |
| Martha | Contralto |
| Wagner | Tenor |
| Elena | Soprano |
| Pantalis | Contralto |
| Nereno | Tenor |
Mystic choir, celestial phalanxes, cherubs, penitents,
wayfarers, men-at-arms, huntsmen, students, citizens,
populace, townsmen, witches, wizards, Greek
chorus, sirens, nayads, dancers, warriors.
Time—Middle Ages.
Place—Heaven; Frankfurt, Germany; Vale of Tempe, Ancient Greece.
"Mefistofele" is in a prologue, four acts, and epilogue. In Gounod's "Faust," the librettists were circumspect, and limited the book of the opera to the first part of Goethe's Faust, the story of Faust and Marguerite—succinct, dramatic, and absorbing. Only for the ballet did they reach into the second part of Goethe's play and appropriate the scene on the Brocken, which, however, is frequently omitted.
BoÏto, himself a poet, based his libretto on both parts of Goethe's work, and endeavoured to give it the substratum of philosophy upon which the German master reared his dramatic structure. This, however, resulted in making "Mefistofele" two operas in one. Wherever the work
Theodore T. Barker prefaces his translation of the libretto, published by Oliver Ditson Company, with a recital of the story.
The Prologue opens in the nebulous regions of space, in which float the invisible legions of angels, cherubs, and seraphs. These lift their voices in a hymn of praise to the Supreme Ruler of the universe. Mefistofele enters on the scene at the close of the anthem, and, standing erect amid the clouds, with his feet upon the border of his cloak, mockingly addresses the Deity. In answer to the question from the mystic choir, "Knowest thou Faust?" he answers contemptuously, and offers to wager that he will be able to entice Faust to evil, and thus gain a victory over the powers of good. The wager is accepted, and the spirits resume their chorus of praise.
Musically the Prologue is full of interest. There are five distinct periods of music, varied in character, so that it gives necessary movement to a scene in which there is but little stage action. There are the prelude with mystic choir; the sardonic scherzo foreshadowing the entry of Mefistofele; his scornful address, in which finally he engages to bring about the destruction of Faust's soul; a vivacious chorus of cherubs (impersonated by twenty-four boys); a psalmody of penitents and spirits.
Act I. The drama opens on Easter Sunday, at Frankfort-on-the-Main. Crowds of people of all conditions move in and out of the city gates. Among them appears
The first scene of this act gains its interest from the reflection in the music of the bustle and animation of the Easter festival. The score plastically follows the many changing incidents of the scene upon the stage. Conspicuous in the episodes in Faust's laboratory are Faust's beautiful air, "Dai campi, dai prati" (From the fields and from the meadows); and Mefistofele's proclamation of his identity, "Son lo spirito che nega" (I am the spirit that denieth).
Act II opens with the garden scene. Faust, rejuvenated, and under the name of Henry; Margaret, Mefistofele, and Martha stroll here and there in couples, chatting and
In this act the garden scene is of entrancing grace. It contains Faust's "Colma il tuo cor d'un palpito" (Flood thou thy heart with all the bliss), and the quartet of farewell, with which the scene ends, Margaret, with the gay and reckless laugh of ineffable bliss, exclaiming to Faust that she loves him. The scene in the Brocken, besides the whirl of the witches' orgy, has a solo for Mefistofele, when the weird sisters present to him a glass globe, reflected in which he sees the earth. "Ecco il mondo" (Behold the earth).
Act III. The scene is a prison. Margaret lies extended upon a heap of straw, mentally wandering, and singing to herself. Mefistofele and Faust appear outside the grating. They converse hurriedly, and Faust begs for the life of Margaret. Mefistofele promises to do what he can, and bids him haste, for the infernal steeds are ready for flight. He opens the cell, and Faust enters it. Margaret thinks the jailors have come to release her, but at length recognizes her lover. She describes what followed his desertion of her, and begs him to lay her in death beside her loved ones;—her babe, whom she drowned, her mother whom she is accused of having poisoned. Faust entreats her to fly with him, and she finally consents, saying that in some far distant isle they may yet be happy. But the voice of Mefistofele in the background recalls her to the reality of the situation. She shrinks away from Faust, prays to Heaven for mercy, and dies. Voices of the celestial choir are singing softly "She's saved!" Faust and Mefistofele escape, as the executioner and his escort appear in the background.
The act opens with Margaret's lament, "L'altra notte in fonda al mare" (To the sea, one night in sadness), in which she tells of the drowning of her babe. There is an exquisite duet, for Margaret and Faust, "Lontano, sui flutti d'un ampio oceano" (Far away, o'er the waves of a far-spreading ocean).
Act IV. Mefistofele takes Faust to the shores of the Vale of Tempe. Faust is ravished with the beauty of the scene while Mefistofele finds that the orgies of the Brocken were more to his taste.
'Tis the night of the classic Sabbath. A band of young maidens appear, singing and dancing. Mefistofele, annoyed and confused, retires. Helen enters with chorus, and, absorbed by a terrible vision, rehearses the story of Troy's destruction. Faust enters, richly clad in the costume of a knight of the fifteenth century, followed by Mefistofele, Nereno, Pantalis, and others, with little fauns and sirens. Kneeling before Helen, he addresses her as his ideal of beauty and purity. Thus pledging to each other their love and devotion, they wander through the bowers and are lost to sight.
Helen's ode, "La luna immobile innonda l'etere" (Motionless floating, the moon floods the dome of night); her dream of the destruction of Troy; the love duet for Helen and Faust, "Ah! Amore! mistero celeste" ('Tis love, a mystery celestial); and the dexterous weaving of a musical background by orchestra and chorus, are the chief features in the score to this act.
In the Epilogue, we find Faust in his laboratory once more—an old man, with death fast approaching, mourning over his past life, with the holy volume open before him. Fearing that Faust may yet escape him, Mefistofele spreads his cloak, and urges Faust to fly with him through the air. Appealing to Heaven, Faust is strengthened by the sound of angelic songs, and resists. Foiled in his efforts, Mefis
We have here Faust's lament, "Giunto sul passo estremo" (Nearing the utmost limit); his prayer, and the choiring of salvation.
