Gustav KobbE

RICHARD STRAUSS was born at Munich, June 11, 1864. His father, Franz Strauss, was a distinguished horn player in the Royal Opera orchestra. From him Richard received rigid instruction in music. His teacher in composition was the orchestral conductor, W. Meyer. At school he wrote music on the margins of his books. He was so young at the first public performance of a work by him, that when he appeared and bowed in response to the applause, someone asked, "What has that boy to do with it?" "Nothing, except that he composed it," was the reply.

Strauss is best known as the composer of many beautiful songs and of the orchestral works Tod und Verklaerung (Death and Transfiguration), and Till Eulenspiegel's Lustige Streiche (Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks). The latter is a veritable tour de force of orchestral scoring and a test of the virtuosity of a modern orchestra. Thus Spake Zarathustra, Don Quixote, and Ein Heldenleben (A Hero's Life) are other well-known orchestral works by him. They are of large proportions. To the symphony, and the symphonic poem, Strauss has added the tone poem as a form of instrumental music even freer in its development than the symphonic poem, which was Liszt's legacy to music.

FEUERSNOT
FIRE FAMINE

Opera in one act. Music by Richard Strauss; text by Ernst von Wolzogen. Produced: Dresden, November 21, 1901.

Characters

Schweiker von Gundelfingen, keeper of the castle	Tenor
Ortolf Sentlinger, burgomaster	Bass
Diemut, his daughter	Soprano
Kunrad, the leveller	Baritone

Time—13th Century.

Place—Munich.

The action takes place in Munich on the day of the winter solstice in olden times. At the time of the representation the twelfth century has just passed. A big crowd of children, followed by grown-ups, is going in whimsical wantonness from house to house to collect wood for the solstitial fire ("Subendfeuer"). After they have collected rich booty at the burgomaster's they go over to the house opposite. It appears strangely gloomy. Shutters and doors are closed as though it were empty. Yet a short time ago young Herr Kunrad lived there. It is his legal inheritance and property, a legacy from his ancestor who was an "excellent sorcerer" and now taken possession of after a long absence. Nevertheless, the superstition of the masses had been much concerned with the house. The most reasonable was that its occupant was a strange fellow, the majority thought him a gloomy magician. In reality the young man sat in the house poring over books. The noise of the children calls him forth. When he hears that it is the solstice, the great festival of his profession, an agitation seizes him in which he tells the children to take away all the wood from his house. This destruction stirs the townsmen but Kunrad is so struck at sight of Diemut, who seems to him like a revelation of life, that he dashes through the townsmen and kisses the girl on the mouth. The agitation of the townsmen is silenced sooner than Diemut's who plans revenge for this outrage.

Now the townsmen are all out of doors on account of the solstitial holiday. But in Kunrad's heart the promptings of love are blazing like a fire. A mad longing for Diemut seizes him, and as she now appears on her balcony he begs for her love with warm words. The spark has also been well kindled in her heart, but still she only thinks of revenge. So she lures him toward the side street where the order basket still stands on the ground. Kunrad steps into it and Diemut hauls him upward. But halfway up she lets him hang suspended. So Kunrad becomes a laughing-stock for the townsmen returning home. Then a fearful rage seizes upon him; he makes use of his magic art: "May an ice-cold everlasting night surround you because you have laughed at the might of love." Every light is extinguished and a deep darkness covers the town and its inhabitants. Now Kunrad from the balcony, addresses the townsmen, furious with rage in a speech filled with personal references whose basic idea is that the people always recognize and follow their great masters. So they have sadly mistaken his purpose and the maid whom he had chosen had mocked him. For punishment their light is now extinguished. Let all the warmth leave the women, all the light of love depart from ardent young maidens, until the fire burns anew. Now the tables are turned. All recognize in Kunrad a great man. In their self-reproaches are mingled complaints about the darkness and an imploring cry to Diemut by her love to make an end of the lack of fire. But Diemut in the meantime has changed her mind; love in her too gets the upper hand as the sudden rekindling of every light makes known.

GUNTRAM

Music-drama in three acts: music and words by Richard Strauss. Produced: Weimar, May 10, 1894.

Characters

The Old Duke	Bass
Freihild, his daughter	Soprano
Duke Robert, her betrothed	Baritone
Guntram, a singer	Tenor
Friedhold, a singer	Bass
The Duke's Clown	Tenor

Time—Thirteenth Century.

Place—A German duchy.

Act I. Guntram has been brought up to manhood as pupil of the religious knightly Band of the Good. This band has set for itself the realization of the Christian idea of love for the soul. The brotherly union of all men, who shall be brought through love to world peace is the aim of the band, the noble art of song its means of obtaining recruits. Guntram seems to his teacher Friedhold ready for the great work and so he is assigned to a difficult task. The Old Duke has given the hand of his daughter Freihild, and also his estate, to Duke Robert. The latter, the only one of the powerful tyrants left, through his oppression had so stirred up the peaceful people that they rose against his rule. Then he had put down the rising cruelly and had burdened the unfortunate people so heavily that they were thinking of leaving their homes. Freihild most deeply sympathizes with the people and had given her hand to the Duke only unwillingly, and she seeks in the happiness of the people consolation for her loveless life. But the Duke has forbidden her this work of love and she seeks release from life in a voluntary death in the waters of the lake. Guntram rescues her. The Old Duke, out of gratitude for saving his daughter, promises pardon to the rebels and invites the singer to the feast that is to be given in the ducal palace in celebration of the putting down of the rebellion.

Act II. At the festive banquet Guntram, relying upon the power of the thought of love as presented by him, will make use of the occasion to win the Duke's heart for peace. The Duke, whose clown has just irritated him, in a rage interrupts Guntram. But the latter is protected by the vassals all of whom at heart are angry at the cruel ruler. When a messenger brings news of a new revolt, a vote is taken and they all decide for war. Then Guntram reminds them anew of peace in inspired songs. In a rage the Duke scorns him as a rebel, assaults him and, after a brief wrestle, Guntram strikes down the tyrant. Then the Old Duke has him thrown into a dungeon and goes off with the vassals to put down the rebellion again. But Freihild, whose heart is inflamed with love for the bold, noble singer, conspires with the clown to save him and flee with him.

Act III. In the gloomy dungeon in which Guntram is awaiting his punishment, the young hero has plenty of leisure to meditate on his deeds and their motives. The Band of the Good has sent Friedhold to him in order that he may ask of him an account of his sinful deed. For such an act is considered as murder in every case. Guntram feels that he is not guilty in the opinion of the Band but is self-convicted in the opinion of the highest humanity. For he cannot conceal from himself that the passionate love for Freihild, wife of the Duke, which burns in his heart, led him to his deed. Therefore, he can certainly reject the reproach of the Band, but he charges himself with renunciation as expiation for his deed. He has taught himself that true freedom cannot be attained unless it is acquired by one's own power and victory over one's self. So the Band of the Good is caught in an error and Guntram renounces his connection with them. But Freihild, who has succeeded to the duchy since the Old Duke has fallen on the field, he refers to the godly message which calls her to promote the happiness of the people. In this noble task she will find indemnification for the personal sacrifice of her lost love. The singer withdraws thence into solitude.

SALOME

Opera in one act by Richard Strauss; words after Oscar Wilde's poem of the same title, translated into German by Hedwig Lachmann. Produced at the Court Opera, Dresden, December 9, 1905. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, 1907, with Olive Fremstad; Manhattan Opera House, New York, with Mary Garden.

Characters

Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Judea	Tenor
Herodias, wife of Herod	Mezzo-Soprano
Salome, daughter of Herodias	Soprano
Jokanaan (John the Baptist)	Baritone
Narraboth, a young Syrian, Captain of the Guard	Tenor
A Page	Alto

A young Roman, the executioner, five Jews, two Nazarenes, two soldiers, a Cappadocian and a slave.

Time—About 30 A.D.

Place—The great terrace in the palace of Herod at Tiberias, Galilee, the capital of his kingdom.

On the great terrace of Herod's palace, off the banquet hall, is his body-guard. The ardent looks of the young captain, Narraboth, a Syrian, are directed toward the banquet hall where Salome is seated. In vain the Page, who is aware of the neurotic taint in the woman, warns him. The young captain is consumed with ardent desires.

The night is sultry. The soldiers' talk is interrupted by the sounds from the hall. Suddenly there is heard a loud and deep voice, as from a tomb. Dread seizes even upon the rough soldiers. He who calls is a madman according to some, a prophet according to others, in either case, a man of indomitable courage who with terrifying directness of speech brings the ruling powers face to face with their sins and bids them repent. This is Jokanaan. His voice sounds so reverberant because it issues from the gloomy cistern in which he is held a captive.

Suddenly Salome, in great commotion, steps out on the terrace. The greedy looks with which the Herod, her stepfather, has regarded her, as well as the talk and noisy disputes of the gluttons and degenerates within have driven her out. In her stirs the sinful blood of her mother, who, in order that she might marry Herod, slew her husband. Depraved surroundings, a court at which the satiating of all desires is the main theme of the day, have poisoned her thoughts. She seeks new pleasures, as yet untasted enjoyments. Now, as she hears the voice of the Prophet, there arises in her the lust to see this man, whom she has heard her mother curse, because he has stigmatized her shame, and whom she knows the Tetrarch fears, although a captive. What she desires is strictly forbidden, but Narraboth cannot resist her blandishments. The strange, gloomy figure of the Jokanaan, fantastically noble in the rags of his captivity, stirs Salome's morbid desires. Her abandoned arts are brought into full play in her efforts to tempt him, but with the sole result that he bids her do penance. This but adds fuel to the flame. When Narraboth, in despair over her actions, kills himself on his own sword, she does not so much as notice it. Appalled by the wickedness of the young woman, the Prophet warns her to seek for the only one in whom she can find redemption, the Man of Galilee. But realizing that his words fall on deaf ears, he curses her, and retreats into his cistern.

Garden

Copyright photo by Mishkin

Mary Garden as Salome

Herod, Herodias, and their suite come out on the terrace. Herod is suffering under the weight of his crimes, but the infamous Herodias is as cold as a serpent. Herod's sinful desire for his stepdaughter is the only thing that can stir his blood. But Salome is weary and indifferent; Herodias full of bitter scorn for him and for her daughter. Against the Prophet, whose voice terrifies the abandoned gatherings at table, her hatred is fierce. But Herod stands in mysterious awe of the Prophet. It is almost because of his dread of the future, which Jokanaan proclaims so terribly, that Herod asks as a diversion for Salome's dance in order that life may flow warm again in his chilled veins. Salome demurs, until he swears that he will grant any request she may make of him. She then executes the "Dance of the Seven Veils," casting one veil after another from her. Herod asks what her reward shall be. In part prompted by Herodias, but also by her own mad desire to have vengeance for her rejected passion, she demands the head of the Prophet. Herod offers her everything else he can name that is most precious, but Salome refuses to release him from his promise. The executioner descends into the cistern. Jokanaan is slain and his severed head presented to Salome upon a silver charger. Alive he refused her his lips. Now, in a frenzy of lust, she presses hers upon them. Even Herod shudders, and turns from her revolted. "Kill that woman!" he commands his guards, who crush her under their shields.

Regarding the score of "Salome," Strauss himself remarked that he had paid no consideration whatever to the singers. There is a passage for quarrelling Jews that is amusing; and, for a brief spell, in the passage in which Salome gives vent to her lust for Jokanaan, the music is molten fire. But considered as a whole, the singers are like actors, who intone instead of speaking. Whatever the drama suggests, whatever is said or done upon the stage—a word, a look, a gesture—is minutely and realistically set forth in the orchestra, which should consist of a hundred and twelve pieces. The real musical climax is "The Dance of the Seven Veils," a superb orchestral composition.

Strauss calls the work a drama. As many as forty motifs have been enumerated in it. But they lack the compact, pregnant qualities of the motifs in the Wagner music-dramas which are so individual, so melodically eloquent that their significance is readily recognized not only when they are first heard, but also when they recur. Nevertheless, the "Salome" of Richard Strauss is an effective work—so effective in the setting forth of its offensive theme that it was banished from the Metropolitan Opera House, although Olive Fremstad lavished her art upon the title rÔle; nor have the personal fascination and histrionic gifts of Mary Garden been able to keep it alive.

At the Metropolitan Opera House, then under the direction of Heinrich Conried, it was heard at a full-dress rehearsal, which I attended, and at one performance. It was then withdrawn, practically on command of the board of directors of the opera company, although the initial impulse is said to have come from a woman who sensed the brutality of the work under its mask of "culture."

ELEKTRA

Opera in one act by Richard Strauss; words by Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Produced: Dresden, January 25, 1909. Manhattan Opera House, New York, in a French version by Henry Gauthier-Villars, and with Mazarin as Elektra.

Characters

Clytemnestra, wife of Aegisthus				Mezzo-Soprano
Elektra	}	her daughters by the murdered king Agamemnon	{	Soprano
Chrysothemis	}		{	Soprano
Aegisthus				Tenor
Orestes				Baritone

Preceptor of Orestes, a confidant, a train bearer, an overseer of servants, five serving women, other servants, both men and women, old and young.

Time—Antiquity.

Place—Mycenae.

Storck, in his Opera Book, has this to say of Von Hofmannsthal's libretto: "The powerful subject of the ancient myth is here dragged down from the lofty realm of tragedy, to which Sophocles raised it, to that of the pathologically perverse. With a gloomy logic the strain of blood-madness and unbridled lust is exploited by the poet so that the overwhelming effect of its consequences becomes comprehensible. None the less, there is the fact, of no little importance, that through its treatment from this point of view, a classical work has been dragged from its pedestal."

The inner court of the palace in Mycenae is the scene of the drama. Since Clytemnestra, in league with her paramour, Aegisthus, has compassed the murder of her husband, Agamemnon, her daughter Elektra lives only with the thought of vengeance. She exists like a wild beast, banished from the society of human beings, a butt of ridicule to the servants, a horror to all, only desirous of the blood of her mother and Aegisthus in atonement for that of her father. The murderers too have no rest. Fear haunts them.

Elektra's sister, Chrysothemis, is entirely unlike her. She craves marriage. But it is in a disordered way that her desire for husband and child is expressed. Clytemnestra also is morbidly ill. Deeply she deplores her misdeed, but for this very reason has completely surrendered herself to the unworthy Aegisthus. So frightfully do her dreams torment her that she even comes to seek help from the hated Elektra in her hovel in the inner court. It is the latter's first triumph in all her years of suffering. But it is short-lived, for Clytemnestra mocks her with the news that Orestes has died in a distant land. A terrible blow this for Elektra, who had hoped that Orestes would return and wreak vengeance on the queen and Aegisthus. Now the daughters must be the instruments of vengeance. And as Chrysothemis, shocked, recoils from the task, Elektra determines to complete it alone. She digs up in the courtyard the very axe with which her father was slain and which she had buried in order to give it to her brother on his return.

But the message regarding the death of Orestes was false. It was disseminated by her brother in order to allay the fears of the murderers of his father and put them off their guard. The stranger, who now enters the court, and at first cannot believe that the half-demented woman in rags is his sister, finally is recognized by her as Orestes, and receives from her the axe. He enters the palace, slays Clytemnestra and, upon the return of Aegisthus, pursues him from room to room and kills him. Elektra, her thirst for vengeance satisfied, under the spell of a blood-madness, dances, beginning weirdly, increasing to frenzy, and ending in her collapse, dead, upon the ground, where, since her father's death, she had grovelled waiting for the avenger.

As in "Salome," so in "Elektra" there is a weft and woof of leading motifs which, lacking the compactness, firmness, and unmistakable raisons d'Être of the leading motives in the Wagner music-dramas, crawl, twist, and wind themselves in spineless convolutions about the characters and the action of the piece. In "Salome" the score worked up to one set climax, the "Dance of the Seven Veils." In "Elektra" there also is a set composition. It is a summing up of emotions, in one eloquent burst of song, which occurs when Elektra recognizes Orestes. It may be because it came in the midst of so much cacophony that its effect was enhanced. But at the production of the work in the Manhattan Opera House, it seemed to me not only one of Strauss's most spontaneous lyrical outgivings, but also one of the most beautiful I had ever heard. Several times every year since then, I have been impelled to go to the pianoforte and play it over, although forced to the unsatisfactory makeshift of playing-in the voice part with what already was a pianoforte transcription of the orchestral accompaniment.

Mme. Schumann-Heink, the Clytemnestra of the original production in Dresden, said: "I will never sing the rÔle again. It was frightful. We were a set of mad women.... There is nothing beyond 'Elektra.' We have lived and reached the furthest boundary in dramatic writing for the voice with Wagner. But Richard Strauss goes beyond him. His singing voices are lost. We have come to a full stop. I believe Strauss himself sees it."—And, indeed, in his next opera, "Der Rosenkavalier," the composer shows far more consideration for the voice, and has produced a score in which the melodious elements are many.

DER ROSENKAVALIER
THE KNIGHT OF THE ROSE

Rosenkavalier

Photo by White

Hempel as the Princess and Ober as Octavian in “Der Rosenkavalier”

With the exception of Humperdinck's "HÄnsel und Gretel," "Der Rosenkavalier," by Richard Strauss, is the only opera that has come out of Germany since the death of Wagner, which has appeared to secure a definite hold upon the repertoire. Up to the season of 1917-18, when it was taken out of the repertoire on account of the war in Europe, it had been given twenty-two times at the Metropolitan Opera House, since its production there late in 1913.

The work is called a "comedy for music," which is mentioned here simply as a fact, since it makes not the slightest difference to the public what the composer of an opera chooses to call it, the proof of an opera being in the hearing just as the proof of a pudding always is in the eating. So far it is the one opera by Richard Strauss which, after being heralded as a sensation, has not disappeared through indifference.

To those who know both works, the libretto of "Der Rosenkavalier" which has been violently attacked, goes no further in suggestiveness than that of "Le Nozze di Figaro." But it is very long, and unquestionably the opera would gain by condensation, although the score is a treasure house of orchestration, a virtuosity in the choice of instruments and manner of using them which amounts to inspiration. An examination of the full orchestral score shows that 114 instruments are required, seventeen of them for an orchestra on the stage. The composer demands for his main orchestra 32 violins, 12 violas, 10 violoncellos, 8 double basses, 3 flutes, 3 oboes, 2 clarinets, 1 bass clarinet, 3 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, 1 tuba, 2 harps, glockenspiel, triangle, bell, castanets, tympani, side and bass drums, cymbals, celeste, and rattle. A small orchestra for the stage also requires 1 oboe, 1 flute, 2 clarinets, 2 horns, 2 bassoons, 1 trumpet, 1 drum, harmonium, piano, and string quintet.

"Der Rosenkavalier" also contains melodious phrases in number and variety, which rarely permit the bearer's interest to flag. Waltz themes abound. They are in the manner of Johann Strauss and Lanner. It is true that these composers flourished much later than the rococo period in which the opera is laid, but just as it makes no difference what a composer calls an opera, so it makes no difference whether he indulges in anachronisms or not. Gavottes, etc., would have been more in keeping with the period, but the waltz themes served Strauss's purpose far better and are introduced with infinite charm. They give the work that subtle thing called atmosphere, and play their part in making passages, like the finale to the second act, the most significant music for the stage of opera that has been penned in the composer's country since Wagner. They also abound in the scene between Octavian and Lerchenan in the third act.

Act I. Room in the Princess von Werdenberg's palace. Morning. The curtain rises after an impassioned orchestral introduction which is supposed to depict risquÉ incidents of the previous night suggested by the stage directions. These directions were not followed in the production made at the Metropolitan Opera House. Not only did their disregard show respect for the audience's sense of decency, it in no way interfered with the success of the work as a comedy set to music.

Octavian, a handsome youth, is taking a passionate leave of the Princess, whose husband, a Field Marshal, is away on military duty. Octavian is loath to go, the Princess, equally loather to have him depart. For the Princess cannot conceal from herself that in spite of Octavian's present love for her, the disparity in their ages soon will cause him to look to women younger than herself for love.

There is a commotion beyond the door of the Princess's suite of rooms. One of her relatives, the vulgar Baron Ochs von Lerchenan, wishes to see her. The servants remonstrate with him that the hour is much too early, but he forces his way in. Taking alarm, and in order to spare the Princess the scandal of having him discovered with her, Octavian escapes into an inner room where he disguises himself in the attire of a chambermaid, a rÔle which his youthful, beardless beauty enables him to carry out to perfection.

Von Lerchenan has come to inquire of the Princess if, as she promised, she has sent a Knight of the Rose with an offer of his hand to Sophie, daughter of the wealthy, recently ennobled Herr von Faninal. A Knight of the Rose was chosen at that period as a suitor by proxy to bear a silver rose, as a symbol of love and fidelity, to the lady of his principal's choice. Unfortunately the Princess's passion for Octavian has entirely diverted her thoughts from Lerchenan's commission. He, however, consoles himself by flirting with the pretty chambermaid, Octavian, whose assumed coyness, coupled with slyly demure advances, charms him. Before this, however, he has lost his temper, because he has been unable to engage the Princess's attention amid the distractions provided by her morning levee, at which she receives various petitioners—a singer, Valzacchi, and Annina, who are Italian intriguers, three noble orphans, and others. This levee, together with the love intrigues and the looseness of manners and morals indicated by the plot, is supposed in a general way to give to the piece the tone of the rococo period in which the story is laid. The scene is a lively one.

Lerchenan is appeased not only by the charms of the supposed chambermaid, who waits on the Princess and her relative at breakfast, but also because he is so eager to make a rendezvous with her. Octavian in his disguise understands so well how to lead Lerchenan on without granting his request, that he forgets the cause of his annoyance. Moreover the Princess promises that she presently will despatch a Knight of the Rose to the daughter of the wealthy Faninal whose wealth, of course, is what attracts Lerchenan. The Princess chooses Octavian to be the Knight of the Rose. Later she regrets her choice. For after the handsome youth has departed on his mission, and she is left alone, she looks at herself in the glass. She is approaching middle age, and although she still is a handsome woman, her fear that she may lose Octavian, to some younger member of her sex, cannot be banished from her thoughts.

Act II. Salon in the house of Herr von Faninal. This lately ennobled nouveau rich considers it a great distinction that the Baron von Lerchenan, a member of the old nobility, should apply for the hand of his daughter. That the Baron only does it to mend his broken fortunes does not worry him, although his daughter Sophie is a sweet and modest girl. Inexperienced, she awaits her suitor in great agitation. Then his proxy, Octavian, comes with the silver rose to make the preliminary arrangements for his "cousin," Baron von Lerchenan. Octavian is smitten with the charms of the girl. She, too, is at once attracted to the handsome young cavalier. So their conversation imperceptibly has drifted into an intimate tone when the real suitor enters. His brutal frankness in letting Sophie comprehend that he is condescending in courting her, and his rude manners thoroughly repel the girl. Octavian meanwhile is boiling with rage and jealousy. The girl's aversion to the Baron increases. The two men are on the point of an outbreak, when Lerchenan is called by a notary into an adjoining room where the marriage contract is to be drawn up. Sophie is shocked at what she has just experienced. Never will it be possible for her to marry the detested Baron, especially since she has met the gallant Octavian. The two are quick in agreeing. Sophie sinks into his arms.

At that moment there rush out from behind the two large chimney pieces that adorn the room, the intriguers, Valzacchi and his companion Annina, whom Lerchenan has employed as spies. Their cries bring the Baron from the next room. The staff of servants rushes in. Octavian tells the Baron of Sophie's antipathy, and adds taunt to taunt, until, however reluctant to fight, the Baron is forced to draw his sword. In the encounter Octavian lightly "pinks" him. The Baron, a coward at heart, raises a frightful outcry. There ensues the greatest commotion, due to the mix-up of the servants, the doctor, and the rage of Faninal, who orders Sophie to a convent when she positively refuses to give her hand to Lerchenan. The latter, meanwhile, rapidly recovers when his wound has been dressed and he has drunk some of Faninal's good wine.

Octavian is determined to win Sophie. For that purpose he decides to make use of the two intriguers, who are so disgusted by the niggardly pay given them by the Baron, that they readily fall in with the plans of the brilliant young cavalier. After the crowd has dispersed and the Baron is alone for a moment, Annina approaches and hands him a note. In this the Princess's chambermaid promises him a rendezvous. Lerchenan is delighted over the new conquest he believes himself to have made.

Act III. A room in an inn near Vienna. With the help of Valzacchi and Annina, who are now in the service both of the Baron and of Octavian, but are more prone to further the latter's plans because he pays them better, Octavian has hired a room in an inn. This room is fitted up with trapdoors, blind windows and the like. Here, at the suggestion of the intriguers, who have the run of the place and know to what uses the trick room can be put, Lerchenan has made his rendezvous for the evening with the pretty chambermaid. Octavian, in his girl's clothes, is early at the place.

Between the Baron and the disguised Octavian, as soon as they are alone, a rude scene of courtship develops. Octavian is able to hold him off skilfully, and gradually there is unfolded the mad web of intrigue in which the Baron is caught. Strange figures appear at the windows. Lerchenan, ignorant, superstitious, thinks he sees ghosts. Suddenly what was supposed to be a blind window, bursts open, and a woman dressed in mourning rushes in. It is the disguised intriguante, Annina, who claims to be the deserted wife of Lerchenan. Innkeeper and servants hurry in. The clamour and confusion become more and more frantic. Finally the Baron himself calls for the police, without thinking what a "give away" it may be for himself. When the Commissary of Police arrives, to save his face, he gives out that his companion, the supposed chambermaid, is his affianced, Sophie von Faninal. That, however, only adds to the confusion, for Octavian's accomplices have sought out Faninal and invited him on behalf of the Baron to come to the inn. In his amazement the Baron knows of no other way out of the dilemma save to act as if he did not know Faninal at all, whereupon the latter, naturally, is greatly angered. When the confusion is at its height the Princess suddenly appears. A lackey of the Baron, seeing his master in such difficulties, has run to her to ask for her powerful protection. She quickly takes in the whole situation; and however bitterly Octavian's disaffection grieves her, she is a clever enough woman of the world to recognize that the time for her to give him up has come. The threads now quickly disentangle themselves. The Baron leaves, Octavian and Sophie are forgiven, and Herr von Faninal feels himself fully compensated for all he has been through, because he is to be driven home beside the Princess in her carriage.

ARIADNE AUF NAXOS
ARIADNE ON NAXOS

The peculiar relationship of this opera to MoliÈre's comedy is easily explained, although the scheme is a curious one. In "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme," MoliÈre has Jourdain, the commoner, who in his folly strives to imitate the nobility, engage an entire ballet troupe for a private performance at his house. The opera, "Ariadne auf Naxos," is supposed to take the place of this ballet. Besides the opera, Richard Strauss has composed eleven incidental musical members for the two acts of the comedy, to which the opera is added as an independent third act.

Into the representation there enters another factor, which is liable to cause confusion, unless it is understood by the spectator. Besides the opera, Jourdain has engaged a troupe of buffoons to give a performance of the old Italian Harlequin (Arlecchino) comedy. Having paid for both, he insists that both shall take place, with the result that, while the opera is in progress, the comedians dash on the stage, go through their act, and dash off again.

The adapter of MoliÈre's work to Strauss's purpose has omitted the entire passage of the love scene between ClÉonte and Lucille, Jourdain's daughter, so that the two acts of the comedy concern themselves mainly with Jourdain's folly—his scenes with the music teacher, the dancing master, the fencing master, the philosopher, and the tailor. They also show how the intriguing Count Dorantes makes use of Jourdain's stupidity, borrowing a large sum of money from him, and persuading him that he can win the favour of the Marquise with costly presents and by arranging in her honour the fÊte at which the opera is given. At the same time the sly Dorantes represents everything to the Marquise as if he himself had contrived and paid for the gifts and the fÊte in her honour. The Marquise goes to Jourdain's house to the banquet and celebration, as a climax to which the opera "Ariadne auf Naxos" is presented. The opera therefore follows the adaptation of "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme."

On a desert island lies Ariadne asleep before a cave. Naiad, Echo and Dryad are singing. Ariadne, on awaking, bewails the lot of the forsaken one. In her grief she feels herself near death. Then the old comedy figures come whirling in. In her desire for death Ariadne does not notice them. Zerbinetta sings and dances with her four Harlequins. This is their idea of life—to enjoy things lightly. When they have disappeared, Naiad, Dryad, and Echo come back and announce the arrival of a youthful god. Bacchus approaches the island. From afar he sings. Ariadne hopes it is Death coming to release her. She longs for him, sinks into his arms. They are the arms of love.

DIE VERKAUFTE BRAUT
THE BARTERED BRIDE

Act I. It is the anniversary of the consecration of the village church. Marie, daughter of the rich peasant Kruschina, is not happy for she must today accept a suitor picked out for her by her parents and she only loves Hans although she does not know his antecedents. Hans consoles her. He will always be true to her and he comes from a good family, only a wicked stepmother has robbed him of his father's love. So she must be of good cheer. Then Marie's parents arrive with the marriage broker, Kezal. The latter wants to complete arrangements for the marriage of Marie and Wenzel, the rich son of the peasant Micha. When Marie's father has given his consent to this union, the go-between considers Marie's opposition as a trifle which, he tells Micha outside in the inn, can be easily remedied.

Act II. But with what eyes has Kezal looked upon Wenzel that he praises his excellences so loudly? At any rate not with those of a young woman. Can Kruschina's Marie love this stutterer and coxcomb? Never! Fortunately for her, he does not know her; and so the clever girl is able to deceive him. She speaks disparagingly to him of Kruschina's Marie who loves another and whom therefore he should not allow himself to marry. The puzzled Wenzel, enamoured, runs after the laughing girl. On this Hans comes in with Kezal. The latter is telling his companion to give up his love affair. He offers him first a hundred and finally three hundred florins if he will do so. At last Hans consents but only on condition that Marie shall marry none other than the son of Micha's wife. Kezal is content with that as he understands it. He goes away to get witnesses and everybody is provoked at the light heart with which Hans has sold his bride.

Act III. In the meantime, Wenzel has fallen in love with Esmeralda the danseuse in a troop of acrobats. In his infatuation he allows himself to be induced to act in place of a drunken comedian. His parents and Kezal surprise him while practising his dance. They are very much astonished when he absolutely refuses to marry Kruschina's Marie. But the matter would have been entirely different had he recognized her to be the lovely maiden of earlier in the day. Marie herself, out of revolt and grief at the fact that her lover has so lightly prized her heart, is ready for everything. Then Hans rushes in, freely expressing his supercilious feelings. All stand astounded until Micha recognizes in Hans his own long missing son by his first marriage. That Hans now signs the contract as the happy husband of Marie is the joyful end of this merry opera.