"Now, damsels, get to bed," Plunkett said to Martha and Nancy as he opened the door of the farmhouse upon their arrival. "Get to bed, because ye must get up at dawn." The two giddy young women looked about them. There were doors at the right and left of the big room which they first entered, and they doubtless led to bedrooms. On the table a lamp was burning and there were a couple of spinning wheels to be seen. As they came in they noticed a bell hung on a pole just outside the door. Not a bit like the palace of Queen Anne! and altogether the lark didn't appear to have the advantages it first had.
"O heaven! What shall we do?" Martha said to Nancy. "We must get out of this soon, in some way."
"Well, the main thing is to get to bed now," Nancy declared, and so the girls turned to say good-night to the two farmers.
"Good-night? Not so. There are your duties to be done first."
"Our duties?" Martha exclaimed, looking blank.
"Oh, don't disturb them to-night," Lionel interrupted, speaking to his brother. Lionel was more and more impressed with both of them, especially with the beautyof Martha. "They are very tired. Don't disturb them to-night."
"But you will spoil them to begin with," Plunkett insisted. "And by the way, what are your names?" he asked.
"Mine is Martha," Lady Harriet answered dolefully.
"Mine is—Julia," Nancy said impatiently.
"Ho, ho! Too grand to please me!—but, Julia, my dame of fashion, pray, put my cloak away," Plunkett returned, handing it to her.
"Upon my life! What impertinence!" she cried, throwing the cloak upon the floor. "Put away your own cloak."
"What—what?" Plunkett shouted, enraged, and starting up.
"Now, pray be lenient with them, brother. They are quite strange to our ways, perhaps—and then they are very tired, you know. Probably overworked by their last master. Leave matters to me. I'll put them quite at their ease;" whereupon Lionel took his hat and held it out to Martha.
"Martha—take it, if you please," Martha looked at him haughtily, and turned her back on him. Poor Lionel was distracted and abashed.
"Well, really, I don't—I don't know just what to do myself," he declared, as his brother snorted with satisfaction at Lionel's discomfiture.
"Well," said Lionel, hesitating a moment; then he took his hat and hung it up himself; then Plunkett picked uphiscloak and waited uponhimself.
"A pretty kettle-of-fish, I should say," he muttered. "Well, then, to your spinning!"
"To our spinning?" they cried in unison.
"Yes, yes, to your spinning," Plunkett returned testily. "Do you expect to do nothing but entertain us with conversation? To your spinning, I said." Then all at once the women burst out laughing.
"Are ye good for nothing?" Plunkett shouted, in a greater rage. "Come, we've had enough of this! You go and bring those spindles," and Plunkett shouted this so loudly that the girls were downright frightened at last.
"Oh, do not scold us," Martha entreated, shrinking back.
"No, no, brother, let us be gentle."
"Stuff! Now, girls, you get at that spinning wheel as I tell you."
The two girls looked at each other. They no longer dared carry matters with a high hand, and yet how could they spin? They knew no more how to spin than did a couple of pussy-cats. After going up to the wheels and looking at them in wonder, they exclaimed:
"I can't."
"What?" yelled Plunkett.
"We—we don't know how."
"Well, upon my soul!" Plunkett cried. "Now you two sit down there as quick as you can." They sat as if they were shot. Plunkett seemed very much in earnest. "Now turn those wheels!"
"They—they willnotturn," they cried, trying and making an awful botch of it.
"Twist the thread," Lionel instructed with much anxiety.
"O Lord! Itwon'ttwist, theywon'tturn. Oh, good gracious! We can't! we can't do it at all."
"Now then, look at this," Plunkett cried, and he took Nancy from the chair, and seated himself at the spinningwheel; and Lionel unseated Martha—gently—and took her place, and then the fun began. "Now watch—and we will teach you something about this business."
And while the girls joined in this gay spinning song, the men buzzed an accompaniment of "Brr, brr, brr," and the fun waxed fast and furious, the men spinning faster and faster every moment, the girls becoming more and more excited with watching and trying to learn—because they now saw that there was nothing for them but to begin business; and more than this, they began almost to like the farmer chaps. After a moment, first one began to laugh, then another, till suddenly they all dragged off into a merry "ha, ha, ha!"
Nancy—or rather Julia—sang, as she took a turn at it. All had turned to fun and frolic, and now even Lady Harriet—or Martha—could not withstand the temptation to try her hand; so down she sat, and away she went spinning, and singing with the best of them. Suddenly Nancy upset her wheel, Plunkett gaily threatened her, and away she ran, with Plunkett chasing after her. In a minute they had disappeared, and Martha was left alone with Lionel.
"Nancy—Julia—where are you? here! don't leave me—" Martha cried.
"Have no fear, gentle girl," Lionel said, detaining her. "There is no one who will hurt you." Martha regarded him with some anxiety for a moment, then became reassured.
"No—I will not be afraid," she thought. "This stranger has a kind way with him. True, they are strange in their ways—to me—but then I am strange in my ways—to them."
"Come! I'll promise never to be impatient with you nor to scold you if you do not get things right. I am sure you will do your best," he gently insisted, trying to put her at her ease. "To tell the truth—I am desperately in love with you, Martha."
"Oh, good gracious—it is—so sudden——" she gasped, looking about for some chance of escape. "Don't, sir! I assure you I am the worst sort of servant. I have deceived you: as a matter of fact, I know almost nothing of housework or farm work—I——"
"Well, at least, you know how to laugh and while the time away. Never mind about the work—we shall get on; we'll let the work go. Only sing for me—come, let us be gay."
"Alas! I do not feel gay——"
"Then sing something that is not gay. Sing what you will—but sing," he urged. He was more in love with her every moment, and not knowing what else to do Martha sang—"'Tis the Last Rose of Summer!"
By the time the song was sung, Lionel had quite lost his head.
"Martha, since the moment I first saw thee, I have loved thee madly. Be my wife and I will be your willingslave—you may count on me to do the spinning and everything else, if only you will be my wife. I'll raise thee to my own station." This was really too much. Martha looked at him in amazement.
"Raise me—er—" In spite of herself she had to laugh. Then, with a feeling of tenderness growing in her heart, she felt sorry for him.
"I am sorry to cause you pain, but really you don't know what you are saying. I——" And at this crisis Nancy and Plunkett came in, Plunkett raising a great to-do because Nancy had been hiding successfully from him, in the kitchen.
"She hasn't been cooking," he explained; "simply hiding—and I can't abide idle ways—never could—now what is wrong with you two?" he asks, observing the restraint felt by Lionel and Martha; but before any one could answer, midnight struck.
"Twelve o'clock!" all exclaimed.
"All good angels watch over thee," Lionel said impulsively to Martha, "and make thee less scornful."
For a moment, Plunkett looked thoughtful, then turning to Nancy he said manfully, while everybody seemed at pause since the stroke of midnight.
"Nancy, girl, you are not what I sought for—a good servant—but some way, I feel as if—as if as a wife, I should find thee a good one. I vow, I begin to love thee, for all of thy bothersome little ways."
"Well, well, good-night, good-night, sirs," Nancy cried hastily and somewhat disconcerted. To tell the truth, she had begun to think kindly of Plunkett. Plunkett went thoughtfully to the outer door and carefully locked it, then turned and regarded the girls who stood silently and a little sadly, apart.
"Good-night," he said: and Lionel looking tenderly at Martha murmured, "Good-night," and the two men went away to their own part of the house, leaving the girls alone.
"Nancy——" Martha whispered softly, after a moment.
"Madame?"
"What next?—how escape?"
"How can we go?"
"We must——"
"It is very dark and the way is strange to us," she said, sadly and fearfully.
"Well, fortune has given us gentle masters, at least," Martha murmured.
"Yes—kind and good——"
"What if the Queen should hear of this?"
"Oh, Lord!" And at that moment came a soft knocking at the window. Both girls started. "What's that?" More knocking! "Gracious heaven! I am nearly dead with fear," Martha whispered, looking stealthily about. Nancy pointed to the window.
"Look——" Martha looked.
"Tristram—Sir Tristram!" she whispered excitedly. "Open the window. I can't move, I am so scared. Now, he'll rave—and I can't resent it. We deserve anything he may say." Nancy opened the window, and Sir Tristram stepped in softly, upon receiving a caution from the girls.
"Lady Harriet, this is most monstrous."
"Oh, my soul! Don't we know it. Don't wake the farmers up, in heaven's name! Things are bad enough without making them worse."
"Yes, let us fly, and make as little row about it as we can," Nancy implored.
"Then come—no words. I have my carriage waiting; follow me quickly and say good-bye to this hovel."
"Hovel?" Lady Harriet looked about. Suddenly she had a feeling of regret. "Hovel?"
"Nay," Nancy interrupted. "To this peaceful house—good-bye." Nancy, too, had a regret. They had had a gleeful hour here, among frank and kindly folk, even if they had also been a bit frightened. Anything that had gone wrong with them had been their fault. Tristram placed a bench at the window that the ladies might climb over, and thus they got out, and immediately the sound of their carriage wheels was heard in the yard. Plunkett had waked up meantime and had come out to call the girls. It was time for their day's work to begin. Farmer folk are out of bed early.
"Ho, girls!—time to be up," he called, entering from his chamber. Then he saw the open window. He paused. "Do I hear carriage wheels—and the window open—and the bench—and the girls—gone! Ho there! Everybody!" he rushed out and furiously pulled the bell which hung from the pole outside. His farmhands come running. "Ho—those girls hired yesterday have gone. Get after them. Bring them back. I may drop dead the next instant, but I'll be bound they shan't treat us in this manner. After them! Back they shall come!" And in the midst of all this confusion in ran Lionel.
"What——"
"Thieves!—the girls have run off—a nice return for our affections!"
"After them!—don't lose a minute," Lionel then cried in his turn, and away rushed the farmhands.
"They are ours for one year, by law. Bring them back,or ye shall suffer for it. Be off!" And the men mounted horses and went after the runaways like the wind.
"Nice treatment!"
"Shameful!" Plunkett cried, dropping into a chair, nearly fainting with rage.
Plunkett'smen had hunted far and wide for the runaways, but without success. The farmer was still sore over his defeat: he felt himself not only defrauded, but he had grown to love Nancy, and altogether he became very unhappy. One day he was sitting with his fellow farmers around a table in a little forest inn, drinking his glass of beer, when he heard the sound of hunting horns in the distance.
"Hello! a hunting party from the palace must be out," he remarked, but the music of the horn which once pleased him could no longer arouse him from his moodiness. Nevertheless an extraordinary thing was about to happen. As he went into the inn for a moment, into the grove whirled—Nancy! all bespangled in a rich hunting costume and accompanied by her friends who were enjoying the hunt with her. They were singing a rousing hunting chorus, but Martha—Lady Harriet—was not with them.
"What has happened to Lady Harriet?" some one questioned of Nancy, who was expected to know all her secrets.
"Alas—nothing interests her ladyship any more," she replied! Nancy knew perfectly well that, ever since their escapade, Harriet had thought of nothing but Lionel. For Nancy's part, she had not thought of much besidesPlunkett; but she did not mean to reveal the situation to the court busybodies. Then while the huntresses were roaming about the inn, out came Plunkett! and Nancy, not perceiving at first who he was, went up to him and began to speak.
"Pray, my good man, can you tell—Good heaven!" she exclaimed, recognizing him; "Plunkett!"
"Yes, madame, Plunkett; and now Plunkett will see if you get the better of him a second time. We'll let the sheriff settle this matter, right on the spot."
"Man, you are mad. Do not breathe my name or each huntress here shall take aim and bring you down. Ho, there!" she cried distractedly to her friends; and she took aim at Plunkett, while all of the others closed round him. It was then Plunkett's turn to beg for mercy.
"They're upon me, they've undone me!" he cried. "This is serious," and so indeed it was. "But oh, dear me, there is a remarkable charm in these girls, even if they do threaten a man's life," and still looking back over his shoulder, away he ran, pursued by the girls. They had no sooner gone than Lionel came in. He was looking disconsolately at the flowers to which Martha sang the "Last Rose of Summer." He himself sang a few measures of the song and then looked about him.
"Ah," he sighed, thinking still of Martha:
music
music
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And after he had sung thus touchingly of Martha, he threw himself down on the grass, and remained absorbed in his thoughts. But while he was resting there, LadyHarriet and Sir Tristram had also wandered thither. At first they did not see Lionel.
"I have come here away from the others, in order to be alone," Harriet declared impatiently.
"Alone with me?" Sir Tristram asked indiscreetly.
"Good heaven—it doesn't matter in the least whether you are here or elsewhere. I am quite unconscious of you, wherever you are," she replied, not very graciously. "Do go away and let me alone!" and, finding that he could not please her, Tristram wandered off, and left her meditating there. After a while she began to sing to herself, softly, and Lionel recognized the voice.
"It is she!—Martha!" he cried, starting up. Harriet recognized him, and at once found herself in a dreadful state of mind.
"What shall I do? It is Lionel! that farmer I hired out to!" Well! It was Lionel's opportunity, and he fell to making the most desperate love to her—which she liked very much, but which, being a high-born lady of Queen Anne's Court, she was bound to resent. She called him base-born and a good many unpleasant things, which did not seem to discourage him in the least, even though it made him feel rather badly; but while he was still protesting his love, Tristram returned, and at once believed Harriet to be in the toils of some dreadful fellow. So he called loudly for everybody in the hunt to come to the rescue—which was about the most foolish thing he could do. Then all set upon Lionel. Plunkett, hearing the row, rushed in.
"Stand by me!" Lionel cried.
Nancy appeared. "What does this mean?" she in turn demanded in a high-handed manner.
"Julia, too," Lionel shouted, recognizing her.
"Bind this madman in fetters," Tristram ordered.
"Don't touch him," Plunkett threatened.
"I shall die," Nancy declared.
"I engaged these girls in my service," Lionel shouted, "and now they wish to break the bargain!"
"What?" everybody screamed, staring at Nancy and Harriet. Tristram and the hunters laughed, Tristram trying to shield the girls and turn it into a joke.
"Have compassion on this madman"; Harriet pleaded wincing when she saw Lionel bound and helpless. Lionel then reproached her. She knew perfectly that she deserved it and felt her love for him growing greater. Everybody was in a most dreadful state of mind. Then a page rushed in and cried that Queen Anne was coming toward them, and immediately Lionel had an inspiration.
"Take this ring to her Majesty—quick," he cried, handing his ring to Plunkett.
A litter was then brought for Lady Harriet. She, heartbroken, stepped into it. Lionel was pinioned and was being dragged off. Plunkett held up the ring, to assure him that it should straightway be taken to the Queen.
Afterthe row had quieted down and Nancy and Harriet got time to think matters over, Harriet reached the conclusion that she could not endure Lionel's misfortune. Hence she had got Nancy to accompany her to the farmer's house. When they arrived some new maid whom the farmers had got opened the door to them.
"Go, Nancy, and find Plunkett, Lionel's trusty friend, and tell him I am repentant and cannot endure Lionel's misfortunes. Tell him his friend is to have hope," and,obeying her beloved Lady Harriet, Nancy departed to find Plunkett and give the message. In a few minutes she returned with the farmer. He now knew who the ladies were and treated Harriet most respectfully.
"Have you told him?" Lady Harriet asked.
"Yes, but we cannot make Lionel understand anything. He sits vacantly gazing at nothing. He has had so much trouble, that probably his brain is turned."
"Let us see," said Harriet; and instantly she began to sing, "'Tis the Last Rose."
While she sang, Lionel entered slowly. He had heard. Harriet ran to him and would have thrown herself into his arms, but he held her off, fearing she was again deceiving him.
"No, no, I repent, and it was I who took thy ring to the Queen! I have learned that thy father was a nobleman—the great Earl of Derby; and the Queen sends the message to thee that she would undo the wrong done thee. Thou art the Earl of Derby—and I love thee—so take my hand if thou wilt have me."
Well, this was all very well, but Lionel was not inclined to be played fast and loose with in that fashion. When he was a plain farmer, she had nothing of this sort to say to him, however she may have felt.
"No," he declared, "I will have none of it! Leave me, all of you," and he rushed off, whereupon Harriet sank upon a bench, quite overcome. Then suddenly she started up.
"Ah—I have a thought!" and out she flew. While she was gone, the farmer and Nancy, who had really begun to care greatly for each other, confessed their love.
"Now that our affairs are no longer in confusion, let us go out and walk and talk it over," Plunkett urged,and, Nancy being quite willing, they went out. But when they got outside they found to their amazement that Plunkett's farmhands were rushing hither and thither, putting up tents and booths and flags, and turning the yard into a regular fair-ground, such as the scene appeared when Lionel and Harriet first met. Some of the girls on the farm were assuming the rôle of maids looking for service, and, in short, everything was as nearly like the original scene as they could possibly make it in a short time.
"What, what is all this?" Plunkett asked, amazed. Then he learned it was all done by Harriet's orders, and he and Nancy began to understand. Then Harriet came in, dressed as Martha. Nancy ran off and returned dressed as Julia, and then all was complete.
"There is Lionel coming toward us," Nancy cried. "What will happen now?" and there he came, led sadly by Plunkett. He looked about him, dazed, till Plunkett brought up Lady Harriet and presented her as a maid seeking work.
"Heaven! It is Martha——"
"Yes, is this not enough to prove to thee that I am ready to renounce my rank and station for thee? Here I am, seeking thy service," she pleaded.
"Well, good lassies, what can ye do?" Plunkett asked, entering into the spirit of the thing, and then Nancy gaily sang:
I for spinning finest linen, etc.
Lady Harriet gave Lionel some flowers and then began "'Tis the Last Rose." Then presently, Lionel, who had been recovering himself slowly while the play had been going on, joined in the last measures, and holdingout his arms to Lady Harriet, the lovers were united. Nancy and Plunkett were having the gayest sort of a time, and everybody was singing at the top of his voice that from that time forth there should be nothing but gaiety and joy in the world; and probably that turned out to be true for everybody but old Sir Tristram, who hadn't had a stroke of good luck since the curtain rose on the first act!
THIS composer of charming music will furnish better biographical material fifty years hence. At present we must be satisfied to listen to his compositions, and leave the study of the man to future generations.
Peter, a broom-maker.Gertrude, his wife.
Witch, who eats little children.Sandman, who puts little children to sleep.Dewman, who wakes little children up.Children.Fourteen angels.
The story takes place in a German forest.
Composer: E. Humperdinck.Author: Adelheid Wette.
Onceupon a time, in a far-off forest of Germany, there lived two little children, Hänsel and Gretel, with their father and mother. The father and mother made brooms for a living, and the children helped them by doing the finishing of the brooms.
The broom business had been very, very bad for a long time, and the poor father and mother were nearly discouraged. The father, however, was a happy-go-luckyman who usually accepted his misfortunes easily. It was fair-time in a village near the broom-makers' hut, and one morning the parents started off to see if their luck wouldn't change. They left the children at home, charging them to be industrious and orderly in behaviour till they returned, and Hänsel in particular was to spend his time finishing off some brooms.
Now it is the hardest thing in the world for little children to stick to a long task, so that which might have been expected happened: Hänsel and Gretel ceased after a little to work, and began to think how hungry they were. Hänsel was seated in the doorway, working at the brooms; brooms were hanging up on the walls of the poor little cottage; and Gretel sat knitting a stocking near the fire. Being a gay little girl, she sang to pass the time:
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This sounded rather gay, and, before he knew it, Hänsel had joined in:
"Speaking of something to eat—I'm as hungry as a wolf, Gretel. We haven't had anything but bread in weeks."
"Well, it does no good to complain, does it? Why don't you do as father does—laugh and make the best of it?" Gretel answered, letting her knitting fall in her lap. "If you will stop grumbling, Hänsel, I'll tell you a secret—it's a fine one too." She got up and tiptoed over to the table. "Come here and look in this jug," she called, and Hänsel in his turn tiptoed over, as if something very serious indeed would happen should any one hear him.
"Look in that jug—a neighbour gave us some milk to-day, and that is likely to mean rice blanc-mange."
"Oh, gracious goodness! I'll be found near when rice blanc-mange is going on; be sure of that. How thick is the cream?" the greedy fellow asked, dipping his finger into the jug.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself! Take your fingers out of that jug, Hänsel, and get back to your work. You'll get a good pounding if mother comes home and finds you cutting up tricks."
"No, I'm not going to work any more—I'm going to dance."
"Well, I admit dancing is good fun," Gretel answered him reluctantly. "We can dance a little, and singto keep us in time, and then we can go back to work."
she sang, holding out her hands.
"I don't know how, or I would," Hänsel declared, watching her as she spun about.
"Then I'll teach you. Just keep your eyes on me and I'll teach you just how to do it," she cried, and then she began to dance. Gretel told him precisely how to do it, and Hänsel learned very well and very quickly. Then they danced together, and in half a minute had forgotten all about going back to their work. They twirled and laughed and sang and shouted in the wildest sort of glee, and at last, perfectly exhausted with so much fun, they tumbled over one another upon the floor, and were laughing too hard to get up. Just at this moment, when they had actually forgotten all about hunger and work, home came their mother. She opened the door and looked in.
"For mercy's sake! what goings on are these?" she cried.
"Why, it was Hänsel, he——"
"Gretel wanted to——" they both began, scrambling to their feet.
"That will do. I want to hear nothing from you. You are the most ill-behaved children in the world. Here are your father and I slaving ourselves to death for you, and not a thing do you do but dance and sing from morning till night——"
"It would be awfully nice to eat, too," Hänsel replied reflectively.
"What's that you say, you ungrateful child? Don't you eat whenever the rest of us do?" However harsh she seemed, the mother was only angry at the thought of there being nothing in the house to eat, and she felt so badly to think the children were hungry that she made a dive at Hänsel to slap him, when—horrors! she knocked the milk off the table, broke the jug, and all the milk went streaming over the floor. This was indeed a misfortune. There they stood, all three looking at their lost supper.
"Nowsee what you have done?" she screamed angrily at the children. "Get yourselves out of here. If you want any supper you'll have to work for it. Take that basket and go into the wood and fill it with strawberries, and don't either of you come home till it is full. Dear me, it does seem as if I had trouble enough without such actions as yours," the distracted mother cried; and quite unjustly she hustled the children and their basket outside the hut and off into the wood.
They had no sooner gone out than the poor, distracted woman, exhausted with the day's tramping and unsuccessful effort to sell her brooms, sat at the table weeping over the lost milk; and finally she fell asleep. After a while a merry song was heard in the wood, and the father presently appeared singing, at the very threshold. Really, for a hungry man with a hungry family and nothing for supper, he was in a remarkably merry mood.
"Ho, there, wife!" he called, and then entered with a great basket over his shoulder. He saw the mother asleep and stopped singing. Then he laughed and went over to her.
"Hey, wake up, old lady, hustle yourself and get us a supper. Where are the children?"
"What are you talking about," the mother asked, waking up and looking confused at the noise her husband was making. "I can't get any supper when there is nothing to get."
"Nothing to get?—well, that is nice talk, I'm sure. We'll see if there is nothing to get," he answered, roaring with laughter—and he began to take things out of his basket. First he took out a ham, then some butter. Flour and sausages followed, and then a dozen eggs; turnips, and onions, and finally some tea. Then at last the good fellow turned the basket upside down, and out rolled a lot of potatoes.
"Where in the world did all of these things come from?" she cried.
"I had good luck with my brooms, when all seemed lost, and here we are with a feast before us. Now call the children and let us begin."
"I was so angry because the milk got spilt that I sent them off to the woods for berries and told them not to come home till they had a basket full. I really thought that was all we should have for supper." At this the father looked frightened.
"What if they have gone to the Ilsenstein?" he cried, jumping up and taking a broom from the wall.
"Well, what harm?" the wife inquired, "and why do you take the broom?"
"What harm? Do you not know that it is the awful magic mountain where the old witch who eats little children dwells?—and do you not know that she rides on a broomstick. I may need one to follow her, in case she has got the children."
"Oh, heavens above! What a wicked woman I was to send the children out. What shall we do? Do youknow anything more about that awful ogress?" she demanded of her husband, trembling fit to die.
"Oh, my soul!" the poor woman shrieked. "Come! We must lose no time: Hänsel and Gretel may be baked to cinders by this time," and out she ran, screaming, and followed by the father, to look for those poor children.
Afterwandering all the afternoon in the great forest, and filling their basket with strawberries, Hänsel and Gretel came to a beautiful mossy tree-trunk where they concluded to sit down and rest before going home. Theyhad wandered so far that they really didn't know that they were lost, but as a matter of fact they had no notion of where they were. Without knowing it, they had gone as far as the Ilsenstein, and that magic place was just behind them, and sunset had already come. As usual, the gay little girl was singing while she twined a garland of wild flowers. Hänsel was still looking for berries in the thicket near. Pretty soon they heard a cuckoo call, and they answered the call gaily. The cuckoo answered, and the calls between them became lively.
"There is the bird that eats up other birds' eggs," Gretel said, poking a strawberry into Hänsel's mouth; and Hänsel sucked the berry up as if it were an egg. Then in his turn, he poked a berry into Gretel's mouth. This was very good fun, especially as yet they had had nothing to eat. They began to feed each other with berries, till before they knew it the full basket was empty.
Foolish children, who by their carelessness got themselves into all sorts of scrapes! Now what was to be done? They surely couldn't go home and tell their mother they had eaten up all the berries!
"Hänsel, you have eaten all the berries. Now this time it is no joke—this that you have done. What shall we do now?"
"Nonsense—you ate as many as I. We shall simply look for more."
"So late as this! We never can see them in the world. The sun is going down. Where can we have got to? We are surely lost."
"Well, if we are, there is nothing to be afraid of. Come, don't cry. We shall sleep here under the trees, and, when morning comes, find our way home," Hänsel replied, no longer blaming her, but trying to be verybrave, notwithstanding he was nearly scared to death with the shadows which were then gathering quickly.
"Oh, oh! do you hear that noise in the bushes? I shall die of fright."
"It—it—is nothing, sister," Hänsel answered, his teeth chattering, while he peered all about him uneasily. "I'm a boy and not afraid of anything, and can take care of you wherever we are."
Hänsel tried to answer heroically. "I'll give a good call," he said, going a little way toward the Ilsenstein. Then putting his hands to his mouth, he called loudly:
"Who's there?"
"You there,—you there,—you there," the echoes came—but they seemed to come from the Ilsenstein.
"Is some one there?" Gretel timidly asked.
"There—where—there—" the echoes from the Ilsenstein again replied. "I'm frightened to death," Gretel said, beginning to cry.
"Little Gretelkin," said Hänsel, "you stick close to me, and I'll let nothing hurt you;" and while they huddled together, a thick white mist slowly gathered and spread between the children and the Ilsenstein.
"Oh! there are some shadowy old women, coming to carry me away," Gretel sobbed, hiding her face, as the mist seemed to sway and assume strange forms. Then while her face was hidden, the mist slowly cleared away, and a little gray manikin with a little sack upon his back came out of the shadows. Hänsel held his breathwith fear and sheltered Gretel beside him as best he could.
"It is a shadowy queer little manikin, Gretel dear, with a little sack upon his back, but he looks very friendly." Then addressing the little manikin, "Do not hurt us, sir—and will you tell us who you are?"
All the while the little sand-man was telling them who he was, the children got sleepier and sleepier and nodded upon each other's shoulders.
"The sand-man was here?" little Hänsel asked, trying to rouse a bit.
"I guess so," said Gretel; "let us say our prayers," and so they folded their hands, and said a little prayer to the fourteen angels which guard little children. They prayed to the two angels who should stand at their head, to the two at their feet, two upon their right hand and two upon the left, and two should cover them warm, and two should guard them from harm, and two should guide them one day to Heaven; and so they sank to sleep.
As they slept, a beautiful light broke through the mist, which rolled up into a glittering staircase down which those angels came, two and two. They all grouped about Hänsel and Gretel as they had been prayed to do; andas they silently took their places the night grew dark, the trees and birds all slept, and Hänsel and Gretel were safe until the morning.
Thenight had passed, the angels had disappeared again in the mist which still hung over the forest at the back, and now as dawn broke, the dew-fairy came out of the mist as the manikin and the angels had done; and from a little blue bell she shook the dewdrops over the children's eyes. Just as they began to stir, away ran the dew-fairy, and when they were quite wide awake they found the sun rising and themselves all alone.
"Hänsel, where are we?" little Gretel asked, not recalling all that had happened to them since the day before. "I hear the birds twittering high in the branches. We certainly are not in our beds at home."
"No—but I had a fine dream," Hänsel answered—"that the angels were here looking after us all night, the entire fourteen. But look there!" he cried, pointing behind them. The mist was gradually lifting and revealing the house of the Witch of Ilsenstein. It looked very fine, with the sun's bright rays upon it; very fine indeed! A little way off to the left of that queer little house was—an oven. Oh, dreadful! It was well Hänsel and Gretel did not know in the least what that oven meant. Then, on the other side of the house, was a cage—and heaven! it was certainly well that they had no idea of what that was for, either. Then, joining that cage to the house, was a queer-looking fence of gingerbread, and it looked strangely like little children.
"Oh, what a queer place!" Gretel cried. "And doyou smell that delicious odour? That cottage is made all of chocolate cream!" She was overcome with joy.
"Oh, to eat such a cottage!" they cried ecstatically.
"I hear no sound. Let's go inside," Hänsel urged.
"No, no! Who knows who may live in that lovely house."
"Well, anyway, it can't do any harm to nibble a little. They can have it repaired next baking day," he persisted.
"Maybe that is true,—and it does look too good to leave"; so Hänsel reached out and broke a little piece of the house-corner off.
a voice called from within.
"Good gracious! Did you hear that?" he whispered, dropping the corner of the house. Gretel picked it up, hesitatingly.
"It's most awfully good," she declared, but at that very minute came the voice again:
"Maybe that is the voice of the sweety maker," Hänsel suggested, all the same a good deal scared. And so they went on nibbling at a bit of the fence and then at the house-corner, until they became so full of good things that they began to laugh and caper about in high spirits. But while all this fun was going on, the upper part of the door opened and the old witch stuck her head out.Then slowly and softly, out she crept with a rope in her hand, and getting behind the children she suddenly threw it over Hänsel's head. When he turned and saw her he was frightened almost into fits.
"Let me go, let me go!" he howled, while the witch only laughed hideously at the two and, drawing them closer to her, she began to pat their heads and talk very nicely to them.
"You are lovely children! Don't give yourselves such airs. I am Rosina Dainty-Mouth and just love little children like you," but she didn't say how she preferred them—broiled or stewed. Nevertheless, Hänsel had his doubts about her, in spite of her affectionate pretensions.
This extraordinary old lady cried, naming things that made the children's mouths water. But there was Hänsel's caution! He was not to be caught napping after sunrise. Gretel, however, recalled the flavour of the eave-spout which she had lately tasted and could not help showing a certain amount of interest.
"Just what shall I get if I go into your housey?" she inquired; but before the old creature could reply, Hänsel had pulled Gretel's petticoat.
"Have a care! Do not take anything from her that you can help. She is meaning to fatten us and cook us,"—which was the exact truth. At that moment, Hänsel got clear of the rope which had been about his neck and ran to Gretel, but the old witch pointed at them a stick which had been hanging at her girdle, and instantly they found themselves spellbound. She repeated this blood-curdling rhyme, and there they stood, quite helpless:
And "fixed" they were. Now, right in the middle of the forenoon, it began to grow horribly dark, and as it darkened, the little knob on the end of her stick began to glow brilliantly, and as Hänsel watched it, fascinated, the witch gradually led him, by the stick's charm, into the stable, and fastened him in. Then the knob of the stick gradually ceased to glow, and Gretel was still standing there.
"Now while I feed Hänsel up till he is plump as a partridge, you stand where you are," said the witch, and into the house she went. Gretel stood horrified, and Hänsel whispered to her:
"Don't speak loud, and be very watchful, Gretelkin. Pretend to do everything the witch commands, yet be very watchful. There she comes again"; and so she did, with a basket full of raisins and other things for him to eat. She stuck good things into his mouth, as if she were fattening a Strasburg goose, and after that she disenchanted Gretel with a juniper branch.
"Now, then, you go and set the table," she ordered, then turning again to Hänsel she found him apparently asleep.
"That's good! It is a way to grow fat," she grinned. "I'll just begin my supper with Gretel. She looks quite plump enough as she is. Here, my love," she cried, opening the oven door, and sniffing some gingerbread figures within, "just look into the oven and tell me if it is hot enough to bake in," she called.
the old wretch giggled to herself. But Gretel pretended not to hear her; and after all, she thought the oven not quite hot enough to push Gretel into, so she began jabbering about the witch's ride she was going to have that night at twelve, on her broomstick. As she thought about it she became very enthusiastic, and getting upon her broom she went galloping about the house and back. When she got through performing in this outrageous manner—which fairly froze Gretel's blood in her veins—the old witch tickled Hänsel with a birch-twig till he woke.
"Here, my little darling, show me your tongue," she said, and Hänsel stuck out his tongue as if the doctor had been called to investigate his liver. "My, but you are in fine condition," the old wretch mumbled smacking her lips. "Let me see your thumb," she demanded, and instead of sticking out his plump thumb, Hänsel poked a tiny bone through the bars of the cage. "Oh! how lean and scraggy! You won't do yet"; and she called to Gretel to bring more food for him, and there she stopped to stuff him again. Then she again opened the oven door, looking all the while at Gretel.
"How she makes my mouth water," she muttered. "Come here, little Gretelkin, poke your head into the oven and tell me if you think it hot enough for us to bake in." At this awful moment Hänsel whispered:
"Oh, be careful, Gretel!" Gretel nodded at him behind the witch's back.
"Just smell that lovely gingerbread. Do poke your head in to see if it is quite done. Then you shall have a piece hot from the oven." Gretel still hung back.
"I don't quite know how to do it," she apologized. "If you will just show me how to reach up," she murmured; and the old witch, quite disgusted that Gretel should take so long to do as she was bid, and so delay the feast, said:
"Why, this way, you goose," poking her head into the oven, and instantly, Hänsel, who had slipped out of the stable, sprang upon the old woman, gave her the push she had intended to give Gretel, and into the oven she popped, and bang went the oven door, while the children stood looking at each other and shivering with fright.
"Oh, my suz!Doyou suppose we have her fast?"
"I guess we have," Hänsel cried, grabbing Gretel about the waist and dancing wildly in glee. Then they rushed into the house and began to fill their pockets with good things. While they were at this, the oven began to crack dreadfully. The noise was quite awful.
"Oh, mercy! What is happening?" Gretel cried. And at that moment the awful oven fell apart, and out jumped a lot of little children with the gingerbread all falling off them, while they sprang about Hänsel and Gretel in great joy. But all their eyes were shut.
They laughed and sang and hopped, crying that Hänsel and Gretel had saved them because by baking the old witch they had broken the oven's charm.
"But why don't you open your eyes," Gretel asked.
"We shall not be entirely disenchanted till you touch us," they told her, and then upon being touched by Gretel they opened their eyes like ten-day-old kittens.
Then Hänsel took a juniper branch and repeated what he had heard the witch say:
and there came that gingerbread hedge, walking on legs,—the beautiful gingerbread falling all over the place, and the whole fence turning back into little children.
At that very moment came the broom-maker and his wife, who had sought for the children till they had become nearly distracted. When the children saw them they ran into their mother's arms. All the gingerbread children were singing at the top of their voices and were carrying on in the most joyous way.
Two boys had run to the broken oven, and had begun to drag out an immense gingerbread—it was the old witch, turned into the finest cake ever seen. It was well that she turned out to be good in the end, if only good gingerbread. They dragged her out where everybody could see her, and broke a piece of her off; and then they shoved her into the cottage.
"Now, you see how good children are taken care of," the broom-maker sang; while everybody danced about the disenchanted Ilsenstein, before they went into the house for supper.
THIS composer is too contemporary to be discussed freely. He has done no great amount of work, and fame came to him in his youth. "Cavalleria Rusticana" is his supreme performance, and there is in it a promise of greater things.
Santuzza.Lola.Turiddu.Alfio.Lucia.
Peasants.
The story is of peasant people in a small Sicilian village, on an Easter day.
Composer: Pietro Mascagni.Authors: Giovanni Targioni-Tozzetti and Guido Menasci.
First sung at Rome, May 20, 1890.
Onefine Easter morning, in a small Italian village, a fop, named Turiddu, came along the little street singing of Lola, an old sweetheart, who, since Turiddu went to serve his required term in the army, had married a wagoner. Turiddu was far from heartbroken, because when he returned and first heard of Lola's faithlessness, he straightway fell in love with a worthier girl—Santuzza. Neither Lola nor Turiddu was a faithful sort, but lived for a good time to-day, leaving luck to look after to-morrow; but it was not the same with Santuzza. She truly loved Turiddu, and being an Italian peasant, very emotional and excitable, it was going to be dangerous for Turiddu to ill-treat her.
If that Easter morning found Turiddu quite gay and free, it found Santuzza full of despair and misgiving, because she knew that her lover had returned to his former sweetheart. Lola's husband, the wagoner, was frequently away from his home, and in his absence his wife had been flirting. In a little village, where everybody knew everybody else, and all of each other's business, Santuzza's companions had learned that Turiddu had thrown his new love over for the old, and instead of pitying her, they had ridiculed and treated her unkindly.
On a Sunday morning, just before the villagers started to church, Santuzza started for Turiddu's home. He lived near the church, with Lucia, his old mother. Santuzza had been thinking all night of what she could do to win her lover back; and at daylight had risen with the determination to go to old Lucia, and tell her how her son had misbehaved. In Italy, even grown sons and daughters obey their parents more promptly than the small children in America ever do. Santuzza, all tears and worn with sleeplessness, thought possibly Lucia could prevail upon Turiddu to keep his word and behave more like an honest man. All the little village was astir early, because Easter is a fête day in Italy, and the people make merry, as well as go to church. The peasants were passing and repassing through the little square as Santuzza entered it. She looked very sad and her eyes were swollen with crying. But no one paid any attention to her as all were going into the church for early mass. After the crowd had gone in, the sound of the organ and of the congregation's voices could be heard in the square. They sang an Easter carol—about flowers and carolling larks and orange blossoms—which did not make Santuzza any the happier; but she went to the door of old Lucia's house and called softly:
"Mama Lucia—Mama Lucia—art thou there?"
"Thou, Santuzza? What wilt thou, my dear?" the old woman answered, hobbling out.
"Mama Lucia, where is thy son?" Santuzza demanded.
"Thou hast come to see Turiddu? I do not know, my girl. I have nothing to do with quarrels, you must understand," she answered cautiously, half suspecting Santuzza's trouble, because she had already suffered many times on account of her son's faithlessness to others.
"Mama Lucia, I beg of you not to turn me away. Listen to my troubles. It is thy son who has caused them, and I must see him," Santuzza sobbed.
"Well, I cannot help thee—though I am truly sorry for thee," the mother answered, after a moment, observing all the signs of the sorrow that Santuzza felt. "He is not at home. He has gone to fetch the wine from Francofonte."
"No, no—he hasn't. He was seen about the village only last night."
"Who told thee that? I, his mother, should know if he is at home or not."
"Mama Lucia, do not turn me away—I am in great sorrow, and you will be unhappy all your life if you ill-treat me now." At this they were disturbed by the cracking of whips and jingling of bells which told of the return to town of the wagoner. Alfio was returning on Easter morning in time to join the gaiety with his wife, Lola.
He came in jauntily, singing:
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Soon all the neighbours appeared to welcome him. He was a most popular fellow—unlike Turiddu, who was a favourite mainly with the girls.
"Well, about all I have wished for all the week, neighbours, was to get home here to my wife, that we might spend this Easter day together. When I am away, I think of nothing but her, you may be sure! I can't stophere with you, jolly as you are. Lola is certain to be waiting for me, so off I go!" and the wagoner waved his hand gaily and was about to hurry off, while some went back into the church again, and some went to their homes. But Mama Lucia could not but regard him anxiously. She, herself, was in trouble over her wild son.
"Ah, Alfio, you are always in such high spirits——"
"Hello, Mama Lucia! Good day to you—have you any more of that famous wine?" Lucia's house was also the village inn, where the folks congregated to drink their wine, to play cards, and have a good gossip.
"No, not now; Turiddu has gone to Francofonte to get it."
"You are wrong: I met him near my cottage as I came into the village this very morning," the wagoner answered, and at the same moment Santuzza pulled old Lucia's skirt, signing to her to be silent. But the old woman, surprised and confused at the turn things seemed to be taking, persisted:
"How so? Are you certain of that?"
"Oh, yes, perfectly sure. And now I must be going: Lola will be expecting me," the unsuspicious wagoner answered, turning in earnest to go home. Now, while old Lucia and Santuzza stood without, the choir in the church sang:
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And those peasants who had gradually wandered back into the square knelt, as they heard the prayer. The scene was very devotional and beautiful, with the exquisite music floating out from the church, and the reverent people gathering about it. Presently they broke into a joyous chorus of "Hallelujah! Christ is risen!" while Santuzza and old Lucia joined in spite of their sadness. But after all had wandered away, old Lucia approached Santuzza:
"Why didst thou caution me not to speak when Alfio said he had seen my son near his house?" she asked, anxiously, already half guessing the reason.
"Good mama, do you not know that before Turiddu went to the war he was Lola's lover; and at first after he returned he cared for me, but now he has forgotten me and is again making love to Lola? If the wagoner knew of this, what do you think he would do?"
"Oh, what hast thou told me upon this holy morning! You are right—if Alfio knew of this he would kill them both maybe. He surely would kill my son."
"It seems to me all are cursed this beautiful day. Go and pray for us all, Mama Lucia, and so will I," Santuzza replied. And she was about to enter the church to say her prayers when there came Turiddu, himself, dressed in his best, ready to meet Lola in the square as she passed on her way to the church.
"Turiddu!" Santuzza called.
"Devils! What are you here for, Santuzza? Are you on your way to church?"
"Not now. I am here to speak with you——"
"Well, well, I cannot stop for it; I must go into the inn and see my mother just now."
"You must stay here and speak with me. I warn you to do it, Turiddu. I am very unhappy, and if you will give up Lola I will forget all your wrongdoing. But if you neglect me, and will not give up Alfio's wife, Alfio will surely learn of it and make you trouble."
"Oh, come now—do you think you can frighten me? I will be a slave to no woman's whim, Santuzza. Go about your business. I shall attend to mine without your help. No, I will listen to you no longer," he cried, becoming angrier as she spoke, and pushing her away from him, as Lola, in the street near the square could be heard singing.
Santuzza and Turiddu both paused and listened. She was singing of Turiddu. She was calling him her "King of Roses." And then, while the two were standing uncertain what to do, Lola entered the square and spied them.
"Hello," she called loftily, looking at Santuzza. "Have you seen Alfio, Turiddu?"
"No, I have only just now come into the square."
"Oh, perhaps you have come to church," she persisted impertinently.
"I—I stopped to tell Santuzza—" he hardly knew what to say.
"I stopped to see Turiddu," Santuzza interrupted earnestly. "I stopped to say that the good Lord beholds all our deeds."
"Ah—then you are not going to mass?"
"No—those who go to mass must have a clear conscience. Which of us here has that?"
"Really I know nothing about you," Lola answered;"as for mine—it is clear!" Turiddu foreseeing trouble between them interrupted hastily.
"Let us go in," speaking to Lola.
"Oh, stay with Santuzza—and her conscience! do!"
"Yes, Turiddu—I warn you!" At that Lola laughed and went into the church.
"Now what have you done? By your folly, angered Lola. I am done with you!" Turiddu exclaimed, throwing off Santuzza, who held him back while she spoke. He became so enraged that he treated her brutally; and in trying to rid himself of her he threw her down upon the stones, and then ran into the church. When she got upon her feet again she was furious with anger.
"Now I will punish him for all his faithlessness," she sobbed, and she no sooner took this resolve than fate seemed to give her the means of carrying it out, for at that moment Alfio came back into the square.
"Oh, neighbour Alfio! God himself must have sent you here!"
"At what point is the service?"
"It is almost over, but I must tell you—Lola is gone to it with Turiddu."
"What do you mean by that?" Alfio demanded, regarding her in wonder.
"I mean that while you are about your business Turiddu remains here, and your wife finds in him a way to pass the time. She does not love you."
"If you are not telling me the truth," Alfio said, with anguish, "I'll certainly kill you."
"You have only to watch—you will know the truth fast enough," she persisted.
Alfio stood a moment in indecision and looked at her steadfastly.
"Santuzza, I believe you. Your words—and the sadness of your face—convince me. I will avenge us both." And off he ran. For a moment Santuzza was glad, then remorse overtook her. Now Turiddu would be killed! She was certain of it. Alfio was not a man to be played with. Surely Turiddu would be killed! And there was his old mother, too, who would be left quite alone. When it was too late, Santuzza repented having spoken. She tried to recall Alfio, but he had gone.
The organ within the church swelled loudly again, and, the music being most beautiful, Santuzza stood listening in an agony of mind. Soon people began to come out, and old Lucia hobbled from the church in her turn, and crossed to her inn, followed by the young men and women. The men were all going home to their wives, and the women to their duties, but it was proposed that all should stop a moment at old Lucia's for a glass of her famous wine before they separated. As they went to the bar of the inn, which was out under the trees, Lola and Turiddu came from the church together.
"I must hurry home now—I haven't seen Alfio yet—and he will be in a rage," she said.
"Not so fast—there is plenty of time! Come, neighbours, have a glass of wine with us," Turiddu cried to the crowd, going to his mother's bar, and there they gathered singing a gay drinking song.