"Who art thou?" she asked him, plaintively.
"Papageno," he answered.
"I do not know the name. But I am the daughter of the Queen of the Night."
"Well, I think you are, but to make sure"—He pulled from his pocket the portrait which had been given to him by the Prince and looked at it earnestly for a long time.
"According to this you shouldn't have any hands or feet," he announced gravely.
"But it is I," the Princess declared, looking in turn at the miniature. "Pray, where did you get this?"
"Your mother gave this to a young stranger, who instantly fell in love with you, and started to find you."
"In love with me?" she cried, joyfully.
"You'd think so if you saw the way he carries on about you," the fowler volunteered. "And we are to carry you back to your mother even quicker than we came."
"Then you must beveryquick about it, because Sarastro returns from the chase at noon exactly, and if he finds you here, you will never leave alive."
"Good! That will suit the Prince exactly."
"But—if I should find that, after all, you are an evil spirit," she hesitated.
"On the contrary, you will find in me the best spirits in the world, so come along."
"You seem to have a good heart."
"So good that I ought to have a Papagena to share it," he answered, plaintively, whereupon Pamina sang affectingly:
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The manly heart that claims our duty, must glow with feelings high and brave.
It is a very queer and incoherent opera, and not much sense to any of it, but, oh! it is beautiful music, and this duet between the fowler and Pamina is not the least of its beauties. At the end of it they rushed off together—Pamina to meet the Prince and be conducted back to her mother.
In the meantime, Tamino, instead of looking for Pamina himself, had been invoking wisdom and help from a number of Genii he had come across. There were three temples, connected by colonnades, and above the portal of one of these was written, Temple of Wisdom; over another, Temple of Reason; the third, Temple ofNature. These temples were situated in a beautiful grove, which Tamino entered with three Genii who each bore a silver palm branch.
"Now, pray tell me, ye wise ones, is it to be my lot to loosen Pamina's bonds?" he asked anxiously.
"It is not for us to tell thee this, but we say to thee, 'Go, be a man,' be steadfast and true and thou wilt conquer." They departed, leaving Tamino alone. Then he saw the temples.
"Perhaps she is within one of these temples," he cried; "and with the words of those wise Genii in my ears, I'll surely rescue her if she is there." So saying, he went up to one of them and was about to enter.
"Stand back!" a mysterious voice called from within.
"What! I am repulsed? Then I will try the next one," and he went to another of the temples.
"Stand back," again a voice called.
"Here too?" he cried, not caring to venture far. "There is still another door and I shall betake me to it." So he went to the third, and, when he knocked, an aged priest met him upon the threshold.
"What seek ye here?" he asked.
"I seek Love and Truth."
"That is a good deal to seek. Thou art looking for miscreants, thou art looking for revenge? Love, Truth, and Revenge do not belong together," the old priest answered.
"But the one I would revenge myself upon is a wicked monster."
"Go thy way. There is none such here," the priest replied.
"Isn't your reigning chief Sarastro?"
"He is—and his law is supreme."
"He stole a princess."
"So he did—but he is a holy man, the chief of Truth—we cannot explain his motives to thee," the priest said, as he disappeared within and closed the door.
"Oh, if only she still lives!" Tamino cried, standing outside the temple.
"She lives, she lives!" a chorus within sang, and at that reassurance Tamino was quite wild with happiness. Then he became full of uncertainty and sadness again, for he remembered that he did not know where to find her, and he sat down to play upon his magic flute. As he played, wild animals came out to listen, and they crowded around him. While he was playing, lamenting the loss of Pamina, he was answered by Papageno from a little way off, and he leaped up joyously.
"Perhaps Papageno is coming with the Princess," he cried. He began to play lustily upon his flute again. "Maybe the sound will lead them here," he thought, and he hastened away thinking to overtake them. After he had gone, Pamina and Papageno ran in, she having heard the magic flute.
"Oh, what joy! He must be near, for I heard the flute," she cried, looking about. Suddenly her joy was dispelled by the appearance of Monostatos, who had flown after them as soon as he discovered Pamina's absence.
"Now I have caught you," he cried wickedly, but as he called to the slaves who attended him to bind Papageno, the latter thought of his chime of bells.
"Maybe they will save me," he cried, and at once he began to play. Then all the slaves began to dance, while Monostatos himself was utterly enchanted at the sweet sound. As the bells continued to chime, Monostatos and the slaves began to leave with a measured step, till the pair found themselves alone and once more quite safe. Then the chorus within began to sing "Long life to Sarastro," and at that the two trembled again.
"Sarastro! Now what is going to happen?" Papageno whispered.
While they stood trembling, Sarastro appeared, borne on a triumphal car, drawn by six lions, and followed by a great train of attendants and priests. The chorus all cried, "Long life to Sarastro! Long life to our guard and master!"
When Sarastro stepped from the car, Pamina knelt at his feet.
"Oh, your greatness!" she cried. "I have sorely offended thee in trying to escape, but the fault was not all mine. The wicked Moor, Monostatos, made the most violent love to me, and it was from him I fled."
"All is forgiven thee, but I cannot set thee free," Sarastro replied. "Thy mother is not a fitting guardian for thee, and thou art better here among these holy people. I know that thy heart is given to a youth, Tamino." As he spoke, the Moor entered, followed by Prince Tamino. For the first time the two lovers met, and they were at once enchanted with each other.
At once Monostatos's anger became very great, since he, too, loved the Princess. He summoned his slaves to part them. Kneeling in his turn at Sarastro's feet he protested that he was a good and valiant man, whom Sarastro knew well, and he complained that Pamina had tried to flee.
"Thou art about good enough to have the bastinado," Sarastro replied, and thereupon ordered the slaves to whip the false Moor, who was immediately led off to punishment. After that, Sarastro ordered the lovers to beveiled and led into the temple to go through certain rites. They were to endure a period of probation, and if they came through the ordeal of waiting for each other properly they were to be united.
Thepriests assembled in a grove of palms, where they listened to the story of Pamina and Tamino, told by Sarastro.
"The Princess was torn from the Queen of the Night, great priests, because that Queen would overthrow our temple, and here Pamina is to remain till purified; if you will accept this noble youth for her companion, after they have both been taught in the ways of wisdom, follow my example," and immediately Sarastro blew a blast upon a horn. All the priests blew their horns in concurrence.
Sarastro sang a hymn to the gods, and then he and his priests disappeared. Tamino and Papageno were next led in to the temple porch. It was entirely dark.
"Art thou still near me, Papageno?" he asked.
"Of course I am, but I don't feel very well. I think I have a fever. This is a queer sort of adventure."
"Oh, come, be a man. There is nothing to fear."
The priests asked Tamino at that moment why he had come to seek entrance in the temple.
"I came to find Friendship and Love," he replied.
"If you would have that, you must go through every trial; and how about you, Papageno?"
"Well, I do not care as much as I might for wisdom. Give me a nice little wife and a good bird-market, and I shall get on.'"
"But thou canst not have those things, unless thou canst undergo our trials."
"Oh, well, I'll stay and face it out—but I must be certain of a wife at the end of it. Her name must be Papagena—and I'd like to have a look at her before I undertake all this sort of thing," he persisted.
"Oh, that is quite reasonable—but thou must promise not to speak with her."
"And Pamina?" Tamino suggested.
"Certainly—only thou too must not speak." Thus it was agreed, and the priests went out. Instantly the place was in darkness again.
"I should like to know why, the moment those chaps go out, we find ourselves in the dark?" Papageno demanded.
"That is one of our tests; one of our trials," Tamino responded. "Take it in good part." He was interrupted by the appearance of the three ladies of the Queen of the Night's court.
"Why are you in this place?" they demanded seductively. "It will ruin you."
"Do not say so," Tamino returned, stoutly, this being one of the temptations he was to meet: but Papageno was frightened enough. "Stop thy babbling, Papageno," Tamino cautioned. "Or thou wilt lose thy Papagena."
In short, the ladies did all that was possible to dishearten the youth and Papageno; but the Prince Tamino stood firm, and would not be frightened nor driven from his vow to the temple; but Papageno found himself in an awful state of mind, and finally fell down almost in a fit. At once the ladies sank through the temple floor.
Then the priests and a spokesman appeared and praisedTamino, threw another veil over him and led him out; but when a priest inquired of Papageno how it was with him, that fine gentlemen was so addled that he couldn't tell.
"For me—I'm in a trance," he exclaimed.
"Well, come on," they said, and threw a veil over him also.
"This incessant marching takes away all thought of love," he complained.
"No matter, it will return"; and at that the priests marched him out, and the scene changed to a garden where Pamina was sleeping.
Monostatos was watching the beautiful Pamina sleep, and remarking that, if he dared, he certainly should kiss her. In short, he was a person not to be trusted for a moment. He stole toward her, but in the same instant the thunder rolled and the Queen of the Night appeared from the depths of the earth.
"Away," she cried, and Pamina awoke.
"Mother, mother," she screamed with joy, while Monostatos stole away. "Let us fly, dear mother," Pamina urged.
"Alas, with thy father's death, I lost all my magic power, my child. He gave his sevenfold Shield of the Sun to Sarastro, and I have been perfectly helpless since."
"Then I have certainly lost Tamino," Pamina sobbed somewhat illogically.
"No, take this dagger and slay Sarastro, my love, and take the shield. That will straighten matters out."
Then the bloody Queen sang that the fires of hell wereraging in her bosom. Indeed, she declared that if Pamina should not do as she was bidden and slay the priest, she would disown her. Thus Pamina had met with her temptation, and while she was rent between duty and a sense of decency—because she felt it would be very unpleasant to kill Sarastro—Monostatos entered and begged her to confide in him, that he of all people in the world was best able to advise her.
"What shall I do, then?" the trusting creature demanded.
"There is but one way in the world to save thyself and thy mother, and that is immediately to love me," he counselled.
"Good heaven! The remedy is worse than the disease," she cried.
"Decide in a hurry. There is no time to wait. You are all bound for perdition," he assured her, cheerfully.
"Perdition then! I won't do it." Temptation number two, for Pamina.
"Very well, it is your time to die!" Monostatos cried, and proceeded to kill her, but Sarastro entered just in time to encourage her.
"Indeed it is not—your schedule is wrong, Monostatos," Sarastro assured him.
"I must look after the mother, then, since the daughter has escaped me," Monostatos remarked, comforting himself as well as he could.
"Oh don't chastise my mother," Pamina cried.
"A little chastising won't hurt her in the least," Sarastro assured her. "I know all about how she prowls around here, and if only Tamino resists his temptations, you will be united and your mother sent back to her own domain where she belongs. If he survives the ordealswe have set before him, he will deserve to marry an orphan." All this was doubtless true, but it annoyed Pamina exceedingly. As soon as Sarastro had sung of the advantages of living in so delightful a place as the temple, he disappeared, not in the usual way, but by walking off, and the scene changed.
Tamino and the speaker who accompanied the priests and talked for them were in a large hall, and Papageno was there also.
"You are again to be left here alone; and I caution ye to be silent," the speaker advised as he went out.
The second priest said:
"Papageno, whoever breaks the silence here, brings down thunder and lightning upon himself." He, too, went out.
"That's pleasant," Papageno remarked.
"You are only to think it is pleasant—not to mention it," Tamino cautioned. Meantime, Papageno, who couldn't hold his tongue to save his life, grew thirsty. And he no sooner became aware of it, than an old woman entered with a cup of water.
"Is that for me?" he asked.
"Yes, my love," she replied, and Papageno drank it.
"Well, next time when you wish to quench my thirst you must bring something besides water—don't forget. Sit down here, old lady, it is confoundedly dull," the irrepressible Papageno said, and the old lady sat. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Just eighteen years and two minutes," she answered.
"Um—it is the two minutes that does it, I suppose," Papageno reflected, looking at her critically.
"Does anybody love you?" he asked, by way of satisfying his curiosity.
"Certainly—his name is Papageno."
"The deuce you say? Well, well, I never would have thought it of myself. Well, what's your name, mam?" but just as the old lady was about to answer, the thunder boomed and off she rushed.
"Oh, heaven! I'll never speak another word," Papageno cried. He had no sooner taken that excellent resolution than the three Genii entered bearing a table loaded with good things to eat. They also brought the flute and the chime of bells.
"Now, eat, drink, and be merry, and a better time shall follow," they said, and then they disappeared.
"Well, well, this is something like it," Papageno said, beginning at once to obey commands, but Tamino began to play upon the flute.
"All right; all right! You be the orchestra and I'll take care of thetable d'hôte," he said, very well satisfied; but at that instant Pamina appeared.
She no sooner began to talk to Tamino than he motioned her away. He was a youth of unheard-of fortitude.
"This is worse than death," she said. She found herself waved away again. Tamino was thoroughly proof against temptation.
Then Pamina sang for him, and she had a very good voice. Meantime, Papageno was sufficiently occupied to be quiet, but he had to call attention to his virtues. When he asked if he had not been amazingly still, there was a flourish of trumpets. Tamino signed for Papageno to go.
"No, you go first!" Tamino only repeated his gesture.
"Very well, very well, I'll go first—but what's to be done with us now?" Tamino only pointed to heaven, which was very depressing to one of Papageno's temperament.
"You think so!" Papageno asked. "If it is to be anything like that, I think it more likely to be a roasting. No matter!" Nothing mattered any longer to Papageno, and so he went out as Tamino desired, and the scene changed.
Sarastro and his priests were in a vault underneath one of the temples. There they sang of Tamino's wonderful fortitude and then said:
"Let him appear!" And so he did. "Now, Tamino, you have been a brave man till now; but there are two perilous trials awaiting you, and if you go through them well—" They didn't exactly promise that all should be plain sailing after that, but they led the youth to infer as much, which encouraged him. "Lead in Pamina," the order then was given, and she was led in.
"Now, Pamina, this youth is to bid thee a last farewell," Sarastro said.
Pamina was about to throw herself into her lover's arms, but with amazing self-control Tamino told her once more to "Stand back." As that had gone so very well, Sarastro assured them they were to meet again.
"I'll bear whatever the gods put upon me," the patient youth replied.
Then he said farewell and went out, while Papageno (who if he ever did get to Heaven, would surely do so by hanging on to Tamino's immaculate coat-tail) ran afterhim, declaring that he would follow him forever—and not talk. But it thundered again, and Papageno shrunk all up.
Then, while the speaker chided him for not being above his station, Papageno said that the only thing he really wanted in this world or the next was a glass of wine: he thought it would encourage him.
"Oh, well, you can have that," the speaker assured him, and immediately the glass of wine rose through the floor. But he had no sooner drunk that than he cried out that he experienced a most thrilling sensation about his heart. It turned out to be love; just love! So at once, the matter being explained to him, he took his chime of bells, played, and sang of what he felt. The moment he had fully expressed himself, the old water lady came in.
"Here I am, my angel," she said.
"Good! You are much better than nobody," Papageno declared.
"Then swear you'll be forever true," she urged.
"Certainly—since there is no other way out of it." And it was no sooner said than the old lady became a most entrancing young one, about eighteen years old.
"Well, may I never doubt a woman when she tells me her age again!" Papageno muttered, staring at her. As he was about to embrace her, the speaker shouted:
"Away; he isn't worthy of you." This left Papageno in a nice fix, and both he and the girl were led away as the Genii appeared.
The Genii began to sing that Pamina had gone demented, and no wonder. She almost at once proved that this was true, by coming in carrying a dagger; and she made a pass at the whole lot of them. No one could blame her. She thought each of them was Tamino.
"She's had too much trouble," the penetrating Genii declared among themselves. "And now we'll set her right." They were about to do so when she undertook to stab herself, but they interfered and told her she mustn't.
"What if Tamino should hear you! It would make him feel very badly," they remonstrated. At once she became all right again.
"Is he alive? Just let me look at him, and I'll be encouraged to wait awhile." So they took her away to see Tamino.
Then two men dressed in armour came in and said:
which means nothing in particular. Although "assoiling" is an excellent old English word.
Then Tamino and Pamina were heard calling to each other. She entreated him not to fly from her, and he didn't know what he had better do about it, but the matter was arranged by somebody opening some gates and the lovers at once embraced. They were perfectly happy, and there seemed to be a mutual understanding between them that they could wander forth together. They did so, and wandered at once into a mountain of fire, while Tamino played entertainingly upon his flute. Soon they wandered out of the fire, and embraced at leisure. Then they wandered into the water, and Tamino began again to play upon his flute, the water keeping clear of the holes in a wonderful way. After they got out of the woods—the water, rather,—they embraced as usual, and the gates of the temple were thrown open and they saw a sort of Fourth-of-July going on within. Everything wasvery bright and high-coloured. This would seem to indicate that their trials were over and they were to have their reward. Then the scene changed.
Papageno was playing in a garden, all the while calling to his Papagena. He was really mourning for his lost love, and so he took the rope which he used as a girdle and decided to hang himself. Then the Genii, whose business it seemed to be to drive lovers to suicide and then rescue them just before life was extinct, rushed in and told him he need not go to the length—of his rope.
"Just ring your bells," they advised him; and he instantly tried the same old effect. He had no sooner rung for her than she came—the lovely Papagena! They sang a joyous chorus of "pa-pa-pa-pa" for eight pages and then the Queen of the Night and Monostatos, finding that matters were going too well, appeared. They had come to steal the temple.
"If I really get away with that temple, Pamina shall be yours," she promised Monostatos,—which would seem to leave Pamina safe enough, if the circumstances were ordinary. Nevertheless it thundered again. Nobody in the opera could seem to stand that. The Queen had her three ladies with her, but by this time one might almost conclude that they were no ladies at all. The thunder became very bad indeed, and the retinue, Monostatos, and the Queen sank below, and in their stead Sarastro, Pamina, and Tamino appeared with all the priests, and the storm gave way to a fine day.
Immediately after that, nothing at all happened.
SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN was a man of many musical moods and varied performances, yet his surest fame, at present, rests upon his comic operas.
Perhaps this is because he and his workfellow, Gilbert, were pioneers in making a totally new kind of comic opera. "Pinafore" may not be the best of these works, "Mikado" may be better; but "Pinafore" was the first of the satires upon certain institutions, social and political, which delighted the English-speaking world.
Music and words never have seemed better wedded than in the comic operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. The music is always graceful, gracious, piquant, and gaily fascinating. The story has no purpose but that of carrying some satirical idea, and the satire is never bitter, always playful.
Sullivan's versatility was remarkable, his work ranging from "grave to gay, from lively to severe," and his was a genius that developed in his extreme youth. Many anecdotes are told of this brilliant composer, and all of them seem to illustrate a practical and resourceful mind, while they show little of the eccentricity that is supposed to belong to genius. It was Sir Arthur Sullivan who first popularized Schumann in England. Potter, head of the Royal Academy in London in 1861, had known Beethoven well, and had never been converted to a love of music less great than his—nor was his taste very catholic—and he continually regretted Sullivan's championship ofSchumann's music. But one day Sullivan, suspecting the academician didn't know what he was talking about, asked him point-blank if he had ever heard any of the music he so strongly condemned. Potter admitted that he hadn't. Whereupon Sullivan said, "Then play some of Schumann with me, Mr. Potter," and, having done so, Potter "blindly worshipped" Schumann even after.
Frederick Crowest tells this story in his "Musicians' Wit, Humour, and Anecdote":
"The late Sir Arthur Sullivan, in the struggling years of his career, once showed great presence of mind, which saved the entire breakdown of a performance of 'Faust.' In the midst of the church scene, the wire connecting the pedal under Costa's foot with the metronome stick at the organ, broke. Costa was the conductor. In the concerted music this meant disaster, as the organist could hear nothing but his own instrument. Quick as thought, while he was playing the introductory solo, Sullivan called a stage hand. 'Go,' he said, 'and tell Mr. Costa that the wire is broken, and that he is to keep his ears open and follow me.' No sooner had the man flown to deliver his message than the full meaning of the words flashed upon Sullivan. What would Costa, autocratic, severe, and quick to take offence, say to such a message delivered by a stage hand? The scene, however, proceeded successfully, and at the end Sullivan went, nervously enough, to tender his apologies to his chief. Costa, implacable as he was, had a strong sense of justice, and the great conductor never forgot the signal service his young friend had rendered him by preventing a horriblefiasco."
There are numberless stories of his suiting his composition to erratic themes. Beverley had painted borders for a woodland scene. Sullivan liked the work andcomplimented Beverley, who immediately said: "Yes, and if you could compose something to fit it now." Instantly, Sullivan, who was at the organ, composed a score within a few minutes which enraptured the painter and which "fitted" his borders.
Again: A dance was required at a moment's notice for a seconddanseuse, and the stage manager was distracted. "You must make something at once, Sullivan," he said. "But," replied the composer, "I haven't even seen the girl. I don't know her style or what she needs." However, the stage manager sent the dancer to speak with Sullivan, and presently he called out: "I've arranged it all. This is exactly what she wants: Tiddle-iddle-um, tiddle-iddle-um, rum-tirum-tirum—sixteen bars of that; then: rum-tum-rum-tum—heavy you know—" and in ten minutes the dance was made and ready for rehearsal.
First Lord's sisters, his cousins, his aunts, sailors, marines, etc.
The story takes place on the quarterdeck of H.M.S.Pinafore, off Portsmouth.
Composer: Sir Arthur Sullivan. Author: W.S. Gilbert.
On thequarterdeck of the good shipPinafore, along about noon, on a brilliant sunny day, the sailors, in chargeof the Boatswain, are polishing up the brasswork of the ship, splicing rope, and doing general housekeeping, for the excellent reason that the high cockalorum of the navy—the Admiral, Sir Joseph Porter—together with all his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, is expected on board about luncheon time. When an Admiral goes visiting either on land or sea, there are certain to be "doings," and there are going to be mighty big doings on this occasion. If sailors were ever proud of a ship, those of thePinaforeare they. ThePinaforewas, in fact, the dandiest thing afloat. No sailor ever did anything without singing about it, and as they "Heave ho, my hearties"—or whatever it is sailors do—they sing their minds about thePinaforein a way to leave no mistake as to their opinions.
And then, while they are polishing at top speed, on board scrambles Little Buttercup. Naturally, being a bumboat woman, she had her basket on her arm.
"Little Buttercup!" the crew shouts; they know her well on pay-day.
"Yes—here's an end at last of all privation," she assures them, spreading out her wares, and this ridiculous "little" Buttercup sings:
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which would imply that Little Buttercup might supply on demand anything from a wrought-iron gate to a paper of toothpicks.
"Well, Little Buttercup, you're the rosiest and roundest beauty in all the navy, and we're always glad to see you."
"The rosiest and roundest, eh? Did it ever occur to you that beneath my gay exterior a fearful tragedy may be brewing?" she asks in her most mysterious tones.
"We never thought of that," the Boatswain reflects.
"I have thought of it often," a growling voice interrupts, and everybody looks up to see Dick Deadeye. Dick is a darling, if appearances count. He was named Deadeye because hehada dead-eye, and he is about assinister and ominous a creature as ever made a comic opera shiver.
"Youlookas if you had often thought of it," somebody retorts, as all move away from him in a manner which shows Dick to be no favourite.
"You don't care much about me, I should say?" Dick offers, looking about at his mates.
"Well, now, honest, Dick, ye can't just expect to be loved, with such a name as Deadeye."
Little Buttercup, who has been offering her wares to the other sailors, now observes a very good-looking chap coming on deck.
"Who is that youth, whose faltering feet with difficulty bear him on his course?" Buttercup asks—which is quite ridiculous, if you only dissect her language! Those "faltering feet which with difficulty bear him on his course" belong to Ralph Rackstraw, who is about the most dashing sailor in the fleet. The moment Buttercup hears his name, she gasps to music:
"Remorse, remorse," which is very, very funny indeed, since there appears to be nothing at all remarkable or remorseful about Ralph Rackstraw. But Ralph immediately begins to sing about a nightingale and a moon's bright ray and several other things most inappropriate to the occasion, and winds up with "He sang, Ah, well-a-day," in the most pathetic manner. The other sailors repeat after him, "Ah, well-a-day," also in a very pathetic manner, and Ralph thanks them in the politest, most heartbroken manner, by saying:
Which lets the cat out of the bag, at last! "He loves above his station!" Buttercup sighs, and pretty much the entire navy sighs. Those sailors are very sentimental chaps, very!—They are supposed to have a sweetheart in every port, though, to be sure, none of them are likely be above anybody's station. But their sighs are an encouragement to Ralph to tell all about his sweetheart, and he immediately does so. He sings rapturously of her appearance and of how unworthy he is. The crew nearly melts to tears during the recital. Just as Ralph has revealed that his love is Josephine, the Captain's daughter, and all the crew but Dick Deadeye are about to burst out weeping, the Captain puts in an appearance.
"My gallant crew,—good morning!" he says amiably, in that condescending manner quite to be expected of a Captain. He inquires nicely about the general health of the crew, and announces that he is in reasonable health himself. Then with the best intentions in the world, he begins to throw bouquets at himself:
I am the Captain of thePinafore,
he announces, and the crew returns:
he assures them.
But this is altogether too much. The crew haven't summered and wintered with this gallant Captain for nothing.
"What, never?" they admonish him.
"No,—never."
"What!—NEVER?" and there is no mistaking their emphasis.
"Oh, well—hardly ever!" he admits, trimming his statement a little: and thus harmony is restored. Now when he has thus agreeably said good morning to his crew, they leave him to meditate alone, and no one but Little Buttercup remains. For some reason she perceives that the Captain is sad. He doesn't look it, but the most comic moments in comic opera are likely enough to be the saddest. Hence Little Buttercup reminds him that she is a mother (she doesn't look it) and therefore to be confided in.
"If you must know, Little Buttercup, my daughter Josephine! the fairest flower that ever blossomed on ancestral timber"—which is very neat indeed—"has received an offer of marriage from Sir Joseph Porter. It is a great honour, Little Buttercup, but I am sorry to say my daughter doesn't seem to take kindly to it."
"Ah, poor Sir Joseph, I know perfectly what it means to love not wisely but too well," she remarks, sighing tenderly and looking most sentimentally at the Captain. She does this so capably that as she goes off the deck the Captain looks after her and remarks abstractedly:
"A plump and pleasing person!" At this blessed minute the daughter Josephine, who does not love in the right place, and who is beloved from all quarters at once, wanders upon the deck with a basket of flowers in her hand. Then she begins to sing very distractedly about loving the wrong man, and that "hope is dead," and several other pitiable things, which are very funny. The Captain, her father, is watching her, and presentlyhe admonishes her to look her best, and to stop sighing all over the ship—at least till her high-born suitor, Sir Joseph Porter, shall have made his expected visit.
"You must look your best to-day, Josephine, because the Admiral is coming on board to ask your hand in marriage." At this Josephine nearly drops into the sea.
"Father, I esteem, I reverence Sir Joseph but alas I do not love him. I have the bad taste instead to love a lowly sailor on board your own ship. But I shall stifle my love. He shall never know it though I carry it to the tomb."
"That is precisely the spirit I should expect to behold in my daughter, my dear, and now take Sir Joseph's picture and study it well. I see his barge approaching. If you gaze upon the pictured noble brow of the Admiral, I think it quite likely that you will have time to fall madly in love with him before he can throw a leg over the rail, my darling. Anyway, do your best at it."
"My own, thoughtful father," Josephine murmurs while a song of Sir Joseph's sailors is heard approaching nearer and nearer. Then the crew of H.M.S.Pinaforetake up the shout, and sing a rousing welcome to Sir Joseph and all his party. Almost immediately Sir Joseph and his numerous company of sisters and cousins and aunts prance upon the shining deck. They have a gorgeous time of it.
"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" the Captain and his crew cry, and then Sir Joseph informs everybody of his greatness in this song:
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The chorus assures everybody that
So do his sisters and his cousins and his aunts.
In short, while we learn from Sir Joseph that he is a tremendous fellow, we also learn, from his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, that they are whatever he is. Among other things he tells precisely how he came to be so great, and gives what is presumably a recipe for similar greatness:
This was only a part of the recipe, but the rest of it was just as profound. After he is through exploiting himself, he bullies the Captain a little, and then his eye alights on Ralph Rackstraw.
"You are a remarkably fine fellow, my lad," he says to Ralph quite patronizingly.
"I am the very finest fellow in the navy," Ralph returns, honouring the spirit of the day by showing how entirely satisfied with himself he is.
"How does your Captain behave himself?" Sir Joseph asks.
"Very well, indeed, thank you. I am willing to commend him," Ralph returns.
"Ah—that is delightful—and so, with your permission, Captain, I will have a word with you in private on a very sentimental subject—in short, upon an affair of the heart."
"With joy, Sir Joseph—and, Boatswain, in honour of this occasion, see that extra grog is served to the crew at seven bells."
"I will condescend to do so," the Boatswain assures the Captain, whereupon the Captain, Sir Joseph, and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts leave the deck.
"You all seem to think a deal on yourselves," Dick Deadeye growls, as he watches these performances.
"We do, we do—aren't we British sailors? Doesn't the entire universe depend on us for its existence? We are fine fellows—Sir Joseph has just told us so."
"Yes—we may aspire to anything—" Ralph interpolates excitedly. He had begun to think that Josephine may not be so unattainable after all.
"The devil you can," responds Dick. "Only I wouldn't let myself get a-going if I were you. What if ye got going and couldn't stop?" the one-eyed gentleman inquires solicitously.
"Oh, stow it!" the crew shouts. "If we hadn't more self-respect 'n you've got, we'd put out both our eyes," the estimable crew declares, and then retires to compliment itself,—that is, all but Ralph. He leans upon the bulwark and looks pensive; and at intervals he sighs. While he is sighing his very loudest, Josephine enters. Sir Joseph has been making love to her, and she is telling herself and everybody who happens to be leaning against the bulwark sighing pensively, that the Admiral's attentions oppress her. This is Ralph's opportunity. He immediately tells her that he loves her, and she tells him to "refrain, audacious tar," but he does not refrain in the least. In short he decides upon the spot to blow out his brains. He pipes all hands on deck to see him do it, and they come gladly.
Now Ralph gets out his pistol, he sings a beautiful farewell, the Chorus turns away weeping—the sailors have just cleaned up and they cannot bear the sight of the deck all spoiled with a British sailor's brains so soon after scrubbing! Ralph lifts the pistol, takes aim—and Josephine rushes on.
"Oh, stay your hand—I love you," she cries, and in less than a minute everybody is dancing a hornpipe, except Deadeye. Deadeye is no socialist. He really thinks this equality business which makes it possible for a common sailor to marry the Captain's daughter is most reprehensible. But nobody notices Dick. Everybody is quite happy and satisfied now, and they plan for the wedding. Dick plans for revenge.
He goes apart to think matters over. The situation quite shocks his sense of propriety.
Meantime the crew and Ralph and Josephine decide that:
Thus the matter is disposed of.
It isabout half-past ten, and everything ready for the elopement. The Captain is on deck playing a mandolin while holding a most beautiful pose (because Little Buttercup is also "on deck," and looking sentimentally at him). The Captain sings to the moon, quite as if there were no one there to admire him; because while this "levelling" business is going on in the Navy there seems no good reason why Buttercup or any other thriftybumboat lady shouldn't do a little levelling herself. Now to marry the Captain—but just now, even though it is moonlight and a very propitious moment, there is other work on hand than marrying the Captain. She can do that almost any time! But at this moment she has some very mysterious and profound things to say to him. She tells him that:
And the Captain acquiesces.
And again the Captain wisely acquiesces.
And again the Captain admits that this may be true. It is quite, quite painful if it is. On the whole, the Captain fears she has got rather the best of him, so he determines to rally; he philosophises a little himself, when he has time. He has time now:
Tho' I'm anything but clever,
he declares rhythmically, even truthfully;
He has her there, beyond doubt, because all she can say is "how true."
Thus encouraged he continues:
Buttercup agrees;—she can't help it.
And Little Buttercup assents that this certainly is true. And then, just as she has worked the Captain up into a pink fit of apprehension she leaves him. While he stands looking after her and feeling unusually left alone, Sir Joseph enters and declares himself very much disappointed with Josephine.
"What, won't she do, Sir Joseph?" the Captain asks disappointedly.
"No, no. I don't think she will. I have stooped as much as an Admiral ought to, by presenting my sentiments almost—er—you might say emotionally, but without success; and now really I——"
"Well, it must be your rank which dazzles her," the Captain suggests, and thinks how he would like to take a cat-o'-nine-tails to her.
"She is coming on deck," Sir Joseph says, softly, "and we might watch her unobserved a moment. Her actions while she thinks herself alone, may reveal something to us that we should like to know"; and Sir Joseph and the Captain step behind a convenient coil of rope while Josephine walks about in agitation and sings to herself how reckless she is to leave her luxurious home with herfather, for an attic that, likely as not, will not even be "finished off."
Of course Sir Joseph and her father do not understand a word of this, but they understand that she is disturbed, and Sir Joseph steps up and asks her outright, if his rank overwhelms her. He assures her that it need not, because there is no difference of rank to be observed among those of her Majesty's Navy—which he doesn't mean at all except for one occasion only, of course. At the same time, it is an admirable plea for his rival Ralph.
Now it is rapidly becoming time for the elopement, and Josephine pretends to accept Sir Joseph's suit at last, in order to get rid of him at half-past ten. He and Josephine go below while Dick Deadeye intimates to the Captain that he wants a word with him aside.
Then Dick Deadeye gives the Captain his information, thus:
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This information certainly comes in the nick of time, so the Captain hastily throws an old cloak over him and squats down behind the deck furniture to await the coming of the elopers.
Presently they come up, Josephine, followed by Little Buttercup, and all the crew on "tip-toe stealing." Suddenly amid the silence, the Captain stamps.
"Goodness me!" all cry. "What was that?"
"Silent be," says Dick. "It was the cat," and thus reassured they start for the boat which is to take the lovers ashore. At this crisis the Captain throws off the cloak and creates a sensation. He is so mad he swears just as Sir Joseph puts in an appearance.
"Damme!" cries the Captain.
"What was that dreadful language I heard you use?" Sir Joseph demands, highly scandalized.
"He said 'damme,'" the crew assure him. Sir Joseph is completely overcome. To excuse himself the Captain is obliged to reveal the cause of his anger.
"My daughter was about to elope with a common sailor, your Greatness," he says, and at this moment Josephine rushes into the arms of Ralph. The Admiral is again overcome with the impropriety of the situation.
"My amazement and my surprise, you may learn from the expression of my eyes," the Admiral says. "Has this sailor dared to lift his eyes to the Captain's daughter? Incredible. Put him in chains, my boys," he says to the rest of the crew, "and Captain—have you such a thing as a dungeon on board?"
"Certainly," the Captain says. "Hanging on the nail to the right of the mess-room door—just as you go in."
"Good! put him in the ship's dungeon at once—justas you go in—and see that no telephone communicates with his cell," whereupon Ralph is lugged off.
"When the secret I have to tell is known," says Little Buttercup, "his dungeon cell will be thrown wide."
"Then speak, in Heaven's name; or I certainly shall throw myself into the bilge water," Josephine says desperately.
"Don't do that: it smells so dreadfully," Buttercup entreats; "and to prevent accidents I will tell what I know:"
So, the murder is out! Nobody outside of comic opera can quite see how this fact changes the status of the Captain and Ralph (the Captain not having been a captain when in the cradle) but it is quite enough to set everybody by the ears. Josephine screams:
"Oh, bliss, oh, rapture!" And the Admiral promptly says:
"Take her, sir, and mind you treat her kindly," and immediately, having fixed the ship's affairs so creditably, falls to bemoaning his sad and lonesome lot.
He declares that he "cannot live alone," and his cousin Hebe assures him she will never give up the ship; or rather that she never will desert him, unless of course she should discover that he, too, was changed in the cradle. This comforts everybody but the changed Captain. Ralph has, in the twinkling of an eye, become the Captain of the good shipPinafore, while the Captain has become Ralph, and Ralph has taken the Captain's daughter. But while he is looking very downcast, Buttercup reminds him that she is there, and after regarding her tenderly for a moment, he decides that he has always loved his foster mother like a wife, and he says so:
The crew is delighted. Everybody is happy. But the Captain adds, rashly:
Whereupon the crew, which is very punctilious where the truth is concerned, cries:
"What, never?"
"No, never!" the Captain declares.
"What—never?" they persist.
"Well, hardly ever," the Captain says, qualifying the statement satisfactorily to his former crew. And now that all the facts and amenities of life have been duly recognized, the crew and Sir Joseph, Ralph and the former Captain, Josephine and Buttercup, all unite in singing frantically that they are an Englishman, for they themselves have said it, and it's greatly to their credit; and while you are laughing yourself to death at a great many ridiculous things which have taken place, the curtain comes down with a rush, and you wish they would do it again.
GIUSEPPE VERDI, born October 9, 1813, was the composer of twenty-six operas. His musical history may be divided into three periods, and in the last he approached Wagner in greatness, and frequently surpassed him in beauty of idea.
Wagner made both the libretti and the music of his operas, while Verdi took his opera stories from other authors. Both of these great men were born in the same year.
Of Verdi's early operas, "Ernani" was probably the best; then he entered upon the second period of his achievement as a composer, and the first work that marked the transition was "Rigoletto." The story was adapted from a drama of Hugo's, "Le Roi S'Amuse," and as the profligate character of its principal seemed too baldly to exploit the behaviour of Francis I, its production was suppressed. Then Verdi adjusted the matter by turning the character into the Duke of Mantua, and everybody was happy.
The story of the famous song "La Donna è Mobile," is as picturesque as Verdi himself. While the rehearsals of the opera were going on, Mirate, who sang the Duke, continued to complain that he hadn't the MS. of one of his songs. Verdi kept putting him off, till the evening before the orchestral rehearsal, when he brought forth the lines; but at the same time he demanded a promise that Mirate—nor indeed any of the singers—should not hum or whistle the air till it should be heard at thefirst performance. This signified Verdi's belief that the song would instantly become a universal favourite. The faith was justified. The whole country went "La Donna" mad.
"Il Trovatore" came next in this second period of the great composer's fame, and we read that "Nearly half a century has sped since Verdi's twelfth opera was first sung of a certain winter evening in Rome." Out of the chaff of Italian opera comes this wheat, satisfying to the generation of to-day, as it was to that first audience in Rome. We do not even know any longer why we love it, because in most ways it violates new and better rules of musical art, but we love it. Helen Keyes has written that "the libretto of 'Il Trovatore' is based on a Spanish drama written in superb verse by a contemporary of Verdi's, Antonio Garcia Gutierrez," and she relates a romantic story in connection with the Spanish play; the author was but seventeen years old when he wrote it and had been called to military duty, which was dreaded by one of his temperament. But his drama being staged at that moment, the authorities permitted him to furnish a substitute on the ground that such genius could best serve its country by remaining at home to contribute to its country's art.
At the time the opera was produced in Rome, the Tiber had overflowed its banks and had flooded all the streets near the theatre; nevertheless people were content to stand knee-deep in water at the box office, waiting their turn for tickets.
So great had Verdi become in a night, by this presentation, that his rivals formed a cabal which prevented the production of "Il Trovatore" in Naples for a time, but in the end the opera and Verdi prevailed.
Now came "Traviata,"—third in that time of change in a great master's art, and this marked the limits of the second period. "Aïda" followed. It is well said that "the importance of Verdi's 'Aïda' as a work of musical art can hardly be overestimated!" This opera was written at the entreaty of the Khedive Ismail Pacha. He wished to open the opera house at Cairo with a great opera that had Egypt for its dramatic theme. Upon the Khedive's application Verdi named a price which he believed would not be accepted, as he felt no enthusiasm about the work. But his terms were promptly approved and Mariette Bey, a great Egyptologist, was commissioned to find the materials for a proper story. Verdi, in the meantime,didbecome enthusiastic over the project and went to work. Egyptian history held some incident upon which the story of "Aïda" was finally built. First, it was given to Camille du Locle, who put the story into French prose, and in this he was constantly advised by Verdi, at whose home the work was done. After that, the French prose was translated into Italian verse by Ghislanzoni, and when all was completed, the Italian verse was once more translated back into French for the French stage.
Then the Khedive decided he would like Verdi to conduct the first performance, and he began to negotiate for that. Verdi asked twenty thousand dollars for writing the opera, and thirty thousand in case he went to Egypt. This was agreed, but when the time came to go, Verdi backed out; he was overcome with fear of seasickness and wouldn't go at any price. Then the scenery was painted in Paris, and when all was ready—lo! the scenery was a prisoner because the war had broken out in France! Everything had to wait a year, and during that time Verdiwrote and rewrote, making his opera one of the most beautiful in the world. Finally "Aïda" was produced, and the story of that night as told by the Italian critic Filippi is not out of place here, since the night is historic in opera "first nights:"
"The Arabians, even the rich, do not love our shows; they prefer the mewings of their tunes, the monotonous beatings of their drums, to all the melodies of the past, present, and future. It is a true miracle to see a turban in a theatre of Cairo. Sunday evening the opera house was crowded before the curtain rose. Many of the boxes were filled with women, who neither chatted nor rustled their robes. There was beauty and there was intelligence especially among the Greeks and the strangers of rank who abound in Cairo. For truth's sake I must add that, by the side of the most beautiful and richly dressed, were Coptic and Jewish faces, with strange head-dresses, impossible costumes, a howling of colours,—no one could deliberately have invented worse. The women of the harem could not be seen. They were in the first three boxes on the right, in the second gallery. Thick white muslin hid their faces from prying glances."
This gives a striking picture of that extraordinary "first night."
Verdi was born at a time of turmoil and political troubles, and his mother was one of the many women of the inhabitants of Roncole (where he was born) who took refuge in the church when soldiery invaded the village. There, near the Virgin, many of the women had thought themselves safe, but the men burst in, and a general massacre took place. Verdi's mother fled with her little son to the belfry and this alone saved to the world a wonderful genius.
When Verdi was ten years old he was apprenticed to a grocer in Busseto, but he was a musical grocer, and the musical atmosphere, which was life to Verdi, surrounded him. He had a passion for leaving in the midst of his grocery business to sit at the spinet and hunt out new harmonious combinations: and when one of his new-made chords was lost he would fly into a terrible rage, although as a general rule he was a peaceable and kindly little chap. On one such occasion he became so enraged that he took a hammer to the instrument—an event coincident with a thrashing his father gave him.
There is no end of incident connected with this gentle and kindly soul, who, unlike so many of his fellow geniuses, reflected in his life the beauty of his art.