THE most complete, at the same time picturesque, story of Beethoven and his "Fidelio" is told in "Musical Sketches," by Elise Polko, with all the sentimentality that a German writer can command. Whole paragraphs might be lifted from that book and included in this sketch, but the substance of the story shall be told in a somewhat inferior way.
"Leonora" (Fidelio) was composed some time before it was produced. Ludwig van Beethoven had been urged again and again by his friends to put the opera before the public, but he always refused.
"It shall never be produced till I find the woman in whose powers I have absolute confidence to sing 'Leonora.' She need not be beautiful, change her costume ten times, nor break her throat with roulades: but she must haveonething besides her voice." He would not disclose what special quality he demanded; and when his friends persisted in urging the production of his first, last, and only opera, Beethoven went into a great rage and declared if the subject were ever mentioned again, he would burn the manuscript. At one time friends begged him to hear a new prima donna, Wilhelmina Schröder, the daughter of a great actress, believing that in her he would find his "Leonora."
This enraged him still more. The idea of entrusting his beloved composition to a girl no more than sixteen years old!
His appearance at that time is thus described:
"At the same hour every afternoon a tall man walked alone on the so-called Wasserglacis (Vienna). Every one reverentially avoided him. Neither heat nor cold made him hasten his steps; no passer-by arrested his eye; he strode slowly, firmly and proudly along, with glance bent downward, and with hands clasped behind his back. You felt that he was some extraordinary being, and that the might of genius encircled this majestic head with its glory. Gray hair grew thickly around his magnificent brow, but he noticed not the spring breeze that played sportively among it and pushed it in his eyes. Every child knew: 'that is Ludwig van Beethoven, who has composed such wondrously beautiful music.'"
One day, during one of these outings a fearful storm arose, and he noticed a beautiful young woman, whom he had frequently seen in his walks, frightened but standing still without protection from the weather. She stared at him with such peculiar devotion and entreaty that he stopped and asked her what she did there in the storm.
She had the appearance of a child, and great simplicity of manner. She told him she waited to see him. He, being surprised at this, questioned her, and she declared she was Wilhelmina Schröder, who longed for nothing but to sing his Leonora, of which all Vienna had heard. He took her to his home, she sang the part for him, and at once he accepted her.
It was she who first sang "Fidelio," and she who had the "quality" that Beethoven demanded: the quality of kindness. It is said that her face was instinct with gentleness and her voice exquisitely beautiful. It was almost the last thing that Beethoven heard. His deafness was already upon him, but he heard her voice; heard his beloved opera sung, and was so much overcome by the beauty of the young girl's art that during the performance he fainted.
Of all temperamental men, Beethoven was doubtless the most so, and the anecdotes written of him are many. He was especially irascible. His domestic annoyances are revealed freely in his diary: "Nancy is too uneducated for a housekeeper—indeed, quite a beast." "My precious servants were occupied from seven o'clock till ten, trying to light a fire." "The cook's off again—I shied half a dozen books at her head." "No soup to-day, no beef, no eggs. Got something from the inn at last." These situations are amusing to read about, decades later, but doubtless tragic enough at the time to the great composer!
That in financial matters Beethoven was quite practical was illustrated by his answer to the Prussian Ambassador at Vienna, who offered to the musician the choice of the glory of having some order bestowed upon him or fifty ducats. Beethoven took the ducats.
Beautiful as the production of "Fidelio" was, it did not escape criticism from an eminent source. Cherubini was present at the first performance at the Karnthnerthor Theatre in Vienna, and when asked how he liked the overture (Leonora in C) he replied:
"To be honest, I must confess that I could not tell what key it was in from beginning to end."
Marcelline (jailer's daughter).Leonora (under name of Fidelio).Florestan (her husband and a state prisoner).Jaquino (porter of the prison).Pizarro (governor of the prison).Hernando (the minister).Rocco (the jailer).Chorus of soldiers, prisoners and people.
Scene is laid in Spain.
Composer: Beethoven.
Marcelline, the jailer's daughter, had been tormented to death for months by the love-making of her father's porter, Jaquino. In short, he had stopped her on her way to church, to work, to rest, at all times, and every time, to make love to her, and finally she was on the point of consenting to marry him, if only to get rid of him.
"Marcelline, only name the day, and I vow I'll never make love to you again," said the soft Jaquino. This was so funny that Marcelline thought he was worth marrying for his drollery; but just as she was about to make him a happy man by saying "yes," some one knocked upon the door, and with a laugh she drew away from him:
Quite disheartened, Jaquino went to open the door.
There had been a time—before a certain stranger named Fidelio had come to the prison—when Jaquino's absurd love-making pleased Marcelline, but since the coming of that fine youth Fidelio, she had thought of little but him. Now, while Jaquino was opening the door, and she watched his figure (which was not at all fascinating), she murmured to herself:
"After all, how perfectly absurd to think of it! Ishall never marry anybody but Fidelio. He is quite the most enchanting fellow I know." At that moment Jaquino returned.
"What, not a word for me?" he asked, noting her change of mood.
"Well, yes, and that word is no, no, no! So go away and let me alone," she answered petulantly.
Now Fidelio was certainly a most beautiful youth, but quite different from any Marcelline had ever seen. Fidelio observed, with a good deal of anxiety, that the jailer's daughter was much in love with him, and there were reasons why that should be inconvenient.
Fidelio, instead of being a fine youth, was a most adoring wife, and her husband, Florestan, was shut up in that prison for an offence against its wicked governor, Pizarro. He had been placed there to starve; and indeed his wife Leonora (Fidelio) had been told that he was already dead. She had applied, as a youth, for work in the prison, in order to spy out the truth; to learn if her dear husband were dead or alive.
There was both good and bad luck in the devotion of the jailer's daughter. The favourable part of the affair was that Leonora was able, because of her favouritism, to find out much about the prisoners; but on the other hand, she was in danger of discovery. Although the situation was tragic, there was considerable of a joke in Marcelline's devotion to the youth Fidelio, and in the consequent jealousy of Jaquino.
Love of money was Rocco's (the jailer) besetting sin. He sang of his love with great feeling:
Rocco was also a man of heart; and since hiring Fidelio (Leonora) he had really become very fond of the young man. When he observed the attachment between Fidelio and Marcelline, he was inclined to favour it.
Don Pizarro had long been the bitterest enemy of Don Florestan, Leonora's husband, because that noble had learned of his atrocities and had determined to depose him as governor of the fortress prison.
Hence, when Pizarro got Florestan in his clutches, he treated him with unimaginable cruelties, and falsely reported that he was dead.
Now in the prison there had lately been much hope and rejoicing because it was rumoured that Fernando, the great Minister of State, was about to pay a visit of investigation. This promised a change for the better in the condition of the prisoners. But no one knew better than Don Pizarro that it would mean ruin to himself if Fernando found Don Florestan in a dungeon. The two men were dear friends, and so cruelly treated had Florestan been that Pizarro could never hope for clemency. Hence, he called Rocco, and told him that Florestan must be killed at once, before the arrival of Fernando.
Rocco refused point blank to do the horrid deed; but as a dependent he could not control matters, and hence he had to consent to dig the grave, with the understanding that Pizarro, himself, should do the killing.
Thus far, Fidelio had been able to find out nothing about her beloved husband, but she had become more and more of a favourite with the unfortunate old jailer, andwas permitted to go about with a certain amount of freedom.
Upon the day when Pizarro had directed Rocco to kill a prisoner in a certain dungeon, she overheard a good deal of the plot, and she began to fear it might be her husband.
She went at once to Rocco:
"Rocco, I have seen very little of the prison. May I not go into the dungeon and look about?"
"Oh, it would never be allowed," Rocco declared. "Pizarro is a stern and cruel governor, and if I should do the least thing he did not command, it would go hard with me. I should not dare let you do that," he said, much troubled with the deed that was in hand.
"But wilt thou not ask him, Rocco?" Fidelio entreated so determinedly that Rocco half promised.
"Fidelio, I will tell thee. I have a bad job to do. It is to dig a grave in one of the dungeons." Fidelio could hardly conceal her horror and despair. Her suspicions were confirmed. "There is an old well, covered by a stone, down there, far underground, and if I lift the stone that covers it, that will do for the grave. I will ask Pizarro if I may have thee to help me. If he consents, it will be thy chance to see the dungeons, but if not, I shall have done all I can about it." So he went away to discuss the matter with Pizarro, while Fidelio waited between hope and despair.
Meantime, Pizarro was gloating over his triumph. Soon his revenge would be complete, and he sang of the matter in a most savage fashion:
The words mean little, but Beethoven's music to them means much:
The guards told one another that they had better be about their business, as some great affair seemed afoot.
Rocco entered again.
"I do not see the need for this killing," he urged. "The man is nearly dead as it is. He cannot last long; but at least, if I must dig the grave, I shall need help. I have a youth in my service who is to marry my daughter—thus I can count upon his faithfulness; and I had better be permitted to take him into the dungeon with me, if I am to do the work. I am an old man, and not so strong as I used to be."
"Very well, very well," Pizarro replied. "But see to the business. There is no time to lose." And going back to Fidelio, Rocco told her the good news: that Pizarro had consented. Then she sang joyfully of it:
music
music
[Listen]
"But, Rocco, instead of digging a grave for the poor man, to whom we go, couldst thou not set him free?" she begged.
"Not I, my boy. It would be as much as my life was worth. I have not been permitted even to give him food. He is nearly dead from starvation already. Try to think as little as you can of the horrors of this place. It is a welcome release for the poor fellow."
"But to have a father-in-law who has committed a murder," Fidelio shuddered, trying to prevail upon Rocco by this appeal. But he sang:
music
[Listen]
"Nay, do not worry—you'll have no murderer for a father-in-law. Our only business is to dig the man's grave."
In spite of herself Leonora wept.
"Come, come. This is too hard for thee, gentle boy. I'll manage the business alone."
"Oh, no! No! I must go. Indeed I am not afraid. I must go with thee," she cried. While she was thus distracted, in rushed Marcelline and Jaquino.
"Oh, father! Don Pizarro is frantic with rage. You have given the prisoners a little light and air, and he is raging about the prison because of this. What shall we do?" Rocco thought a moment.
"Do nothing! He is a hard man, I—" At that moment Pizarro came in.
"What do you mean by this? Am I governing this prison or are you?"
"Don Pizarro," Rocco spoke calmly. "It is the King's birthday, and I thought it might be politic for you to give the prisoners a little liberty, especially as the Minister was coming. It will look well to him." At that Pizarro was somewhat appeased, but nevertheless he ordered the men back to their cells. It was a mournful procession, back to dungeon darkness. As they went they sang:
music
[Listen]
While they were singing, Rocco once more tried to soften Pizarro's heart.
"Wilt thou not let the condemned prisoner live another day, your highness?" The request enraged Pizarro still more.
"Enough! Now have done with your whimpering. Take that youth of thine who is to help, and be about the job. Go! and let me hear no more." With that awful voice of revenge and cruelty in her ears, the unhappyLeonora followed Rocco to the dungeons, to dig her husband's grave.
Downin the very bowels of the earth, as it seemed to Leonora, was Florestan's dungeon. There he sat, manacled, despairing, with no ray of light to cheer him, and his thoughts occupied only with his visions of the beautiful home he had known, and of his wife, Leonora. When Leonora and Rocco entered the dungeon, Florestan had fallen, half sleeping, half dreaming upon the floor of his cell, and Leonora groped her way fearfully toward him, believing him to be dead.
"Oh, the awful chill of this vault," she sobbed. "Look! Is the man dead, already, Rocco?" Rocco went to look at the prisoner.
"No, he only sleeps. Come, that sunken well is near, and we have only to uncover it to have the job done. It is a hard thing for a youth like thee. Let us hurry." Rocco began searching for the disused well, into which he meant the body of Florestan to be dumped after the governor had killed him.
"Reach me that pickaxe," he directed Fidelio. "Are you afraid?"
"No, no, I feel chilled only."
"Well, make haste with the work, my boy, and it will warm you," Rocco urged. Then while he worked and urged Fidelio to do the same, she furtively watched the prisoner whose features she could not see in the gloom of the cell.
"If we do not hurry, the governor will be here. Haste, haste!" Rocco cried.
"Yes, yes," she answered, nearly fainting with grief and horror.
"Come, come, my boy. Help me lift this great stone which closes the mouth of the well." The despairing Fidelio lifted with all her poor strength.
"I'm lifting, I'm lifting," she sobbed, and she tugged and tugged, because she dared not shirk the work. Then the stone slowly rolled away. She was still uncertain as to the identity of the poor wretch who was so soon to be put out of existence. She peered at him continually.
"Oh, whoever thou art, I will save thee. I will save thee," she thought. "I cannot have so great a horror take place. I must save him." Still she peered through the darkness at the hopeless prisoner. At the same time her grief overwhelmed her, and she began to weep. The prisoner was roused, and plaintively thanked the strange youth for his kindly tears.
"Oh, whoever this poor man may be, let me give him this piece of bread," Fidelio begged, turning to Rocco. (She had put bread into her doublet, thinking to succour some half-starved wretch.)
"It is my business, my boy, to be severe," he said, frowning. He was sorely tried, for his heart was kind and yet he dared not show pity. But she pleaded and pleaded, and finally Rocco nervously agreed.
"Well, well, give it, boy. Give it. He will never taste food again," and again the prisoner thanked Fidelio through the darkness of his cell. When he spoke she felt a strange presentiment. Suppose this should be the beloved husband whom she sought!
"Oh, gentle youth! That I might repay this humane deed!" the prisoner murmured, too weak to speak loudly.
"That voice—it is strange to me, yet—it is likesome remembered voice," Fidelio said to herself, and she clasped her hands upon her heart, because it seemed to beat so loudly that Rocco might hear it. While she wavered between hope and fear, Don Pizarro entered the dungeon. He had come at last for his revenge.
"Now, thou dog," he said to the prisoner, "prepare to die. But before you die, you are to know to whom you owe the deed." At that he threw off his cloak and showed himself to be Pizarro.
"It is Pizarro whom thou hast insulted. It is he who shall kill thee."
"Do not think I fear a murderer," Florestan replied, with what heroism his weakness would permit. At that Pizarro made a lunge at him with the knife, but Fidelio threw herself in front of him, suddenly recognizing him as he spoke to Pizarro.
"Thou shalt not kill him, unless thou kill his wife as well," she screamed. Rocco, Florestan and Pizarro all cried out in amazement.
"Wife!" Florestan clasped her weakly to his heart. Pizarro rushed at Fidelio, becoming frantic with rage. He hurled her away and shouted:
"No woman shall frighten me! Away with ye! The man shall die." Instantly, Fidelio drew a pistol and pointed it at the murderer.
"If he is to die, you shall die also," she cried, whereupon Rocco shouted in fright, since it was a dreadful thing to try conclusions with the governor of the prison. Pizarro himself drew back with fear.
Then a fanfare of trumpets was heard, announcing the arrival of Fernando, the Minister.
"Hark!" Pizarro cried. "I am undone! It is Fernando!" The assassin began to tremble. But Florestanand Fidelio knew that liberty was near. One word of the truth to the Minister, one word that should tell him of the governor's awful cruelty for a personal revenge, would set Florestan free and bring punishment to Pizarro. Then Jaquino hurried in:
"Come, come, quick! The Minister and his suite are at the gates."
"Thank God," said the kind-hearted jailer, under his breath. "The man is surely saved now. We're coming, my lad, we're coming," he answered. "Let the men come down and bear torches before Don Pizarro. He cannot find his way out." Rocco's voice was trembling with gladness, Florestan was almost fainting with weakness because of the sudden joy that had come to him. Fidelio was praying to heaven in gratitude, while Don Pizarro was horrified at the thought of what his punishment would be.
The jailer and Don Pizarro ascended, and soon Fernando ordered all the prisoners of the fortress brought before him. He had come to investigate the doings of the governor who had long been known as a great tyrant. When the unhappy men, who had been abused by starving and confinement in underground cells, stood before him, the Minister's heart was sorely touched, and Don Pizarro was more and more afraid. Presently, Rocco fearlessly brought Fidelio and Don Florestan in front of Fernando.
"Oh, great Minister, I beg you to give ear to the wrongs of this sad pair," he cried, and as Fernando looked at Florestan his eyes filled with tears.
"What, you? Florestan? My friend, whom I have so long believed was dead? Thou who wert the friend of the oppressed, who tried to bring to punishment thisvery wretch?" he said, looking at Pizarro; and his speech revealed why Pizarro had wanted to revenge himself upon the unhappy noble.
"Yes, yes, it is Don Florestan, my beloved husband," Fidelio answered, while the good Rocco pushed her ahead of him, closer to Fernando's side.
"She is no youth, but the noblest woman in the world, Don Fernando," Rocco cried, almost weeping in his agitation and relief at the turn things were taking for those with whom he sympathized.
"Just let me be heard," Pizarro called, becoming more and more frightened each moment.
"Enough of thee," Fernando answered, bitterly, in a tone that boded no good to the wretch. Then Rocco told the whole truth about the governor: how he, himself, had had to lend a hand to his wicked schemes, because as a dependent he could not control matters; and then all the prisoners cried out for Pizarro's punishment.
Fernando commanded Pizarro to give Fidelio the key of the prison, that she, the faithful wife, should have the joy of unlocking the doors and giving her husband his freedom. All the other prisoners and Fernando's suite, the jailer, his daughter, Marcelline, and Jaquino rejoiced and sang rapturously of Fernando's goodness. Pizarro was left, still uncertain of his punishment, but all hoped that he would be made to take Florestan's place in the dungeon and meet the fate he had prepared for the much abused noble.
“THE Damnation of Faust†was first produced as an opera, by Raoul Gunsburg, in Monte Carlo, about 1903. Before that time it had been conducted only as a concerted piece. Later it was produced in Paris, Calvé and Alvarez singing the great rôles. That was in the late spring of 1903.
In Europe the opera was produced with the dream scene (the dream-Marguerite) as in the original plan of Berlioz, but in this country this dream-Marguerite was omitted, also the rain in the ride to Hell; otherwise the European and the New York production were much the same. At the Metropolitan Opera House, in New York, there were three hundred people upon the stage in the first act, and every attention was given to scenic detail. This piece is meant for the concert room, and in no sense for the operatic stage, but great care and much money have been spent in trying to realize its scenic demands. As a dramatic production, it cannot compare with the "Faust" of Gounod, but it has certain qualities of a greater sort, which have made impresarios desire to shape it for the stage.
Berlioz was probably one of the least attractive of musicians. As a man, he was entirely detestable. He despised (from jealous rather than critical motives) all music that was not his own; or if he chose to applaud, his applause was certain to be for some obscure person without ability, in order that there might be no unfavourable comparisons drawn between his own work and that which he was praising. Beyond doubt he was the greatest instrumentalist of Europe, but he wasbizarre, and none too lucid.
His method of showing his contempt for other great composers like Beethoven, Mozart, and the like, was to conduct their music upon important occasions, without having given himself or any one else a rehearsal. He called Haydn a "pedantic old baby," and refused as long as he lived to hear Elijah (Mendelssohn). In short, he was one of the vastly disagreeable people of the earth, who believe that their own genius excuses everything.
The story of his behaviour at a performance of Cherubini's Ali Baba will serve as an illustration of his bad taste.
Cherubini had become old, and was even more anxious about the fate of his compositions than he had been in his youth, having less confidence in himself as he declined in years, and on the occasion of Ali Baba he was especially overwrought. Berlioz got a seat in the house, and made his disapproval of the performance very marked by his manner. Finally he cried out toward the end of the first act, "Twenty francs for an idea!" During the second act he called, "Forty francs for an idea!" and at the finale he screeched, "Eighty francs for an idea!" When all was over, he rose wearily and said, loud enough to be heard all over the place, "I give it up—I'm not rich enough!" and went out.
There is hardly an anecdote of Berlioz extant that does not deal with his cynicism or displeasing qualities, therefore we may more or less assume that they prettycorrectly reflect the man. One of the stories which well illustrates his love of "showing up" his fellows, concerns his Fuite en Egypte. When it was produced he had put upon the programme as the composer one Pierre Ducré "of the seventeenth century." The critics, one and all, wrote of the old and worthless score that Berlioz had unearthed and foisted upon the suffering public. Some of them wrote voluminously and knowingly of the life of Pierre Ducré, and hinted at other productions of his, which they said demonstrated his puerility. Then when he had roused all the discussion he pleased, Berlioz came forward and announced that there never had been any such personage as Ducré, and that it was himself who had written Fuite en Egypte. He had made everybody appear as absurd as possible, and there is no sign that he ever did that sort of thing for the pure love of a joke. He was malicious, born so, lived so, and died so. However great his music, he was unworthy of it.
Faust.Mephistopheles.Brander.Marguerite.Sylphs, students, soldiers, angels.
Composer: Hector Berlioz.
Onelovely morning, in a Hungarian meadow, a scholar went to walk before he should begin his day's task of study and of teaching. He was an old man, who had thought of little in life, so far as his associates knew, besides his books; but secretly he had longed for the bright joys of the world most ardently.
While he lingered in the meadow, possessed with its morning brightness, and its summer dress he heard some person singing not far away:
music
music
[Listen]
At first a single voice was singing, but soon the song was taken up by a joyous chorus, and Faust, the scholar, stopped to listen.
Alas! It spoke of that gaiety he had so longed to enjoy. A group of peasants were out for a holiday, and their sport was beginning early. While he meditated on all that he had lost, the merrymakers drew near, and he watched them dance, listened to them laugh and sing, and became more and more heartsick. It was the youth of the revellers that entered into his heart. There was he, so old, and nearly done with life; done with its possibilities for joy and with its hardships!
Then, in the very midst of these thoughts the sound of martial music was heard. Faust shaded his eyes with his trembling old hand:
"Ha! A splendour of weapons is brightly gleaming afar: the sons of the Danube apparelled for war! They gallop so proudly along: how sparkle their eyes, how flash their shields. All hearts are thrilled, they chant their battle's story! While my heart is cold, all unmoved by glory." He sang this in recitative, while the music drew nearer and nearer, and as the army passed by, it marched to one of the famous compositions of history:
music
music
[Listen]
Then the scene changed, and Faust was once more alone in his study. He was melancholy.
"I left the meadow without regret, and now, without delight, I greet our haughty mountains. What is the use of such as I continuing to live? Thereisno use! I may as well kill myself and have done it." And after thinking this over a moment in silence he prepared himself a cup of poison, and lifted it to his lips. As he was about to drink and end his woes, the choir from the chapel began to sing an Easter hymn.
"Ah!" he cried, "the memories that overwhelm me! Oh, my weak and trembling spirit, wilt thou surely ascend to heaven, borne upward by this holy song!" He began to think of his happy boyhood, of his early home; then as the glorious music of the choir swelled higher and higher, he became gentler and thought more tolerantly of life.
"Those soft melodious strains bring peace to my soul; songs more sweet than morning, I hear again! My tears spring forth, the earth has won me back." He dropped his head upon his breast and wept. As he sat thus, intender mood, a strange happening took place. A queer, explosive sound, and a jet of flame, and—there stood the devil, all in red, forked tail, horns, and cloven hoof! He stood smiling wickedly at the softened old man, while Faust stared at him wildly.
"A most pious frame of mind, my friend. Give me your hand, dear Doctor Faust. The glad Easter ringing of bells and singing of peans have certainly charmed you back to earth!"
"Who art thou, whose glances are so fierce? They burn my very soul. Speak, thou spectre, and tell me thy name." From his very appearance, one could hardly doubt he was the Devil.
"Why! so learned a man as you should know me. I am thy friend and comfort. Come, ye are so melancholy, Doctor Faust, let me be thy friend—I'll tell thee a secret: if you but say the word, I'll give ye your dearest wish. It shall be whatever you wish. Eh? Shall it be wealth, or fame?—what shall it be? Come! Let us talk it over."
"That is well, wretched demon! I think I know ye now. I am interested in ye. Sit, and we shall talk," the poor old Doctor replied, despising that which nevertheless aroused his curiosity. He, like everybody else, had heard of the Devil, but he doubted if any other had had the fortune actually to see him.
"Very well; I will be thine eye, thine ear. I will give thee the world; thou shalt leave thy den, thy hateful study. Come! to satisfy thy curiosity, follow me."
The old man regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, and then rose:
"Let us go," he said, and in the twinkle of an eye they disappeared into the air.
They were transported over hill and dale, village and fine city, till the Devil paused at Leipzig.
"Here is the place for us," he said; and instantly they descended to the drinking cellar of Auerbach, a man who kept fine Rhenish wine for jolly fellows.
They entered and sat at a table. By this time the Devil had changed Faust the scholar, into a young and handsome man, youth being one of Faust's dearest wishes.
All about them were coarse youths, soldiers, students, men off the street, all drinking and singing gaily. Faust and the Devil ordered wine and became a part of the company. They were all singing together at that moment:
The rest of the words were not very dignified nor fascinating, and Faust looked on with some disgust. Presently some one cried out to a half-drunken fellow named Brander to give them one of his famous songs, and he got unsteadily upon his feet and began:
"Requiescat in pace, amen!" the Devil sang, and all joined on the "amen." "Now then, permitmeto sing you a ballad," the Devil cried, gaily, and he jumped upon his feet.
"What, you pretend that you can do better than Brander?" they demanded, a little piqued.
"Well, you see, I am expert at anything nasty and bad; so let us see:
"Enough!" said Faust; "I want to leave this brutal company. There can be no joys found where there isso much that is low and degrading. I wish to go." And turning angrily to the Devil, he signified that he would leave instantly.
"Very well," said the Prince of Darkness, smiling his satirical smile. "Away we go—and better success with thee, next time." At which he placed his mantle upon the ground, they stood upon it, and away they flew into the air and disappeared.
When next they stopped, it was upon a grassy bank of the Elbe River.
"Now, my friend; let us rest. Lie thou down upon the grassy bank and close thine eyes, and dream of joys to come. When we awake we shall wish again and see what new experience the world holds for us. Thus far you do not seem too well satisfied."
"I will sleep," Faust answered, reclining upon the bank. "I should be glad to forget some things that we have seen." So saying he slept. No sooner had he done so, that the Devil summoned the most beautiful sylphs to dance before him, and thus to influence Faust's dreams. They began by softly calling his name. Then they lulled him to deeper sleep, and his dream was of fair women. In his dream he saw the lovely dance, the gracious forms, the heavenly voices of youthful women. The Devil directed his dream-laden eyes toward a loving pair who walked and spoke and loved apart. Then immediately behind those lovers walked, meditatively, a beautiful maiden.
"Behold," the Black Prince murmured to Faust; "that maiden there who follows: she shall be thy Marguerite. Shall it not be so?" And Faust sank back in his sleep, overcome with the lovely vision. Then the Devil motioned the sylphs away.
"Away, ye dainty elves, ye have served my turn to-day, and I shall not forget." They danced to exquisite waltz music, hovering above Faust, and gradually disappeared in the mists of the air.
Slowly Faust awakened; His first word was "Marguerite!" Then he looked about him in a daze.
"What a dream! What a dream!" he murmured. "I saw an angel in human form."
"Nay, she was a woman," said the Devil. "Rise and follow me, and I will show her to thee in her home. Hello! Here comes along a party of jolly students and soldiers. They will pass her home. We'll move along with them, join their shouts and songs, and presently we shall arrive at her house." Faust, all trembling with the thought that at last he had found that which was to make his life worth living, joined the crowd and followed. The soldiers boisterously sang a fine chorus as they went. No sooner had they finished than the students began their song. It was all in Latin and seemed to Faust to echo that life which had once been his. Then the soldiers and students joined in the jollity and sang together.
This fun lasted what to Faust seemed too long a time. He was impatient to see and speak with the dear maiden Marguerite; and at last, his wish was to be granted. The Devil set him down without ceremony in the young girl's house. There, where she lived, where her meagre belongings were about, he sang rapturously of her. He went about the room, looking at her chair, her basket of work, the place where she should sleep, examining all with rapture. Then the Devil said in an undertone:
"She is coming! hide thyself, and frighten her not." Then he hid Faust behind some curtains and took himself off with the parting advice:
"Have a care not to frighten her, or thou wilt lose her. Now make the most of thy time." Faust's heart beat so with love that he feared to betray himself.
Then Marguerite entered. She was as lovely as a dream. She was simple and gentle, and very young and innocent. She had never seen any one outside her little village. She was so good that she could fairly tell by instinct if evil influences were about her. She no sooner entered the chamber than she was aware of something wrong. She felt the presence of the evil one who had but just gone. She paused and murmured to herself:
"The air is very sultry," and she felt stifled. "I am trembling like a little child. I think it is the dream I had last night" (for the Devil had given her a dream as he had given Faust, and in it she had seen her future husband). "I think it is because I expect every moment since my dream, to see the one who is to love and cherish me the rest of my life." The simple folk of Marguerite's time believed in dreams and portents of all kinds.
There she sat in her chair and recalled how handsome the lover of her dream was, and how truly she already loved him. Then she decided to go to bed, and while she was folding her few things, putting her apron away, combing out her long and beautiful hair, she sang an old Gothic song, of the King of Thule:
music
music
[Listen]
Then the Devil, who was watching all, summoned his imps. This time they took the form of Will-o'-the-wisps.
"Come! dance and confuse this maiden, and see what we can do to help this lovesick Faust," he cried to them, and at once they began a wonderful dance. Marguerite watched them entranced, and by the time Faust appeared from the folds of the curtains she was half dazed and confused by the unreal spectacle she had seen. Then she recognized the handsome fellow as the one she had seen in her dream.
"I have seen thee in my dreams," she said, "and thou wert one who loved me well." Faust, entranced with her beauty and goodness, promised to love her forever; and as he embraced her, the Devil suddenly popped in.
"Hasten," he cried. "We must be off."
"Who is this man?" Marguerite cried in affright.
"A brute," Faust declared, knowing well the devilishness of his pretended friend in whose company he travelled.
"Nay! I am your best friend. Be more courteous," the Devil cautioned, smiling.
"I expect I am intruding," he continued. "But really I came to save this angel of a girl. Our songs have awakened all the neighbours round, and they are running hither like a pack of hounds to see what is going on. They know this pretty girl has a young man in here talking with her, and already they are calling for her old gossip of a mother. When her mother comes ye will catch it finely. So come along."
"Death and Hell!" Faust cried, not knowing how near he was to both.
"There is no time for that. Just come along. Youand the young woman will have plenty of time hereafter to see each other. But just now we must be off."
"But she——"
"It will go hard with her if we are found here, so ye had better come on, if only for her sake."
"But, return, return," Marguerite cried, looking tenderly at Faust.
"I shall return, never to leave thee," he cried, and then, interrupted by the noise made by men and women in the street, who were coming to find out what he was doing there, Faust left hurriedly. Every night thereafter for a time they met, and Marguerite was persuaded by the Devil to give her old mother a sleeping potion to keep her from surprising them. Then one day the Devil again lured Faust away.
"Now thou shalt never see her again," the Devil said to himself, gloating over the sorrow Faust was sure to feel; and away they fled, the Devil sure of tempting Faust anew.
After that Marguerite, left quite alone, watched sadly, each day for the return of her lover, but alas! he never came. One night while she was leaning out of her casement, the villagers were singing of the return of the army.
"Alas, they are all making merry, soldiers and students, as on the night when I first saw my lover, but he is no longer among them." And then sadly she closed her window and kept her lonely vigil, ever hoping for his return.
Away in a cavern, in the depths of the forest, was Faust. He had never returned to Marguerite's village, and neither had he known any peace of mind. He had immediately found other pleasures which had for atime made him forget her, and then, when he was far away and it was too late to return, he desired again to be with her. Now, sitting apart in the wood, mourning, the Devil came to him.
"How about that constant love of thine? Do ye never think of that poor child Marguerite, lonely and far away, awaiting thee month after month?"
"Be silent and do not torture me, fiend," Faust cried bitterly.
"Oh I have a lot to tell thee," the Black Prince replied. "I have been saving news for thee. Dost thou remember how, on those nights when thou didst go to see that good maiden, she was told to give her old mother a sleeping draught, that she might sleep soundly while ye billed and cooed? Well, when ye were gone, Marguerite still expected ye, and continued to give the draught, and one night the old dame slept forever, and I tell thee that draught killed her. Now thy Marguerite is going to be hanged for it." Upon hearing that, Faust nearly died with horror.
"What is it ye tell me?" he cried. "My God! This is not true."
"All right. All right. Believe it or not, it is the same to me—and to her—because that poor maid is about to die for killing her mother."
"Thou shalt save her, or I shall kill—" But he stopped in his fury, knowing that none could kill the Devil. He wrung his hands in despair.
"Now if thou wilt keep thyself a bit civil, I may save her for thee, but don't forget thy manners."
At that Faust was in a fury of excitement to be off to Marguerite's village.
"Not so fast, not so fast," the Devil said "Now ifI am to save thy love, I must have a little agreement with thee. I want your signature to this paper. Sign, and I promise to save her, without fail. But I must have that first."
"I will give thee anything," Faust cried, and instantly signed the paper. That paper was really an agreement to give the Devil his soul when he should die, so Faust had abandoned his last hope on earth or hereafter. Then the Devil called for his horses—his black horses upon which damned souls rode with him to Hell.
"Mount," he said to Faust, "and in a trice we shall be with thy Marguerite and snatch her from the gallows." Instantly they mounted and then began the fearful ride to Hell.
Presently they came near a crowd of peasants kneeling about a roadside cross.
"Oh, have a care. Let us not ride upon them," Faust cried.
"Get on, get on," the Devil cried. "It is thy Marguerite we are hastening to," and the poor peasants scattered in every direction, some being trampled upon and little children hurt.
"Horrible, horrible," Faust cried. "What is that monster pursuing us?" he whispered, glancing fearfully behind him.
"Ye are dreaming."
"Nay! and there are hideous birds of prey now joining us. They rush upon us. What screams? Their black wings strike me." And then a bell tolled.
"Hark ye! It is the bell for her death. Hasten," the Devil urged.
"Aye, make haste, make haste." And the horses, black as night, were urged on and on. "See thoseghastly skeletons dancing!" Faust screamed, as the fearful spectres gathered round them.
"Think not of them, but of our Marguerite!" the Devil counselled.
"Our horses' manes are bristling. They tremble, the earth rocks wildly. I hear the thunders roar, it is raining blood," Faust shrieked. Then the Devil shouted:
"Ah! Ye slaves of Hell, your trumpets blow. I come triumphant. This man is mine!" And as he spoke, the two riders fell headlong into the abyss of Hell.
Then all the fiends of Hell began to sing wildly. The scene was one of damnation.
Then, grandly above Hell's din rose a mighty chorus. It was a heavenly strain. Marguerite had not been spared the horror of execution; but dead, the saints forgave her. In Heaven, as her soul ascended, they sang:
"Ascend, O trusting spirit! It was love which misled thee. Come, let us wipe away thy tears. Come, come, and dwell forever among the blest."
And thus Faust met his end, and Marguerite her reward for faith and innocence.
WHEN Bizet wrote his music around Prosper Mérimée's story of Carmen, he reflected his familiarity with Spanish life and his long living in the Pyrenees mountains. The character of Michaela is not found in the novel, but the clever introduction of it into the opera story adds greatly to dramatic effect, since the gentle and loving character is in strong contrast with that of Carmen.
Bizet's name was Alexandre César Léopold, and he was born on October 25, 1838, at Bougival, and died June 3, 1875. He with Charles Lécocq won the Offenbach prize for the best operetta while Bizet was as yet a youth, and from that time his art gained in strength and beauty. In those days it was a reproach to suggest Wagner in musical composition, but Bizet was accused of doing so. Thus he was handicapped by leaning toward an unpopular school at the very start, but the great beauty of his productions made their way in spite of all. He wrote, as his second composition of importance, an opera around the novel of Scott's Fair Maid of Perth—in French, La Jolie Fille de Perth—and this was not a success, but that same opera survives through his Carmen. The Bohemian dance in that opera was taken from it and interpolated into the fourth act of Carmen.
Bizet died only three months after the production of this last opera, but he had lived long enough to knowthat he had become one of the world's great composers. He wrote exquisite pastoral music for "l'Arlésienne"—whose story was adapted from Daudet's novel of that name. In short, Bizet was the pioneer in a new school of French opera, doing for it in a less measure what Wagner has finally done for the whole world.
This genius left few anecdotes or personal reminiscences behind him. The glory of his compositions alone seems to stand for his existence.
A guide.Dragoons, gypsies, smugglers, cigarette-girls, street-boys, etc.
The time of the story is 1820, and it takes place in and near Seville.
Composer: Georges Bizet.
Book: H. Meilhac and L. Halévy.
First sung at the Opéra Comique, Paris, March 3, 1875.
I knewa boy who once said: "That soldier thing in 'Carmen' is the most awful bully thing to whistle a fellow ever heard; but if you don't get it just right, it doesn't sound like anything," which was a mistake, because if you don't get it "just right" it sounds something awful. That boy's whistle was twenty per cent. better than his syntax, but his judgment about musicwas pretty good, and we shall have the soldier song in the very beginning, even before learning how it happens, because it is the thing we are likely to recall, in a shadowy sort of way, throughout the first act:
music
music
[Listen]
That is the way it goes, and this is the way it happens:
Onceupon a time there was a pretty girl named Michaela, and she was as good as she was beautiful. She loved a corporal in the Spanish army whose name was Don José. Now the corporal was a fairly good chap, but he had been born thoughtless, and as a matter of fact he had lived away from home for so long that he had half-forgotten his old mother who lived a lonely life with Michaela.
One day, about noontime, the guard, waiting to be relieved by their comrades, were on duty near the guard-house, which was situated in a public square of Seville. As the soldiers sat about, or walked with muskets over shoulders, their service was not especially wearisome, because people were continually passing through the square, and besides there was a cigarette factory on theother side of the square, and when the factory hands tumbled out, about noon, there was plenty of carousing and gaiety for an hour. Here in the square were little donkeys with tinkling bells upon them, and donkeys carrying packs upon their backs, and gentlemen in black velvet cloaks which were thrown artistically over one shoulder, and with plumes on their hats. Then, too, there were ragged folks who looked rather well, nevertheless, since their rags were Spanish rags, and made a fine show of bright colours.
Just as Morales, the officer of the guard, was finding the hot morning rather slow, and wishing the factory bell would ring, and his brother officer march his men in to relieve him, Michaela appeared. She had come into the city from the home of José's mother, which was somewhere near, in the hills. His old mother had become so lonely and worried, not having heard from José for so long, that at last the girl had undertaken to come down into the city, bearing a note from his mother, and to seek him out at his barracks. She had inquired her way till she found the square where the guard was quartered, and now, when she entered it, Morales was the first to see her.
"That is a pretty girl," Morales decided as he watched her. "Seems to be looking for some one—little strange in this part of the town, probably. Can I do anything for you?" he called to her, as she approached.
"I am looking for Don José, a soldier, if you know him——"
"Perfectly. He is corporal of the guard which is presently to relieve us. If you wait here, you are certain to see him." Michaela thanked him quietly, and went away. The soldiers were strange to her, and she preferred to wait in another part of the square rather than where they were idling. She had no sooner disappeared than the music of the relief guard was heard in the distance. It was the soldiers' chorus: a regular fife and drum affair. It came nearer, nearer, nearer, till it arrived in full blast, fresh as a pippin, the herald of all that was going to happen through four acts of opera. There was to be fighting and smugglers: factory-girls in a row, and Carmen everywhere and anywhere, all of the time.
With the new guard comes first the bugler and a fifer with a lot of little ragged urchins tagging along behind; then comes Zuniga strutting in, very much pleased with himself, and after him Don José, the corporal, whom Michaela has come to town to see. The street boys sing while the new guard lines up in front of the old one, and every one takes up the song. It is the business of every one in opera to sing about everything at any time. Thus the guard describes itself in song:
There is not much poetry in this, but there is lots of vim, and the new guard, as bright as a new tin whistle, has formed and the old guard marched off during the singing. Meantime, while things have been settling down, Morales has had a word with Don José.
"A pretty girl is somewhere near here, looking foryou, José. She wore a blue gown and her hair is in a braid down her back; she's——"
"I know her; it is Michaela," José declares: and, with the sudden knowledge that she is so near, and that she comes directly from his old mother, he feels a longing for home, and realizes that he has been none too thoughtful or kind toward those who love him. As everybody finds himself in place, Zuniga points across to the cigarette factory.
"Did you ever notice that there are often some tremendously pretty girls over there?" he asks of José.
"Huh?" José answers, abstractedly. Zuniga laughs.
"You are thinking of the pretty girl Morales has just told you of," he says. "The girl with the blue petticoat and the braid down her back!"
"Well, why not? I love her," José answers shortly. He hunches his musket a little higher and wheels about. He doesn't specially care to talk of Michaela or his mother, with these young scamps who are as thoughtless as himself: he has preserved so much of self-respect; but before he can answer again the factory bell rings. Dinner time! José stands looking across, as every one else does, while the factory crowd begins to tumble out, helter-skelter. All come singing, and the girls smoking cigarettes, a good many of them being gipsies, like Carmen. They are dressed in all sorts of clothes from dirty silk petticoats, up to self-respecting rags. Carmen is somewhere in the midst of the hullabaloo, and everybody is shouting for her.
Carmen leads in everything. She leads in good and she leads in bad. She makes the best and the worst cigarettes, she is the quickest and she is the slowest, as the mood moves her; and now, when she flashes on tothe stage in red and yellow fringes and bedraggled finery, cigarette in mouth and bangles tinkling, opera has given to the stage the supreme puzzle of humanity: the woman who does always what she pleases, and who pleases never to do the thing expected of her!
The first man she sees when she comes from the factory is José. The first thing that she pleases to do is to make José love her. It will be good fun for the noon hour. She has her friends with her, Frasquita and Mercedes, and all are in the mood for a frolic. They sing:
music
[Listen]
While Carmen sings, her eyes do not leave Don José, and he is watching her in spite of himself. The racket continues till the factory bell rings to call the crowd back to work. Carmen goes reluctantly, and as she goes, she throws a flower at José.
he says, half smiling, half seriously, as he picks it up. While he stands thus, looking toward the factory, holding the flower, thinking of Carmen, Michaela comes back into the square. They espy each other, and a sudden warmth and tenderness come upon José: after all, he loves her dearly—and there is his old mother! His better self responds: José, in imagination, sees the little house in the hills where he lived as a boy before he went soldiering. He recalls vividly for the first time in months, those who are faithful to him, and for a moment he loves them as they love him. They speak together. Michaela gives him the note from his mother. There is money in it: she has thought he might be in debt, or in other trouble and need it. José is surprised by the tears in his own eyes—it is a far cry from gay Seville to the little house among the hills!
"Go back to mother, Michaela, tell her I am going to get leave as soon as I can and am coming back to her and you. I am going to play fair. There's not much in life, otherwise. Go home and tell her I am coming, and I mean to make you both as happy as once I meant to."
His sudden tenderness enraptures the young girl, and kissing him she sets out to leave Seville with a glad heart. José, left alone, on guard, his life and thought interrupted by this incident of home and faithfulness, leans thoughtfully upon his musket.