"I PAGLIACCI"

"I Pagliacci"

Pagliacci is the Italian word for clowns, a decidedly unique subject for grand opera. Novelty is one of the characteristics of this work. It has already achieved fame, altho but a child in age and size, being only a few years old and two acts long. Leoncavallo, the composer and librettist, has since written another opera, "I Medici," which has found favor in Europe, but is still unheard in America.

Pagliacci is startling and intense from the entrance of the Prologue to the clown's last word, "finita." The music abounds in surprises, and altho Leoncavallo has been charged with some plagiarism, his work but reflects the influence of such recent composers as Wagner and Mascagni.

The opening orchestral measures are of peculiar rhythm, and suggest the spasmodicmovement of puppets on a string; but this implies no lack of dignity to the composition. There are passages that recall the "Flying Dutchman," and Leoncavallo adopts the Wagnerian method of handling his themes; in other words, each one has a meaning that is adhered to throughout the opera. In this introduction we hear the warm and sunny love-music, followed by the somber theme of revenge like a shadow after light. Then the puppet-music is hastily resumed, to remind us that a clown must laugh and dance, however bitter his feelings.

During the overture a painted and grotesque personage steps before the curtain and announces himself as the Prologue. This innovation has prompted some wag to remark that "the opera commences before it begins!" Mascagni, in his "Cavalleria Rusticana," was the first to present an unconventional opening, by having a serenade behind the curtain, but Leoncavallo has outdone his rival by having a prologue in frontof the curtain. He tells us that the play is taken from life, and that in spite of their motley and tinsel the actors have human hearts. This satisfying song, with its appealing melody and large, resounding accompaniment, has never yet failed to arouse an encore. With a final signal for the play to begin, the Prologue skips out as the curtain goes up.

The scene represents an Italian village gaily decorated for the "Feast of the Assumption," an annual fête that lasts a week. We see at one side a rough mimic theater, with stage and curtain, a temporary structure erected for a troupe of players who are just entering the town. There are shouting and laughter behind the scenes, sounds of a discordant trumpet and a terrible drum, and soon the villagers enter, vociferously greeting and surrounding a donkey-cart in which are the players. It is a meager troupe, consisting of Canio, the master, Nedda, his wife, Beppo, the harlequin, and Tonio, the fool. They wear fantastic costumes. Caniobeats his big drum, while Nedda scatters play-bills, and the villagers think the troupe quite wonderful. They are welcomed with an impulsive sweeping chorus that seems to disregard all precedent in the matter of keys. These peasants apparently sing in an ungoverned, unrestrained way of their own; but as an Italian's tattered costume is always picturesque, so is this artless music most graceful and charming. Canio bows grotesquely on all sides, and again thumps his drum to make the people listen as he tells them that at seven o'clock the play will begin:

Canio's professional music, such as the foregoing speech, is made admirably artificial, thin and cheap as tissue paper, with uncertain accompaniment and flimsy melodies.

When the excitement has subsided, Tonio, the fool, offers to lift Nedda from the cart,but Canio boxes his ears and helps his own wife down. The people laugh at Tonio's discomfort, and he goes off grumbling. This pantomime action and the succeeding bit of dialog are accompanied by a rollicking, hurdy-gurdy sort of motif in the orchestra. A villager invites the players to a drink in the tavern. Canio and Beppo accept, and they call Tonio to come along, but he replies from behind the mimic theater, "I am cleaning the donkey, and can't come." The villager laughingly suggests that Tonio is only waiting for a chance to court Nedda. Canio takes this joke rather seriously, and sings an earnest cantabile to the effect that such a game would be dangerous: "On the stage, when I find her with a lover I make a funny speech and every one applauds; but in life—believe me, it would end differently." This last phrase is adapted to the dismal, menacing theme of revenge that was started like a germ in the overture. It is still deeply buried among the instruments, but its growth is steady from the beginningof the opera to the end. Canio closes his song by assuring all that there is no ground for suspicion. He embraces Nedda, and declares that he loves and respects her. The hurdy-gurdy music is resumed, and distant bagpipes are heard,—noises peculiar to a village fête. The chorus sing with much good humor, and are accompanied by a charming violin obligato. Then comes the Bell Chorus, so named because the church bell calls them to vespers. "Prayers first, and then the play!" exclaim the young people as they go out. The delightful turns and curves of this bell-song are continued until quite in the distance.

Nedda is left alone, and the orchestra, like a merciless conscience, repeats to her Canio's threatening theme. She has a secret that causes her to tremble as she recalls her husband's dark looks and words; but her fears are momentary, for the day is bright and so is her heart. She sings to the sunshine and the birds in the sky. A gay tremolo of the stringed instrumentsseems to fill the air with feathered songsters, and they remind Nedda of a little ballad her mother used to croon. This popular ballatella is generally referred to as the Bird Song. There is a busy, buzzing string accompaniment, and the melody is a gentle, legato waltz movement. The last notes are descriptive of a bird's flight "away, away!" so high that the tone seems to soar out of sound as a bird out of sight.

Nedda turns around, and is surprised to find Tonio listening with rapt adoration. He is only a jester, and quite ridiculous to look upon; but he nevertheless loves Nedda, and tells her so. In this aria, Tonio reveals a depth of feeling that is in touching contrast to his painted face and comical clothes. Nedda laughs uproariously at his confession, and with heartless sarcasm she quotes the scherzando music of the prospective play-scene, and says he must save his fine love-making for the stage. In vain Tonio pleads and falls on his knees. She threatens to call her husband, and finally snatching upa whip, gives Tonio a smart blow on the face. His love is turned to hatred, and he vows vengeance for this insult. He is very much in earnest, and indeed the composer has given him quite a fine vengeance-theme, all his own. It is heard groveling and growling among the bass instruments, like some disturbed animal. Tonio goes off with frowns and threats, but Nedda forgets these in the joy of seeing Silvio. As he cautiously enters, the orchestra announces in the plainest musical phrases that this newcomer is the lover. That theme amoroso is unmistakable even had we not been introduced to it in the prologue. Throughout this love-scene it is the leading spirit, sporting around from treble to bass, now in the orchestra, then in the voice; sometimes veiled in a minor key or suppressed by top-heavy chords; again, it will start to materialize but at once disappear, or when most unexpected will push itself forward with impish delight.

The witchery of this music underminesfear and caution. The lovers do not notice Tonio's leering face as he overhears their vows and then goes off to bring Canio; nor do they hear the stealthy approach of Tonio's revenge in the orchestra. Nedda agrees to elope with Silvio, "to forget the past and love forever!" He has climbed the wall and sings these farewell words with Nedda, just in time for Canio to hear them. The husband rushes forward with a cry of rage, but he fails to recognize the lover. Nedda has warned Silvio to flee, and Canio scales the wall in pursuit. She is left for a moment with Tonio, who gloats over his revenge. With bitter irony Nedda cries "Bravo!" to his success. She calls him a coward and other terrible names, but the despised jester only shrugs his shoulders.

When Canio returns from his futile chase, he grasps Nedda, tortures her and threatens her, but she will not tell her lover's name. He declares she shall die, and with these words that bitter revenge-theme for the first time blossoms out in the voice part. It issung and shouted by the maddened Canio, while the director's baton swings over the orchestra like a reaper's sickle, gathering in this full-grown theme. Canio draws his dagger, but is forcibly restrained by Beppo, who tries to reason with his master. "It is time for the play to begin. The people pay their money and must be entertained." Nedda is told to go and dress for her part, while Canio is advised to restrain his anger until after the play. He allows himself to be persuaded. The others go off to make ready, and he too must soon don the paint and powder. He looks sadly at the little theater, and sings a magnificent aria that attains the uttermost heights of pathos. He must amuse the people while his heart is breaking. He dare not weep as other men, for "I am only a clown." Canio goes off sobbing as the curtain descends.

An intermezzo of much beauty and deep feeling is performed by the orchestra between the acts. Its opening measures recall the funeral march of the "Götterdämmerung"—dolorous, heart-weary passages that presently break away with a nervous energy into the cantabile theme of the prologue. This intermezzo is not long, and we are again enlivened by the scene on the stage.

It is evening, "at seven o'clock," and the mimic theater is illuminated by gay lanterns. The people are flocking to the performance, and they drag forward benches and chairs to sit upon. Tonio stands at one side of the little stage beating a drum, while Beppo blows the trumpet which is still out of tune, and therefore the opening bars of this act are exactly like the first. These good people make a great rush and fuss in getting their seats, and they sing a simple, hearty refrain about the great event of seeing a play. The original and refreshing chorus that delighted us in the first act is repeated, and we become as excited and eager as the villagers to witness the performance about to take place on that little wooden stage with its cheap red curtain.Silvio is among the crowd, and he finds a chance to speak with Nedda as she passes the money-box. He arranges to meet her after the play, and she admonishes him to be careful. After she has collected the money the players go back of the scenes. A little bell is rung, and the wonderful red curtain goes up.

The comedy is called "Columbine and Punchinello," and Nedda, who plays the part of Columbine, is discovered sitting by a table. The room is roughly painted and Nedda wears some cheap finery, but the people applaud and think it beautiful. The play-music is all angular and grotesque, glaring effects thrown on in splashes like an impressionist painting. It is admirably appropriate, and perhaps the most unique stroke in the opera.

To return to the action of the mimic play. Columbine soliloquizes for a moment about her husband Punchinello, whom she does not expect home until morning. She looks toward the window and evidently expectssome one else. The pizzicato tuning of a violin is heard through the window. The player gets his instrument to the right pitch and then sings a serenade to the "fair Columbine." She would fain receive her adorer, but at this moment the servant (Tonio) enters. He looks at Columbine, and with exaggerated music and ridiculous sighs informs the hearers that he loves her, and now that the husband is away he finds courage to get abruptly on his knees. Columbine pays no attention to his love-making, but she accepts the property chicken that he takes from his basket. The village spectators laugh and applaud. The scene on the mimic stage is next enlivened by the lover (Beppo), who climbs in through the window, and on seeing the servant promptly takes hold of his ear and shows him out of the room. The spectators, of course, laugh at this and think the whole play very funny. Columbine entertains her lover by giving him a good supper. Their harmonious conversation includes a charming and gracefulgavotte melody that is decidedly the gem of this play-music. Its dainty elegance and classic simplicity are worthy of Bach himself.

The servant rushes in upon the supper-scene, and with mock agitation announces that Punchinello is coming. The lover hurries out of the window as the husband enters. It is Canio, the real husband, who acts this part, and as he sees Nedda at the window he is struck with the similarity of the play to the reality. For a moment the play-music is dropped and we hear the serious love-theme of the opera closely pursued by that bitter wail of revenge that clings and creeps around it like a poison-vine. Canio chokes down his grief and bravely tries to go through his burlesque part. A new, jerky little melody accompanies the remarks of Punchinello, and it would be very gay were it not written in the minor, which gives it a touching effect of faint-heartedness. Punchinello asks Columbine who has been with her, and she replies, "Only the servant." But Punchinello againasks who was the man—"tell me his name." The last words are real, and Canio no longer acts a part. Nedda tries to keep up the farce, and the serious themes and play-music alternate as the scene goes on. With curses, threats, and entreaties Canio tries to learn the name of Nedda's lover, and Silvio in the audience becomes uneasy; but the other villagers only think it is fine acting. When Canio at last buries his face in sobs as he recalls how much he loved his wife, the people shout "Bravo!"

Nedda again tries to resume the play. She forces herself to smile and sing the gay gavotte; but this only maddens Canio the more. With tones of fury he declares that she shall either die or tell her lover's name. Nedda defies him, and her words are sustained by a distorted arrangement of the love-theme, which effect is like seeking concealment behind a skeleton. The music has become as breathless as the situation. Nedda tries to escape toward the spectators, but Canio holds her, and there follows apiercing shriek. Nedda has been stabbed. She falls, and with her dying breath calls "Silvio!" Canio turns upon her lover and completes vengeance with a single stroke. The orchestra now trumpets forth, like the expounding of a moral, that poignant theme whose growth and supremacy we have watched. The village spectators are still puzzled, and can hardly believe that the tragedy is real. Tonio comes forward and announces in parlando voice that "the comedy is finished!"

"Pagliacci" only occupies half an evening, and even with the "Australian Nightingale" and a great tenor in the cast the public still expect "some more." New Yorkers have become spoiled by the great performances lately given at the opera-house. We take it as a matter of course that "Don Giovanni" should be given with Lehmann, Sembrich, Nordica, Edouard de Reszke and Maurel, and quite expect "The Huguenots" to have in its cast two great sopranos andthe two de Reszkes. We have an idea that a large city like New York should expect nothing less, and are not sure but the European capitals do better. In point of fact, however, when Madame Sembrich sings in Berlin the royal opera-house is crowded by the attraction of her name alone; and the same may be said of Madame Melba in Paris, or Calvé, or any of them. There are never more than six or seven great prima donnas in the world at one time, and when one of these sings in Europe the rest of the company is often mediocre. But not so in New York. After "Pagliacci" with Melba, "Cavalleria" with Calvé is the usual program—a rather unfortunate combination of operas, for they are both so feverishly intense. After the "beautiful horror" of "Pagliacci's" finale, a contrast might be welcome. Glück's "Orpheus and Eurydice" is a short opera that alongside of Leoncavallo's work would delight the musical epicure. Such an opportunity to study the new and the old would surely be beneficial.

"Orpheusand Eurydice"

Classic myth and classic music are in this opera happily united. The beautiful legend belongs to the past, but Glück the composer, like Orpheus the musician, has brought the departed to life. With gentle harmonies he pacified those surrounding Furies, the critics, and his creation has attained a lasting place in the musical world. Simplicity and sincerity stamp the entire composition. The musical thoughts are put down in the plainest, straightest way, in strong contrast to the old Italian style, whose profuse embellishments remind one of ornate penmanship. Glück lived more than a century ago, but his ideas anticipated many of our modern formulas. He succeeded in imparting a musical individuality to all his characters.

To properly enjoy Glück's masterpiecethe listener should present himself with a spirit as gentle as the composer. The opera is more idyllic than overpowering. Enjoy it as you would a perfect day in some peaceful valley.

The overture to "Orpheus and Eurydice" is not remarkable. It bears no theme-feature in common with the opera, and its kinship is only discernible in name and nature, both opera and overture being devoid of ostentation.

The curtain rises upon a Grecian landscape that is beautiful but sad, for amid drooping willows and solemn pines stands the tomb of Eurydice. Orpheus, the disconsolate husband, is leaning upon the shrine. Not even his lute can solace him in this hour of grief. A dirge of unrivaled beauty arises from the orchestra like a flower from the earth. It is taken up by the chorus and given as an offering to the departed. There is something mythical about the music as well as the scene. All nature seems to join in this lament overEurydice. Ever and anon Orpheus proclaims her name in tones so pitiful that—

He asks the chorus to scatter flowers upon her grave and then leave him alone, for their song but adds to his grief. Accompanied by an orchestral ritornelle of Arcadian simplicity, they strew their garlands and then retire.

The wood-wind and viol follow Orpheus in his solitary plaint that again reminds us of the voice of nature. It is a feminine voice, too, a fact worth mentioning, for Orpheus is now considered the contraltorôle de résistance. After vainly beseeching high heaven and all the gods to restore his lost Eurydice, Orpheus decides to brave the realms of Pluto. He will himself wrest her from death's power. The gods help those that help themselves, and now Amor, the god of love, comes to his assistance. Amor says he shall descend in safety to the lower world, and will find his Eurydice among thepeaceful shades. He must take his lute, and perchance by the power of music he can induce Pluto to release her. Was there ever a more charming story for an opera! Amor further dictates that while leading Eurydice to the upper world he must not look upon her, else all endeavor will have been in vain, and death will at once claim his own. After promising to obey, Orpheus sings a song full of gratitude, with here and there a gleam of gladness like flecks of sunlight after rain. His final aria is the very noontide of joy, dignified always but none the less radiant. Glück here finds use for colorature—plain, classical scales and broken thirds without any appoggiaturas or even staccatos; but his even-tempoed sixteenth notes seem as gay as Rossini's breathless sixty-fourths.

The second act is the most interesting. It pictures the nether world of Hades. There are vistas of receding caverns full of smoke and flames. Furies and Demons occupy the stage. According to Glück, thebrass instruments furnish the music of Hades, in opposition to the harps, which belong to heaven. The first tones are hurled up by the trumpets like a blast of molten rocks. Then like a balm to all the senses, nectar after poison, incense after sulfur, day after night, come the next celestial harmonies. It is Orpheus with his lute, whose harp-tones reach us from afar, as this musician of the gods plays his way through the gates of Hades. For a moment the Furies cease their revel, as they wonder what mortal dares to enter here. When they resume their dance the orchestra renders a reeling, demoniacal medley of scales and staccatos. Again the Furies stop as they see Orpheus approaching, and they sing a malediction upon this mortal so audacious. They try to frighten him with howls from the watch-dog Cerberus, an effect admirably represented by the instruments. The music is all fearful and threatening, with creeping chromatics shrouded in a minor key.

Orpheus is undaunted; and with enduring faith in the power of his music he takes up his harp and sings to them of his love for Eurydice. Entreating their pity, he begs them to let him pass; but Cerberus still howls and the Furies shout "No!" They threaten him with eternal torture, but the inspired youth sings on. No punishment they can devise could exceed the grief he already suffers—such is the burden of his song. Even the Demons and Furies can not long resist such tender strains. With bated breath they wonder what strange feeling steals o'er them, for pity is a new sensation: "The cheeks of the Furies were wet with tears; all Hades held its breath." Three times the wondrous song and accompaniment still the shrieks of Pluto's realm. Orpheus is finally allowed to pass. The Furies and Demons hasten to drown their recent emotion in a mad revel that surpasses the first one. This demon-dance is admirably characterized by the music. It has a rapid tempo and a perpetual motion thatsuggest dancing on hot iron. Tremolos rise and fall like puffs of smoke, while scales like coiling snakes and staccatos like skipping imps add to the effect of pandemonium.

Act III. pictures the Elysian fields, the abode of the blest where "calm and eternal rest" pervade even the music. The orchestral introduction is saintly, with its religious harmonies and classic purity. It is simple, but yet so interesting that we can imagine the immortal spirits hearing forever and never weary, for classical music is always new and always beautiful. The flute and stringed instruments perform the great part of this Elysian music. White-robed spirits glide about, and one soprano voice starts up a happy, flowing melody that inspires a chorus of others. It is Eurydice who leads this singing of the blest.

There is dancing as well as singing, and during this divertisement the instruments weave out a new musical fabric. The steady accompaniment and firm legato theme arethe woof and warp through which, around which, and over which a little five-note appoggiatura sports like a weaver's shuttle. It appears four times in every measure, but never twice in the same place.

With wonder and admiration comes Orpheus upon the scene. The orchestra continues its blithe harmonies while Orpheus sings of the beauteous sight. But not even such surroundings can quell his longing for Eurydice. Unlike the Furies, who only granted his prayer because compelled by his wondrous music, the spirits of the blest can not see any one suffer. With one voice and immediately they tell him to take Eurydice. To the strains of softest music Orpheus approaches the various spirits. He harkens to their heart-beats, and finally recognizes his loved one without seeing her.

The scene changes to another part of the nether world, a forest through which Orpheus is leading Eurydice back to earth. A nervous, anxious instrumental passage precedes the opening recitative dialogue. Eurydiceat first rejoices over her new-found life, but then forgets all else in surprise and grief because Orpheus will not look at her. She questions him, entreats him, fears she is no longer beautiful, or that his heart has changed. Orpheus explains that he dare not look at her, but Eurydice is not satisfied. She refuses to go farther, for if he can not look at her she does not wish to live. The ensuing duet is intense and full of climacteric effects. The voices chase each other like clouds before a storm, low down and hovering near that sea of sound, the orchestra, over which the conductor rules with his wand like Neptune with his trident.

Orpheus firmly resists the pleadings of Eurydice until she declares that his coldness will break her heart,—she will die of grief if he does not look at her. Little wonder that he flings prudence to the winds and impulsively turns to embrace her.

But no sooner has he looked upon Eurydice than she droops and sinks from his arms like a blighted flower. Death has againcome between them. Orpheus cries aloud his grief, and there springs from his heart a song of lamentation surpassing any other as a geyser does a fountain. "Ach, ich habe sie verloren!" is the German and "Che in faro" the Italian name of this great song that is the standard classical contralto program piece. It is full of sobbing cadenzas and sighing intervals that express more than words or deeds.

Grief at last gives place to desperation: He is on the point of killing himself when Amor reappears. The gods are again moved to pity by his enduring love, and Amor with a touch of her wand revives Eurydice.

The opera closes with a trio between Amor and the reunited pair, an ode to the power of love. It is a sort of musical apotheosis. The orchestral accompaniment has a steady, revolving movement that might suggest the wheel of time tuned and turned in harmony with the voice of love.

The GeniusofGeraldine Farrar

Some half-dozen years ago rumors, vague as perfume from an unfolding flower, began to reach America about a new prima-donna; a Boston girl, very young and very beautiful; singing at the Berlin Royal Opera-house. No American before had ever held such a position—life-member of the opera company which Kaiser Wilhelm supervises, and the Great Frederick founded.

Years went by and still the name of Geraldine Farrar was wafted across the waters—and still she was spoken of as "very young."

American critics grew somewhat incredulous; Germany, of course, is musical and deep-rooted in the science of the art, but New York holds a record of her own in matters operatic, and is not disposed to accept unchallenged a verdict from the land of beer and thorough-bass.

At last the hour came when Geraldine Farrar appeared as a star in her native land. It wasa momentous occasion—the opening of the season; a brilliant audience, diamond-glinting and decollete; an audience familiar with the value of Tiffany tiaras, but inclined to be dubious about Berlin laurels.

The curtain arose upon the first act of Romeo and Juliet; a blaze of color and a whirl of gay music. Soon the dancers dispersed, and a slender figure in saphire satin sauntered down the Capulet stairs, came forward with quiet confidence, and commenced the famous Waltz Song—slowly—dreamily.

With these very first notes Geraldine Farrar revealed originality; she sang them as tho thinking aloud; the words fell from her lips like a tender caress—

"I would linger in this dream that enthralls me."

She closed the aria with brilliant tones, a high note—and a smile. Geraldine Farrar's smile is something to drive a poet to sonnets—and a prince to sighs!

One paper the next morning declared: "From that moment she could have wrapped the whole audience around her little finger."

There followed a "Farrar furor," tho cautiouscritics were careful to point out that her performance as yet evinced nothing more than "a lovely voice, a peculiarly gifted dramatic temperament, youth, beauty, and considerable experience!" That's all!

"She is not yet a finished artist," these critics say, but at four-and-twenty what would you? Her voice is "golden," and no one denies that her histrionic gifts are phenomenal.

It is strange—this quality of nativegreatness. In the case of these famous singers, one almost feels that thegreatnessmakes the voice. Themindis what counts, after all. Geraldine Farrar impresses one forcibly with this fact. Her mind is alert, keen, observant, thoughtful, quick at reaching conclusions, widely interested, eager to learn, but at the same time self-contained and firmly poised.

When talking about music her face lights up. She has much to say; she has thought and studied deeply; she is intense, enthusiastic, full of her subject, aglow with earnestness and vitality.

From early childhood she was always singing, always acting, and alwaysintending to be a prima-donna.

"I began voice-study when I was twelve, but before that had sung all of Faust in Italian, and acted it according to my own imagination."

When asked if she had not run some risk of harming the vocal cords by beginning so young, she explained that her voice at this age was remarkably mature and full. She was possessed, besides, with an irresistible desire to sing, so it seemed both prudent and wise to commence serious study thus early.

"A born singer isinstinctive, and selects, almost instinctively, her individual means of expression, avoiding, in the main, what is distinctly harmful. But practice and study are continuously and always necessary. I work faithfully every day with scales and trills and intervals. Before a performance I go over my part, mentally, from beginning to end."

In reply to a question about her ambition, she answered promptly and impressively:

"Yes, I have one very decided ambition: I wish to develop my powers to the fullest extent and most complete beauty, and then—I wish to have thecourage, when physical strength no longer responds to the creative demands, toabdicate in favor of Youth! Youth must berecognized, enjoyed, encouraged! We should have more of this God-given fragrance in our mimic world, and less of hard-earned, middle-aged experience."

Miss Farrar's favorite recreation is "sleep—and much of it!"

As for books, she likes "everything."

"I read a great deal," she commented. "When I was studying 'Madame Butterfly,' I read everything I could find about the Japanese. I tried to imbue myself with their spirit. I bought up old prints, and pictures, and costumes; I learned how they eat, and sleep, and walk, and talk, and think, and feel. I read books on the subject in French and German, as well as in English."

Incidentally it came out that she memorized this most difficult of operas in fifteen days.

"No, I am never afraid of forgetting my lines." Then, tapping her forehead lightly, she added: "When a thing is once learned, it seems to stick in a certain corner of your brain and stay there."

There was youth and girlishness in her off-hand manner of making this remark. In fact, the artist and girl are constantly alternating inthe play of her features, and it is fascinating to watch this hide-and-seek of youth and maturity.

The girl-spirit was uppermost now, as she sank back comfortably in her big arm-chair, drew her Frenchy peignoire more snugly about her, and related some of the drollcontretempsthat occur on the opera-house stage.

"The audience never seems to see them, but the most ridiculous things happen, and then it is terrible when you want to laugh, but dare not."

A mention of Lilli Lehmann suddenly sobered the conversation. Lilli Lehmann is Geraldine Farrar's teacher—"and a very severe one"—her pupil asserts.

"But she—and all Germans—appreciatepersonality. That is why I have been allowed to develop my own ideas—to be individual. That is, to me, the most interesting part of the art. I am keenly interested in observing life—the expression of people's faces, their way of saying and doing things. Wherever I am, whatever I see, I am always finding something to use in my art.

"I once saw a death—it sounds unfeeling tosay it, but I now use the very expression I saw then in the finale of 'Boheme.'"

Geraldine Farrar's realism is a well-known phase of her art. A striking instance is her performance in the last act of Romeo and Juliet: she sings almost the entire scenelying down! An amazing innovation.

"Perhaps it is unusual," she commented, "but the simple repose seems to me more fully to accentuate the sublime and lyric climax of the tragedy."

This is a little rift into the prima-donna's viewpoint. She believes that "vocal intensity and dramatic value should so merge one into the other that they produce equalized sincerity of expression and constant changing of color, movement, and sentiment."

"Give your best always; takeSincerityfor your guide, andWork, never-ending, for your master."

This is Geraldine Farrar's creed.

"Madame Butterfly"

Beauty of plot and great music are to an opera what fair features and a noble soul are to woman. "Madame Butterfly" possesses these attributes, and has consequently won that instant success which only true beauty, in either art or nature, calls forth.

Very seldom is the story of an opera so intensely thrilling that the original author is borne in mind; but it may be stated as a fact that no one applauds Giacomo Puccini's splendid music without also thinking "All Hail!" to John Luther Long, who wrote this strangely tender tragedy.

Distinctly unique as a grand opera setting is the Land of Cherry-blossoms. Never before have the higher harmonies been blended in with embroidered kimonas and chrysanthemum screens. The innovation is delightful, however; refreshing, uplifting, enlarging. By means of great music we are enabled to understand great emotion in the Little Land.

In this opera the hero is the villain, if one may so express it. He is also an American; a lieutenant in the U. S. Navy, and from first to last he seems blandly unconscious of his villainy. This is distressing morally, but musically one could wish it no different. As the rainbow-mist rises out of the whirlpool, so the beautiful in art is most often evolved from a maelstrom of sin and tragedy.

A flowered veranda to a tiny house, a lilac-garden that overlooks a far, fair view of Nagasaki, the bright blue bay and azure sky—this is the opening scene of Puccini's opera.

The brief orchestral prelude is a pretty piece of fugue work, four-voiced and accurately constructed. A fugue is unusual in grand opera, but Puccini has a purpose in everything, and his music is essentially descriptive. The opening conversation in this opera concerns the construction of the tiny villa, and as a fugue is the one music-form suggestive of rules and measurements—a secure foundation and precise superstructure—it is clear that this bit of musical masonry, with its themes overlapping but carefully joined, is intended to represent the house.

On the stage the dainty dwelling is glowingly described by Goro, a Japanese marriage-broker; very obsequious in manners, but characterized in the orchestra by a most energetic, business-like theme that follows him around like a shadow.

A wedding of his arranging is soon to take place, and this house has been rented for the honeymoon. The bridegroom, Lieutenant Pinkerton, of the U. S. Navy, is viewing the abode for the first time. He wears a handsome uniform, and serves the opera as tenor, hero, lover, villain—all in one.

Goro makes him acquainted also with the house-servant, Susuki, a solemn-faced, saffron-colored maiden, whose name means "Gentle-breeze-of-the-morning." Pinkerton prefers to call her "Scare-crow."

The first invited guest to arrive is the U. S. Consul. A sympathetic and genuinely tender theme announces this character's approach. Always listen to the orchestra if you would know the real nature of these people of the play. In grand opera, as in real life,wordsvery often conceal thought; but by the powerof music the listener is endowed with a temporary sense of omniscience; he can read the hearts and motives of the creatures he observes.

It being still early, Pinkerton and the Consul seat themselves while the hero explains this marriage he is entering upon. But first he orders a "whisky and soda."

There is apparently no translation for this barroom barbarism, so the English words are used, and their effect is noticeably jarring. No critic has failed to remark this surprising debut of fire-water on the lyric stage! There is charm and poetry in the Italian wine-glass, and we have grown accustomed to see that mingled with melody—but the American whisky-bottle stands remote from music as a pig from Paradise. Puccini seems to realize this, for he accompanies the obnoxious word with a discord!

There is nothing discordant, however, in Pinkerton's description of his bride—the lovely lady Butterfly—"dainty in stature—quaint little figure—seems to have stepped down, straight from a screen."

The music here is delicate and frail, like an exquisite tracery of gold lacquer.

He intends to marry this Japanese bride in Japanese fashion, thereby making the tie unbinding in America—a slip-knot adjustment that she, poor thing, is unaware of.

The Consul remonstrates with Pinkerton over his "easy-going gospel" of free love, but this light-hearted villain will not listen. He holds up his glass instead, and to a buried accompaniment of the "Star-spangled Banner," he proposes a toast to America—and also to the day on which he shall wed inrealmarriage arealwife of his own nationality.

With this atrocious toast scarcely uttered, poor little trusting Butterfly is heard in the distance with her bridesmaids, singing as they approach. A delirium of joy breathes through this song, which is a weird succession of Oriental intervals, strange as an opium dream. As the harmonies grow firmer, Butterfly's voice rings out above the others, while in the orchestra the conductor with his baton slowly unearths, like a buried diamond, the great love-theme of the opera. It beams forth in sultry splendor, a cluster of chords with imprisoned tones that flash forth unlooked-for harmonies.

At last she enters—this Japanese heroine, her brilliant draperies as bright as her name. Her maidens all carry huge paper parasols and fluttering fans—a merry group of girls, filled with varied emotions of timidity, envy, curiosity, and fun. They courtesy, and smile, and sing, and sigh, and lower their eyes with knowing charm.

Throughout this scene it is interesting to note the different themes and their consistent use. A phrase of the opening fugue invariably appears whenever thehouseis mentioned; still another architectural motif protrudes into prominence every time the town Nagasaki is referred to. Susuki has a theme of her own; so has the Consul. When the relations of the bride troop in, we recognize the fact that they, too, have a theme; we learned it when Goro, some time back, was enumerating the expected guests.

This theme now asserts itself in the orchestra as the grotesque company assembles. There is nothing great about this melody: it is a mincing, thin-bodied affair, but disports itself with much confidence during its little hour of importance;it shoves out every other theme from the orchestra and demands undivided attention. But at last the director's stick chases it out of the enclosure.

The guests in the meantime have been gossiping among themselves, disparaging the bride, criticizing the groom—and partaking of his refreshments.

All flats and sharps and accidentals are suddenly dropt from the score when the official registrar reads in monotone voice, and plain C major, the simple marriage form.

The ceremony is soon over, but the guests linger on. Pinkerton plies them with wine, but makes little headway in hurrying the festivities to an end. He has grown heartily tired of these new relations, and longs to see them go, but, instead of any one leaving, another one suddenly arrives, an absent uncle, who plunges amongst them in a frenzy of wrath and excitement. He has learned at the American Mission that Butterfly, without telling her family, has changed her religion and cast off the faith of her fathers.

Cries of horror, moans, and execrations followthis announcement. Butterfly is denounced by her family—abjured and disowned. She cowers before them, distressed, but not utterly crushed, for love remains to console her.

The tragic theme of the opera; a gruesome sequence of minor thirds, takes this opportunity to stalk into the orchestra and reconnoiter, like an undertaker looking over the premises before he is really needed. This theme has active work to do later on, but as yet does not seem very terrifying.

When the relations and guests are gone, Butterfly is soon persuaded to forget the "stupid tribe."

Evening has come; there is a twilight tinge to the music; it is "dolce," "expressione," and "rallentando."

Puccini is a master of modulations. He employs large, full harmonies, soul-asserting, all-engulfing chords, that feel their way from one key to another, and burst forth in new glory with every transition. This persistent progress through varying keys has an effect of leading the listener through different rooms in some palatial edifice. In the hands of a great composer,each key of the scale unlocks a new vista in the enchanted palace of music.

Behind a screen on the veranda, Butterfly changes her chromatic kimona to one of white silk. She emerges with garments all soft and fluttering, like the trembling white wings of a night-moth.

Pinkerton leads her into the garden, and there, under the spell of the silent stars, they sing of love and of the glorious mystic night, with its gentle breeze that passes like a benediction over the bending lilacs. Fire-flies (cleverly imitated) hover in the air and flicker faintly, like candles in a distant chancel. The conductor waving his wand, like a priest the swinging censor, evokes a wreathing mist of music that enwraps the lovers in a drapery of dreams.

Melodies and harmonies rise into being and pass away like phantoms floating by, until at last the great love-theme of the opera once again is flashed upon us. Thediamond, scarce revealed before, is now in its proper setting. It is displayed in solemn glory by the dignitary at the desk, who, with upraised, swayinghands, holds aloft this precious theme, as a priest does the sacred emblem.

Act II. pictures the interior of Butterfly's house.

There is desolation in the home; the orchestra tells us this, for the tragic theme possesses the instruments, creeping around among them, serpent-like, and enfolding them in its coils.

The rising curtain reveals Susuki kneeling before a shrine; she is praying that Pinkerton may return.

Three times have the dragon-kites swelled in the breeze and the peach trees flushed into bloom since the day he sailed away.

Her prayer abounds in strange and uncouth harmonies that wail themselves into silence. When the incantation is finished, an orchestral phrase of keen despair and tortured hope accompanies Butterfly as she asks: "How soon shall we be starving?"

Susuki counts over the few remaining yen, and expresses doubt about Pinkerton's return. Again that same theme of anguish pierces the air like a knife as Butterfly shrieks out: "Silence!" She will not listen to doubt. Sheinsists that he will return, and she fondly adds, "he will call me again his tiny child-wife, his little Butterfly!"

With this memory there is a momentary return of the great Love-theme in the orchestra; tender and fleeting, like a smile on the face of the dying.

Butterfly sings of the radiant hour, some day, when they shall see "in the distance a little thread of smoke," and then "a trim, white vessel," flying the American flag!

The music of this aria has a confident ring and a forward swing, like a great ship nearing shore. Large and splendid is the final climax:

"He will return—I know!"

A familiar theme in the orchestra heralds the approach of the U. S. Consul. He brings a letter from Pinkerton which he wishes Butterfly to hear, but Japanese politeness interferes for some time. He must first accept tea and wine, a pipe to smoke, and a cushion to sit on. He is questioned about his health and the health of his honorable ancestors. His own "Augustness" is profusely welcomed.

Scarcely have these formalities been accomplishedwhen another visitor arrives—a pompous personage, accompanied by servants who bring presents and flowers. He comes to persuade Madame Butterfly that her husband's absence amounts to a divorce, and that he, Prince Yamadori, should be accepted as Pinkerton's successor.

This energetic wooer, lemon-faced and almond-eyed, imparts to the music a spicy flavor, grotesque and Japanese. His brief, breezy phrases have a turn and tang that belongs entirely to the Land of Nippon; staccato suggestions of chop-sticks and Oolong.

The hostess politely declines to listen to her elaborate suitor.

She busies herself pouring tea, while in the orchestra a delightfully tender, untroubled waltz-theme reflects her tranquil spirit, which is like some quiet mountain pool in the path of a coming avalanche.

Impending disaster is near. Pinkerton's letter contains news that will bring devastation to the little Japanese home. He is coming back—but not to see Butterfly; a new wife comes with him.

The Consul waits until Yamadori has gone, then bravely tries to read the letter, but his eager listener is too excited to hear to the end.

"He is coming!" That is enough! Her joy is unbounded. She speeds from the room and in a moment returns with a sunny-haired child on her shoulders—her "baby-boy!"—her "noble little American!"—to whom she tells the glad news that his father soon will return.

The distressed Consul has not the heart to enlighten her further. He leaves rather abruptly.

A moment later a signal gun is heard in the distance.

Susuki plunges in, breathless;—"The harbor cannon!" Both women rush to the window. They can see the ship! A man-of-war! The Stars and Stripes!

Oh, the pain of this joy! The audience, knowing all, is torn and racked with emotion as the orchestra reiterates Butterfly's recent song of confidence about "his sure return."

Now is her "hour of triumph!" She proclaims it to high heaven—to Susuki—and to all"the eight hundred thousand gods and goddesses of Japan."

All the world had told her he would forget and never return—but she knew!—she knew! Now, at last, her faith triumphs—he is here!

Superb is the crescendo now sweeping upward on the crest of America's martial theme. The Star-Spangled Banner is bugled by the instruments, while Butterfly's voice, in high and jubilant accord, sings again the glad words: "He is here!—he loves me!"

In the orchestra the love-theme—the great theme—arises slowly and passes by like a spirit of the past, a soul long dead, a memory faded.

Now follows a poetic scene unsurpassed for picturesque charm and grace.

In accordance with Japanese custom, the two women sprinkle the room with flowers, in honor of his home-coming.

Great baskets full of blossoms are brought in by Susuki, while Butterfly, always singing, showers the room with petals. She sways with the rhythm of joy and music, flinging the flowers in reckless profusion, her voice seeming tofollow their flight—up in the air—and down again.

Susuki, too, scatters rainbow-clouds of jasmine, peach-blooms, and violets; her contralto voice at the same time giving depth of color to the music. In the orchestra dainty, fluttering phrases are lightly tossed about, as tho shaken from the instruments by a passing breeze.

Full of strange involutions and harmonies, the music of this "flower-duet" possesses the essential quality of all that is lasting and classic—hidden beauty beneath the obvious. With the choicest "mixing" of harmony, orchestra and voice, Puccini has brewed a "blend" most rare, and sugared it with melody.

When the baskets are emptied and the last flower fallen, a few final notes of the refrain still left in the orchestra are hurriedly brushed out by the conductor's baton.

On the stage, as the daylight melts into dusk, Butterfly, all in a flurry, is decking herself in her wedding gown, while the orchestra calls up memories of the lilac-garden and the fire-flies.

When all is ready, Butterfly, Susuki, and the little one take positions at the window.

Long and patiently they watch and wait.

The orchestra plays a soft, unchanging staccato accompaniment. The moonlight finds its way into the room.

At last the maid and the child fall asleep. Not so with Butterfly; rigid and still she stands at the window, her eyes on the distant harbor-lights.

A sound of far-away voices softly humming a sad, weird refrain, fills the scene with mystery, suggesting the moan of guardian spirits. All this while the gentle staccato harmonies in the orchestra continue to flit back and forth, like the changing lights of swinging lanterns.

Butterfly does not move. The curtain slowly descends.

The prelude to the last act opens with a theme that crashes and tears its way into prominence: a pitiless, gruesome group of notes, that sounds vaguely familiar, tho it has never been emphasized like the tragic-theme and others gone before. In the first act this dire phrase was heard for a moment, buried softly among the harmonies that accompanied Butterfly's first entrance song. She was happy then, but, nevertheless, this germ of agony was lurking near, as tho to suggest that we, each one, carry within our own temperament the weakness or fault that will eventually lead us to grief.

The orchestra is kept very active during this prelude or intermission. The past is presented in flashes of old themes, and the coming day is presaged by new phrases of potent meaning. Sounds of the harbor life beginning to stir, distant voices of sailors chanting, are heard even before the curtain rises. When this is lifted, behold poor Butterfly still at her post! All night she has watched and waited, never moving, never doubting.

Now the dawn, cruel, cold-eyed and leering, begins to peer through the window. The pale, frail figure in her wedding gown still does not move; she still hopes on, counting the stars as they disappear; measuring each moment by her heart's wild beating.

The dawn grows rosy, the music in the orchestra tells of the world's awakening. The sun's glad welcome is proclaimed in a resoundingpean of harmonies, pierced with sharp, bright strokes from the triangle.

But all this brilliant daybreak music fails to modify the tragedy of the dawn.

Susuki awakens to despair, but poor little Butterfly still asserts, "He'll come! he'll come!"

When urged by the maid to rest, she takes the little one up in her arms, soothing him gently with a quiet song as she mounts the stairs to her sleeping-room.

Scarcely has she gone, when Susuki is startled by a knock at the door. Pinkerton has come—and the Consul with him, but they tell the maid not to summon her mistress—not yet.

The music of the flower-duet fills the air like a faint perfume as Pinkerton observes the withered blossoms, and Susuki explains the decorations and tells of Butterfly's weary vigil. A moment later she sees through the window a lady waiting in the garden.

It is Pinkerton's wife.

"Hallowed souls of our fathers! The world is plunged in gloom!"

Susuki falls prostrate on her knees.

The ensuing trio is a magnificent musical unfoldment of sympathy from the Consul, remorse from Pinkerton, and consternation from Susuki. It is a splendid mingling of emotion and melody.

The two men are left alone as the maid goes out to speak with the new wife. Pinkerton acts properly distressed over the situation, and his friend, being only human, cannot refrain from saying, "I told you so," whereupon the music of his warning remonstrance in the first act is plainly marked in the orchestra, like an underscoring to written words.

Pinkerton sighs over the room and its associations, sheds a few tears, and then decides the strain is too great for him. As he leaves the house, his wife and Susuki walk into view at the window.

At this moment Butterfly comes rushing down the stairs; she has heard voices—"he is here!"

Susuki tries to ward off the evil moment, but thehour has struck. The tragic theme rises up supreme—revealing itself in unclothed hideousness: all the other themes have fallenaway; they were as mere empty masks over the face of truth—behind life is always death—back of the smile is a skeleton.

Through the open window Butterfly sees the "other woman."

"Who are you?" Mechanically her lips frame the words, as she stands there, paralyzed—stunned. But the question was perfunctory; the explanations that follow only confirm what she knew at first sight.

Very gently the American wife proposes to Butterfly to adopt her child and bring him up as her own.

The Japanese mother listens dumbly—then slowly realizes that unless she consents to this plan her boy will have no name.

Butterfly says very little—but she accedes. She asks, however, that Mr. Pinkerton himself shall come for the child. "Come in half an hour—in half an hour."

Agreed to this, the Consul and the American lady go away.

Susuki is now quietly ordered to leave the room. She protests, but her mistress is firm; she wishes to be alone.

When the weeping maid has gone, Butterfly lights a lamp at the little shrine and bows before it. Then she takes from the wall a dagger, but drops this as the baby suddenly enters, shoved in by Susuki—faithful slave! who, forbidden to enter herself, thus blindly tries to frustrate Butterfly's ominous wish to be alone.

The child rushes to its mother's arms, and Butterfly clasps it wildly, calling it all the extravagant love-names Japanese fancy can devise.

"'Tis for you, my love, that I am dying!"

She holds him at arm's-length and bids him look long and well upon her face. The baby tosses his head and laughs; he little recks what she is saying:

"Take one last look on your mother's face, that the memory may linger."

The tragic theme attains a grandeur now that makes it seem the apotheosis of human heartache. Through the alembic of the composer's art this gruesome theme emerges ablaze with a terrible glory. It sweeps apast like a fiery chariot, bearing poor little Butterfly's soul to heaven.

There is little more to record; the moment of death seems already gone through in bidding the child good-bye. What follows is done very quietly; every movement is lifeless and spiritless. She ties a bandage about the little one's eyes, and she puts in his hand an American flag; the Japanese mother's token of surrender.

Then Butterfly picks up the dagger. The deed is soon done; she totters to the floor, and with her last breath tries to reach for her baby's hand.

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