The Complete Opera Book / The Stories of the Operas, together with 400 of the Leading Airs and Motives in Musical Notation

"Cavalleria Rusticana" in its original form is a short story, compact and tense, by Giovanni Verga. From it was made the stage tragedy, in which Eleonora Duse displayed her great powers as an actress. It is a drama of swift action and intense emotion; of passion, betrayal, and retribution. Much has been made of the rôle played by the "book" in contributing to the success of the opera. It is a first-rate libretto—one of the best ever put forth. It inspired the composer to what so far has remained his only significant achievement. But only in that respect is it responsible for the success of "Cavalleria Rusticana" as an opera. The hot blood of the story courses through the music of Mascagni, who in his score also has quieter passages, that make the cries of passion the more poignant. Like practically every enduring success, that of "Cavalleria Rusticana" rests upon merit. From beginning to end it is an inspiration. In it, in 1890, Mascagni, at the age of twenty-one, "found himself," and ever since has been trying, unsuccessfully, to find himself again.

The prelude contains three passages of significance in the development of the story. The first of these is the phrase of the despairing Santuzza, in which she cries out to Turiddu that, despite his betrayal and desertion of her, she still loves and pardons him. The second is the melody of the duet between Santuzza and Turiddu, in which she implores him to remain with her and not to follow Lola into the church. The third is the air in Sicilian style, the "Siciliana," which, as part of the prelude, Turiddu sings behind the curtain, in the manner of a serenade to Lola, "O Lola, bianca come fior di spino" (O Lola, fair as a smiling flower).

With the end of the "Siciliana" the curtain rises. It discloses a public square in a Sicilian village. On one side, in the background, is a church, on the other Mamma Lucia's wineshop and dwelling. It is Easter morning. Peasants, men, women, and children cross or move about the stage. The church bells ring, the church doors swing open, people enter. A chorus, in which, mingled with gladness over the mild beauty of the day, there also is the lilt of religious ecstasy, follows. Like a refrain the women voice and repeat "Gli aranci olezzano sui verdi margini" (Sweet is the air with the blossoms of oranges). They intone "La Vergine serena allietasi del Salvator" (The Holy Mother mild, in ecstasy fondles the child), and sing of "Tempo è si mormori," etc. (Murmurs of tender song tell of a joyful world). The men, meanwhile, pay a tribute to the industry and charm of woman. Those who have not entered the church, go off singing. Their voices die away in the distance.

Santuzza, sad of mien, approaches Mamma Lucia's house, just as her false lover's mother comes out. There is a brief colloquy between the two women. Santuzza asks for Turiddu. His mother answers that he has gone to Francofonte to fetch some wine. Santuzza tells her that he was seen during the night in the village. The girl's evident distress touches Mamma Lucia. She bids her enter the house.

"I may not step across your threshold," exclaims Santuzza. "I cannot pass it, I, most unhappy outcast! Excommunicated!"

Mamma Lucia may have her suspicions of Santuzza's plight. "What of my son?" she asks. "What have you to tell me?"

But at that moment the cracking of a whip and the jingling of bells are heard from off stage. Alfio, the teamster, comes upon the scene. He is accompanied by the villagers. Cheerfully he sings the praises of a teamster's life, also of Lola's, his wife's, beauty. The villagers join him in chorus, "Il cavallo scalpita" (Gayly moves the tramping horse).

Alfio asks Mamma Lucia if she still has on hand some of her fine old wine. She tells him it has given out. Turiddu has gone away to buy a fresh supply of it.

"No," says Alfio. "He is here. I saw him this morning standing not far from my cottage."

Mamma Lucia is about to express great surprise. Santuzza is quick to check her.

Alfio goes his way. A choir in the church intones the "Regina Cœli." The people in the square join in the "Allelujas." Then they kneel and, led by Santuzza's voice, sing the Resurrection hymn, "Inneggiamo, il Signor non è morto" (Let us sing of the Lord now victorious). The "Allelujas" resound in the church, which all, save Mamma Lucia and Santuzza, enter.

Mamma Lucia asks the girl why she signalled her to remain silent when Alfio spoke of Turiddu's presence in the village. "Voi lo sapete" (Now you shall know), exclaims Santuzza, and in one of the most impassioned numbers of the score, pours into the ears of her lover's mother the story of her betrayal. Before Turiddu left to serve his time in the army, he and Lola were in love with each other. But, tiring of awaiting his return, the fickle Lola married Alfio. Turiddu, after he had come back, made love to Santuzza and betrayed her; now, lured by Lola, he has taken advantage of Alfio's frequent absences, and has gone back to his first love. Mamma Lucia pities the girl, who begs that she go into church and pray for her.

Turiddu comes, a handsome fellow. Santuzza upbraids him for pretending to have gone away, when instead he has surreptitiously been visiting Lola. It is a scene of vehemence. But when Turiddu intimates that his life would be in danger were Alfio to know of his visits to Lola, the girl is terrified. "Battimi, insultami, t'amo e perdono" (Beat me, insult me, I still love and forgive you).

Such is her mood—despairing, yet relenting. But Lola's voice is heard off stage. Her song is carefree, a key to her character, which is fickle and selfish, with a touch of the cruel. "Fior di giaggiolo" (Bright flower, so glowing) runs her song. Heard off stage, it yet conveys in its melody, its pauses, and inflections, a quick sketch in music of the heartless coquette, who, to gratify a whim, has stolen Turiddu from Santuzza. She mocks the girl, then enters the church. Only a few minutes has she been on the stage, but Mascagni has let us know all about her.

A highly dramatic scene, one of the most impassioned outbursts of the score, occurs at this point. Turiddu turns to follow Lola into the church. Santuzza begs him to stay. "No, no, Turiddu, rimani, rimani, ancora—Abbandonarmi dunque tu vuoi?" (No, no, Turiddu! Remain with me now and forever! Love me again! How can you forsake me?).

[Listen]

A highly dramatic phrase, already heard in the prelude, occurs at "La tua Santuzza piange e t'implora" (Lo! here thy Santuzza, weeping, implores thee).

Turiddu repulses her. She clings to him. He loosens her hold and casts her from him to the ground. When she rises, he has followed Lola into the church.

But the avenger is nigh. Before Santuzza has time to think, Alfio comes upon the scene. He is looking for Lola. To him in the fewest possible words, and in the white voice of suppressed passion, Santuzza tells him that his wife has been unfaithful with Turiddu. In the brevity of its recitatives, the tense summing up in melody of each dramatic situation as it develops in the inexorably swift unfolding of the tragic story, lies the strength of "Cavalleria Rusticana."

Santuzza and Alfio leave. The square is empty. But the action goes on in the orchestra. For the intermezzo—the famous intermezzo—which follows, recapitulates, in its forty-eight bars, what has gone before, and foreshadows the tragedy that is impending. There is no restating here of leading motives. The effect is accomplished by means of terse, vibrant melodic progression. It is melody and yet it is drama. Therein lies its merit. For no piece of serious music can achieve the world-wide popularity of this intermezzo and not possess merit.

[Listen]

Mr. Krehbiel, in A Second Book of Operas, gives an instance of its unexampled appeal to the multitude. A burlesque on this opera was staged in Vienna. The author of the burlesque thought it would be a great joke to have the intermezzo played on a hand-organ. Up to that point the audience had been hilarious. But with the first wheezy tone of the grinder the people settled down to silent attention, and, when the end came, burst into applause. Even the hand-organ could not rob the intermezzo of its charm for the public!

What is to follow in the opera is quickly accomplished. The people come out of church. Turiddu, in high spirits, because he is with Lola and because Santuzza no longer is hanging around to reproach him, invites his friends over to his mother's wineshop. Their glasses are filled. Turiddu dashes off a drinking song, "Viva, il vino spumeggiante" (Hail! the ruby wine now flowing).

The theme of this song will be found quoted on p. 609.

Alfio joins them. Turiddu offers him wine. He refuses it. The women leave, taking Lola with them. In a brief exchange of words Alfio gives the challenge. In Sicilian fashion the two men embrace, and Turiddu, in token of acceptance, bites Alfio's ear. Alfio goes off in the direction of the place where they are to test their skill with the stiletto.

Turiddu calls for Mamma Lucia. He is going away, he tells her. At home the wine cup passes too freely. He must leave. If he should not come back she must be like a kindly mother to Santuzza—"Santa, whom I have promised to lead to the altar."

"Un bacio, mamma! Un altro bacio!—Addio!" (One kiss, one kiss, my mother. And yet another. Farewell!)

He goes. Mamma Lucia wanders aimlessly to the back of the stage. She is weeping. Santuzza comes on, throws her arms around the poor woman's neck. People crowd upon the scene. All is suppressed excitement. There is a murmur of distant voices. A woman is heard calling from afar: "They have murdered neighbour Turiddu!"

Several women enter hastily. One of them, the one whose voice was heard in the distance, repeats, but now in a shriek, "Hanno ammazzato compare Turiddu!"—(They have murdered neighbour Turiddu!)

Santuzza falls in a swoon. The fainting form of Mamma Lucia is supported by some of the women.

"Cala rapidamente la tela" (The curtain falls rapidly).

A tragedy of Sicily, hot in the blood, is over.

When "Cavalleria Rusticana" was produced, no Italian opera had achieved such a triumph since "Aïda"—a period of nearly twenty years. It was hoped that Mascagni would prove to be Verdi's successor, a hope which, needless to say, has not been fulfilled.

To "Cavalleria Rusticana," however, we owe the succession of short operas, usually founded on debased and sordid material, in which other composers have paid Mascagni the doubtful compliment of imitation in hopes of achieving similar success. Of all these, "Pagliacci," by Leoncavallo, is the only one that has shared the vogue of the Mascagni opera. The two make a remarkably effective double bill.

L’AMICO FRITZ
FRIEND FRITZ

Act I. Fritz Kobus, a well-to-do landowner and confirmed bachelor, receives felicitations on his fortieth birthday. He invites his friends to dine with him. Among the guests is Suzel, his tenant's daughter, who presents him with a nosegay, and sits beside him. Never before has he realized her charm. Rabbi David, a confirmed matchmaker, wagers with the protesting Fritz that he will soon be married.

Act II. Friend Fritz is visiting Suzel's father. The charming girl mounts a ladder in the garden, picks cherries, and throws them down to Fritz, who is charmed. When Rabbi David appears and tells him that he has found a suitable husband for Suzel, Fritz cannot help revealing his own feelings.

Act III. At home again Fritz finds no peace. David tells him Suzel's marriage has been decided on. Fritz loses his temper; says he will forbid the bans. Suzel, pale and sad, comes in with a basket of fruit. When her wedding is mentioned she bursts into tears. That gives Fritz his chance which he improves. David wins his wager, one of Fritz's vineyards, which he promptly bestows upon Suzel as a dowry.

The duet of the cherries in the second act is the principal musical number in the opera.

IRIS

Iris is young and beautiful. She is desired by Osaka, a wealthy rake. Kyoto, keeper of a questionable resort, plots to obtain her for him. He comes to her cottage with a marionette show. While Iris is intent upon the performance, three geisha girls, representing Beauty, Death, and the Vampire, dance about her. They conceal her from view by spreading their skirts. She is seized and carried off. Osaka, by leaving money for the blind old father, makes the abduction legal. When Il Cieco returns, he is led to believe that his daughter has gone voluntarily to the Yoshiwara. In a rage he starts out to find her.

Act II. Interior of the "Green House" in the Yoshiwara. Iris awakens. At first she thinks it is an awakening after death. But death brings paradise, while she is unhappy. Osaka, who has placed jewels beside her, comes to woo, but vainly seeks to arouse her passions. In her purity she remains unconscious of the significance of his words and caresses. His brilliant attire leads her to mistake him for Tor, the sun god, but he tells her he is Pleasure. That frightens her. For, as she narrates to him, one day, in the temple, a priest told her that pleasure and death were one.

Osaka wearies of her innocence and leaves her. But Kyoto, wishing to lure him back, attires her in transparent garments and places her upon a balcony. The crowd in the street cries out in amazement over her beauty. Again Osaka wishes to buy her. She hears her father's voice. Joyously she makes her presence known to him. He, ignorant of her abduction and believing her a voluntary inmate of the "Green House," takes a handful of mud from the street, flings it at her, and curses her. In terror, she leaps from a window into the sewer below.

Act III. Ragpickers and scavengers are dragging the sewer before daylight. In song they mock the moon. A flash of light from the mystic mountain awakens what is like an answering gleam in the muck. They discover and drag out the body of Iris. They begin to strip her of her jewels. She shows signs of life. The sordid men and women flee. The rosy light from Fujiyama spreads over the sky. Warmth and light come once more. Iris regains consciousness. Spirit voices whisper of earthly existence and its selfish aspirations typified by the knavery of Kyoto, the lust of Osaka, the desire of Iris's father, Il Cieco, for the comforts of life through her ministrations.

Enough strength comes back to her for her to acclaim the sanctity of the sun. In its warmth and light—the expression of Nature's love—she sinks, as if to be absorbed by Nature, into the blossoming field that spreads about her. Again, as in the beginning, there is the choired tribute to warmth, light, love—the sun!

Partly sordid, partly ethereal in its exposition, the significance of this story has escaped Mascagni, save in the climax of the opening allegory of the work. Elsewhere he employs instruments associated by us with Oriental music, but the spirit of the Orient is lacking. In a score requiring subtlety of invention, skill in instrumentation, and, in general, the gift for poetic expression in music, these qualities are not. The scene of the mousmés in the first act with Iris's song to the flowers of her garden, "In pure stille" (  ); the vague, yet unmistakable hum of Japanese melody in the opening of Act II; and her narrative in the scene with Osaka in the same act, "Un dì al tempio" (One day at the temple)—these, with the hymn to the sun, are about the only passages that require mention.

LODOLETTA

It may be that "Lodoletta's" success at its production in Rome was genuine. Whatever acclaim it has received at the Metropolitan Opera House is due to the fine cast with which it has been presented. There is little spontaneity in the score. A spirit of youthfulness is supposed to pervade the first act, but the composer's efforts are so apparent that the result is childish rather than youthful. Moreover, as Henry T. Finck writes in the N.Y. Evening Post, "Lodoletta" seems to have revived some of the dramatic inconsistencies of the old-fashioned kind of Italian opera. For instance, in the last act, the scene is laid outside Flammen's villa in Paris on New Year's eve—it is zero weather to all appearances, although there is an intermittent snowstorm—but Flammen and Franz, and later all his guests, come out without wraps, and stay for quite awhile. Later Lodoletta, well wrapped (though in rags), appears, and is quickly frozen to death.

The scene of the first act is laid in the village in April. Lodoletta's cottage is seen and the shrine with the picture of the Madonna. It is in order to copy or obtain this that Flammen comes from Paris. In the background is the tree which Antonio climbs and from which, while he is plucking blossom-laden branches for the spring festival, he falls and is killed—a great relief, the character is so dull. There is much running in and out, and singing by boys and girls in this act. The music allotted to them is pretty without being extraordinarily fetching. An interchange of phrases between Flammen and Lodoletta offers opportunity for high notes to the tenor, but there is small dramatic significance in the music.

In the second act the stage setting is the same, except that the season is autumn. There is a song for Lodoletta, and, as in Act I, episodes for her and the children, who exclaim delightedly when they see the picture Flammen has been painting, "È Lodoletta viva, com'è bella" (See! Lodoletta, and so pretty!). But there is little progress made in this act. Much of it has the effect of repetition.

In the third act one sees the exterior of Flammen's villa, and through the open gates of the courtyard Paris in the midst of New Year's gayety. The merriment within the villa is suggested by music and silhouetted figures against the windows. Some of the guests dash out, throw confetti, and indulge in other pranks, which, intended to be bright and lively, only seem silly. As in the previous acts, the sustained measures for Lodoletta and for Flammen, while intended to be dramatic, lack that quality—one which cannot be dispensed with in opera. "The spectacle of Flammen, in full evening dress and without a hat, singing on his doorstep in a snowstorm, would tickle the funny bone of any but an operatic audience," writes Grenville Vernon in the N.Y. Tribune.

ISABEAU

In Illica's version of the Godiva story, the heroine, Isabeau, is as renowned for her aversion to marriage as for her beauty. Her father, King Raimondo, eager to find for her a husband, arranges a tournament of love, at which she is to award her hand as prize to the knight who wins her favour. She rejects them all. For this obstinacy and because she intercedes in a quarrel, Raimondo dooms her to ride unclad through the town at high noon of the same day. At the urging of the populace he modifies his sentence, but only so far as to announce that, while she rides, no one shall remain in the streets or look out of the windows. The order is disobeyed only by a simpleton, a country lout named Folco. Dazed by Isabeau's beauty, he strews flowers for her as she comes riding along. For this the people demand that he suffer the full penalty for violation of the order, which is the loss of eyesight and life. Isabeau, horrified by Folco's act, visits him in prison. Her revulsion turns to love. She decides to inform her father that she is ready to marry. But the Chancellor incites the populace to carry out the death sentence. Isabeau commits suicide.

When "Isabeau" had its American production in Chicago, more than twenty-seven years had elapsed since the first performance of "Cavalleria Rusticana." A long list of operas by Mascagni lies between. But he still remains a one-opera man, that opera, however, a masterpiece.

Ruggiero Leoncavallo
(1858- )

LEONCAVALLO, born March 8, 1858, at Naples, is a dramatic composer, a pianist, and a man of letters. He is the composer of the successful opera "Pagliacci," has made concert tours as a pianoforte virtuoso, is his own librettist, and has received the degree of Doctor of Letters from the University of Bologna.

He studied at the Naples Conservatory. His first opera, "Tommaso Chatterton," was a failure, but was successfully revived in 1896, in Rome. An admirer of Wagner and personally encouraged by him, he wrote and set to music a trilogy, "Crepusculum" (Twilight): I. "I Medici"; II. "Gerolamo Savonarola"; III. "Cesare Borgia." The performing rights to Part I were acquired by the Ricordi publishing house, but, no preparations being made for its production, he set off again on his travels as a pianist; officiating also as a répétiteur for opera singers, among them Maurel, in Paris, where he remained several years. His friendship with that singer bore unexpected fruit. Despairing of ever seeing "I Medici" performed, and inspired by the success of "Cavalleria Rusticana," Leoncavallo wrote and composed "Pagliacci," and sent it to Ricordi's rival, the music publisher Sonzogno. The latter accepted "Pagliacci" immediately after reading the libretto. Maurel then not only threw his influence in favour of the work, but even offered to create the rôle of Tonio; and in that character he was in the original cast (1892). "I Medici" was now produced (La Scala, Milan, 1893), but failed of success. Later operas by Leoncavallo, "La Bohème" (La Fenice Theatre, Venice, 1897) and "Zaza" (Milan, 1900), fared somewhat better, and the latter is played both in Italy and Germany. But "Roland of Berlin," commissioned by the German Emperor and performed December 13, 1904, was a complete failure. In fact Leoncavallo's name is so identified with "Pagliacci" that, like Mascagni, he may be called a one-opera composer.

PAGLIACCI
CLOWNS

"Pagliacci" opens with a prologue. There is an instrumental introduction. Then Tonio pokes his head through the curtains,—"Si può? Signore, Signori" (By your leave, Ladies and Gentlemen),—comes out, and sings. The prologue rehearses, or at least hints at, the story of the opera, and does so in musical phrases, which we shall hear again as the work progresses—the bustle of the players as they make ready for the performance; Canio's lament that he must be merry before his audiences, though his heart be breaking; part of the love-making music between Nedda and Silvio; and the theme of the intermezzo, to the broad measures of which Tonio sings, "E voi, piuttosto che le nostre povere gabbane" (Ah, think then, sweet people, when you behold us clad in our motley).

[Listen]

The prologue, in spite of ancient prototypes, was a bold stroke on the part of Leoncavallo, and, as the result proved, a successful one. Besides its effectiveness in the opera, it has made a good concert number. Moreover, it is quite unlikely that without it Maurel would have offered to play Tonio at the production of the work in Milan.

Act I. The edge of the village of Montalto, Calabria. People are celebrating the Feast of the Assumption. In the background is the tent of the strolling players. These players, Canio, Nedda, Tonio, and Beppe, in the costume of their characters in the play they are to enact, are parading through the village.

The opening chorus, "Son qua" (They're here), proclaims the innocent joy with which the village hails the arrival of the players. The beating of a drum, the blare of a trumpet are heard. The players, having finished their parade through the village, are returning to their tent. Beppe, in his Harlequin costume, enters leading a donkey drawing a gaudily painted cart, in which Nedda is reclining. Behind her, in his Pagliaccio costume, is Canio, beating the big drum and blowing the trumpet. Tonio, dressed as Taddeo, the clown, brings up the rear. The scene is full of life and gayety.

Men, women, and boys, singing sometimes in separate groups, sometimes together, form the chorus. The rising inflection in their oft-repeated greeting to Canio as "il principe sei dei Pagliacci" (the prince of Pagliaccios), adds materially to the lilt of joy in their greeting to the players whose coming performance they evidently regard as the climax to the festival.

Canio addresses the crowd. At seven o'clock the play will begin. They will witness the troubles of poor Pagliaccio, and the vengeance he wreaked on the Clown, a treacherous fellow. 'Twill be a strange combination of love and of hate.

Again the crowd acclaims its joy at the prospect of seeing the players on the stage behind the flaps of the tent.

Tonio comes forward to help Nedda out of the cart. Canio boxes his ears, and lifts Nedda down himself. Tonio, jeered at by the women and boys, angrily shakes his fists at the youngsters, and goes off muttering that Canio will have to pay high for what he has done. Beppe leads off the donkey with the cart, comes back, and throws down his whip in front of the tent. A villager asks Canio to drink at the tavern. Beppe joins them. Canio calls to Tonio. Is he coming with them? Tonio replies that he must stay behind to groom the donkey. A villager suggests that Tonio is remaining in order to make love to Nedda. Canio takes the intended humour of this sally rather grimly. He says that in the play, when he interferes with Tonio's love-making, he lays himself open to a beating. But in real life—let any one, who would try to rob him of Nedda's love, beware. The emphasis with which he speaks causes comment.

"What can he mean?" asks Nedda in an aside.

"Surely you don't suspect her?" question the villagers of Canio.

Of course not, protests Canio, and kisses Nedda on the forehead.

Just then the bagpipers from a neighbouring village are heard approaching. The musicians, followed by the people of their village, arrive to join in the festival. All are made welcome, and the villagers, save a few who are waiting for Canio and Beppe, go off down the road toward the village. The church bells ring. The villagers sing the pretty chorus, "Din, don—suona vespero" (Ding, dong—the vespers bell). Canio nods good-bye to Nedda. He and Beppe go toward the village.

Nedda is alone. Canio's words and manner worry her. "How fierce he looked and watched me!—Heavens, if he should suspect me!" But the birds are singing, the birds, whose voices her mother understood. Her thoughts go back to her childhood. She sings, "Oh! che volo d'augelli" (Ah, ye beautiful song-birds), which leads up to her vivacious ballatella, "Stridono lassù, liberamente" (Forever flying through the boundless sky).

Tonio comes on from behind the theatre. He makes violent love to Nedda. The more passionately the clown pleads, the more she mocks him, and the more angry he grows. He seeks forcibly to grasp and kiss her. She backs away from him. Spying the whip where Beppe threw it down, she seizes it, and with it strikes Tonio across the face. Infuriated, he threatens, as he leaves her, that he will yet be avenged on her.

A man leans over the wall. He calls in a low voice, "Nedda!"

"Silvio!" she cries. "At this hour ... what madness!"

He assures her that it is safe for them to meet. He has just left Canio drinking at the tavern. She cautions him that, if he had been a few moments earlier, his presence would have been discovered by Tonio. He laughs at the suggestion of danger from a clown.

Silvio has come to secure the promise of the woman he loves, and who has pledged her love to him, that she will run away with him from her husband after the performance that night. She does not consent at once, not because of any moral scruples, but because she is afraid. After a little persuasion, however, she yields. The scene reaches its climax in an impassioned love duet, "E allor perchè, di', tu m'hai stregato" (Why hast thou taught me Love's magic story). The lovers prepare to separate, but agree not to do so until after the play, when they are to meet and elope.

The jealous and vengeful Tonio has overheard them, and has run to the tavern to bring back Canio. He comes just in time to hear Nedda call after Silvio, who has climbed the wall, "Tonight, love, and forever I am thine."

Canio, with drawn dagger, makes a rush to overtake and slay the man, who was with his wife. Nedda places herself between him and the wall, but he thrusts her violently aside, leaps the wall, and starts in pursuit. "May Heaven protect him now," prays Nedda for her lover, while Tonio chuckles.

The fugitive has been too swift for Canio. The latter returns.

"His name!" he demands of Nedda, for he does not know who her lover is. Nedda refuses to give it. Silvio is safe! What matter what happens to her. Canio rushes at her to kill her. Tonio and Beppe restrain him. Tonio whispers to him to wait. Nedda's lover surely will be at the play. A look, or gesture from her will betray him. Then Canio can wreak vengeance. Canio thinks well of Tonio's ruse. Nedda escapes into the theatre.

It is time to prepare for the performance. Beppe and Tonio retire to do so.

Canio's grief over his betrayal by Nedda finds expression in one of the most famous numbers in modern Italian opera, "Vesti la giubba" (Now don the motley), with its tragic "Ridi, Pagliaccio" (Laugh thou, Pagliaccio), as Canio goes toward the tent, and enters it. It is the old and ever effective story of the buffoon who must laugh, and make others laugh, while his heart is breaking.

[Listen]

Act II. The scene is the same as that of the preceding act. Tonio with the big drum takes his position at the left angle of the theatre. Beppe places benches for the spectators, who begin to assemble, while Tonio beats the drum. Silvio arrives and nods to friends. Nedda, dressed as Columbine, goes about with a plate and collects money. As she approaches Silvio, she pauses to speak a few words of warning to him, then goes on, and re-enters the theatre with Beppe. The brisk chorus becomes more insistent that the play begin. Most of the women are seated. Others stand with the men on slightly rising ground.

A bell rings loudly. The curtain of the tent theatre on the stage rises. The mimic scene represents a small room with two side doors and a practicable window at the back. Nedda, as Columbine, is walking about expectantly and anxiously. Her husband, Pagliaccio, has gone away till morning. Taddeo is at the market. She awaits her lover, Arlecchino (Harlequin). A dainty minuet forms the musical background.

A guitar is heard outside. Columbine runs to the window with signs of love and impatience. Harlequin, outside, sings his pretty serenade to his Columbine, "O Colombina, il tenero" (O Columbine, unbar to me thy lattice high).

The ditty over, she returns to the front of the mimic stage, seats herself, back to the door, through which Tonio, as Taddeo, a basket on his arm, now enters. He makes exaggerated love to Columbine, who, disgusted with his advances, goes to the window, opens it, and signals. Beppe, as Harlequin, enters by the window. He makes light of Taddeo, whom he takes by the ear and turns out of the room, to the accompaniment of a few kicks. All the while the minuet has tripped its pretty measure and the mimic audience has found plenty to amuse it.

Harlequin has brought a bottle of wine, also a phial with a sleeping-potion, which she is to give her husband, when opportunity offers, so that, while he sleeps, she and Harlequin may fly together. Love appears to prosper, till, suddenly, Taddeo bursts in. Columbine's husband, Pagliaccio, is approaching. He suspects her, and is stamping with anger. "Pour the philtre in his wine, love!" admonishes Harlequin, and hurriedly gets out through the window.

Columbine calls after him, just as Canio, in the character of Pagliaccio, appears in the door, "Tonight, love, and forever, I am thine!"—the same words Canio heard his wife call after her lover a few hours before.

Columbine parries Pagliaccio's questions. He has returned too early. He has been drinking. No one was with her, save the harmless Taddeo, who has become alarmed and has sought safety in the closet. From within, Taddeo expostulates with Pagliaccio. His wife is true, her pious lips would ne'er deceive her husband. The audience laughs.

But now it no longer is Pagliaccio, it is Canio, who calls out threateningly, not to Columbine, but to Nedda, "His name!"

"Pagliaccio! Pagliaccio!" protests Nedda, still trying to keep in the play. "No!" cries out her husband—in a passage dramatically almost as effective as "Ridi, Pagliaccio!"—"I am Pagliaccio no more! I am a man again, with anguish deep and human!" The audience thinks his intensity is wonderful acting—all save Silvio, who shows signs of anxiety.

"Thou had'st my love," concludes Canio, "but now thou hast my hate and scorn."

"If you doubt me," argues Nedda, "why not let me leave you?"

"And go to your lover!—His name! Declare it!"

Still desperately striving to keep in the play, and avert the inevitable, Nedda, as if she were Columbine, sings a chic gavotte, "Suvvia, così terribile" (I never knew, my dear, that you were such a tragic fellow).

[Listen]

She ends with a laugh, but stops short, at the fury in Canio's look, as he takes a knife from the table.

"His name!"

"No!"—Save her lover she will, at whatever cost to herself.

The audience is beginning to suspect that this is no longer acting. The women draw back frightened, overturning the benches. Silvio is trying to push his way through to the stage.

Nedda makes a dash to escape into the audience. Canio pursues and catches up with her.

"Take that—and—that!" (He stabs her in the back.) "Di morte negli spasimi lo dirai" (In the last death agony, thou'lt call his name).

"Soccorso ... Silvio!" (Help! Help!—Silvio!)

A voice from the audience cries, "Nedda!" A man has nearly reached the spot where she lies dead. Canio turns savagely, leaps at him. A steel blade flashes. Silvio falls dead beside Nedda.

"Gesummaria!" shriek the women; "Ridi Pagliaccio!" sob the instruments of the orchestra. Canio stands stupefied. The knife falls from his hand:

"La commedia è finita" (The comedy is ended).

There are plays and stories in which, as in "Pagliacci," the drama on a mimic stage suddenly becomes real life, so that the tragedy of the play changes to the life-tragedy of one or more of the characters. "Yorick's Love," in which I saw Lawrence Barrett act, and of which I wrote a review for Harper's Weekly, was adapted by William D. Howells from "Drama Nuevo" by Estébanez, which is at least fifty years older than "Pagliacci." In it the actor Yorick really murders the actor, whom in character, he is supposed to kill in the play. In the plot, as in real life, this actor had won away the love of Yorick's wife, before whose eyes he is slain by the wronged husband. About 1883, I should say, I wrote a story, "A Performance of Othello," for a periodical published by students of Columbia University, in which the player of Othello, impelled by jealousy, actually kills his wife, who is the Desdemona, and then, as in the play, slays himself. Yet, although the motif is an old one, this did not prevent Catulle Mendès, who himself had been charged with plagiarizing, in "La Femme de Tabarin," Paul Ferrier's earlier play, "Tabarin," from accusing Leoncavallo of plagiarizing "Pagliacci" from "La Femme de Tabarin," and from instituting legal proceedings to enjoin the performance of the opera in Brussels. Thereupon Leoncavallo, in a letter to his publisher, stated that during his childhood at Montalto a jealous player killed his wife after a performance, that his father was the judge at the criminal's trial—circumstances which so impressed the occurrence on his mind that he was led to adapt the episode for his opera. Catulle Mendès accepted the explanation and withdrew his suit.

There has been some discussion regarding the correct translation of "Pagliacci." It is best rendered as "Clowns," although it only is necessary to read in Italian cyclopedias the definition of Pagliaccio to appreciate Philip Hale's caution that the character is not a clown in the restricted circus sense. Originally the word, which is the same as the French paillasse, signified a bed of straw, then was extended to include an upholstered under-mattress, and finally was applied to the buffoon in the old Italian comedy, whose costume generally was striped like the ticking or stuff, of which the covering of a mattress is made.

The play on the mimic stage in "Pagliacci" is, in fact, one of the Harlequin comedies that has been acted for centuries by strolling players in Italy. But for the tragedy that intervenes in the opera, Pagliaccio's ruse in returning before he was expected, in order to surprise his wife, Columbina, with Arlecchino, would have been punished by his being buffetted about the room and ejected. For "the reward of Pagliaccio's most adroit stratagems is to be boxed on the ears and kicked."

Hence the poignancy of "Ridi, Pagliaccio!"

Giacomo Puccini
(1858- )

THIS composer, born in Lucca, Italy, June 22, 1858, first studied music in his native place as a private pupil of Angeloni. Later, at the Royal Conservatory, Milan, he came under the instruction of Ponchielli, composer of "La Gioconda," whose influence upon modern Italian opera, both as a preceptor and a composer, is regarded as greater than that of any other musician.

Puccini himself is considered the most important figure in the operatic world of Italy today, the successor of Verdi, if there is any. For while Mascagni and Leoncavallo each has one sensationally successful short opera to his credit, neither has shown himself capable of the sustained effort required to create a score vital enough to maintain the interest of an audience throughout three or four acts, a criticism I consider applicable even to Mascagni's "Lodoletta," notwithstanding its production and repetitions at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, which I believe largely due to unusual conditions produced by the European war. Puccini, on the other hand, is represented in the repertoire of the modern opera house by four large works: "Manon Lescaut" (1870), "La Bohème" (1896), "Tosca" (1900), and "Madama Butterfly" (1904). His early two-act opera, "Le Villi" (The Willis, Dal Verme Theatre, Milan, 1884), and his three-act opera, "La Fanciulla del West" (The Girl of the Golden West), 1910, have been much less successful; his "Edgar" (La Scala, Milan, 1889), is not heard outside of Italy. And his opera, "La Rondine," has not at this writing been produced here, and probably will not be until after the war, the full score being the property of a publishing house in Vienna, which, because of the war, has not been able to send copies of it to the people in several countries to whom the performing rights had been sold.

LE VILLI

Most expressive in the score is the wild dance of the Willis, who "have a character of their own, entirely distinct from that of other operatic spectres" (Streatfield). The prelude to the second act, "L'Abbandono," also is effective. Attractive in the first act are the betrothal scene, a prayer, and a waltz. "Le Villi," however, has not been a success outside of Italy.

"Manon Lescaut," on the other hand, has met with success elsewhere. Between it and "Le Villi" Puccini produced another opera, "Edgar," Milan, La Scala, 1889, but unknown outside of the composer's native country.

MANON LESCAUT