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

Act I. Ballroom in a château. Gérard, a servant, but also a revolutionist, is secretly in love with Madeleine, the Countess's daughter. Among the guests at a ball is André Chénier, a poet with revolutionary tendencies. Madeleine asks him to improvise a poem on love. Instead, he sings of the wrongs of the poor. Gérard appears with a crowd of ragged men and women, but at the Countess's command servants force the intruders out. Chénier and Madeleine, the latter weary of the routine of fashion, have been attracted to each other.

Act II. Café Hottot in Paris, several years later. Chénier has offended the Revolutionists by denouncing Robespierre. A spy is watching Bersi, Madeleine's old nurse, and sees her hand Chénier a letter. It is from Madeleine. She loves him. She is dogged by spies, begs him come to her aid, and arranges a meeting.

Robespierre passes, followed by a mob. Gérard, now high in favour, seeks to possess Madeleine, who comes to meet the poet. They are about to flee, when Gérard, notified by the spy, interposes. Chénier and Gérard fight with swords. Gérard is wounded. The lovers escape.

Act III. Revolutionary Tribunal. The crowd sings the "Carmagnole." Chénier has been captured. Gérard writes the indictment for his rival. Madeleine pleads for her lover, finally promising to give herself to Gérard if Chénier is spared. Gérard, moved by the girl's love, agrees to save Chénier if he can. At the trial he declares that the indictment against Chénier is false. But the mob, thirsting for more blood, demands the poet's death.

Act IV. Prison of Lazare at midnight. Madeleine enters to Chénier with Gérard. She has bribed the jailer to allow her to substitute for another woman prisoner. If she cannot live for her lover, she can, at least, die with him. Together she and Chénier go to the scaffold.

Two other operas by Giordano have been heard in America—"Fedora," after Sardou, Metropolitan Opera House, December 16, 1906, with Cavalieri and Caruso; and "Siberia," Manhattan Opera House, February 5, 1908. They have not lasted.

Modern Italian Opera

ERO E LEANDRO

In the third act Leandro has performed his famous swimming feat. The lovers sing their ecstasy. Meanwhile a storm arises unobserved. The trumpet that should have been sounded by Hero is sounded from the vaults beneath the tower. Leandro throws himself into the Hellespont while Ariofarno and his priests chide Hero for her neglect as they discover its cause. A thunderbolt shatters a portion of the tower wall and Leandro's body is disclosed. Hero falls dying to the ground, while the archon rages.

CONCHITA

Act I. In a cigar factory. Among the visitors Conchita, one of the cigar girls, recognizes Mateo, a wealthy Spaniard, who rescued her from the forced attentions of a policeman. She invites Mateo to her home. The girl's mother, delighted that her daughter has attracted a wealthy man, goes out to make some purchases. Love scene for Mateo and Conchita. The mother returns, and, unseen by Conchita, Mateo gives her money. When Mateo leaves, and Conchita discovers he has given her mother money, she is furious and vows never to see Mateo again, because she thinks he has endeavoured to purchase her love. In her anger she leaves her home.

Act II. A dance hall, where Conchita earns a living by her risqué dances. Mateo, who finds her after a long search, is astounded. He begs her to go away with him. She refuses, and executes a most daring dance for a group of visitors. Mateo, watching her from outside, and wild with jealousy, breaks through the window. Conchita, angry at first, takes from him the key to a little house he owns and tells him that, if he comes at midnight, she will open her lattice to him as to a mysterious lover.

Act III. A street in Seville. Mateo stands before the house. But instead of admitting him, when he pleads his love, she turns and calls, as if to someone within, "Morenito!"—the name of a man he saw her dancing with at the dance hall. Mateo tries to break into the house. Conchita taunts him. He staggers away.

Act IV. Mateo is desperate. Conchita comes to his home and says she certainly expected him to kill himself for love of her. Enraged, he seizes her. She tries to stab him. He beats her without mercy. At last—and it seems about time—Conchita now sees how desperately he must love her. She declares that she has loved him all the time. He takes her, radiant, into his arms.

CRISTOFORO COLOMBO

CRISPINO E LA COMARE
(The Cobbler and the Fairy)

LORELEY

Alfred Catalani's "Loreley" was presented by the Chicago Opera Company for the first time in New York, at the Lexington Theatre, on Thursday evening, February 13, 1919, with Anna Fitziu, Florence Macbeth, Virgilio Lazzari, Alessandro Dolci, and Giacomo Rimini. The librettists are Messrs. D'Ormeville and Zanardini.

The legendary siren who sits combing her hair on a rock in the traditional manner, is in this opera the reincarnated spirit of a young orphan, who has been jilted by her fiancé, Walter, Lord of Oberwessel. When the faithless young man is about to marry another beautiful maiden, Anna, Loreley casts her spell upon him, and Anna, too, is thrown over. Walter follows Loreley to a watery grave, and Anna dies of grief.

FEDORA

Act II. Salon of Fedora in Paris. Loris is entertained by her. She uses all her arts of fascination in hope of securing proof of his guilt. He falls desperately in love with her, and she succeeds in drawing from him a confession of the murder. Grech, a police officer, plans to take Loris after all the guests have left. Then, however, Loris tells her further that he killed the Count because he betrayed his young wife and brought about her untimely death. Fedora, who herself has fallen in love with Loris, now takes him into her arms. But the trap is ready to be sprung. She is, however, able to escape with him.

Act III. Switzerland. Loris and Fedora are married. Loris's footsteps, however, are followed by a spy. Fedora learns that because of Loris's act his brother has been thrown into prison and has died there. Loris's mother has died of shock. He discovers that it was Fedora who set the secret service on his track. He is about to kill her when, in despair, she swallows poison. Loris now pleads with her to live, but it is too late. She dies in his arms.

GERMANIA

Prologue. An Old Mill near Nuremberg. Students under Palm are shipping out in grain-bags literature directed against the invader—Napoleon. Ricke tells Worms, whose mistress she has been, that her sweetheart, the poet Loewe, will soon return, and that she must confess to him her guilty secret. Worms dissuades her. Loewe arrives and is joyously welcomed by his comrades. The police break in, arrest Palm, and take him off to be executed.

Act I. A Hut in the Black Forest. Seven years are supposed to have passed. Loewe, his aged mother, and Ricke and Jane have found refuge here from the victorious troops of Napoleon. Worms is thought to be dead. Loewe is to be married to Ricke. But suddenly the voice of Worms is heard in the forest. Loewe joyously meets his old friend, who, however, is much disconcerted at the sight of Ricke, and goes away. Ricke flees from her husband, who concludes that she has fled with Worms.

Act II. Secret Cellar at Koenigsberg. Worms and others plot to overthrow Napoleon. Loewe challenges Worms to a duel. Worms, penitent, asks Loewe to kill him. But the preparations are stayed by Queen Louise. She declares they should be fighting against Napoleon, not against each other.

Epilogue. Battlefield of Leipzig. Napoleon has been defeated. The great field is strewn with dead and dying. Among the latter, Ricke, still loving Loewe, finds him. He asks her to forgive Worms, who lies dead. She forgives the dead man, then lies down beside her dying husband. Distant view of the retreat of Napoleon's shattered legions.

Modern French Opera

“LES CONTES D'HOFFMANN”; a fanciful opera in four acts; words by MM. Michel Carré and Jules Barbier; posthumous music by Jacques Offenbach, produced at the Opéra Comique on February 10, 1881. "Les Contes d'Hoffmann" had been played thirty years before, on March 31, 1851, at the Odéon, in the shape of a comedy. Such as it was designed to be, the work offers an excellent frame for the music, bringing on the stage in their fantastic form three of the prettiest tales of the German story-teller, connected with each other in an ingenious fashion, with the contrasts which present themselves. Lyrical adaptation therefore appeared quite natural and it was done with much taste. Offenbach had almost entirely finished its music when death came to surprise him. At the same time he had not put his score into orchestral form and it was Ernest Girard who was charged with finishing this and writing the instrumentation, which it was easy to perceive at hearing it, Girard being a musician taught differently from the author of the "Belle Hélène" and "Orphée aux Enfers." It is right to say that several passages of the Contes d'Hoffmann were welcome and testify to a real effort by the composer. If to that be added the interest that the libretto offers and the excellence of an interpretation entrusted to Mlle. Adèle Isaac (Stella, Olympia, Antonia), to MM. Talazac (Hoffmann), Taskin (Lindorf, Coppélius, Dr. Miracle), Belhomme (Crespel), Grivot (Andrès, Cochenille, Frantz), Gourdon (Spalanzani), Collin (Wilhelm), Mlles. Marguerite Ugalde (Nicklausse), Molé (the nurse), one will understand the success which greeted the work. The Contes d'Hoffmann was reproduced in 1893 at the Renaissance, during the transient directorship of M. Détroyat, who gave to this theatre the title of Théâtre Lyrique.

LAKMÉ

Lakmé is the daughter of Nilakantha, a fanatical Brahmin priest. While he nurses his hatred of the British invader, his daughter strolls in her garden, singing duets with her slave Mallika. An English officer, one Gerald, breaks through the bambou fence that surrounds Nilakantha's retreat, in a ruined temple in the depths of an Indian forest. He courts Lakmé who immediately returns his love. Nilakantha seeing the broken fence at once suspects an English invader. In act two the old man disguised as a beggar is armed with a dagger. Lakmé is disguised as a street singer. Together they search for the profaner of the sacred spot at a market. It is here that she sings the famous Bell Song. Gerald recognizes Lakmé as Nilakantha recognizes the disturber of his peace. A dagger thrust lays Gerald low. Lakmé and her slave carry him to a hut hidden in the forest. During his convalescence the time passes pleasantly. The lovers sing duets and exchange vows of undying love. But Frederick, a brother officer and a slave to duty, informs Gerald that he must march with his regiment. Lakmé makes the best of the situation by eating a poisonous flower which brings about her death.

SAMSON ET DALILA

Act I. Before the curtain rises we hear of the Philistines at Gaza forcing the Israelites to work. When the curtain is raised we see in the background the temple of Dagon, god of the Philistines. With the lamentations of the Jews is mixed the bitter scorn of Abimelech. But Samson has not yet expressed a hope of conquering. His drink-inspired songs agitate his fellow countrymen so much that it now amounts to an insurrection. Samson slays Abimelech with the sword he has snatched from him and Israel's champion starts out to complete the work. Dagon's high priest may curse, the Philistines are not able to offer resistance to the onslaught of the enemy. Already the Hebrews are rejoicing and gratefully praise God when there appear the Philistines' most seductive maidens, Dalila at their head, to do homage to the victorious Samson. Of what use is the warning of an old Hebrew? The memory of the love which she gave him when "the sun laughed, the spring awoke and kissed the ground," the sight of her ensnaring beauty, the tempting dances ensnare the champion anew.

Act II. The beautiful seductress tarries in the house of her victim. Yes, her victim. She had never loved the enemy of her country. She hates him since he left her. And so the exhortation of the high priest to revenge is not needed. Samson has never yet told her on what his superhuman strength depends. Now the champion comes, torn by irresolute reproaches. He is only going to say farewell to her. Her allurements in vain entice him, he does not disclose his secret. But he will not suffer her scorn and derision; overcome, he pushes her into the chamber of love. And there destiny is fulfilled. Dalila's cry of triumph summons the Philistines. Deprived of his hair, the betrayed champion is overcome.

Act III. In a dungeon the blinded giant languishes. But more tormenting than the corporal disgrace or the laments of his companions are the reproaches in his own breast. Now the doors rattle. Beadles come in to drag him to the Philistines' celebration of their victory—(change of scene). In Dagon's temple the Philistine people are rejoicing. Bitter scorn is poured forth on Samson whom the high priest insultingly invites to sing a love-song to Dalila. The false woman herself mocks the powerless man. But Samson prays to his God. Only once again may he have strength. And while the intoxication of the festival seizes on everybody, he lets himself be led between the two pillars which support the temple. He clasps them. A terrible crash—the fragments of the temple with a roar bury the Philistine people and their conqueror.

LE ROI D’YS

GRISÉLIDIS

"Grisélidis" was produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, November 20, 1901, with Lucienne Bréval, Lucien Fugère, Messrs. Maréchal and Dufranne. André Messager conducted. On November 23, 1901, the opera drew the largest receipts known thus far in the history of the Opéra Comique—9538 francs.

Mr. Philip Hale tells the story of the opera as follows:

"The scene is in Provence and in the fourteenth century. The Marquis of Saluzzo, strolling about in his domains, met Griselda, a shepherdess, and he loved her at first sight. Her heart was pure; her hair was ebon black; her eyes shone with celestial light. He married her and the boy Loÿs was born to them. The happy days came to an end, for the Marquis was called to the war against the Saracens. Before he set out, he confided to the prior his grief at leaving Griselda. The prior was a Job's comforter: 'Let my lord look out for the devil! When husbands are far away, Satan tempts their wives.' The Marquis protests for he knew the purity of Griselda; but as he protested he heard a mocking laugh, and he saw at the window an ape-like apparition. It was the devil all in green. The Marquis would drive him away, but the devil proposed a wager: he bet that he would tempt Griselda to her fall, while the Marquis was absent. The Marquis confidently took up the wager, and gave the devil his ring as a pledge. The devil of these librettists had a wife who nagged her spouse, and he in revenge sought to make other husbands unhappy. He began to lay snares for Griselda; he appeared in the disguise of a Byzantine Jew, who came to the castle, leading as a captive, his own wife, Fiamina, and he presented her: 'This slave belongs to the Marquis. He bids you to receive her, to put her in your place, to serve her, to obey her in all things. Here is his ring.' Griselda meekly bowed her head. The devil said to himself that Griselda would now surely seek vengeance on her cruel lord. He brought Alain by a spell to the castle garden at night—Alain, who had so fondly loved Griselda. She met him in an odorous and lonely walk. He threw himself at her feet and made hot love. Griselda thought of her husband who had wounded her to the quick, and was about to throw herself into Alain's arms, when her little child appeared. Griselda repulsed Alain, and the devil in his rage bore away the boy, Loÿs. The devil came again, this time as a corsair, who told her that the pirate chief was enamoured of her beauty; she would regain the child if she would only yield; she would see him if she would go to the vessel. She ran to the ship, but lo! the Marquis, home from the East. And then the devil, in another disguise, spoke foully of Griselda's behaviour, and the Marquis was about to believe him, but he saw Griselda and his suspicions faded away. The devil in the capital of a column declared that Loÿs belonged to him. Foolish devil, who did not heed the patron saint before whom the Marquis and Griselda were kneeling. The cross on the altar was bathed in light; the triptych opened; there, at the feet of St. Agnes, was little Loÿs asleep.

"The opera begins with a prologue which is not to be found in the version played at the Comédie-Française in 1891. The prologue acquaints us with the hope of the shepherd Alain that he may win Griselda: with the Marquis meeting Griselda as he returns from the chase, his sudden passion for her, his decision to take the young peasant as his wife, the despair of Alain. This prologue, with a fine use of themes that are used in the opera as typical, is described as one of the finest works of Massenet, and even his enemies among the ultra-moderns admit that the instrumentation is prodigiously skilful and truly poetic.

"The first act pictures the oratory of Griselda, and ends with the departure of the Marquis.

"The second act passes before the château, on a terrace adorned with three orange trees, with the sea glittering in the distance. It is preceded by an entr'acte of an idyllic nature. It is in this act that the devil and his wife enter disguised, the former as a slave merchant, the latter as an odalisque. In this act the devil, up to his old tricks, orders the flowers to pour madding perfumes into the air that they may aid in the fall of Griselda. And in this act Alain again woos his beloved, and the devil almost wins his wager.

"The third act is in Griselda's oratory. At the end, when Loÿs is discovered at the feet of St. Agnes, the retainers rush in and all intone the 'Magnificat' and through a window the devil is seen in a hermitage, wearing cloak and hood.

"The passages that have excited the warmest praise are the prologue, Griselda's scene in the first act, 'L'Oiseau qui pars à tire-d'aile,' and the quiet ending of the act after the tumult of the departure to the East; in the second act, the prelude, the song, 'Il partit au printemps,' the invocation, and the duet; in the third act, a song from the Marquis, and the final and mystic scene."

THAÏS

"Thaïs," a lyric comedy in three acts and seven scenes, libretto by M. Louis Gallet, taken from the novel by M. Anatole France which bears the same title; music by Massenet; produced at the Opéra on March 16, 1894. It had been, I think, more than sixty years since the Opéra had applied the designation of "lyric comedy" to a work produced on its stage, which is a little too exclusively solemn. As a matter of fact there is no question in Thaïs of one of those powerful and passionate dramas, rich in incidents and majestic dramatic strokes, or one of those subjects profoundly pathetic like those of "Les Huguenots," "La Juive," or "Le Prophète." One could extract from the intimate and mystic novel of "Thaïs" only a unity and simplicity of action without circumlocutions or complications, developing between two important persons and leaving all the others in a sort of discreet shadow, the latter serving only to emphasize the scenic movement and to give to the work the necessary life, color, and variety.

Arrived at Alexandria, Athanaël meets an old friend, the beau Nicias, to whom he makes himself known and who is the lover of Thaïs for a day longer because he has purchased her love for a week which is about to end. Athanaël confides his scheme to Nicias who receives him like a brother and makes him put on clothes which will permit him to attend a fête and banquet which he is to give that very night in honour of Thaïs. Soon he finds himself in the presence of the courtesan who laughs at him at his first words and who engages him to come to see her at her house if he expects to convert her. He does not fail to accept this invitation and once in Thaïs's house tells her to be ashamed of her disorderly life and with eloquent words reveals to her the heavenly joys and the felicities of religion. Thaïs is very much impressed; she is on the point of yielding to his advice when afar off in a song are heard the voices of her companions in pleasure. Then she repels the monk, who, without being discouraged, goes away, saying to her: "At thy threshold until daylight I will await thy coming."

In fact here we find him at night seated on the front steps of Thaïs's house. Time has done its work and a few hours have sufficed for the young woman to be touched by grace. She goes out of her house, having exchanged her rich garments for a rough woollen dress, finds the monk, and begs him to lead her to a convent. The conversion is accomplished.

But Athanaël has deceived himself. It was not love of God but it was jealousy that dictated his course without his being aware of it. When he has returned to the Thebaid after having conducted Thaïs to a convent and thinks he has found peace again, he perceives with horror that he loves her madly. His thoughts without ceasing turn to her and in a new dream, a cruel dream, he seems to see Thaïs, sanctified and purified by remorse and prayer, on the point of dying in the convent where she took refuge. On awaking, under the impression of this sinister vision, he hurries to the convent where Thaïs in fact is near to breathing her last breath. But he does not wish that she die; and while she, in ecstasy, is only thinking of heaven and of her purification, he wants to snatch her from death and only talks to her of his love. The scene is strange and of real power. Thaïs dies at last and Athanaël falls stricken down beside her.

This subject, half mystic, half psychological, was it really a favourable one for theatrical action? Was it even treated in such a way as to mitigate the defects it might present in this connection? We may doubt it. Nevertheless M. Massenet has written on this libretto of "Thaïs" a score which, if it does not present the firm unity of those of "Manon" and of "Werther," certainly does not lack either inspiration or colour or originality and in which moreover are found in all their force and all their expansion the astonishing technical qualities of a master to whom nothing in his art is foreign. All the music of the first act, which shows us the retreat of the cenobites, is of a sober and severe colour, with which will be contrasted the movement and the gracefulness of the scene at the house of Nicias. There should be noted the peaceful chorus of monks, the entrance of Athanaël, the fine phrase which follows his dream: "Toi qui mis la pitié dans nos âmes," and the very curious effect of the scene where he goes away again from his companions to return to Alexandria. In the second act the kind of invocation placed in the mouth of the same Athanaël: "Voilà donc la terrible cité," written on a powerful rhythm, is followed by a charming quartette, a passage with an emphasis full of grace and the end of which especially is delightful. I would indicate again in this act the rapid and kindly dialogue of Nicias and of Thaïs: "Nous nous sommes aimés une longue semaine," which seems to conceal under its apparent indifference a sort of sting of melancholy. I pass over the air of Thaïs: "Dis-moi que je suis belle," an air of bravado solely destined to display the finish of a singer, to which I much prefer the whole scene that follows, which is only a long duet in which Athanaël tries to convert Thaïs. The severe and stern accents of the monk put in opposition to the raillery and the voluptuous outbreaks (buoyancy) of the courtesan produce a striking contrast which the composer has known how to place in relief with a rare felicity and a real power. The symphonic intermezzo which, under the name of "Méditation," separates this act from the following, is nothing but an adorable violin solo, supported by the harps and the development of which, on the taking up again of the first motif by the violin, brings about the entrance of an invisible chorus, the effect of which is purely exquisite. The curtain then rises on the scene in which Thaïs, who has put on a rough woollen dress, goes to seek the monk to flee with him. Here there is a duet in complete contrast with the preceding. Athanaël wants Thaïs to destroy and burn whatever may preserve the memory of her past. She obeys, demanding favour only for a little statue of Eros: "L'amour est un vertu rare." It is a sort of invocation to the purity of love, written, if one may say so, in a sentiment of chaste melancholy and entirely impressed with gracefulness and poetry. But what should be praised above all is the final scene, that of the death of Thaïs. This scene, truly pathetic and powerful, has been treated by the composer with a talent of the first order and an incontestable superiority. There again he knew wonderfully well how to seize the contrast between the pious thoughts of Thaïs, who at the moment of quitting life begins to perceive eternal happiness, and the powerless rage of Athanaël, who, devoured by an impious love, reveals to her, without her understanding or comprehending it, all the ardour of a passion that death alone can extinguish in him. The touching phrases of Thaïs, the despairing accents of Athanaël, interrupted by the desolate chants of the nuns, companions of the dying woman, provoke in the hearer a poignant and sincere emotion. That is one of the finest pages we owe to the pen of M. Massenet. We must point out especially the return of the beautiful violin phrase which constitutes the foundation of the intermezzo of the second act.

The work has been very well played by Mlle. Sybil Sanderson (Thaïs), M. Delmas (Athanaël), M. Alvarez (Nicias), Mmes. Héglon and Marcy, and M. Delpouget.

MANON