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

Storck, in his Opera Book, has this to say of Von Hofmannsthal's libretto: "The powerful subject of the ancient myth is here dragged down from the lofty realm of tragedy, to which Sophocles raised it, to that of the pathologically perverse. With a gloomy logic the strain of blood-madness and unbridled lust is exploited by the poet so that the overwhelming effect of its consequences becomes comprehensible. None the less, there is the fact, of no little importance, that through its treatment from this point of view, a classical work has been dragged from its pedestal."

The inner court of the palace in Mycenae is the scene of the drama. Since Clytemnestra, in league with her paramour, Aegisthus, has compassed the murder of her husband, Agamemnon, her daughter Elektra lives only with the thought of vengeance. She exists like a wild beast, banished from the society of human beings, a butt of ridicule to the servants, a horror to all, only desirous of the blood of her mother and Aegisthus in atonement for that of her father. The murderers too have no rest. Fear haunts them.

Elektra's sister, Chrysothemis, is entirely unlike her. She craves marriage. But it is in a disordered way that her desire for husband and child is expressed. Clytemnestra also is morbidly ill. Deeply she deplores her misdeed, but for this very reason has completely surrendered herself to the unworthy Aegisthus. So frightfully do her dreams torment her that she even comes to seek help from the hated Elektra in her hovel in the inner court. It is the latter's first triumph in all her years of suffering. But it is short-lived, for Clytemnestra mocks her with the news that Orestes has died in a distant land. A terrible blow this for Elektra, who had hoped that Orestes would return and wreak vengeance on the queen and Aegisthus. Now the daughters must be the instruments of vengeance. And as Chrysothemis, shocked, recoils from the task, Elektra determines to complete it alone. She digs up in the courtyard the very axe with which her father was slain and which she had buried in order to give it to her brother on his return.

But the message regarding the death of Orestes was false. It was disseminated by her brother in order to allay the fears of the murderers of his father and put them off their guard. The stranger, who now enters the court, and at first cannot believe that the half-demented woman in rags is his sister, finally is recognized by her as Orestes, and receives from her the axe. He enters the palace, slays Clytemnestra and, upon the return of Aegisthus, pursues him from room to room and kills him. Elektra, her thirst for vengeance satisfied, under the spell of a blood-madness, dances, beginning weirdly, increasing to frenzy, and ending in her collapse, dead, upon the ground, where, since her father's death, she had grovelled waiting for the avenger.

As in "Salome," so in "Elektra" there is a weft and woof of leading motifs which, lacking the compactness, firmness, and unmistakable raisons d'être of the leading motives in the Wagner music-dramas, crawl, twist, and wind themselves in spineless convolutions about the characters and the action of the piece. In "Salome" the score worked up to one set climax, the "Dance of the Seven Veils." In "Elektra" there also is a set composition. It is a summing up of emotions, in one eloquent burst of song, which occurs when Elektra recognizes Orestes. It may be because it came in the midst of so much cacophony that its effect was enhanced. But at the production of the work in the Manhattan Opera House, it seemed to me not only one of Strauss's most spontaneous lyrical outgivings, but also one of the most beautiful I had ever heard. Several times every year since then, I have been impelled to go to the pianoforte and play it over, although forced to the unsatisfactory makeshift of playing-in the voice part with what already was a pianoforte transcription of the orchestral accompaniment.

Mme. Schumann-Heink, the Clytemnestra of the original production in Dresden, said: "I will never sing the rôle again. It was frightful. We were a set of mad women.... There is nothing beyond 'Elektra.' We have lived and reached the furthest boundary in dramatic writing for the voice with Wagner. But Richard Strauss goes beyond him. His singing voices are lost. We have come to a full stop. I believe Strauss himself sees it."—And, indeed, in his next opera, "Der Rosenkavalier," the composer shows far more consideration for the voice, and has produced a score in which the melodious elements are many.

DER ROSENKAVALIER
THE KNIGHT OF THE ROSE

With the exception of Humperdinck's "Hänsel und Gretel," "Der Rosenkavalier," by Richard Strauss, is the only opera that has come out of Germany since the death of Wagner, which has appeared to secure a definite hold upon the repertoire. Up to the season of 1917-18, when it was taken out of the repertoire on account of the war in Europe, it had been given twenty-two times at the Metropolitan Opera House, since its production there late in 1913.

The work is called a "comedy for music," which is mentioned here simply as a fact, since it makes not the slightest difference to the public what the composer of an opera chooses to call it, the proof of an opera being in the hearing just as the proof of a pudding always is in the eating. So far it is the one opera by Richard Strauss which, after being heralded as a sensation, has not disappeared through indifference.

To those who know both works, the libretto of "Der Rosenkavalier" which has been violently attacked, goes no further in suggestiveness than that of "Le Nozze di Figaro." But it is very long, and unquestionably the opera would gain by condensation, although the score is a treasure house of orchestration, a virtuosity in the choice of instruments and manner of using them which amounts to inspiration. An examination of the full orchestral score shows that 114 instruments are required, seventeen of them for an orchestra on the stage. The composer demands for his main orchestra 32 violins, 12 violas, 10 violoncellos, 8 double basses, 3 flutes, 3 oboes, 2 clarinets, 1 bass clarinet, 3 bassoons, 4 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, 1 tuba, 2 harps, glockenspiel, triangle, bell, castanets, tympani, side and bass drums, cymbals, celeste, and rattle. A small orchestra for the stage also requires 1 oboe, 1 flute, 2 clarinets, 2 horns, 2 bassoons, 1 trumpet, 1 drum, harmonium, piano, and string quintet.

"Der Rosenkavalier" also contains melodious phrases in number and variety, which rarely permit the bearer's interest to flag. Waltz themes abound. They are in the manner of Johann Strauss and Lanner. It is true that these composers flourished much later than the rococo period in which the opera is laid, but just as it makes no difference what a composer calls an opera, so it makes no difference whether he indulges in anachronisms or not. Gavottes, etc., would have been more in keeping with the period, but the waltz themes served Strauss's purpose far better and are introduced with infinite charm. They give the work that subtle thing called atmosphere, and play their part in making passages, like the finale to the second act, the most significant music for the stage of opera that has been penned in the composer's country since Wagner. They also abound in the scene between Octavian and Lerchenan in the third act.

Act I. Room in the Princess von Werdenberg's palace. Morning. The curtain rises after an impassioned orchestral introduction which is supposed to depict risqué incidents of the previous night suggested by the stage directions. These directions were not followed in the production made at the Metropolitan Opera House. Not only did their disregard show respect for the audience's sense of decency, it in no way interfered with the success of the work as a comedy set to music.

Octavian, a handsome youth, is taking a passionate leave of the Princess, whose husband, a Field Marshal, is away on military duty. Octavian is loath to go, the Princess, equally loather to have him depart. For the Princess cannot conceal from herself that in spite of Octavian's present love for her, the disparity in their ages soon will cause him to look to women younger than herself for love.

There is a commotion beyond the door of the Princess's suite of rooms. One of her relatives, the vulgar Baron Ochs von Lerchenan, wishes to see her. The servants remonstrate with him that the hour is much too early, but he forces his way in. Taking alarm, and in order to spare the Princess the scandal of having him discovered with her, Octavian escapes into an inner room where he disguises himself in the attire of a chambermaid, a rôle which his youthful, beardless beauty enables him to carry out to perfection.

Von Lerchenan has come to inquire of the Princess if, as she promised, she has sent a Knight of the Rose with an offer of his hand to Sophie, daughter of the wealthy, recently ennobled Herr von Faninal. A Knight of the Rose was chosen at that period as a suitor by proxy to bear a silver rose, as a symbol of love and fidelity, to the lady of his principal's choice. Unfortunately the Princess's passion for Octavian has entirely diverted her thoughts from Lerchenan's commission. He, however, consoles himself by flirting with the pretty chambermaid, Octavian, whose assumed coyness, coupled with slyly demure advances, charms him. Before this, however, he has lost his temper, because he has been unable to engage the Princess's attention amid the distractions provided by her morning levee, at which she receives various petitioners—a singer, Valzacchi, and Annina, who are Italian intriguers, three noble orphans, and others. This levee, together with the love intrigues and the looseness of manners and morals indicated by the plot, is supposed in a general way to give to the piece the tone of the rococo period in which the story is laid. The scene is a lively one.

Lerchenan is appeased not only by the charms of the supposed chambermaid, who waits on the Princess and her relative at breakfast, but also because he is so eager to make a rendezvous with her. Octavian in his disguise understands so well how to lead Lerchenan on without granting his request, that he forgets the cause of his annoyance. Moreover the Princess promises that she presently will despatch a Knight of the Rose to the daughter of the wealthy Faninal whose wealth, of course, is what attracts Lerchenan. The Princess chooses Octavian to be the Knight of the Rose. Later she regrets her choice. For after the handsome youth has departed on his mission, and she is left alone, she looks at herself in the glass. She is approaching middle age, and although she still is a handsome woman, her fear that she may lose Octavian, to some younger member of her sex, cannot be banished from her thoughts.

Act II. Salon in the house of Herr von Faninal. This lately ennobled nouveau rich considers it a great distinction that the Baron von Lerchenan, a member of the old nobility, should apply for the hand of his daughter. That the Baron only does it to mend his broken fortunes does not worry him, although his daughter Sophie is a sweet and modest girl. Inexperienced, she awaits her suitor in great agitation. Then his proxy, Octavian, comes with the silver rose to make the preliminary arrangements for his "cousin," Baron von Lerchenan. Octavian is smitten with the charms of the girl. She, too, is at once attracted to the handsome young cavalier. So their conversation imperceptibly has drifted into an intimate tone when the real suitor enters. His brutal frankness in letting Sophie comprehend that he is condescending in courting her, and his rude manners thoroughly repel the girl. Octavian meanwhile is boiling with rage and jealousy. The girl's aversion to the Baron increases. The two men are on the point of an outbreak, when Lerchenan is called by a notary into an adjoining room where the marriage contract is to be drawn up. Sophie is shocked at what she has just experienced. Never will it be possible for her to marry the detested Baron, especially since she has met the gallant Octavian. The two are quick in agreeing. Sophie sinks into his arms.

At that moment there rush out from behind the two large chimney pieces that adorn the room, the intriguers, Valzacchi and his companion Annina, whom Lerchenan has employed as spies. Their cries bring the Baron from the next room. The staff of servants rushes in. Octavian tells the Baron of Sophie's antipathy, and adds taunt to taunt, until, however reluctant to fight, the Baron is forced to draw his sword. In the encounter Octavian lightly "pinks" him. The Baron, a coward at heart, raises a frightful outcry. There ensues the greatest commotion, due to the mix-up of the servants, the doctor, and the rage of Faninal, who orders Sophie to a convent when she positively refuses to give her hand to Lerchenan. The latter, meanwhile, rapidly recovers when his wound has been dressed and he has drunk some of Faninal's good wine.

Octavian is determined to win Sophie. For that purpose he decides to make use of the two intriguers, who are so disgusted by the niggardly pay given them by the Baron, that they readily fall in with the plans of the brilliant young cavalier. After the crowd has dispersed and the Baron is alone for a moment, Annina approaches and hands him a note. In this the Princess's chambermaid promises him a rendezvous. Lerchenan is delighted over the new conquest he believes himself to have made.

Act III. A room in an inn near Vienna. With the help of Valzacchi and Annina, who are now in the service both of the Baron and of Octavian, but are more prone to further the latter's plans because he pays them better, Octavian has hired a room in an inn. This room is fitted up with trapdoors, blind windows and the like. Here, at the suggestion of the intriguers, who have the run of the place and know to what uses the trick room can be put, Lerchenan has made his rendezvous for the evening with the pretty chambermaid. Octavian, in his girl's clothes, is early at the place.

Between the Baron and the disguised Octavian, as soon as they are alone, a rude scene of courtship develops. Octavian is able to hold him off skilfully, and gradually there is unfolded the mad web of intrigue in which the Baron is caught. Strange figures appear at the windows. Lerchenan, ignorant, superstitious, thinks he sees ghosts. Suddenly what was supposed to be a blind window, bursts open, and a woman dressed in mourning rushes in. It is the disguised intriguante, Annina, who claims to be the deserted wife of Lerchenan. Innkeeper and servants hurry in. The clamour and confusion become more and more frantic. Finally the Baron himself calls for the police, without thinking what a "give away" it may be for himself. When the Commissary of Police arrives, to save his face, he gives out that his companion, the supposed chambermaid, is his affianced, Sophie von Faninal. That, however, only adds to the confusion, for Octavian's accomplices have sought out Faninal and invited him on behalf of the Baron to come to the inn. In his amazement the Baron knows of no other way out of the dilemma save to act as if he did not know Faninal at all, whereupon the latter, naturally, is greatly angered. When the confusion is at its height the Princess suddenly appears. A lackey of the Baron, seeing his master in such difficulties, has run to her to ask for her powerful protection. She quickly takes in the whole situation; and however bitterly Octavian's disaffection grieves her, she is a clever enough woman of the world to recognize that the time for her to give him up has come. The threads now quickly disentangle themselves. The Baron leaves, Octavian and Sophie are forgiven, and Herr von Faninal feels himself fully compensated for all he has been through, because he is to be driven home beside the Princess in her carriage.

ARIADNE AUF NAXOS
ARIADNE ON NAXOS

The adapter of Molière's work to Strauss's purpose has omitted the entire passage of the love scene between Cléonte and Lucille, Jourdain's daughter, so that the two acts of the comedy concern themselves mainly with Jourdain's folly—his scenes with the music teacher, the dancing master, the fencing master, the philosopher, and the tailor. They also show how the intriguing Count Dorantes makes use of Jourdain's stupidity, borrowing a large sum of money from him, and persuading him that he can win the favour of the Marquise with costly presents and by arranging in her honour the fête at which the opera is given. At the same time the sly Dorantes represents everything to the Marquise as if he himself had contrived and paid for the gifts and the fête in her honour. The Marquise goes to Jourdain's house to the banquet and celebration, as a climax to which the opera "Ariadne auf Naxos" is presented. The opera therefore follows the adaptation of "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme."

On a desert island lies Ariadne asleep before a cave. Naiad, Echo and Dryad are singing. Ariadne, on awaking, bewails the lot of the forsaken one. In her grief she feels herself near death. Then the old comedy figures come whirling in. In her desire for death Ariadne does not notice them. Zerbinetta sings and dances with her four Harlequins. This is their idea of life—to enjoy things lightly. When they have disappeared, Naiad, Dryad, and Echo come back and announce the arrival of a youthful god. Bacchus approaches the island. From afar he sings. Ariadne hopes it is Death coming to release her. She longs for him, sinks into his arms. They are the arms of love.

DIE VERKAUFTE BRAUT
THE BARTERED BRIDE

Act II. But with what eyes has Kezal looked upon Wenzel that he praises his excellences so loudly? At any rate not with those of a young woman. Can Kruschina's Marie love this stutterer and coxcomb? Never! Fortunately for her, he does not know her; and so the clever girl is able to deceive him. She speaks disparagingly to him of Kruschina's Marie who loves another and whom therefore he should not allow himself to marry. The puzzled Wenzel, enamoured, runs after the laughing girl. On this Hans comes in with Kezal. The latter is telling his companion to give up his love affair. He offers him first a hundred and finally three hundred florins if he will do so. At last Hans consents but only on condition that Marie shall marry none other than the son of Micha's wife. Kezal is content with that as he understands it. He goes away to get witnesses and everybody is provoked at the light heart with which Hans has sold his bride.

Act III. In the meantime, Wenzel has fallen in love with Esmeralda the danseuse in a troop of acrobats. In his infatuation he allows himself to be induced to act in place of a drunken comedian. His parents and Kezal surprise him while practising his dance. They are very much astonished when he absolutely refuses to marry Kruschina's Marie. But the matter would have been entirely different had he recognized her to be the lovely maiden of earlier in the day. Marie herself, out of revolt and grief at the fact that her lover has so lightly prized her heart, is ready for everything. Then Hans rushes in, freely expressing his supercilious feelings. All stand astounded until Micha recognizes in Hans his own long missing son by his first marriage. That Hans now signs the contract as the happy husband of Marie is the joyful end of this merry opera.

Russian Opera

RUSSLAN AND LUDMILLA

The second act takes place in the cave of Finn, the wizard, to whom Russlan has come for advice. The knight hears that the abduction is the work of Tchernomor the dwarf. Finn warns him against the interference of Naina, a wicked fairy. He then starts out on his search. The next scene shows Farlaf in consultation with Naina. The fairy advises him to neglect Ludmilla until she is found by Russlan, then to carry her off again. The next scene shows Russlan on a battlefield. In spite of the mist he finds a lance and shield. When the atmosphere grows clearer he discovers a gigantic head, which by its terrific breathing creates a storm. Russlan subdues the head with a stroke of his lance. Under it is the magic sword which will make him victorious over Tchernomor. The head then explains that its condition is due to its brother, the dwarf, and reveals to Russlan the means to be made of the sword.

In the third act, at the enchanted palace of Naina, Gorislava, who loves Ratmir appears. When the object of her passion appears he slights her for a siren of Naina's court. Russlan, too, is imperilled by the sirens, but he is saved from their fascination by Finn.

The fourth act takes place in the dwelling of Tchernomor. Ludmilla, in despair, refuses to be consoled by any distraction. She finally falls asleep, only to be awakened by Tchernomor and his train. The arrival of Russlan interrupts the ensuing ballet. Forcing Ludmilla into a trance, Tchernomor meets Russlan in single combat. The knight is victorious, but unable to awaken Ludmilla from her sleep. He carries her off.

In the fifth act, Russlan with a magic ring, the gift of Finn, breaks Tchernomor's spell and restores Ludmilla to consciousness.

PRINCE IGOR

The prologue takes place in the market-place of Poultivle where Igor, Prince of Seversk lives. Although implored to postpone his departure because of an eclipse of the sun, which his people regard as an evil omen, Igor with his son Vladimir Igoreivitch departs to pursue the Polovtsy, an Oriental tribe, driven to the plains of the Don by Prince Sviatoslav of Kiev. Prince Galitzky, Igor's brother, remains to govern Poultivle and watch over the Princess Yaroslavna. The first scene of the first act shows Galitzky a traitor, endeavouring to win the populace to his side with the help of Eroshka and Skoula, two deserters from Igor's army. In the second scene of this act young girls complain to Yaroslavna about the abduction of one of their companions. They ask her protection against Galitzky. Yaroslavna has a scene with her brother and orders him from her presence. News is brought that Igor's army has been defeated, that he and the young prince are prisoners, and that the enemy is marching upon Poultivle. The loyal Boyards swear to defend their princess.

The second and third acts take place in the camp of the Polovtsy. Young Vladimir has fallen in love with Khan Konchak's beautiful daughter, Konchakovna. He serenades her in her tent. His father laments his captivity. Ovlour, a soldier of the enemy, offers to help him escape, but Igor refuses to repay the Khan's chivalrous conduct in that manner. In the second act the Khan gives a banquet in honour of his captive. Oriental dances and choruses are introduced.

In the third act the victorious Polovstians return with prisoners from Poultivle. Igor consents to escape. Konchakovna learns of the secret preparations for flight which Ovlour arranges by giving the army a liberal allowance of wine. After a wild orgy the soldiers fall asleep. When Igor gives the signal for flight, Konchakovna throws herself upon young Vladimir and holds him until his father has disappeared. The soldiers rush to kill him as in revenge for Igor's escape, but the Khan is content to let him remain as his daughter's husband.

In the last act the lamenting Yaroslavna is cheered by the return of her husband, and together they enter the Kremlin at Poultivle.

Borodin, who divided his life between science and music, wrote his opera piece by piece. Rimsky-Korsakoff wrote that he often found him working in his laboratory that communicated directly with his house. "When he was seated before his retorts, which were filled with colourless gases of some kind, forcing them by means of tubes from one vessel to another, I used to tell him that he was spending his time in pouring water into a sieve. As soon as he was free he would take me to his living-rooms and there we occupied ourselves with music and conversation, in the midst of which Borodin would rush off to the laboratory to make sure that nothing was burning or boiling over, making the corridor ring as he went with some extraordinary passage of ninths or seconds. Then back again for more music and talk."

Borodin, himself, wrote: "In winter I can only compose when I am too unwell to give my lectures. So my friends, reversing the usual custom, never say to me, 'I hope you are well' but 'I do hope you are ill.' At Christmas I had influenza, so I stayed at home and wrote the Thanksgiving Chorus in the last act of 'Igor.'"

He never finished his opera. It was completed by Rimsky-Korsakoff and his pupil Glazounoff, and three years after his death received its first performance. Borodin never wrote down the overture, but Glazounoff heard him play it so frequently that it was an easy matter for him to orchestrate it according to Borodin's wishes. The composer left this note about his opera: "It is curious to see how all the members of our set agree in praise of my work. While controversy rages amongst us on every other subject, all, so far, are pleased with 'Igor.' Moussorgsky, the ultra-realist, the innovating lyrico-dramatist, Cui, our master, Balakireff, so severe as regards form and tradition, Vladimir Stassoff himself, our valiant champion of everything that bears the stamp of novelty or greatness."

BORIS GODOUNOFF

The subject brings to the stage one of the most curious episodes of the history of Russia in the seventeenth century. A privy councillor of the Czar Feodor, son of Ivan, named Boris Godounoff, has caused to be assassinated the young Dimitri, brother of the emperor and his only heir. On the death of Feodor, Boris, who has committed his crime with the sole object of seizing power, causes himself to be acclaimed by the people and ascends the throne. But about the same time, a young monk named Grischka escapes from his convent, discards his habit, and goes to Poland where he passes as the dead czarevitch Dimitri. The Polish government receives him all the more cordially as it understands all the advantage such an event might afford it. Soon the pretended Dimitri, who has married the daughter of one of the most powerful magnates, puts himself at the head of the Polish army and marches with it against Russia. Just at this moment they hear of the death of Boris, and the false Dimitri, taking advantage of the circumstances, in turn usurps power which he is destined not to keep very long.

Such is the poetical drama, the arrangement of which is a little inconsistent from the scenic point of view, and which a historian of Russian music, himself a musician, M. César Cui, treats in these words: "There is no question here of a subject of which the different parts, combined in such a way as to present a necessary sequence of events, one flowing from the other, correspond in their totality to the ideas of a strict dramatic unity. Each scene in it is independent; the rôles, for the greater part, are transitory. The episodes that we see follow each other necessarily have a certain connection; they all relate more or less to a general fact, to a common action; but the opera would not suffer from a rearrangement of the scenes nor even from a substitution of certain secondary episodes by others. This depends on the fact that 'Boris Godounoff' properly speaking is neither a drama nor an opera, but rather a musical chronicle after the manner of the historical dramas of Shakespeare. Each of the acts, taken separately, awakens a real interest which, however, is not caused by what goes before and which stops brusquely without connection with the scene which is going to follow." Let us add that some of these scenes are written entirely in prose while others are in verse and we will have a general idea of the make-up of the libretto of "Boris Godounoff," which moreover offered the composer a series of scenes very favourable to music.

The score of Moussorgsky is uneven, like his talents, but nevertheless remains very interesting and indicative of a distinct personality. Although the composer was not much of a symphonist and rather indifferently understood how to manage the resources of the orchestra, although his harmony is sometimes strange and rude and his modulation incorrect and excessive, he had at least a lavishness of inspiration, the abundance and zest of which are calculated to cause astonishment. He is a musician perhaps of more instinct than of knowledge, who goes straight ahead without bothering himself about obstacles and who sometimes trips while on his way but who nevertheless reaches his object, sometimes even going beyond it by his strength of audacity.

Not much of a symphonist, as I have said, Moussorgsky did not even take the trouble to write an overture and some entr'actes. But certain pages of his score are not the less remarkable for their accent, their colour, and their scenic effect, and especially for the national feeling which from a musical point of view flows from them. Under this head we would point out in the first act the great military scene, which is of superb brilliance, and the chorus of begging monks; in the second, the entire scene of the inn, in which the dramatic intensity does not lessen for a second and which presents an astonishing variety of rhythm and colour; then, in the third, the chorus of female attendants, sung on a Cracovian woman's air, the song of Marina in the style of a mazurka, and a great Polish dance full of go and warmth; finally the whole episode of the death of Boris, which has a really gripping effect. These are enough, in spite of the inequalities and defects of the work, to cause regret for the death of an artist endowed with a very individual style, whose instruction had been doubtless incomplete, but who nevertheless seemed called to have a brilliant future.

EUGEN ONEGIN

Act I. Eugen Onegin has been called from a wild life of pleasure to his sick uncle, of whose property he takes possession after the uncle's sudden death. He has brought with him from the big city a profound satiety of all enjoyments and a deep contempt for the society of mankind in his solitary country seat. Here, however, he forms a friendship for a young fanatic, the poet Lenski. Through him he is introduced to Larina, a woman who owns an estate. Her two daughters, Olga and Tatiana, correspond to the double nature of their mother, whose youth was a period of sentimentality in which she allowed herself to be affected like others by Richardson's novels, raved over Grandison, and followed the wild adventures of Lovelace with anxious thrills. Life later had made her rational, altogether too rational and insipid. Olga now has become a cheerful, superficial, pleasureful silly young girl; Tatiana, a dreamer whose melancholy is increasing through reading books which her mother had once used. Lenski is betrothed to Olga. Tatiana recognizes at her first sight of Onegin the realization of her dreams. Her heart goes out to meet him and in her enthusiasm she reveals all her feelings in a letter to him. Onegin is deeply stirred by this love; a feeling of confidence in mankind that he had not known for such a long time awakens in him. But he knows himself too well. He knows that every faculty as a husband is departing from him. And now he considers it his duty not to disappoint this maiden soul, to be frank. He refuses her love. He takes the blame on himself, but he would not have been the worldly wise man if his superiority to the simple country child had not been emphasized chiefly on this account. But Tatiana only listens to the refusal; she is very unhappy. Onegin remains her ideal, who now will be still more solitary, in spite of it.

Act II. Tatiana's name-day is being celebrated with a big ball. Onegin goes there on Lenski's invitation. The stupid company with their narrow views about him vex him so much that he seeks to revenge himself on Lenski for it, for which he begins courting Olga. Lenski takes the jest in earnest; it comes to a quarrel between the friends. Lenski rushes out and sends Onegin a challenge. Social considerations force Onegin to accept the challenge; a duelling fanatic landlord, Saretsky stirs Lenski's anger so severely that a reconciliation is not possible. This part in Pushkin's work is the keenest satire, an extraordinarily efficacious mockery of the whole subject of duelling. There is derision on Onegin's side, too, for he chooses as his second his coachman Gillot. But the duel was terribly in earnest; Lenski falls shot through by his opponent's bullet. (This scene recalls a sad experience of the poet himself; for he himself fell in a duel by the bullet of a supercilious courtier, Georg d'Anthès-Heckeren, who died in Alsace in 1895.)

Act III. Twenty-six years later. Onegin has restlessly wandered over the world. Now he is in St. Petersburg at a ball given by Prince Gremin. There, if he sees aright, Princess Gremina, that accomplished woman of the world is "his" Tatiana. Now his passion is aroused in all its strength. He must win her. Tatiana does not love him with the same ardour as before. When she upbraids Onegin that he loves her only because she has now become a brilliant woman of the world it is only a means of deceiving herself and her impetuous adorer as to her real feelings. But finally her true feeling is revealed. She tells Onegin that she loves him as before. But at the same time she explains that she will remain true to her duty as a wife. Broken-hearted Onegin leaves her.

PIQUE-DAME
THE QUEEN OF SPADES

The libretto of Tschaikowsky's "Pique-Dame" was first prepared by the composer's brother Modeste for a musician who later refused to use it. Tschaikowsky wrote it in six weeks, during a stay in Florence. The libretto is that of the well-known story by Pushkin. Herman, the hero, a passionate gambler, loves Lisa, whom he met while walking in the summer garden in St. Petersburg. He learns that she is the granddaughter of "the belle of St. Petersburg," famous in her old age as the luckiest of card players. So strange is the old lady's appearance that she has been named "The Queen of Spades." The two women exert conflicting influences over Herman. He loves Lisa, while the old woman awakens his gambling impulses. It is said that the old Countess's success at the card table is based upon her secret knowledge of a combination of three cards. Herman is bent upon learning the secret. Although Lisa loves Herman she engages herself to Prince Yeletsky. With the hope of forcing the old woman to reveal her secret, he hides in her bedroom one night. When she sees him the shock kills her, and Herman learns nothing. Half-crazed with remorse Herman is haunted by the old Countess's ghost. The apparition shows him the three cards.

When he goes to her house the night after her funeral and plays against Prince Yeletsky, he wins twice by the cards shown him by the ghost. He stakes everything he possesses on the third card but he turns up, not the expected card, but the queen of spades herself. At the same instant he sees a vision of the Countess, triumphant and smiling. Desperate, Herman ends his life.

Tschaikowsky enjoyed his work on this opera. He wrote as follows to the Grand Duke Constantine: "I composed this opera with extraordinary joy and fervour, and experienced so vividly in myself all that happens in the tale, that at one time I was actually afraid of the spectre of the Queen of Spades. I can only hope that all my creative fervour, my agitation, and my enthusiasm will find an echo in the heart of my audiences." First performed at St. Petersburg in 1890, this opera soon rivalled "Eugen Onegin" in popularity.

LE COQ D’OR
THE GOLDEN COCK