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

The dramatically condemnatory "Traditor!" is a death knell for her lover in the ears of Amneris. And after each accusation, silence by Rhadames, and cry by the priests of "Traitor!" Amneris realizes only too well that his approaching doom is to be entombed alive! Her revulsions of feeling from hatred to love and despair find vent in highly dramatic musical phrases. In fact Amneris dominates this scene, which is one of the most powerful passages for mezzo-soprano in all opera.

Scene 2. This is the famous double scene. The stage setting is divided into two floors. The upper floor represents the interior of the Temple of Vulcan, resplendent with light and gold; the lower floor a subterranean hall and long rows of arcades which are lost in the darkness. A colossal statue of Osiris, with the hands crossed, sustains the pilasters of the vault.

In the temple Amneris and the priestesses kneel in prayer. And Rhadames? Immured in the dungeon and, as he thought, to perish alone, a form slowly takes shape in the darkness, and his own name, uttered by the tender accents of a familiar voice, falls upon his ear. It is Aïda. Anticipating the death to which he will be sentenced, she has secretly made her way into the dungeon before his trial and there hidden herself to find reunion with him in death. And so, while in the temple above them the unhappy Amneris kneels and implores the gods to vouchsafe Heaven to him whose death she has compassed, Rhadames and Aïda, blissful in their mutual sacrifice, await the end.

From "Celeste Aïda," Rhadames's apostrophe to his beloved, with which the opera opens, to "O, terra, addio; addio, valle di pianti!" (Oh, earth, farewell! Farewell, vale of tears!),

[Listen]

O terra addio; addio valle di pianti

which is the swan-song of Rhadames and Aïda, united in death in the stone-sealed vault,—such is the tragic fate of love, as set forth in this beautiful and eloquent score by Giuseppe Verdi.

OTELLO
OTHELLO

Three years after the success of "Aïda," Verdi produced at Milan his "Manzoni Requiem"; but nearly sixteen years were to elapse between "Aïda" and his next work for the lyric stage. "Aïda," with its far richer instrumentation than that of any earlier work by Verdi, yet is in form an opera. "Otello" more nearly approaches a music-drama, but still is far from being one. It is only when Verdi is compared with his earlier self that he appears Wagnerian. Compared with Wagner, he remains characteristically Italian—true to himself, in fact, as genius should be.

Nowhere, perhaps, is this matter summed up as happily as in Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians: "Undoubtedly influenced by his contemporaries Meyerbeer, Gounod, and Wagner in his treatment of the orchestra, Verdi's dramatic style nevertheless shows a natural and individual development, and has remained essentially Italian as an orchestral accompaniment of vocal melody; but his later instrumentation is far more careful in detail and luxuriant than that of the earlier Italian school, and his melody more passionate and poignant in expression."

"Otello" is a well-balanced score, composed to a libretto by a distinguished poet and musician—the composer of "Mefistofele." It has vocal melodies, which are rounded off and constitute separate "numbers" (to employ an expression commonly applied to operatic airs), and its recitatives are set to a well thought out instrumental accompaniment.

It is difficult to explain the comparative lack of success with the public of Verdi's last two scores for the lyric stage, "Otello" and "Falstaff." Musicians fully appreciate them. Indeed "Falstaff," which followed "Otello," is considered one of the greatest achievements in the history of opera. Yet it is rarely given, and even "Otello" has already reached the "revival" stage, while "Aïda," "Rigoletto," "La Traviata," and "Il Trovatore" are fixtures, although "Rigoletto" was composed thirty-six years before "Otello" and forty-two before "Falstaff." Can it be that critics (including myself) and professional musicians have been admiring the finished workmanship of Verdi's last two scores, while the public has discovered in them a halting inspiration, a too frequent substitution of miraculous skill for the old-time flair, and a lack of that careless but attractive occasional laissez faire aller of genius, which no technical perfection can replace? Time alone can answer.

When "Otello" opens, Desdemona has preceded her husband to Cyprus and is living in the castle overlooking the port. There are a few bars of introduction.

Through a heavy storm Othello's ship is seen to be making port. Among the crowd of watchers, who exclaim upon the danger to the vessel, are Iago and Roderigo. Othello ascends the steps to the quay, is acclaimed by the crowd, and proceeds to the castle followed by Cassio, Montano, and soldiers. The people start a wood fire and gather about it dancing and singing.

It transpires in talk between Iago and Roderigo that Iago hates Othello because he has advanced Cassio over him, and that Roderigo is in love with Desdemona.

The fire dies out, the storm has ceased. Cassio has returned from the castle. Now comes the scene in which Iago purposely makes him drunk, in order to cause his undoing. They, with others, are grouped around the table outside the tavern. Iago sings his drinking song, "Inaffia l'ugola! trinca tracanna" (Then let me quaff the noble wine, from the can I'll drink it).

[Listen]

Inaffia l'ugola! trinca, tracanna,

Under the influence of the liquor Cassio resents the taunts of Roderigo, instigated by Iago. Montano tries to quiet him. Cassio draws. There follows the fight in which Montano is wounded. The tumult, swelled by alarums and the ringing of bells, brings Othello with Desdemona to the scene. Cassio is dismissed from the Moor's service. Iago has scored his first triumph.

The people disperse. Quiet settles upon the scene. Othello and Desdemona are alone. The act closes with their love duet, which Desdemona begins with "Quando narravi" (When thou dids't speak).

[Listen]

Act II. A hall on the ground floor of the castle. Iago, planning to make Othello jealous of Desdemona, counsels Cassio to induce the Moor's wife to plead for his reinstatement. Cassio goes into a large garden at the back. Iago sings his famous "Credo in un Dio che m'ha creato" (I believe in a God, who has created me in his image). This is justly regarded as a masterpiece of invective. It does not appear in Shakespeare, so that the lines are as original with Boïto as the music is with Verdi. Trumpets, employed in what may be termed a declamatory manner, are conspicuous in the accompaniment.

Iago, seeing Othello approach, leans against a column and looks fixedly in the direction of Desdemona and Cassio, exclaiming, as Othello enters, "I like not that!" As in the corresponding scene in the play, this leads up to the questioning of him by Othello and to Iago's crafty answers, which not only apply the match to, but also fan the flame of Othello's jealousy, as he watches his wife with Cassio.

Children, women, and Cypriot and Albanian sailors now are seen with Desdemona. They bring her flowers and other gifts. Accompanying themselves on the cornemuse, and small harps, they sing a mandolinata, "Dove guardi splendono" (Wheresoe'er thy glances fall). This is followed by a graceful chorus for the sailors, who bring shells and corals.

The scene and Desdemona's beauty deeply move the Moor. He cannot believe her other than innocent. But, unwittingly, she plays into Iago's hand. For her first words on joining Othello are a plea for Cassio. All the Moor's jealousy is re-aroused. When she would apply her handkerchief to his heated brow, he tears it from her hand, and throws it to the ground. Emilia picks it up, but Iago takes it from her. The scene is brought to a close by a quartet for Desdemona, Othello, Iago, and Emilia.

Othello and Iago are left together again. Othello voices the grief that shakes his whole being, in what Mr. Upton happily describes as "a pathetic but stirring melody." In it he bids farewell, not only to love and trust, but to the glories of war and battle. The trumpet is effectively employed in the accompaniment to this outburst of grief, which begins, "Addio sante memorie" (Farewell, O sacred memories).

[Listen]

Addio sante memorie, addio sublimi incanti del pensier

To such a fury is the Moor aroused that he seizes Iago, hurls him to the ground, and threatens to kill him should his accusations against Desdemona prove false. There is a dramatic duet in which Iago pledges his aid to Othello in proving beyond doubt the falseness of Desdemona.

Act III. The great hall of the castle. At the back a terrace. After a brief scene in which the approach of a galley with the Venetian ambassadors is announced, Desdemona enters. Wholly unaware of the cause of Othello's strange actions toward her, she again begins to plead for Cassio's restoration to favour. Iago has pretended to Othello that Desdemona's handkerchief (of which he surreptitiously possessed himself) had been given by her to Cassio, and this has still further fanned the flame of the Moor's jealousy. The scene, for Othello, is one of mingled wrath and irony. Upon her knees Desdemona vows her constancy: "Esterrefatta fisso lo sguardo tuo tremendo" (Upon my knees before thee, beneath thy glance I tremble). I quote the phrase, "Io prego il cielo per te con questo pianto" (I pray my sighs rise to heaven with prayer).

[Listen]

Io prego il cielo per te con questo pianto

Othello pushes her out of the room. He soliloquizes: "Dio! mi potevi scagliar tutti i mali della miseria" (Heav'n had it pleased thee to try me with affliction).

Iago, entering, bids Othello conceal himself; then brings in Cassio, who mentions Desdemona to Iago, and also is led by Iago into light comments on other matters, all of which Othello, but half hearing them from his place of concealment, construes as referring to his wife. Iago also plays the trick with the handkerchief, which, having been conveyed by him to Cassio, he now induces the latter (within sight of Othello) to draw from his doublet. There is a trio for Othello (still in concealment), Iago, and Cassio.

The last-named having gone, and the Moor having asked for poison with which to kill Desdemona, Iago counsels that Othello strangle her in bed that night, while he goes forth and slays Cassio. For this counsel Othello makes Iago his lieutenant.

The Venetian ambassadors arrive. There follows the scene in which the recall of Othello to Venice and the appointment of Cassio as Governor of Cyprus are announced. This is the scene in which, also, the Moor strikes down Desdemona in the presence of the ambassadors, and she begs for mercy—"A terra—sì—nel livido fango" (Yea, prostrate here, I lie in the dust); and "Quel sol sereno e vivido che allieta il cielo e il mare" (The sun who from his cloudless sky illumes the heavens and sea).

[Listen]

Quel Sol sereno e vivido che allieta il cielo e il mare

After this there is a dramatic sextet.

All leave, save the Moor and his newly created lieutenant. Overcome by rage, Othello falls in a swoon. The people, believing that the Moor, upon his return to Venice, is to receive new honours from the republic, shout from outside, "Hail, Othello! Hail to the lion of Venice!"

"There lies the lion!" is Iago's comment of malignant triumph and contempt, as the curtain falls.

Act IV. The scene is Desdemona's bedchamber. There is an orchestral introduction of much beauty. Then, as in the play, with which I am supposing the reader to be at least fairly familiar, comes the brief dialogue between Desdemona and Emilia. Desdemona sings the pathetic little willow song, said to be a genuine Italian folk tune handed down through many centuries.

[Listen]

Piangea cantando nell'erma landa, piangea la mesta.... O Salce!

Emilia goes, and Desdemona at her prie-Dieu, before the image of the Virgin, intones an exquisite "Ave Maria," beginning and ending in pathetic monotone, with an appealing melody between.

[Listen]

Prega per chi adorando a te si prostra, Ave! Amen!

Othello's entrance is accompanied by a powerful passage on the double basses.

Then follows the scene of the strangling, through which are heard mournfully reminiscent strains of the love duet that ended the first act. Emilia discloses Iago's perfidy. Othello kills himself.

FALSTAFF

Shakespeare's comedy, "The Merry Wives of Windsor," did not have its first lyric adaptation when the composer of "Rigoletto" and "Aïda," influenced probably by his distinguished librettist, penned the score of his last work for the stage. "Falstaff," by Salieri, was produced in Vienna in 1798; another "Falstaff," by Balfe, came out in London in 1838. Otto Nicolai's opera "The Merry Wives of Windsor" is mentioned on p. 80 of this book. The character of Falstaff also appears in "Le Songe d'une Nuit d'Été" (The Midsummer Night's Dream) by Ambroise Thomas, Paris, 1850, "where the type is treated with an adept's hand, especially in the first act, which is a masterpiece of pure comedy in music." "Le Songe d'une Nuit d'Été" was, in fact, Thomas's first significant success. A one-act piece, "Falstaff," by Adolphe Adam, was produced at the Théâtre Lyrique in 1856.

The comedy of the "Merry Wives," however, was not the only Shakespeare play put under contribution by Boïto. At the head of the "Falstaff" score is this note: "The present comedy is taken from 'The Merry Wives of Windsor' and from several passages in 'Henry IV.' by Shakespeare."

Falstaff, it should be noted, is a historic figure; he was a brave soldier; served in France; was governor of Honfleur; took an important part in the battle of Agincourt, and was in all the engagements before the walls of Orleans, where the English finally were obliged to retreat before Joan of Arc. Sir John Falstaff died at the age of eighty-two years in county Norfolk, his native shire, after numerous valiant exploits, and having occupied his old age in caring for the interests of the two universities of Oxford and Cambridge, to the foundation of which he had largely contributed. To us, however, he is known almost wholly as an enormously stout comic character.

The first scene in the first act of the work by Boïto and Verdi shows Falstaff in a room of the Garter Inn. He is accompanied by those two good-for-nothings in his service, Bardolph and Pistol, ragged blackguards, whom he treats with a disdain measured by their own low standards. Dr. Cajus enters. He comes to complain that Falstaff has beaten his servants; also that Bardolph and Pistol made him drunk and then robbed him. Falstaff laughs and browbeats him out of countenance. He departs in anger.

Falstaff has written two love letters and despatched them to two married belles of Windsor—Mistress Alice Ford and Mistress Meg Page, asking each one for a rendezvous.

The scene changes to the garden of Ford's house, and we are in presence of the "merry wives"—Alice Ford, Meg Page, and Mistress Quickly. With them is Anne Ford, Mistress Ford's daughter. Besides the garden there is seen part of the Ford house and the public road. In company with Dame Quickly, Meg has come to pay a visit to Alice Ford, to show her a letter which she has just received from Falstaff. Alice matches her with one she also has received from him. The four merry women then read the two letters, which, save for the change of address, are exactly alike. The women are half amused, half annoyed, at the pretensions of the fat knight. They plan to avenge themselves upon him. Meanwhile Ford goes walking before his house in company with Cajus, young Fenton (who is in love with Anne), Bardolph, and Pistol. The last two worthies have betrayed their master. From them Ford has learned that Falstaff is after his wife. He too meditates revenge, and goes off with the others, except Fenton, who lingers, kisses Anne through the rail fence of the garden, and sings a love duet with her. The men return. Fenton rejoins them. Anne runs back to her mother, and the four women are seen up-stage, concocting their conspiracy of revenge.

The second act reverts to the Garter Inn, where Falstaff is still at table. Dame Quickly comes with a message from Alice to agree to the rendezvous he has asked for. It is at the Ford house between two and three o'clock, it being Ford's custom to absent himself at that time. Falstaff is pompously delighted. He promises to be prompt.

Hardly has Dame Quickly left, when Ford arrives. He introduces himself to Falstaff under an assumed name, presents the knight with a purse of silver as a bait, then tells him that he is in love with Mistress Ford, whose chastity he cannot conquer, and begs Falstaff to lay siege to her and so make the way easier for him. Falstaff gleefully tells him that he has a rendezvous with her that very afternoon. This is just what Ford wanted to know.

The next scene takes place in Ford's house, where the four women get ready to give Falstaff the reception he merits. One learns here, quite casually from talk between Mistress Ford and Anne, that Ford wants to marry off the girl to the aged pedant Cajus, while she, of course, will marry none but Fenton, with whom she is in love. Her mother promises to aid her plans.

Falstaff's arrival is announced. Dame Quickly, Meg, and Anne leave Mistress Ford with him, but conceal themselves in readiness to come in response to the first signal. They are needed sooner than expected. Ford is heard approaching. Quick! The fat lover must be concealed. This is accomplished by getting him behind a screen. Ford enters with his followers, hoping to surprise the rake. With them he begins a search of the rooms. While they are off exploring another part of the house the women hurry Falstaff into a big wash basket, pile the soiled clothes over him, and fasten it down. Scarcely has this been done when Ford comes back, thinking of the screen. Just then he hears the sound of kissing behind this piece of furniture. No longer any doubt! Falstaff is hidden there with his wife. He knocks down the screen—and finds behind it Anne and Fenton, who have used to their own purpose the diversion of attention from them by the hunt for Falstaff. Ford, more furious than ever, rushes out. His wife and her friends call in the servants, who lift the basket and empty it out of the window into the Thames, which flows below. When Ford comes back, his wife leads him to the window and shows him Falstaff striking out clumsily for the shore, a butt of ridicule for all who see him.

In the third act Dame Quickly is once more seen approaching Falstaff, who is seated on a bench outside the Garter Inn. In behalf of Mistress Ford, she offers him another rendezvous. Falstaff wants to hear no more, but Dame Quickly makes so many good excuses for her friend that he decides to meet Mistress Ford at the time and place asked for by her—midnight, at Herne's oak in Windsor forest, Falstaff to appear in the disguise of the black huntsman, who, according to legend, hung himself from the oak, with the result that the spot is haunted by witches and sprites.

Falstaff, in the forest at midnight, is surrounded by the merry women, the whole Ford entourage, and about a hundred others, all disguised and masked. They unite in mystifying, taunting, and belabouring him, until at last he realizes whom he has to deal with. And as it is necessary for everything to end in a wedding, it is then that Mistress Ford persuades her husband to abandon his plan to take the pedantic Dr. Cajus for son-in-law and give his daughter Anne to Fenton.

Even taking into account "Otello," the general form of the music in "Falstaff" is an innovation for Verdi. All the scenes are connected without break in continuity, as in the Wagnerian music-drama, but applied to an entirely different style of music from Wagner's. "It required all the genius and dramatic experience of a Verdi, who had drama in his blood, to succeed in a lyrical adventure like 'Falstaff,' the whole score of which displays amazing youthfulness, dash, and spirit, coupled with extraordinary grace." On the other hand, as regards inspiration pure and simple, it has been said that there is not found in "Falstaff" the freshness of imagination or the abundance of ideas of the earlier Verdi, and that one looks in vain for one of those motifs di prima intenzione, like the romance of Germont in "La Traviata," the song of the Duke in "Rigoletto," or the "Miserere" in "Il Trovatore," and so many others that might be named. The same writer, however, credits the score with remarkable purity of form and with a sveltesse and lightness that are astonishing in the always lively attraction of the musical discourse, to say nothing of a "charming orchestration, well put together, likeable and full of coquetry, in which are found all the brilliancy and facility of the Rossini method."

Notwithstanding the above writer's appreciative words regarding the instrumentation of "Falstaff," he has fallen foul of the work, because he listened to it purely in the spirit of an opera-goer, and judged it as an opera instead of as a music-drama. If I may be pardoned the solecism, a music-drama "listens" different from an opera. A person accustomed only to opera has his ears cocked for song soaring above an accompaniment that counts for nothing save as a support for the voice. The music-lover, who knows what a music-drama consists of, is aware that it presents a well-balanced score, in which the orchestra frequently changes place with the voice in interpreting the action. It is because in "Falstaff" Verdi makes the orchestra act and sing—which to an opera-goer, his ears alert for vocal melody, means nothing—that the average audience, expecting something like unto what Verdi has given them before, is disappointed. Extremists, one way or another, are one-sided. Whoever is able to appreciate both opera and music-drama, a catholicity of taste I consider myself fortunate in possessing, can admire "Rigoletto," "Il Trovatore," and "La Traviata" as much as the most confirmed devotee of opera; but can also go further, and follow Verdi into regions where the intake is that of the pure spirit of comedy at times exhaled by the voice, at times by the orchestra.

While not divided into distinct "numbers," there are passages in "Falstaff" in which Verdi has concentrated his attention on certain characteristic episodes. In the first scene of the first act occurs Falstaff's lyric in praise of Mistress Ford, "O amor! Sguardo di stella!" (O Love, with star-like eyes). I quote the beautiful passage at "Alice è il nome" (And Alice is her name).

[Listen]

(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)

The same scene has the honour monologue from "King Henry IV.," which is purely declamatory, but with a remarkably vivid and characteristic accompaniment, in which especially the bassoons and clarinets comment merrily on the sarcastic sentences addressed to Bardolph and Pistol.

In the second scene of Act I, besides the episodes in which Mistress Ford reads Falstaff's letter, the unaccompanied quartet for the women ("Though shaped like a barrel, he fain would come courting"), the quartet for the men, and the close of the act in which both quartets take part, there is the piquant duet for Anne and Fenton, in which the lovers kiss each other between the palings of the fence. From this duet I quote the amatory exchange of phrases, "Labbra di foco" (Lips all afire) and "Labbra di fiore" (Lips of a flower) between Anne and Fenton.

[Listen]

(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)

As the curtain falls Mistress Ford roguishly quotes a line from Falstaff's verses, the four women together add another quotation, "Come una stella sull'immensità" (Like some sweet star that sparkles all the night), and go out laughing. In fact the music for the women takes many a piquant turn.

[Listen]

(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)

In Act II, the whole scene between Falstaff and Dame Quickly is full of witty commentary by the orchestra. The scene between Falstaff and Ford also derives its significance from the instrumentation. Ford's monologue, when he is persuaded by Falstaff's boastful talk that his wife is fickle, is highly dramatic. The little scene of Ford's and Falstaff's departure—Ford to expose his betrayal by his wife, Falstaff for his rendezvous with her—"is underscored by a graceful and very elegant orchestral dialogue."

The second scene of this act has Dame Quickly's madcap narrative of her interview with Falstaff; and Falstaff's ditty sung to Mistress Ford, "Quand'ero paggio del Duca di Norfolk" (When I was page to the Duke of Norfolk). From the popular point of view, this is the outstanding musical number of the work. It is amusing, pathetic, graceful, and sad; irresistible, in fact, in its mingled sentiments of comedy and regret. Very brief, it rarely fails of encores from one to four in number. I quote the following:

[[Listen (MP3)]

Quand'ero paggio del Duca di Norfolk ero sottile, sottile, sottile,

(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)

The search for Falstaff by Ford and his followers is most humorously treated in the score.

In Act III, in the opening scene, in which Falstaff soliloquizes over his misadventures, the humour, so far as the music is concerned, is conveyed by the orchestra.

From Fenton's song of love, which opens the scene at Herne's oak in Windsor forest, I quote this expressive passage:

[Listen]

(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)

Another delightful solo in this scene is Anne's "Erriam sotto la luna" (We'll dance in the moonlight).

[Listen]

(Copyright, 1893, by G. Ricordi & Co.)

There are mysterious choruses—sibilant and articulately vocalized—and a final fugue.

MEFISTOFELE
(MEPHISTOPHELES)

"Mefistofele" is in a prologue, four acts, and epilogue. In Gounod's "Faust," the librettists were circumspect, and limited the book of the opera to the first part of Goethe's Faust, the story of Faust and Marguerite—succinct, dramatic, and absorbing. Only for the ballet did they reach into the second part of Goethe's play and appropriate the scene on the Brocken, which, however, is frequently omitted.

Boïto, himself a poet, based his libretto on both parts of Goethe's work, and endeavoured to give it the substratum of philosophy upon which the German master reared his dramatic structure. This, however, resulted in making "Mefistofele" two operas in one. Wherever the work touches on the familiar story of Faust and Marguerite, it is absorbingly interesting, and this in spite of the similarity between some of its scenes and those of Gounod's "Faust." When it strays into Part II of Goethe's drama, the main thread of the action suddenly seems broken. The skein ravels. That is why one of the most profound works for the lyric stage, one of the most beautiful scores that has come out of Italy, is heard so rarely.

Theodore T. Barker prefaces his translation of the libretto, published by Oliver Ditson Company, with a recital of the story.

The Prologue opens in the nebulous regions of space, in which float the invisible legions of angels, cherubs, and seraphs. These lift their voices in a hymn of praise to the Supreme Ruler of the universe. Mefistofele enters on the scene at the close of the anthem, and, standing erect amid the clouds, with his feet upon the border of his cloak, mockingly addresses the Deity. In answer to the question from the mystic choir, "Knowest thou Faust?" he answers contemptuously, and offers to wager that he will be able to entice Faust to evil, and thus gain a victory over the powers of good. The wager is accepted, and the spirits resume their chorus of praise.

Musically the Prologue is full of interest. There are five distinct periods of music, varied in character, so that it gives necessary movement to a scene in which there is but little stage action. There are the prelude with mystic choir; the sardonic scherzo foreshadowing the entry of Mefistofele; his scornful address, in which finally he engages to bring about the destruction of Faust's soul; a vivacious chorus of cherubs (impersonated by twenty-four boys); a psalmody of penitents and spirits.

Act I. The drama opens on Easter Sunday, at Frankfort-on-the-Main. Crowds of people of all conditions move in and out of the city gates. Among them appears a grey friar, an object of both reverence and dread to those near him. The aged Dr. Faust and his pupil Wagner descend from a height and enter upon the scene, shadowed by the friar, whose actions they discuss. Faust returns to his laboratory, still at his heels the friar, who, unheeded, enters with him, and conceals himself in an alcove. Faust gives himself to meditation, and upon opening the sacred volume, is startled by a shriek from the friar as he rushes from his place of concealment. Faust makes the all-potent "sign of Solomon," which compels Mefistofele to throw off his friar's disguise and to appear in his own person in the garb of a cavalier, with a black cloak upon his arm. In reply to Faust's questionings, he declares himself the spirit that denieth all things, desiring only the complete ruin of the world, and a return to chaos and night. He offers to make Faust the companion of his wanderings, upon certain conditions, to which the latter agrees, saying: "If thou wilt bring me one hour of peace, in which my soul may rest—if thou wilt unveil the world and myself before me—if I may find cause to say to some flying moment, 'Stay, for thou art blissful,' then let me die, and let hell's depths engulf me." The contract completed, Mefistofele spreads his cloak, and both disappear through the air.

The first scene of this act gains its interest from the reflection in the music of the bustle and animation of the Easter festival. The score plastically follows the many changing incidents of the scene upon the stage. Conspicuous in the episodes in Faust's laboratory are Faust's beautiful air, "Dai campi, dai prati" (From the fields and from the meadows); and Mefistofele's proclamation of his identity, "Son lo spirito che nega" (I am the spirit that denieth).

Act II opens with the garden scene. Faust, rejuvenated, and under the name of Henry; Margaret, Mefistofele, and Martha stroll here and there in couples, chatting and love-making. Thence Mefistofele takes Faust to the heights of the Brocken, where he witnesses the orgies of the Witches' Sabbath. The fiend is welcomed and saluted as their king. Faust, benumbed and stupefied, gazes into the murky sky, and experiences there a vision of Margaret, pale, sad, and fettered with chains.

In this act the garden scene is of entrancing grace. It contains Faust's "Colma il tuo cor d'un palpito" (Flood thou thy heart with all the bliss), and the quartet of farewell, with which the scene ends, Margaret, with the gay and reckless laugh of ineffable bliss, exclaiming to Faust that she loves him. The scene in the Brocken, besides the whirl of the witches' orgy, has a solo for Mefistofele, when the weird sisters present to him a glass globe, reflected in which he sees the earth. "Ecco il mondo" (Behold the earth).

Act III. The scene is a prison. Margaret lies extended upon a heap of straw, mentally wandering, and singing to herself. Mefistofele and Faust appear outside the grating. They converse hurriedly, and Faust begs for the life of Margaret. Mefistofele promises to do what he can, and bids him haste, for the infernal steeds are ready for flight. He opens the cell, and Faust enters it. Margaret thinks the jailors have come to release her, but at length recognizes her lover. She describes what followed his desertion of her, and begs him to lay her in death beside her loved ones;—her babe, whom she drowned, her mother whom she is accused of having poisoned. Faust entreats her to fly with him, and she finally consents, saying that in some far distant isle they may yet be happy. But the voice of Mefistofele in the background recalls her to the reality of the situation. She shrinks away from Faust, prays to Heaven for mercy, and dies. Voices of the celestial choir are singing softly "She's saved!" Faust and Mefistofele escape, as the executioner and his escort appear in the background.

The act opens with Margaret's lament, "L'altra notte in fonda al mare" (To the sea, one night in sadness), in which she tells of the drowning of her babe. There is an exquisite duet, for Margaret and Faust, "Lontano, sui flutti d'un ampio oceano" (Far away, o'er the waves of a far-spreading ocean).

Act IV. Mefistofele takes Faust to the shores of the Vale of Tempe. Faust is ravished with the beauty of the scene while Mefistofele finds that the orgies of the Brocken were more to his taste.

'Tis the night of the classic Sabbath. A band of young maidens appear, singing and dancing. Mefistofele, annoyed and confused, retires. Helen enters with chorus, and, absorbed by a terrible vision, rehearses the story of Troy's destruction. Faust enters, richly clad in the costume of a knight of the fifteenth century, followed by Mefistofele, Nereno, Pantalis, and others, with little fauns and sirens. Kneeling before Helen, he addresses her as his ideal of beauty and purity. Thus pledging to each other their love and devotion, they wander through the bowers and are lost to sight.

Helen's ode, "La luna immobile innonda l'etere" (Motionless floating, the moon floods the dome of night); her dream of the destruction of Troy; the love duet for Helen and Faust, "Ah! Amore! mistero celeste" ('Tis love, a mystery celestial); and the dexterous weaving of a musical background by orchestra and chorus, are the chief features in the score to this act.

In the Epilogue, we find Faust in his laboratory once more—an old man, with death fast approaching, mourning over his past life, with the holy volume open before him. Fearing that Faust may yet escape him, Mefistofele spreads his cloak, and urges Faust to fly with him through the air. Appealing to Heaven, Faust is strengthened by the sound of angelic songs, and resists. Foiled in his efforts, Mefistofele conjures up a vision of beautiful sirens. Faust hesitates a moment, flies to the sacred volume, and cries, "Here at last I find salvation"; then falling on his knees in prayer, effectually overcomes the temptations of the evil one. He then dies amid a shower of rosy petals, and to the triumphant song of a celestial choir. Mefistofele has lost his wager, and holy influences have prevailed.

We have here Faust's lament, "Giunto sul passo estremo" (Nearing the utmost limit); his prayer, and the choiring of salvation.

Arrigo Boïto was, it will be recalled, the author of the books to Ponchielli's opera "La Gioconda," and Verdi's "Otello" and "Falstaff." He was born in Padua, February 24, 1842. From 1853 to 1862 he was a pupil of the Milan Conservatory. During a long sojourn in Germany and Poland he became an ardent admirer of Wagner's music. Since "Mefistofele" Boïto has written and composed another opera, "Nerone" (Nero), but has withheld it from production.

Amilcare Ponchielli
(1834-1886)

AMILCARE PONCHIELLI, the composer of "La Gioconda," was born at Paderno Fasolaro, Cremona, August 31, 1834. He studied music, 1843-54, at the Milan Conservatory. In 1856 he brought out at Cremona an opera, "I Promessi Sposi" (The Betrothed), which, in a revised version, Milan, 1872, was his first striking success. The same care Ponchielli bestowed upon his studies, which lasted nearly ten years, he gave to his works. Like "I Promessi Sposi," his opera, "I Lituani" (The Lithuanians), brought out in 1874, was revived ten years later, as "Alguna"; and, while "La Gioconda" (1876) did not wait so long for success, it too was revised and brought out in a new version before it received popular acclaim. Among his other operas are, 1880, "Il Figliuol Prodigo" (The Prodigal Son), and, 1885, "Marion Delorme." "La Gioconda," however, is the only one of his operas that has made its way abroad.

Ponchielli died at Milan, January 16, 1886. He was among the very first Italian composers to yield to modern influences and enrich his score with instrumental effects intended to enhance its beauty and give the support of an eloquent and expressive accompaniment to the voice without, however, challenging its supremacy. His influence upon his Italian contemporaries was considerable. He, rather than Verdi, is regarded by students of music as the founder of the modern school of Italian opera. What really happened is that there was going on in Italy, influenced by a growing appreciation of Wagner's works among musicians, a movement for a more advanced style of lyric drama. Ponchielli and Boïto were leaders in this movement. Verdi, a far greater genius than either of these, was caught up in it, and, because of his genius, accomplished more in it than the actual leaders. Ponchielli's influence still is potent. For he was the teacher of the most famous living Italian composer of opera, Giacomo Puccini.

LA GIOCONDA
THE BALLAD SINGER