The English libretto of "Un Ballo in Maschera," literally "A Masked Ball," but always called by us "The Masked Ball," has the following note:

"The scene of Verdi's 'Ballo in Maschera' was, by the author of the libretto, originally laid in one of the European cities. But the government censors objected to this, probably, because the plot contained the record of a successful conspiracy against an established prince or governor. By a change of scene to the distant, and, to the author, little-known, city of Boston, in America, this difficulty seems to have been obviated. The fact should be borne in mind by Bostonians and others, who may be somewhat astonished at the events which are supposed to have taken place in the old Puritan city."

Certainly the events in "The Masked Ball" are amazing for the Boston of Puritan or any other time, and it was only through necessity that the scene of the opera was laid there. Now that political reasons for this no longer exist, it is usually played with the scene laid in Naples.

Auber produced, in 1833, an opera on a libretto by Scribe, entitled "Gustave III., ou Le Bal Masqué." Upon this Scribe libretto the book of "Un Ballo in Maschera" is based. Verdi's opera was originally called "Gustavo III.," and, like the Scribe-Auber work, was written around the assassination of Gustavus III., of Sweden, who, March 16, 1792, was shot in the back during a masked ball at Stockholm.

Verdi composed the work for the San Carlo Theatre, Naples, where it was to have been produced for the carnival of 1858. But January 14th of that year, and while the rehearsals were in progress, Felice Orsini, an Italian revolutionist, made his attempt on the life of Napoleon III. In consequence the authorities forbade the performance of a work dealing with the assassination of a king. The suggestion that Verdi adapt his music to an entirely different libretto was put aside by the composer, and the work was withdrawn, with the result that a revolution nearly broke out in Naples. People paraded the street, and by shouting "Viva Verdi!" proclaimed, under guise of the initials of the popular composer's name, that they favoured the cause of a united Italy, with Victor Emanuel as King; viz.: Vittorio Emmanuele Re D'Italia (Victor Emanuel, King of Italy). Finally the censor in Rome suggested, as a way out of the difficulty, that the title of the opera be changed to "Un Ballo in Maschera" and the scene transferred to Boston. For however nervous the authorities were about having a king murdered on the stage, they regarded the assassination of an English governor in far-off America as a quite harmless diversion. So, indeed, it proved to be, the only excitement evinced by the audience of the Apollo Theatre, Rome, on the evening of February 18, 1859, being the result of its enthusiasm over the various musical numbers of the work, this enthusiasm not being at all dampened by the fact that, with the transfer to Boston, two of the conspirators, Samuel and Tommaso, became negroes, and the astrologer who figures in the opera, a negress.

The sensible change of scene from Boston to Naples is said to have been initiated in Paris upon the instance of Mario, who "would never have consented to sing his ballad in the second act in short pantaloons, silk stockings, red dress, and big epaulettes of gold lace. He would never have been satisfied with the title of Earl of Warwick and the office of governor. He preferred to be a grandee of Spain, to call himself the Duke of Olivares, and to disguise himself as a Neapolitan fisherman, besides paying little attention to the strict accuracy of the rôle, but rather adapting it to his own gifts as an artist." The ballad referred to in this quotation undoubtedly is Richard's barcarolle, "Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta" (Declare if the waves will faithfully bear me).

Act I. Reception hall in the Governor's house. Richard, Earl of Warwick, is giving an audience. Oscar, a page, brings him the list of guests invited to a masked ball. Richard is especially delighted at seeing on it the name of Amelia, the wife of his secretary, Reinhart, although his conscience bitterly reproaches him for loving Amelia, for Reinhart is his most faithful friend, ever ready to defend him. The secretary also has discovered a conspiracy against his master; but as yet has been unable to learn the names of the conspirators.

At the audience a judge is announced, who brings for signature the sentence of banishment against an old fortune teller, the negress Ulrica. Oscar, however, intercedes for the old woman. Richard decides to visit her in disguise and test her powers of divination.

The scene changes to Ulrica's hut, which Richard enters disguised as a fisherman. Without his knowledge, Amelia also comes to consult the negress. Concealed by a curtain he hears her ask for a magic herb to cure her of the love which she, a married woman, bears to Richard. The old woman tells her of such an herb, but Amelia must gather it herself at midnight in the place where stands the gibbet. Richard thus learns that she loves him, and of her purpose to be at the place of the gibbet at midnight. When she has gone he comes out of his concealment and has his fortune told. Ulrica predicts that he will die by the hand of a friend. The conspirators, who are in his retinue, whisper among themselves that they are discovered. "Who will be the slayer?" asks Richard. The answer is, "Whoever first shall shake your hand." At this moment Reinhart enters, greets his friend with a vigorous shake of the hand, and Richard laughs at the evil prophecy. His retinue and the populace rejoice with him.

Act II. Midnight, beside the gallows. Amelia, deeply veiled, comes to pluck the magic herb. Richard arrives to protect her. Amelia is unable to conceal her love for him. But who comes there? It is Reinhart. Concern for his master has called him to the spot. The conspirators are lying in wait for him nearby. Richard exacts from Reinhart a promise to escort back to the city the deeply veiled woman, without making an attempt to learn who she is, while he himself returns by an unfrequented path. Reinhart and his companion fall into the hands of the conspirators. The latter do not harm the secretary, but want at least to learn who the Governor's sweetheart is. They lift the veil. Reinhart sees his own wife. Rage grips his soul. He bids the leaders of the conspiracy to meet with him at his house in the morning.

Act III. A study in Reinhart's dwelling. For the disgrace he has suffered he intends to kill Amelia. Upon her plea she is allowed to embrace her son once more. He reflects that, after all, Richard is much the more guilty of the two. He refrains from killing her, but when he and the conspirators draw lots to determine who shall kill Richard, he calls her in, and, at his command, she draws a piece of paper from an urn. It bears her husband's name, drawn unwittingly by her to indicate the person who is to slay the man she loves. Partly to remove Amelia's suspicions, Reinhart accepts the invitation to the masked ball which Oscar brings him, Richard, of course, knowing nothing of what has transpired.

In the brilliant crowd of maskers, the scene having changed to that of the masked ball, Reinhart learns from Oscar what disguise is worn by Richard. Amelia, who, with the eyes of apprehensive love, also has recognized Richard, implores him to flee the danger that threatens him. But Richard knows no fear. In order that the honour of his friend shall remain secure, he has determined to send him as an envoy to England, accompanied by his wife. Her, he tells Amelia, he will never see again. "Once more I bid thee farewell, for the last time, farewell."

"And thus receive thou my farewell!" exclaims Reinhart, stabbing him in the side.

With his last words Richard assures Reinhart of the guiltlessness of Amelia, and admonishes all to seek to avenge his death on no one.

It is hardly necessary to point out how astonishing these proceedings are when supposed to take place in Colonial Boston. Even the one episode of Richard, Earl of Warwick, singing a barcarolle in the hut of a negress who tells fortunes is so impossible that it affects the whole story with incredibility. But Naples—well, anything will go there. In fact, as truth is stranger than fiction, we even can regard the events of "The Masked Ball" as occurring more naturally in an Italian city than in Stockholm, where the assassination of Gustavus III. at a masquerade actually occurred.

Although the opera is a subject of only occasional revival, it contains a considerable amount of good music and a quintet of exceptional quality.

Early in the first act comes Richard's solo, "La rivedrà nell'estasi" (I shall again her face behold).

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La rivedrà nell'estasi

This is followed by the faithful Reinhart's "Alla vita che t'arride" (To thy life with joy abounding), with horn solo.

Strikingly effective is Oscar's song, in which the page vouches for the fortune-teller. "Volta la terrea fronte alle stelle" (Lift up thine earthly gaze to where the stars are shining).

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Volta la terrea fronte alle stelle

In the scene in the fortune-teller's hut are a trio for Amelia, Ulrica, and Richard, while the latter overhears Amelia's welcome confession of love for himself, and Richard's charming barcarolle addressed to the sorceress, a Neapolitan melody, "Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta" (Declare if the waves will faithfully bear me).

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Di' tu se fedele il flutto m'aspetta,

The quintet begins with Richard's laughing disbelief in Ulrica's prophecy regarding himself, "È scherzo od è follia" ('Tis an idle folly).

Concluding the scene is the chorus, in which, after the people have recognized Richard, they sing what has been called, "a kind of 'God Save the King' tribute to his worth"—"O figlio d'Inghilterra" (O son of mighty England).

The second act opens with a beautiful air for Amelia, "Ma dall'arido stelo divulsa" (From the stem, dry and withered, dissevered).

An impassioned duet occurs during the meeting at the place of the gibbet between Richard and Amelia: "O qual soave brivido" (Oh, what delightful ecstasies).

The act ends with a quartet for Amelia, Reinhart, Samuel, and Tom.

In the last act is Amelia's touching supplication to her husband, in which "The weeping of the violoncello and the veiled key of E-flat minor stretch to the last limits of grief this prayer of the wife and mother,"—"Morrò, ma prima in grazia" (I die, but first in mercy).

"O dolcezze perdute!" (O delights now lost for ever) sings her husband, in a musical inspiration prefaced by harp and flute.

During the masked ball there is a quintet for Amelia, Oscar, Reinhart, Samuel, and Tom, from which the sprightly butterfly allegro of Oscar, "Di che fulgor, che musiche" (What brilliant lights, what music gay) detaches itself, while later on the Page has a buoyant "tra-la-la" solo, beginning, in reply to Reinhart's question concerning Richard's disguise, "Saper vorreste di che si veste" (You'd fain be hearing what mask he's wearing).

There is a colloquy between Richard and Amelia. Then the catastrophe.

BEFORE AND AFTER “UN BALLO”

At the Teatro San Carlo, Naples, December 8, 1849, Verdi brought out the three-act opera "Luisa Miller," based on a play by Schiller, "Kabale und Liebe" (Love and Intrigue). It appears to have been Verdi's first real success since "Ernani" and to have led up to that achieved by "Rigoletto" a year later, and to the successes of "Il Trovatore" and "La Traviata." "Luisa Miller" was given at the Academy of Music, New York, October 20, 1886, by Angelo's Italian Opera Company. Giulia Valda was Luisa and Vicini Rodolfo.

The story is a gloomy one. The first act is entitled "Love," the second "Intrigue," the third "Poison."

Luisa is the daughter of Miller, an old soldier. There is ardent love between her and Rodolfo, the son of Count Walter, who has concealed his real name and rank from her and her father and is known to them as a peasant named Carlo. Old Miller, however, has a presentiment that evil will result from their attachment. This is confirmed on his being informed by Wurm that Carlo is Rodolfo, his master's son. Wurm is himself in love with Luisa.

The Duchess Frederica, Count Walter's niece, arrives at the castle. She had been brought up there with Rodolfo, and has from childhood cherished a deep affection for him; but, compelled by her father to marry the Duke d'Ostheim, has not seen Rodolfo for some years. The Duke, however, having died, she is now a widow, and, on the invitation of Count Walter, who has, unknown to Rodolfo, made proposals of marriage to her on his son's behalf, she arrives at the castle, expecting to marry at once the love of her childhood. The Count having been informed by Wurm of his son's love for Luisa, resolves to break off their intimacy. Rodolfo reveals to the Duchess that he loves another. He also discloses his real name and position to Luisa and her father. The Count interrupts this interview between the lovers. Enraged at his son's persistence in preferring a union with Luisa, he calls in the guard and is about to consign her and her father to prison, when he is, for the moment, deterred and appalled by Rodolfo's threat to reveal that the Count, aided by Wurm, assassinated his predecessor, in order to obtain possession of the title and estates.

Luisa's father has been seized and imprisoned by the Count's order. She, to save his life, consents, at the instigation of Wurm, to write a letter in which she states that she had never really loved Rodolfo, but only encouraged him on account of his rank and fortune, of which she was always aware; and finally offering to fly with Wurm. This letter, as the Count and his steward have arranged, falls into the hands of Rodolfo, who, enraged by the supposed treachery of the woman he loves, consents to marry the Duchess, but ultimately resolves to kill Luisa and himself.

Luisa also has determined to put an end to her existence. Rodolfo enters her home in the absence of Miller, and, after extracting from Luisa's own lips the avowal that she did write the letter, he pours poison into a cup. She unwittingly offers it to him to quench his thirst. Afterwards, at his request, she tastes it herself. She had sworn to Wurm that she would never reveal the fact of the compulsion under which she had written the letter, but feeling herself released from her oath by fast approaching death, she confesses the truth to Rodolfo. The lovers die in the presence of their horror-stricken parents.

The principal musical numbers include Luisa's graceful and brilliant solo in the first act—"Lo vidi, e'l primo palpito" (I saw him and my beating heart). Besides there is Old Miller's air, "Sacra la scelta è d'un consorte" (Firm are the links that are forged at the altar), a broad and beautiful melody, which, were the opera better known, would be included in most of the operatic anthologies for bass.

There also should be mentioned Luisa's air in the last act, "La tomba è un letto sparso di fiori" (The tomb a couch is, covered with roses).

"I Vespri Siciliani" (The Sicilian Vespers) had its first performance at the Grand Opéra, Paris, under the French title, "Les Vêpres Siciliennes," June 13, 1855. It was given at La Scala, Milan, 1856; London, Drury Lane, 1859; New York, Academy of Music, November 7, 1859; and revived there November, 1868. The work also has been presented under the title of "Giovanna di Guzman." The libretto is by Scribe and deals with the massacre of the French invaders of Sicily, at vespers, on Easter Monday, 1282. The principal characters are Guy de Montford, French Viceroy, baritone; Arrigo, a Sicilian officer, tenor; Duchess Hélène, a prisoner, soprano; Giovanni di Procida, a native conspirator, bass. Arrigo, who afterwards is discovered to be the brutal Guy de Montford's son, is in love with Hélène. The plot turns upon his efforts to rescue her.

At Petrograd, November 10, 1862, there was brought out Verdi's opera in four acts, "La Forza del Destino" (The Force of Destiny). London heard it in June, 1867; New York, February 2, 1865, and, with the last act revised by the composer, at the Academy of Music in 1880, with Annie Louise Cary, Campanini, Galassi, and Del Puente. The principal characters are Marquis di Calatrava, bass; Donna Leonora and Don Carlo, his children, soprano and baritone; Don Alvaro, tenor; Abbot of the Franciscan Friars, bass. There are muleteers, peasants, soldiers, friars, etc. The scenes are laid in Spain and Italy; the period is the middle of the eighteenth century. The libretto is based on the play, "Don Alvaro o La Fuerza de Sino" by the Duke of Rivas.

Don Alvaro is about to elope with Donna Leonora, daughter of the Marquis, when the latter comes upon them and is accidentally killed by Don Alvaro. The Marquis curses his daughter with his dying breath and invokes the vengeance of his son, Don Carlo, upon her and her lover. She escapes in male attire to a monastery, confesses to the Abbot, and is conducted by him to a cave, where he assures her of absolute safety.

Don Alvaro and Don Carlo meet before the cave. They fight a duel in which Don Alvaro mortally wounds Don Carlo. Donna Leonora, coming out of the cave and finding her brother dying, goes to him. With a last effort he stabs her in the heart. Don Alvaro throws himself over a nearby precipice.

"Madre, pietosa Vergine" (Oh, holy Virgin) is one of the principal numbers of the opera. It is sung by Donna Leonora, kneeling in the moonlight near the convent, while from within is heard the chant of the priests.

The "Madre pietosa" also is utilized as a theme in the overture.

"Don Carlos," produced at the Grand Opéra, Paris, March 11, 1867, during the Universal Exposition, was the last opera composed by Verdi before he took the musical world by storm with "Aïda." The work is in four acts, the libretto, by Méry and du Locle, having been reduced from Schiller's tragedy of the same title as the opera.

The characters are Philip II., of Spain, bass; Don Carlos, his son, tenor; Rodrigo, Marquis de Posa, baritone; Grand Inquisitor, bass; Elizabeth de Valois, Queen of Philip II., and stepmother of Don Carlos, soprano; Princess Eboli, soprano. In the original production the fine rôle of Rodrigo was taken by Faure.

Don Carlos and Elizabeth de Valois have been in love with each other, but for reasons of state Elizabeth has been obliged to marry Philip II., Don Carlos's father. The son is counselled by Rodrigo to absent himself from Spain by obtaining from his father a commission to go to the Netherlands, there to mitigate the cruelties practised by the Spaniards upon the Flemings. Don Carlos seeks an audience with Elizabeth, in order to gain her intercession with Philip. The result, however, of the meeting, is that their passion for each other returns with even greater intensity than before. Princess Eboli, who is in love with Don Carlos, becomes cognizant of the Queen's affection for her stepson, and informs the King. Don Carlos is thrown into prison. Rodrigo, who visits him there, is shot by order of Philip, who suspects him of aiding Spain's enemies in the Low Countries. Don Carlos, having been freed, makes a tryst with the Queen. Discovered by the King, he is handed over by him to the Inquisition to be put to death.

"La Forza del Destino" and "Don Carlos" lie between Verdi's middle period, ranging from "Luisa Miller" to "Un Ballo in Maschera" and including "Rigoletto," "Il Trovatore," and "La Traviata," and his final period, which began with "Aïda." It can be said that in "La Forza" and "Don Carlos" Verdi had absorbed considerable of Meyerbeer and Gounod, while in "Aïda," in addition to these, he had assimilated as much of Wagner as is good for an Italian. The enrichment of the orchestration in the two immediate predecessors of "Aïda" is apparent, but not so much so as in that masterpiece of operatic composition. He produced in "Aïda" a far more finished score than in "La Forza" or "Don Carlos," sought and obtained many exquisite instrumental effects, but always remained true to the Italian principle of the supremacy of melody in the voice.

AÏDA

It is an interesting fact that "Aïda" reached New York before it did any of the great European opera houses save La Scala. It was produced at the Academy of Music under the direction of Max Strakosch, November 26, 1873. I am glad to have heard that performance and several other performances of it that season. For the artists who appeared in it gave a representation that for brilliancy has not been surpassed if, indeed, it has been equalled. In support of this statement it is only necessary to say that Italo Campanini was Rhadames, Victor Maurel Amonasro, and Annie Louise Cary Amneris. No greater artists have appeared in these rôles in this country. Mlle. Torriani, the Aïda, while not so distinguished, was entirely adequate. Nannetti as Ramphis, the high priest, Scolara as the King, and Boy as the Messenger, completed the cast.

I recall some of the early comment on the opera. It was said to be Wagnerian. In point of fact "Aïda" is Wagnerian only as compared with Verdi's earlier operas. Compared with Wagner himself, it is Verdian—purely Italian. It was said that the fine melody for the trumpets on the stage in the pageant scene was plagiarized from a theme in the Coronation March of Meyerbeer's "Prophète." Slightly reminiscent the passage is, and, of course, stylistically the entire scene is on Meyerbeerian lines; but these resemblances no longer are of importance.

Paris failed to hear "Aïda" until April, 1876, and then at the Théâtre Italien, instead of at the Grand Opéra, where it was not heard until March, 1880, when Maurel was the Amonasro and Édouard de Reszke, later a favourite basso at the Metropolitan Opera House, the King. In 1855 Verdi's opera, "Les Vêpres Siciliennes" (The Sicilian Vespers) had been produced at the Grand Opéra and occurrences at the rehearsals had greatly angered the composer. The orchestra clearly showed a disinclination to follow the composer's minute directions regarding the manner in which he wished his work interpreted. When, after a conversation with the chef d'orchestre, the only result was plainly an attempt to annoy him, he put on his hat, left the theatre, and did not return. In 1867 his "Don Carlos" met only with a succès d'estime at the Opéra. He had not forgotten these circumstances, when the Opéra wanted to give "Aïda." He withheld permission until 1880. But when at last this was given, he assisted at the production, and the public authorities vied in atoning for the slights put upon him so many years before. The President of France gave a banquet in his honour and he was created a Grand Officer of the National Order of the Legion of Honour.

When the Khedive asked Verdi to compose a new opera especially for the new opera house at Cairo, and inquired what the composer's terms would be, Verdi demanded $20,000. This was agreed upon and he was then given the subject he was to treat, "Aïda," which had been suggested to the Khedive by Mariette Bey, the great French Egyptologist. The composer received the rough draft of the story. From this Camille du Locle, a former director of the Opéra Comique, who happened to be visiting Verdi at Busseto, wrote a libretto in French prose, "scene by scene, sentence by sentence," as he has said, adding that the composer showed the liveliest interest in the work and himself suggested the double scene in the finale of the opera. The French prose libretto was translated into Italian verse by Antonio Ghislanzoni, who wrote more than sixty opera librettos, "Aïda" being the most famous. Mariette Bey brought his archeological knowledge to bear upon the production. "He revived Egyptian life of the time of the Pharaohs; he rebuilt ancient Thebes, Memphis, the Temple of Phtah; he designed the costumes and arranged the scenery. And under these exceptional circumstances, Verdi's new opera was produced."

Verdi's score was ready a year before the work had its première. The production was delayed by force of circumstances. Scenery and costumes were made by French artists. Before these accessories could be shipped to Cairo, the Franco-Prussian war broke out. They could not be gotten out of Paris. Their delivery was delayed accordingly.

Does the score of "Aïda" owe any of its charm, passion, and dramatic stress to the opportunity thus afforded Verdi of going over it and carefully revising it, after he had considered it finished? Quite possibly. For we know that he made changes, eliminating, for instance, a chorus in the style of Palestrina, which he did not consider suitable to the priesthood of Isis. Even this one change resulted in condensation, a valuable quality, and in leaving the exotic music of the temple scene entirely free to exert to the full its fascination of local colour and atmosphere.

The story is unfolded in four acts and seven scenes.

Act I. Scene 1. After a very brief prelude, the curtain rises on a hall in the King's palace in Memphis. Through a high gateway at the back are seen the temples and palaces of Memphis and the pyramids.

It had been supposed that, after the invasion of Ethiopia by the Egyptians, the Ethiopians would be a long time in recovering from their defeat. But Amonasro, their king, has swiftly rallied the remnants of his defeated army, gathered new levies to his standard, and crossed the frontier—all this with such extraordinary rapidity that the first news of it has reached the Egyptian court in Memphis through a messenger hot-foot from Thebes with the startling word that the sacred city itself is threatened.

Eames

Saléza

While the priests are sacrificing to Isis in order to learn from the goddess whom she advises them to choose as leader of the Egyptian forces, Rhadames, a young warrior, indulges in the hope that he may be the choice. To this hope he joins the further one that, returning victorious, he may ask the hand in marriage of Aïda, an Ethiopian slave of the Egyptian King's daughter, Amneris. To these aspirations he gives expression in the romance, "Celeste Aïda" (Radiant Aïda).

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Celeste Aïda

It ends effectively with the following phrase:

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un trono vicino al sol, un trono vicino al sol

He little knows that Aïda is of royal birth or that Amneris herself, the Princess Royal, is in love with him and, having noted the glances he has cast upon Aïda, is fiercely jealous of her—a jealousy that forms the mainspring of the story and leads to its tragic dénouement.

A premonition of the emotional forces at work in the plot is given in the "Vieni, O diletta" (Come dearest friend), beginning as a duet between Amneris and Aïda and later becoming a trio for them and Rhadames. In this the Princess feigns friendship for Aïda, but, in asides, discloses her jealous hatred of her.

Meanwhile the Egyptian hosts have gathered before the temple. There the King announces that the priests of Isis have learned from the lips of that goddess the name of the warrior who is to lead the army—Rhadames! It is the Princess herself who, at this great moment in his career, places the royal standard in his hands. But amid the acclaims that follow, as Rhadames, to the strains of march and chorus, is conducted by the priests to the temple of Phtah to be invested with the consecrated armour, Amneris notes the fiery look he casts upon Aïda. Is this the reason Rhadames, young, handsome, brave, has failed to respond to her own guarded advances? Is she, a princess, to find a successful rival in her own slave?

Meanwhile Aïda herself is torn by conflicting emotions. She loves Rhadames. When the multitude shouts "Return victorious!" she joins in the acclamation. Yet it is against her own people he is going to give battle, and the Ethiopians are led by their king, Amonasro, her father. For she, too, is a princess, as proud a princess in her own land as Amneris, and it is because she is a captive and a slave that her father has so swiftly rallied his army and invaded Egypt in a desperate effort to rescue her, facts which for obvious reasons she carefully has concealed from her captors.

It is easy to imagine Aïda's agonized feelings since Rhadames has been chosen head of the Egyptian army. If she prays to her gods for the triumph of the Ethiopian arms, she is betraying her lover. If she asks the gods of victory to smile upon Rhadames, she is a traitress to her father, who has taken up arms to free her, and to her own people. Small wonder if she exclaims, as she contemplates her own wretched state:

"Never on earth was heart torn by more cruel agonies. The sacred names of father, lover, I can neither utter nor remember. For the one—for the other—I would weep, I would pray!"

This scene for Aïda, beginning "Ritorna vincitor" (Return victorious), in which she echoes the acclamation of the martial chorus immediately preceding, is one of the very fine passages of the score. The lines to which it is set also have been highly praised. They furnished the composer with opportunity, of which he made full use, to express conflicting emotions in music of dramatic force and, in its concluding passage, "Numi pietà" (Pity, kind heaven), of great beauty.

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Scene 2. Ramphis, the high priest, at the foot of the altar; priests and priestesses; and afterwards Rhadames are shown in the Temple of Vulcan at Memphis. A mysterious light descends from above. A long row of columns, one behind the other, is lost in the darkness; statues of various deities are visible; in the middle of the scene, above a platform rises the altar, surmounted by sacred emblems. From golden tripods comes the smoke of incense.

A chant of the priestesses, accompanied by harps, is heard from the interior. Rhadames enters unarmed. While he approaches the altar, the priestesses execute a sacred dance. On the head of Rhadames is placed a silver veil. He is invested with consecrated armor, while the priests and priestesses resume the religious chant and dance.

The entire scene is saturated with local colour. Piquant, exotic, it is as Egyptian to the ear as to the eye. You see the temple, you hear the music of its devotees, and that music sounds as distinctively Egyptian as if Mariette Bey had unearthed two examples of ancient Egyptian temple music and placed them at the composer's disposal. It is more likely, however, that the themes are original with Verdi and that the Oriental tone colour, which makes the music of the scene so fascinating, is due to his employment of certain intervals peculiar to the music of Eastern people. The interval, which, falling upon Western ears, gives an Oriental clang to the scale, consists of three semi-tones. In the very Eastern sounding themes in the temple scenes in "Aïda," these intervals are G to F-flat, and D to C-flat.

The sacred chant,

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twice employs the interval between D and C-flat, the first time descending, the second time ascending, in which latter it sounds more characteristic to us, because we regard the scale as having an upward tendency, whereas in Oriental systems the scale seems to have been regarded as tending downward.

In the sacred dance,

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the interval is from G to F-flat. The intervals, where employed in the two music examples just cited, are bracketed. The interval of three semi-tones—the characteristic of the Oriental scale—could not be more clearly shown than it is under the second bracket of the sacred dance.

Act II. Scene 1. In this scene, which takes place in a hall in the apartments of Amneris, the Princess adopts strategy to discover if Aïda returns the passion which she suspects in Rhadames. Messengers have arrived from the front with news that Rhadames has put the Ethiopians to utter rout and is returning with many trophies and captives. Naturally Aïda is distraught. Is her lover safe? Was her father slain? It is while Aïda's mind and heart are agitated by these questions that Amneris chooses the moment to test her feelings and wrest from her the secret she longs yet dreads to fathom. The Princess is reclining on a couch in her apartment in the palace at Thebes, whither the court has repaired to welcome the triumphant Egyptian army. Slaves are adorning her for the festival or agitating the air with large feather fans. Moorish slave boys dance for her delectation and her attendants sing:

In the midst of these festive preparations Aïda enters, and Amneris, craftily feigning sympathy for her lest she be grieving over the defeat of her people and the possible loss in battle of someone dear to her, affects to console her by telling her that Rhadames, the leader of the Egyptians, has been slain.

It is not necessary for the Princess to watch the girl intently in order to note the effect upon her of the sudden and cruelly contrived announcement. Almost as suddenly, having feasted her eyes on the slave girl's grief, the Princess exclaims: "I have deceived you; Rhadames lives!"

"He lives!" Tears of gratitude instead of despair now moisten Aïda's eyes as she raises them to Heaven.

"You love him; you cannot deny it!" cries Amneris, forgetting in her furious jealousy her dignity as a Princess. "But know, you have a rival. Yes—in me. You, my slave, have a rival in your mistress, a daughter of the Pharaohs!"

Having fathomed her slave's secret, she vents the refined cruelty of her jealous nature upon the unfortunate girl by commanding her to be present at the approaching triumphant entry of Rhadames and the Egyptian army:

"Come, follow me, and you shall learn if you can contend with me—you, prostrate in the dust, I on the throne beside the king!"

What has just been described is formulated by Verdi in a duet for Amneris and Aïda, "Amore! gaudio tormento" (Oh, love! Oh, joy and sorrow!), which expresses the craftiness and subtlety of the Egyptian Princess, the conflicting emotions of Aïda, and the dramatic stress of the whole episode.

This phrase especially seems to express the combined haughtiness and jealousy in the attitude of Amneris toward Aïda:

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Scene 2. Brilliant indeed is the spectacle to which Aïda is compelled to proceed with the Princess. It is near a group of palms at the entrance to the city of Thebes that the King has elected to give Rhadames his triumph. Here stands the temple of Ammon. Beyond it a triumphal gate has been erected. When the King enters to the cheers of the multitude and followed by his gaudily clad court, he takes his seat on the throne surmounted by a purple canopy. To his left sits Amneris, singling out for her disdainful glances the most unhappy of her slaves.

A blast of trumpets, and the victorious army begins its defile past the throne. After the foot soldiers come the chariots of war; then the bearers of the sacred vases and statues of the gods, and a troupe of dancing girls carrying the loot of victory. A great flourish of trumpets, an outburst of acclaim, and Rhadames, proudly standing under a canopy borne high on the shoulders of twelve of his officers, is carried through the triumphal gate and into the presence of his King. As the young hero descends from the canopy, the monarch, too, comes down from the throne and embracing him exclaims:

"Savior of your country, I salute you. My daughter with her own hand shall place the crown of laurels upon your brow." And when Amneris, suiting her action to her father's words, crowns Rhadames, the King continues: "Now ask of me whatever you most desire. I swear by my crown and by the sacred gods that nothing shall be denied to you this day!"

Homer

Galli

Meanwhile Rhadames has had eyes only for Aïda, while Amneris notes with rising jealousy the glances he turns upon her hated slave. At last Rhadames, carried away by his feelings, himself joins in the appeal for clemency. "Oh, King," he exclaims, "by the sacred gods and by the splendour of your crown, you swore to grant my wish this day! Let it be life and liberty for the Ethiopian prisoners." But the high priest urges that even if freedom is granted to the others, Aïda and her father be detained as hostages and this is agreed upon. Then the King, as a crowning act of glory for Rhadames, leads Amneris forth, and addressing the young warrior, says:

"Rhadames, the country owes everything to you. Your reward shall be the hand of Amneris. With her one day you shall reign over Egypt."

A great shout goes up from the multitude. Unexpectedly Amneris sees herself triumphant over her rival, the dream of her heart fulfilled, and Aïda bereft of hope, since for Rhadames to refuse the hand of his king's daughter would mean treason and death. And so while all seemingly are rejoicing, two hearts are sad and bewildered. For Aïda, the man she adores appears lost to her forever and all that is left to her, the tears of hopeless love; while to Rhadames the heart of Aïda is worth more than the throne of Egypt, and its gift, with the hand of Amneris, is like the unjust vengeance of the gods descending upon his head.

This is the finale of the second act. It has been well said that not only is it the greatest effort of the composer, but also one of the grandest conceptions of modern musical and specifically operatic art. The importance of the staging, the magnificence of the spectacle, the diversity of characterization, and the strength of action of the drama all conspire to keep at an unusually high level the inspiration of the composer. The triumphal chorus, "Gloria all'Egitto" (Glory to Egypt), is sonorous and can be rendered with splendid effect.

It is preceded by a march.

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Then comes the chorus of triumph.

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Voices of women join in the acclaim.

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The trumpets of the Egyptian troops execute a most brilliant modulation from A-flat to B-natural.

The reference here is to the long, straight trumpets with three valves (only one of which, however, is used). These trumpets, in groups of three, precede the divisions of the Egyptian troops. The trumpets of the first group are tuned in A-flat.

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When the second group enters and intones the same stirring march theme in B-natural, the enharmonic modulation to a tone higher gives an immediate and vastly effective "lift" to the music and the scene.

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The entrance of Rhadames, borne on high under a canopy by twelve officers, is a dramatic climax to the spectacle. But a more emotional one is to follow.

The recognition of King Amonasro by his daughter; the supplication of the captives; the plea of Rhadames and the people in their favour; the vehement protests of the priests who, in the name of the gods of Egypt, demand their death; the diverse passions which agitate Rhadames, Aïda, and Amneris; the hope of vengeance that Amonasro cherishes—all these conflicting feelings are musically expressed with complete success. The structure is reared upon Amonasro's plea to the King for mercy for the Ethiopian captives, "Ma tu, re, tu signore possente" (But thou, O king, thou puissant lord).

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When the singer who takes the rôle of Amonasro also is a good actor, he will know how to convey, between the lines of this supplication, his secret thoughts and unavowed hope for the reconquest of his freedom and his country. After the Egyptian King has bestowed upon Rhadames the hand of Amneris, the chorus, "Gloria all'Egitto," is heard again, and, above its sonorous measures, Aïda's cry:

It is largely due to Verdi's management of the score to this elaborate scene that "Aïda" not only has superseded all spectacular operas that came before it, but has held its own against and survived practically all those that have come since. The others were merely spectacular. In "Aïda" the surface radiates and glows because beneath it seethe the fires of conflicting human passion. In other operas spectacle is merely spectacle. In "Aïda" it clothes in brilliant habiliments the forces of impending and on-rushing tragedy.

Act III. That tragedy further advances toward its consummation in the present act.

It is a beautiful moonlight night on the banks of the Nile—moonlight whose silvery rays are no more exquisite than the music that seems steeped in them.

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Half concealed in the foliage is the temple of Isis, from which issues the sound of women's voices, softly chanting. A boat approaches the shore and out of it steps Amneris and the high priest, with a train of closely veiled women and several guards. The Princess is about to enter upon a vigil in the temple to implore the favour of the goddess before her nuptials with Rhadames.

For a while after they have entered the temple, the shore seems deserted. But from the shadow of a grove of palms Aïda cautiously emerges into the moonlight. In song she breathes forth memories of her native land: Oh, patria mia!—O cieli azzurri! (Oh, native land!—Oh, skies of tender blue!).

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O cieli azzurri, o dolci aure native,

The phrase, O patria mia! mai più ti rivedrò (Oh, native land! I ne'er shall see thee more)—a little further on—recalls the famous "Non ti scordar" from the "Miserere" in "Trovatore." Here Rhadames has bid Aïda meet him. Is it for a last farewell? If so, the Nile shall be her grave. She hears a swift footfall, and turning, in expectation of seeing Rhadames, beholds her father. He has fathomed her secret and divined that she is here to meet Rhadames—the betrothed of Amneris! Cunningly Amonasro works upon her feelings. Would she triumph over her rival? The Ethiopians again are in arms. Again Rhadames is to lead the Egyptians against them. Let her draw from him the path which he intends to take with his army and that path shall be converted into a fatal ambuscade.

At first the thought is abhorrent to Aïda; but her father by craftily inciting her love of country and no less her jealousy and despair, at last is able to wrest consent from her; then draws back into the shadow as he hears Rhadames approaching.

This duet of Aïda and Amonasro is and will remain one of the beautiful dramatic efforts of the Italian repertory. The situation is one of those in which Verdi delights; he is in his element.

It is difficult to bring Aïda to make the designs of her father agree with her love for the young Egyptian chief. But the subtlety of the score, its warmth, its varied and ably managed expression, almost make plausible the submission of the young girl to the adjurations of Amonasro, and excusable a decision of which she does not foresee the consequences. To restore the crown to her father, to view again her own country, to escape an ignominious servitude, to prevent her lover becoming the husband of Amneris, her rival,—such are the thoughts which assail her during this duet, and they are quite capable of disturbing for a moment her better reason. Amonasro sings these phrases, so charming in the Italian:

As she still is reluctant to lure from her lover the secret of the route by which, in the newly planned invasion of her country, the Egyptians expect to enter Ethiopia, Amonasro changes his tactics and conjures up for her in music a vision of the carnage among her people, and finally invokes her mother's ghost, until, in pianissimo, dramatically contrasting with the force of her father's savage imprecation, she whispers, O patria! quanto mi costi! (Oh, native land! how much thou demandest of me!).

Amonasro leaves. Aïda awaits her lover. When she somewhat coldly meets Rhadames's renewed declaration of love with the bitter protest that the rites of another love are awaiting him, he unfolds his plan to her. He will lead the Egyptians to victory and on returning with these fresh laurels, he will prostrate himself before the King, lay bare his heart to him, and ask for the hand of Aïda as a reward for his services to his country. But Aïda is well aware of the power of Amneris and that her vengeance would swiftly fall upon them both. She can see but one course to safety—that Rhadames join her in flight to her native land, where, amid forest groves and the scent of flowers, and all forgetful of the world, they will dream away their lives in love. This is the beginning of the dreamy yet impassioned love duet—"Fuggiam gli ardori inospiti" (Ah, fly with me). She implores him in passionate accents to escape with her. Enthralled by the rapture in her voice, thrilled by the vision of happiness she conjures up before him, he forgets for the moment country, duty, all else save love; and exclaiming, "Love shall be our guide!" turns to fly with her.

This duet, charged with exotic rapture, opens with recitativo phrases for Aïda. I have selected three passages for quotation: "Là tra foreste vergini" (There 'mid the virgin forest groves); "Di fiori profumate" (And 'mid the scent of flowers); and "In estasi la terra scorderem" (In ecstasy the world forgotten).

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Là tra foreste vergini,

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In estasi beate la terra scorderem,

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in estasi la terra scorderem,

But Aïda, feigning alarm, asks:

"By what road shall we avoid the Egyptian host?"

"The path by which our troops plan to fall upon the enemy will be deserted until tomorrow."

"And that path?"

"The pass of Napata."

A voice echoes his words, "The pass of Napata."

"Who hears us?" exclaims Rhadames.

"The father of Aïda and king of the Ethiopians," and Amonasro issues forth from his hiding place. He has uncovered the plan of the Egyptian invasion, but the delay has been fatal. For at the same moment there is a cry of "Traitor!" from the temple.

It is the voice of Amneris, who with the high priest has overheard all. Amonasro, baring a dagger, would throw himself upon his daughter's rival, but Rhadames places himself between them and bids the Ethiopian fly with Aïda. Amonasro, drawing his daughter away with him, disappears in the darkness; while Rhadames, with the words, "Priest, I remain with you," delivers himself a prisoner into his hands.

Act IV. Scene 1. In a hall of the Royal Palace Amneris awaits the passage, under guard, of Rhadames to the dungeon where the priests are to sit in judgment upon him. There is a duet between Rhadames and this woman, who now bitterly repents the doom her jealousy is about to bring upon the man she loves. She implores him to exculpate himself. But Rhadames refuses. Not being able to possess Aïda he will die.

He is conducted to the dungeon, from where, as from the bowels of the earth, she hears the sombre voices of the priests.