Amato

There was in the course of the performance an unusual occurrence and one that is interesting to hark back to. Nilsson had a voice of great beauty—pure, limpid, flexible—but not one conditioned to a severe dramatic strain. Fursch-Madi, on the other hand, had a large, powerful voice and a singularly dramatic temperament. When La Gioconda and Laura appeared in the great duet in the second act, "L'amo come il fulgor del creato" (I love him as the light of creation), Fursch-Madi, without great effort, "took away" this number from Mme. Nilsson, and completely eclipsed her. When the two singers came out in answer to the recalls, Mme. Nilsson, as etiquette demanded, was slightly in advance of the mezzo-soprano, for whom, however, most of the applause was intended. Mme. Fursch-Madi was a fine singer, but lacked the pleasing personality and appealing temperament that we spoiled Americans demand of our singers. She died, in extreme poverty and after a long illness, in a little hut on one of the Orange mountains in New Jersey, where an old chorus singer had given her shelter. She had appeared in many tragedies of the stage, but none more tragic than her own last hours.

Each act of "La Gioconda" has its separate title: Act I, "The Lion's Mouth"; Act II, "The Rosary"; Act III, "The House of Gold"; Act IV, "The Orfano Canal." The title of the opera can be translated as "The Ballad Singer," but the Italian title appears invariably to be used.

Act I. "The Lion's Mouth." Grand courtyard of the Ducal palace, decorated for festivities. At back, the Giant's Stairway, and the Portico della Carta, with doorway leading to the interior of the Church of St. Mark. On the left, the writing-table of a public letter-writer. On one side of the courtyard one of the historic Lion's Mouths, with the following inscription cut in black letters into the wall:

FOR SECRET DENUNCIATIONS
TO THE INQUISITION
AGAINST ANY PERSON,
WITH IMPUNITY, SECRECY, AND
BENEFIT TO THE STATE.

It is a splendid afternoon in spring. The stage is filled with holiday-makers, monks, sailors, shipwrights, masquers, etc., and amidst the busy crowd are seen some Dalmatians and Moors.

Barnaba, leaning his back against a column, is watching the people. He has a small guitar, slung around his neck.

The populace gaily sings, "Feste e pane" (Sports and feasting). They dash away to watch the regatta, when Barnaba, coming forward, announces that it is about to begin. He watches them disdainfully. "Above their graves they are dancing!" he exclaims. Gioconda leads in La Cieca, her blind mother. There is a duet of much tenderness between them: "Figlia, che reggi il tremulo" (Daughter in thee my faltering steps).

Barnaba is in love with the ballad singer, who has several times repulsed him. For she is in love with Enzo, a nobleman, who has been proscribed by the Venetian authorities, but is in the city in the disguise of a sea captain. His ship lies in the Fusina Lagoon.

Barnaba again presses his love upon the girl. She escapes from his grasp and runs away, leaving her mother seated by the church door. Barnaba is eager to get La Cieca into his power in order to compel Gioconda to yield to his sinister desires. Opportunity soon offers. For, now the regatta is over, the crowd returns bearing in triumph the victor in the contest. With them enter Zuàne, the defeated contestant, Gioconda, and Enzo. Barnaba subtly insinuates to Zuàne that La Cieca is a witch, who has caused his defeat by sorcery. The report quickly spreads among the defeated boatman's friends. The populace becomes excited. La Cieca is seized and dragged from the church steps. Enzo calls upon his sailors, who are in the crowd, to aid him in saving her.

At the moment of greatest commotion the palace doors swing open. From the head of the stairway where stand Alvise and his wife, Laura, who is masked, Alvise sternly commands an end to the rioting, then descends with Laura.

Barnaba, with the keenness that is his as chief spy of the Inquisition, is quick to observe that, through her mask, Laura is gazing intently at Enzo, and that Enzo, in spite of Laura's mask, appears to have recognized her and to be deeply affected by her presence. Gioconda kneels before Alvise and prays for mercy for her mother. When Laura also intercedes for La Cieca, Alvise immediately orders her freed. In one of the most expressive airs of the opera, "Voce di donna, o d'angelo" (Voice thine of woman, or angel fair), La Cieca thanks Laura and gives to her a rosary, at the same time extending her hands over her in blessing.

She also asks her name. Alvise's wife, still masked, and looking significantly in the direction of Enzo, answers, "Laura!"

"'Tis she!" exclaims Enzo.

The episode has been observed by Barnaba, who, when all the others save Enzo have entered the church, goes up to him and, despite his disguise as a sea captain, addresses him by his name and title, "Enzo Grimaldo, Prince of Santa Fior."

The spy knows the whole story. Enzo and Laura were betrothed. Although they were separated and she obliged to wed Alvise, and neither had seen the other since then, until the meeting a few moments before, their passion still is as strong as ever. Barnaba, cynically explaining that, in order to obtain Gioconda for himself, he wishes to show her how false Enzo is, promises him that he will arrange for Laura, on that night, to be aboard Enzo's vessel, ready to escape with him to sea.

Enzo departs. Barnaba summons one of his tools, Isèpo, the public letter-writer, whose stand is near the Lion's Mouth. At that moment Gioconda and La Cieca emerge from the church, and Gioconda, seeing Barnaba, swiftly draws her mother behind a column, where they are hidden from view. The girl hears the spy dictate to Isèpo a letter, for whom intended she does not know, informing someone that his wife plans to elope that evening with Enzo. Having thus learned that Enzo no longer loves her, she vanishes with her mother into the church. Barnaba drops the letter into the Lion's Mouth. Isèpo goes. The spy, as keen in intellect as he is cruel and unrelenting in action, addresses in soliloquy the Doge's palace. "O monumento! Regia e bolgia dogale!" (O mighty monument, palace and den of the Doges).

The masquers and populace return. They are singing. They dance "La Furlana." In the church a monk and then the chorus chant. Gioconda and her mother come out. Gioconda laments that Enzo should have forsaken her. La Cieca seeks to comfort her. In the church the chanting continues.

Act II. "The Rosary." Night. A brigantine, showing its starboard side. In front, the deserted bank of an uninhabited island in the Fusina Lagoon. In the farthest distance, the sky and the lagoon. A few stars visible. On the right, a cloud, above which the moon is rising. In front, a small altar of the Virgin, lighted by a red lamp. The name of the brigantine—"Hecate"—painted on the prow. Lanterns on the deck.

At the rising of the curtain sailors are discovered; some seated on the deck, others standing in groups, each with a speaking trumpet. Several cabin boys are seen, some clinging to the shrouds, some seated. Remaining thus grouped, they sing a Marinaresca, in part a sailors' "chanty," in part a regular melody.

In a boat Barnaba appears with Isèpo. They are disguised as fishermen. Barnaba sings a fisherman's ballad, "Ah! Pescator, affonda l'esca" (Fisher-boy, thy net now lower).

Music

[Listen]

He has set his net for Enzo and Laura, as well as for Gioconda, as his words, "Some sweet siren, while you're drifting, in your net will coyly hide," imply. The song falls weirdly upon the night. The scene is full of "atmosphere."

Enzo comes up on deck, gives a few orders; the crew go below. He then sings the famous "Cielo e mar!" (O sky, and sea)—an impassioned voicing of his love for her whom he awaits. The scene, the moon having emerged from behind a bank of clouds, is of great beauty.

Music

[Listen]

A boat approaches. In it Barnaba brings Laura to Enzo. There is a rapturous greeting. They are to sail away as soon as the setting of the moon will enable the ship to depart undetected. There is distant singing. Enzo goes below. Laura kneels before the shrine and prays, "Stella del marinar! Vergine santa!" (Star of the mariner! Virgin most holy).

Gioconda steals on board and confronts her rival. The duet between the two women, who love Enzo, and in which each defies the other, "L'amo come il fulgor del creato" (I adore him as the light of creation), is the most dramatic number in the score.

Music

[Listen]

Caruso

Homer

Gioconda is about to stab Laura, but stops suddenly and, seizing her with one hand, points with the other out over the lagoon, where a boat bearing Alvise and his armed followers is seen approaching. Laura implores the Virgin for aid. In doing so she lifts up the rosary given to her by La Cieca. Through it Gioconda recognizes in Laura the masked lady who saved her mother from the vengeance of the mob. Swiftly the girl summons the boat of two friendly boatmen who have brought her thither, and bids Laura make good her escape. When Barnaba enters, his prey has evaded him. Gioconda has saved her. Barnaba hurries back to Alvise's galley, and, pointing to the fugitive boat in the distance, bids the galley start in pursuit.

Enzo comes on deck. Instead of Laura he finds Gioconda. There is a dramatic scene between them. Venetian galleys are seen approaching. Rather than that his vessel shall be captured by them, Enzo sets fire to it.

Act III. "The House of Gold." A room in Alvise's house. Alvise sings of the vengeance he will wreak upon Laura for her betrayal of his honour. "Sì! morir ella de'" (Yes, to die is her doom).

He summons Laura. Nocturnal serenaders are heard singing without, as they wend their way in gondolas along the canal. Alvise draws the curtains from before a doorway and points to a funeral bier erected in the chamber beyond. To Laura he hands a vial of swift poison. She must drain it before the last note of the serenade they now hear has died away. He will leave her. The chorus ended, he will return to find her dead.

When he has gone, Gioconda, who, anticipating the fate that might befall the woman who has saved her mother, has been in hiding in the palace, hastens to Laura, and hands her a flask containing a narcotic that will create the semblance of death. Laura drinks it, and disappears through the curtains into the funeral chamber. Gioconda pours the poison from the vial into her own flask, and leaves the empty vial on the table.

The serenade ceases. Alvise re-entering, sees the empty vial on the table. He enters the funeral apartment for a brief moment. Laura is lying as one dead upon the bier. He believes that he has been obeyed and that Laura has drained the vial of poison.

The scene changes to a great hall in Alvise's house, where he is receiving his guests. Here occurs the "Dance of the Hours," a ballet suite which, in costume changes, light effects and choreography represents the hours of dawn, day, evening, and night. It is also intended to symbolize, in its mimic action, the eternal struggle between the powers of darkness and light.

Barnaba enters, dragging in with him La Cieca, whom he has found concealed in the house. Enzo also has managed to gain admittance. La Cieca, questioned as to her purpose in the House of Gold, answers, "For her, just dead, I prayed." A hush falls upon the fête. The passing bell for the dead is heard slowly tolling. "For whom?" asks Enzo of Barnaba. "For Laura," is the reply. The guests shudder. "D'un vampiro fatal l'ala fredda passò" (As if over our brows a vampire's wing had passed), chants the chorus. "Già ti vedo immota e smorta" (I behold thee motionless and pallid), sings Enzo. Barnaba, Gioconda, La Cieca, and Alvise add their voices to an ensemble of great power. Alvise draws back the curtains of the funeral chamber, which also gives upon the festival hall. He points to Laura extended upon the bier. Enzo, brandishing a poniard, rushes upon Alvise, but is seized by guards.

Act IV. "The Orfano Canal." The vestibule of a ruined palace on the island of Giudecca. In the right-hand corner an opened screen, behind which is a bed. Large porch at back, through which are seen the lagoon, and, in the distance, the square of Saint Mark, brilliantly illuminated. A picture of the Virgin and a crucifix hang against the wall. Table and couch; on the table a lamp and a lighted lantern; the flask of poison and a dagger. On a couch are various articles of mock jewelry belonging to Gioconda.

On the right of the scene a long, dimly lighted street. From the end two men advance, carrying in their arms Laura, who is enveloped in a black cloak. The two cantori (street singers) knock at the door. It is opened by Gioconda, who motions them to place their burden upon the couch behind the screen. As they go, she pleads with them to search for her mother, whom she has not been able to find since the scene in the House of Gold.

She is alone. Her love for Enzo, greater than her jealousy of Laura, has prompted her to promise Barnaba that she will give herself to him, if he will aid Enzo to escape from prison and guide him to the Orfano Canal. Now, however, despair seizes her. In a dramatic soliloquy—a "terrible song," it has been called—she invokes suicide. "Suicidio! ... in questi fieri momenti tu sol mi resti" (Aye, suicide, the sole resource now left me). For a moment she even thinks of carrying out Alvise's vengeance by stabbing Laura and throwing her body into the water—"for deep is yon lagoon."

Through the night a gondolier's voice calls in the distance over the water: "Ho! gondolier! hast thou any fresh tidings?" Another voice, also distant: "In the Orfano Canal there are corpses."

In despair Gioconda throws herself down weeping near the table. Enzo enters. In a tense scene Gioconda excites his rage by telling him that she has had Laura's body removed from the burial vault and that he will not find it there. He seizes her. His poniard already is poised for the thrust. Hers—so she hopes—is to be the ecstacy of dying by his hand!

At that moment, however, the voice of Laura, who is coming out of the narcotic, calls, "Enzo!" He rushes to her, and embraces her. In the distance is heard a chorus singing a serenade. It is the same song, before the end of which Alvise had bidden Laura drain the poison. Both Laura and Enzo now pour out words of gratitude to Gioconda. The girl has provided everything for flight. A boat, propelled by two of her friends, is ready to convey them to a barque, which awaits them. What a blessing, after all, the rosary, bestowed upon the queenly Laura by an old blind woman has proved to be. "Che vedo là! Il rosario!" (What see I there! 'Tis the rosary!) Thus sings Gioconda, while Enzo and Laura voice their thanks: "Sulle tue mani l'anima tutta stempriamo in pianto" (Upon thy hands thy generous tears of sympathy are falling). The scene works up to a powerful climax.

Once more Gioconda is alone. The thought of her compact with Barnaba comes over her. She starts to flee the spot, when the spy himself appears in the doorway. Pretending that she wishes to adorn herself for him, she begins putting on the mock jewelry, and, utilizing the opportunity that brings her near the table, seizes the dagger that is lying on it.

"Gioconda is thine!" she cries, facing Barnaba, then stabs herself to the heart.

Bending over the prostrate form, the spy furiously shouts into her ear, "Last night thy mother did offend me. I have strangled her!" But no one hears him. La Gioconda is dead. With a cry of rage, he rushes down the street.

French Opera

GLUCK, Wagner, and Verdi each closed an epoch. In Gluck there culminated the pre-Mozartean school. In Mozart two streams of opera found their source. "Don Giovanni" and "Le Nozze di Figaro" were inspirations to Rossini, to whom, in due course of development, varied by individual characteristics, there succeeded Bellini, Donizetti, and Verdi.

The second stream of opera which found its source in Mozart was German. The score of "Die Zauberflöte" showed how successfully the rich vein of popular melody, or folk music, could be worked for the lyric stage. The hint was taken by Weber, from whom, in the course of gradual development, there derived Richard Wagner.

Meanwhile, however, there was another development which came direct from Gluck. His "Iphigénie en Aulide," "Orphée et Eurydice," "Alceste," and "Armide" were produced at the Académie Royale de Musique, founded by Lully in 1672, and now the Grand Opéra, Paris. They contributed materially to the development of French grand opera, which derives from Gluck, as well as from Lully (pp. 1, 4, and 6), and Rameau (p. 1). French opera also was sensibly influenced, and its development in the serious manner furthered, by one of the most learned of composers, Luigi Cherubini, for six years professor of composition and for twenty years thereafter (1821-1841) director of the Paris Conservatoire and at one time widely known as the composer of the operas "Les Deux Journées" (Paris, 1800; London, as "The Water-carrier," 1801); and "Faniska," Vienna, 1806.

To the brief statement regarding French grand opera on p. 2, I may add, also briefly, that manner as well as matter is a characteristic of all French art. The Frenchman is not satisfied with what he says, unless he says it in the best possible manner or style. Thus, while Italian composers long were contented with an instrumental accompaniment that simply did not interfere with the voice, the French always have sought to enrich and beautify what is sung, by the instrumental accompaniment with which they have supported and environed it. In its seriousness of purpose, and in the care with which it strives to preserve the proper balance between the vocal and orchestral portions of the score, French opera shows most clearly its indebtedness to Gluck, and, after him, to Cherubini. It is a beautiful form of operatic art.

In the restricted sense of the repertoire in this country, French grand opera means Meyerbeer, Gounod, Bizet, and Massenet. In fact it is a question if, popularly speaking, we draw the line at all between French and Italian grand opera, since, both being Latin, they are sister arts, and quite distinct from the German school.

Having traced opera in Germany from Gluck to Wagner, and in Italy from Rossini to Verdi, I now turn to opera in France from Meyerbeer and a few predecessors to Bizet.

Méhul to Meyerbeer

CERTAIN early French operas still are in the Continental repertoire, although they may be said to have completely disappeared here. They are of sufficient significance to be referred to in this book.

The pianoforte pupils abroad are few who, in the course of their first years of instruction, fail to receive a potpourri of the three-act opera "Joseph" (Joseph in Egypt), by Étienne Nicholas Méhul (1763-1817). The score is chaste and restrained. The principal air for Joseph (tenor), "À peine au sortir de l'enfance" (Whilst yet in tender childhood), and the prayer for male voice, "Dieu d'Israel" (Oh, God of Israel), are the best-known portions of the score. In constructing the libretto Alexander Duval followed the Biblical story. When the work opens, not only has the sale of Joseph by his brethren taken place, but the young Jew has risen to high office. Rôles, besides Joseph, are Jacob (bass), Siméon (baritone), Benjamin (soprano), Utobal, Joseph's confidant (bass). "Joseph en Egypte" was produced at the Théâtre Feydeau, Paris, February 17, 1808.

"Le Calife de Bagdad," "Jean de Paris," and "La Dame Blanche" (The White Lady), by François Adrien Boieldieu (1775-1834), are still known by their graceful overtures. In "La Dame Blanche" the composer has used the song of "Robin Adair," the scene of the opera being laid in Scotland, and drawn by Scribe from Scott's novels, "The Monastery" and "Guy Mannering." George Brown was a favorite rôle with Wachtel. He sang it in this country. The graceful invocation to the white lady was especially well suited to his voice. "La Dame Blanche" was produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, December 10, 1825.

Boieldieu's music is light and graceful, in perfect French taste, and full of charm. It has the spirit of comedy and no doubt helped develop the comic vein in the lighter scores of Daniel François Esprit Auber (1782-1871). But in his greatest work, "Masaniello," the French title of which is "La Muette de Portici" (The Dumb Girl of Portici), Auber is, musically, a descendant of Méhul. The libretto is by Scribe and Delavigne. The work was produced in Paris, February 29, 1828. It is one of the foundation stones of French grand opera. Eschewing vocal ornament merely as such, and introducing it only when called for by the portrayal of character, the emotion to be expressed, or the situation devised by the librettist, it is largely due to its development from this work of Auber's that French opera has occupied for so long a time the middle ground between Italian opera with its frank supremacy of voice on the one hand, and German opera with its solicitude for instrumental effects on the other.

Greatly admired by musicians though the score be, "Masaniello's" hold upon the repertory long has been precarious. I doubt if it has been given in this country upon any scale of significance since the earliest days of opera in German at the Metropolitan, when Dr. Leopold Damrosch revived it with Anton Schott in the title rôle. Even then it was difficult to imagine that, when "Masaniello" was played in Brussels, in 1830, the scene of the uprising so excited the people that they drove the Dutch out of Belgium, which had been joined to Holland by the Congress of Vienna. The best-known musical number in the opera is the "Air du Sommeil" (Slumber-song) sung by Masaniello to Fenella in the fourth act.

Auber composed many successful operas in the vein of comedy. His "Fra Diavolo" long was popular. Its libretto by Scribe is amusing, the score sparkling. Fra Diavolo's death can be made a sensational piece of acting, if the tenor knows how to take a fall down the wooden runway among the canvas rocks, over which the dashing bandit—the villain of the piece—is attempting to escape, when shot.

"Fra Diavolo" was given here with considerable frequency at one time. But in a country where opéra comique (in the French sense of the term) has ceased to exist, it has no place. We swing from one extreme to the other—from grand opera, with brilliant accessories, to musical comedy, with all its slap-dash. The sunlit middle road of opéra comique we have ceased to tread.

Two other works, once of considerable popularity, also have disappeared from our stage. The overture to "Zampa," by Louis J.F. Hérold (1791-1833) still is played; the opera no more. It was produced in Paris May 3, 1831. The libretto, by Mélésville, is based on the old tale of "The Statue Bride."

The high tenor rôle of Chappelou in "Le Postillon de Longjumeau," by Adolphe Charles Adam (1802-1856), with its postillion song, "Ho! ho!—Ho! ho!—Postillion of Longjumeau!" was made famous by Theodore Wachtel, who himself was a postillion before his voice was discovered by patrons of his father's stable, with whom he chanced to join in singing quartet. It was he who introduced the rhythmic cracking of the whip in the postillion's song. Wachtel sang the rôle in this country in the season of 1871-72, at the Stadt Theatre, and in 1875-76 at the Academy of Music. Then, having accumulated a fortune, chiefly out of the "Postillon," in which he sang more than 1200 times, he practically retired, accepting no fixed engagements.

During the Metropolitan Opera House season of 1884-85, Dr. Leopold Damrosch revived, in German, "La Juive," a five-act opera by Jacques François Fromental Élie Halévy (1799-1862), the libretto by Scribe. Materna was the Jewess, Rachel (in German Recha). I cannot recall any production of the work here since then, and a considerable period had elapsed since its previous performance here. It had its première in Paris, February 23, 1835. Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable" had been produced in 1831. Nevertheless "La Juive" scored a triumph. But with the production of Meyerbeer's "Les Huguenots," that composer became the operatic idol of the public, and Halévy's star paled, although musicians continued for many years to consider "La Juive" one of the finest opera scores composed in France; and there are many who would be glad to see an occasional revival of this work, as well as of Auber's "Masaniello." The libretto of "La Juive," originally written for Rossini, was rejected by that composer for "William Tell" (see p. 312).

Giacomo Meyerbeer
(1791-1864)

ALTHOUGH he was born in Berlin (September 5, 1791), studied pianoforte and theory in Germany, and attained in that country a reputation as a brilliant pianist, besides producing several operas there, Meyerbeer is regarded as the founder of what generally is understood as modern French grand opera. It has been said of him that "he joined to the flowing melody of the Italians the solid harmony of the Germans, the poignant declamation and varied, piquant rhythm of the French"; which is a good description of the opera that flourishes on the stage of the Académie or Grand Opéra, Paris. The models for elaborate spectacular scenes and finales furnished by Meyerbeer's operas have been followed ever since by French composers; nor have they been ignored by Italians. He understood how to write effectively for the voice, and he was the first composer of opera who made a point of striving for tone colour in the instrumental accompaniment. Sometimes the effect may be too calculated, too cunningly contrived, too obviously sought for. But what he accomplished had decided influence on the enrichment of the instrumental score in operatic composition.

Much criticism has been directed at Meyerbeer, and much of his music has disappeared from the stage. But such also has been the fate of much of the music of other composers earlier than, contemporary with, and later than he. Meyerbeer had the pick of the great artists of his day. His works were written for and produced with brilliant casts, and had better not be sung at all than indifferently. His greatest work, "Les Huguenots," is still capable of leaving a deep impression, when adequately performed.

Meyerbeer, like many other composers for the lyric stage, has suffered much from writers who have failed to approach opera as opera, but have written about it from the standpoint of the symphony, with which it has nothing in common, or have looked down upon it from the lofty heights of the music-drama, from which, save for the fact that both are intended to be sung and acted with scenery on a stage, it differs greatly. Opera is a highly artificial theatrical product, and those who have employed convincingly its sophisticated processes are not lightly to be thrust aside.

Meyerbeer came of a Jewish family. His real name was Jacob Liebmann Beer. He prefixed "Meyer" to his patronymic at the request of a wealthy relative who made him his heir. He was a pupil in pianoforte of Clementi; also studied under Abbé Vogler, being a fellow pupil of C.M. von Weber. His first operas were German. In 1815 he went to Italy and composed a series of operas in the style of Rossini. Going to Paris in 1826, he became "immersed in the study of French opera, from Lully onward." The first result was "Robert le Diable" (Robert the Devil), Grand Opéra, Paris, 1831. This was followed by "Les Huguenots," 1836; "Le Prophète," 1849; "L'Étoile du Nord," Opéra Comique, 1854; "Dinorah, ou le Pardon de Ploërmel" (Dinorah, or the Pardon of Ploërmel), Opéra Comique, 1859. Much of the music of "L'Étoile du Nord" came from an earlier score, "Das Feldlager in Schlesien" (The Camp in Silesia), Berlin, 1843. Meyerbeer died May 2, 1864, in Paris, where his "L'Africaine" was produced at the Grand Opéra in 1865.

ROBERT LE DIABLE
ROBERT THE DEVIL

Whatever criticism may now be directed against "Robert le Diable," it was a remarkable creation for its day. Meyerbeer's score not only saved the libretto, in which the grotesque is carried to the point of absurdity, but actually made a brilliant success of the production as a whole.

The story is legendary. Robert is the son of the arch-fiend by a human woman. Robert's father, known as Bertram, but really the devil, ever follows him about, and seeks to lure him to destruction. The strain of purity in the drama is supplied by Robert's foster-sister, Alice, who, if Bertram is the prototype of Mephistopheles in "Faust," may be regarded as the original of Michaela in "Carmen."

Robert, because of his evil deeds (inspired by Bertram), has been banished from Normandy, and has come to Sicily. He has fallen in love with Isabella, she with him. He is to attend a tournament at which she is to award the prizes. Tempted by Bertram, he gambles and loses all his possessions, including even his armour. These facts are disclosed in the first act. This contains a song by Raimbaut, the minstrel, in which he tells of Robert's misdeeds, but is saved from the latter's fury by Alice, who is betrothed to Raimbaut, and who, in an expressive air, pleads vainly with Robert to mend his ways and especially to avoid Bertram, from whom she instinctively shrinks. In the second act Robert and Isabella meet in the palace. She bestows upon him a suit of armour to wear in the tournament. But, misled by Bertram, he seeks his rival elsewhere than in the lists, and, by his failure to appear there, loses his honour as a knight. In the next act, laid in the cavern of St. Irene, occurs an orgy of evil spirits, to whose number Bertram promises to add Robert. Next comes a scene that verges upon the grotesque, but which is converted by Meyerbeer's genius into something highly fantastic. This is in the ruined convent of St. Rosalie. Bertram summons from their graves the nuns who, in life, were unfaithful to their vows. The fiend has promised Robert that if he will but seize a mystic cypress branch from over the grave of St. Rosalie, and bear it away, whatever he wishes for will become his. The ghostly nuns, led by their Abbess, dance about him. They seek to inveigle him with gambling, drink, and love, until, dazed by their enticements, he seizes the branch. Besides the ballet of the nuns, there are two duets for Robert and Bertram—"Du rendezvous" (Our meeting place), and "Le bonheur est dans l'inconstance" (Our pleasure lies in constant change).

The first use Robert makes of the branch is to effect entrance into Isabella's chamber. He threatens to seize her and bear her away, but yields to her entreaties, breaks the branch, and destroys the spell. In this act—the fourth—occurs the famous air for Isabella, "Robert, toi que j'aime" (Robert, whom I love).

Once more Bertram seeks to make with Robert a compact, the price for which shall be paid with his soul. But Alice, by repeating to him the last warning words of his mother, delays the signing of the compact until the clock strikes twelve. The spell is broken. Bertram disappears. The cathedral doors swing open disclosing Isabella, who, in her bridal robes, awaits Robert. The finale contains a trio for Alice, Robert, and Bertram, which is considered one of Meyerbeer's finest inspirations.

LES HUGUENOTS
THE HUGUENOTS

It has been said that, because Meyerbeer was a Jew, he chose for two of his operas, "Les Huguenots" and "Le Prophète," subjects dealing with bloody uprisings due to religious differences among Christians. "Les Huguenots" is written around the massacre of the Huguenots by the Catholics, on the night of St. Bartholomew's, Paris, August 24, 1572; "Le Prophète" around the seizure and occupation of Münster, in 1555, by the Anabaptists, led by John of Leyden. Even the ballet of the spectral nuns, in "Robert le Diable," has been suggested as due to Meyerbeer's racial origin and a tendency covertly to attack the Christian religion. Far-fetched, I think. Most likely his famous librettist was chiefly responsible for choice of subjects and Meyerbeer accepted them because of the effective manner in which they were worked out. Even so, he was not wholly satisfied with Scribe's libretto of "Les Huguenots." He had the scene of the benediction of the swords enlarged, and it was upon his insistence that Deschamps wrote in the love duet in Act IV. As it stands, the story has been handled with keen appreciation of its dramatic possibilities.

Act I. Touraine. Count de Nevers, one of the leaders of the Catholic party, has invited friends to a banquet at his château. Among these is Raoul de Nangis, a Huguenot. He is accompanied by an old retainer, the Huguenot soldier, Marcel. In the course of the fête it is proposed that everyone shall toast his love in a song. Raoul is the first to be called upon. The name of the beauty whom he pledges in his toast is unknown to him. He had come to her assistance while she was being molested by a party of students. She thanked him most graciously. He lives in the hope of meeting her again.

Marcel is a fanatic Huguenot. Having followed his master to the banquet, he finds him surrounded by leaders of the party belonging to the opposite faith. He fears for the consequences. In strange contrast to the glamour and gaiety of the festive proceedings, he intones Luther's hymn, "A Stronghold Sure." The noblemen of the Catholic party instead of becoming angry are amused. Marcel repays their levity by singing a fierce Huguenot battle song. That also amuses them.

At this point the Count de Nevers is informed that a lady is in the garden and wishes to speak with him. He leaves his guests who, through an open window, watch the meeting. Raoul, to his surprise and consternation, recognizes in the lady none other than the fair creature whom he saved from the molestations of the students and with whom he has fallen in love. Naturally, however, from the circumstances of her meeting with de Nevers he cannot but conclude that a liaison exists between them.

De Nevers returns, rejoins his guests. Urbain, the page of Queen Marguerite de Valois, enters. He is in search of Raoul, having come to conduct him to a meeting with a gracious and noble lady whose name, however, is not disclosed. Raoul's eyes having been bandaged, he is conducted to a carriage and departs with Urbain, wondering what his next adventure will be.

Act II. In the Garden of Chenonçeaux, Queen Marguerite de Valois receives Valentine, daughter of the Count de St. Bris. The Queen knows of her rescue from the students by Raoul. Desiring to put an end to the differences between Huguenots and Catholics, which have already led to bloodshed, she has conceived the idea of uniting Valentine, daughter of one of the great Catholic leaders, to Raoul. Valentine, however, was already pledged to de Nevers. It was at the Queen's suggestion that she visited de Nevers and had him summoned from the banquet in order to ask him to release her from her engagement to him—a request which, however reluctantly, he granted.

Here, in the Gardens of Chenonçeaux, Valentine and Raoul are, according to the Queen's plan, to meet again, but she intends first to receive him alone. He is brought in, the bandage is removed from his eyes, he does homage to the Queen, and when, in the presence of the leaders of the Catholic party, Marguerite de Valois explains her purpose and her plan through this union of two great houses to end the religious differences which have disturbed her reign, all consent.

Valentine is led in. Raoul at once recognizes her as the woman of his adventure but also, alas, as the woman whom de Nevers met in the garden during the banquet. Believing her to be unchaste, he refuses her hand. General consternation. St. Bris, his followers, all draw their swords. Raoul's flashes from its sheath. Only the Queen's intervention prevents bloodshed.

Act III. The scene is an open place in Paris before a chapel, where de Nevers, who has renewed his engagement with Valentine, is to take her in marriage. The nuptial cortège enters the building. The populace is restless, excited. Religious differences still are the cause of enmity. The presence of Royalist and Huguenot soldiers adds to the restlessness of the people. De Nevers, St. Bris, and another Catholic nobleman, Maurevert, come out from the chapel, where Valentine has desired to linger in prayer. The men are still incensed over what appears to them the shameful conduct of Raoul toward Valentine. Marcel at that moment delivers to St. Bris a challenge from Raoul to fight a duel. When the old Huguenot soldier has retired, the noblemen conspire together to lead Raoul into an ambush. During the duel, followers of St. Bris, who have been placed in hiding, are suddenly to issue forth and murder the young Huguenot nobleman.

From a position in the vestibule of the chapel, Valentine has overheard the plot. She still loves Raoul and him alone. How shall she warn him of the certain death in store for him? She sees Marcel and counsels him that his master must not come here to fight the duel unless he is accompanied by a strong guard. As a result, when Raoul and his antagonist meet, and St. Bris's soldiers are about to attack the Huguenot, Marcel summons the latter's followers from a nearby inn. A street fight between the two bodies of soldiers is imminent, when the Queen and her suite enter. A gaily bedecked barge comes up the river and lays to at the bank. It bears de Nevers and his friends. He has come to convey his bride from the chapel to his home. And now Raoul learns, from the Queen, and to his great grief, that he has refused the hand of the woman who loved him and who had gone to de Nevers in order to ask him to release her from her engagement with him.

Act IV. Raoul seeks Valentine, who has become the wife of de Nevers, in her home. He wishes to be assured of the truth of what he has heard from the Queen. During their meeting footsteps are heard approaching and Valentine barely has time to hide Raoul in an adjoining room when de Nevers, St. Bris, and other noblemen of the Catholic party enter, and form a plan to be carried out that very night—the night of St. Bartholomew—to massacre the Huguenots. Only de Nevers refuses to take part in the conspiracy. Rather than do so, he yields his sword to St. Bris and is led away a prisoner. The priests bless the swords, St. Bris and his followers swear loyalty to the bloody cause in which they are enlisted, and depart to await the order to put it into effect, the tolling of the great bell from St. Germain.

Raoul comes out from his place of concealment. His one thought is to hurry away and notify his brethren of their peril. Valentine seeks to detain him, entreats him not to go, since it will be to certain death. As the greatest and final argument to him to remain, she proclaims that she loves him. But already the deep-voiced bell tolls the signal. Flames, blood-red, flare through the windows. Nothing can restrain Raoul from doing his duty. Valentine stands before the closed door to block his egress. Rushing to a casement, he throws back the window and leaps to the street.

Act V. Covered with blood, Raoul rushes into the ballroom of the Hôtel de Nesle, where the Huguenot leaders, ignorant of the massacre that has begun, are assembled, and summons them to battle. Already Coligny, their great commander, has fallen. Their followers are being massacred.

Plançon

Jean de Reszke

The scene changes to a Huguenot churchyard, where Raoul and Marcel have found temporary refuge. Valentine hurries in. She wishes to save Raoul. She adjures him to adopt her faith. De Nevers has met a noble death and she is free—free to marry Raoul. But he refuses to marry her at the sacrifice of his religion. Now she decides that she will die with him and that they will both die as Huguenots and united. Marcel blesses them. The enemy has stormed the churchyard and begins the massacre of those who have sought safety there and in the edifice itself. Again the scene changes, this time to a square in Paris. Raoul, who has been severely wounded, is supported by Marcel and Valentine. St. Bris and his followers approach. In answer to St. Bris's summons, "Who goes there?" Raoul, calling to his aid all the strength he has left, cries out, "Huguenots." There is a volley. Raoul, Valentine, Marcel lie dead on the ground. Too late St. Bris discovers that he has been the murderer of his own daughter.

Originally in five acts, the version of "Les Huguenots" usually performed contains but three. The first two acts are drawn into one by converting the second act into a scene and adding it to the first. The fifth act (or in the usual version the fourth) is nearly always omitted. This is due to the length of the opera. The audience takes it for granted that, when Raoul leaves Valentine, he goes to his death. I have seen a performance of "Les Huguenots" with the last act. So far as an understanding of the work is concerned, it is unnecessary. It also involves as much noise and smell of gunpowder as Massenet's opera, "La Navarraise"—and that is saying a good deal.

The performances of "Les Huguenots," during the most brilliant revivals of that work at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, under Maurice Grau, were known as "les nuits de sept étoiles" (the nights of the seven stars). The cast to which the performances owed this designation is given in the summary above. A manager, in order to put "Les Huguenots" satisfactorily upon the stage, should be able to give it with seven first-rate principals, trained as nearly as possible in the same school of opera. The work should be sung preferably in French and by singers who know something of the traditions of the Grand Opéra, Paris. Mixed casts of Latin and Teutonic singers mar a performance of this work. If "Les Huguenots" appears to have fallen off in popularity since "the nights of the seven stars," I am inclined to attribute this to inability or failure to give the opera with a cast either as fine or as homogeneous as that which flourished at the Metropolitan during the era of "les nuits de sept étoiles," when there not only were seven stars on the stage, but also seven dollars in the box office for every orchestra stall that was occupied—and they all were.

Auber's "Masaniello," Rossini's "William Tell," Halévy's "La Juive," and Meyerbeer's own "Robert le Diable" practically having dropped out of the repertoire in this country, "Les Huguenots," composed in 1836, is the earliest opera in the French grand manner that maintains itself on the lyric stage of America—the first example of a school of music which, through the "Faust" of Gounod, the "Carmen" of Bizet, and the works of Massenet, has continued to claim our attention.

After a brief overture, in which Luther's hymn is prominent, the first act opens with a sonorous chorus for the banqueters in the salon of de Nevers's castle. Raoul, called upon to propose in song a toast to a lady, pledges the unknown beauty, whom he rescued from the insolence of a band of students. He does this in the romance, "Plus blanche que la plus blanche hermine" (Whiter than the whitest ermine). The accompaniment to the melodious measures, with which the romance opens, is supplied by a viola solo, the effective employment of which in this passage shows Meyerbeer's knowledge of the instrument and its possibilities. This romance is a perfect example of a certain phase of Meyerbeer's art—a suave and elegant melody for voice, accompanied in a highly original manner, part of the time, in this instance, by a single instrument in the orchestra, which, however, in spite of its effectiveness, leaves an impression of simplicity not wholly uncalculated.

Raoul's romance is followed by the entrance of Marcel, and the scene for that bluff, sturdy old Huguenot campaigner and loyal servant of Raoul, a splendidly drawn character, dramatically and musically. Marcel tries to drown the festive sounds by intoning the stern phrases of Luther's hymn. This he follows with the Huguenot battle song, with its "Piff, piff, piff," which has been rendered famous by the great bassos who have sung it, including, in this country, Formes and Édouard de Reszke.

De Nevers then is called away to his interview with the lady, whom Raoul recognizes as the unknown beauty rescued by him from the students, and whom, from the circumstances of her visit to de Nevers, he cannot but believe to be engaged in a liaison with the latter. Almost immediately upon de Nevers's rejoining his guests there enters Urbain, the page of Marguerite de Valois. He greets the assembly with the brilliant recitative, "Nobles Seigneurs salut!" This is followed by a charming cavatina, "Une dame noble et sage" (A wise and noble lady). Originally this was a soprano number, Urbain having been composed as a soprano rôle, which it remained for twelve years. Then, in 1844, when "Les Huguenots" was produced in London, with Alboni as Urbain, Meyerbeer transposed it, and a contralto, or mezzo-soprano, part it has remained ever since, its interpreters in this country having included Annie Louise Cary, Trebelli, Scalchi, and Homer. The theme of "Une dame noble et sage" is as follows:

The letter brought by Urbain is recognized by the Catholic noblemen as being in the handwriting of Marguerite de Valois. As it is addressed to Raoul, they show by their obsequious demeanour toward him the importance they attach to the invitation. In accordance with its terms Raoul allows himself to be blindfolded and led away by Urbain.

Following the original score and regarding what is now the second scene of Act I as the second act, this opens with Marguerite de Valois's apostrophe to the fair land of Touraine (Ô beau pays de la Touraine), which, with the air immediately following, "À ce mot tout s'anime et renaît la nature" (At this word everything revives and Nature renews itself),

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constitutes an animated and brilliant scene for coloratura soprano.

There is a brief colloquy between Marguerite and Valentine, then the graceful female chorus, sung on the bank of the Seine and known as the "bathers' chorus," this being followed by the entrance of Urbain and his engaging song—the rondeau composed for Alboni—"Non!—non, non, non, non, non! Vous n'avez jamais, je gage" (No!—no, no, no, no, no! You have never heard, I wager).

Raoul enters, the bandage is removed from his eyes, and there follows a duet, "Beauté divine, enchanteresse" (Beauty brightly divine, enchantress), between him and Marguerite, all graciousness on her side and courtly admiration on his. The nobles and their followers come upon the scene. Marguerite de Valois's plan to end the religious strife that has distracted the realm meets with their approbation. The finale of the act begins with the swelling chorus in which they take oath to abide by it. There is the brief episode in which Valentine is led in by St. Bris, presented to Raoul, and indignantly spurned by him. The act closes with a turbulent ensemble. Strife and bloodshed, then and there, are averted only by the interposition of Marguerite.

Act III opens with the famous chorus of the Huguenot soldiers in which, while they imitate with their hands the beating of drums, they sing their spirited "Rataplan." By contrast, the Catholic maidens, who accompany the bridal cortège of Valentine and de Nevers to the chapel, intone a litany, while Catholic citizens, students, and women protest against the song of the Huguenot soldiers. These several choral elements are skilfully worked out in the score. Marcel, coming upon the scene, manages to have St. Bris summoned from the chapel, and presents Raoul's challenge to a duel. The Catholics form their plot to assassinate Raoul, of which Valentine finds opportunity to notify Marcel, in what is one of the striking scenes of the opera. The duel scene is preceded by a stirring septette, a really great passage, "En mon bon droit j'ai confiance" (On my good cause relying). The music, when the ambuscade is uncovered and Marcel summons the Huguenots to Raoul's aid, and a street combat is threatened, reaches an effective climax in a double chorus. The excitement subsides with the arrival of Marguerite de Valois, and of the barge containing de Nevers and his retinue. A brilliant chorus, supported by the orchestra and by a military band on the stage, with ballet to add to the spectacle forms the finale, as de Nevers conducts Valentine to the barge, and is followed on board by St. Bris and the nuptial cortège.

The fourth act, in the home of de Nevers, opens with a romance for Valentine, "Parmi les pleurs mon rêve se ranime" (Amid my tears, by dreams once more o'ertaken), which is followed by a brief scene between her and Raoul, whom the approach of the conspirators quickly obliges her to hide in an adjoining apartment. The scene of the consecration of the swords is one of the greatest in opera; but that it shall have its full effect St. Bris must be an artist like Plançon, who, besides being endowed with a powerful and beautifully managed voice, was superb in appearance and as St. Bris had the bearing of the dignified, commanding yet fanatic nobleman of old France. Musically and dramatically the scene rests on St. Bris's shoulders, and broad they must be, since his is the most conspicuous part in song and action, from the intonation of his solo, "Pour cette cause sainte, obéisses sans crainte" (With sacred zeal and ardor let now your soul be burning),

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to the end of the savage stretta, when, the conspirators, having tiptoed almost to the door, in order to disperse for their mission, suddenly turn, once more uplift sword hilts, poignards, and crucifixes, and, after a frenzied adjuration of loyalty to a cause that demands the massacre of an unsuspecting foe, steal forth into the shades of fateful night.

Powerful as this scene is, Meyerbeer has made the love duet which follows even more gripping. For now he interprets the conflicting emotions of love and loyalty in two hearts. It begins with Raoul's exclamation, "Le danger presse et le temps vole, laisse-moi partir" (Danger presses and time flies. Let me depart), and reaches its climax in a cantilena of supreme beauty, "Tu l'as dit, oui tu m'aimes" (Thou hast said it; aye, thou lov'st me),

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which is broken in upon by the sinister tolling of a distant bell—the signal for the massacre to begin. An air for Valentine, an impassioned stretta for the lovers, Raoul's leap from the window, followed by a discharge of musketry, from which, in the curtailed version, he is supposed to meet his death, and this act, still an amazing achievement in opera, is at an end.

In the fifth act, there is the fine scene of the blessing by Marcel of Raoul and Valentine, during which strains of Luther's hymn are heard, intoned by Huguenots, who have crowded into their church for a last refuge.

"Les Huguenots" has been the subject of violent attacks, beginning with Robert Schumann's essay indited as far back as 1837, and starting off with the assertion, "I feel today like the young warrior who draws his sword for the first time in a holy cause." Schumann's most particular "holy cause" was, in this instance, to praise Mendelssohn's oratorio, "St. Paul," at the expense of Meyerbeer's opera "Les Huguenots," notwithstanding the utter dissimilarity of purpose in the two works. On the other hand Hanslick remarks that a person who cannot appreciate the dramatic power of this Meyerbeer opera, must be lacking in certain elements of the critical faculty. Even Wagner, one of Meyerbeer's bitterest detractors, found words of the highest praise for the passage from the love duet, which is quoted immediately above. The composer of "The Ring of the Nibelung" had a much broader outlook upon the world than Schumann, in whose genius there was, after all, a good deal of the bourgeois.

Pro or con, when "Les Huguenots" is sung with a fully adequate cast, it cannot fail of making a deep impression—as witness "les nuits de sept étoiles."

A typical night of the seven stars at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, was that of December 26, 1894. The sept étoiles were Nordica (Valentine), Scalchi (Urbain), Melba (Marguerite de Valois), Jean de Reszke (Raoul), Plançon (St. Bris), Maurel (de Nevers), and Édouard de Reszke (Marcel). Two Academy of Music casts are worth referring to. April 30, 1872, Parepa-Rosa, for her last appearance in America, sang Valentine. Wachtel was Raoul and Santley St. Bris. The other Academy cast was a "Night of six stars," and is noteworthy as including Maurel twenty years, almost to the night, before he appeared in the Metropolitan cast. The date was December 24, 1874. Nilsson was Valentine, Cary Urbain, Maresi Marguerite de Valois, Campanini Raoul, Del Puente St. Bris, Maurel de Nevers, and Nannetti Marcel. With a more distinguished Marguerite de Valois, this performance would have anticipated the "nuits de sept étoiles."