Opera Books

The
Complete Opera Book

Gustav Kobbé

Gaetano Donizetti

(1797—1848)

THE composer of “Lucia di Lammermoor,” an opera produced in 1835, but seemingly with a long lease of life yet ahead of it, was born at Bergamo, November 29, 1797. He composed nearly seventy operas.
     His first real success, “Anna Bolena,” was brought out in Rome, in 1830. Even before that, however, thirty-one operas by him had been performed. Of his many works, the comparatively few still heard nowadays are, in the order of their production, “L’Elisire d’Amore, “ “Lucrezia Borgia,” “Lucia di Lammermoor,” “La Figlia del Reggimento,” “La Favorita,” “Linda di Chamounix,” and “Don Pasquale.” A clever little one-act comedy-opera, “Il Campanello di Notte” (The Night Bell) was revived in New York in the spring of 1917.
     With a gift for melody as facile as Bellini’s, Donizetti is more dramatic, his harmonization less monotonous, and his orchestration more careful. This is shown by his choice of instruments for special effects, like the harp solo preceding the appearance of Lucia, the flute obligato in the mad scene in the opera of which she is the heroine, and the bassoons introducing “Una furtiva lagrima, “in “L’Elisire d’Amore.” He is a distinct factor in the evolution of Italian opera from Rossini to and including Verdi, from whom, in turn, the living Italian opera composers of note derive.
     Donizetti’s father was a weaver, who wished his son to become a lawyer. But he finally was permitted to enter the conservatory at Bergamo, where, among other teachers, he had J. H. Mayr in harmony. He studied further, on Mayr’s recommendation, with Padre Martini.
     As his father wanted him to teach so that he would be self-supporting, he enlisted in the army, and was ordered to Venice. There in his leisure moments he composed his first opera, “Enrico di Borgogna,” produced, Venice, 1818. In 1845 he was stricken with paralysis. He died at Bergamo, April 8, 1848.

L’ELISIRE D’AMORE

THE ELIXIR OF LOVE

     Opera, in two acts. Music by Donizetti; words by Felice Romani. Produced, Milan, May 12, 1832; London, December 10, 1836; New Orleans, March 30, 1842; New York, Academy of Music, 1883-84, with Gerster; Metropolitan Opera House, 1904, with Sembrich, Caruso, Scotti, and Rossi.

CHARACTERS

Time—Nineteenth Century.

Place—A small Italian village.

     Act I. Beauty and riches have made the young peasant woman, Adina, exacting. She laughs at the embarrassed Courting of the true-hearted peasant lad, Nemorino; she laughs at the story of “Tristan and Isolde,” and rejoices that there are now no more elixirs to bring the merry heart of woman into slavish dependence on love. Yet she does not seem so much indifferent to Nemorino as piqued over his lack of courage to come to the point.
     Sergeant Belcore arrives in the village at the head of a troop of soldiers. He seeks to win Adina’s heart by storm. The villagers tease Nemorino about his soldier rival. The young peasant is almost driven to despair by their raillery. Enter the peripatetic quack, Dr. Dulcamara. For a ducat Nemorino eagerly buys of him a flask of cheap Bordeaux, which the quack assures him is an elixir of love, and that, within twenty-four hours, it will enable him to win Adina. Nemorino empties the flask at a draught. A certain effect shows itself at once. Under the influence of the Bordeaux he falls into extravagant mirth, sings, dances—and grieves no more about Adina, who becomes piqued and, to vex Nemorino, engages herself to marry Sergeant Belcore. An order comes to the troops to move. The Sergeant presses for an immediate marriage. To this Adina, still under the influence of pique, consents. Nemorino seeks to console himself by louder singing and livelier dancing.
     Act. II. The village is assembled on Adina’s farm to celebrate her marriage with the Sergeant. But it is noticeable that she keeps putting off signing the marriage contract. Nemorino awaits the effect of the elixir. To make sure of it, he buys from Dulcamara a second bottle. Not having the money to pay for it, and Belcore being on the lookout for recruits, Nemorino enlists and, with the money he receives, pays Dulcamara. The fresh dose of the supposed elixir makes Nemorino livelier than ever. He pictures to himself the glory of a soldier’s career. He also finds himself greatly admired by the village girls, for enlisting. Adina also realizes that he has joined the army out of devotion to her, and indicates that she favours him rather than Belcore. But he now has the exalted pleasure of treating her with indifference, so that she goes away very sad. He attributes his luck to the elixir.
     The villagers have learned that his rich uncle is dead and has left a will making him his heir. But because this news has not yet been communicated to him, he thinks their attentions due to the love philtre, and believes the more firmly in its efficacy. In any event, Adina has perceived, upon the Sergeant’s pressing her to sign the marriage contract, that she really prefers Nemorino. Like a shrewd little woman, she takes matters into her own hands, and buys back from Sergeant Belcore her lover’s enlistment paper. Having thus set him free, she behaves so coyly that Nemorino threatens to seek death in battle, whereupon she faints right into his arms. The Sergeant bears this unlucky turn of affairs with the bravery of a soldier, while Dulcamara’s fame becomes such that he can sell to the villagers his entire stock of Bordeaux for love elixir at a price that makes him rich.
     The elixir of life of this “Elixir of Love” is the romance for tenor in the second act, “Una furtiva lagrima” (A furtive tear), which Nemorino sings as Adina sadly leaves him, when she thinks that he has become indifferent to her. It was because of Caruso’s admirable rendition of this beautiful romance that the opera was revived at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, in 1904. Even the instrumental introduction to it, in which the bassoons carry the air, is captivating.



     Act I is laid on Adina’s farm. Adina has a florid air, “Chiedi all’ aura lusinghiera” (Go, demand of yon light zephyr), with which she turns aside from Nemorino ‘s attentions.



     The scene then changes to a square in the village. Here Dr. Dulcamara makes his entry, singing his buffo air, “Unite, udite, o rustici (Give ear, now, ye rustic ones). There are two attractive duets in this scene. One is for Nemorino and Dr. Dulcamara, “Obligato! obligato!” (Thank you kindly! thank you kindly!).



     The other, for Adina and Nemorino, is “Esalti pur al barbara per poco alle mie pene” (Tho’ now th’ exalting cruel one can thus deride my bitter pain).
     Act II, which shows a room in Adina’s farm house, opens with a bright chorus of rejoicing at her approaching wedding. Dulcamara brings out a piece of music, which he says is the latest thing from Venice, a barcarole for two voices. He and Adina sing it; a dainty duet, “Io son ricco, e tu sei bella” (I have riches, thou hast beauty) which figures in all the old potpourris of the opera.



     There is a scene for Nemorino, Gianetta, and the peasants, in which Nemorino praises the elixir, “Dell’ elisir mirabile” (Of this most potent elixir). Later comes another duet for Adina and Dulcamara, “Quanto amore!” (What affection!) in which Adina expresses her realization of the death of Nemorino’s affection for her.
     “The score of ‘Elisire d’Amore,’” says the Dictionaire des Opéras, “is one of the most pleasing that the Bergamo composer has written in the comic vein. It abounds in charming motifs and graceful melodies. In the first act the duet for tenor and bass between the young villager and Dr. Dulcamara is a little masterpiece of animation, the accompaniment of which is as interesting as the vocal parts. The most striking passages of the second act are the chorus, ‘Cantiamo, facciam brindisi’; the barcarole for two voices, ,Io son ricco, e tu sei bella’; the quartet, ‘Dell’ elisir mirabile’; the duet between Adina and Dulcamara, ‘Quanto amore ; and finally the lovely and smoothly-flowing ro­mance of Nemorino, ‘Una furtiva lagrima,’ which is one of the most remarkable inspirations of Donizetti.”

LUCREZIA BORGIA

Opera, in a prologue and two acts, by Donizetti; words by Felice Romani, after Victor Hugo. Produced, La Scala, Milan, 1834; Théâtre des Italiens, Paris, 1840; London, 1839; in English, 1843; New York, Astor Place Opera House, 1847; with Grisi, September 5, 1854; with Tietjens and Brignoli, 1876; Academy of Music, October 30, 1882; Metropolitan Opera House, with Caruso, 1902.

CHARACTERS

Time—Early sixteenth century.

Place—Venice and Ferrara.

     When an opera, without actually maintaining itself in the repertory, nevertheless is an object of occasional revival, it is sure to contain striking passages that seem to justify the experiment of bringing it forward again. “ Lucrezia Borgia” has a male character, Maffeo Orsini, sung by a contralto. Orsini’s ballata,” “Il segreto per esse felice” (O the secret of bliss in perfection), is a famous contralto air which Ernestine Schuman-Heink, with her voice of extraordinary range, has made well-known all over the United States.
     I quote the lines from the Ditson libretto:

          O the secret of bliss in perfection,
          Is never to raise an objection,
          Whether winter hang tears on the bushes,
          Or the summer-kiss deck them with blushes.
          Drink, and pity the fool who on sorrow,
               Ever wastes the pale shade of a thought.
          Never hope for one jot from the morrow,
               Save a new day of joy by it bought!

     The music has all the dash and abandon that the words suggest. Orsini sings it at a banquet in Ferrara. Suddenly from a neighbouring room comes the sound of monks’ voices chanting a dirge. A door opens. The penitents, still chanting, enter. The lights grow dim and one by one go out. The central doors swing back. Lucrezia Borgia appears in the entrance. The banqueters are her enemies. She has poisoned the wine they have just quaffed to Orsini’s song. They are doomed. The dirge is for them. But—what she did not know—among them is Gennaro, her illegitimate son, whom she dearly loves. She offers him an antidote, but in vain. He will not save himself, while his friends die. She then discloses the fact that she is his mother. But, even then, instead of accepting her proffered aid to save his life, he repulses her. Lucrezia herself then drains the poisoned cup from, which he has quaffed, and sinks, dying, upon his prostrate form. Such is the sombre setting for the Brindisi—the drinking song—“the secret of bliss in perfection”—when heard in the opera.



     The tenor rôle of Gennaro also has tempted to occasional revivals of the work. Mario introduced for this character as a substitute for a scene in the second act, a recitative and air by Lillo, “Coin’ è soave quest’ ora di silenzio” (Oh! how delightful this pleasing hour of silence), a change which is sometimes followed.
     Prologue. Terrace of the Grimani palace, Venice. Festival by night. Gennaro, weary, separates from his friends and falls asleep on a stone bench of the terrace. Here he is discovered by Lucrezia, who is masked. She regards him with deep affection. “Coin’ e bello quale incanto” (Holy beauty, child of nature) she sings.



     Gennaro awakens. In answer to her questions he tells her that he has been brought up by a poor fisherman “Di pescatore ignobile” (Deem’d of a fisher’s lowly race).



     The youth’s friends come upon the scene. Maffeo Orsini tears the mask from Lucrezia’s face, and in a dramatic concerted number he and his friends remind Lucrezia, for the benefit of Gennaro, who had been struck by her beauty and was unaware that she was the hated Borgia, how each has lost a brother or other relative through her. “Maffio Orsini, signora, son’ io cui svenasto il dormente fratello” (Madam, I am Orsini. My brother you did poison, the while he was sleeping). And so each one in order.



     Gennaro turns from her in loathing. She faints.
     Act I. A public place in Ferrara. On one side a palace. Alfonso, who, incidentally, is Lucrezia’s fourth husband, she having done away with his predecessors by poison, or other murderous means, is jealous of Gennaro. Like the youth himself, he is ignorant that Lucrezia is his mother, and is persuaded that he is her paramour. He has two solos. The first is “Vieni la mia vendetta “(Haste then to glut a vengeance); the second, “Qua lunque sia, l’evento” (On this I stake my fortune).



     Gennaro and his friends come into the Plaza. They see the letters BORGIA under the escutcheon of the palace. Gennaro, to show his detestation of Lucrezia’s crimes, rushes up the steps and with his sword hacks away the first letter of the name, leaving only ORGIA. At the command of the Duke, he is arrested.
     Lucrezia not knowing who has committed the outrage, demands of her husband that its perpetrator be put to death. Alfonso, with cynical readiness, consents. Gennaro is led in. Lucrezia now pleads for his life. The Duke is firm, even though Lucrezia quite casually reminds him that he is her fourth husband and may share the fate of the other three. (“Aye, though the fourth of my husbands, you lord it.”) His comment is the command that Gennaro shall meet death by quaffing a goblet of poisoned wine handed to him by Lucrezia herself. There is here a strong trio for Lucrezia, Gennaro, and Alfonso, as Alfonso pours wine for himself and Lucrezia from a silver flagon, while he empties the poisoned contents of a gold vessel, “the Borgia wine,” into Gennaro’s cup. But Lucrezia has the antidote; and, the Duke having left her with Gennaro, in order that she shall have the pleasure of watching the death of the man of whom he suspects her to be enamored, she gives it to Gennaro, and bids him flee from Ferrara.
     Act II is laid in the Negroni palace, and is the scene of the banquet, which has already been described.
     When “Lucrezia Borgia” was produced in Paris, in 1840, Victor Hugo, author of the drama upon which the libretto is based, objected. The French have long gone much further than we do in protecting the property rights of authors and artists in their creations. The producers of the opera were obliged to have the libretto rewritten. The title was changed to “La Rinegata” and the scene was transferred to Turkey.

LUCIA DI LAMMERMOOR

     Opera in three acts, by Donizetti; words by Salvatore Cammarano, after Scott’s novel, “The Bride of Lammermoor.” Produced, San Carlo Theatre, Naples, September 26, 1835, with Persiani as Lucia, and Duprez as Edgardo, the rôles having been especially composed for these artists. London, Her Majesty’s Theatre, April 5, 1838, and, in English, at the Princess Theatre, January 19, 1848. Paris, 1839. New York in English, at the Park Theatre, November 17, 1845; and, in Italian, November 14, 1849. Among celebrated Lucias heard in this country, are Patti, Gerster, Melba, Sembrich, Tetrazzini and Galli-Curci (Chicago, November 21, 1916); among Edgardos, Italo Campanii and Caruso.

CHARACTERS

Time—About 1700.

Place—Scotland.

     (Note. The characters in Italian are Enrico, Lucia, Edgardo, Arturo, Raimondo, Alisa, and Normando.)
     “Lucia di Lammermoor” is generally held to be Donizetti’s finest work. “In it the vein of melody—now sparkling, now sentimental, now tragic—which embodies Donizetti’s best claim on originality and immortality, finds, perhaps, freest and broadest development.” These words are, quoted from Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, a volume that rarely pauses to comment on an individual work. “Lucia” is indeed its composer’s masterpiece; and a masterpiece of Italian opera in the older definition of that term. Its melodies are many and beautiful, and even when ornate in passages, are basically expressive of the part of the tragic story to which they relate. Moreover, the sextet at the end of the second act when Edgar of Ravenswood appears upon the scene just as Lucy with trembling hand has affixed her signature to the contract of marriage between Lord Bucklaw and herself, ranks as one of the finest pieces of dramatic music in all opera, and as a concerted number is rivalled, in Italian opera, by only one other composition, the quartet in “Rigoletto.”
     The sextet in “Lucia” rises to the full height of the dramatic situation that has been created. It does so because the music reflects the part each character plays in the action. It has “physiognomy”—individual aspect and phraseology for each participant in .the drama; but, withal, an interdependence, which blends the voices, as they are swept along, into one grand, powerful, and dramatic climax.
     Another number, the mad scene in the third act, gives coloratura sopranos an opportunity for technical display equal to that afforded by the lesson scene in “Il Barbiere di Siviglia”; and, unlike the latter, the music does not consist of interpolated selections, but of a complete scéna with effective recitatives and brilliant solos, that belong to the score.
     In the story of “Lucia,” the heroine’s brother, Lord Henry Ashton of Lammermoor, in order to retrieve his fallen fortunes, and extricate himself from a perilous situation in which his participation in political movements directed against the King has placed him, arranges a marriage between his sister and Lord Arthur Bucklaw. Lucy herself knows nothing of this arrangement. Henry, on the other hand, is equally ignorant of an attachment which exists between Lucy and Edgar of Ravenswood, between whose family and his own there long has been a deadly feud. When he discovers it, he uses the most underhand methods to break it off.
     Edgar of Ravenswood is the last of his race. While he is absent on a mission to France in the interests of Scotland, he despatches many letters to Lucy. These letters are intercepted by Henry who also arranges that a forged paper, tending to prove the infidelity of Edgar, is shown to Lucy. Urged by the necessities of her brother, and believing herself deserted by her lover, Lucy unwillingly consents to become the bride of Lord Arthur Bucklaw. But, just as she has signed the marriage contract, Edgar of Ravenswood suddenly appears. He has returned from France, and now comes to claim the hand of Lucy—but too late. Convinced that Lucy has betrayed his love, he casts the ring she gave him at her feet and invokes imprecations upon her and his ancient enemies, the House of Lammermoor.
     At night he is sought out in his gloomy castle by Henry. They agree upon a duel to be fought near the tombs of the Ravenswoods, on the ensuing morning, when Edgar, weary of life, and the last of a doomed race, intends to throw himself on his adversary’s weapon. But the burden of woe has proved too much for Lucy to bear. At night, after retiring, she goes out of her mind, slays her husband, and dies of her sorrows.
     Edgar awaits his enemy in the churchyard of Ravenswood. But Ashton has fled. Instead, Edgar’s solitude is interrupted by a train of mourners coming from the Castle of Lammermoor. Upon hearing of Lucy’s death he plunges his dagger into his breast, and sinks down lifeless in the churchyard where repose the remains of his ancestors.
     On the stage this story is developed so that shortly after the curtain rises on Act I, showing a grove near the Castle of Lammermoor, Henry learns from Norman the latter’s suspicions that Lucy and Edgar have been meeting secretly in the park of Lammermoor. Norman has despatched his huntsmen to discover, if they can, whether or not his suspicions are correct. "Cruda funesta smania" (each nerve with fury trembleth) sings Henry.
     Returning, the hunters relate, in a brisk chorus, that

          Long they wander’d o’er the mountain,
          Search’d each cleft around the fountain,

Finally to learn by questioning a falconer that the intruder upon the domain of Lammermoor was none other than Edgar of Ravenswood. Rage and the spirit of revenge are expressed in Henry’s vigorous aria, "La pietade in suo favore" (From my breast I mercy banish).



     The scene changes to the park near a fountain. What now occurs is usually as follows. The curtain rises, and shows the scene—evening and moonlight. There is played a beautiful harp solo, an unusual and charming effect in opera. Having prepared the mood for the scene which is to follow, it is promptly encored and played all over again. Then Lucy appears with her companion, A lice. To her she relates the legend of the fountain, "Regnava nel silenzio" (Silence o’er all was reigning).



     This number gives an idea of the characteristics of Lucy’s principal solos. It is brilliant in passages, yet its melody is dreamy and reflective. Largely due to this combination of traits is the popularity of "Lucia di Lammermoor," in which, although there is comparatively little downright cheerful music, it is relieved of gloom by the technical brilliancy for which it often calls ;—just as, in fact, Lucy’s solo following the legend of the fountain, dispels the dark forebodings it inspired. This second solo for Lucy, one of the best known operatic numbers for soprano, is the "Quando rapita "(Then swift as thought).



     Another beautiful and familiar number is the duet between Lucy and Edgar, who has come. to tell her of his impending departure for France and to bid her farewell: "Verranno là. sull’ aure" (My sighs shall on the balmy breeze).



     Act II. Apartment in the Castle of Lammermoor. "Il pallor funesta.orrendo" (See these cheeks so pale and haggard).



     In this sad air Lucy protests to her brother against the marriage which he has arranged for her with Bucklaw. Henry then shows her the forged letter, which leads her to believe that she has been betrayed by her lover. "Soffriva nel pianto languina nel dolore" (My sufferings and sorrow I’ve borne without repining) begins the duet between Lucy and Henry with an especially effective cadenza—a dramatic number.
     Though believing herself deserted by Edgar, Lucy still holds back from the thought of marriage with another, and yields only to save her brother from a traitor’s death, and even then not until she has sought counsel from Raymond, the chaplain of Lammermoor, who adds his persuasions to Henry’s.
     The scene of the signing of the dower opens with a quick, bright chorus of guests who have assembled for the ceremony.



     There is an interchange of courtesies between Henry and Arthur; and then Lucy enters. The sadness of her mien is explained by her brother to Arthur on the ground that she is still mourning the death of her mother. Desperate, yet reluctant, Lucy signs the contracts of dower; and at that moment, one of the most dramatic in opera, Edgar, a sombre figure, but labouring under evident though suppressed tension, appears at the head of the broad flight of steps in the background, and slowly comes forward.
     The orchestra preludes briefly:



     The greatest ensemble number in Italian opera, the sextet, has begun. Edgardo: "Chi mi frena il tal momento? Chi troncò dell’ ire il corso?" (What restrains me at this moment? Why my sword do I not straightway draw?):



     Because he sees Lucy "as a rose ’mid tempest bending":



     Even Henry is moved to exclaim, "To my own blood I am a traitor":



     The chorus swells the volume of sound, but Lucy’s voice soars despairingly above all:



     Lucy and Edgar—they are the victims of Henry’s treachery, as will soon transpire.
     Act III. The first scene is laid in Edgar’s gloomy castle, whither at night comes Henry to challenge him to a duel at morn.
     The scene then changes back to Lammermoor, where the wedding guests still are feasting. Their revels are halted by Raymond, who, horror-stricken, announces to them that Lucy has gone mad and slain her husband; and soon the unhappy bride herself appears. Then follows the mad scene, one of the greatest "show numbers" for soprano, with the further merit that it fits perfectly into the scheme of the work.
     This is an elaborate scéna. In an earlier part of the opera Donizetti made effective use of a harp. In the mad scene he introduces a flute obligato, which plays around the voice, joins with it, touches it with sharp, brilliant accentuations, and glides with it up and down the scale in mellifluous companionship.
     In a brief article in The Musician, Thomas Tapper writes that "to perform the mad scene has been an inspiration and incentive to attainment for many singers. Its demands are severe. There must be the ‘mood,’ that is, the characterization of the mental state of Lucy must be evidenced both in vocal tone and physical movement. The aria requires an unusual degree of facility. Its transparency demands adherence to pitch that must not vary a shade from the truth (note the passage where voice and flute are in unison). The coloratura soprano is here afforded unusual opportunity to display fluency and flexibility of voice, to portray the character that is ‘as Ophelia was’; the dramatic intensity is paramount and must be sustained at a lofty eminence. In brief, the aria is truly a tour deforce."
     One of the best things in the above is its insistence on the "mood," the emotional situation that underlies the music. However brilliant the singing of the prima donna, something in her performance must yet convey to her hearers a sense of the sad fortunes of Lucy of Lammermoor.
     To the accomplishment of this Donizetti lends a helping hand by introducing, as a mournful reminiscence, the theme of the first act love duet for Lucy and Edgar (" My sighs shall on the balmy breeze"); also by the dreaminess of the two melodies, "Alfin son tua" (Thine am I ever); and



"Spargi d’amaro pianto" (Shed thou a tear of sorrow).



     Preceding the first of these, .and also between the two, are dramatic recitatives, in which the flute, possibly introduced merely for musical effect, yet, with its clear, limpid notes, by no means untypical of Lucy’s pure and spiritual personality, is prominent in the instrumental part of the score. Upon a brilliant phrase of vocalization, like "Yet shall we meet, dear Edgar, before the altar,"



it follows with this phrase:



which simple, even commonplace, as it seems, nevertheless, in place, has the desired effect of ingenuousness and charm; while the passage beginning,



has decided dramatic significance.

     I also give an example of a passage in which flute and voice combine in a manner that requires impeccable intonation on the singer’s part.



     The scéna ends with a strétta, a concluding passage taken in more rapid tempo in order to enhance the effect.
     It is always interesting to me to hear this scene, when well rendered, and to note the simple means employed by the composer to produce the impression it makes.
     The flute is an instrument that long has been the butt of humorists. "What is worse than one flute? "—"Two flutes." This is a standard musical joke. The kind suggestion also has been volunteered that Lucy of Lammermoor went out of her head, not because she was deserted by Edgar, but because she was accompanied by a flute.
     Nevertheless the flute is precisely the instrument required as an obligato to this scene. Italian composers, as a rule, pay little attention to instrumentation. Yet it is a fact that, when they make a special choice of an instrument in order to produce a desired effect, their selection usually proves a happy inspiration. The flute and the harp in "Lucia" are instances; the bassoons in the introduction to "Una furtiva lagrima" (A furtive tear), in "L’Elisire d’Amore" furnish another; and the wood wind in the "Semiramide" duet, "Giorno d’Orrore" (Dark day of horror) may also be mentioned.
     There is a point in the mad scene where it is easy to modulate into the key of G major. Donizetti has written in that key the aria "Perchè non ho del vento" (Oh, for an eagle’s pinions) which sopranos sometimes introduce during the scene, since it was composed for that purpose.
     Probably the air is unfamiliar to opera-goers in this country. Lionel Mapleson, the librarian of the Metropolitan Opera House, never has heard it sung there, and was interested to know where I had found it. As it is a florid, brilliant piece of music, and well suited to the scene, I quote a line of it, as a possible hint to some prima-donna.



     During the finale of the opera, laid near the churchyard where lie the bones of Edgar’s ancestors, Lucy’s lover holds the stage. His final aria, "Tu che a Dio spiegasti l’ali" (Tho’ from earth thou’st flown before me), is a passage of mournful beauty, which has few equals in Italian opera.



     Of the singers of former days who have been heard here as Lucia, Adelina Patti interpreted the rôle with the least effort and the greatest brilliancy. Hers was a pure flexible soprano, which seemed to flow forth spontaneously from an inexhaustible reservoir of song. Unfortunately she was heard here by many long after her day had passed. She had too many "farewells." But those who heard her at her best, always will remember her as the possessor of a naturally beautiful voice, exquisitely trained.
     Italo Campanini, a tenor who was in his prime when Mapleson was impressario at the Academy of Music, was one of the great Edgardos. He was an elder brother of Cleofante Campanini, orchestral conductor and director of the Chicago Opera Company.
     As for Caruso, rarely have I witnessed such excitement as followed the singing of the sextet the evening of his first appearance as Edgardo at the Metropolitan Opera House. It is a fact that the policeman in the lobby, thinking a riot of some sort had broken loose in the auditorium, grabbed his night stick and pushed through the swinging doors—only to find an audience vociferously demanding an encore. Even granted that some of the excitement was "worked up," it was, nevertheless, a remarkable demonstration.
     The rôle of Enrico, though, of course, of less importance than Edgardo; can be made very effective by a baritone of the first rank. Such, for example, was Antonio Galassi, who, like Campanini, was one of Mapleson’s singers. He was a tall, well put-up-man; and when, in the sextet, at the words "È mio rosa inaridita" (Of thine own blood thou’rt the betrayer), he came forward in one stride, and projected his voice into the proceedings, it seemed as if, no matter what happened to the others, he could take the entire affair on his broad shoulders and carry it through to success.

LA FIGLIA DEL REGGIMENTO

LA FILLE DU REGIMENT—THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT.

     Opera in two acts, by Donizetti; words by Bayard and Jules H. Vernoy (Marquis St. Georgcs). Produced, Opéra Comique, Paris, as "La Fille du Regiment," February 11, 1840; Milan, October 30, 1840; London, in English, at the Surrey Theatre, December 21, 1847; the same season in Italian, with Jenny Lind. First American performance, New Orleans, March 7, 1843. Marie was a favorite rôle with Jenny Lind, Sontag, Lucca, and Patti, all of whom appeared in it in New York; also Sembrich, with Charles Gilibert as Sulpice, Metropolitan Opera House, 1902—03; and Hempel, with Scotti as Sulpice, same house, December 17, 1917. Tetrazzini, McCormack, and Gilibert, Manhattan Opera House, 1909. An opera with a slight hold on the repertoire, but liable to occasional revival for coloratura sopranos.

CHARACTERS

Time—1815.

Place—Mountains of the Swiss Tyrol.

     Act I. A passage in the Tyrolese mountains. On the right is a .cottage, on the left the first houses of a village. Heights in the background. Tyrolese peasants are grouped on rising ground, as if on the lookout. Their wives and daughters kneel before a shrine to the Virgin. The Marguise de Birkenfeld is seated on a rustic bench. Beside her stands Hortensio, her steward. They have been caught in the eddy of the war. An engagement is in progress not far away. The Tyrolese chorus sings valiantly, the women pray; the French are victorious. And why not? Is not the unbeaten Twenty-first Regiment of Grenadiers among them?
     One of them is coming now, Sergeant Sulpice, an old grum-bler. After him comes a pretty girl in uniform, a vivandière—Marie, the daughter of the regiment, found on the field of battle when she was a mere child, and brought up by a whole regiment of fathers, the spoiled darling of the grenadiers. She sings "Apparvi alla luce, sul campo guerrier"



(I first saw the light in the camp of my brave grenadiers), which ends in a brilliant cadenza.



     This indicates why the revival of this opera attends the appearance upon the horizon of a colorature star. It is typical of the requirements of the character.
     The Sergeant puts her through a drill. Then they have a "Rataplan" duet, which may be called a repetition ‘of Marie’s solo with an accompaniment of rataplans. The drum is the music that is sweetest to her; and, indeed, Marie’s manipulation of the drumsticks is a feature of the rôle.
     But for a few days Marie has not been as cheerful as formerly. She has been seen with a young man. Sulpice asks her about him. She tells the Sergeant that this young man saved her life by preventing her from falling over a precipice. That, however, establishes no claim upon her. The regiment has decreed that only a grenadier shall have her for wife.
     There is a commotion. Some soldiers drag in Tonio, whom they charge as a spy. They have discovered him sneaking about the camp. His would have been short shrift had not Marie pleaded for him, for he is none other than her rescuer. As he wants to remain near Marie, he decides to become a soldier. The grenadiers celebrate his decision by drinking to his health and calling upon Marie to sing the "Song of the Regiment," a dapper tune, which is about the best-known number of the score: "Ciascun lo dice, ciascum lo sà! E il Reggimento, ch’equal non ha."

          (All men confess it,
               Go where we will!
          Our gallant Regiment
               Is welcome still.)



     There is then a love scene for Marie and Tonio, followed by a duet for them, "A voti cosi ardente" (No longer can I doubt it).
     Afterwards the grenadiers sing a "Rataplan" chorus.



     But, alas, the Sergeant has been informed that the Marguise de Birkenfeld desires safe conduct. Birkenfeld! That is the very name to which were addressed certain papers found on Marie when she was discovered as a baby on the battlefield. The Marguise examines the papers, declares that Marie is her niece and henceforth must live with her in the castle. Poor Tonio has become a grenadier in vain. The regiment cannot help him. It can only lament with him that their daughter is lost to them. She herself is none too happy. She sings a sad farewell, "Convien partir! o miei compagni d’arme" (Farewell, a long farewell, my dear companions).
     Act II. In the castle of the Marguise. Marie is learning to dance the minuet and to sing classical airs. But in the midst of her singing she and Sulpice, whom the Mar guise also has brought to the castle, break out into the "Song of the Regiment" and stirring "rataplans." Their liveliness, however, is only temporary, for poor Marie is to wed, at her aunt’s command, a scion of the ducal house of Krakenthorp. The march of the grenadiers is heard. They come in, led by Tonio, who has been made a captain for valour. Sulpice can now see no reason why Marie should not marry him instead of the nobleman selected by her aunt. And, indeed, Marie and Tonio decide to elope. But the Marguise confesses to the Sergeant, in order to win his aid in influencing Marie, that the girl really is her daughter, born out of wedlock. Sulpice informs Marie, who now feels that she cannot go against her mother’s wishes.
     In the end, however, it is Marie herself who saves the situation. The guests have assembled for the signing of the wedding contract, when Marie, before them all, sings fondly of her childhood with the regiment, and of her life as a vivandière. "Quando il destino in mezzo a stragiera" (When I was left, by all abandoned).
     The society people are scandalized. But the Marguise is so touched that she leads Tonio to Marie and places the girl’s hand in that of her lover. The opera ends with an ensemble, "Salute to France!"

LA FAVORITA

THE FAVORITE

     Opera in four acts, by Donizetti; words by Alphonse Royer and Gustave Waez, adapted from the drama "Le Comte de Comminges," of Baculard-Darnaud. Produced at the Grand Opéra, Paris, December 2, 1840. London, in English, 1843; in Italian, 1847. New York, Park Theatre, October 4, 1848.

CHARACTERS

Time—About 1340.

Place—Castile, Spain.

     Leonora, with Campanini as Fernando, was, for a number of seasons, one of the principal rôles of Annie Louise Cary at the Academy of Music. Mantelli as Leonora, Cremonini as Fernando, Ancona as King Alfonso, and Plançon as Balthazar, appeared, 1895—96, at the Metropolitan, where "La Favorita" was heard again in 1905; but the work never became a fixture, as it had been at the Academy of Music. The fact is that since then American audiences, the most spoiled in the world, have established an operatic convention as irrevocable as the laws of the Medes and Persians. In opera the hero must be a tenor, the heroine a true soprano. "La Favorita" fulfils the first requisite, but not the second. The heroine is a rôle for contralto, or mezzo-soprano. Yet the opera contains some of Donizetti’s finest music, both solo and ensemble. Pity ‘tis not heard more frequently.
     There is in "La Favorita" a strong, dramatic scene at the end of the third act. As if to work up to this as gradually as possible, the opera opens quietly.
     Ferdinand, a novice in the Monastery of St. James of Compostella, has chanced to see and has fallen in love with Leonora the mistress of Alfonso, King of Castile. He neither knows her name, nor is he aware of her equivocal position. So deeply conceived is his passion, it causes him to renounce his novitiate and seek out its object.
     Act I. The interior of the monastery. Ferdinand makes known to Balthazar, the Superior, that he desires to renounce his novitiate, because he has fallen in love, and cannot banish the woman of his affections from his thoughts. He describes her to the priest as "Una vergine, un angel di Dio" (A virgin, an angel of God).



     Although this air bears no resemblance to "Celeste Aida "its flowing measures and melodious beauty, combined with its position so early in the opera, recall the Verdi aria—and prepare for it the same fate—which is to be marred by the disturbance caused by late-comers and to remain unheard by those who come still later.
     Balthazar’s questions elicit from Ferdinand that his only knowledge of the woman, whose praises he has sung, is of her youth and beauty. Name and station are unknown to him, although he believes her to be of high rank. Balthazar, who had hoped that in time Ferdinand would become his successor as superior of the monastery, releases him reluctantly from his obligations, and prophesies, as the novice turns away from the peaceful shades of the cloister, that he will retrace his steps, disappointed and heart-broken, to seek refuge once more within the monastery’s walls.
     The scene changes to an idyllic prospect on the island of St. Leon, where Leonora lives in splendour. She, in her turn, is deeply enamoured of Ferdinand, yet is convinced that, because of her relations with King Alfonso, he will despise her should he discover who she is. But so great is her love for him, that, without letting him learn her name or station, she has arranged that he shall be brought, blindfolded, to the island.
     "Bel raggi lucenti "(Bright sunbeams, lightly dancing), a graceful solo and chorus for Inez, Lenora’s confidante, and her woman companions, opens the scene.
     It is followed by "Dolce zeffiro il seconda" (Gentle zephyr, lightly wafted), which is sung by the chorus of women, as the boat conveying Ferdinand touches the island and he, after disembarking, has the bandage withdrawn from over his eyes, and looks in amazement upon the charming surroundings amid which he stands. He questions Inez regarding the name and station of her who holds gentle sway over the island, but in vain. Inez and her companions retire, as Leonora enters. She interrupts Ferdinand’s de-light at seeing her by telling him—but without giving her reasons—that their love can lead only to sorrow; that they must part. He protests vehemently. She, however, cannot be moved from her determination that he shall not be sacrificed to their love, and hands him a parchment, which she tells him will lead him to a career of honour.
     He still protests. But at that moment Inez, entering hurriedly, announces the approach of the King. Leonora bids Ferdinand farewell and goes hastily to meet Alfonso. Ferdinand now believes that the woman with whom he has fallen in love is of rank so high that she cannot stoop to wed him, yet expresses her love for him by seeking to advance him. This is confirmed when, on reading the scroll she has given him, he discovers that it gratifies his highest ambition and confers upon him a commission in the army. The act closes with his martial air, "Si, che un tuo solo accento "(Oh, fame, thy voice inspiring).
     He sees the path to glory open up before him, and with it the hope that some great deed may yet make him worthy to claim the hand of the woman he loves.
     Act II. Gardens of the Palace of the Alcazar. Ferdinand’s dream of glory has come true. We learn, through a brief colloquy between Alfonso and Don Gas par, his minister, that the young officer has led the Spanish army to victory against the Moors. Indeed, this very palace of the Alcazar has been wrested from the enemy by the young hero.
     Gaspar having retired, the King, who has no knowledge of the love between Ferdinand and Leonora, sings of his own passion for her in the expressive air, "Vien, Leonora, a’ piedi tuoi" (Come, Leonora, before the kneeling).
     The object of his love enters, accompanied by her confidante. The King has prepared a fête in celebration of Ferdinand’s victory, but Leonora, while rejoicing in the honours destined to be his, is filled with foreboding because of the illicit relations between herself and the King, when she truly loves another. Moreover, these fears find justification in the return of Gaspar with a letter in Ferdinand’s handwriting, and intended for Leonora, but which the minister has intercepted in the hand of Inez. The King’s angry questions regarding the identity of the writer are interrupted by confused sounds from without. There enters Balthazar, preceded by a priest bearing a scroll with the Papal seal. He faces the King and Leonora while the lords and ladies, who have gathered for the fête, look on in apprehension, though not wholly without knowledge of what is impending.
     For there is at the court of Alfonso a strong party that condemns the King’s illicit passion for Leonora, so openly shown. This party has appealed to the Papal throne against the King. The Pope has sent a Bull to Balthazar, in which the Superior of the Monastery of St. James is authorized to pronounce the interdict on the King if the latter refuses to dismiss his favourite from the Court and restore his legitimate wife to her rights. It is with this commission Balthazar has now appeared before the King, who at first is inclined to refuse obedience to the Papal summons. He wavers. Balthazar gives him time till the morrow, and until then withholds his anathema.
     Balthazar’s vigorous yet diguified denunciation of the King, "Ah paventa il furor d’un Dio vendicatore" (Do not call down the wrath of God, the avenger, upon thee), forms a broadly sonorous foundation for the finale of the act.



     Act III. A salon in the Palace of the Alcazar. In a brief scene the King informs his minister that he has decided to heed the behest of the church and refrain from braving the Papal malediction. He bids Gaspar send Leonora to him, but, at the first opportunity, to arrest Inez, her accomplice.
     It is at this juncture, as Gaspar departs, that Ferdinand appears at court, returning from the war, in which he has not only distinguished himself by his valour, but actually has saved the kingdom. Alfonso asks him to name the prize which he desires as recompense for his services. Leonora enters. Ferdinand, seeing her, at once asks for the bestowal of her hand upon him in marriage. The King, who loves her deeply, and has nearly risked the wrath of the Pope for her sake, nevertheless, because immediately aware of the passion between the two, gives his assent, but with reluctance, as indeed appears from the irony that pervades his solo, "A tanto amor" (Thou flow’r belov’d).
     He then retires with Ferdinand.
     Leonora, touched by the King’s magnanimity, inspired by her love for Ferdinand, yet shaken by doubts and fears, because aware that he knows nothing of her past, now expresses these conflicting feelings in her principal air, "O. mio Fernando," one of the great Italian airs for mezzo-soprano.



     She considers that their future happiness depends upon Ferdinand’s being truthfully informed of what her relations have been with the King, thus giving him full opportunity to decide whether, with this knowledge of her guilt, he will marry her, or not. Accordingly she despatches Inez with a letter to him. Inez, as she is on her way to deliver this letter, is intercepted by Gaspar, who carries out the King’s command and orders her arrest. She is therefore unable to place in Ferdinand’s hands the letter of Leonora.
     Into the presence of the assembled nobles the King now brings Ferdinand, decorates him with a rich chain, and announces that he has created him Count of Zamora. The jealous lords whisper among themselves about the scandal of Ferdinand’s coming marriage with the mistress of the King; but Leonora, who enters in bridal attire, finds Ferdinand eagerly awaiting her, and ready to wed her, notwithstanding, as she believes, his receipt of her communication and complete knowledge of her past.
     While the ceremony is being performed in another apartment, the nobles discuss further the disgrace to Ferdinand in this marriage. That Leonora was the mistress of the King is, of course, a familiar fact at court, and the nobles regard Ferdinand’s elevation to the rank of nobility as a reward, not only for his defeat of the Moors, but also for accommodatingly taking Leonora off the hands of the King, when the latter is threatened with the malediction of Rome. They cannot imagine that the young officer is ignorant of the relations that existed between his bride and the King.
     Ferdinand re-enters. In high spirits he approaches the courtiers, offers them his hand, which they refuse. Bal. thazar now comes to learn the decision of the King. Ferdinand, confused by the taunting words and actions of the courtiers, hastens to greet Balthazar, who, not having seen him since he has returned victorious and loaded with honours, embraces him, until he hears Gas par’s ironical exclamation, "Leonora’s bridegroom!" Balthazar starts back, and it is then Ferdinand learns that he has just been wedded "alla bella del’ Re"—to the mistress of the King.
     At this moment, when Ferdinand has but just been informed of what he can only interpret as his betrayal by the King and the royal favourite, Alfonso enters, leading Leonora, followed by her attendants. In a stirring scene, the dramatic climax of the opera, Ferdinand tears from his neck the chain Alfonso has bestowed upon him, and throws it contemptuously upon the floor, breaks his sword and casts it at the King’s feet, then departs with Balthazar, the nobles now making a passage for them, and saluting, while they sing

         "Ferdinand, the truly brave,
          We salute, and pardon crave!"

     Act IV. The cloisters of the Monastery of St. James. Ceremony of Ferdinand’s entry into the order. "Splendor piu belle—in ciel le stelle "(Behold the stars in splendour celestial), a distinguished solo and chorus for Balthazar and the monks.
     Left alone, Ferdinand gives vent to his sorrow, which still persists, in the romance, “ Spirto gentil” (Spirit of Light), one of the most exquisite tenor solos in the Italian repertory.



     In 1882, thirty-four years after Donizetti’s death, there was produced in Rome an opera by him entitled “Il Duca d’Alba “(The Duke of Alba). Scribe wrote the libretto for Rossini, who does not appear to have used it. So it was passed on to Donizetti, who composed, but never produced it. “Spirto gentil” was in this opera, from which Donizetti simply transferred it.
     Baithazar and the monks return. With them Ferdinand enters the chapel. Leonora, disguised as a novice, comes upon the scene. She hears the chanting of the monks, Ferdinand’s voice enunciating his vows. He comes out from the chapel, recognizes Leonora, bids her be gone. “Ah! va, t’in vola! e questa terra” (These cloisters fly, etc.).
     She, however, tells him of her unsuccessful effort to let him know of her past, and craves his forgiveness for the seeming wrong she has wrought upon him. “Clemente al par di Dio” (Forgiveness through God I crave of thee).
     All of Ferdinand’s former love returns for her. “Vieni, ah! vieni,” etc. (Joy once more fills my breast).
     He would bear her away to other climes and there happily pass his days with her. But it is too late. Leonora dies in his arms. “By to-morrow my soul, too, will want your prayers,” are Ferdinand’s words to Balthazar, who, approaching, has drawn Leonora’s cowl over her dishevelled hair. He calls upon the monks to pray for a departed soul.

LINDA DI CHAMOUNIX

LINDA OF CHAMOUNIX

     Opera, in three acts, by Donizetti; words by Rossi. Produced, May 19, 1842, Theatre near the Carinthian Gate (Kärntherthor), Vienna. London, June, 1843. New York, Palmo’s Opera House, January 4, 1847, with Clothilda Barili; Academy of Music, March 9, 1861, with Clara Louise Kellogg, later with Patti as Linda and Galassi as Antonio; Metropolitan Opera House, April 23, 1890, with Patti.

CHARACTERS

Time—1760, during the reign of Louis XV.

Place—Chamounix and Paris.

     “Linda di Chamounix” contains an air for soprano without which no collection of opera arias is complete. This is Linda’s aria in the first act, “O luce di quest’ anima” (Oh! star that guid’st my fervent love). When Donizetti was composing “Linda di Chamounix” for Vienna, with this air and its fluent emgellishmehts, he also was writing for the Imperial chapel a “Miserere” and an “Ave Maria” which were highly praised for a style as severe and restrained as “O luce di quest’ anima” is light and graceful.
     “Linda di Chamounix” is in three acts, entitled “The Departure,” “Paris,” “The Return” The story is some­what naive, as its exposition will show.
     Act I. The village of Chamounix. On one side a farmhouse. On an eminence a church. Antonio and Madeline are poor villagers. Linda is their daughter. She has fallen in love with an artist, Charles, who really is the Viscount de Sirval, but has not yet disclosed his identity to her. When the opera opens Linda’s parents are in fear of being dispossessed by the Marquis de Boisfleury, who is Charles’s uncle, but knows nothing of his nephew’s presence in Chamounix, or of his love for Linda. She, it may be remarked, is one of those pure, sweet, unsophisticated creatures, who exist only on the stage, and possibly only in opera.
     When the opera opens, Antonio returns from a visit to the Marquis’s agent, the Intendant. Hopes have been held out to him that the Marquis will relent. Antonio communicates these hopes to his wife in the beautiful solo, “Ambo nati in questa valle “(We were both in this valley nurtured).



     There are shouts of “Viva!” without. The Marquis has arrived. He seems kindness itself to the old couple. He asks for Linda, but she has gone to prayers in the chapel. We learn from an aside between the Marquis and his Intendant, that the Marquis’s apparent benevolence is merely part of a libidinous scheme which involves Linda, whose beauty has attracted the titled roué.
     After this scene, Linda comes on alone and sings “O luce di’ quest’ anima.”



     I also quote the concluding phrase:



     Savoyards are preparing to depart for Paris to go to work there. Among them is Pierrot, with his hurdy-gurdy. He sings a charming ballad, “Per sua macire ando una figlia” (Once a better fortune seeking).
     There is then a love scene between Linda and Charles, with the effective duet, “A consolarmi affretisi” (Oh! that the blessed day were come, when standing by my side), a phrase which is heard again with significant effect in the third act.



     Antonio then learns from the good Prefect of the village that the latter suspects the Marquis of sinister intentions toward Linda. Indeed at that moment Linda comes in with a paper from the Marquis, which assures to her parents their home; but, she adds, naively, that she has been invited by the Marquis to the castle. Parents and Prefect are alarmed for her safety. The Prefect has a brother in Paris. To his protection it is decided that Linda shall go with her Savoyard friends, who even now are preparing to depart.
     Act II. Room in a handsome, well-furnished apartment in Paris. This apartment is Linda’s. In it she has been installed by Charles. The natural supposition, that it has been paid for by her virtue, is in this instance a mistake, but one, I am sure, made by nine people out of ten of those who ‘see the opera, since the explanation of how she got there consists merely of a few incidental lines in recitative.
     Linda herself, hut for her incredible naïveté would realize the impossibility of the situation.
     A voice singing in the street she recognizes as Pierrot’s, calls him. up to her, and assists him with money, of which she appears to have plenty. She tells him that the Prefect’s brother, in whose house she was to have found protection, had died. She was obliged to support herself by singing in the street. Fortunately she had by chance met Charles, who disclosed to her his identity as the Viscount de Sirval. He is not ready to marry her yet on account of certain family complications, but meanwhile has placed her in this apartment, where he provides for her. There is a duet, in which Linda and Pierrot sing of her happiness.
     Pierrot having left, the Marquis, who has discovered her retreat, but does not know that it is provided by his nephew Charles, calls to force his unwelcome attentions upon her. He laughs, as is not unnatural, at her protestations that she is supported here in innocence; but when she threatens him with possible violence from her intended, he has a neat little solo of precaution, ending “Guardati, pensaci,marchese mio” (Be cautious—ponder well, Marquis, most valiant).
     The Marquis, having prudently taken his departure, Linda having gone to another room, and Charles having come in, we learn from his recitative and air that his mother, the Marquise de Sirval, has selected a wife for him, whom she insists he shall marry. He hopes to escape from this marriage, hut, as his mother has heard of Linda and also insists that he shall give her up, he has come to explain matters to her and temporarily to part from her. But when he sees her, her beauty so moves him that his courage fails him, although, as he goes, there is a sadness in his manner that fills her with sad forebodings.
     For three months Linda has heard nothing from her parents. Letters, with money, which she has sent them, have remained unanswered—another of the situations in which this most artless heroine of opera discovers herself, without seeking the simple and obvious way of relieving the suspense.
     In any event, her parents have become impoverished through the Marquis de Boisfleury’s disfavour, for at this moment her rather, in the condition of a mendicant, comes in to beg the intercession in his behalf of the Viscount de Sirval (Charles). Not recognizing Linda, he mistakes her for Charles’s wife. She bestows bounteous alms upon him, but hesitates to make herself known, until, when he bends over to kiss her hand she cannot refrain from disclosing herself. Her surroundings arouse his suspicions, which are confirmed by Pierrot, who comes running in with the news that he has learned of preparations for the marriage of Charles to a lady of his mother’s choice. In a scene (which a fine singer like Galassi was able to invest with real power) Antonio hurls the alms Linda has given him at her feet, denounces her, and departs. Pierrot seeks to comfort her. But alas! her father’s denunciation of her, and, above all, what she believes to be Charles’s desertion, have unseated her reason.
     Act III. The village of Chamounix. The Savoyards are returning and are joyfully greeted. Charles, who has been able to persuade his mother to permit him to wed Linda, has come in search of her. Incidentally he has brought solace for Antonio and Madeline. The De Sirvals are the real owners of the farm, the Marquis, Charles’s uncle, being only their representative. Linda’s parents are to remain in undisturbed possession of the farm;—but where is she?
     Pierrot is heard singing. Whenever he sings he is able to persuade Linda to follow him. Thus her faithful friend gradually has led her back to Chamounix. And when Charles chants for her a phrase of their first act duet, “O consolarmi aifretisi,” her reason returns, and it is “Ah! di tue pene sparve il sogno” (Ah! the vision of my sorrow fades).
     In this drama of naïveté, an artlessness which I mention again because I think it is not so much the music as the libretto that has become old-fashioned, even the Marquis comes in for a good word. For when he too offers his congratulations, what does Linda do but refer to the old libertine, who has sought her ruin, as “him who will be my uncle dear.”

DON PASQUALE

     Opera, in three acts, by Donizetti; words by Salvatore Cammarano, adapted from his earlier libretto,” Ser Marc’ Antonio,” which Stefano Pavesi had set to music in 1813. Produced, Paris, January 4, 1843, Théâtre des Italiens. London, June 30, 1843. New York, March 9, 1846, in English; 1849, in Italian; revived for Bonci (with di Pasquali, Scotti, and Pini-Corsi) at the New Theatre, December 23, 1909; given also at the Metropolitan Opera House with Sembrich as Norina.

CHARACTERS

Time—Early nineteenth century.

Place—Rome.

     “Don Pasquale” concerns an old man about to marry. He also is wealthy. Though determined himself to have a wife, on the other hand he is very angry with his nephew, Ernesto, for wishing to marry, and threatens to disinherit him. Ernesto is greatly disturbed by these threats. So is his lady-love, the sprightly young widow, Norina, when he reports them to her.
     Pasquale’s friend, Dr. Malatesta, not being able to dissuade him from marriage, pretends to acquiesce in it. He proposes that his sister shall be the bride, and describes her as a timid, naive, ingenious girl, brought up, he says, in a convent. She is, however, none other than Norina, the clever young widow, who is in no degree related to Malatesta. She quickly enters into the plot, which involves a mock marriage with Don Pasquale. An interview takes place. The modest graces of the supposed convent girl charm the old man. The marriage—a mock ceremony, of course—is hurriedly celebrated, so hurriedly that there is no time to inform the distracted Ernesto that the proceedings are bogus.
     Norina now displays toward Don Pasquale an ungovern­able temper. Moreover she spends money like water, and devotes all her energies to nearly driving the old man crazy. When he protests, she boxes his ears. He is on the point of suicide. Then at last Malatesta lets him know that he has been duped. Notary and contract are fictitious. He is free. With joy he transfers to Ernesto his conjugal burden—and an income.
     Act I plays in a room in Don Pasquale’s house and later in a room in Norina’s, where she is reading a romance. She is singing “Quel guardo” (Glances so soft) and “So anch’ io la virtu magica” (I, too, thy magic virtues know) in which she appears to be echoing in thought what she has been reading about in the book.



     The duet, in which she and Malatesta agree upon the plot—the “duet of the rehearsal”—is one of the sprightly numbers of the score.
     Act II is in a richly furnished salon of Don Pasquale’s house. This is the scene of the mock marriage, of Norina’s assumed display of temper and extravagance, Don Pasquale’s distraction, Ernesto’s amazement and enlightenment, and Malatesta’s amused co-operation. In this act occur the duet of the box on the ears, and the quartet, which begins with Pasquale’s “Son ardito” (I am betrayed). It is the finale of the act’ and considered a masterpiece.
     Act III is in two scenes, the first in Don Pasquale’s house, where everything is in confusion; the second in his garden, where Ernesto sings to Norina the beautiful serenade, “Coin’ e gentil “ (Soft beams the light).



     Don Pasquale, who has suspected Norina of having a rendezvous in the garden, rushes out of concealment with Malatesta. But Ernesto is quick to hide, and Norina pretends no one has been with her. This is too much for Don Pasquale, and Malatesta now makes it the occasion for bring­ing about the dénouement, and secures the old man’s most willing consent to the marriage between Ernesto and Norina.
     When the opera had its original production in Paris, Lablache was Don Pasquale, Mario Ernesto, Tamburmni Malatesta, and Grisi Norina. Notwithstanding this brilliant cast, the work did not seem to be going well at the rehearsals. After one of these, Donizetti asked the music publisher, Dormoy, to go with him to his lodgings. There he rummaged among a lot of manuscripts until, finding what he was looking for, he handed it to Dormoy.
     “There,” he said, “give this to Mario and tell him to sing it in the last scene in the garden as a serenade to Norina.”
     When the opera was performed Mario sang it, while Lablache, behind the scenes, played an accompaniment on the lute. It was the serenade. Thus was there introduced into the opera that air to which, more than any other feature of the work, it owes its occasional resuscitation.
     A one-act comedy opera by Donizetti, “Il Campanello di Notte” (The Night Bell) was produced in Naples in 1836. It would hardly be worth referring to but for the fact that it is in the repertoire of’ the Society’ of American Singers, who gave it, in an English version by Sydney Rosenfeld, at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, May 7, 1917. This little work turns on the attempts of a lover, who has been thrown over, to prevent his successful rival, an apothecary, from going to bed on the night of his marriage. He succeeds by adopting various disguises, ringing the night bell, and asking for medicine. In the American first performance David Bispham was the apothecary, called in the adaptation, Don Hannibal Pistacchio. Miss Gates, the Serafina, interpolated “O luce di quest’ anima,” from “Linda di Chamounix.” Mr. Reiss was Enrico, the lover.

Last updated October 22, 2006