Part 6
As Rodolfo sits at the table to work, a timid knock is heard at the door, and Mimi, the pretty little seamstress who occupies a room near the roof, and who is already in the grip of the fell disease, consumption, comes in to ask for a light, her candle having been extinguished by the draught in the passage. She is evidently worn out by cough, cold and fatigue, and Rodolfo, after reviving her with a little wine, makes a remark as to her delicate beauty. Mimi, however, has not come to chatter or to be flattered, and with thanks, prettily expressed, she departs for her chamber. Fate, in the shape of a lost key, sends her back again, and the draught in the passage puts out not only Mimi's candle, but Rodolfo's as well. While they both search for the key, Mimi's cold little hand touches that of Rodolfo, and the latter clasps it; and he then tells her of his life and aims and prospects in the beautifully melodious number, _Che gelida manina_, which, like so many of Puccini's themes, seems to grow out of the reiteration of a single note, swelling out in a delightful emotional fulness. Mimi tells Rodolfo of her work, and how she embroiders flowers on rich stuffs, which make her think of the green fields and the sweet scents of the country side; how lonely she is all by herself in her little top attic; how she takes her frugal supper all alone. The two natures are quickly brought together, and Mimi is soon in Rodolfo's arms and has received his first passionate kiss. The three friends outside now call up to him, and he says he has three lines to finish, but that he will join them anon, and that he wants two places kept at the supper table. With a full confession of her love, Mimi takes Rodolfo's arm, and their last notes, "My love, my love," are heard as they descend the staircase.
At the café Momus--the exterior of which we see as the curtain rises on the second Act, preceded by a clever and vivacious phrase given to the trumpets in the orchestra--our four brave Bohemians were known as the Four Musketeers, since they were inseparable. "Indeed," says Murger, "they always went about together, played together, dined together, often without paying the bill, yet always with a beautiful harmony worthy of the conservatoire orchestra."
In this scene, which is full of life and movement--showing in the treatment of the chorus, formed of children, people, soldiers, students, work girls, and gendarmes, that beautifully polished technique in melodic construction which makes Puccini so strong and in every way a master musician--the lively Musetta comes on the scene. Once more may Murger's own words fittingly recall her to mind. "Mademoiselle Musetta was a pretty girl of twenty, very coquettish, rather ambitious, but without any pretensions to spelling. Oh, those delightful suppers ... a perpetual alternative between a blue brougham and an omnibus: between the Rue Breda and the Latin quarter."
Although the incidents represented appear to follow consecutively, it is a little strange to find a sort of _al fresco_ entertainment in progress after the references to the bitter cold in the preceding Act. At any rate, whether the dramatist's license be allowed or not--and we may easily imagine a flight of time to have taken place since the happenings in the opening Act--the café Momus, in this second Act, is so full that our quartet of Bohemians, with Musetta and her elderly admirer, take their supper _en plein air_. There is little of incident, or progress of events, in this lively scene. Musetta is reconciled after singing her delicious song, in slow waltz form, to her Marcello, and the fatuous old Alcindoro is left to pay the bill of the whole party. Yet against this, the sense of movement and gaiety, shown by the ever-moving crowd, and the incident of the toy-seller Parpignol--just a plain slice of life put down on the stage in a truly modern method--is beautifully worked out in the music, and never for an instant does it flag in vivacity.
Musetta comes into prominence again in the third Act. Again is the weather intensely cold, and the chill drear atmosphere is indicated in the music at the opening by the subtle passage of bare fifths, which is further remarkable as a purely musical effect from its connection with the trumpet passage which heralded the second Act. The scene is a place beyond the toll-gate, on the Orleans road, at the end of the Rue d'Enfer. Over a tavern hangs Marcello's picture as a signboard, with its title altered to the Port of Marseilles, signifying its adaptation to its environment.
Two scenes of parting dominate the dramatic plan of this Act, that of Rodolfo and Mimi, and that of Marcello and Musetta. They are cleverly contrasted. Very pathetically does Mimi's "addio senza rancor" come from the depths of her simple little heart, while the end is foreshadowed by the hacking cough which frequently chokes her utterances. Musetta is taken to task by Marcel for flirting, and off she goes after a strongly dramatic duet, which for characterisation and force is one of the most distinctive numbers in the opera; and after her exit, in a fury, Mimi and Rodolfo appear to agree, indicated by the last phrases of their tender duet, to continue together, for yet a space, in the old relations.
In the fourth Act we are back in the attic; and the quartet of Bohemians are once more struggling with the problem of keeping body and soul together. Two of them, Rodolfo and Marcel, at any rate, are lonely, for Mimi has been taken up by a viscount, and Musetta, dressed in velvet--through which, as Rudolfo tells Marcel, she cannot hear her heart beat--is riding in a carriage. But with all their troubles they keep a stout heart and are able to jest over the herring and rolls which Schaunard and Colline bring in for dinner. They dance and romp, and play the fool in the lightest hearted manner until Musetta suddenly breaks in upon their pretended jollity. The end is reached rapidly. Mimi has come home to die, and this she does after an intensely sad, simple and moving scene, stretched, as they placed her, on Rodolfo's hard little bed. Infinitely touching is Mimi's reference, in her last words, to the song which Rodolfo sang in the opening Act. She begins _Che gelida manina_ only to break off in a fit of coughing. Marcello has gone out to fetch a doctor and Musetta brings a muff to warm the dying girl's fingers. Mimi's spirit passes away however before aid can be brought to her, and the pathos of the situation is intensified by the silence in which it takes place. It is Schaunard who whispers to Marcello that she is dead. To Rodolfo's last despairing cry of "Mimi! Mimi!" as he realises that his loved one is no more, does the curtain fall.
There is little to point to in the music save its chief and outstanding feature, its continuity. In this the whole charm and strength of the work lies. Orchestrally, the score of _La Bohème_ is a beautifully polished one, not so symphonically complete as _Manon_ for instance, but essentially individual. For fulness as a constructional background one may point to the orchestration of the duet in the first Act; for daintiness of effect, the use of harmonics on the harp against the muted strings in Musetta's waltz-song; while many happy touches are seen all through, such as the xylophone and muted trumpets at the toy-sellers' entrance in the café scene; or again, the striking passage in fifths at the opening of the third Act, given to the harp and flutes over the 'cellos playing _tremolo_. The orchestra employed is the usual large modern orchestra, with a piccolo, glockenspiel and xylophone. Considerable use is also made of the division of the 'cellos, in many places, into three.
The complete success, notwithstanding certain difficulties that have been referred to, of the first performance of the opera in this country, was duly chronicled in London, on the day following the event, in _The Times_. The notice states that the composer was called at the end and bowed his acknowledgments, from which it would appear that he was prevailed upon at least to appear on the fall of the curtain, although, by all accounts I have heard from those who took part in the performance, Puccini adopted the custom--followed, if we may believe certain traditions, by certain notable playwrights--of wandering up and down the streets until the _première_ was over.
The writer of the notice in question places the work on a higher level than _Manon_, speaks of the highly dramatic intensity reached by simple means in the scenes between Mimi and Rodolfo, notices in the absence of set songs the Wagnerian method of continuous melody, and sums it up as a decided success gained by the beauty of its melody, the refinement of the music as a whole, the cleverness in the handling of the themes, and by the absence of clap-trap. The performance is spoken of as a genuine triumph, in spite of the leading tenor's hoarseness.
VIII
"TOSCA"
With his next opera--for _Tosca_ is the only one of his works so entitled by the composer--Puccini made a rather curious reversal of the proceedings as compared with _La Bohème_, taking it from an Italian story treated from the French point of view. From the old world story of Murger, Puccini turned to a notable example of modern French stagecraft, in Sardou's drama of _La Tosca_. His librettists again were Giocosa and Illica, and they provided the composer with a strikingly apt presentation of the grim story; not one, perhaps, that lends itself altogether to musical expression, but one which certainly grips the attention and carries the hearer along. By _Tosca_, Puccini certainly sustained his now universal popularity made manifest by the preceding _La Bohème_. It was given first at the Costanzi Theatre, Rome, on January 14, 1900, conducted by Mugnone, and cast as follows:
_Tosca_ DARCLÉE. _Cavaradossi_ DE MARCHI. _Scarpia_ GIRALDOIN. _Angelotti_ GALLI. _The Sacristan_ BORELLI.
London saw it in the summer of the same year at Covent Garden, where it was given on July 12 with the following cast, Mancinelli being the conductor.
_Tosca_ TERNINA. _Cavaradossi_ DE LUCIA. _Scarpia_ SCOTTI. _Angelotti_ DUFRICHE. _The Sacristan_ GILIBERT.
In America, _Tosca_ was first given in Italian on February 4, 1901, at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, by Maurice Grau's company, the cast and conductor being the same as that for the first Covent Garden performance, with the substitution of Cremonini for De Lucia as Cavaradossi.
Its first American production in English was by Henry W. Savage's company, at the Teck Theatre, Buffalo, and cast as follows, Emanuel being the conductor:
_Tosca_ ADELAIDE NORWOOD. _Cavaradossi_ JOSEPH SHEEHAN. _Scarpia_ W. GOFF. _Angelotti_ F. J. BOYLE. _The Sacristan_ FRANCIS CARRIER.
In the music of _Tosca_ Puccini reveals, more powerfully perhaps than anywhere, that quick instinct of the theatre which may be called dramatic, or merely a very clever fitting of music to the mood of the moment. It is, in fact, very purely melodramatic, the word being used here not in its accepted sense of the traditional "tootle-tootle" in the orchestra when the wicked villain pursues the innocent and sorely tried heroine. The story is tragic in all conscience, but it hardly reaches the level of true tragedy, since it is more horrible than impressive, and lacks that restraint and poetry which are two necessary qualities. This much must be said for the operatic version. It is a shade less revolting, less purely realistic than the drama, and it undoubtedly provides a splendid acting _rôle_ for the exponent of the name part; while the lover, and the villain--Scarpia, the chief of the police--are provided with opportunities, very little behind, in point of vocal and dramatic effect. One could very well imagine a production, on prevailing lines set upon elaboration of detail, in which Puccini's music, or a great deal of it, was used purely as incidental music. This suggestion, however, must in no way be taken to mean that as a whole the music of this opera lacks continuity of interest or fails to exhibit the close and essential union between speech and song. There are many pages of strong and definite lyrical charm, but somehow the main interest lies in the action which fascinates the spectator, rather, one feels, against his better--or more calm--judgment. It is, in short, a most moving picture of love, hate, jealousy, passion and intrigue. These, after all, form the great bulk of the material for operatic treatment; and without entering into the question whether _Tosca_ is or is not a work for all time, it has certain very "live" attributes which make it a notable achievement.
The scene in the first act shows the Attavanti Chapel in the Church of Saint Andrea della Valle in Rome. The strenuous, shuddering chords which preface the short prelude are representative of the cruel nature of Scarpia, whose personality dominates the scene--more than this, the figure seems to give at once the atmosphere of stress, and hints at a wealth of incident which characterises the whole of that which is to follow.
A man in prison garb, harassed, dishevelled, well-nigh breathless with fear and haste, comes in and glances hastily this way and that. This is Angelotti, a victim of Papal tyranny, who has escaped from the Castle of S. Angelo; and his entrance, it will be noted, is also characterised by a theme always associated with him throughout the work.
On a pillar is an image of the Virgin, and underneath it a stoup. "My sister wrote to tell me of this spot," says Angelotti, as he searches for the key which will open the chapel and allow him to escape. While he searches in feverish haste the string of chromatic chords carries on the idea of his agitation. With yet another glance to reassure himself that he has not been followed, he opens the gate in the grille of the chapel and disappears.
A light tripping figure ushers in the Sacristan, and it continues for a space while he walks to the daïs, on which is an easel and a covered picture. He complains of the bother he has in washing the brushes of the artist who is painting an altar-piece. He is surprised not to find Cavaradossi painting. The Angelus rings, and the Sacristan kneels and continues the prayer.
Cavaradossi now comes in, and a broad melodious phrase is heard as he ascends the daïs and uncovers the picture. The Sacristan is amazed to find that it represents the features of a lady who has been frequently to pray in the church, and is further shocked when the artist draws forth a miniature and compares it with his figure, into whose features he has incorporated the dusky glow and peach-like bloom of his beloved Floria. The phrase indicated at Cavaradossi's entrance now swells out in a lyrical melody in which he sings that his Madonna's eyes are blue, while Tosca's are dark as a moonless night, the Sacristan punctuating the rhapsody with a pious ejaculation to the effect that the artist scorns the saints and jests with the ungodly.
After the Sacristan's departure to a snatch of his characteristic phrase, Angelotti, believing the church empty, comes out of the chapel. Cavaradossi does not at first recognise, in this prison-worn creature, his friend the Consul of the Republic. Tosca's voice is heard, and the artist makes a sign to Angelotti to remain yet a little while in hiding, and on hearing that the fugitive is spent with hunger, he gives him the basket left, for his refreshment, by the Sacristan.
A quick moving figure, accompanied by triplets, announces Tosca's entrance, and she thinks that she has heard her lover conversing with another woman, and even declares she heard the swish of skirts. Cavaradossi attempts to embrace her, but she reproves him, and first makes an offering before the Virgin's shrine. This done, she tells him that although she is singing at the theatre that evening, the piece is a short one, and proceeds to sing in a delightfully suave melody, which increases gradually in intensity, of the delights of love in a quiet secluded cottage far away from all worldly distractions. Cavaradossi comes in at the close with an impassioned burst on a characteristic high note, in which he says that he is caught in the toils of her enchantment. The artist makes as his excuse for her quick dismissal the need of continuing his work on the picture, but his frequent glances towards the chapel show that his anxiety for his friend is the cause of his agitation. But Tosca now comes in sight of the picture, and is struck by the resemblance of the face to some one she has seen. She immediately connects the whispering she has heard before arriving upon the scene and the anxious looks towards the chapel together as a proof that Cavaradossi has been meeting the original of the picture. The incident, however, leads up to a further avowal of devotion on the part of Cavaradossi, and their voices blend together for a brief space in a delicious bit of melody. Tosca elects to be comforted, and with a final thrust she goes out, requesting her lover to change the lady's eyes to black ones.
Angelotti now comes out of the chapel and tells of his plan of escape. Cavaradossi gives him the key of his villa, and indicates the way he may reach it. Angelotti takes up the bundle of clothes left by his sister for his disguise--the sister being the lady who has been frequenting the church of late, and who has attracted the artist's attention--and goes off, while his friend tells him, as a final precaution in case of urgent need, of a passage that leads down to a cellar. Just as Angelotti is going the cannon sound from the fortress, giving the signal that the prisoner's escape has been discovered.
On their exit, the Sacristan enters, followed by choir boys, acolytes and a crowd of people. The Sacristan tells them the news of Bonaparte's defeat, that there will be rejoicings and a new cantata for the occasion sung by Tosca, and his snatch of melody is cleverly derived from the theme heard on his first entrance. The choir boys burst out into a great riot of joyous merrymaking, beginning with "Te Deum" and "Gloria," and breaking out into "Long live the King," the Sacristan trying his best to drive them into the sacristy to vest for the festival service. Their jollity is cut short by the entrance of Scarpia--whose sinister theme breaks in characteristically, as always--followed by Spoletta and others of his staff. After bidding them curtly prepare for the solemn "Te Deum," he motions the rather frightened Sacristan to his side, and tells him that a State prisoner has escaped, and from information received has been tracked here. He asks which is the Attavanti Chapel, and the facts that the gate is open and that a new key is in the lock give at once a clue.
A police agent comes out of the chapel and brings with him the basket given to Angelotti by Cavaradossi; and Scarpia, after a little more judicious questioning of the Sacristan, is able to guess that the fugitive has been assisted by the painter.
Tosca now comes back, and after signalling to the Sacristan, Scarpia retires behind a pillar, watching her as she looks about for Cavaradossi. To serve his own ends, he decides to rouse the jealousy of the woman; and after a little flattery, expressed in a suave, flowing melody, he brings out a fan and mildly inquires whether it forms any part of the customary outfit of a painter. From the coronet on it Tosca recognises it as belonging to the Marchioness Attavanti, who is the sister of Angelotti, and a member of the family to whom the chapel is dedicated. Forgetful of Scarpia's presence and the place where she is, Tosca, in a finely emotional passage--broken into now and again by Scarpia, who rams home his poisonous suggestions--bewails the weakness of her lover; and the wily Scarpia, after tenderly escorting her to the church door, despatches an agent to watch her closely. His exultation at having fired her jealousy is punctuated twice by the sound of cannon; and into the rather curious triplet accompaniments is worked the opening phrases of the organ, which signals the approach of the procession of the Chapter, with the Cardinal, to whom Scarpia makes a reverence as he passes him.
"Our help is in the name of the Lord, who hath made heaven and earth," sing the Chapter and monks, while Scarpia continues his musings as to the business he has on hand. From the mere catching of the escaped prisoners his thoughts turn to lustful possession of Tosca; and the whole scene, finely contrasted, is worked up with superb force into one of those magnificently solid finales which reveal the technic of Puccini so emphatically. The cannon continue to go off--the sound is managed, by the way, by striking a huge cone over which is stretched, drum-fashion, a tight skin--the whole crowd turn towards the high altar, the stately "Te Deum" swells through the church, and at the end, Scarpia, after saying that for Tosca he would renounce his hopes of heaven, joins in the last phrase: "All the earth shall worship Thee, the Father everlasting." The curtain descends quickly to the harsh progression of chords forming the Scarpia theme.
The second act shows us Scarpia's room in the Farnese Palace. It is on an upper floor. To the left a table is laid, and at the back a large window looks over the courtyard.