Stars of the Opera A Description of Operas & a Series of Personal Interviews with Marcela Sembrich, Emma Eames, Emma Calvé, Lillian Nordica, Lilli Lehmann, Geraldine Farrar & Nellie Melba

Act II. pictures the interior of Butterfly's house.

Chapter 72,585 wordsPublic domain

There is desolation in the home; the orchestra tells us this, for the tragic theme possesses the instruments, creeping around among them, serpent-like, and enfolding them in its coils.

The rising curtain reveals Susuki kneeling before a shrine; she is praying that Pinkerton may return.

Three times have the dragon-kites swelled in the breeze and the peach trees flushed into bloom since the day he sailed away.

Her prayer abounds in strange and uncouth harmonies that wail themselves into silence. When the incantation is finished, an orchestral phrase of keen despair and tortured hope accompanies Butterfly as she asks: "How soon shall we be starving?"

Susuki counts over the few remaining yen, and expresses doubt about Pinkerton's return. Again that same theme of anguish pierces the air like a knife as Butterfly shrieks out: "Silence!" She will not listen to doubt. She insists that he will return, and she fondly adds, "he will call me again his tiny child-wife, his little Butterfly!"

With this memory there is a momentary return of the great Love-theme in the orchestra; tender and fleeting, like a smile on the face of the dying.

Butterfly sings of the radiant hour, some day, when they shall see "in the distance a little thread of smoke," and then "a trim, white vessel," flying the American flag!

The music of this aria has a confident ring and a forward swing, like a great ship nearing shore. Large and splendid is the final climax:

"He will return--I know!"

A familiar theme in the orchestra heralds the approach of the U. S. Consul. He brings a letter from Pinkerton which he wishes Butterfly to hear, but Japanese politeness interferes for some time. He must first accept tea and wine, a pipe to smoke, and a cushion to sit on. He is questioned about his health and the health of his honorable ancestors. His own "Augustness" is profusely welcomed.

Scarcely have these formalities been accomplished when another visitor arrives--a pompous personage, accompanied by servants who bring presents and flowers. He comes to persuade Madame Butterfly that her husband's absence amounts to a divorce, and that he, Prince Yamadori, should be accepted as Pinkerton's successor.

This energetic wooer, lemon-faced and almond-eyed, imparts to the music a spicy flavor, grotesque and Japanese. His brief, breezy phrases have a turn and tang that belongs entirely to the Land of Nippon; staccato suggestions of chop-sticks and Oolong.

The hostess politely declines to listen to her elaborate suitor.

She busies herself pouring tea, while in the orchestra a delightfully tender, untroubled waltz-theme reflects her tranquil spirit, which is like some quiet mountain pool in the path of a coming avalanche.

Impending disaster is near. Pinkerton's letter contains news that will bring devastation to the little Japanese home. He is coming back--but not to see Butterfly; a new wife comes with him.

The Consul waits until Yamadori has gone, then bravely tries to read the letter, but his eager listener is too excited to hear to the end.

"He is coming!" That is enough! Her joy is unbounded. She speeds from the room and in a moment returns with a sunny-haired child on her shoulders--her "baby-boy!"--her "noble little American!"--to whom she tells the glad news that his father soon will return.

The distressed Consul has not the heart to enlighten her further. He leaves rather abruptly.

A moment later a signal gun is heard in the distance.

Susuki plunges in, breathless;--"The harbor cannon!" Both women rush to the window. They can see the ship! A man-of-war! The Stars and Stripes!

Oh, the pain of this joy! The audience, knowing all, is torn and racked with emotion as the orchestra reiterates Butterfly's recent song of confidence about "his sure return."

Now is her "hour of triumph!" She proclaims it to high heaven--to Susuki--and to all "the eight hundred thousand gods and goddesses of Japan."

All the world had told her he would forget and never return--but she knew!--she knew! Now, at last, her faith triumphs--he is here!

Superb is the crescendo now sweeping upward on the crest of America's martial theme. The Star-Spangled Banner is bugled by the instruments, while Butterfly's voice, in high and jubilant accord, sings again the glad words: "He is here!--he loves me!"

In the orchestra the love-theme--the great theme--arises slowly and passes by like a spirit of the past, a soul long dead, a memory faded.

Now follows a poetic scene unsurpassed for picturesque charm and grace.

In accordance with Japanese custom, the two women sprinkle the room with flowers, in honor of his home-coming.

Great baskets full of blossoms are brought in by Susuki, while Butterfly, always singing, showers the room with petals. She sways with the rhythm of joy and music, flinging the flowers in reckless profusion, her voice seeming to follow their flight--up in the air--and down again.

Susuki, too, scatters rainbow-clouds of jasmine, peach-blooms, and violets; her contralto voice at the same time giving depth of color to the music. In the orchestra dainty, fluttering phrases are lightly tossed about, as tho shaken from the instruments by a passing breeze.

Full of strange involutions and harmonies, the music of this "flower-duet" possesses the essential quality of all that is lasting and classic--hidden beauty beneath the obvious. With the choicest "mixing" of harmony, orchestra and voice, Puccini has brewed a "blend" most rare, and sugared it with melody.

When the baskets are emptied and the last flower fallen, a few final notes of the refrain still left in the orchestra are hurriedly brushed out by the conductor's baton.

On the stage, as the daylight melts into dusk, Butterfly, all in a flurry, is decking herself in her wedding gown, while the orchestra calls up memories of the lilac-garden and the fire-flies.

When all is ready, Butterfly, Susuki, and the little one take positions at the window.

Long and patiently they watch and wait.

The orchestra plays a soft, unchanging staccato accompaniment. The moonlight finds its way into the room.

At last the maid and the child fall asleep. Not so with Butterfly; rigid and still she stands at the window, her eyes on the distant harbor-lights.

A sound of far-away voices softly humming a sad, weird refrain, fills the scene with mystery, suggesting the moan of guardian spirits. All this while the gentle staccato harmonies in the orchestra continue to flit back and forth, like the changing lights of swinging lanterns.

Butterfly does not move. The curtain slowly descends.

The prelude to the last act opens with a theme that crashes and tears its way into prominence: a pitiless, gruesome group of notes, that sounds vaguely familiar, tho it has never been emphasized like the tragic-theme and others gone before. In the first act this dire phrase was heard for a moment, buried softly among the harmonies that accompanied Butterfly's first entrance song. She was happy then, but, nevertheless, this germ of agony was lurking near, as tho to suggest that we, each one, carry within our own temperament the weakness or fault that will eventually lead us to grief.

The orchestra is kept very active during this prelude or intermission. The past is presented in flashes of old themes, and the coming day is presaged by new phrases of potent meaning. Sounds of the harbor life beginning to stir, distant voices of sailors chanting, are heard even before the curtain rises. When this is lifted, behold poor Butterfly still at her post! All night she has watched and waited, never moving, never doubting.

Now the dawn, cruel, cold-eyed and leering, begins to peer through the window. The pale, frail figure in her wedding gown still does not move; she still hopes on, counting the stars as they disappear; measuring each moment by her heart's wild beating.

The dawn grows rosy, the music in the orchestra tells of the world's awakening. The sun's glad welcome is proclaimed in a resounding pean of harmonies, pierced with sharp, bright strokes from the triangle.

But all this brilliant daybreak music fails to modify the tragedy of the dawn.

Susuki awakens to despair, but poor little Butterfly still asserts, "He'll come! he'll come!"

When urged by the maid to rest, she takes the little one up in her arms, soothing him gently with a quiet song as she mounts the stairs to her sleeping-room.

Scarcely has she gone, when Susuki is startled by a knock at the door. Pinkerton has come--and the Consul with him, but they tell the maid not to summon her mistress--not yet.

The music of the flower-duet fills the air like a faint perfume as Pinkerton observes the withered blossoms, and Susuki explains the decorations and tells of Butterfly's weary vigil. A moment later she sees through the window a lady waiting in the garden.

It is Pinkerton's wife.

"Hallowed souls of our fathers! The world is plunged in gloom!"

Susuki falls prostrate on her knees.

The ensuing trio is a magnificent musical unfoldment of sympathy from the Consul, remorse from Pinkerton, and consternation from Susuki. It is a splendid mingling of emotion and melody.

The two men are left alone as the maid goes out to speak with the new wife. Pinkerton acts properly distressed over the situation, and his friend, being only human, cannot refrain from saying, "I told you so," whereupon the music of his warning remonstrance in the first act is plainly marked in the orchestra, like an underscoring to written words.

Pinkerton sighs over the room and its associations, sheds a few tears, and then decides the strain is too great for him. As he leaves the house, his wife and Susuki walk into view at the window.

At this moment Butterfly comes rushing down the stairs; she has heard voices--"he is here!"

Susuki tries to ward off the evil moment, but the _hour has struck_. The tragic theme rises up supreme--revealing itself in unclothed hideousness: all the other themes have fallen away; they were as mere empty masks over the face of truth--behind life is always death--back of the smile is a skeleton.

Through the open window Butterfly sees the "other woman."

"Who are you?" Mechanically her lips frame the words, as she stands there, paralyzed--stunned. But the question was perfunctory; the explanations that follow only confirm what she knew at first sight.

Very gently the American wife proposes to Butterfly to adopt her child and bring him up as her own.

The Japanese mother listens dumbly--then slowly realizes that unless she consents to this plan her boy will have no name.

Butterfly says very little--but she accedes. She asks, however, that Mr. Pinkerton himself shall come for the child. "Come in half an hour--in half an hour."

Agreed to this, the Consul and the American lady go away.

Susuki is now quietly ordered to leave the room. She protests, but her mistress is firm; she wishes to be alone.

When the weeping maid has gone, Butterfly lights a lamp at the little shrine and bows before it. Then she takes from the wall a dagger, but drops this as the baby suddenly enters, shoved in by Susuki--faithful slave! who, forbidden to enter herself, thus blindly tries to frustrate Butterfly's ominous wish to be alone.

The child rushes to its mother's arms, and Butterfly clasps it wildly, calling it all the extravagant love-names Japanese fancy can devise.

"'Tis for you, my love, that I am dying!"

She holds him at arm's-length and bids him look long and well upon her face. The baby tosses his head and laughs; he little recks what she is saying:

"_Take one last look on your mother's face, that the memory may linger._"

The tragic theme attains a grandeur now that makes it seem the apotheosis of human heartache. Through the alembic of the composer's art this gruesome theme emerges ablaze with a terrible glory. It sweeps apast like a fiery chariot, bearing poor little Butterfly's soul to heaven.

There is little more to record; the moment of death seems already gone through in bidding the child good-bye. What follows is done very quietly; every movement is lifeless and spiritless. She ties a bandage about the little one's eyes, and she puts in his hand an American flag; the Japanese mother's token of surrender.

Then Butterfly picks up the dagger. The deed is soon done; she totters to the floor, and with her last breath tries to reach for her baby's hand.

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