PART IV

THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS (_Die Götterdämmerung_)

When night-time fell, after the meeting of Brünhilde and Siegfried, the three Nornir, or Fates, appeared on the Valkyrie's fire-encircled rock, and crouching amidst the rugged stones, began to sing as they spun their golden cord of the runes of Destiny.

But although the radiant lovers slumbered sweetly in a neighbouring cave, and all the world around seemed calm and peaceful, the weird song of the three dread Sisters was full of gloom and sadness; for they knew that, owing to the fatal power of the Nibelung's curse, disaster was about to fall, not only upon these lovers, but also upon the dwellers in Asgard, whose doom was quickly approaching.

Suddenly, as they sang, their rope of Destiny broke asunder; and with wild, despairing cries the three Nornir disappeared, knowing now that the Twilight of the Gods would soon begin.

The night wore on, and when daylight appeared the lovers issued from the cave: Siegfried, in full armour, with his mighty sword girdled about him, and Brünhilde leading her horse by its bridle. For the beautiful Valkyrie would not keep her hero, dearly though she loved him, from gaining glory and honour in the world; and Siegfried, having already learned much of her divine wisdom, was now about to set forth in search of fresh exploits and adventures.

For a parting gift to his love, Siegfried placed his magic Ring upon Brünhilde's finger as the sign of their troth, as yet knowing naught of its fatal power; and Brünhilde, in return, bestowed upon him her noble horse, Grani. The lovers swore to be true to each other, and then, after a passionate farewell, they parted.

After many wanderings, Siegfried, following the course of the Rhine, came to the Hall of the Gibichungs, or Burgundian tribe. Here a powerful king, named Gunther, reigned, and with him lived his beautiful sister, Gudrun, and their half-brother, Hagen, whose father was none other than the wretched gnome, Alberic.

Now, Hagen, though so keen-witted as to be the chosen adviser of his royal half-brother, had also inherited the evil qualities and greed of his gnome-father; and hearing of the approach of the hero, Siegfried, whose wonderful exploits were by this time world-renowned, he laid a cunning plan, by means of which the Gibichungs might win, or at least share, the fearless one's power and wealth.

Relating the story of the fire-encircled Valkyrie, he pointed out to Gunther that Brünhilde would make him a radiant bride, and that if Gudrun could be wedded to Siegfried, they would thus secure the Nibelung's treasure, which would gain them the mastery of the whole world. He suggested that in order to carry out this plan they should give Siegfried, on his arrival, a magic draught they possessed, by means of which he should forget his love for Brünhilde, and conceive a passion for Gudrun; and Gunther and his sister, being dazzled at the prospect of being so nobly mated, gladly agreed to the scheme, whilst Hagen, cunningly keeping back his knowledge of Brünhilde's and Siegfried's vows of love, rejoiced, because of the opportunity that would occur for securing the treasure he coveted.

So when Siegfried arrived in the Gibichungs' land he was met on the banks of the Rhine by Hagen, and conducted at once to the royal Hall; and here he received a joyous welcome from King Gunther and his fair sister.

Siegfried was greatly pleased with his kindly welcome; and when Gudrun presently offered him a well-filled drinking-horn, in token of friendship and hospitality, he gladly drank off its contents to the health of his beloved Brünhilde.

But the magic love-potion had been mingled with the draught, and no sooner had he set down the horn than the likeness of Brünhilde faded from his mind, and all memory of his love for her became a blank. It seemed to him that the fair Gudrun was the first maiden he had ever beheld, and a passionate desire to possess her suddenly grew up within him.

Gudrun beheld his ardent glances with great joy, for an answering love had quickly sprung up in her own heart for the noble hero before her. Taking her willing hand in his, Siegfried led the maiden, who now possessed his whole heart, to her royal brother, and eagerly requested her hand in marriage; and to this Gunther gave his consent on condition that the Valkyrie, Brünhilde, was secured as a bride for himself. Siegfried gladly agreed to go through the fire once more, and woo Brünhilde for his new friend; and when the two had sworn an oath of brotherhood, they set out together to begin their enterprise at once.

In a royal barque they sailed down the Rhine a certain distance, and then when the Valkyrie's rock came in sight, Siegfried bade Gunther remain in the boat, whilst he himself went forward alone to climb the mountain. By means of his _Tarnhelm_, or wishing-cap, he took on the form and appearance of Gunther--the two having agreed that the martial maiden must be wooed and won by Siegfried in the likeness of the king--and promising to be loyal and faithful to his oath, the young hero began to climb the rocky height.

Brünhilde had just received a visit from her Valkyrie sister, Valtrauta, who had come to entreat her to restore the Nibelung's fatal Ring to the Rhine nymphs once more, as the only remaining hope of saving the dwellers in Asgard; for Wotan had now gathered the gods together in Valhalla--around which he had caused to be piled a forest of faggots from the world's ash-tree, hewn down at his command--and all were silently and sadly awaiting their approaching doom, the dreaded Twilight, that meant for them destruction. The only glimpse of hope now left was for the mighty Ring to be returned to the Rhine, when its curse upon men and gods would become void; and on learning this from the beloved All-Father, Valtrauta had mounted her war-horse and flown at once to her fallen sister, who she knew possessed the Ring.

But Brünhilde, cut off as she was from the joys of Valhalla, would not part with her love-token, which was more precious to her than all the dwellers in Asgard; and in spite of the passionate entreaties of Valtrauta, she utterly refused to give up the Ring.

Finding that her pleading was in vain, the despairing Valkyrie was compelled to depart; and no sooner had she gone, than Siegfried, in the form and garb of Gunther, sprang fearlessly through the zone of fire, and advancing towards Brünhilde, whom he regarded as a stranger, announced calmly, in a disguised voice, that having braved the flames he had come to possess her as a bride.

Full of horror at being thus wooed by a stranger during the absence of her hero-lover, Brünhilde shrank back, and indignantly refused to yield herself to this bold intruder, receiving strength from her magic Ring; but upon her talisman being wrested from her by the superior force of Siegfried, she became powerless, and was compelled to submit to his will. Siegfried now led her to the cave as their bridal chamber, but, mindful of his oath and loyalty to Gunther, whose wooing he had so strangely undertaken, he laid his sword, Needful, between them.

Next day, at dawn, the disguised Siegfried took the bride he had won for another by the hand, and led her safely through the flames and down the mountain-side, and on being met at the river-side by Gunther, he instantly vanished by means of his _Tarnhelm_, and transported himself to the Gibichungs' Hall. So when the true Gunther took her by the hand, Brünhilde regarded him as her wooer of the night before, and the pair entered the barque.

Now, during the absence of Gunther and Siegfried, Hagen had been visited in a vision by his gnome-father, Alberic, who besought him to seek quickly an opportunity to kill Siegfried, and so secure from him the magic Ring by means of which the Nibelung might regain his lost power; and Hagen gladly agreed to use his craft for this purpose.

When Gunther returned with Brünhilde to the Gibichungs' Hall, great preparations were made to celebrate the two marriages in splendid state, and all the vassals and warriors quickly assembled to join in the revels.

All this time Brünhilde had remained submissive and downcast; but now, on entering the Hall with Gunther and finding herself confronted by Siegfried, who led Gudrun by the hand, she started violently and gazed on him with utter astonishment. Suddenly observing the magic Ring upon his finger, the true identity of the bold wooer who had intruded upon her rocky fastness flashed across her mind, and, full of furious anger at the discovery, she announced to all the company that she had been betrayed, and that Siegfried, in his wooing of her in disguise, had dishonoured their King.

Siegfried fearlessly defended himself, declaring that he had been loyal to his trust; but his explanations were designedly confounded by Hagen, who, for his own evil purposes, used his cunning wit to persuade all that the great hero had indeed acted as a base traitor.

Siegfried, however, having a clear conscience, still declared his innocence; and taking the hand of Gudrun, whom he now loved passionately owing to the effect of the love-potion, he led her gaily to join in the revels, followed by most of the company.

But Brünhilde and Gunther remained in their places, overcome with indignation, still believing Siegfried to be false; and seeing them alone, Hagen joined them, and with cunning words strengthened their suspicions and persuaded them that it was their duty to avenge themselves for the ill that had been done them. He at last obtained their consent to the murder of Siegfried, which he agreed to carry out himself at a hunting party next day; and having arranged this, they rejoined the revellers, and the wedding rejoicings went forward once more.

Next day, a grand royal hunt was organised, and Siegfried, in eager pursuit of prey, found himself at one time alone on the bank of the river. As he stood there a moment, gazing into the water, the three lovely Rhine maidens, Flosshildr, Woglinda, and Wellgunda, swam towards the shore and gave him glad greeting, knowing that this was the great hero who now possessed their long-lost treasure; and in coaxing tones they entreated him to restore the magic Ring to them.

Siegfried, however, refused to listen to their pleadings, even when the nymphs told him that if he retained it longer, the talisman would quickly bring death upon him; and as the Rhine maidens swam away disconsolately, he laughed aloud at their warning.

At that moment, Gunther, Hagen, and the rest of the hunting party joined him, and sitting down to rest upon the river bank, the huntsmen began to feast and make merry together. To amuse his new friends, Siegfried began to tell them the story of his life and adventures; but just as he was relating how he had scaled the fire-encircled mountain, Hagen crept softly forward and suddenly stabbed him in the back with his hunting-spear, announcing to the dismayed onlookers that the deed was done in retribution for the hero's betrayal of their King.

Siegfried sank to the ground immediately; and the effect of the magic potion of forgetfulness waning as his life-blood welled forth, all his old love for the beautiful Valkyrie he had so innocently betrayed returned to bless his last moments, and with Brünhilde's name upon his lips, he died.

The dead hero's body was quickly borne back to the royal Hall; and when the fair Gudrun beheld the lifeless form of her husband of a day, she fell senseless to the ground, overcome by despair.

Hagen and Gunther now began to quarrel as to which should possess the magic Ring; and in the furious fight that ensued Gunther was killed.

Loud cries of woe quickly arose, and in the dismay and confusion that followed, Brünhilde hastened forward. At sight of the dead Siegfried, she was filled with utmost grief, and learning from the reviving and sorrowing Gudrun of his innocence, and remembering naught but her passionate love for him, she firmly resolved to perish with her hero.

In a commanding tone none dared to disobey she silenced the noise and confusion around her, and bade the warriors instantly to build up a funeral pyre upon the banks of the Rhine; and when this had been done, the dead body of Siegfried was laid upon it. She then tenderly placed his magic Ring upon her finger, and seizing a lighted torch, set the faggots ablaze.

She now understood that through her alone the sin of the great All-Father must be atoned for, and that by her sacrifice of Love, the world should be redeemed. The curse of the Ring would also be removed by her death, for with her ashes the fatal Gold would be restored to the Rhine.

Thus nobly resolving to sacrifice herself, she desired two Ravens hovering near--the messengers of Wotan--to return to the great god so sadly awaiting his end, and announce to him that his destiny was about to be fulfilled; and also to bid the god Loki, who still guarded the rock upon which she had lain in a charmed sleep, to depart with his fire to Valhalla.

She then mounted her faithful steed, Grani, and as the flames sprang brightly upwards, leaped high with him into the midst of the burning pyre, and perished beside the corpse of her hero-lover. As the flames died away, the river suddenly rose, and overflowing its banks, covered the remains of the funeral pile; and at the same moment, the three Rhine nymphs swam up to secure their Gold.

Hagen made a last frantic effort to reach the talisman by plunging into the flood; but being seized by the nymphs, he was dragged beneath the waves and drowned.

So the Rhine maidens at last regained their precious treasure, and the curse of the Ring was removed; but the dwellers in Asgard were doomed, for Loki had already accomplished his mission.

Suddenly a fiery, crimson glow appeared in the heavens, ever spreading and increasing to a dazzling brilliancy; and as the warriors and mourners gazed with awe upon this wondrous sight, they saw that Valhalla, with all its glorious array of gods and heroes, was already engulfed in an ocean of leaping flames.

The Twilight of the Gods had come!

PARSIFAL

In the early days of Christianity, when troublous times beset the path of the true believer, the Holy Grail, or Sacred Cup from which our Saviour had drank at the Last Supper, and which had afterwards received the blood that flowed from His pierced side as He lay upon the Cross, had been brought, together with the spear which had wounded Him, by a company of angels into the mountainous district of Northern Spain; and here the holy relics were reverently received with joy and gratitude by the good King, Titurel, who built for them a Temple-Sanctuary and castle upon the beautiful mountain of Monsalvat, where they were constantly guarded by brave knights of stainless purity and integrity.

Great was the reward of their faithful service, for the Holy Grail possessed miraculous powers, bestowing both bodily as well as spiritual strength and nourishment upon its guardians, giving them such means of grace that they were able to perform mighty deeds for the good of mankind; and with the Sacred Spear, the righteous King Titurel was able to keep at bay the infidels and all who were opposed to Christianity, and who struggled vainly to break down his stronghold.

None but the pure and innocent could approach the holy sanctuary, or hope to derive benefit from its wondrous powers; for the Grail Knights, by reason of their own spotless purity, could read the hearts of all comers, and sternly repulsed any who were unworthy.

Thus it came about that when Klingsor, the most wicked of all magicians, and the ruler of the heathen and infidel races, once sought the Grail, hoping to be released from his many sins, partly seized by a temporary fit of remorse, but chiefly for the means of worldly advancement and power, he was denied entrance to the sacred temple; for the Guardian of the Grail saw clearly into the deceitful heart of the sorcerer, and reading there, as in a book, his impious and unholy thoughts, he drove him back with horror.

Rendered furious by his ignominious defeat, Klingsor determined to be revenged, and for this purpose he set up an Enchanted Castle on the southern slopes of the same mountain, surrounding it with luxuriant gardens in which he placed sirens of dazzling beauty, who with their seductive charms should ensnare the Knights of the Grail who wandered that way, and lure them by unholy passions and evil spells to destruction from which there should be no return.

Many were the knights thus enticed from the paths of purity to a life of sinful pleasures and soul-destroying voluptuousness.

Thus many years passed away; and, at last, good King Titurel, now well-stricken in years, felt himself growing too old to perform the sacred offices of the Holy Grail any longer; so he invested his son, Amfortas, the handsomest and most glorious of all the knights, with the royal mantle and made him King in his stead.

The young King Amfortas, impatient of Klingsor's evil influence, determined to vanquish the wicked Enchanter and put an end to his dangerous magic; and, armed with the sacred spear, he went fearlessly forth one day upon his great mission. But Klingsor beheld the royal knight's approach and summoned to his aid Kundry, a strange being, who, against her will, had ever been subservient to his power; and bidding her practice her arts upon his enemy, he had little doubt as to the issue.

Nor was he mistaken, for Kundry (who could assume any shape) transformed herself into a woman of such surpassing beauty that Amfortas felt his senses leave him as he gazed upon her. It was in vain that the young King struggled to maintain his integrity and to fight against the evil influence that closed so surely around him; for Kundry never relaxed her seductions until he was locked in her embrace, in the snares of guilty passion.

Soon, Klingsor, stealing unawares upon his victim, as he lay thus entranced, seized the sacred spear and stabbed him in the side with it; and then, with a triumphant laugh, he rushed back to his Enchanted Castle, bearing the holy relic with him.

The wounded King was carried back by his faithful knights to the Sanctuary, full of remorse for his sin and doomed to suffer agonies of pain for many long, weary years; for the wound inflicted by the evil sorcerer throbbed and burned unceasingly, and could never be healed until the holy spear should be reclaimed and brought back to the Sanctuary, and the unhappy Amfortas remained helpless and agonised in mind and body, with a wound that would not close.

Once, as the King lay groaning in the Sanctuary, the angels of the Holy Grail were heard proclaiming that the sacred spear could alone be regained by "The Blameless Fool," one who, simple and pure, unacquainted with worldly knowledge, should, from pure, whole-hearted sympathy with the sufferer's terrible agony, recognise the woes of suffering humanity, and by such loving pity bring redemption. This, then, was the one hope held out, and the sublime deed to be performed; and, after many long years of woe, the deliverer of Amfortas appeared.

One early dawn, Gurnemanz, one of the oldest of the Grail Knights, was resting with his Esquires in a glade within the sacred domains, waiting for the arrival of Amfortas, who was to be carried, in accordance with his usual daily custom, to bathe in the lake near by, that its soothing waters might ease his ever-burning wound for a short time; and as the first rays of the rising sun shone forth, the solemn morning bell of the Sanctuary was heard calling all to their devotions.

At the sound of the bell, the watchers in the glade knelt reverently to offer up their morning prayer; and as they rose once more to their feet they were joined by other knights.

As the newcomers spoke sadly with old Gurnemanz of the perpetual sufferings of the King, a wild female figure was seen riding furiously towards them; who, upon approaching the knights, flung herself from the foaming steed and hastened to them, bearing in her hand a small crystal vial.

This was none other than Kundry, the witch-maiden, who, when temporarily freed from the evil influence of the sorcerer, Klingsor, would serve the Knights of the Grail as message-bearer, and, by the performance of extraordinary feats of endurance, would seem as though striving to atone by such penances for the evil deeds she did when unable to resist her sinful nature and the commands of her unholy master. She was well-known to the knights, some of whom, however, regarded her with scorn and suspicion, knowing her to be a sinner; but Gurnemanz was always kind and gentle with her, and would often reprove his companions for their hostile attitude, declaring that though she might be under an evil curse, yet she did penance by serving the Grail, and that when she was absent for long, some misfortune was sure to happen to them.

Kundry now appeared as a wild, half-savage creature, clad in a fantastic robe fastened by a girdle of snake-skins, and with long flowing locks of black hair and piercing black eyes, sometimes wildly flashing but more usually fixed and glassy; and having travelled far in search of a healing balsam for the wounded King, she handed the vial to Gurnemanz, roughly refusing all thanks.

Amfortas, groaning with pain, now appeared in the glade in a litter borne by a number of noble knights, and having received Kundry's balsam from Gurnemanz, he thanked her for her gift, although he knew it could afford relief but for a few hours. He was then carried forward to the lake; and soon afterwards--as Gurnemanz remained lost in his sad thoughts, standing beside the now prostrate Kundry, who had flung herself exhausted on the ground--loud cries of indignation were suddenly heard, and as the old knight looked around, he saw a wild swan slowly sink to the ground and die.

At the same moment, the Esquires dragged forth a handsome youth, whose beauty and look of perfect innocence and purity made all regard him with interest and wonder, and yet whose bow and arrows proclaimed him as the slayer of the fair bird, a species held sacred by the Guardians of the Grail.

Gurnemanz poured forth indignant reproaches upon the youth, who, however, appeared unconscious that his deed was wrong; but on seeing the sorrow he had caused, his own heart was touched, and suddenly, breaking his bow and arrows, he impetuously flung them away.

Gurnemanz, struck by the noble looks of the young stranger, began to question him; but the youth declared that he knew not from whence he had come, nor what his name was, nor who his father had been, though he recollected that his mother's name was "Heart-in-Sorrow," and that they had dwelt together in the forest wilds.

Kundry, who, in her weary wanderings over the world, had knowledge of everything, now approached and declared that the stranger's father had fallen in battle, and that his mother had brought him up in a desert place, where he could not learn the use of arms, nor gain any knowledge of the wicked world; and so the lad had led the pure, innocent life of nature, and knew not the meaning of evil. Having beheld a party of knights in glittering armour one day, he had followed them, full of wonder, forgetful of the mother who so tenderly loved him, and whom Kundry now declared had died of grief at his loss.

On hearing this, the youth, feeling for the first time in his life for another than himself, sprang furiously at Kundry's throat, and would have choked her, had not Gurnemanz dragged him back; and then he sank down half-fainting, whilst the witch-maiden hurried to bring water to refresh him.

Gurnemanz, astonished at the utter innocence and primitive simplicity of the handsome stripling, and recollecting the prophecy that one who should be a "Blameless Fool," pure and undefiled, would alone be found worthy to regain the lost spear, regarded the youth with new interest, feeling that the Holy Grail itself must have guided him thither as the one who should indeed perform the supreme deed; and gently laying his hand on the youth's shoulder, he began to tell him about the Holy Grail and its wonderful powers.

Kundry, meanwhile, had crept away unperceived to a thicket, and, overcome by a deadly weariness, sank down into a deep slumber; for this was the means by which Klingsor the sorcerer called her to perform his evil behests, and struggle as she might, she could not prevail against this fatal sleep.

Having explained to the wondering youth the mysterious nourishment and power given by the Holy Grail, the uncovering of which was about to be performed by the King, who had now left the lake and was being carried back to the castle, Gurnemanz took him to join in the sacred ceremony; for he saw plainly that the stranger had noble qualities in him, and believed that these would be stirred into actual being by the holy influence of the Sanctuary treasures.

When they reached the magnificent hall of the Temple, the knights were already assembled, waiting with rapt and reverent attention for the customary unveiling of the Grail, by which they received physical and spiritual food and strength. The litter of Amfortas was carried forward and placed beside the holy shrine; and then, as all stood round expectantly, the voice of the aged King Titurel was heard from a niche in the background, where he sat in retirement, calling upon his son to uncover the Grail, that its wondrous blessing might yet once more be bestowed upon its guardians.

Amfortas, suffering acutely from the burning and throbbing of his wound, broke forth into agonised lamentation, because he, the most unworthy of them all, should thus be the one whose duty it was to perform this, the holiest office of their order; and in despairing tones, he besought his father to take back his old authority and leave him to die. But the aged King declared he was too feeble to perform the blessed office, and was only kept alive by the daily strength he received from beholding the Grail; and he again commanded Amfortas to proceed with the duties of his position, since by continuing to serve the Grail in spite of his agony, he might atone for his guilt. The knights also reminded their fallen master of the promised deliverance from his woe, and Amfortas, somewhat comforted, raised himself painfully, and, unveiling the Holy Grail, waved it reverently to and fro, thus consecrating the bread and wine, which was then distributed, that all might partake of the wondrous Love-Feast.

As the Holy Cup was revealed, a brilliant light fell upon it, which caused it to glow with a rich wine purple colour, and to shed a soft heavenly effulgence on all around, and Amfortas, though he took no part in the meal, remained for some time in a state of rapt exaltation. Then, as he felt his wound break out afresh, as it ever did when he performed the sacred office, he uttered a long-drawn cry of agony and sank back, fainting and exhausted.

All this time, the strange youth had stood apart, taking no part in the ceremony, but remaining still and dazed, as though entranced; but when the wounded King gave forth his last cry of anguish, he placed his hand with a convulsive movement over his heart, as though filled with an emotion entirely new and strange to him.

But, though pity was thus unconsciously awakened in his breast, he did not yet understand the agonies of a conscious guilt, which was the wounded King's chief woe, nor did he comprehend the meaning of what he had just seen; and Gurnemanz, impatient at such seeming stupidity, and deeming him a fool indeed, irritably thrust him out through a side door of the Temple, bidding him depart to his old wild ways once more, knowing that he must first experience the stabs of passion and temptation in himself, and conquer the same, ere he could understand and feel sympathy for the woes and sins of others.

But the pity that had indeed stirred the youth's heart so strangely for the first time grew apace; and since he had learned from Gurnemanz the story of the lost spear, he determined to try to regain the sacred weapon which alone could give relief to the poor sufferer; and with a fearless spirit and a joyous step, he set off, alone and unafraid, to storm the Enchanted Castle.

Klingsor, the sorcerer, saw him approaching, and at once recognised him as a dangerous foe, since his breastplate was purity, and his shield foolishness; and quickly he called to his aid the witch-maiden, Kundry, whom he had just awakened from the deep slumber of destiny by his magic spells, to work his evil will once more. But though Kundry could not prevail against the terrible power of Klingsor, she only obeyed his commands in anger and horror, doing against her will wicked deeds for which, when removed from her master's influence, she would tearfully endeavour to atone by her acts of mercy and service. She longed above all things to die, but could not; for she who had lived through all the ages, and laughed at everything good and pure, whose spirit had inspired the savage heart of Herodias, and had mocked the Saviour of the world, was now doomed to a path of evil for ever, compelled to lure all into her snares of passion and sin.

On hearing that the simple Fool was to be her victim also, she asked Klingsor in despair if she was never to be released from his toil, and to find rest in eternal sleep; and the sorcerer replied that deliverance for her would only come when someone should be found strong and pure enough to resist her wiles. Kundry, with a heart-rending moan, now resigned herself to the terrible part of temptress she was thus compelled to play, being unable to resist her master's will; and Klingsor, from his magic tower, watched his approaching victim with malignant interest.

As the youth approached the Enchanted Castle with a light step and joyous heart, he found his entry opposed by the fallen knights who had been lured within its walls by Klingsor's beautiful sirens; but, fearlessly resisting them, he snatched a sword from the nearest, and continued boldly to scale the walls, wounding and scattering all who opposed him. For the degraded knights, once so brave and strong, had now grown weak and dull through indulgence, sloth, and voluptuous sin; and the fiery ardour and simple fearlessness of the young invader so daunted these dullards that they soon fled and left him master of the situation.

Having thus triumphed over the weak guardians of the Castle, the handsome stripling gazed proudly around him; and, perceiving the sorcerer's magic garden close at hand, he entered it, marvelling at its luxuriance.

Here he was quickly surrounded by Klingsor's sirens, beautiful flower-maidens, who, clad in gossamer garments, appeared like a throng of brilliant living flowers; and, bewildered and dazzled by the voluptuous beauty of these fair inhabitants of the magic garden, the young man gazed upon them with delight. The sirens, looking upon the handsome stranger as their lawful prey, instantly began to entice him into the snares of passion, each one trying to win him for herself; but the simple youth remained calmly insensible to their soft persuasions, and at last they left him in anger, deeming him to be a Fool, indeed.

Then, suddenly, Kundry appeared, now wearing the form of a maiden more bewitchingly beautiful than any he had yet seen, calling to him in thrilling tones by the name of "Parsifal."

Remembering that this was the name by which his mother had always called him, the youth approached the dazzling vision before him, filled with wonder; and Kundry, after explaining to him that his name meant "Pure-in-Folly," told him again of his mother's love and devotion, and how she had died of grief at his absence from her.

Overcome at the thought of the woe he had caused by his conduct, Parsifal sank weeping to the ground; for this was his first grief, and his first consciousness of his own part in the life of another human being. Kundry, having thus awakened the youth's emotions, now sought by her seductive arts to lure him into the toils of passion; and, offering him the comforts of love, bestowed on him his first lover's kiss.

But at this, Parsifal sprang to his feet, pressing his hand to his heart, for it seemed to him that the wound of Amfortas burned there; and the thought of the wounded King's urgent need recalled his wandering senses to the great mission he had undertaken. In that critical moment, his nature seemed to change, for, in a flash, world-knowledge had come to him, and he realised the great truth of redemption by grace, and understood that he, by conquering temptation, could become worthy of bringing salvation to the stricken King, whose sufferings had awakened sweet pity within his heart.

The temptress never ceased her wily arts for a moment, and the youth felt more and more the pangs of guilty desires and passions burning within him; but when she again encircled him in her sensuous embrace, and pressed a second long kiss upon his heated brow, he was awakened to the full consciousness of his danger, and repulsed her with horror. Then, having triumphed over the desires of the flesh, Parsifal gazed upwards towards the heavens with such rapt ecstasy upon his face, that Kundry was filled with remorse, and looked upon him with awe and wonder; then, fancying she beheld in him the Saviour of the world, Whom she had mocked as He lay upon the Cross, she sank at his feet, telling the whole terrible story of her everlasting sufferings, beseeching him to be pitiful to her and grant her the joy of being his, if but for one hour only. But Parsifal sternly replied that he would be condemned everlastingly with her, if even for one hour he forgot his holy mission.

Finally, as her last effort, the temptress sought to ensnare him by declaring that her kiss had awakened in him world-wide knowledge and vision, and that in her love he might reach unto Godhead and Omnipotence; but this subtle suggestion Parsifal resisted also, remaining true to his own pure and noble nature, and refusing to be enticed from the path of duty and mercy which he now so clearly recognised.

Then Kundry, finding that all arts and lures were in vain, sprang furiously from his side, cursing him, and calling loudly upon her wicked master to avenge her wrongs; for never before had any man been able to resist her offers of love.

The sorcerer immediately appeared on the battlements of the Enchanted Castle, bearing aloft the holy spear; and, casting this with rage at the youth, he at the same time set forth his evil spells to work destruction upon his defier.

But his magic was powerless when brought into contact with purity and faith; and the holy spear remained hanging in the air over Parsifal's head, until the noble youth seized it in his hand, and solemnly made the sign of the Cross with it. Instantly the Enchanted Castle fell to the ground, shaken by a violent earthquake; the beautiful garden was changed to a desert once more; and as Kundry sank to the ground with a cry of woe, Parsifal hastened from the place of his temptation, triumphantly bearing aloft the sacred spear, with which he was now to conquer the hostile races of the world.

For many years Parsifal wandered forth alone; and then at last, when grown to perfect manhood by suffering and sorrow, he returned to the domains of the Holy Grail. Here he was gladly welcomed one morning by the knight, Gurnemanz, now grown to be a very old man, who had taken up his abode in the forest, and become a hermit; and he learned from the old man that most of the Grail Knights had gradually left the Sanctuary, because Amfortas, in his agony of body and mind, had refused to perform the life-preserving office of revealing the Holy Grail, which had formerly given them such wonderful nourishment and power. Thus the strength of the noble knights had dwindled and faded; and the aged King Titurel had already died, for, deprived of the nourishment of the Grail, he could no longer live.

On hearing this sad news, Parsifal was overcome with sorrow, knowing that he had been the cause of this long-drawn-out woe, because he had for so many long years neglected to bring the salvation that lay in his power. But Gurnemanz comforted him, declaring that the suffering King should now be restored, since the only cure for his wound was at last nigh at hand; and he then invited Parsifal to go with him to the Sanctuary that day, since it was Good Friday, and Amfortas was expected to reveal the Holy Grail once again at the funeral service of the dead King Titurel.

Whilst the old and the young knight talked thus together, a female figure had come forth from the hermit's hut close by, and, drawing slowly nearer, had stood beside them with bowed head and humble mien. This was Kundry, who, in her wild witch-maiden form, Gurnemanz had that morning found in the forest, wrapped in the usual deep slumber, into which she had sunk upon being released from the influence of the sorcerer, Klingsor; and, having gently revived her, the good old man had permitted her to perform for him the menial services she ever did at such times. Now approaching Parsifal, she humbly and tenderly washed his feet, anointing them with the contents of a golden vial she drew from her bosom; seeming as though, by such an act of service she would atone for the evil she had formerly tried to work to his soul. Old Gurnemanz then took the vial from her, and poured the remainder of its contents over the head of Parsifal, saluting him afterwards as King and Saviour; and the young knight, filling his hand with water from the sacred spring close by, very gently sprinkled it over the bent head of Kundry, as she knelt at his feet, thus baptising the poor sinner as his first act as the bringer of Salvation.

Gurnemanz now brought forth from the hut the rich scarlet mantle of the Grail Knight, with which he and Kundry proceeded to invest Parsifal over the shining armour which he wore; and then the three very solemnly bent their steps towards the holy castle and entered the Sanctuary.

Here the knights who still remained were gathered beside the bier of the dead King Titurel, waiting for the Holy Grail to be revealed to them; but Amfortas, whose agony was now even greater than ever, and who passionately longed for death, again refused to perform his holy office, and, rising from his litter in a mad frenzy of pain and despair, tore the covering from his wounded side, and wildly implored his faithful companions to plunge their swords into his heart, and thus end his woe.

As the knights drew back in alarm at this outburst, Parsifal stepped forward with noble and calm dignity, and gently touched the suffering King's open wound with the sacred spear that alone had power to cure it; and at the touch of the holy weapon, Amfortas felt his pains vanish, and his wound close, and, knowing that he was now restored and forgiven, he fell upon his knees in an ecstasy of gratitude and praise.

Parsifal now assumed the office of King, which was henceforth his right; and, uncovering the long-unrevealed Holy Grail, he waved it solemnly before the kneeling knights. The Sanctuary was gradually flooded with the dazzling purple light that glowed from the sacred vessel, in the midst of which a white dove was seen to slowly descend from the dome; and as the holy bird hovered over the head of the rapt Parsifal, the witch-maiden, Kundry, sank dying to the ground, at last released from the doom of evil by the noble knight who had been strong enough to resist her wiles.

Thus was the sacred spear restored to the Sanctuary of the Holy Grail, and salvation brought to its guardians by the "Blameless Fool," the true and simple one, whose purity and faith had overcome temptation, and whose awakened pity for the sufferings of others had revealed the real spirit of brotherly love.

* * * * *

It will be plain to all that the story of "Parsifal" is an allegory, and that the incidents and characters of the piece are symbolic of human development, of the conquest of good over evil, and of the revivified spirit soaring triumphant above the baser instincts that struggle to draw it back.

Amfortas represents suffering and guilty humanity. The body of humanity, grievously wounded by the throbbing, burning poison of sin, can only be healed by the restoration of the Genius of Good, which is symbolised by the spear, which has obtained mastery over the powerful spirits of evil. Klingsor represents everything opposed to Goodness and Loving-kindness, being the mainspring and source of all evil. Kundry, the instrument subject to the power of the instigator of ill, signifies the temptations that beset the seeker after Truth--the evil moral law, which the pilgrim can only resist with the strength which is given by purity and faith. Finally, Parsifal himself is typical of the Saviour of the world, the pure and blameless One, the Conqueror of Temptation, Whose pity and love for wounded, guilty humanity brought salvation to all, and by redemption threw open the way to eternal Life and Love.

MARITANA

Towards the end of the seventeenth century, when Charles II. was reigning in Spain, a wandering tribe of gipsies appeared in the romantic city of Madrid, and every day were to be seen in the streets and public squares, amusing the light-hearted populace with their merry songs and dances.

With this tribe there came a beautiful young girl, named Maritana, who possessed a voice of wonderful charm and sweetness; and in a very short time the enchanting singing and fair looks of the pretty gipsy-maiden had won the hearts of all. Every day Maritana sang and danced before delighted crowds; and even the Queen, as she drove by with her ladies, would stop her state carriage to listen for a few moments to the pretty Gitana's thrilling voice.

Now, when the gay young King of Spain, Charles II., beheld Maritana for the first time he was so struck with her dazzling beauty that he determined to see her again; and several times he went disguised into the streets of the city, mingling with the crowds that applauded the gipsy-maid, in order to gain acquaintance with her.

On one of these occasions he was seen and recognised, in spite of his disguise, by the Chief Minister of State, Don José de Santarem, and this wily nobleman, understanding at once that his royal master was infatuated with the charms of the fair Maritana, quickly decided, in order to serve his own ends, to do all in his power to aid the King in his pursuit of the maiden.

For a long while Don José had secretly loved the cold and stately Queen, whom the pleasure-loving King had already begun to neglect; but so far, all his efforts to gain her favour had proved in vain, for the proud, exalted lady refused even to smile upon him. But the sight of the disguised King paying court to the pretty gipsy gave rise to a sudden scheme in the busy brain of the unscrupulous Minister. He would encourage this temporary infatuation, and convert Maritana to the purposes of the King's unrestrained passion; and then, once the Queen was persuaded of her husband's faithlessness, might she not be persuaded to look for a lover herself, as a means of avenging her wrongs? And that lover should be Don José de Santarem!

Fully determined to carry out this base plan, Don José himself went up to Maritana and began to make pretty speeches to her, praising her beauty and lovely voice; and having observed that the disguised King had slipped gold into her hand, he also gave her a piece of money of the same value, and begged her to sing him another song. Delighted at gaining two pieces of gold in one day, Maritana was glad enough to sing, and when the song came to an end she talked merrily to the Minister, telling him that she longed to be a great lady and to live in dazzling halls, drive in a gilded coach, and wear fine clothes and glittering jewels.

Pleased to find that his intended victim had just such longings and ambitions as would serve him in his schemes regarding her, Don José declared that all these things she desired might indeed be hers, since her own wondrous beauty could easily win them; and he added that if she would trust her fortunes to him, he would quickly make her a great lady.

Maritana merrily replied that she would gladly accept any such good fortune he might offer her; and then she ran off to sing and dance in another street.

No sooner had she gone out of the square than a handsome, but dissipated-looking roysterer, whose once gay garments and general appearance showed signs of poverty and riotous living, and yet who preserved a certain dignity and charm of manner, issued forth from a tavern close by, declaring to the bystanders that he had just lost his last coin to gamblers; and Don José, to his surprise, recognised in this shabby, yet _débonnaire_ stranger, an old friend of his boyhood's days, Don Cæsar de Bazan, a nobleman of equal rank with himself.

He went up at once and renewed acquaintance with him, and Don Cæsar, who was of a sunny-hearted, careless disposition, related to his old friend the reasons for his present poverty, declaring candidly that gay living and generosity to friends had quickly run through the fine fortune he had inherited, and that in order to escape from his numerous creditors, he was compelled to travel about from place to place.

As it was now some years since he had been in Madrid, he asked if there was any news in the city; and Don José replied "None; except that the King has issued an edict against duelling, declaring that every survivor of a duel shall be shot, unless it take place in Holy Week, when he is to be hanged instead."

Now Don Cæsar was an expert duellist, and celebrated for the number of his encounters; so on hearing this news, he said with a laugh and shrug of his shoulders: "Why, then, I must avoid a quarrel, for it is Holy Week now, and it would be a dire dishonour for the last of my race to be hanged!"

At this moment there was a loud outcry, and a boatman rushed into the square, dragging with him a wretched youth whom he had just rescued from attempting to drown himself; and close upon his heels followed the Captain of the Guard, into whose hands he was about to deliver the culprit to be brought up for justice.

But the poor boy, whose name was Lazarillo, begged wildly to be set free, declaring that a harsh master's ill-treatment had made him long to destroy himself, but that he would make no more attempts if he could be saved from punishment; and on hearing his pitiful story and sad cries, Don Cæsar, who had a tender and generous heart, hastened to his assistance and freed him from his captor.

The Captain of the Guard angrily commanded this unexpected champion to instantly deliver the boy up to justice, that he might be punished for his offence; but Don Cæsar, indignant at being thus addressed by one whom he deemed his inferior, drew his sword and haughtily declared that he meant to protect the helpless youth.

A hot quarrel now ensued, and a few minutes later the two were engaged in a duel, despite Don José's repeated warnings about the King's edict, and the special penalty of Holy Week. Don Cæsar, with a few skillful strokes, easily despatched his adversary; but before he had time to escape to a place of safety he was surrounded and captured by the city guards, who quickly bore him off to the prison-house. Here he was thrown into a cell, together with the poor youth whose cause he had championed so recklessly, and who now refused to leave him; and having thus flagrantly gone against the King's edict, he was immediately condemned to death, and sentenced to be hanged next morning at seven o'clock.

Now Don José de Santarem, instead of being grieved at the terrible misfortune that had befallen the friend of his boyhood, at first cared naught about the matter; and then, suddenly seeing in this very incident a means of helping on his own evil schemes, he determined to make a strange offer to the doomed man. If only he could wed the beautiful Gitana to Don Cæsar de Bazan within the next few hours, all his plans would go well; for as the widow of a Grandee of Spain, Maritana would be entitled to a high position at Court, and thus be brought into daily contact with the King, who would then be constantly under the spell of her fascinating beauty.

Having carefully laid his plans with great cunning, the wily Minister repaired to the prison-house at five o'clock next morning; and armed with all authority as the King's Chief Minister, he made his way to the Count's cell, and entered. He found Don Cæsar already awake and talking cheerfully to the young Lazarillo in his usual gay and careless manner, quite regardless of his quickly-approaching end; and hurrying forward, he greeted him pleasantly, saying he had come to serve him.

Don Cæsar replied merrily that there was little in which a dying man could be served, but he added that he should be glad if the Minister would take the boy, Lazarillo, into his service, as he felt an interest in his fate. Don José readily agreed to this, and next he cunningly asked if the Count were satisfied to die the death of a dog by hanging--the death meted out to outcasts and low-born rogues.

The haughty family pride of Don Cæsar was stung by this subtle taunt, for it was galling to him beyond measure to thus bring disgrace upon his ancient name, and he eagerly besought his old friend to entreat the King to grant him the privilege of being shot instead of hanged, as befitted a noble of Spain.

Then Don José announced that he could quickly obtain him this favour, but only on condition that he married before his execution, and that he asked no questions whatever about his bride, who would be thickly veiled; and Don Cæsar, glad to secure a soldier's death even upon such strange terms as these, willingly agreed, and at once retired to a small inner chamber to dress himself in the handsome wedding garments the Minister had already ordered to be brought there. He also requested that his guards and executioners might be permitted to join him in his last meal; and Don José, delighted at the success of his scheme, at once gave orders for a fine feast to be served immediately, after which he hurried away to find Maritana.

Just as he was leaving the prison, a sealed packet was handed to him, and opening it, he found that it was a free pardon for Don Cæsar from the King. Knowing that this unexpected circumstance would spoil all his fine plans, the merciless Minister determined that the pardon should not arrive at the prison until _after_ the execution, and thrusting the document within the folds of his tunic, to be forwarded later, he went on his way.

Although still so early in the morning, he soon found Maritana already singing gaily amidst the gipsy camp; and drawing her to one side, he whispered that he had come to offer her a splendid position, a fine house, and great riches, on condition that she agreed to be married immediately to a high-born noble of Spain, Don Cæsar de Bazan.

On hearing that such a brilliant marriage, which more than fulfilled her highest ambitions, was in store for her, Maritana clapped her hands joyfully; for though she had seen the capture of Don Cæsar the day before, and had even pleaded for his release, she had not heard his name spoken, and knew naught of his death-sentence; but when Don José added that for certain State reasons he could not explain to her she must go through the ceremony thickly veiled, and not behold her bridegroom until some days afterwards, she grew suspicious, and said she did not like such mystery.

Then the cunning Minister, to relieve her fears, said that it was the express command of the Queen that she should go through this ceremony and obey all his directions, however strange they might seem; and on hearing this, Maritana, who was grateful to the Queen for noticing her singing in the streets, now willingly gave her consent, thinking that even such an unusual marriage as this must be right if it was the royal lady's command. So she allowed herself to be dressed in a wedding robe, and so heavily veiled as to be completely blind-folded; and as soon as she was ready, Don José took her to the prison-house, together with a priest.

It was now about six o'clock; and they found Don Cæsar already carousing merrily with the very soldiers who were to shoot him an hour later. The doomed man was quite in his usual good spirits, and determined to enjoy the last minutes of his life; but the boy, Lazarillo, was sad, and refused to join in the feast. Such a strong feeling of gratitude and love for his generous, light-hearted protector had sprung up within the youth's heart that he could not bear to think of his quickly-approaching death, and he longed to discover some means of saving him. As he gazed helplessly round the prison chamber, his eyes fell upon the file of arquebuses leaning against the wall, with which the fatal volley was presently to be fired; and at the sight of the dreaded weapons, a sudden thought flashed across his quick brain. Creeping quietly along to the arquebuses, he dexterously managed to extract all the bullets, unnoticed by any of the merry feasters; and then, delighted with his clever trick, he awaited an opportunity to whisper to the intended victim what he had done.

When the Minister entered the room with the trembling, veiled Maritana, the revellers received them with gay acclamations, and quickly the bride and bridegroom were led to the prison chapel to be married. Neither could behold the other, because of the thick veil that enveloped Maritana; but Don Cæsar inwardly felt that his mysterious bride must be charming and fair to look upon, for several long locks of bright hair managed to escape the folds of her scarf, the hand she placed in his was small and soft, and her voice was full of music.

And Maritana also was thrilled at the touch and voice of Don Cæsar, and when after the ceremony she was hurried away by the exultant Don José, she longed for the time to come when she should see her husband face to face, for the cunning Minister had told her nothing of Don Cæsar's doom, but led her to suppose that she would see him very soon.

The hour had now arrived for Don Cæsar's execution, and he went forth to his mock death with a gay heart, for by this time Lazarillo had told him of his tampering with the arquebuses, and he knew that all would be well with him. But he decided to go through the whole performance just as though the guns were properly charged, knowing that this was the only means by which he might yet escape; so, though inwardly full of mirth, he bade a sorrowful farewell to all around him, and when the volley was fired, fell to the ground at once, feigning death.

The executioners did not approach to examine the supposed corpse, but returned to the prison immediately; and when they had gone, the bold Don Cæsar calmly got up and walked away! Having thus escaped with his life, he determined to find his mysterious bride and hurry from Madrid before recapture became possible; but as, knowing nothing of the pardon that had been accorded him, he dared not show himself in daylight, he kept in hiding until evening, when he issued forth cautiously in search of Lazarillo, whom he knew would now be in the service of the Minister.

Now Don José had laid all his plans with great skill; and knowing that a certain dependent of his, the Marquis de Montefiori, upon whom he had bestowed a remunerative appointment, was holding a grand reception that evening, he decided that Maritana should be introduced to this assembly as the Marquis's niece. Accordingly, when evening fell, he repaired with the gipsy-girl, splendidly attired, to the festive scene, and taking her into an ante-room off the salon where the guests were being received, he sent for the Marquis, and informed him that Maritana was his (the Marquis's) long-lost niece.

"But I _have_ no niece," exclaimed the puzzled Marquis.

"Pardon me, but _I_ say that this lady, the Countess de Bazan, _is_ your long-lost niece!" repeated Don José firmly. "And you must introduce her to your guests as such!"

On hearing this, the Marquis--a weak, foolish person, completely the tool of Don José, who made use of him for various unscrupulous purposes--pretended to suddenly remember his new-found relation, seeing that the Minister desired him to do so, and after welcoming her with exaggerated effusiveness, he led the bewildered Maritana to the salon beyond to be introduced to his wife and the assembly as his long-lost niece.

Don José was just about to follow, when a stranger, muffled in the robe of a monk, suddenly entered the ante-room; and to his surprise and dismay, he quickly recognised the handsome features of Don Cæsar de Bazan! Alarmed at this unexpected appearance of the man he had hoped and believed was dead, the Minister tremblingly asked how he came to be alive; and Don Cæsar gaily related the story of Lazarillo's trick, and of his own feigned death, adding: "And now I have come to demand my wife, the Countess de Bazan, who, I have been told, is here!"

For a moment Don José was nonplussed, knowing that if the bold Count took Maritana away now, his own base schemes with regard to the Queen would fall to the ground; but quickly thinking out a plan of escape, he sought the Marchioness de Montefiori, and bringing her into the ante-room, introduced her with much ceremony to Don Cæsar as the Countess de Bazan.

Now, the Marchioness was old, ugly, silly, and frivolous, and when Don Cæsar saw that he had been wedded to such an unattractive person, he was filled with disappointment and disgust, and gladly agreed to sign a contract suggested by the quick-witted Minister to relinquish his wife and quit Madrid for ever in exchange for a yearly sum of money paid in compensation.

Before the paper was signed, however, Maritana's voice was heard singing in the salon beyond; and instantly recognising the voice as that of his mysterious veiled bride, Don Cæsar, knowing now that he had been cheated, flung the pen away, and angrily declared that he would have his true wife at all costs.

At this moment a party of guests, with Maritana in their midst, entered from the salon; and knowing that all would be lost should the husband and wife meet face to face, Don José gave orders for the storming Count to be instantly arrested by the guards on duty, who dragged him off in triumph. At the same time, Maritana was seized and borne away also, that she might not behold the clamorous stranger; and seeing that she was now growing suspicious of her surroundings and treatment, Don José had her carried to a villa belonging to the King, close to the royal palace.

Here the young Gitana pined in lonely state for several days, guarded by the youth, Lazarillo; for although gorgeous attire and every luxury she could desire was heaped upon her, she felt that all was not well, and that her position was a false one.

"You have made me a countess, and given me wealth and a costly palace, but where is my husband?" she exclaimed anxiously to Don José, when after a lapse of several days he at last visited her; and the Minister replied with a triumphant wave of the hand towards the door: "He is here!"

At the same moment, the King of Spain entered the room; for Don José had kept his royal master fully acquainted with his movements regarding Maritana, and had now brought him to this gilded prison to amuse himself with the beautiful captive, whose fascinations had so completely enthralled him.

Having thus ensured, as he hoped, the accomplishment of the poor girl's dishonour, Don José went off to seek an interview with the neglected Queen, whom he now expected to convince of her husband's infidelity; but before departing, he gave strict orders to Lazarillo to permit no one to enter the villa, and to fire upon any intruder.

When the King entered her room, Maritana recognised him at once as the stranger who had admired her in the streets, and the knowledge of his true identity suddenly flashing upon her at the same time, she drew back in surprise and alarm; but Charles advanced eagerly, and taking her hand, began to pour forth passionate protestations of devotion, offering her dazzling prospects of wealth and luxury if only she would accept his love. But Maritana was pure, and seeing now into what danger she had been snared, she utterly disregarded the King's protestations, and endeavoured to restrain his advances; and presently she was greatly relieved at a sudden interruption--a shot that sounded from the entrance to the villa.

The King quickly hurried her into the next chamber, and on returning to the salon, found himself face to face with the intruder, who had now made his entry through the window.

This was none other than Don Cæsar de Bazan, who, having gained his freedom (the Chief Minister having no power to detain him owing to the King's pardon), had come to demand his wife once more, having learnt that she was shut up within this very villa; but on finding a stranger in the salon, he was greatly surprised and alarmed, especially when Lazarillo (who had followed him into the room, and recognised him with delight) in a whisper informed him that this stranger was the King of Spain. However, in spite of the difficulties he foresaw, the bold Count determined to rescue his unknown bride from the false position in which she had been placed, and to save his own name from dishonour; and addressing the King as a stranger, he serenely demanded his name.

Charles, having no idea of the true identity of his questioner, and thinking only of shielding himself from scandal, answered in a haughty tone: "I am Don Cæsar de Bazan! And pray, who are you?"

Instantly Don Cæsar, whose keen wit and happy resourcefulness never deserted him for a moment, replied promptly: "Oh Signor, if _you_ are Don Cæsar de Bazan, why, then, _I_ am Charles, King of Spain!"

The King was so much amused at the quick-witted boldness of the intruder (whom he soon gathered to be the real Don Cæsar), that for a short time he kept up the farce; but on seeing that he was known in spite of the name he had taken, he was just about to order Don Cæsar's arrest, when Lazarillo appeared again, saying that a messenger had arrived from the palace, where His Majesty's presence was immediately required.

Full of impatience at this second interruption to his love-making, the King hurried from the room; and no sooner had he gone than Maritana entered, drawing back at the sight of another stranger. But Don Cæsar, knowing that he was at last face to face with his bride, and full of joy on beholding her wonderful beauty and charm, hurried forward with outstretched arms, and explaining rapidly that he was her own true husband, he declared that they should never more be parted.

And when Maritana heard the rich voice of Don Cæsar she instantly recognised it as that of the unseen bridegroom with whom she had knelt at the altar; and since their love was mutual, the husband and wife embraced with great joy.

Maritana now begged her husband to seek an interview with the Queen, whom she had observed walking in the palace gardens close by, and to induce her to intercede on their behalf; and when he had gone, she knelt at the window to pray for his success.

A short time after, the King returned to the salon, having despatched his business at the palace; and he was immediately followed by Don Cæsar, who looked greatly disturbed, and began to tell a strange story in excited tones.

He declared that he had entered the palace gardens to seek an interview with the Queen, when on approaching some thick bushes he had heard the sound of voices from the other side, and on drawing nearer, had observed Don José de Santarem in close conversation with the Queen. "Your Majesty is being deceived," the Chief Minister was saying, "for the King meets his new charmer in yonder villa to-night!"

He next had declared his own passion to the Queen, and had begged her to accept him as a lover in order to avenge herself on the faithless King; but the royal lady had indignantly refused to listen to him, scorning the love he offered. Furious at this proof of the baseness and treachery of the trusted Minister, Don Cæsar had then sprung forward and challenged him to fight, and in a few moments Don José had fallen, to rise no more.

Now when the young King thus learnt how nobly his honour had been upheld by the very man whose own good name he was seeking to destroy, he felt heartily ashamed of the unworthy part he had just played; and immediately relinquishing all pursuit of Maritana, he appointed Don Cæsar to the Governorship of the wealthy province of Valentia, as a mark of his gratitude and regard.

So the base designs of the unscrupulous Minister were at last brought to naught; and Don Cæsar de Bazan, restored to favour and a high position, retired with honour to Valentia to live in great happiness with his beautiful bride, Maritana.

LURLINE

Beneath the billows of the great Rhine River dwelt the King of the Water Spirits, Rhineberg the Powerful, for whom the gnomes of the under-world and the sea had gathered together wonderful treasures of gold and jewels, such as were not even dreamed of by mortals; and here in his palace of crystal and pearl he held a mighty sway.

It was a merry court he held; for his beautiful daughter, Lurline, the fairest of all the river nymphs, loved to dance upon the sparkling floors with her attendant nymphs, and to sing to the music of the flowing waves.

But at last there came a change, and Lurline was merry no longer. One evening, as the fair nymph rested upon the Lurlei-berg, a rock that jutted over a whirlpool, playing upon her harp and singing the thrilling song of enchantment with which she lured her mortal victims to destruction at the bidding of her powerful spirit father, a handsome young nobleman named Rudolph sailed by in an airy skiff; and as Lurline gazed upon the exquisite beauty of this youth, a passionate love for him grew up in her heart, and, dropping her harp just as her song had begun to enthral him, she could no longer bear to lure him to his doom.

After this she grew sad, and sighed for the Count Rudolph with every breath; and when the Rhine King knew that his daughter loved a mortal, he was filled with dismay and anger. Finding, however, that in spite of his reproaches Lurline could not forget the beautiful youth she had seen, he gave her permission to seek him out in his own home, hoping that she would quickly discover mortal love to be but a frail, unworthy thing, and would then renounce it; and the water maiden gladly availed herself of her father's permission, and went forth to seek her earthly lover.

Meanwhile, the young Count Rudolph was passing through a time of difficulty and trouble; for, having spent his wealth on the gay pleasures of youth, he had no longer the necessary means to keep up proper state in his ancient castle home. Thinking to mend his fortunes by making a wealthy marriage, he began to pay his addresses to Lady Ghiva, the daughter of an old Baron, whom he believed to be very rich, but who was in reality quite as poor as himself; and his court was acceptable to the haughty Ghiva, who had long cherished admiration and affection for the handsome youth, believing him also to be rich enough to satisfy all her wants.

When, however, at a festive ball given by the Baron in his honour, Rudolph laid his heart at her feet, but declared that he had no great wealth to offer her, the disappointed lady refused him with disdain, and Rudolph returned to his castle in chagrin. His merry companions, however, sought to cheer his drooping spirits with lively songs and revelry; but Rudolph found comfort from another source.

There suddenly came into his thoughts the memory of that evening, when, as he rowed himself in his skiff upon the Rhine, he had heard the thrilling, enticing voice of a water nymph; and as the words of her sweet song now came back to him, he began to sing them to his companions, who listened to him in delight.

But soon their delight was changed into dismay; for as the young Count sang the words of this strange sweet song, Lurline herself suddenly appeared in the banqueting hall, as though in answer to his call.

The lovely water nymph at once approached Rudolph, and began to weave a spell of enchantment over him; and having placed a magic ring upon his finger as a talisman against all danger, she disappeared as suddenly as she had come.

But her thrilling voice, singing to the accompaniment of a magic harp, could be heard calling from the river; and Rudolph, on recovering from the stupor into which he had been thrown, now became so violently enamoured of the beautiful nymph that he sprang from his seat and rushed down to the shore, following the sound of her luring song with ecstasy.

His friends, fearing that he was being enticed to destruction, endeavoured to check his impetuous course, and to hold him back from danger; but Rudolph, reckless of what lay before him, and intoxicated with the charm of the water maiden's irresistible song, flung all detaining hands from him, and plunged eagerly into the river. The waves of the Lurlei-berg whirlpool flowed over him, but were powerless to harm him, because of the magic ring he wore; and Lurline, full of joy, conveyed him to her own palace of corals, where they spent together a period of delirious happiness.

But one day Rudolph heard the voices of his old companions mourning his loss, as they sadly rowed overhead in their skiffs; and, longing to greet them once again, he begged the lovely Lurline to permit him to leave her for a few days, promising to return to her.

Lurline, though fearful of being parted from the mortal lover she adored, yet could not bear to cause him pain by refusing his request; so she gave her consent, declaring that she would await his return at the end of three days on the Lurlei-berg.

Rudolph now desired to take back with him some of the lavish wealth he saw around him; and Lurline, having been given the keys of her father's treasure-chambers during his temporary absence, took him therein to take his fill.

As it happened, Rhineberg returned at that moment, and was enraged on discovering what the lovers were about; but when Lurline pleaded for pardon he could not resist her sweet charm, and ended by giving Rudolph vast treasures to take back with him to his castle.

The young Count then departed; and on his arrival at his home the news of his altered fortunes quickly spread. The Baron and his daughter Ghiva were now very anxious to encourage the suitor they had formerly rejected; and to them Rudolph revealed the secret of his newly-acquired wealth, showing them the magic ring he had received from Lurline, and singing the praises of the lovely water nymph so rapturously that the Baron's daughter was quickly died with a consuming jealousy, and snatching the ring from his finger, furiously flung it into the midst of the river.

With the loss of the magic ring the spell of Lurline departed also; and Rudolph, forgetful of his love for the fair nymph, began to find pleasure in the advances made by the cunning Ghiva, and to engage in revellings and feastings once more.

In the meantime, fair Lurline sat upon the Lurlei-berg rock, singing her sweet love-songs as she patiently awaited the return of the mortal she adored; but when one day a slave-gnome of her father's brought to her the magic ring which she had given to Rudolph, and which had been now found in the river, she could not help but believe her lover to be faithless.

Filled with woe, and yet enraged that her love should have been slighted by a mortal, she resolved to seek out Rudolph once more, and to reproach him for his faithlessness.

Accordingly, she appeared at a splendid festival which was being held on the banks of the Rhine, in honour of the young Count's birthday; and, quickly approaching Rudolph, she began to pour bitter reproaches upon him for deserting her loving arms for the sake of his mortal companions, some of whom, she informed him, were even now plotting his assassination that they might seize his treasures.

Her wrath, however, vanished when Rudolph explained how his magic ring had been taken from him by force, and declared that he still loved her with his whole heart; for the magic charm of her sweet presence had once more enveloped the young Count, and he felt that her love alone could satisfy the longings of his heart.

Meanwhile, his false companions, as he had been warned by Lurline, were even now hatching a plot to murder him and seize his wealth; and their plans were overheard by the Lady Ghiva and her father, who quickly informed Rudolph of his danger, and besought him to save his life by instant flight.

But the young Count declared that he would rather die by the side of his beloved Lurline than fly as a coward; and, boldly drawing his sword, he met his enemies undaunted.

Then Lurline, knowing that her lover's life was in utmost danger, took up her harp, and sang a wild song of invocation to the Spirits of the Rhine, so that the noble river suddenly rose in a mighty flood, and immersed the would-be murderers.

When the waters had once more returned to their accustomed bounds, Rhineberg, the River King, appeared; and, to the great joy of the lovers, he now gave his gracious consent to their union.

Thus did Lurline, the lovely Daughter of the Rhine, secure her heart's desire; and as she gazed into the eyes of her mortal lover, she knew that she had not lived in vain, since she had gained the greatest of all treasures--the jewel of Love.

COLONEL CHABERT (_Oberst Chabert_)

It was summer-time in Paris; and late one night during the year 1817, lights still burned in the office of Derville, the famous lawyer, betokening that work was still proceeding in one spot of the gay city, in spite of the fact that thousands of pleasure-seekers paced the streets and filled the theatres, and that no reasonable person could possibly have the desire to be cooped up in a close room until midnight when the soft warm air of a June evening was to be enjoyed outside.

But Derville, the lawyer, was the fashion; and he had so many clients and so many interesting cases to conduct that his offices were often open until a late hour. Not that Derville himself was to be found there of an evening; for he was a young man, who, though clever and shrewd in his profession, yet desired to enjoy the good things of life and sought pleasure whilst he might. But his two clerks toiled on unceasingly, preparing deeds and documents against the return of their master at midnight, when they might retire to rest and Derville himself would take his turn, remaining up until early dawn to con the papers they had left for him.

Old Boucard, the elder clerk, would grumble now and again because of the late hours he was compelled to keep; but Godeschal, his companion, never complained, for he was an old soldier and afraid of no hardships. He was glad of the work to occupy his mind, after the troubles and vicissitudes he had been through as a sergeant in Napoleon's army.

Napoleon was now in exile at St Helena; but though peaceful days were at present his lot, Godeschal oft looked back with regret to the stirring past and sighed for the days when he had fought side by side with Chabert, his beloved Colonel. How he had loved Chabert; and how grief-stricken he had been when the brave Colonel had fallen at the battle of Eylau!

Nor was he alone in his grief--for when the news of Colonel Chabert's death was brought to Paris, there was general grief for the loss of so gallant a man; and his fair young wife, Rosine, became the chief object of sympathy in Parisian society, and, later on, its petted favourite.

In a very short time, however, Chabert was forgotten, and Rosine became the wife of the fascinating young Comte Ferraud, a peer of France. The pair had a deep love for one another; and when two children were born to them as the years went by, their happiness was complete.

And now, on this hot night in June, ten years after the battle of Eylau, their happiness was about to be shattered.

For Chabert was not dead, as had been believed; and he was even now entering Derville's office, with the object of proving his identity and claiming his wife. He had been struck down at Eylau, fearfully wounded, and after the battle his unconscious body had been taken up for dead and cast into a huge grave or charnel pit with the other slain; but later, on recovering consciousness and realising his awful position, he had managed by almost superhuman efforts to free himself. Then, as he lay on the top of the ground, he had been found by a poor peasant woman, who gave him shelter in her hut until his wounds were healed.

Better for him would it have been had he never effected so miraculous an escape from burial alive, for when at length, after many weary months, he went forth to tell his tale and seek assistance to return to his wife and home, no one would believe his story, and all laughed to scorn the idea that the gaunt, disfigured and ragged beggar before them could be the gallant Chabert, whom they knew to have been slain and buried at Eylau.

Stunned by the helplessness of his position, Chabert lost his senses for a time, and was locked up in a mad-house for declaring himself to be the dead Colonel; and then, finally securing his release by giving up his claim and calling himself instead Hyacinth the Beggar, he began to wander on foot through many towns and country wilds, frequently writing letters to his wife imploring her aid on his behalf, to none of which he received any reply.

Many further disasters fell upon him, for he was often imprisoned as a vagabond, since no one would believe his tale or give him help; but, at last, after ten years' weary wanderings, he earned sufficient money to enable him to make his way back to Paris--there to learn the despairing news that his beloved Rosine was now the happy wife of another man.

Though full of grief at this additional crushing blow, Chabert yet determined to establish his identity at all costs, and to claim his wife; and for this purpose he sought the assistance of the most famous lawyer in Paris.

Nearly a dozen times that day had he called at the offices of Derville, only to find the great man absent, or engaged; and when he finally appeared again as midnight was about to strike, old Boucard was highly indignant, and wished to deny him admission, since he did not approve of his wild and wretched looks and his beggarly garments.

Godeschal, however, was interested in the stranger, and bade him enter; and as the haggard client came forward with feverish eagerness, the ex-sergeant stared at him curiously, trying to chase some elusive recollection as to where he had seen those scarred and worn features before, since he felt sure the man was no stranger to him, though he could not yet place him in his book of memory. His musings, however, were cut short by the entrance of Derville, who sent both clerks into an adjoining room, and sat down at once to interview his strange client.

No sooner did the ragged late-comer declare himself to be the famous Chabert so long believed to be dead, than the young lawyer became intensely interested; for the beautiful Comtesse Rosine, the supposed widow of Chabert and the wife of Comte Ferraud, was also his client, and one of the most fascinating of his many lady admirers. He, therefore, invited the unhappy man before him to tell him his whole story; and by the time the heart-rending recital had come to an end, he felt entirely convinced that the stranger was indeed the Chabert who had been mourned as dead.

At this moment, Godeschal entered to inform his master that the Comtesse Rosine had unexpectedly arrived and desired an immediate interview; and upon hearing that his beloved one was about to enter the room, Chabert became violently agitated, forgetting, for the instant, that she was now the wife of another man, and only longing to clasp her in his arms.

Derville, however, though now more than ever satisfied as to the truth of the story which had been told to him, thrust Chabert into an adjoining chamber, bidding him to possess himself in patience a little while longer; and then he gave orders for the Comtesse to be admitted, at the same time scolding Godeschal for staring after the mysterious ragged stranger--for the old sergeant had started violently on hearing the raised voice of Chabert, and it had brought back to him a flood of recollections. Half dazed, he admitted the Comtesse Rosine, retiring from the room as she entered; and Derville turned readily to receive his beautiful client, kissing her hand with his usual charming courtesy and leading her to a seat.

That Rosine was agitated, he could easily perceive; and though she began her interview by an attempted flirtation with the handsome young lawyer, Derville skillfully evaded her advances and led her to relate her troubles to him.

He was not greatly surprised to learn that Chabert was the cause of her late visit; and he soon discovered that, though terrified, Rosine desired him to believe that she was merely annoyed by the threats of a blackmailer. She declared that an impostor calling himself Chabert had written to her many letters, in which he claimed to be her first husband who had had a wonderful escape from death and burial; and she added that this person had now come to Paris and begun to haunt her house.

Derville's quick brain instantly realised that the Comtesse secretly believed the so-called impostor to be indeed her first husband, since she had, doubtless, recognised his handwriting on the letters, but that she was determined to refuse to acknowledge his identity; and the truth of his surmise was instantly forthcoming, for Chabert, unable to restrain himself longer, now burst into the room, and seizing Rosine's trembling hands in his, greeted her as his wife in passionate tones of love.

Rosine turned deadly pale, and, thus taken unawares, unconsciously proved to the watchful Derville the identity of Chabert by her instant shrinking away from his embrace, and by the hoarse murmur of his name under her breath; but the next moment, full of despair at the thought of losing her beloved Ferraud, she passionately denounced him as an impostor and utterly repudiated the idea that she had ever beheld him before.

Chabert, crushed again by her unexpected denial of him, feverishly recounted to her all that he had done for her in the past--how he had found her, an orphaned, destitute young girl, on the banks of the Seine, about to drown herself; how he had saved her, and, loving her from the first, had married her; and how, until the time of his departure to the wars, he had loaded her with every kindness and sought nothing but her happiness.

To all this, Rosine still stubbornly refused to admit any confirmation whatever; but, in spite of her repudiation, undeniable proof of the stranger's identity was again accorded by the sudden entry of old Godeschal, who, full of emotion, flung himself at the feet of Chabert and tearfully addressed him as his beloved Colonel, whom he now completely recognised, in spite of his scars and haggard looks.

Finding herself thus defeated, Rosine uttered a distracted cry and rushed out of the office, determined to cling to her beloved Ferraud whilst she might; and when Chabert, now furious at her cruel denial of him, would have followed with intent to kill her, Derville held him back, and proceeded to calm his rage and to lay before him plans for his next action.

Meanwhile, Rosine reached her home, and passed a restless, anxious night, trying to seek a loophole from her terrible position. She dared not yet make any statement to Ferraud, without whose love she felt she could not exist; and next day, as she sat alone in one of the large palatial rooms of her beautiful home, she determined to make an appeal to Chabert himself to forego his claim, for she saw that he loved her still and selfishly thought that he might be willing to put her happiness before his own.

Elated by this idea, she was about to order her carriage and seek Chabert, when Derville entered the room, unannounced.

Rosine, though last evening willing enough to win to her side the handsome young lawyer by exercising her arts of fascination, now resented his intrusion; for she knew that he had never for an instant believed in her denial of Chabert's identity, that he even suspected her of further deceit, and she feared him accordingly.

Her fears were well-founded; for Derville declared that he had come to acquaint the Comte Ferraud with the fact of her first husband's existence. Once again, Rosine indignantly denied that his ragged client of last night was Chabert; but, next moment, she was completely nonplussed by Derville calmly accusing her of having received all the imploring letters which Chabert had sent to her during his wretched wanderings, and of even having been in possession of his first communication before her marriage with Ferraud took place.

Closely the lawyer watched the effect of his accusing words upon the white face of Rosine; then, seeking a proof from herself of the truth of his assertion, he added mercilessly: "I have proof of all this!"

Rosine fell into his trap at once; for, knowing that he spoke the truth, she quickly determined to purchase his silence by the offer of gold, and drawing from her writing-table a bag containing a thousand louis d'or, she entreated him to take it and leave her in peace.

But Derville was not to be bought; and he sternly bade the agitated woman to put back her gold, declaring that though he had held no proof before of his suspicions, she had herself now revealed to him the truth of his accusation by her foolish attempt to buy his silence.

The self-accused Rosine bowed her head in humiliation; but upon Ferraud's entry into the room at that moment, she still endeavoured to avert the blow she knew must fall.

Ferraud, young, handsome, and full of gaiety, had brought in flowers from the garden for his beloved wife, whom he greeted tenderly, at the same time extending a hearty greeting to Derville; but soon realising that something was wrong, he demanded an explanation. In reply, Derville, ignoring Rosine's imploring glances, asked for an interview; and as the two men retired into Ferraud's study and closed the door, the distracted wife listened outside, with her ear to the keyhole, for the words that should seal her doom.

She heard Derville relating the story of her first husband's return; and when the pair came out of the room, and the lawyer had departed to fetch Chabert, she hastened, sobbing, to Ferraud, who clasped her in his arms in a passionate embrace. To her joy, she found that Ferraud refused to believe the story he had been told; and the pair remained for a few happy minutes in their lovers' paradise, until interrupted by the return of Derville with Chabert and the faithful ex-sergeant, Godeschal, who refused to leave his newly-found and well-beloved Colonel, fearing lest some conspiracy might be made against his life.

Ferraud met the newcomers with dignity, and haughtily challenged Chabert to substantiate his claim to be the famous Colonel of whose death and burial definite reports had been received and believed; and upon Rosine again doggedly repudiating the fact that the changed man before them was indeed her first husband, old Godeschal sprang forward and furiously denounced the unhappy woman as a traitress, accusing her of having been in possession of Chabert's first letter announcing his escape before she was married to the Comte Ferraud.

Derville, out of pity for the harassed wife, had withheld the latter information from Ferraud, who was thunderstruck on hearing the terrible words of Godeschal; and seizing Rosine's hands in an agitated grip, he commanded her to answer on oath that the accusation was false. In vain Rosine, half-fainting, endeavoured to utter the words of denial that Ferraud longed to hear; but, conscience-stricken, she could not swear on oath that which she knew to be untrue, and, with bowed head, she now admitted that the returned stranger was indeed her first husband, Chabert, and that she had known him to be alive on the very day on which she had been married to Ferraud.

She entreated the latter to forgive her, since her deep love for him had been the reason for her guilty silence; but Ferraud, crushed by the blow which must lay his family honour and pride in the dust, and furious at the deception which had been practised upon him, flung the weeping Rosine into the arms of Chabert, announcing to the latter that he thus restored to him all that he had unwittingly robbed him of.

The wretched Rosine entreated him not to cast her off, again declaring her love for him; but Ferraud, though moved by her grief, rushed out into the open air, and Chabert and his despairing wife were left alone.

Rosine, half-dazed, remained silent for a long time; and then, on awakening to the full realisation of her awful position, she pleaded passionately to Chabert to resign his claim to her and to declare himself an impostor. Presently seeing her two children by Ferraud approaching, she called them in, fondling them with loving embraces, and, tearfully bewailing the dishonour that must fall upon their innocent heads should her own unhappy story become known, she entreated once more to be recognised as their father's wife.

Chabert was deeply moved at the sight of the pretty children; and Rosine, perceiving this, now used her last shaft and declared boldly that she had never loved him, but that her regard for him in the past had been merely gratitude for his kindness to her, and that the real love of her life had been given to Ferraud, the father of her children.

Entirely crushed by thus realising that his deep faithful love had never been returned, Chabert staggered from the room for a few moments to recover his senses; and Rosine seized the opportunity to take out from a secret drawer in her writing-desk a phial containing a deadly poison, determining to swallow it and die rather than be compelled to leave her beloved Ferraud.

Ere the poison reached her lips, however, Chabert returned, and seeing what she was about to do, snatched the phial from her trembling hand and thrust it into his breast pocket.

Rosine, baulked in her purpose, repeated again the cruel statement that she had never loved any man but Ferraud; and then taking her children by the hand, she hurried with them from the room.

Chabert, left alone, became a prey to the gloomiest thoughts; and, completely broken as he realised the fact that Rosine had never loved him, but that he must himself yet love her to the end of his days, he determined to go back to the oblivion of death and thus interfere with her happiness no more. Deliberately, he sat at the desk and wrote a note, in which he declared himself to be an impostor who had posed as Chabert for blackmailing purposes, but who was in reality merely Hyacinth the Beggar; and then, feeling for his pistol, he stepped out into the garden, cautiously hiding himself behind the bushes and keeping from the sight of the watchful Godeschal.

Meanwhile, Rosine had met with Ferraud once more, and had implored him again not to cast her off, but to keep her story from public knowledge for the sake of their children; but Ferraud, though deeply suffering himself, gently but firmly declared that his honour could only be satisfied by restoring to Chabert his rightful position.

Just then, a pistol shot rang out from the garden; and, fearing the worst, Derville and Godeschal, followed by Ferraud, hastened outside to look for Chabert, whose body they found amongst the bushes, slain by his own hand.

Reverently they bore the corpse into the house; and Rosine, horror-struck at the tragedy, was overcome with grief and remorse as she now realised that Chabert had died for love of her, and despairing because her own deceptions had alienated Ferraud's affections, she flung herself upon the prostrate body, and feeling for the phial of poison he had taken from her, swallowed the contents, before Ferraud could stay her hand.

Overcome with horror and grief, the Comte rushed forward to catch her swaying body as it fell; and Rosine, with Chabert's name on her lips, uttered a deep sigh and expired in his arms.

THE JEWELS OF THE MADONNA (_I Gioielli della Madonna_)

It was the day of the Festival of the Madonna; and all the pleasure-loving folk of Naples had turned out to enjoy the holiday in honour of the event, quite early in the day taking up their stands in the best vantage-grounds, in order to get a good view of the great Church Procession and to join in the wild Carnival fun.

In one of the public squares facing the sea, a more than usually merry crowd had collected, to the great delight and amusement of old Biaso, the Scribe, and to the annoyance of young Gennaro, the blacksmith.

Old Biaso had brought his pens and paper to a table outside his mean little hut; and here he plied a busy trade, since many of the pretty girls in the crowd gladly gave him commissions to write love-letters for them to their various sweethearts.

Young Gennaro, however, found the boisterous crowd far from his liking, since he had no intention of joining in the Carnival pranks, and only desired to pursue his usual daily work in peace and quietness, having many disturbing thoughts to occupy his mind on this particular day.

For Gennaro was in love; and the object of his adoration was a wild, wilful maiden, whose beauty and charm enthralled him to distraction, but who could not be persuaded to look upon him in any other light than that of a brother--and as a brother, moreover, whose prudence and restraining authority she scorned.

The lovely Maliella longed for excitement and light pleasures; and her high spirit resented the wise restraints imposed upon her by Gennaro and his worthy mother, Carmela, with whom she had lived since earliest childhood.

Only too well did Gennaro know this; and he was just now torn between his brotherly sense of duty in keeping the madcap girl from the temptations of frivolity, and his lover's longing to grant her every desire. The former had prevailed to-day, so far, his mother and he having determined to keep Maliella within doors, so that she might not be exposed to the careless licence of the Festival crowds; but as Gennaro plied his work outside the house, he knew that Carmela had her hands full in keeping the disappointed and angry girl occupied with the domestic tasks she abhorred. He was, therefore, more than usually irritated by the amusing cries of the street-venders and by the pandemonium that reigned supreme amongst the giddy holiday folk, who, however, cared nothing for the harassed looks of the pale youth who seemed so determined to work whilst they played.

In the distance, the church bells were ringing merrily, and the sound of singing proclaimed the fact that the great procession of the Madonna was already formed and parading the streets; and presently some gaily-decorated boats drew up to the quay and disembarked a number of pretty little boys decorated in festival clothes as Children of St. John, who were followed by little flower-girls garbed in white, all marching through the square to the accompaniment of musical instruments.

The appearance of the children gave greater animation than ever to the scene; and most of the merry-makers followed in their wake to join the approaching procession.

The square was thus left somewhat quieter for a short time; and Gennaro, at last overcome by his conflicting feelings, had just seized this opportunity of a peaceful moment to sink upon his knees beside the anvil and offer up a short prayer to the Virgin for guidance in his dilemma, when the beautiful Maliella herself impetuously burst forth from the house beyond, closely followed by the distracted Carmela, who held in her hand a comb with which she had been endeavouring to straighten the girl's untidy locks.

But Maliella was in a rebellious mood and refused to allow her guardian to make her neat and presentable if her fair looks were to be kept hidden from the appreciative eyes of the outside world. She had roughly broken away from Carmela's restraining hands, and now appeared in the square with disordered dress and her jet-black hair streaming over her shoulders, calling out passionately:--"No! No! You shall not make me look fair for the benefit of my mirror only! I am beautiful, and I long for love and pleasure! This is a Festival Day, and I mean to enjoy myself with all these merry folk! I will be held in no longer!"

Shocked and pained, Gennaro ran to expostulate with the wilful girl, only to receive fiery words of scorn in reply; and in spite of his and Carmela's entreaties, Maliella flitted here and there about the square, sticking on her head a paper cap dropped by one of the holiday-makers, and, spurred on in her rebellion by the encouraging cheers of old Biaso and the lively youths who had now returned to behold the approach of the procession, she struck a coquettish attitude and called out audaciously:--"Here am I, young and pretty, and longing for kisses! Who will oblige me?"

Instantly, there was a rush to seize the seductive and mischievous young beauty, all the youths being eager to accept her invitation; but Maliella merrily eluded them all and ran out of the square, only to be closely followed by her new admirers.

A band of Camorrists now appeared on the scene, headed by a handsome youth, Rafaele, their dashing leader; and quickly taking in the enticing situation, they joined in the pursuit of the fair truant.

Gennaro sought comfort from his shocked and dismayed mother, from whom he learnt that Maliella had been adopted when a foundling baby by Carmela as a mark of her gratitude to the Virgin for having preserved the life of her beloved son when laid low by some childish complaint; and bidding him think no more about the unruly girl, Carmela advised him instead to seek guidance by praying before the approaching statue of the Madonna.

No sooner had Gennaro departed to join in the procession than Maliella appeared in the square once more, closely pursued by the handsome Camorrist leader, Rafaele, whose ardent nature had been instantly magnetised by her unusual beauty, and who was already in love with the pleasure-seeking girl, whose tantalising elusiveness fanned his sudden passion at every turn.

Hoping to please their leader, the Camorrist followers began to dance in a circle around the pair, calling merrily upon the girl to redeem the invitation she had given; but Maliella, now somewhat alarmed by the situation in which her saucy audacity had placed her, still tried to escape from the inevitable embrace of the enamoured Rafaele, even though at the same time elated and pleased by the hot words of love and admiration which he poured upon her when at last, by a skillful manœuvre, he seized her in his arms. Then, ere the victorious youth had time to snatch the kiss he hungered for, Maliella pulled out a long, dagger-like pin from her hair, and dared him to the deed at his peril.

Not to be put off by such a threat, Rafaele boldly seized her round the waist, only to receive a sharp stab in the hand from Maliella's stiletto-pin. The girl's daring, however, but inflamed his passion the more; and after kissing the bleeding wound in his hand, he seized the opportunity of Maliella's hands being engaged in replacing the pin in her hair, to thrust a red rose into the loosened bodice of her gown.

Determined not to admit herself won, even though secretly responsive to the advances of the handsome youth, Maliella plucked out the flower and flung it to the ground; but the procession at that moment appearing in the square, she allowed Rafaele to help her on to a chair that she might get a better view of the dazzling spectacle.

Rafaele never ceased his pleading for her to heed his words of love and to return his passion; and incensed by her haughty scorn and seeming indifference, he cried out passionately as the Statue of the Madonna was borne by: "What, then, can one do to please you? Must one thieve and do evil to win a kindly glance, since protestations of love and good-will are naught to you? I will do any deed to satisfy you, if you will but name it--even to the committing of sacrilege! Would you wear the dazzling Jewels of the Madonna? I will snatch them from the passing statue now, if it will cause you to smile on me!"

But Maliella was now terrified at this outburst, and uttered a cry of horror at this last daring suggestion made by Rafaele, who, however, only laughed aloud at her alarm; and at this moment the girl was again accosted by Gennaro, who once more begged her to return to the house, and upbraided her for holding converse with the Camorrist leader, declaring him to be the most notorious law-breaker in Naples and not a fit companion for a young girl.

Still resenting his interference, Maliella pertly bade Gennaro mind his own business; and yielding herself more and more to the fascination of Rafaele, she now permitted the Camorrist leader to see that his attentions were pleasing to her. Her unmistakable coquetries and roguish glances stung the already jealous Gennaro to madness; and he would have fought with Rafaele then and there had not the return of the procession with the Madonna statue in its midst compelled him, with the entire crowd of merry-makers, to sink upon his knees in prayer.

As the procession passed on its way to the accompaniment of the Carnival rejoicings, Rafaele flung his red rose a second time at the feet of Maliella, who now picked it up, kissed it, and flashing a tender glance at the eagerly expectant Camorrist, fled into the house with a joyous laugh, followed quickly by the unhappy Gennaro.

Later on, as the three members of the household sat after supper in the back garden, Carmela, anxious for the peace of her home, endeavoured to persuade Maliella to retire to rest early in the evening, even though the festive sounds of the Carnival were still to be heard without; but neither Maliella nor Gennaro heeded her words, both keeping a sullen silence until Carmela, with a deep sigh, bade them good-night and retired to her own chamber.

No sooner had the elder woman departed than the two young people renewed their dispute; and Maliella, again crying out against the restraints of her life, declared she would endure such an existence no longer, but would run away that night and seek a home elsewhere.

The young blacksmith, half stupefied by this unexpected announcement, begged her to give him a farewell kiss; and when Maliella reluctantly offered him her cheek, he clasped her in his arms and passionately poured forth the tale of his own love and devotion for her. Maliella, utterly unable to regard Gennaro in any other light than that of a brotherly protector, repulsed him with laughing scorn and unbelief; but failing to prevent his further protestations and entreaties for reciprocation, she boldly declared her love for Rafaele, and when Gennaro, with jealousy raging at his heart, turned aside with disdain at the mention of the outlaw Camorrist's name, she passionately announced her preference for one whose love for her was so deep that he was even willing to risk his immortal soul by offering to steal the Jewels of the Madonna for her adornment.

Staggered at such a suggestion of sacrilege, Gennaro renewed his efforts to prevent the departure of Maliella, who now tried to escape from the garden; and after a fierce struggle, the girl was compelled to retreat, and ran up a little outside staircase to her room with a jaunty step and a carelessly defiant laugh.

Darkness had now fallen; and, left to his own devices, Gennaro gave himself up to the gloom and misery engendered by his unrequited love. Then, suddenly, one tempting thought began to seize hold of his imagination until his whole being became obsessed with the taunting suggestion.

Had not she expressed her admiration for one who would even commit sacrilege for her sake? The Camorrist, in spite of his boast, had not yet proved his audacity by committing the deed; then, why should not Gennaro himself steal the Jewels of the Madonna this very night, and by laying them at the feet of his adored one, win her love and admiration away from his rival?

In his present feverish state of mind, Gennaro was utterly unable to resist the temptation of this overwhelming thought; and crushing down his horror at the sacrilege he would thus commit, and thinking only of the joy of winning approbation from his beloved Maliella, the passion-racked youth staggered to his tool-chest, seized some files and other necessary implements, and made his way out from the garden by a seldom-used postern-door, which, however, he carefully locked behind him.

Almost immediately after Gennaro's departure, a band of the Camorrists appeared on the outside of the large, securely-fastened garden gate, headed by the dashing Rafaele, who had brought his companions thither to assist him in serenading his newly-found lady-love; and on hearing sounds of seductive music, Maliella presently appeared on the little staircase that led down from her chamber window. She was now clad in loose white garments, over which she had flung a scarlet shawl; and seeing who the serenaders were, she hastily ran down the stairs and made her way to the gate.

Rafaele greeted Maliella with rapturous delight; and his renewed protestations of love and his eager invitation for her to leave her present dull abode and join him in the haunts of the Camorrists were so enticing that she could no longer restrain the responsive chords in her own heart, and was overwhelmed with joy when her lover embraced her through the bars of the gate. The thought that Gennaro might be lurking near, however, filled her with alarm; and entreating Rafaele to depart at once and promising to visit him in the Camorrist abode on the morrow, she tore herself from his embrace.

As Rafaele withdrew with his companions, she stood for a moment as though in a reverie, still feeling the joyous thrill engendered by her lover's presence; then, hearing the sound of approaching steps, she turned hastily and cried out in alarm at the sight of Gennaro, who now stumbled into the garden through the little postern-door, his face white and haggard, and his whole appearance strangely wild.

On beholding Maliella, Gennaro's sunken eyes lighted up with passionate adoration; and approaching her with trembling, uncertain steps, and sinking upon his knees, he flung a bundle at her feet, murmuring brokenly: "For you! For you I did it!"

But Maliella sprang back, horror-struck; for the silvery moonlight showed her that the bundle contained the glittering Jewels of the Madonna!

Full of awe, she gazed upon the sparkling gems until she became fascinated by their rich colour and beauty; and whilst Gennaro poured forth the story of how he had broken into the church and secured the treasures, explaining that he believed the Madonna had already forgiven his sacrilege in consideration of his overwhelming love, the half-dazed girl mechanically began to array herself in the ornaments, placing the diadem on her head, and hanging the chains and bracelets upon her white neck and arms. The form of the kneeling Gennaro seemed to fade away from her sight altogether, and the glittering jewels conjured up before her mental vision the picture of her beloved Rafaele only; and, as in a trance, she began to murmur words of love, bidding her sweetheart admire her dazzling appearance, as though he were indeed at her side.

Gennaro, in his own over-wrought state of mind, now believed that the tender smiles and gentle love-phrases of the entranced girl were addressed to himself; and, full of joy that, as he imagined, his passion was at last returned, he clasped the jewel-decked form in his arms in a loving embrace.

Maliella, still under the strange spell of the mental vision of Rafaele which her vivid imagination and passionate desire had conjured up, yielded herself unresistingly to the mystical atmosphere of love which enveloped her senses; and as Gennaro, quite unsuspicious of her mistake, and almost mad with the unexpected joy of possession, held her in a close embrace, the half-dreaming girl, lost to her surroundings, uttered a deep sigh of unconscious content and swooned in his arms.

Meanwhile, Rafaele and his companions had returned to the meeting-place of the Camorrists; and here, in a lonely house on the outskirts of the city, a merry throng of outlaws had gathered to pass the remainder of the Festival night in an orgy of feasting, dancing and love-making.

On the entrance of the serenaders, a bevy of bold, pretty maidens surrounded the handsome Rafaele and endeavoured to win kisses and favours from him by their rival attentions; but, to their surprise and disappointment, the Camorrist leader was in no mood for their importunities, and instead of bestowing the eagerly-expected kisses, he chose instead to sing to them a happy love-song, in which he set before them the charms of his beautiful Maliella.

The Camorrist girls, piqued at his preference for a chance stranger, teased him unmercifully because he had not yet succeeded in carrying off his fair lady-love; but Rafaele, caring little for their spiteful taunts, bade them proceed with their revels, and noise and laughter soon reigned supreme.

Just as the hilarity was at its height, there came a sudden interruption; for, hearing a cry for help from without, Rafaele bade one of the revellers open the door. His command was instantly obeyed; and, to the astonishment of all, in rushed Maliella, still in her night attire and adorned with the Jewels of the Madonna.

On awakening from her swoon and finding herself in the arms of Gennaro, she had been filled with dismay on realising that she had, unwittingly, yielded herself to the passion of one suitor when her love was given to another; and, overcome with shame at this discovery, and still horrified at the recollection of the sacrilege which had been committed for her sake, she had struggled free from the detaining embrace of the young blacksmith, and, escaping from the garden, had hastened with all speed to seek protection and comfort from Rafaele.

So exhausted was the girl by her strong emotion and hasty flight, that, on finding herself at last in the presence of her real lover, she had only strength left to announce that she had fled from Gennaro who was even now following her, when she fell fainting to the floor; and as Rafaele bent over her in concern, he commanded a party of his companions to seek for Gennaro and bring him in, alive or dead.

Stung by the curious glances cast upon him by the saucy Camorrist maidens, Rafaele quickly succeeded in rousing Maliella; and upon his stern demand for an explanation of her present distraught condition, the unhappy girl was compelled to confess how she had, unconsciously, yielded herself to the passion of Gennaro whilst under the spell of her thoughts of Rafaele.

On hearing this strange story, derisive laughter arose on every side from the girls whose kisses the Camorrist leader had refused a short time before; and, stung to madness by their sneers and ridicule, and believing that he had been fooled purposely by Maliella, Rafaele spurned the wretched girl, thrusting her from him with such force that she fell to the ground, thus revealing more conspicuously the dazzling jewels she still wore.

At sight of the Madonna Jewels, and realising that an act of sacrilege had been committed, an awed silence fell upon the revellers; but on hearing the distant voice of the now approaching Gennaro as his pursuers chased him, Maliella declared that the Jewels had been stolen by him for her sake from the sacred statue.

Full of horror at such a deed, the women and most of the men fled from the house; and as Gennaro staggered in, closely pursued, Rafaele sprang forward to slay him, but suddenly recoiled again superstitiously from one whom he now believed to be accursed.

Maliella, distracted by the sin which had been committed for her sake, and full of despair because Rafaele now disdained her love, poured forth passionate words of reproach upon the wretched Gennaro; and snatching from her neck and arms the flashing Jewels of the Madonna, she flung them to the ground at his feet and rushed from the house, demented, crying wildly: "To the sea! To the sea!"

Rafaele and all the revellers had by this time left the house, shudderingly, as though it had been visited by the plague, for wild and lawless though they were, their superstitious beliefs still had power to fill them with terror because of the sacrilegious deed that had been committed; and Gennaro was thus left alone for the time being, though some of the bolder spirits amongst the Camorrists intended to return later to deal him his death-blow.

But Gennaro cared not whether he died by the hands of the Camorrists or not; for his whole being was now enveloped in horror for the deed of which he was guilty. Full of repentance and only longing for pardon, he crawled upon his knees towards a fresco figure of the Virgin which appeared upon one of the walls of the room, and prostrating himself before it, prayed earnestly for forgiveness.

A streak of rosy light from the rising sun at that moment pierced the gloomy twilight; and taking this as a miraculous sign sent to him in answer to his prayers as a token of the Madonna's forgiveness, Gennaro uttered a cry of thanksgiving.

Then, still not deeming himself worthy to live after his deed of sacrilege, and overwhelmed by the despairing hopelessness of his unhappy love passion, he seized a knife from a table close at hand and plunged it into his heart.

At this moment, some of the Camorrists, accompanied by an angry mob of the townsfolk who had just discovered the crime that had been committed, burst into the house to wreak their vengeance upon the committer of sacrilege; but one and all stopped suddenly upon the threshold and dropped their weapons in silence as they gazed upon the limp form of the unhappy Gennaro lying dead beside the scattered Jewels of the Madonna.

SHORT BIOGRAPHIES OF THE COMPOSERS

AUBER

DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT AUBER was born at Caen, Normandy, 29th January, 1782; died at Paris, 13th May, 1871. He was the son of a Paris print-seller, and was sent in early youth to acquire knowledge of business in London; and whilst in England he devoted himself assiduously to the study of music. On returning to Paris he began to compose operas; and with _La Bergère Châtelaine_ (1820), began a long and brilliant series of triumphs. His best-known operas are:--_Fra Diavolo_ (1830), _Les Diamants de la Couronne_ (1841), _Haydée_ (1847), _Manon Lescaut_ (1869), _Le Cheval de Bronze_ (1835), etc.

BALFE

MICHAEL WILLIAM BALFE was born at Dublin, 15th May, 1808; died at Rowney Abbey, 20th October, 1870. He displayed remarkable musical talent as a boy; and when only sixteen conducted the orchestra at Drury Lane Theatre. Later he studied music in Italy; and in 1845 he was made conductor of the Italian Opera, Covent Garden. He wrote a great many operas, the best known of which are:--_The Bohemian Girl_ (1843), _The Rose of Castile_ (1857), _Satanella_ (1858), _The Maid of Honour_ (1847), _Joan of Arc_ (1837), etc.

BEETHOVEN

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN, one of the greatest of musicians, was born at Bonn, 16th December, 1770; died 26th March, 1827. He was the son of a tenor singer in the service of the Elector of Cologne. His wonderful talent for music was early displayed and cultivated, and even in his eighth year he delighted all who heard him by his truly astonishing execution on the violin. He began to compose sonatas in his thirteenth year, and these promising signs of genius caused the Elector of Cologne to send him, in the character of his Court-Organist, to Vienna, to study composition under the instruction of Haydn, Schenk, and Albrechtsberger. Here, except for some few years spent in the new Court of the King of Westphalia, Beethoven passed the remainder of his life, latterly retiring to the village of Modlingen, near Vienna. Most of his principal works were composed after 1801. He did not hold musical offices, but devoted himself entirely to composition; and though at first he appeared as a pianoforte player, he afterwards withdrew entirely from the world, and lived in a solitude enhanced latterly by almost total deafness. Beethoven was essentially a composer of instrumental music, which received from his work an entirely new and original character, and he developed the symphonic art to a surprising boldness and breadth of form and outline, filling this in with a truly marvellous wealth of grand melody--the landmark of a completely new phase in the history of music. Beethoven only wrote one opera, _Fidelio_ (first entitled _Leonore_), and one sacred cantata, _The Mount of Olives_; but, original and beautiful as these are, they still show us that this great musician was at his greatest in his instrumental works, upon which his chief fame rests. Besides his noble symphonies and overtures, his quintettes, quartettes, and trios, for stringed instruments, his numerous sonatas, variations, and other pieces for the pianoforte, all show the great richness, power, and originality of his imagination. Beethoven died in the village of Modlingen on 26th March, 1827.

BELLINI

VINCENZO BELLINI was born in Catania, in Sicily, 3rd November, 1802; died at Puteux, near Paris, 24th September, 1835. He studied at the Conservatorium in Naples, and in 1833 went to Paris. He produced a number of operas, his style being chiefly founded on that of the then fashionable Rossini, but with the defects of that composer's florid work somewhat exaggerated. Rossini was, however, a good friend to the young Bellini, and gave him very valuable assistance and encouragement. Bellini's best known and most attractive operas are _La Sonnambula_ (La Scala, 1831), _Norma_ (26th December, 1831), and _I Puritani_ (1835); all of which are full of melodious airs, and have attained great popularity.

BENEDICT

SIR JULIUS BENEDICT was born at Stuttgart, 27th November, 1804; died 5th June, 1885. In his early years he studied with J. C. L. Abeille, and was also under Hummel at Weimar, where he was presented to Weber, who then took him entirely under his charge, treating him more as a son than as a pupil. At the age of nineteen years, he was appointed conductor of the Karnthnerthor Theatre in Vienna. From there he went to Italy, and was appointed Chef d'Orchestre at the San Carlos at Naples. Here he produced his first opera, _Giacinta ed Ernesto_ (1829). In 1835, he went to England, which country he made his home for the remainder of his life. Here his finest operas were written and produced, _The Brides of Venice_ being produced in 1843, and _The Crusaders_, 1846; and in 1836 he was made musical director of the Opera Buffa at the Lyceum Theatre. In 1850, he accompanied Jenny Lind to the United States, as director of her concerts. On his return in 1852, he was appointed conductor of the Harmonic Union. In 1862 he produced his popular opera, _The Lily of Killarney_, a musical version of Dion Boucicault's play, _The Colleen Bawn_. In 1871 he was knighted; and he died in England on 5th June, 1885. Besides his operas, Benedict also wrote some very charming cantatas, chief of which are _Undine_ (1860) and _Richard Cœur de Lion_ (1863); also _Graziella_ (1882), afterwards performed as an opera. He also wrote the oratorios, _St. Cecilia_ (1866) and _St. Peter_ (1870); and a number of other smaller musical pieces.

BIZET

ALEXANDER CÉSAR LEOPOLD BIZET (known as Georges) was born at Paris on 25th October 1838; died 3rd June, 1875. The son of a singing-master, he entered the Conservatoire at the age of nine years; and at the early age of nineteen gained the Grand Prix de Rome, and went to Italy to study. On returning to France, Bizet began to write operas, the first of which _Pêcheurs de Perles_ was produced at the Théâtre Lyrique in 1863. It was but coldly received, as were also _La Jolie Fille de Perth_ (1867), _Djamileh_ (1872) and _L'Arlésienne_, in spite of their unusual merits. In 1875 _Carmen_ was produced at the Opera Comique. This masterpiece quickly gained for Bizet world-wide fame, and placed him in the first rank of French composers. The Parisians, however, received the opera coldly; and it was not until eight years later, when it had been appraised everywhere else that they at last recognised its extraordinary charm and genius. _Carmen_ was the last work of Bizet; for, three months after its first production, just as success was within his grasp, the gifted composer was seized with sudden illness and died.

DONIZETTI

GAETANO DONIZETTI was born at Bergamo, Italy, 25th September, 1798; died there 8th April, 1848. His musical education was conducted at Bologna and Naples; and at first, at his father's wish, he devoted himself to church music, for which, however, he had no taste, and to evade which he entered the army. Whilst thus away from home, he wrote his first two operas, _Enrico di Borgogna_ and _Il Falegname de Livonia_, the latter of which was so successful that he left the army and devoted himself entirely to opera-writing. He wrote with great rapidity and ease, and produced no less than sixty operas. His style was founded on that of Rossini, and his flowing melodies have attained great popularity. After 1844, Donizetti's talent seemed to have utterly exhausted itself, and he began to suffer from melancholia, which finally developed into insanity. Donizetti's chief operas were: _The Daughter of the Regiment_ (1840), _La Favorita_ (1840), _Don Pasquale_ (1843), _Lucia di Lammermoor_ (1835), _L'Elisir d'Amore_ (1832), _Lucrezia Borgia_ (1834), _Linda de Chamouni_ (1842), etc.

FLOTOW

FRIEDRICH VON FLOTOW was born at Teutondorf, Mecklenburg-Schwerin, 26th April, 1812; died at Darmstadt, 23rd January, 1883. He received his musical education at Paris, where he early began to write operas. His first real success was scored with _Stradella_, produced at Hamburg in 1844. _Martha_ was produced in 1847, and quickly won the composer world-wide fame. It was produced in England at the Royal Italian Opera in 1858, and instantly obtained popularity with the English public. Flotow wrote several other operas, none of which are well known in England.

GOUNOD

CHARLES FRANÇOIS GOUNOD was born at Paris, 17th June, 1818; died there 18th October, 1893. He entered the Conservatoire in 1836, and took the Grand Prix de Rome in 1839. In Rome he was appointed Honorary Maestre di Capella for life. After several years of study, he produced his _Messe Solennelle in G_, some portions of which were brought out in London in 1851. He held in Paris, from 1852-60, the post of conductor of the _Orphéon_. He wrote operas from 1851. _Faust_ was produced at the Theatre Lyrique in 1859, and placed him at once in the first rank of his profession. Amongst his other best known operas are:--_Roméo et Juliette_ (1867), _Sapho_ (1851), _Philemon et Baucis_ (1860), _Cinq-Mars_ (1877), etc. In 1882 he produced an oratorio, _The Redemption_, at the Birmingham Musical Festival; and he also wrote much church music.

HALÈVY

JACQUES FRANÇOIS FROMENTAL HALÈVY was born in Paris, 27th May, 1799; died at Nice, 1862. Showing great musical ability in his early years, he entered the Conservatoire when only ten years old, and studied under Cavot, Berton, and Lambert, and for five years received lessons in counterpoint from Cherubini. He also studied for two years at Rome, and later became a popular teacher, numbering amongst his most celebrated pupils, Gounod and Bizet. He met with no important success until the year 1835, when he produced two operas:--_La Juive_, presented 23rd February, and _L'Eclair_, presented 16th December. _La Juive_ was an immediate success, and won for its composer a first place amongst French musicians. Fifteen years later, this opera was produced at Covent Garden, where it also met with great appreciation and success. _La Juive_ is the only one of Halèvy's operas that still enjoys European fame, though he wrote many others, the most worthy of mention being _La Reine de Chypre_ (1841), _Les Mousquetaires_ (1846), _Guido et Ginevra_, and _Le Val d'Andorre_.

HUMPERDINCK

ENGELBERT HUMPERDINCK was born 1st September, 1854, at Siegburg, in the Rhine Provinces. His musical education was received first at the Gymnasium of Paderborn, and afterwards at the Cologne Conservatoire, where he was entered in 1872. In 1876, he won the Mozart Stipendium, and proceeded to Munich. In 1879, he won the Mendelssohn Stiftung of Berlin; after which he visited Italy, where he made the acquaintance of Wagner at Naples, and became so friendly with the great composer that he afterwards helped him with the production of _Parsifal_ at Bayreuth. In 1881, he won the Meyerbeer prize of Berlin; and after having produced a number of compositions for the orchestra, he produced his masterpiece opera, _Hansel und Gretel_, the libretto of which was written by his sister, Adelheid Wette. This beautiful fairy opera was produced first at Weimar in 1894; and the first production of it in London was in 1895. It met with great success, and was followed in 1896 by the charming allegorical opera, _Die Königskinder_, and in 1902 by _Dornröschen_. In 1896, Humperdinck was created Professor by the Kaiser; and in 1905, his opera, _Die Heirath Wider Willen_, was produced at Berlin. He also wrote the incidental music for Maeterlinck's beautiful allegorical play, _The Blue Bird_. Humperdinck's operas are remarkable for the beauty and simplicity of their subjects, and for the exquisite delicacy of their musical treatment.

LEONCAVALLO

RUGGIERO LEONCAVALLO was born at Naples 8th March, 1858. He studied at the Neapolitan Conservatoire, and afterwards gave singing lessons and went through many hard struggles. His first opera, _Medici_, being part of a trilogy, _Crepusculinis_, was not produced until after _Pagliacci_ (produced at the Teatro dal Verme, Milan, 21st May, 1892) had won great success for him. _Medici_ was given in 1893, but proved unsuccessful, and the remaining portions of the trilogy, _Savonarola_ and _Cesare Borgia_, were not produced. The other operas that followed were: _Der Roland_ (1894); _Chatterton_ (1896); _La Bohème_ (1897); _Zaza_ (1900); but none of these have met with great success, his lighter work, such as _Zaza_ and _Pagliacci_, being in his happiest vein. Another opera, _Maia_, was produced at the Royal Opera House, Berlin, on 17th March, 1911.

MASCAGNI

PIETRO MASCAGNI was born at Leghorn, 7th December, 1863. His father intended him for the law, and discouraged his many efforts to learn music. The musical youth, however, entered himself secretly at the Instituto Luigi Cherubini, his chief instructor being Alfredo Soffredini. Later on an uncle adopted him; and he was then permitted to devote himself entirely to music, and was afterwards sent to Milan Conservatoire. Unable to bear the restrictions of the Conservatoire, however, Mascagni joined various travelling operatic companies as conductor, and for a time lived in great obscurity, from whence he emerged by the success of his brilliant one-act opera, _Cavalleria Rusticana_, which won the first prize in a competition, and was produced at the Costanzi Theatre, Rome, 18th May, 1890. This was received with overwhelming appreciation, and made its composer immediately famous. His next opera was _L'Amico Fritz_ (1891); after which followed:--_I Rantzan_ (1892); _Guglielino Ratcliff_ (1895); _Silvano_ (1895); _Zanetto_ (1896); _Iris_ (1898); _Le Maschère_ (1901); _Amica_ (1905); but none of these have fulfilled the brilliant promise of _Cavalleria Rusticana_, and have met with little success.

MEYERBEER

GIACOMO MEYERBEER was born at Berlin, 5th September, 1791; died at Paris, 2nd May, 1864. He was a pupil of Lauska, and also had lessons from Clementi. In 1815 he went to Italy to study musical composition, and there he began to write operas. He first took Rossini as his model, the best example of which was _Il Crociata_ (1824). In 1831 he struck out in a new style with _Robert le Diable_, produced at the Grand Opera, Paris. This beautiful and fantastic opera was received with the wildest enthusiasm, and quickly brought fame to the composer. His masterpiece was _Les Huguenots_ (1836) and his other best-known works are:--_Le Prophête_ (1849), _L'Etoile du Nord_ (1854), _Dinorah_ (1859), etc.

MOZART

WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART was born at Salzburg, Austria, on 27th January, 1756; died at Vienna, 5th December, 1791. He showed a precocious knowledge of music when but three or four years of age, and composed before he was six. His father, a musician also, guided his efforts, and from 1762-65 took the child to many European cities to exhibit his talents. In 1768 Mozart was made Concert-Meister at Salzburg; and here his first opera, _La Finta Semplice_, was produced, written when about twelve years old. In 1777 he went to Paris and other places, failing to obtain anything but empty applause; and in 1779 he returned to Salzburg as Cathedral organist. From 1781 he lived in Vienna, where he remained until his death. He reaped but little pecuniary benefit from his compositions, in spite of his great genius; and he was seldom free from the anxieties of poverty. In 1791 he received the famous commission from a mysterious stranger to write a _Requiem Mass_; and in enfeebled health he began it, declaring that it was for his own funeral. This was his last great work, and he died ere it was quite finished. There were no ceremonies at his grave, and he was buried in the common ground of St. Marx. Many years later a monument was erected to him by the city of Vienna. As an operatic writer, Mozart is considered by many to have no equal. His chief operas are:--_Le Nozze di Figaro_ (1786), _Don Giovanni_ (1787), _Idomeneo_ (1781), _Die Zauberflöte_ (1791), _La Clemenza di Tito_ (1791), _Così fan tutte_ (1790), etc. Besides the exquisite _Requiem_, he wrote many other Masses, and a great number of symphonies, sonatas, concertos, quartettes, etc. Very little of his music was published in his life-time.

NICOLAI

CARL OTTO EHRENFRIED NICOLAI was born at Königsberg, 9th June, 1810; died at Berlin, 11th May, 1849. He had an unhappy home life, but found a good friend in Justizrath Adler, of Stargard, who sent him to Berlin to study music. In 1833 he went to Rome as Organist to the Prussian Embassy Chapel, where he studied both the old and the modern masters. In 1841 he became Court Kapellmeister at Vienna, where in 1842 he established the Philharmonic Society. In 1844 he became Director of the Domcher and Court Kapellmeister of the Opera in Berlin. His chief operas were: _The Templar_ (1840), _Il Proscritto_ (1841), and _The Merry Wives of Windsor_ (1849). The latter met with a brilliant success, which, however, the composer did not long live to enjoy, as he died two months after its first production.

OFFENBACH

JACQUES OFFENBACH (originally Levy) was born 21st June, 1819, at Offenbach-on-Main, and was the son of the Jewish Cantor of the Synagogue at Cologne. Though of German birth, practically the whole of his life was spent in Paris, and he was a true Parisian at heart. When quite a youth, he was entered at the Conservatoire at Paris, studying in the violoncello class under Professor Vaslin. So quick was his progress, that he entered the orchestra of the Opéra Comique in 1834, where he played the 'cello; and in 1849, he was appointed conductor of the orchestra at the Théatre Français. In 1855, he opened the Bouffes-Parisiens Théatre; and having already written a number of comic light operas, many of these were produced at his own theatre. He became manager of the Théatre de la Gâité in 1872; and in 1877 he came to England, where he made a most successful tour. As a composer of light opera, Offenbach occupied on the Continent very much the same position as Gilbert and Sullivan in England, his works being extremely popular. From the long list of just over one hundred pieces of this kind for the stage may be mentioned the following of the best known in England:--_La Grande Duchesse de Gérolstein_ (1867), _Madame Favart_ (1878), _Orphée aux Enfers_ (1858), _La Princesse de Trébizonde_ (1870), _La Belle Hélène_ (1865), etc. So great was the popular demand for light opera, and so eager was Offenbach to meet the same, that, unfortunately, he only left behind him one serious work of art, _The Tales of Hoffmann_--a true work of genius, so full of beauty that one can only regret that it should have been his last. It was fitting, however, that his swan-song should prove his masterpiece. Offenbach himself knew that this was his worthiest work, and longed to see it produced; but, after completing the opera, he became ill, and died at Paris on 5th October, 1880, having failed to realise his great desire. The opera was produced the following year at the Opéra Comique, and proved an immense success. It was produced in England in 1907.

PUCCINI

GIACOMO PUCCINI was born at Lucca, 22nd June, 1858, and belongs to a family of well-known musicians. He studied first at Lucca, and afterwards at Milan Conservatoire, his chief teacher being Ponchielli. His first opera, _Le Villi_, was produced at the Teatro dal Verme, Milan, 31st May, 1884, with such success that it was afterwards revised and enlarged, and produced at La Scala, 24th January, 1885. His next opera, _Edgar_, was produced at La Scala, 1889. _Manon Lescaut_, produced at the Teatro Regio, Turin, showed considerable development; and with the production of _La Bohème_ (Teatro Regio, Turin, 1896), he was placed at once in the first rank of modern composers. His next opera, _Tosca_ (1900), met with equal success. _Madame Butterfly_ (La Scala, Milan, 1904) is undoubtedly the finest work Puccini has yet produced; yet when first given, for some unaccountable reason, it was not well received. But on its second appearance at Brescia, it was received with the greatest applause, and has also been enthusiastically welcomed wherever it has been produced, being now, together with _La Bohème_, a universal European favourite. His American opera, _The Girl of the Golden West_, was first produced in New York during 1911, and proved a great success.

ROSSINI

GIOACCHINO ANTONIO ROSSINI was born at Pesaro, in Italy, 29th February, 1792, of very humble parents, his father being the town trumpeter. As a child, he showed such great aptitude for music that, in spite of the troubles and poverty of his parents, an excellent teacher was found for him in Tesei. He was taught to sing the solos in church, and at the age of thirteen years was given an appointment as a singer at the theatre. In 1806 he entered the Conservatoire at Bologna, under Mattei; and here his progress was so rapid that he took a prize for a cantata after his first year. In 1810 he began to write operas, of which he produced no less than fifty within twenty-six years. He went to London in 1823, and sang in a series of concerts. He then went to Paris, where he remained until his death. He wrote nothing further after 1836; and having at that early period of his career gained great fame and wealth, he devoted the remainder of his life to luxurious living. Rossini's florid, but melodious, style of operatic composition remained the standard model for Italian opera for a great number of years. His most celebrated operas were: _Tancredi_ (1813), _The Barber of Seville_ (1815), _Semiramide_ (1823), and _William Tell_ (1829). He also wrote the famous oratorio, _Moses in Egypt_, which has also been performed as an opera; and in 1842 his _Stabat Mater_ was produced. He died 13th November, 1868.

STRAUSS

RICHARD STRAUSS was born 11th June, 1864, at Munich. He showed great musical talent from the earliest years, having composed several pieces before leaving school. In 1882, he studied composition with the Court Kapellmeister, composing almost ceaselessly string quartettes, symphonies and overtures, most of which were performed and received as promising productions. He was at the University during 1882-3, and in 1885 began to conduct, being appointed musical director at Meiningen, proceeding to the Munich Court Theatre in 1886. He was next appointed musical director at Weimar in 1890, and became Court Kapellmeister at the Berlin Opera House in the same year. He travelled in Italy during 1885. His first opera, _Guntran_, was produced at Weimar on 12th May, 1894; and in the same year he became Count Kapellmeister at Munich, again occupying the same position at Berlin in 1899. He undertook a number of tours, and in 1897 visited London, where a "Strauss Festival" was held in St. James's Hall, June, 1903. Strauss continued to produce more and more important works, consisting of symphonies, sonatas, tone-poems, and many songs, choral and orchestral pieces, all of which proved his great gift for musical composition and paved the way for the remarkable operatic works which were to follow. He always had a great admiration for Wagner, whose successor he wished to be regarded as; and in his next opera, _Fuersnot_, produced at Dresden in November, 1901, this was indicated very plainly. His remarkable opera, _Salome_, based on Oscar Wilde's drama, was produced at Dresden, 9th December, 1905, and created a great sensation, placing Strauss at once in the front rank of operatic composers. This was followed by _Elektra_--by many regarded as his finest work--produced at Dresden in 1909, and at Covent Garden, London, in 1910, and _Der Rosenkavalier_, produced at the Royal Opera House, Dresden, 26th January, 1911, and in London, January, 1913--both of which have added to the now world-wide reputation and appreciation of this highly-gifted composer.

His latest work, _Ariadne au Naxos_--a clever "freak" opera written as an incidental musical interlude to Molière's _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_--was produced in London at His Majesty's Theatre, on 27th May, 1913, having been heard previously at Stuttgart in October, 1912.

AMBROISE THOMAS

CHARLES AMBROISE THOMAS was born at Metz, 5th August, 1811; died at Paris, 12th February, 1896. Born of musical parents, he entered the Paris Conservatoire at the age of seventeen, becoming director of that institute in 1871. In 1832 he won the Grand Prix de Rome; and whilst studying in Italy was very active as a composer. On his return from Rome he began to write operas, the first of which, _La Double Echelle_, produced at the Opéra Comique in 1837, met with considerable success. Others followed; and with _Le Caid_ (1849) and _Le Songe d'une Nuit d'été_ (1850), his name was finally established, and gained him a high place amongst French composers. The operas that followed met with little success; but in _Mignon_, produced at the Opéra Comique in 1866, the musical world recognised a masterpiece, and paid enthusiastic tribute to the genius of its composer. Other operas by Ambroise Thomas are:--_Hamlet_ (1868), _Le Cardinal de Venise_ (1857), _Raymond_ (1851), etc.

TSCHAIKOVSKY

PETER ILJTSCH TSCHAIKOVSKY was born in Wotkinsk, 7th May, 1840; died at St. Petersburg, 5th November, 1905. He early showed his bent for music, and though trained for the law, abandoned that profession, and, determining to study music alone, entered the Conservatoire at St. Petersburg, where he studied with Anton Rubinstein and Saremba. After studying three years in St. Petersburg, Tschaikovsky was appointed a teacher at the new Moscow Conservetorium, established by Nicholas Rubinstein, where he produced a number of orchestral works and three operas. His first opera, _The Voïevoda_, produced in Moscow in 1869, was a failure; and of the list of eleven operas which he produced, but a few retained lasting popularity, with the exception of _Vakoula the Blacksmith_, and _Eugene Onegin_. The latter is the most famous of all his works, and is still extremely popular in Russia, being full of delightful melodies. _Eugene Onegin_ was first produced in Moscow in 1879. Amongst his other operas are _The Enchantress_, _The Queen of Spades_; _Joan of Arc_, _Mazeppa_, _Iolanthe_, _Undine_, _The Oprichinki_. Besides these, Tschaikovsky wrote a great number of brilliant orchestral works, deservedly popular throughout Europe, being noted for their fine tone-colouring, spirit, and beauty of melody: amongst the most celebrated of these being the rich _Overture_ "1812," composed in memory of Nicholas Rubinstein, the _Fifth Symphony_ and the _Sixth Symphony_, _The Pathètique_.

VERDI

GIUSEPPE VERDI was born at Rancola, in the Duchy of Parma, Italy, 10th October, 1813; died at Busseto, in January, 1901. He received his musical education at Busseto and Milan. He was appointed organist at Rancola at the age of ten years; and when but twenty years old he became Director of the Philharmonic Society at Busseto. He settled in Milan in 1838, and there his first opera, _Oberto di San Bonifazio_, was produced at La Scala in 1839. The opera that first brought him European fame was _Ernani_ (1844). _Rigoletto_ was produced in 1851, and _Il Trovatore_ in 1853; and these two operas, through all changes of taste and style, still continue to hold their own in popular favour. He wrote many other operas, the best known of which are: _La Traviata_ (1853), _Aïda_ (1871), _Othello_ (1877), _Macbeth_ (1847), _Falstaff_ (1893), _I Lombardi_ (1843), _Un Ballo in Maschera_ (1859), _Simon Boccanegra_ (1857), _Les Vespres Siciliennes_ (1855), etc. His other works include a _Requiem Mass_ (1847), and other sacred compositions, etc.

WAGNER

RICHARD WAGNER was born at Leipzig on 22nd May, 1813; died at Venice, 13th February, 1883. He was educated at Dresden and Leipzig, where he also studied music. Poetry was a passion with him as a boy; and verse and play-writing occupied his mind until a great enthusiasm for Beethoven turned it into a musical direction. He was Musical Director at the Magdeburg Theatre from 1834-36, Conductor at Königsberg in 1836, Music Director at Riga in 1837-39, and lived in Paris in 1839-42, where he struggled in vain to obtain a footing. His opera _Rienzi_ was produced at Dresden in 1842 with a success which obtained for him the post of Kapellmeister at the opera-house there. _The Flying Dutchman_ was produced the following year at Dresden, and marked a new epoch in his artistic history. _Tannhäuser_, the first of his creations from the German myth-world, was also produced at Dresden in 1845. After this he got into pecuniary difficulties; and his sympathies also being with the revolutionary movement of 1849, he was proscribed, and escaped to Paris. By the efforts of Liszt, _Lohengrin_ was produced in 1850 at Weimar. After ten years of exile, Wagner was pardoned, and took up his residence at Munich, where King Ludwig of Bavaria became his enthusiastic and generous patron. _Tristan and Isolda_ was produced at Munich in 1865; and this genuine music-drama marked a new epoch in operatic art. _Die Meistersinger_ followed in 1868. Wagner was now world-famous, and his colossal genius began to receive the support it deserved. In 1872 his own great theatre at Bayreuth was founded; and upon its completion in 1876, his noble tetralogy, _Der Ring des Nibelungen_ was produced there. His last dramatic effort and crowning achievement, _Parsifal_, was produced at Bayreuth in 1882. Wagner's early years were full of struggle, opposition, and strife; but through all his disappointments he clung firmly to the new and great ideals of art he had formed, and in the end he conquered, his latter years being crowned with success and enthusiastic appreciation.

WALLACE

WILLIAM VINCENT WALLACE was born at Waterford, Ireland, 1st July, 1814; died at the château of Bayen, in the Haute-Garonne, France, 12th October, 1865. His father, a bandmaster, gave him his first instructions; and at an early age he could play most military instruments, besides being very proficient on the violin. At the age of fifteen he became Director of the Philharmonic Society in Dublin. In 1835 he set forth on a professional tour through Australia, New Zealand, India, South America, and the United States, meeting with enormous success as composer and performer. He was Director of Music at the Italian Theatre, Mexico, 1841-42. In 1845 _Maritana_ was produced in London, and shares with Balfe's _Bohemian Girl_ the highest popularity of any lyrical drama. Other well-known operas of Wallace's are: _Lurline_ (1860), _The Amber Witch_ (1861), _Matilda of Hungary_ (1847), _The Desert Flower_ (1863), etc.

VON WALTERSHAUSEN

HERMANN WOLFGANG VON WALTERSHAUSEN was born in Göttingen in 1882, and was the son of a Strasburg Professor of National Economics, A. Sartorius von Waltershausen, being descended from a well-known Göttingen family of scientists. He was the pupil of I. Erb, in Strasburg, Elsass, and Ludwig Thuille, afterwards passing to the University of Munich, where he studied in particular the History of Art and also made a special study of the characteristics of the German peoples. His first musical work was the unpublished music-drama, _Pelegrino_, and his second effort was _Else Klapperzehen_, a musical comedy dealing with a farcical subject taken from the German Middle Ages, and which was produced in May, 1909, by Ernst von Schuch at the Court Theatre, Munich, with success. His third work, the musical tragedy, _Oberst Chabert_, was given under the conductorship of Hans Schilling-Ziemssens Leitung, 18th January, 1912, and, being immediately successful, found its way very quickly into all the more important theatres. In addition to these works, Herr von Waltershausen has also written purely literary works, amongst others the Festival Play, _Die Abschiedssyphonie_, produced in Munich in 1908, the comedy in verse, _Heidhart Fuchs von Reuenthal_, as well as portions of a translation of Horace in very modern form. Herr von Waltershausen resides in Munich.

WOLF-FERRARI

ERMANNI WOLF-FERRARI was born 12th January, 1876, at Venice. He studied under Rheinberge at Munich from 1893 to 1895; and in 1902 he was appointed Director of the Liceo Benedetto Marcello in Venice, from which position he resigned in 1909, as he desired to live in Germany. He produced his first opera, _La Sulamita_, at Venice in 1889 before he went to Munich, this work being the result of his own self-teaching. Other operas followed: _Cenerentola_, produced at Venice in 1902; _Le Donne Curiose_, in 1903, this latter opera having been recently produced with success in America. His fine cantata, _La Vita Nuova_, dealing with the subject of Dante and Beatrice, was brought out in 1903. A light opera, _The Secret of Susanna_, followed this, and was produced in England in 1911; and his dramatic opera, _The Jewels of the Madonna_, was given in England during the summer of 1912.

ALPHABETICAL LIST OF OPERAS

OPERA COMPOSER PAGE

Aïda Verdi 377

Barber of Seville, The (_Il Barbiere di Seviglia_) Rossini 282

Bohème, La Puccini 255

Bohemian Girl, The Balfe 14

Carmen Bizet 62

Cavalleria Rusticana (_Rustic Chivalry_) Mascagni 165

Chabert, Colonel (_Oberst Chabert_) Waltershausen 513

Daughter of the Regiment, The (_La Figlia del Reggimento_) Donizetti 87

Don Juan (_Don Giovanni_) Mozart 217

Elektra Strauss 301

Ernani Verdi 328

Eugene Onegin Tschaikovsky 318

Faust Gounod 105

Fidelio Beethoven 28

Figaro, The Marriage of (_Le Nozze di Figaro_) Mozart 206

Flying Dutchman, The (_Der Fliegende Holländer_) Wagner 397

Fra Diavolo Auber 1

Huguenots, The (_Les Huguenots_) Meyerbeer 180

Jewels of the Madonna, The (_I Gioielli della Madonna_) Wolf-Ferrari 524

Jewess, The (_La Juive_) Halèvy 135

Königskinder, Die (_The Kingly Children_) Humperdinck 143

Lily of Killarney, The Benedict 52

Lohengrin Wagner 418

Lucia di Lammermoor Donizetti 80

Lucrezia Borgia Donizetti 73

Lurline Wallace 508

Madam Butterfly Puccini 270

Manon Lescaut Puccini 247

Maritana Wallace 495

Martha Flotow 95

Masked Ball, The (_Un Ballo in Maschera_) Verdi 370

Mastersingers of Nuremberg, The (_Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg_) Wagner 438

Merry Wives of Windsor, The Nicolai 229

Mignon Thomas 307

Othello Verdi 390

Pagliacci, (_The Mountebanks_) Leoncavallo 158

Parsifal Wagner 480

Philemon and Baucis Gounod 115

Puritani, I Bellini 46

Robert the Devil (_Robert le Diable_) Meyerbeer 171

Romeo and Juliet Gounod 125

Rosenkavalier, Der (_The Rose-Bearer_) Strauss 289

Rhinegold, The (_Das Rheingold_)--Part I. of "The Nibelungs' Ring" (_Der Ring der Nibelungen_) Wagner 449

Rigoletto Verdi 337

Siegfried--Part III. of "The Nibelungs' Ring" (_Der Ring der Nibelungen_) Wagner 464

Sonnambula, La Bellini 38

Star of the North, The (_L'Etoile du Nord_) Meyerbeer 192

Tales of Hoffmann, The (_Les Contes d'Hoffmann_) Offenbach 238

Tannhäuser Wagner 406

Traviata, La Verdi 361

Tristan and Isolda Wagner 429

Trovatore, Il, or, The Gipsy's Vengeance (_The Troubadour_) Verdi 348

Twilight of the Gods, The (_Die Götterdämmerung_)--Part IV. of "The Nibelungs' Ring" (_Der Ring der Nibelungen_) Wagner 472

Valkyrie, The (_Die Walküre_)--Part II. of "The Nibelungs' Ring" (_Der Ring der Nibelungen_) Wagner 455

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE NORTHUMBERLAND PRESS LIMITED, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used has been kept.

Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.

The Italian title of Verdi's opera "The Masked Ball" has been changed to "Un Ballo in Maschera", which is the correct Italian title of the opera.

The correct name of one of the characters of Donizetti's opera "Lucrezia Borgia" is Gennaro and not Genarro as was printed in the book. It has been changed. The modification makes the spelling consistent with the one from the opera "The Jewels of the Madonna," which is also described in the book.

The book cover was modified by the Transcriber and has been added to the public domain.