Act II has its scene laid in the ducal palace. This salon has large

folding doors in the background and smaller ones on each side, above which are portraits of the _Duke_ and of the Duchess, a lady who, whether from a sense of delicacy or merely to serve the convenience of the stage, does not otherwise appear in the opera.

The _Duke_ is disconsolate. He has returned to _Rigoletto's_ house, found it empty. The bird had flown. The scamp mourns his loss--in affecting language and music, "Parmi veder le lagrime" (Fair maid, each tear of mine that flows).

In a capital chorus he is told by _Marullo_ and the others that they have abducted _Rigoletto's_ inamorata.

[Music: Scorrendo uniti remota via]

The _Duke_ well knows that she is the very one whose charms are the latest that have enraptured him. "Possente amor mi chiama" (To her I love with rapture).

He learns from the courtiers that they have brought her to the palace. He hastens to her, "to console her," in his own way. It is at this moment _Rigoletto_ enters. He knows his daughter is in the palace. He has come to search for her. Aware that he is in the presence of those who took advantage of him and thus secured his aid in the abduction of the night before, he yet, in order to accomplish his purpose, must appear light-hearted, question craftily, and be diplomatic, although at times he cannot prevent his real feelings breaking through. It is the ability of Verdi to give expression to such varied emotions which make this scene one of the most significant in his operas. It is dominated by an orchestral motive, that of the clown who jests while his heart is breaking.

[Music: La rà, la rà, la la, la rà, la rà, la rà, la rà etc.]

Finally he turns upon the crowd that taunts him, hurls invective upon them; and, when a door opens and _Gilda_, whose story can be read in her aspect of despair, rushes into his arms, he orders the courtiers out of sight with a sense of outrage so justified that, in spite of the flippant words with which they comment upon his command, they obey it.

Father and daughter are alone. She tells him her story--of the handsome youth, who followed her from church--"Tutte le feste al tempio" (One very festal morning).

Then follows her account of their meeting, his pretence that he was a poor student, when, in reality, he was the _Duke_--to whose chamber she was borne after her abduction. It is from there she has just come. Her father strives to comfort her--"Piangi, fanciulla" (Weep, my child).

At this moment he is again reminded of the curse pronounced upon him by the father whose grief with him had been but the subject of ribald jest. _Count Monterone_, between guards, is conducted through the apartment to the prison where he is to be executed for denouncing the _Duke_. Then _Rigoletto_ vows vengeance upon the betrayer of _Gilda_.

But such is the fascination which the _Duke_ exerts over women that _Gilda_, fearing for the life of her despoiler, pleads with her father to "pardon him, as we ourselves the pardon of heaven hope to gain," adding, in an aside, "I dare not say how much I love him."

It was a corrupt, carefree age. Victor Hugo created a debonair character--a libertine who took life lightly and flitted from pleasure to pleasure. And so Verdi lets him flit from tune to tune--gay, melodious, sentimental. There still are plenty of men like the _Duke_, and plenty of women like _Gilda_ to love them; and other women, be it recalled, as discreet as the Duchess, who does not appear in this opera save as a portrait on the wall, from which she calmly looks down upon a jester invoking vengeance upon her husband, because of the wrong he has done the girl, who weeps on the breast of her hunchback father.

To Act III might be given as a sub-title, "The Fool's Revenge," the title of Tom Taylor's adaptation into English of Victor Hugo's play. The scene shows a desolate spot on the banks of the Mincio. On the right, with its front to the audience, is a house two stories high, in a very dilapidated state, but still used as an inn. The doors and walls are so full of crevices that whatever is going on within can be seen from without. In front are the road and the river; in the distance is the city of Mantua. It is night.

The house is that of _Sparafucile_. With him lives his sister, _Maddalena_, a handsome young gypsy woman, who lures men to the inn, there to be robbed--or killed, if there is more money to be had for murder than for robbery. _Sparafucile_ is seen within, cleaning his belt and sharpening his sword.

Outside are _Rigoletto_ and _Gilda_. She cannot banish the image of her despoiler from her heart. Hither the hunchback has brought her to prove to her the faithlessness of the _Duke_. She sees him in the garb of a soldier coming along the city wall. He descends, enters the inn, and calls for wine and a room for the night. Shuffling a pack of cards, which he finds on the table, and pouring out the wine, he sings of woman. This is the famous "La donna è mobile" (Fickle is woman fair).

[Music:

La donna è mobile Qual piuma al vento,]

It has been highly praised and violently criticized; and usually gets as many encores as the singer cares to give. As for the criticisms, the cadenzas so ostentatiously introduced by singers for the sake of catching applause, are no more Verdi's than is the high C in "Il Trovatore." The song is perfectly in keeping with the _Duke's_ character. It has grace, verve, and buoyancy; and, what is an essential point in the development of the action from this point on, it is easily remembered. In any event I am glad that among my operatic experiences I can count having heard "La donna è mobile" sung by such great artists as Campanini, Caruso, and Bonci, the last two upon their first appearances in the rôle in this country.

At a signal from _Sparafucile_, _Maddalena_ joins the _Duke_. He presses his love upon her. With professional coyness she pretends to repulse him. This leads to the quartet, with its dramatic interpretation of the different emotions of the four participants. The _Duke_ is gallantly urgent and pleading: "Bella figlia dell'amore" (Fairest daughter of the graces).

[Music]

_Maddalena_ laughingly resists his advances: "I am proof, my gentle wooer, 'gainst your vain and empty nothings."

[Music]

_Gilda_ is moved to despair: "Ah, thus to me of love he spoke."

[Music]

_Rigoletto_ mutters of vengeance.

It is the _Duke_ who begins the quartet; _Maddalena_ who first joins in by coyly mocking him; _Gilda_ whose voice next falls upon the night with despairing accents; _Rigoletto_ whose threats of vengeance then are heard. With the return of the theme, after the first cadence, the varied elements are combined.

They continue so to the end. _Gilda's_ voice, in brief cries of grief, rising twice to effective climaxes, then becoming even more poignant through the syncopation of the rhythm.

Rising to a beautiful and highly dramatic climax, the quartet ends pianissimo.

This quartet usually is sung as the pièce de résistance of the opera, and is supposed to be the great event of the performance. I cannot recall a representation of the work with Nilsson and Campanini in which this was not the case, and it was so at the Manhattan when "Rigoletto" was sung there by Melba and Bonci. But at the Metropolitan, since Caruso's advent, "Rigoletto" has become a "Caruso opera," and the stress is laid on "La donna è mobile," for which numerous encores are demanded, while with the quartet, the encore is deliberately side-stepped--a most interesting process for the initiated to watch.

After the quartet, _Sparafucile_ comes out and receives from _Rigoletto_ half of his fee to murder the _Duke_, the balance to be paid when the body, in a sack, is delivered to the hunchback. _Sparafucile_ offers to throw the sack into the river, but that does not suit the fool's desire for revenge. He wants the grim satisfaction of doing so himself. Satisfied that _Gilda_ has seen enough of the _Duke's_ perfidy, he sends her home, where, for safety, she is to don male attire and start on the way to Verona, where he will join her. He himself also goes out.

A storm now gathers. There are flashes of lightning; distant rumblings of thunder. The wind moans. (Indicated by the chorus, _à bouche fermée_, behind the scenes.) The _Duke_ has gone to his room, after whispering a few words to _Maddalena_. He lays down his hat and sword, throws himself on the bed, sings a few snatches of "La donna è mobile," and in a short time falls asleep. _Maddalena_, below, stands by the table. _Sparafucile_ finishes the contents of the bottle left by the _Duke_. Both remain silent for awhile.

_Maddalena_, fascinated by the _Duke_, begins to plead for his life. The storm is now at its height. Lightning plays vividly across the sky, thunder crashes, wind howls, rain falls in torrents. Through this uproar of the elements, to which night adds its terrors, comes _Gilda_, drawn as by a magnet to the spot where she knows her false lover to be. Through the crevices in the wall of the house she can hear _Maddalena_ pleading with _Sparafucile_ to spare the _Duke's_ life. "Kill the hunchback," she counsels, "when he comes with the balance of the money." But there is honour even among assassins as among thieves. The bravo will not betray a customer.

_Maddalena_ pleads yet more urgently. Well--_Sparafucile_ will give the handsome youth one desperate chance for life: Should any other man arrive at the inn before midnight, that man will he kill and put in the sack to be thrown into the river, in place of _Maddalena's_ temporary favourite. A clock strikes the half-hour. _Gilda_ is in male attire. She determines to save the _Duke's_ life--to sacrifice hers for his. She knocks. There is a moment of surprised suspense within. Then everything is made ready. _Maddalena_ opens the door, and runs forward to close the outer one. _Gilda_ enters. For a moment one senses her form in the darkness. A half-stifled outcry. Then all is buried in silence and gloom.

The storm is abating. The rain has ceased; the lightning become fitful, the thunder distant and intermittent. _Rigoletto_ returns. "At last the hour of my vengeance is nigh." A bell tolls midnight. He knocks at the door. _Sparafucile_ brings out the sack, receives the balance of his money, and retires into the house. "This sack his winding sheet!" exclaims the hunchback, as he gloats over it. The night has cleared. He must hurry and throw it into the river.

Out of the second story of the house and on to the wall steps the figure of a man and proceeds along the wall toward the city. _Rigoletto_ starts to drag the sack with the body toward the stream. Lightly upon the night fall the notes of a familiar voice singing:

La donna è mobile Qual piuma al vento; Muta d'accento, E di pensiero.

(Fickle is woman fair, Like feather wafted; Changeable ever, Constant, ah, never.)

It is the _Duke_. Furiously the hunchback tears open the sack. In it he beholds his daughter. Not yet quite dead, she is able to whisper, "Too much I loved him--now I die for him." There is a duet: _Gilda_, "Lassù in cielo" (From yonder sky); _Rigoletto_, "Non morir" (Ah, perish not).

"Maledizione!"--The music of _Monterone's_ curse upon the ribald jester, now bending over the corpse of his own despoiled daughter, resounds on the orchestra. The fool has had his revenge.

For political reasons the performance of Victor Hugo's "Le Roi s'Amuse" was forbidden in France after the first representation. In Hugo's play the principal character is Triboulet, the jester of François I. The King, of course, also is a leading character; and there is a pen-portrait of Saint-Vallier. It was considered unsafe, after the revolutionary uprisings in Europe in 1848, to present on the stage so licentious a story involving a monarch. Therefore, to avoid political complications, and copyright ones possibly later, the Italian librettist laid the scene in Mantua. _Triboulet_ became _Rigoletto_; _François I._ the _Duke_, and _Saint-Vallier_ the _Count Monterone_. Early in its career the opera also was given under the title of "Viscardello."

IL TROVATORE

THE TROUBADOUR

Opera in four acts, by Verdi; words by Salvatore Cammarano, based on the Spanish drama of the same title by Antonio Garcia Gutierrez. Produced, Apollo Theatre, Rome, January 19, 1853. Paris, Théâtre des Italiens, December 23, 1854; Grand Opéra, in French as "Le Trouvère," January 12, 1857. London, Covent Garden, May 17, 1855; in English, as "The Gypsy's Vengeance," Drury Lane, March 24, 1856. America: New York, April 30, 1855, with Brignoli (_Manrico_), Steffanone (_Leonora_), Amodio (_Count di Luna_), and Vestvali (_Azucena_); Philadelphia, Walnut Street Theatre, January 14, 1856, and Academy of Music, February 25, 1857; New Orleans, April 13, 1857. Metropolitan Opera House, New York, in German, 1889; 1908, Caruso, Eames, and Homer. Frequently performed at the Academy of Music, New York, with Campanini (_Manrico_), Nilsson (_Leonora_), and Annie Louise Cary (_Azucena_); and Del Puente or Galassi as _Count di Luna_.

CHARACTERS

COUNT DI LUNA, a young noble of Aragon _Baritone_ FERRANDO, DI LUNA'S captain of the guard _Bass_ MANRICO, a chieftain under the Prince of Biscay, and reputed son of AZUCENA _Tenor_ RUIZ, a soldier in MANRICO'S service _Tenor_ AN OLD GYPSY _Baritone_ DUCHESS LEONORA, lady-in-waiting to a Princess of Aragon _Soprano_ INEZ, confidante of LEONORA _Soprano_ AZUCENA, a Biscayan gypsy woman _Mezzo-Soprano_

Followers of COUNT DI LUNA and of MANRICO; messenger, gaoler, soldiers, nuns, gypsies.

_Time_--Fifteenth century.

_Place_--Biscay and Aragon.

For many years "Il Trovatore" has been an opera of world-wide popularity, and for a long time could be accounted the most popular work in the operatic repertoire of practically every land. While it cannot be said to retain its former vogue in this country, it is still a good drawing card, and, with special excellences of cast, an exceptional one.

The libretto of "Il Trovatore" is considered the acme of absurdity; and the popularity of the opera, notwithstanding, is believed to be entirely due to the almost unbroken melodiousness of Verdi's score.

While it is true, however, that the story of this opera seems to be a good deal of a mix-up, it is also a fact that, under the spur of Verdi's music, even a person who has not a clear grasp of the plot can sense the dramatic power of many of the scenes. It is an opera of immense verve, of temperament almost unbridled, of genius for the melodramatic so unerring that its composer has taken dance rhythms, like those of mazurka and waltz, and on them developed melodies most passionate in expression and dramatic in effect. Swift, spontaneous, and stirring is the music of "Il Trovatore." Absurdities, complexities, unintelligibilities of story are swept away in its unrelenting progress. "Il Trovatore" is the Verdi of forty working at white heat.

One reason why the plot of "Il Trovatore" seems such a jumbled-up affair is that a considerable part of the story is supposed to have transpired before the curtain goes up. These events are narrated by _Ferrando_, the _Count di Luna's_ captain of the guard, soon after the opera begins. But as even spoken narrative on the stage makes little impression, narrative when sung may be said to make none at all. Could the audience know what _Ferrando_ is singing about, the subsequent proceedings would not appear so hopelessly involved, or appeal so strongly to humorous rhymesters, who usually begin their parodies on the opera with,

This is the story of "Il Trovatore."

What is supposed to have happened before the curtain goes up on the opera is as follows: The old Count di Luna, sometime deceased, had two sons nearly of the same age. One night, when they still were infants, and asleep, in a nurse's charge in an apartment in the old Count's castle, a gypsy hag, having gained stealthy entrance into the chamber, was discovered leaning over the cradle of the younger child, Garzia. Though she was instantly driven away, the child's health began to fail and she was believed to have bewitched it. She was pursued, apprehended and burned alive at the stake.

Her daughter, _Azucena_, at that time a young gypsy woman with a child of her own in her arms, was a witness to the death of her mother, which she swore to avenge. During the following night she stole into the castle, snatched the younger child of the Count di Luna from its cradle, and hurried back to the scene of execution, intending to throw the baby boy into the flames that still raged over the spot where they had consumed her mother. Almost bereft of her senses, however, by her memory of the horrible scene she had witnessed, she seized and hurled into the flames her own child, instead of the young Count (thus preserving, with an almost supernatural instinct for opera, the baby that was destined to grow up into a tenor with a voice high enough to sing "Di quella pira").

Thwarted for the moment in her vengeance, _Azucena_ was not to be completely baffled. With the infant Count in her arms she fled and rejoined her tribe, entrusting her secret to no one, but bringing him up--_Manrico, the Troubadour_--as her own son; and always with the thought that through him she might wreak vengeance upon his own kindred.

When the opera opens, _Manrico_ has grown up; she has become old and wrinkled, but is still unrelenting in her quest of vengeance. The old Count has died, leaving the elder son, _Count di Luna_ of the opera, sole heir to his title and possessions, but always doubting the death of the younger, despite the heap of infant's bones found among the ashes about the stake.

"After this preliminary knowledge," quaintly says the English libretto, "we now come to the actual business of the piece." Each of the four acts of this "piece" has a title: Act I, "Il Duello" (The Duel); Act II, "La Gitana" (The Gypsy); Act III, "Il Figlio della Zingara" (The Gypsy's Son); Act IV, "Il Supplizio" (The Penalty).