100 Great Operas and Their Stories

by Henry W. Simon

  ACT IV

  Scene 1 There are two scenes in the last act, and sometimes one is given first, sometimes the other. I shall start with the one usually given first in the Rimsky version. It shows how the people are rising to follow the false Dmitri in rebellion against the hated Czar Boris. In the dead of winter, in the forest of Kromy, a ragged crowd drags in a nobleman, bound and gagged. They mock this follower of the Czar, and they mock the Czar, too. The village idiot comes in, and a group of children mock him, for he sings a foolish ditty. Our old friends, the vagabond monks Varlaam and Missail, also join the crowd of rebels. But when two Jesuit priests come in, praying, the crowd turns on them. Led by Varlaam and Missail, the peasants attack the monks and drag them off, intending to hang them.

  But now Grigori, the pretender, rides in on a fine horse. All bow to him; he promises to rid them of Boris; and, shouting their allegiance, they follow the false Dmitri. Only the fool is left on the stage. Sadly he sits down; the snow begins to fall; and he sings his prophecy:

  The foe will come …

  Darkness will descend …

  Weep, weep, you hungry Russian people!

  Scene 2 takes place in the council hall of the Kremlin in the year 1605. The boyars—that is, the noblemen of the Czar’s council—are discussing in a foolish way the revolt of the false Dmitri. When Prince Shuiski comes in, he tells them of the agony that he saw Czar Boris suffering a few days before, and he describes the scene in which Boris imagined he saw the murdered Czarevitch. The foolish boyars will not believe him. But suddenly Boris himself enters, deeply distraught. Shuiski calls in an old priest, who turns out to be Pimen, the monk who shared the cell with Grigori in Act I. Pimen tells Boris about the dream of a blind shepherd. He had seen the murdered boy Dmitri in that dream, and the boy had urged him to pray at his grave. So the blind shepherd had gone to the cathedral of Uglich and prayed there, and lo, he was cured of his blindness. Boris hears this tale with growing horror. At its end he cries for air and falls fainting into a chair. He dismisses the boyars and calls for his son, Feodor. The boyars and Boris himself now know that he is dying, and he sings a last and deeply touching farewell to little Feodor. He advises him how to be a good ruler and begs him to care for his sister, Xenia. Then he prays heaven to protect the boy and to guide him.

  Off-stage the funeral bell begins to toll, and a sad chorus is heard. Presently a procession of boyars and monks files in, stunned into silence. The once mighty Boris rises to his full height. “I am still your Czar!” he cries, and then, more feebly, “God forgive me. There—there is your Czar.” A last spasm overtakes him as he still points to little Feodor. And as he whispers, “Forgive me!” he falls back, dead, in his chair—or, as some of the more athletic bassos act it, rolling on the floor.

  Postscript for the historically curious: The regency and reign of Boris were, historically, a very mixed blessing for Russia. Among his “reforms” was a law that prevented peasants from moving off their land, thus virtually creating serfdom in Russia. It was this law that inspired many peasants to join the standard of Dmitri, as is shown in the forest of Kromy scene.

  The more experienced part of Dmitri’s army included Poles, Cossacks, Hessians, and Russian exiles. They were virtually at the gates of Moscow when Boris died unexpectedly April 13, 1605. Dmitri, a well-educated, able man, had himself crowned Czar, executed the widow and son of Boris, bettered the lot of the peasants, formed a number of Western alliances, and saved the life, on one occasion, of the rather oily character Prince Shuiski of the opera. He was also received into the Roman Catholic Church by Rangoni.

  On May 8, 1606, less than a year after his coronation, Dmitri married Marina, and nine days later, in a plot hatched by Shuiski, was assassinated. Thereupon Shuiski became Czar.

  Grigori was not the only “false Dmitri.” A second one was successful enough to raise an army of over 100,000, unseat Shuiski, and marry Marina, the widow of the first false Dmitri. He was murdered by a man whom he had ordered flogged. That was in 1610.

  Two years later there was still another false Dmitri. This one succeeded in persuading the Cossacks to acknowledge him as Czar but reached Moscow only as a prisoner. There he was executed.

  CAPRICCIO

  Opera in one act by Richard Strauss with libretto

  in German by Clemens Krauss with the

  assistance of the composer

  THE COUNTESS Soprano

  THE COUNT, her brother Baritone

  OLIVIER, a poet Tenor

  FLAMAND, a musician Tenor

  CLAIRON, an actress Contralto

  LA ROCHE, director of a theater Bass

  MONSIEUR TAUPE, a tenor Tenor

  Time: about 1775

  Place: near Paris

  First performance at Munich, October 28, 1942

  In an opera, which is more important, the words or the music? Mozart plumped for the music, Gluck for the words. It is a favorite subject of discussion among composers and aestheticians, and Richard Strauss discussed it at length with his conductor, Clemens Krauss, in 1933 during the rehearsals for Arabella. Six years and several operas later, Strauss wrote to Krauss suggesting that they collaborate on the libretto of an opera on the subject. It was to be the last opera that Strauss completed.

  Only one act, the work still takes almost two and a half hours to perform, and most of it is given over to the discussion of this very interesting but not very dramatic question of aesthetics. The discussion takes place in the home of a charming French Countess named Madeleine, who lives near Paris in the latter half of the eighteenth century. (This was about the time when Gluck was trying to get operas to make more sense by insisting that the words were more important than the music.) Among the guests of the Countess are Olivier, a poet; Flamand, a composer; Clairon, an actress; La Roche, a theatrical director; Taupe, a tenor; and the Countess’s brother. The discussion is held in a civilized fashion; and before the guests leave for Paris, they agree that Olivier and Flamand shall write an opera on the subject in which each of those present will portray himself.

  Olivier and Flamand are associated in another way, too: each is in love with the Countess (who admires both of them), and Olivier has written a sonnet to her which Flamand has set to music. And Madeleine has promised to decide, by eleven the next morning, which of the two she will marry.

  The last scene finds Madeleine alone in her boudoir. (Strauss loved to write long scenes for sopranos alone—especially alone in their boudoirs.) One immediately thinks of the famous mirror monologue in Act I of Der Rosenkavalier. Well, there is a mirror in this one, too; and the general atmosphere of sweet and melancholy sentiment is not dissimilar.

  “Tomorrow at eleven!” begins the soliloquy. Madeleine simply cannot make up her mind. Which art is more potent? Poetry or music? She goes to her harp and sings over the sonnet written to her—a fine, old-fashioned love sonnet. She feels herself a prisoner—a prisoner of the web of two arts. Choose one and not the other? Impossible! So she turns to her mirror to ask counsel. But the mirror has no answer either. And the opera ends without our finding out just who will be the lucky one tomorrow at eleven.

  If you ask me—I think it will be the musician. His music seems to me to be so much more persuasive than that German sonnet! But then, that’s only one man’s opinion.

  CARMEN

  Opera in four acts by Georges Bizet with libretto

  by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halévy

  based on the novel by Prosper Mérimée

  CARMEN, a gypsy Soprano, Mezzo-soprano, or Contralto

  DON JOSÉ, a corporal Tenor

  ESCAMILLO, the toreador Baritone

  MICAELA, a peasant Soprano

  smugglers

  EL DANCAIRO Baritone

  EL REMENDADO Tenor

  ZUNIGA, José’s captain Bass

  MORALES, an officer Bass or Baritone

  gypsies

  FRASQUITA Soprano

  MERCÉDES Soprano or Mezzo-soprano

  Time: a
bout 1820

  Place: Seville and thereabout

  First performance at Paris, March 3, 1875

  Carmen is, I believe, the most widely popular of all operas. There is a legend that disappointment over the failure of its premiere caused Bizet’s death three months later. But the fact is that the opera was more popularly received than any music Bizet had composed before (it scored thirty-seven performances at the Opéra Comique in its first season and has been performed there more than three thousand times since), and Bizet died, at thirty-seven, of a physical disease-probably an embolism. It is now part of the repertory of every opera company in every language—even the Japanese—and its popularity is not confined to the opera stage. It has been made into restaurant music, virtuoso piano transcriptions, and several movies; and the latest and most successful of the movie versions, Carmen Jones, is based on a Negro operetta version that was a huge Broadway hit.

  It is not hard to see why it is popular. It has so many good tunes! It is so dramatic! It is so bright and clear! And all these characteristics can be heard in the prelude. It starts bright and clear—like a sunny day in Spain; it continues with the famous tune of the Toreador Song; and it becomes suddenly dramatic with the Fate theme—the one that suggests Carmen and her violent death.

  ACT I

  The prelude ends on a dramatic, dissonant chord, and the curtain rises on a midday scene in a public square in the city of Seville, 130-odd years ago. Soldiers, at rest, are commenting on the scene, which is just outside a cigarette factory. A country girl, Micaela, comes in search of her boy friend, the corporal Don José; and when she finds he isn’t there, she gracefully resists the blandishments of his comrades-in-arms and retires. Now there is a change of the guard, during which a group of urchins imitates the soldiers. The new guard includes Don José and his commanding officer, Captain Zuniga, who briefly discuss the attractions of the factory girls. Apparently these young ladies have a fascinating reputation; for a group of young men (today we would call them drugstore cowboys) gathers outside the factory for the midday recess. The girls come out, smoking cigarettes—a pretty bold thing to do in the twenties of the last century! But the men are waiting primarily for the most attractive of all the girls—Carmen.

  Heralded by a quick little version of her Fate theme, she makes her entrance, flirts with the boys, and then sings her famous Habanera. It is a frank warning that to love Carmen is a dangerous business. Don José (a bit of a prig, I always thought) pays her no attention—and so, at the end of her song, she wantonly throws a flower at him. Everyone laughs at his embarrassment as the girls return to work.

  Micaela returns to give Don José greetings from his mother, which is the occasion for a very sweet duet. It is barely over before a terrific din breaks out among the factory girls and they come swarming from the factory. Captain Zuniga, trying to restore order, discovers that Carmen has caused the trouble by attacking one of the other girls. He orders Don José to arrest the culprit and leaves her in his charge while he makes up his mind, in the guardhouse, what should be done with her. Left alone with José, Carmen completes her conquest of the young soldier by singing the seductive Seguidilla. In it she promises to sing and dance for him—and to love him–at a certain disreputable inn run by her friend Lillas Pastia. And so it happens that when Zuniga comes out to order Carmen to prison, she is able to push Don José aside and make good her escape. As for the young corporal, he is placed under arrest.

  ACT II

  Each of Carmen’s four acts is prefaced by a prelude or entr’acte of its own. The one that introduces Act II is based on a little soldier’s song which, later in the act, is sung by Don José. When the curtain goes up, there is a lively party going on at the inn of Lillas Pastia as Carmen leads the merriment in a wild and swirling song known as the Chanson Bohème. Don José’s old commanding officer, Captain Zuniga, is prominent among the guests, trying to ingratiate himself with Carmen. He does not have much luck, for, on the whole, she prefers less respectable company. However, she is delighted to hear that Don José has now served his sixty-day sentence for helping her escape.

  Suddenly a popular athlete appears on the scene. He is Escamillo, the toreador; and, of course, he sings his Toreador Song, with everyone joining in the chorus. Like Zuniga, he is smitten with Carmen’s bright eyes; and she, for her part, plays up to his opening gambits.

  But it is late, and time for closing. Soon no one is left but Carmen and a quartet of gypsy smugglers: two girls named Frasquita and Mercédès, and a couple of ruffians called El Dancairo and El Remendado. They join in a delightful patter quintet, which celebrates the usefulness of girls in carrying out smuggling raids—for smuggling is their business. But off-stage sounds the voice of Don José singing the soldier’s song, Halte là!

  Carmen shoos the others out and warmly welcomes Don José back from jail. As she had promised, she begins to sing and dance for him. In the midst of her dance the trumpet sounds retreat in the distance, calling Don José to his duty. He begins to depart, only to arouse Carmen’s angry contempt. “Is this a way to treat a girl?” she cries. “You canary!” Stung by her taunts, he brings out the flower she had flung him, and, in the very moving Flower Song, tells her how it inspired him throughout his days in prison. Impressed and mollified, Carmen again begins to woo him. José’s conscience, however, is getting the better of him, when Zuniga saves the day for romance by coming in unbidden and ordering Don José to the barracks. This is too much for the youngster. He draws his sword and is about to attack his superior officer when the gypsies rush in and politely disarm the Captain. Now José doesn’t have much choice: he is practically forced to give up his military career and join the smuggling gypsies—just as Carmen had planned. And the act ends with a stirring chorus in praise of the free life. It is sung enthusiastically by everyone but Zuniga.

  ACT III

  The flute solo that begins the entr’acte before Act III sounds as if it were going to be “The Minstrel Boy,” but it turns into an even better tune–better for opera, anyway. The act opens with a chorus of smugglers—the gang that Don José has been forced to join. They are in a lonely spot in the mountains on professional nefarious business, and Carmen, who is already growing tired of Don José, tells him he might be better off with his mother. A lighter note is introduced after their quarrel, when Frasquita and Mercédès start telling their fortunes with cards. I must say that they deal themselves very attractive fortunes: one is to find a passionate lover, the other a rich oldster intent on marriage. But Carmen joins in the pastime on a much more somber note, for she turns up the ace of spades, the card of death. “It is useless to try to escape one’s fate,” she mutters in her famous Card aria. But now the smugglers are called to duty—that is, to try to smuggle their goods over the border. (Their chorus at this point has always struck me as being remarkably noisy for criminals bent on so secretive a job.)

  When they are gone, the village girl Micaela comes in search of Don José. She is very much frightened, and she asks the protection of the Lord in a touching aria (Je dis que rien ne m’épouvante). Suddenly José, who has been left on guard, fires a shot, and Micaela is frightened away. However, it is not Micaela he has aimed at, but Escamillo, who is there in search of Carmen. When José discovers what Escamillo is after, the two men start a fight with knives. José is getting the better of it, when Carmen gets back just in time to save the toreador. Gallantly thanking Carmen, he invites everyone to his next performance in Seville. As he starts down the mountainside, Micaela is found. She delivers her message: José’s mother is dying and wishes to see him once more. Carmen contemptuously tells him he had better go. But before he goes, he turns furiously on her and warns her that they shall meet again—that only death can part them. Off-stage, the toreador’s song is heard, and Carmen tries to rush to him. But José, turning back once more, hurls her violently to the ground—and finally leaves, as the orchestra quietly and ominously repeats the toreador’s melody.

  ACT IV


  The last act is introduced by some of the most brilliant and pulse-beating music in the whole score. Everyone is in his best clothes; everyone is getting ready to watch the great Escamillo perform in the arena at Seville. A large and impressive parade of dignitaries enters the theater—all of it duly described by the chorus. Finally, in comes the toreador himself, and on his arm is Carmen, dressed in such finery as only a successful bullfighter could afford. They sing a brief and rather banal love duet, and then Escamillo disappears into the theater, everyone except Carmen following him. She is warned by her friends, Frasquita and Mercédès, that Don José has been lurking about. Defiantly she remains outside alone, saying she does not fear him.

  Then Don José comes on, tattered and ragged, a pitiful contrast to Carmen in her holiday best. Pitifully he pleads to be taken back, but she shows him only contempt. The more pressingly he pleads, the more contempt she shows; and finally she throws the ring he had given her directly in his face. Off-stage the chorus is cheering the toreador, José’s successful rival. Maddened by this and by Carmen’s behavior, he threatens her with his knife. Desperately she attempts to rush past him into the theater; but just as the crowd shouts that Escamillo is victorious, he plunges the knife into his lost beloved. The crowd pours out, while Don José, brokenly cries: “You can arrest me … Oh, my Carmen!”

  CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA

  (Rustic Chivalry)

  Opera in one act by Pietro Mascagni with

  libretto by Guido Menasci and Giovanni

  Targioni-Tozzetti based on a play by Giovanni

  Verga which is in turn based on his own prose

  tale of the same title