"What——"

"Thieves!—the girls have run off—a nice return for our affections!"

"After them!—don't lose a minute," Lionel then cried in his turn, and away rushed the farmhands.

"They are ours for one year, by law. Bring them back, or ye shall suffer for it. Be off!" And the men mounted horses and went after the runaways like the wind.

"Nice treatment!"

"Shameful!" Plunkett cried, dropping into a chair, nearly fainting with rage.

ACT III

Plunkett's men had hunted far and wide for the runaways, but without success. The farmer was still sore over his defeat: he felt himself not only defrauded, but he had grown to love Nancy, and altogether he became very unhappy. One day he was sitting with his fellow farmers around a table in a little forest inn, drinking his glass of beer, when he heard the sound of hunting horns in the distance.

"Hello! a hunting party from the palace must be out," he remarked, but the music of the horn which once pleased him could no longer arouse him from his moodiness. Nevertheless an extraordinary thing was about to happen. As he went into the inn for a moment, into the grove whirled—Nancy! all bespangled in a rich hunting costume and accompanied by her friends who were enjoying the hunt with her. They were singing a rousing hunting chorus, but Martha—Lady Harriet—was not with them.

"What has happened to Lady Harriet?" some one questioned of Nancy, who was expected to know all her secrets.

"Alas—nothing interests her ladyship any more," she replied! Nancy knew perfectly well that, ever since their escapade, Harriet had thought of nothing but Lionel. For Nancy's part, she had not thought of much besides Plunkett; but she did not mean to reveal the situation to the court busybodies. Then while the huntresses were roaming about the inn, out came Plunkett! and Nancy, not perceiving at first who he was, went up to him and began to speak.

"Pray, my good man, can you tell—Good heaven!" she exclaimed, recognizing him; "Plunkett!"

"Yes, madame, Plunkett; and now Plunkett will see if you get the better of him a second time. We'll let the sheriff settle this matter, right on the spot."

"Man, you are mad. Do not breathe my name or each huntress here shall take aim and bring you down. Ho, there!" she cried distractedly to her friends; and she took aim at Plunkett, while all of the others closed round him. It was then Plunkett's turn to beg for mercy.

"They're upon me, they've undone me!" he cried. "This is serious," and so indeed it was. "But oh, dear me, there is a remarkable charm in these girls, even if they do threaten a man's life," and still looking back over his shoulder, away he ran, pursued by the girls. They had no sooner gone than Lionel came in. He was looking disconsolately at the flowers to which Martha sang the "Last Rose of Summer." He himself sang a few measures of the song and then looked about him.

"Ah," he sighed, thinking still of Martha:

[Music:

None so rare, None so fair, Yet enraptur'd mortal heart; Maiden dear. Past compare, Oh, 'twas death from thee to part! Ere I saw thy sweet face On my heart there was no trace Of that love from above, That in sorrow now I prove; but alas, thou art gone, And in grief I mourn alone; Life a shadow doth seem, And my joy a fleeting dream, A fleeting dream. None so rare, etc.]

And after he had sung thus touchingly of Martha, he threw himself down on the grass, and remained absorbed in his thoughts. But while he was resting there, Lady Harriet and Sir Tristram had also wandered thither. At first they did not see Lionel.

"I have come here away from the others, in order to be alone," Harriet declared impatiently.

"Alone with me?" Sir Tristram asked indiscreetly.

"Good heaven—it doesn't matter in the least whether you are here or elsewhere. I am quite unconscious of you, wherever you are," she replied, not very graciously. "Do go away and let me alone!" and, finding that he could not please her, Tristram wandered off, and left her meditating there. After a while she began to sing to herself, softly, and Lionel recognized the voice.

"It is she!—Martha!" he cried, starting up. Harriet recognized him, and at once found herself in a dreadful state of mind.

"What shall I do? It is Lionel! that farmer I hired out to!" Well! It was Lionel's opportunity, and he fell to making the most desperate love to her—which she liked very much, but which, being a high-born lady of Queen Anne's Court, she was bound to resent. She called him base-born and a good many unpleasant things, which did not seem to discourage him in the least, even though it made him feel rather badly; but while he was still protesting his love, Tristram returned, and at once believed Harriet to be in the toils of some dreadful fellow. So he called loudly for everybody in the hunt to come to the rescue—which was about the most foolish thing he could do. Then all set upon Lionel. Plunkett, hearing the row, rushed in.

"Stand by me!" Lionel cried.

Nancy appeared. "What does this mean?" she in turn demanded in a high-handed manner.

"Julia, too," Lionel shouted, recognizing her.

"Bind this madman in fetters," Tristram ordered.

"Don't touch him," Plunkett threatened.

"I shall die," Nancy declared.

"I engaged these girls in my service," Lionel shouted, "and now they wish to break the bargain!"

"What?" everybody screamed, staring at Nancy and Harriet. Tristram and the hunters laughed, Tristram trying to shield the girls and turn it into a joke.

"Have compassion on this madman"; Harriet pleaded wincing when she saw Lionel bound and helpless. Lionel then reproached her. She knew perfectly that she deserved it and felt her love for him growing greater. Everybody was in a most dreadful state of mind. Then a page rushed in and cried that Queen Anne was coming toward them, and immediately Lionel had an inspiration.

"Take this ring to her Majesty—quick," he cried, handing his ring to Plunkett.

A litter was then brought for Lady Harriet. She, heartbroken, stepped into it. Lionel was pinioned and was being dragged off. Plunkett held up the ring, to assure him that it should straightway be taken to the Queen.

ACT IV

After the row had quieted down and Nancy and Harriet got time to think matters over, Harriet reached the conclusion that she could not endure Lionel's misfortune. Hence she had got Nancy to accompany her to the farmer's house. When they arrived some new maid whom the farmers had got opened the door to them.

"Go, Nancy, and find Plunkett, Lionel's trusty friend, and tell him I am repentant and cannot endure Lionel's misfortunes. Tell him his friend is to have hope," and, obeying her beloved Lady Harriet, Nancy departed to find Plunkett and give the message. In a few minutes she returned with the farmer. He now knew who the ladies were and treated Harriet most respectfully.

"Have you told him?" Lady Harriet asked.

"Yes, but we cannot make Lionel understand anything. He sits vacantly gazing at nothing. He has had so much trouble, that probably his brain is turned."

"Let us see," said Harriet; and instantly she began to sing, "'Tis the Last Rose."

While she sang, Lionel entered slowly. He had heard. Harriet ran to him and would have thrown herself into his arms, but he held her off, fearing she was again deceiving him.

"No, no, I repent, and it was I who took thy ring to the Queen! I have learned that thy father was a nobleman—the great Earl of Derby; and the Queen sends the message to thee that she would undo the wrong done thee. Thou art the Earl of Derby—and I love thee—so take my hand if thou wilt have me."

Well, this was all very well, but Lionel was not inclined to be played fast and loose with in that fashion. When he was a plain farmer, she had nothing of this sort to say to him, however she may have felt.

"No," he declared, "I will have none of it! Leave me, all of you," and he rushed off, whereupon Harriet sank upon a bench, quite overcome. Then suddenly she started up.

"Ah—I have a thought!" and out she flew. While she was gone, the farmer and Nancy, who had really begun to care greatly for each other, confessed their love.

"Now that our affairs are no longer in confusion, let us go out and walk and talk it over," Plunkett urged, and, Nancy being quite willing, they went out. But when they got outside they found to their amazement that Plunkett's farmhands were rushing hither and thither, putting up tents and booths and flags, and turning the yard into a regular fair-ground, such as the scene appeared when Lionel and Harriet first met. Some of the girls on the farm were assuming the role of maids looking for service, and, in short, everything was as nearly like the original scene as they could possibly make it in a short time.

"What, what is all this?" Plunkett asked, amazed. Then he learned it was all done by Harriet's orders, and he and Nancy began to understand. Then Harriet came in, dressed as Martha. Nancy ran off and returned dressed as Julia, and then all was complete.

"There is Lionel coming toward us," Nancy cried. "What will happen now?" and there he came, led sadly by Plunkett. He looked about him, dazed, till Plunkett brought up Lady Harriet and presented her as a maid seeking work.

"Heaven! It is Martha——"

"Yes, is this not enough to prove to thee that I am ready to renounce my rank and station for thee? Here I am, seeking thy service," she pleaded.

"Well, good lassies, what can ye do?" Plunkett asked, entering into the spirit of the thing, and then Nancy gaily sang:

I for spinning finest linen, etc.

Lady Harriet gave Lionel some flowers and then began "'Tis the Last Rose." Then presently, Lionel, who had been recovering himself slowly while the play had been going on, joined in the last measures, and holding out his arms to Lady Harriet, the lovers were united. Nancy and Plunkett were having the gayest sort of a time, and everybody was singing at the top of his voice that from that time forth there should be nothing but gaiety and joy in the world; and probably that turned out to be true for everybody but old Sir Tristram, who hadn't had a stroke of good luck since the curtain rose on the first act!



HUMPERDINCK

This composer of charming music will furnish better biographical material fifty years hence. At present we must be satisfied to listen to his compositions, and leave the study of the man to future generations.

HAENSEL AND GRETEL

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Peter, a broom-maker. Gertrude, his wife. Haensel } Gretel } their children. Witch, who eats little children. Sandman, who puts little children to sleep. Dewman, who wakes little children up. Children. Fourteen angels.

The story takes place in a German forest.

Composer: E. Humperdinck. Author: Adelheid Wette.

ACT I

Once upon a time, in a far-off forest of Germany, there lived two little children, Haensel and Gretel, with their father and mother. The father and mother made brooms for a living, and the children helped them by doing the finishing of the brooms.

The broom business had been very, very bad for a long time, and the poor father and mother were nearly discouraged. The father, however, was a happy-go-lucky man who usually accepted his misfortunes easily. It was fair-time in a village near the broom-makers' hut, and one morning the parents started off to see if their luck wouldn't change. They left the children at home, charging them to be industrious and orderly in behaviour till they returned, and Haensel in particular was to spend his time finishing off some brooms.

Now it is the hardest thing in the world for little children to stick to a long task, so that which might have been expected happened: Haensel and Gretel ceased after a little to work, and began to think how hungry they were. Haensel was seated in the doorway, working at the brooms; brooms were hanging up on the walls of the poor little cottage; and Gretel sat knitting a stocking near the fire. Being a gay little girl, she sang to pass the time:

[Music:

Susy little Susy, pray what is the news? The geese are running bare foot because they've no shoes! The cobbler has leather and plenty to spare, Why can't he make the poor goose a new pair?]

This sounded rather gay, and, before he knew it, Haensel had joined in:

Eia popeia, pray what's to be done? Who'll give me milk and sugar, for bread I have none? I'll go back to bed and I'll lie there all day, Where there's naught to eat, then there's nothing to pay.

"Speaking of something to eat—I'm as hungry as a wolf, Gretel. We haven't had anything but bread in weeks."

"Well, it does no good to complain, does it? Why don't you do as father does—laugh and make the best of it?" Gretel answered, letting her knitting fall in her lap. "If you will stop grumbling, Haensel, I'll tell you a secret—it's a fine one too." She got up and tiptoed over to the table. "Come here and look in this jug," she called, and Haensel in his turn tiptoed over, as if something very serious indeed would happen should any one hear him.

"Look in that jug—a neighbour gave us some milk to-day, and that is likely to mean rice blanc-mange."

"Oh, gracious goodness! I'll be found near when rice blanc-mange is going on; be sure of that. How thick is the cream?" the greedy fellow asked, dipping his finger into the jug.

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself! Take your fingers out of that jug, Haensel, and get back to your work. You'll get a good pounding if mother comes home and finds you cutting up tricks."

"No, I'm not going to work any more—I'm going to dance."

"Well, I admit dancing is good fun," Gretel answered him reluctantly. "We can dance a little, and sing to keep us in time, and then we can go back to work."

Brother, come and dance with me, Both my hands I offer thee, Right foot first, Left foot then, Round about and back again,

she sang, holding out her hands.

"I don't know how, or I would," Haensel declared, watching her as she spun about.

"Then I'll teach you. Just keep your eyes on me and I'll teach you just how to do it," she cried, and then she began to dance. Gretel told him precisely how to do it, and Haensel learned very well and very quickly. Then they danced together, and in half a minute had forgotten all about going back to their work. They twirled and laughed and sang and shouted in the wildest sort of glee, and at last, perfectly exhausted with so much fun, they tumbled over one another upon the floor, and were laughing too hard to get up. Just at this moment, when they had actually forgotten all about hunger and work, home came their mother. She opened the door and looked in.

"For mercy's sake! what goings on are these?" she cried.

"Why, it was Haensel, he——"

"Gretel wanted to——" they both began, scrambling to their feet.

"That will do. I want to hear nothing from you. You are the most ill-behaved children in the world. Here are your father and I slaving ourselves to death for you, and not a thing do you do but dance and sing from morning till night——"

"It would be awfully nice to eat, too," Haensel replied reflectively.

"What's that you say, you ungrateful child? Don't you eat whenever the rest of us do?" However harsh she seemed, the mother was only angry at the thought of there being nothing in the house to eat, and she felt so badly to think the children were hungry that she made a dive at Haensel to slap him, when—horrors! she knocked the milk off the table, broke the jug, and all the milk went streaming over the floor. This was indeed a misfortune. There they stood, all three looking at their lost supper.

"Now see what you have done?" she screamed angrily at the children. "Get yourselves out of here. If you want any supper you'll have to work for it. Take that basket and go into the wood and fill it with strawberries, and don't either of you come home till it is full. Dear me, it does seem as if I had trouble enough without such actions as yours," the distracted mother cried; and quite unjustly she hustled the children and their basket outside the hut and off into the wood.

They had no sooner gone out than the poor, distracted woman, exhausted with the day's tramping and unsuccessful effort to sell her brooms, sat at the table weeping over the lost milk; and finally she fell asleep. After a while a merry song was heard in the wood, and the father presently appeared singing, at the very threshold. Really, for a hungry man with a hungry family and nothing for supper, he was in a remarkably merry mood.

"Ho, there, wife!" he called, and then entered with a great basket over his shoulder. He saw the mother asleep and stopped singing. Then he laughed and went over to her.

"Hey, wake up, old lady, hustle yourself and get us a supper. Where are the children?"

"What are you talking about," the mother asked, waking up and looking confused at the noise her husband was making. "I can't get any supper when there is nothing to get."

"Nothing to get?—well, that is nice talk, I'm sure. We'll see if there is nothing to get," he answered, roaring with laughter—and he began to take things out of his basket. First he took out a ham, then some butter. Flour and sausages followed, and then a dozen eggs; turnips, and onions, and finally some tea. Then at last the good fellow turned the basket upside down, and out rolled a lot of potatoes.

"Where in the world did all of these things come from?" she cried.

"I had good luck with my brooms, when all seemed lost, and here we are with a feast before us. Now call the children and let us begin."

"I was so angry because the milk got spilt that I sent them off to the woods for berries and told them not to come home till they had a basket full. I really thought that was all we should have for supper." At this the father looked frightened.

"What if they have gone to the Ilsenstein?" he cried, jumping up and taking a broom from the wall.

"Well, what harm?" the wife inquired, "and why do you take the broom?"

"What harm? Do you not know that it is the awful magic mountain where the old witch who eats little children dwells?—and do you not know that she rides on a broomstick. I may need one to follow her, in case she has got the children."

"Oh, heavens above! What a wicked woman I was to send the children out. What shall we do? Do you know anything more about that awful ogress?" she demanded of her husband, trembling fit to die.

An old witch within that wood doth dwell, And she's in league with the powers of hell. At midnight hour, When nobody knows, Away to the witches' dance she goes.

Up the chimney they fly, On a broomstick they hie, Over hill and dale, O'er ravine and vale, Through the midnight air They gallop full tear, On a broomstick, on a broomstick Hop, hop, hop, hop, the witches!

And by day, they say, She stalks around, With a crinching, crunching, munching sound. And children plump, and tender to eat, She lures with magic gingerbread sweet. On evil bent, With fell intent, She lures the children, poor little things, In the oven hot, She pops the lot. She shuts the door down, Until they're done brown—all those gingerbread children.

"Oh, my soul!" the poor woman shrieked. "Come! We must lose no time: Haensel and Gretel may be baked to cinders by this time," and out she ran, screaming, and followed by the father, to look for those poor children.

ACT II

After wandering all the afternoon in the great forest, and filling their basket with strawberries, Haensel and Gretel came to a beautiful mossy tree-trunk where they concluded to sit down and rest before going home. They had wandered so far that they really didn't know that they were lost, but as a matter of fact they had no notion of where they were. Without knowing it, they had gone as far as the Ilsenstein, and that magic place was just behind them, and sunset had already come. As usual, the gay little girl was singing while she twined a garland of wild flowers. Haensel was still looking for berries in the thicket near. Pretty soon they heard a cuckoo call, and they answered the call gaily. The cuckoo answered, and the calls between them became lively.

"There is the bird that eats up other birds' eggs," Gretel said, poking a strawberry into Haensel's mouth; and Haensel sucked the berry up as if it were an egg. Then in his turn, he poked a berry into Gretel's mouth. This was very good fun, especially as yet they had had nothing to eat. They began to feed each other with berries, till before they knew it the full basket was empty.

Foolish children, who by their carelessness got themselves into all sorts of scrapes! Now what was to be done? They surely couldn't go home and tell their mother they had eaten up all the berries!

"Haensel, you have eaten all the berries. Now this time it is no joke—this that you have done. What shall we do now?"

"Nonsense—you ate as many as I. We shall simply look for more."

"So late as this! We never can see them in the world. The sun is going down. Where can we have got to? We are surely lost."

"Well, if we are, there is nothing to be afraid of. Come, don't cry. We shall sleep here under the trees, and, when morning comes, find our way home," Haensel replied, no longer blaming her, but trying to be very brave, notwithstanding he was nearly scared to death with the shadows which were then gathering quickly.

"Oh, oh! do you hear that noise in the bushes? I shall die of fright."

"It—it—is nothing, sister," Haensel answered, his teeth chattering, while he peered all about him uneasily. "I'm a boy and not afraid of anything, and can take care of you wherever we are."

What's glimmering there in the darkness? That's only the birches in silver dress. But there, what's grinning so there at me? Th-that's only the stump of a willow tree.

Haensel tried to answer heroically. "I'll give a good call," he said, going a little way toward the Ilsenstein. Then putting his hands to his mouth, he called loudly:

"Who's there?"

"You there,—you there,—you there," the echoes came—but they seemed to come from the Ilsenstein.

"Is some one there?" Gretel timidly asked.

"There—where—there—" the echoes from the Ilsenstein again replied. "I'm frightened to death," Gretel said, beginning to cry.

"Little Gretelkin," said Haensel, "you stick close to me, and I'll let nothing hurt you;" and while they huddled together, a thick white mist slowly gathered and spread between the children and the Ilsenstein.

"Oh! there are some shadowy old women, coming to carry me away," Gretel sobbed, hiding her face, as the mist seemed to sway and assume strange forms. Then while her face was hidden, the mist slowly cleared away, and a little gray manikin with a little sack upon his back came out of the shadows. Haensel held his breath with fear and sheltered Gretel beside him as best he could.

"It is a shadowy queer little manikin, Gretel dear, with a little sack upon his back, but he looks very friendly." Then addressing the little manikin, "Do not hurt us, sir—and will you tell us who you are?"

I shut the children's peepers—sh! And guard the little sleepers—sh! For dearly I do love them—sh! And gladly watch above them—sh! And with my little bag of sand, By every child's bedside I stand; Then little tired eyelids close, And little limbs have sweet repose; And if they are good and quickly go to sleep, Then from the starry sphere above The angels come with peace and love, And send the children happy dreams, while watch they keep.

All the while the little sand-man was telling them who he was, the children got sleepier and sleepier and nodded upon each other's shoulders.

"The sand-man was here?" little Haensel asked, trying to rouse a bit.

"I guess so," said Gretel; "let us say our prayers," and so they folded their hands, and said a little prayer to the fourteen angels which guard little children. They prayed to the two angels who should stand at their head, to the two at their feet, two upon their right hand and two upon the left, and two should cover them warm, and two should guard them from harm, and two should guide them one day to Heaven; and so they sank to sleep.

As they slept, a beautiful light broke through the mist, which rolled up into a glittering staircase down which those angels came, two and two. They all grouped about Haensel and Gretel as they had been prayed to do; and as they silently took their places the night grew dark, the trees and birds all slept, and Haensel and Gretel were safe until the morning.

ACT III

The night had passed, the angels had disappeared again in the mist which still hung over the forest at the back, and now as dawn broke, the dew-fairy came out of the mist as the manikin and the angels had done; and from a little blue bell she shook the dewdrops over the children's eyes. Just as they began to stir, away ran the dew-fairy, and when they were quite wide awake they found the sun rising and themselves all alone.

"Haensel, where are we?" little Gretel asked, not recalling all that had happened to them since the day before. "I hear the birds twittering high in the branches. We certainly are not in our beds at home."

"No—but I had a fine dream," Haensel answered—"that the angels were here looking after us all night, the entire fourteen. But look there!" he cried, pointing behind them. The mist was gradually lifting and revealing the house of the Witch of Ilsenstein. It looked very fine, with the sun's bright rays upon it; very fine indeed! A little way off to the left of that queer little house was—an oven. Oh, dreadful! It was well Haensel and Gretel did not know in the least what that oven meant. Then, on the other side of the house, was a cage—and heaven! it was certainly well that they had no idea of what that was for, either. Then, joining that cage to the house, was a queer-looking fence of gingerbread, and it looked strangely like little children.

"Oh, what a queer place!" Gretel cried. "And do you smell that delicious odour? That cottage is made all of chocolate cream!" She was overcome with joy.

The roof is all covered with Turkish delight, The windows with lustre of sugar are white And on all the gables the raisins invite, And think! All around is a gingerbread hedge.

"Oh, to eat such a cottage!" they cried ecstatically.

"I hear no sound. Let's go inside," Haensel urged.

"No, no! Who knows who may live in that lovely house."

"Well, anyway, it can't do any harm to nibble a little. They can have it repaired next baking day," he persisted.

"Maybe that is true,—and it does look too good to leave"; so Haensel reached out and broke a little piece of the house-corner off.

Nibble, nibble, mousekin, Who's nibbling at my housekin?

a voice called from within.

"Good gracious! Did you hear that?" he whispered, dropping the corner of the house. Gretel picked it up, hesitatingly.

"It's most awfully good," she declared, but at that very minute came the voice again:

Nibble, nibble, mousekin, Who's nibbling at my housekin?

"Maybe that is the voice of the sweety maker," Haensel suggested, all the same a good deal scared. And so they went on nibbling at a bit of the fence and then at the house-corner, until they became so full of good things that they began to laugh and caper about in high spirits. But while all this fun was going on, the upper part of the door opened and the old witch stuck her head out. Then slowly and softly, out she crept with a rope in her hand, and getting behind the children she suddenly threw it over Haensel's head. When he turned and saw her he was frightened almost into fits.

"Let me go, let me go!" he howled, while the witch only laughed hideously at the two and, drawing them closer to her, she began to pat their heads and talk very nicely to them.

"You are lovely children! Don't give yourselves such airs. I am Rosina Dainty-Mouth and just love little children like you," but she didn't say how she preferred them—broiled or stewed. Nevertheless, Haensel had his doubts about her, in spite of her affectionate pretensions.

Come, little mousey, Come into my housey! Come with me, my precious, I'll give you sweets, delicious!

This extraordinary old lady cried, naming things that made the children's mouths water. But there was Haensel's caution! He was not to be caught napping after sunrise. Gretel, however, recalled the flavour of the eave-spout which she had lately tasted and could not help showing a certain amount of interest.

"Just what shall I get if I go into your housey?" she inquired; but before the old creature could reply, Haensel had pulled Gretel's petticoat.

"Have a care! Do not take anything from her that you can help. She is meaning to fatten us and cook us,"—which was the exact truth. At that moment, Haensel got clear of the rope which had been about his neck and ran to Gretel, but the old witch pointed at them a stick which had been hanging at her girdle, and instantly they found themselves spellbound. She repeated this blood-curdling rhyme, and there they stood, quite helpless:

Hocus pocus, witches' charm! Move not as you fear my arm. Back or forward, do not try, Fixed you are, by the evil eye!

And "fixed" they were. Now, right in the middle of the forenoon, it began to grow horribly dark, and as it darkened, the little knob on the end of her stick began to glow brilliantly, and as Haensel watched it, fascinated, the witch gradually led him, by the stick's charm, into the stable, and fastened him in. Then the knob of the stick gradually ceased to glow, and Gretel was still standing there.

"Now while I feed Haensel up till he is plump as a partridge, you stand where you are," said the witch, and into the house she went. Gretel stood horrified, and Haensel whispered to her:

"Don't speak loud, and be very watchful, Gretelkin. Pretend to do everything the witch commands, yet be very watchful. There she comes again"; and so she did, with a basket full of raisins and other things for him to eat. She stuck good things into his mouth, as if she were fattening a Strasburg goose, and after that she disenchanted Gretel with a juniper branch.

"Now, then, you go and set the table," she ordered, then turning again to Haensel she found him apparently asleep.

"That's good! It is a way to grow fat," she grinned. "I'll just begin my supper with Gretel. She looks quite plump enough as she is. Here, my love," she cried, opening the oven door, and sniffing some gingerbread figures within, "just look into the oven and tell me if it is hot enough to bake in," she called.

Oh, when from the oven I take her, She'll look like a cake from the baker,

the old wretch giggled to herself. But Gretel pretended not to hear her; and after all, she thought the oven not quite hot enough to push Gretel into, so she began jabbering about the witch's ride she was going to have that night at twelve, on her broomstick. As she thought about it she became very enthusiastic, and getting upon her broom she went galloping about the house and back. When she got through performing in this outrageous manner—which fairly froze Gretel's blood in her veins—the old witch tickled Haensel with a birch-twig till he woke.

"Here, my little darling, show me your tongue," she said, and Haensel stuck out his tongue as if the doctor had been called to investigate his liver. "My, but you are in fine condition," the old wretch mumbled smacking her lips. "Let me see your thumb," she demanded, and instead of sticking out his plump thumb, Haensel poked a tiny bone through the bars of the cage. "Oh! how lean and scraggy! You won't do yet"; and she called to Gretel to bring more food for him, and there she stopped to stuff him again. Then she again opened the oven door, looking all the while at Gretel.

"How she makes my mouth water," she muttered. "Come here, little Gretelkin, poke your head into the oven and tell me if you think it hot enough for us to bake in." At this awful moment Haensel whispered:

"Oh, be careful, Gretel!" Gretel nodded at him behind the witch's back.

"Just smell that lovely gingerbread. Do poke your head in to see if it is quite done. Then you shall have a piece hot from the oven." Gretel still hung back.

"I don't quite know how to do it," she apologized. "If you will just show me how to reach up," she murmured; and the old witch, quite disgusted that Gretel should take so long to do as she was bid, and so delay the feast, said:

"Why, this way, you goose," poking her head into the oven, and instantly, Haensel, who had slipped out of the stable, sprang upon the old woman, gave her the push she had intended to give Gretel, and into the oven she popped, and bang went the oven door, while the children stood looking at each other and shivering with fright.

"Oh, my suz! Do you suppose we have her fast?"

"I guess we have," Haensel cried, grabbing Gretel about the waist and dancing wildly in glee. Then they rushed into the house and began to fill their pockets with good things. While they were at this, the oven began to crack dreadfully. The noise was quite awful.

"Oh, mercy! What is happening?" Gretel cried. And at that moment the awful oven fell apart, and out jumped a lot of little children with the gingerbread all falling off them, while they sprang about Haensel and Gretel in great joy. But all their eyes were shut.

They laughed and sang and hopped, crying that Haensel and Gretel had saved them because by baking the old witch they had broken the oven's charm.

"But why don't you open your eyes," Gretel asked.

"We shall not be entirely disenchanted till you touch us," they told her, and then upon being touched by Gretel they opened their eyes like ten-day-old kittens.

Then Haensel took a juniper branch and repeated what he had heard the witch say:

Hocus pocus elder bush, Rigid body loosen, hush!

and there came that gingerbread hedge, walking on legs,—the beautiful gingerbread falling all over the place, and the whole fence turning back into little children.

At that very moment came the broom-maker and his wife, who had sought for the children till they had become nearly distracted. When the children saw them they ran into their mother's arms. All the gingerbread children were singing at the top of their voices and were carrying on in the most joyous way.

Two boys had run to the broken oven, and had begun to drag out an immense gingerbread—it was the old witch, turned into the finest cake ever seen. It was well that she turned out to be good in the end, if only good gingerbread. They dragged her out where everybody could see her, and broke a piece of her off; and then they shoved her into the cottage.

"Now, you see how good children are taken care of," the broom-maker sang; while everybody danced about the disenchanted Ilsenstein, before they went into the house for supper.



MASCAGNI

This composer is too contemporary to be discussed freely. He has done no great amount of work, and fame came to him in his youth. "Cavalleria Rusticana" is his supreme performance, and there is in it a promise of greater things.

CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA[A]

(Rustic Chivalry)

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Santuzza. Lola. Turiddu. Alfio. Lucia.

Peasants.

The story is of peasant people in a small Sicilian village, on an Easter day.

Composer: Pietro Mascagni. Authors: Giovanni Targioni-Tozzetti and Guido Menasci.

First sung at Rome, May 20, 1890.

[Footnote A: The quotations from "Cavalleria Rusticana" are from the English version by Nathan Haskell Dole, Copyright, 1891, by G. Schirmer.]

ACT I

One fine Easter morning, in a small Italian village, a fop, named Turiddu, came along the little street singing of Lola, an old sweetheart, who, since Turiddu went to serve his required term in the army, had married a wagoner. Turiddu was far from heartbroken, because when he returned and first heard of Lola's faithlessness, he straightway fell in love with a worthier girl—Santuzza. Neither Lola nor Turiddu was a faithful sort, but lived for a good time to-day, leaving luck to look after to-morrow; but it was not the same with Santuzza. She truly loved Turiddu, and being an Italian peasant, very emotional and excitable, it was going to be dangerous for Turiddu to ill-treat her.

If that Easter morning found Turiddu quite gay and free, it found Santuzza full of despair and misgiving, because she knew that her lover had returned to his former sweetheart. Lola's husband, the wagoner, was frequently away from his home, and in his absence his wife had been flirting. In a little village, where everybody knew everybody else, and all of each other's business, Santuzza's companions had learned that Turiddu had thrown his new love over for the old, and instead of pitying her, they had ridiculed and treated her unkindly.

On a Sunday morning, just before the villagers started to church, Santuzza started for Turiddu's home. He lived near the church, with Lucia, his old mother. Santuzza had been thinking all night of what she could do to win her lover back; and at daylight had risen with the determination to go to old Lucia, and tell her how her son had misbehaved. In Italy, even grown sons and daughters obey their parents more promptly than the small children in America ever do. Santuzza, all tears and worn with sleeplessness, thought possibly Lucia could prevail upon Turiddu to keep his word and behave more like an honest man. All the little village was astir early, because Easter is a fete day in Italy, and the people make merry, as well as go to church. The peasants were passing and repassing through the little square as Santuzza entered it. She looked very sad and her eyes were swollen with crying. But no one paid any attention to her as all were going into the church for early mass. After the crowd had gone in, the sound of the organ and of the congregation's voices could be heard in the square. They sang an Easter carol—about flowers and carolling larks and orange blossoms—which did not make Santuzza any the happier; but she went to the door of old Lucia's house and called softly:

"Mama Lucia—Mama Lucia—art thou there?"

"Thou, Santuzza? What wilt thou, my dear?" the old woman answered, hobbling out.

"Mama Lucia, where is thy son?" Santuzza demanded.

"Thou hast come to see Turiddu? I do not know, my girl. I have nothing to do with quarrels, you must understand," she answered cautiously, half suspecting Santuzza's trouble, because she had already suffered many times on account of her son's faithlessness to others.

"Mama Lucia, I beg of you not to turn me away. Listen to my troubles. It is thy son who has caused them, and I must see him," Santuzza sobbed.

"Well, I cannot help thee—though I am truly sorry for thee," the mother answered, after a moment, observing all the signs of the sorrow that Santuzza felt. "He is not at home. He has gone to fetch the wine from Francofonte."

"No, no—he hasn't. He was seen about the village only last night."

"Who told thee that? I, his mother, should know if he is at home or not."

"Mama Lucia, do not turn me away—I am in great sorrow, and you will be unhappy all your life if you ill-treat me now." At this they were disturbed by the cracking of whips and jingling of bells which told of the return to town of the wagoner. Alfio was returning on Easter morning in time to join the gaiety with his wife, Lola.

He came in jauntily, singing:

[Music:

Proudly steps the sturdy steed, Gayly ring the merry bells, Crack! goes the whiplash! O' hi! Tho' the icy wind may blow, Let it rain or let it snow, What in the world care I?]

Soon all the neighbours appeared to welcome him. He was a most popular fellow—unlike Turiddu, who was a favourite mainly with the girls.

"Well, about all I have wished for all the week, neighbours, was to get home here to my wife, that we might spend this Easter day together. When I am away, I think of nothing but her, you may be sure! I can't stop here with you, jolly as you are. Lola is certain to be waiting for me, so off I go!" and the wagoner waved his hand gaily and was about to hurry off, while some went back into the church again, and some went to their homes. But Mama Lucia could not but regard him anxiously. She, herself, was in trouble over her wild son.

"Ah, Alfio, you are always in such high spirits——"

"Hello, Mama Lucia! Good day to you—have you any more of that famous wine?" Lucia's house was also the village inn, where the folks congregated to drink their wine, to play cards, and have a good gossip.

"No, not now; Turiddu has gone to Francofonte to get it."

"You are wrong: I met him near my cottage as I came into the village this very morning," the wagoner answered, and at the same moment Santuzza pulled old Lucia's skirt, signing to her to be silent. But the old woman, surprised and confused at the turn things seemed to be taking, persisted:

"How so? Are you certain of that?"

"Oh, yes, perfectly sure. And now I must be going: Lola will be expecting me," the unsuspicious wagoner answered, turning in earnest to go home. Now, while old Lucia and Santuzza stood without, the choir in the church sang:

[Music:

Queen of the Heavens, grief is ended! He, whom thy love once defended—]

And those peasants who had gradually wandered back into the square knelt, as they heard the prayer. The scene was very devotional and beautiful, with the exquisite music floating out from the church, and the reverent people gathering about it. Presently they broke into a joyous chorus of "Hallelujah! Christ is risen!" while Santuzza and old Lucia joined in spite of their sadness. But after all had wandered away, old Lucia approached Santuzza:

"Why didst thou caution me not to speak when Alfio said he had seen my son near his house?" she asked, anxiously, already half guessing the reason.

"Good mama, do you not know that before Turiddu went to the war he was Lola's lover; and at first after he returned he cared for me, but now he has forgotten me and is again making love to Lola? If the wagoner knew of this, what do you think he would do?"

"Oh, what hast thou told me upon this holy morning! You are right—if Alfio knew of this he would kill them both maybe. He surely would kill my son."

"It seems to me all are cursed this beautiful day. Go and pray for us all, Mama Lucia, and so will I," Santuzza replied. And she was about to enter the church to say her prayers when there came Turiddu, himself, dressed in his best, ready to meet Lola in the square as she passed on her way to the church.

"Turiddu!" Santuzza called.

"Devils! What are you here for, Santuzza? Are you on your way to church?"

"Not now. I am here to speak with you——"

"Well, well, I cannot stop for it; I must go into the inn and see my mother just now."

"You must stay here and speak with me. I warn you to do it, Turiddu. I am very unhappy, and if you will give up Lola I will forget all your wrongdoing. But if you neglect me, and will not give up Alfio's wife, Alfio will surely learn of it and make you trouble."

"Oh, come now—do you think you can frighten me? I will be a slave to no woman's whim, Santuzza. Go about your business. I shall attend to mine without your help. No, I will listen to you no longer," he cried, becoming angrier as she spoke, and pushing her away from him, as Lola, in the street near the square could be heard singing.

Santuzza and Turiddu both paused and listened. She was singing of Turiddu. She was calling him her "King of Roses." And then, while the two were standing uncertain what to do, Lola entered the square and spied them.

"Hello," she called loftily, looking at Santuzza. "Have you seen Alfio, Turiddu?"

"No, I have only just now come into the square."

"Oh, perhaps you have come to church," she persisted impertinently.

"I—I stopped to tell Santuzza—" he hardly knew what to say.

"I stopped to see Turiddu," Santuzza interrupted earnestly. "I stopped to say that the good Lord beholds all our deeds."

"Ah—then you are not going to mass?"

"No—those who go to mass must have a clear conscience. Which of us here has that?"

"Really I know nothing about you," Lola answered; "as for mine—it is clear!" Turiddu foreseeing trouble between them interrupted hastily.

"Let us go in," speaking to Lola.

"Oh, stay with Santuzza—and her conscience! do!"

"Yes, Turiddu—I warn you!" At that Lola laughed and went into the church.

"Now what have you done? By your folly, angered Lola. I am done with you!" Turiddu exclaimed, throwing off Santuzza, who held him back while she spoke. He became so enraged that he treated her brutally; and in trying to rid himself of her he threw her down upon the stones, and then ran into the church. When she got upon her feet again she was furious with anger.

"Now I will punish him for all his faithlessness," she sobbed, and she no sooner took this resolve than fate seemed to give her the means of carrying it out, for at that moment Alfio came back into the square.

"Oh, neighbour Alfio! God himself must have sent you here!"

"At what point is the service?"

"It is almost over, but I must tell you—Lola is gone to it with Turiddu."

"What do you mean by that?" Alfio demanded, regarding her in wonder.

"I mean that while you are about your business Turiddu remains here, and your wife finds in him a way to pass the time. She does not love you."

"If you are not telling me the truth," Alfio said, with anguish, "I'll certainly kill you."

"You have only to watch—you will know the truth fast enough," she persisted.

Alfio stood a moment in indecision and looked at her steadfastly.

"Santuzza, I believe you. Your words—and the sadness of your face—convince me. I will avenge us both." And off he ran. For a moment Santuzza was glad, then remorse overtook her. Now Turiddu would be killed! She was certain of it. Alfio was not a man to be played with. Surely Turiddu would be killed! And there was his old mother, too, who would be left quite alone. When it was too late, Santuzza repented having spoken. She tried to recall Alfio, but he had gone.

The organ within the church swelled loudly again, and, the music being most beautiful, Santuzza stood listening in an agony of mind. Soon people began to come out, and old Lucia hobbled from the church in her turn, and crossed to her inn, followed by the young men and women. The men were all going home to their wives, and the women to their duties, but it was proposed that all should stop a moment at old Lucia's for a glass of her famous wine before they separated. As they went to the bar of the inn, which was out under the trees, Lola and Turiddu came from the church together.

"I must hurry home now—I haven't seen Alfio yet—and he will be in a rage," she said.

"Not so fast—there is plenty of time! Come, neighbours, have a glass of wine with us," Turiddu cried to the crowd, going to his mother's bar, and there they gathered singing a gay drinking song.

"To those who love you!" Turiddu pledged, lifting his glass and looking at Lola. She nodded and answered:

"To your good fortune, brother!" And while they were speaking Alfio entered.

"Greeting to you all," he called.

"Good! come and join us," Turiddu answered.

"Thank you! but I should expect you to poison me if I were to drink with you, my friend," and the wagoner looked meaningly at Turiddu.

"Oh—well, suit yourself," Turiddu replied, nonchalantly. Then a neighbour standing near Lola whispered:

"You had better leave here, Lola. Come home with me. I can foresee trouble here." Lola took her advice and went out, with all the women following her.

"Well, now that you have frightened away all the women by your behaviour, maybe you have something to say to me privately," Turiddu remarked, turning to Alfio.

"Nothing—except that I am going to kill you—this instant!"

"You think so? then we will embrace," Turiddu exclaimed, proposing the custom of the place and throwing his arms about his enemy. When he did so, Alfio bit Turiddu's ear, which, in Sicily, is a challenge to a duel.

"Good! I guess we understand each other."

"Well, I own that I have done you wrong—and Santuzza wrong. Altogether, I am a bad fellow; but if you are going to kill me, I must bid my mother good-bye, and also give Santuzza into her care. After all, I have some grace left, whether you think so or not," Turiddu cried, and then he called his mother out, while Alfio went away with the understanding that Turiddu should immediately follow and get the fight over.

"Mama," Turiddu then said to old Lucia when she hobbled out, "that wine of ours is certainly very exciting. I am going out to walk it off, and I want your blessing before I go." He tried to keep up a cheerful front that he might not frighten his old mother. At least he had the grace to behave himself fairly well, now that the end had come.

"If I shouldn't come back——"

"What can you mean, my son?" the old woman whispered, trembling with fear.

"Nothing, nothing, except that even before I go to walk, I want your promise to take Santuzza to live with you. Now that is all! I'm off. Good-bye, God bless you, mother. I love you very much." Before she hardly knew what had happened, Turiddu was off and away. She ran to the side of the square and called after him, but he did not return. Instead, Santuzza ran in.

"Oh, Mama Lucia," she cried, throwing her arms about her.

Then the people who had met Alfio and Turiddu on their way to their encounter began to rush in. Everybody was wildly excited. Both men were village favourites in their way. A great noise of rioting was heard and some one shrieked in the distance.

"Oh, neighbour, neighbour, Turiddu is killed, Turiddu is killed!" At this nearly every one in the little village came running, while Santuzza fell upon the ground in a faint.

"He is killed! Alfio has killed him!" others cried, running in, and then poor old Lucia fell unconscious beside Santuzza, while the neighbours gathered about her, lifted her up and carried her into her lonely inn.



MEYERBEER

Genius seems born to do stupid things and to be unable to know it. Probably no stupider thing was ever said or done than that by Wagner when he wrote a diatribe on the Jew in Art. He called it "Das Judenthum in der Musik" (Judaism in Music). He declared that the mightiest people in art and in several other things—the Jews—could not be artists for the reason that they were wanderers and therefore lacking in national characteristics.

There could not well have been a better plea against his own statement. Art is often national—but not when art is at its best. Art is an emotional result—and emotion is a thing the Jews know something about. Meyerbeer was a Jew, and the most helpful friend Richard Wagner ever had, yet Wagner was so little of a Jew that he did not know the meaning of appreciation and gratitude. Instead, he hated Meyerbeer and his music intensely. Meyerbeer may have been a wanderer upon the face of the earth and without national characteristics—which is a truly amusing thing to say of a Jew, since his "characteristics" are a good deal stronger than "national": they are racial! But however that may have been, Meyerbeer's music was certainly characteristic of its composer. As between Jew and Jew, Mendelssohn and he had a petty hatred of each other. Mendelssohn was always displeased when the extraordinary likeness between himself and Meyerbeer was commented upon. They were so much alike in physique that one night, after Mendelssohn had been tormented by his attention being repeatedly called to the fact, he cut his hair short in order to make as great a difference as possible between his appearance and that of his rival. This only served to create more amusement among his friends.

Rossini, with all the mean vanity of a small artist, one whose principal claim to fame lay in large dreams, declared that Meyerbeer was a "mere compiler." If that be true, one must say that a good compilation is better than a poor creation. Rossini and Meyerbeer were, nevertheless, warm friends.

Meyerbeer put into practice the Wagnerian theories, which may have been one reason, aside from the constitutional artistic reasons, why Wagner hated him.

Meyerbeer was born "to the purple," to a properly conducted life, and yet he laboured with tremendous vim. He outworked all his fellows, and one day when a friend protested, begging him to take rest, Meyerbeer answered:

"If I should stop work I should rob myself of my greatest enjoyment. I am so accustomed to it that it has become a necessity with me." This is the true art spirit, which many who "arrive" never know the joy of possessing. Meyerbeer's father was a rich Jewish banker, Jacob Beer, of Berlin. It is pleasant to think of one man, capable of large achievements, having an easy time of it, finding himself free all his life to follow his best creative instincts. It is not often so.

Meyerbeer's generosity of spirit in regard to the greatness of another is shown in this anecdote:

Above all music, the Jew best loved Mozart's, just as Mozart loved Haydn's. Upon one occasion when Meyerbeer was dining with some friends, a question arose about Mozart's place among composers. Some one remarked that "certain beauties of Mozart's music had become stale with age." Another agreed, and added, "I defy any one to listen to 'Don Giovanni' after the fourth act of 'Les Huguenots'!" This vulgar compliment enraged Meyerbeer. "So much the worse then for the fourth act of 'The Huguenots'!" he shouted. Of all his own work this Jewish composer loved "L'Africaine" the best, and he made and remade it during a period of seventeen years. In this he was the best judge of his own work; though some persons believe that "Le Prophete" is greater.

Among Meyerbeer's eccentricities was one that cannot be labelled erratic. He had a wholesome horror of being buried alive, and he carried a slip about in his pocket, instructing whom it might concern to see that his body was kept unburied four days after his death, that small bells were attached to his hands and feet, and that all the while he should be watched. Then he was to be sent to Berlin to be interred beside his mother, whom he dearly loved.

THE PROPHET

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA

Count Oberthal, Lord of the manor. John of Leyden, an innkeeper and then a revolutionist (the Prophet). Jonas } Mathison } Anabaptists. Zacharia } Bertha, affianced to John of Leyden. Faith, John's mother. Choir: Peasants, soldiers, people, officers.

Story laid in Holland, near Dordrecht, about the fifteenth century.

Composer: Meyerbeer. Author: Scribe.

ACT I

One beautiful day about four hundred years ago the sun rose upon a castle on the Meuse, where lived the Count Oberthal, known in Holland as Lord of the Manor. It was a fine sight with its drawbridge and its towers, its mills and outbuildings, with antique tables outside the great entrance, sacks of grain piled high, telling of industry and plenty. In the early day peasants arrived with their grain sacks, called for entrance, and the doors were opened to them; other men with grain to be milled came and went, and the scene presented a lively appearance.

Sheep-bells were heard in the meadows, the breezes blew softly, and men and women went singing gaily about their work. Among them was a young girl, more beautiful than the others, and her heart was specially full of hope. She was beloved of an innkeeper, John, who lived in a neighbouring village. He was prosperous and good, and she thought of him while she worked. She longed to be his wife, but John had an old mother who was mistress of the inn—in fact, the inn was hers—and it had been a question how they should arrange their affairs. John was too poor to go away and make a separate home, and the old mother might not care to have a daughter-in-law take her place as mistress there, carrying on the business while the active old woman sat idly by.

Upon that beautiful day, Bertha was thinking of all of these things, and hoping something would happen to change the situation. Even while she was thinking thus fate had a pleasant surprise in store for her, because the old mother, Faith, was at that very moment approaching the manor where Bertha lived. Like others of her class she owed vassalage to some petty seigneur, and while that meant oppression to be endured, it included the advantage of safety and protection in time of war.

Bertha, looking off over the country road, saw Faith, John's mother, coming. Her step was firm for one so aged, and she was upheld on her long journey by the goodness of her mission. When Bertha saw her she ran to meet and welcome her.

"Sit down," she cried, guiding the old woman's steps to a seat, and hovering over her. "I have watched for your coming since the morning—even since sunrise," the young woman said, fluttering about happily. "I was certain thou wert coming."

"Yes, yes. John said: 'Go, go, mother, and bring Bertha home to me,' and I have come," she answered, caressing Bertha kindly. "I have decided to give over the work and the care to you young people; to sit by the chimneyside and see you happy; so bid farewell to this place, and prepare to return with me. John is expecting thee."

"At once, dear mother?" she asked with some anxiety. "You know, mother, I am a vassal of the Seigneur Oberthal, and may not marry outside of his domain, without his permission. I must first get that; but he cannot wish to keep me here, when there is so much happiness in store for me!" she cried, with all the assurance of her happiness newly upon her. But while she had been speaking, Faith had looked off toward the high-road:

"Look, Bertha! dost see three strange figures coming along there?" she asked in a low tone, pointing toward the road. Bertha looked. It was true: three men, in black, of sinister appearance, were coming toward them. The pair watched.

"Who are they?" she repeated, still in low and half-frightened tones.

"I have seen them before," Bertha answered. "It is said that they are saintly men, but they look sinister to me."

By this time the men had been joined by many of the peasants and were approaching the castle. They were Jonas, Mathison, and Zacharia, seditionists; but they were going through the country in the garb of holy men, stirring up the people under cover of saintliness.

They preached to the people the most absurd doctrines; that they would have all the lands and castles of the nobles if they should rise up and rebel against the system of vassalage that then prevailed. They lacked a leader, however, in order to make their work successful. Now they had come to Dordrecht and were approaching the castle of the Count of Oberthal. All the peasants got into a frightful tangle of trouble and riot, and they called and hammered at the Count's doors till he and his retainers came out.

"What is all this noise?" he demanded, and as he spoke, he recognized in Jonas, the leader of the Anabaptists, a servant whom he had discharged for thievery. He at once told the peasants of this, and it turned them against the three strangers and stopped the disturbance, but at the back of the crowd the Count Oberthal had seen the beautiful Bertha and Faith.

"What do ye do here?" he asked, curiously but kindly, noticing the beauty of Bertha. At that she went toward him.

"I wish to ask you, Seigneur, for leave to marry outside your domain. I love John of Leyden, the innkeeper—this is his mother—and she has come to take me home with her, if I may go." She spoke modestly, never thinking but she would be permitted to leave. But Oberthal looked at her admiringly and decided that he would have her for himself. Then thinking of her love, she began to sing of how John had once saved her life, and Faith joined her in pleading.

[Music:

One day in the waves of the Meuse I struggled I struggled John, John saved me—]

"No," Oberthal said at last, smiling; "I will not have so much loveliness leave my domain. No! I shall not give my consent." At that she began to weep, while Faith protested against his decision. This made him angry and he ordered the two woman taken into his castle and confined there till he should decide what he wished to do with them.

The peasants, who were still gathered about the Anabaptists, uncertain how to treat them after the Count's disclosures, now showed great anger against Oberthal for his action toward Bertha and Faith. As the two women were dragged within the castle, the peasants set up a howl of rage, while the Anabaptists extended their hands above them in a pious manner and began their Latin chant once more.

ACT II

At the little inn belonging to Faith, John had been waiting all day for her return with Bertha, and trying his best to look after those who came and went. Outside, people were waltzing and drinking and making merry, for the inn was a favourite place for the townsmen of Leyden to congregate.

"Sing and waltz; sing and waltz!" they cried, "all life is joy—and three cheers for thee, John!"

"Hey! John, bring beer," a soldier called merrily. "Let us eat, drink and—" At that moment Jonas, followed by the other Anabaptists, appeared at the inn.

"John! who is John?" they inquired of the soldier.

"John! John!" first one, then another called. "Here are some gentlemen who want beer—although they are very unlikely looking chaps," some one added, under his breath, looking the three fellows over. John came in to take orders, but his mind was elsewhere.

"It is near night—and they have not come," he kept thinking. "I wonder if anything can have happened to them! Surely not! My mother is old, but she is lively on her feet, and on her way home she would have the attention of Bertha. Only I should feel better to see them just now."

"Come, come, John! Beer!" the soldier interrupted, and John started from his reverie. As he went to fetch the beer, Jonas too started. Then he leaned toward Mathison.

"Do you notice anything extraordinary about that man—John of the inn?" he asked. The two other Anabaptists regarded the innkeeper closely.

"Yes! He is the image of David—the saint in Muenster, whose image is so worshipped by the Westphalians. They believe that same saint has worked great miracles among them," Zacharia answered, all the while watching John as he moved about among the tables.

"Listen to this! Just such a man was needed to complete our success. This man's strong, handsome appearance and his strange likeness to that blessed image of those absurd Westphalians is enough to make him a successful leader. We'll get hold of him, call him a prophet, and the business is done. With him to lead and we to control him, we are likely to own all Holland presently. He is a wonder!" And they put their heads together and continued to talk among themselves. Then Jonas turned to one of the guests.

"Say, friend, who is this man?"

"He is the keeper of this inn," was the answer. "He has an excellent heart and a terrible arm."

"A fiery temper, I should say," the Anabaptist suggested.

"That he has, truly."

"He is brave?"

"Aye! and devoted. And he knows the whole Bible by heart," the peasant declared, proud of his friend. At that the three looked meaningly at one another. This certainly was the sort of man they needed.

"Come, friends, I want you to be going," John said at that moment, his anxiety for his mother and Bertha becoming so great that he could no longer bear the presence of the roistering crowd. "Besides it is going to storm. Come. I must close up." They all rose good-naturedly and one by one and in groups took themselves off—all but the three Anabaptists, who lingered behind.

"What troubles thee, friend?" Jonas said sympathetically to John, when all had gone, and he looked toward them inquiringly.

"The fact is, my mother was to have returned to Leyden with my fiancee before this hour, and I am a little troubled to know they are so late upon the road. I imagine I feel the more anxious because of some bad dreams I have had lately—two nights." He added, trying to smile.

"Pray tell us what your dreams were. We can some of us interpret dreams. Come! Perhaps they mean good rather than bad," Jonas urged.

"Why, I dreamed that I was standing in a beautiful temple, with everything very splendid about me, while everybody was bowing down to me——"

"Well, that is good!" Jonas interrupted.

"Ah! but wait! A crown was on my brow and a hidden choir were chanting a sacred chant. They kept repeating: 'This is the new king! the king whom heaven has given us.' And then upon a blazing marble tablet there appeared the words 'Woe through thee! Woe through thee!' And as I was about to draw my sword I was nearly drowned in a sea of blood. To escape that I tried to mount the throne beside me. But I and the throne were swept away by a frightful storm which rose. And at that moment the Devil began to drag me down, while the people cried: 'Let him be accursed!' But out of the sky came a voice and it cried 'Mercy—mercy to him!' and then I woke trembling with the vividness of my dream. I have dreamed thus twice. It troubles me." And he paused abstractedly, listening to the storm without, which seemed to grow more boisterous.

"Friend, let me interpret that dream as it should be understood. It means that you are born to reign over the people. You may go through difficulties to reach your throne, but you shall reign over the people."

"Humph!" he answered, smiling incredulously, "I may reign, but it shall be a reign of love over this little domestic world of mine. I want my mother and my sweetheart, and want no more. Let them arrive safely this night, and I'll hand over that dream-throne to you!" he answered, going to the door.

"Listen again!" Jonas persisted. "You do not know us but you have heard of us. We are those holy men who have been travelling through Holland, telling people their sacred rights as human beings; and pointing out to them that God never meant them for slaves. Join us, and that throne you dreamed of shall become a real one, and thine! Come! Consent, and you go with us. That kingdom shall be yours. You have the head and heart and the behaviour of a brave and good man." Thus they urged him, but John only put them aside. He listened to them half in derision.

"Wait till I get my Bertha and my mother safe into this house this night, then we'll think of that fine kingdom ye are planning for me," he said. The Anabaptists seeing that his mind was too troubled with his own affairs, got up and went out.

"Well, thank heaven!" John cried when they had gone. "What queer fellows, to be sure! I wish it were not so late——" At that moment a great noise arose outside the inn. "What can that mean?" he said to himself, standing in the middle of the floor, hardly daring to look out, he was so disturbed. The noise became greater.

"It is the galloping of soldiers, by my faith!" he cried, and was starting toward the door when it was burst open and Bertha threw herself into his arms.

"What is this! What has happened? Good heaven! you are all torn and——"

"Save me, save and hide me!" she cried. "Thy mother is coming. The soldiers are after us—look!" And glancing toward the window he saw Oberthal coming near with his soldiers. He hastily hid Bertha behind some curtains in one part of the room, just as Oberthal rushed in.

He demanded Bertha, telling John how he had taken the two women and was carrying them to Haarlem when Bertha got away. Now he had Faith, the mother, and would keep her as hostage, unless Bertha was instantly given into his hands. Upon hearing that, John was distracted with grief.

"Give her up, or I'll kill this old woman before thy eyes!" he declared brutally. John was torn between love for his old mother and for his sweetheart, and while he stood staring wildly at Oberthal the soldiers brought his mother in and were about to cleave her head in twain when Bertha tore the curtains apart. She could not let John sacrifice his mother for her. Oberthal fairly threw her into the arms of his soldiers, while the old mother stretched her arms toward John, who fell upon a seat with his head in his hands. Then, after the soldiers and Oberthal had gone, the poor old woman tried to comfort him, but his grief was so tragic that he could not endure it, and he begged her to go to her room and leave him alone for a time. Soon after she had gone out, John heard the strange chant of the Anabaptists. He raised his head and listened—that was like his dream—the sacred chant!

"It is my dream," he said. Then he started up furiously. "It is my revenge. If those strange men should come again and ask——" And at that very moment they summoned him to the door. They knew what had passed, and believed it a good time to persuade him to join them.

"Enter, enter, enter!" he cried, half beside himself with his grief; and the three strange creatures came in.

"John of Leyden, we come to offer you a throne once more, and with it your revenge for what has happened here this night."

"I will join thee for my revenge. I need no throne—but my revenge! I must have my revenge!"

"Come, and thou shalt have it. Work henceforth as we direct, and as that sainted figure of David, beloved by those of Westphalia, and we promise you revenge against the whole nobility of Holland. Come!"

"Aye—thou shalt be to Holland what Jeanne d'Arc was to France!"

John went softly, yet quivering with hate and sorrow, to his mother's door.

"She mutters a prayer in her sleep," he said, hesitating what to do, yet overwhelmed with misfortune and fury.

"Thy revenge!" whispered Zacharia in his ear. John of Leyden looked at him darkly a moment, then:

"Let us go," he said, and the four conspirators went softly from the old inn.

ACT III

At the close of day, at the foot of an ice-covered mountain, forests on every side, the Anabaptists were encamped in Westphalia. John of Leyden had gone to that part of Germany under the direction of Jonas, Mathison, and Zacharia, and being introduced to the people as a sainted man, all had fallen down and worshipped him and he had become a great power. So many had rallied round him that his army had become very large, and the nobles and their families were fleeing from it in consternation.

Just before nightfall, while all seemed quiet in camp, a noise of battle was heard far off, which grew louder and louder, telling of the approach of the fighters. Finally, the noise of combat was right at hand, and when the soldiers rushed into the camp there was great confusion. Among the prisoners were men and women richly dressed, little children, and old people, all prisoners, or flying on every side. The Anabaptists were ferocious in their joy over every success, and since John of Leyden had joined and led them they had been most successful.

Peasants came into camp with baskets and loads of food, while those things were bought by giving in exchange many spoils of war—rich vases and fine stuffs of all sorts. Then the soldiers fell to eating and drinking, being served by their women and children while there was dancing and general rejoicing.

Many of the girls who had brought provisions into camp had skated over miles of frozen waterway, thinking little of such a performance in that country, and all was gaiety and expectation. It was known that the Emperor was marching against the Anabaptist army, and while John of Leyden had been very successful, he had as yet no stronghold; so he decided, after talking with Jonas and the other two seditionists, to attack the city of Muenster itself. That city was held by the father of the Count Oberthal, who had carried off Bertha.

Then, when the rout and camp gaiety were at their height, a stranger who had been seen wandering about the camp was brought in. He was looked upon with suspicion, and it was decided that he must immediately take an oath to belong to the Anabaptists. He agreed to do so and then, while every one was talking about the Prophet, the stranger was brought before Jonas.

"Who is it?" he asked, for outside the rays of the camp lights the wood was dark.

"One who is ready to take the oath and join us," was the answer.

"Very well, but in this dense wood who can see anything at this time of the night? Strike a light there."

"Yes, have a care, brother," said Zacharia. "Let us be certain the man is sincere in his purpose to join us."

"To-morrow we go to take Muenster, which is in the hands of that traitor Oberthal," Mathison said.

The stranger started violently.

"We shall massacre the wretch and his people," Jonas continued.

"Massacre!" the stranger exclaimed, then aside he murmured "my father!" because in truth the stranger who had been caught near the camp was none other than the Oberthal who had carried away Bertha.

The three Anabaptists continued to speak in so blood-thirsty a manner of their exploits that Oberthal was horrified by the thought that it was his father who was to fall into their hands on the morrow. More than that, they expected him to swear to join their expedition.

"Well, here we stand, talking in the darkness still. Let us get out of it," Jonas cried, and they moved toward the light of the camp, taking Oberthal with them. Suddenly when in the bright light, Jonas recognized his old master who had sent him away and punished him for stealing.

"Heaven! Well, I have you now!" he cried, wickedly. "Now I'll make short work of you!" and he called the guard. "Here! surround him. Lead him instantly to execution."

"Without consulting the Prophet?" all cried in amazement. That was high-handed work, indeed.

"Wait for nothing. Kill him," Jonas cried, going excitedly by one path, as John the Prophet came upon the scene by another. He was sad and cast down, and Zacharia spoke to him. "What is wrong with you?"

"I get small joy from all this," he answered. "Jeanne d'Arc was born to such affairs, but I was better off in my inn, serving my people. It is a bad business," and he was very melancholy.

"What is this you say?"

"I say that I think of my Bertha and my mother. I wish I were with them, while others were reforming Holland."

"But thy mother and thy sweetheart, since they got into the hands of Oberthal, are doubtless dead."

"Then there is little for me to fight for. I shall stop now; do you carry on your schemes as best you may. Who is that prisoner?" he asked, as Oberthal was brought back by the soldiers.

"It is a man who is about to be executed."

"Oh—he is? Who says so, since I say otherwise?" John replied, looking at Zacharia contemptuously. "I am thy Prophet," he declared with hardly less contempt in his tone than before. "I am thy Prophet and settle these matters of life and death. I settle this one. Yonder man shall not die. I am in a humane mood." He motioned the guard to bring Oberthal, whom he had not yet seen, before him. When face to face, John of Leyden lifted his eyes and looked again upon the man who had brought all his woes upon him; who had so persecuted him that he had in a mad moment left his peaceful inn, and undertaken to change the face of Germany. He had already wrought untold pain and suffering.

"Oberthal!" he said, hardly able to speak because of his emotion.

"Ah! thou wilt still treat him tenderly, I doubt not!" Zacharia cried, sneeringly. For a moment John of Leyden could not speak; then he said:

"Leave us!" His tone was awful, yet showed great self-repression.

"So!" he said, after gazing at Oberthal a moment. "Heaven has delivered thee into my hands!"

"It is just. My crime merits my punishment," Oberthal said in a low voice. "But I will tell thee one thing which is thy due and may save my soul from damnation: thy Bertha, to save herself from my hands, threw herself into the sea, and thus escaped me."

"Dead, dead!" John of Leyden said, bowing his head a moment upon his hands.

"No! there is more. Touched with remorse, I saved her."

"And then,—speak!"

"She fled to Muenster, and I was on my way there to find her and to try to restore her to thee, when I was arrested."

"Oberthal, thy fate shall rest with her. I spare thee till she shall pronounce sentence upon thee." He had no sooner spoken than Mathison rushed in and cried that the troops had rebelled, and that John alone could stop the riot and stay the ruin. "The gates of Muenster have been thrown open, its army has marched upon us, and our men are fleeing."

"Run! run!" John of Leyden shouted. "After them, and turn them back. Muenster must be ours!" And he rushed off, the Anabaptists following.

When he managed to rally the soldiers, they turned upon him and accused him of being a false Prophet.

"Ye promised us to take Muenster; thy dallying has lost it to us. We shall no longer tolerate a rule like thine. Thou art no Prophet." But since learning that Bertha was within the city of Muenster, John of Leyden's purpose had become fixed. If he entered that city at all, it must be as a conqueror; because as a seditionist his head was wanted there. Yet if he did not enter he could not find Bertha.

When they had cried death to the Prophet, John of Leyden calmly, with great impressiveness, made them cower before his rage.

"I punish rebellion like this. If you have come to grief—or if the cause shall—it is because you have offended God by your haste, and by your disobedience to me," he cried, while the soldiers shouted:

"He speaks like a holy man! We have done wrong."

"Get to your knees, you impious men!" he cried, seeing his advantage over them, and they all fell upon their knees. His personality had gained the control over a great people once again. With this spirit of enthusiasm aroused, the city of Muenster was soon taken, and a great hymn of triumph went up. All the people likened John of Leyden to David, and rallied round him, proclaiming him king.

ACT IV

Before the city hall of the city of Muenster, many citizens were collected, and many were continually arriving, bearing rich bronzes, and chests of treasure, which they were hoping to save for themselves by placing them under the direct protection of the city. The invading hosts of John's army filled all with fear. No one was more furious against the Prophet than Bertha, who, being in Muenster, had no thought that the Prophet who had laid waste the whole country could be her beloved sweetheart.

The public square before the city hall was soon invaded by the soldiers of John, who were crying, "Long live the Prophet!" while answering cries of "Down with him! down with thy Prophet!" were courageously shouted by the people of Muenster.

"This Prophet who is to be crowned King of the Anabaptists; he is of Satan and not of Heaven!" The whole city was full of despair.

While all was in confusion, Faith, John's mother, was seen to wander in and kneel in prayer.

"What art thou doing there, mother?" one of the crowd questioned.

"I am praying for my son. I am begging for money that I may buy masses for his soul. I am hungry and cold. I am alone in the world. All the world seems buried in grief. I pray. There is no other hope save in prayer!" she moaned, little thinking that it was her son who had brought upon a nation so much desolation, and who at the same time was about to be crowned by the revolutionists. As people passed, they dropped money into her hand, and some led her a little way to a seat where she could rest her weary body. She had become very old and trembling since that night when she had last seen her son. She had wandered from the old inn in search of him, and had never found him; and she had no sooner left the old home than Bertha, saved from Oberthal, had flown to the inn again, to throw herself into the strong arms of her lover. She had found the place closed, for Faith and John had gone, no one knew where.

After begging and praying in the public square, Faith found herself near a sick and almost helpless man, close to the palace toward which she had wandered. Many people were about. The Prophet was going to be crowned, so it was rumoured. Among others, Bertha had wandered near.

"Thou poor, helpless brother," said Faith. "Let me, out of my poverty, help thee a little." At the sound of that voice Bertha paused, turned, and nearly shrieked. She had wandered alone and hopeless; and there stood Faith, her lover's mother.

"Oh, dear mother!" she cried, and they threw themselves into each other's arms.

"Oh, mother! How I sought for thee!" she sobbed. "Since you were not to be found in Leyden, I turned myself toward Muenster, hoping against hope to find you or John. Now take me to him. Let us go quickly!" she urged, but old Faith held back.

"My child, he is dead. I heard a voice declare to me that I should see him no more. It was an unseen voice. He is dead." Whereupon, both women fell to weeping in each other's arms.

"It has to do with these wicked men who have brought ruin upon Germany!—these Anabaptists!" Bertha cried. "Oh, John, if thou couldst rise from thy grave and help me now. Thy courage and goodness would raise up men to drive back these who do bad deeds in the name of God."

She cursed the famous Prophet, neither of them dreaming who he might be, and that desolation had come because the man whom they loved best had sought revenge for the wrongs done to them. With those curses in their hearts, the forlorn women wandered on with the crowd toward the cathedral where the Prophet was to be crowned.

Some of his suite had already gone into the church, but many were arriving in a grand procession. The appearance of the Prophet's guard aroused great indignation among the citizens, who were compelled to look on helplessly.

Then came the Prophet himself, garbed all in white, from head to foot, and a wonderful march was being played, while the spectacle grew each moment more and more magnificent.

[Music]

As John the Prophet passed, the revolutionary crowd threw themselves at his feet; young girls strewed flowers in his path, the choir chanted. Then, the Anabaptists having deposed the Elector Princes, were to take their places. The Prophet was anointed with holy oil, a great and impressive ceremony took place, and all the city rang with the cries that proclaimed him king. Faith and Bertha could not see the new king, but they were in the crowd, and they cursed this Prophet again—none so vigorously as Bertha, while Faith hailed her as a new Judith. After a time, all being prostrate upon their knees awaiting the reentrance of the Prophet from the church, John appeared upon the great staircase which led from the cathedral. As he stood there looking unhappily upon all of those abased people who seemed to be worshipping him, he thought he heard the voice of his dream of long ago. "Woe through thee! Let him be accursed!" Overcome by the memory, he uttered those words aloud. Faith heard the voice and screamed:

"My son! my son!" John of Leyden trembled and started toward her, his arms outstretched, but Mathison, knowing the disastrous effect such an acknowledgment would have upon the crowd who believed him of holy origin, said in a low voice to John:

"Speak! reply to her, and she shall die, instantly! Deny thy mother, or she shall be killed before thine eyes." The Anabaptists had no mind to lose all they had risked so much for, when it was just within their grasp. John looked at his mother, in agony and then he regained his self-possession.

"Who is this woman?" he asked: it was to save her life that he did it.

At that cold denial of her, Faith clasped her hands and wept. Then she became enraged at his ingratitude, and began to upbraid him.

"This poor wretch is mad," he said, but by that time the crowd was beginning to murmur against him.

"He said he was the son of God! He is an impostor." The Anabaptists seeing how fatal the effect of Faith's words was going to be, spoke menacingly to John. Then John cried, as Jonas raised his sword to strike the old mother down:

"Hold! respect the day! I, thy Prophet, hath to-day received His crown. No bloodshed. This poor creature is demented. A miracle alone can restore her reason," and he went toward Faith. "Woman, to thy knees!" he said, but she made a gesture of indignation. He continued to go toward her, then laying his hands lovingly upon her head he looked meaningly into her eyes.

"To thy knees." His voice was soft and gentle, and slowly Faith fell upon her knees, half comprehending that he was acting as fate compelled him.

"Put up thy swords!" he commanded the people who had drawn them. Then to Faith: "Thou wert wrong, good mother!" She looked at him a moment longer.

"Yes!—wrong," she said, and bowed her head. At that the people burst into cries of enthusiasm.

"Is he thy child?" Jonas asked loudly, placing his sword-point upon her breast.

"Alas! No, he is not my son!" she answered in a weak voice.

"A miracle! A miracle!" all cried, and then the Prophet passed on, Faith looking after him without following, the people again acclaiming him with joyous shouts.

ACT V

In a dungeon underneath the palace, John found his mother. He went to the place where he had privately ordered the Anabaptists to have her taken, the moment he could leave the ceremonies of his coronation. The feast of the day was yet to come, but while the ceremonies had been going on, the three Anabaptists had had a message from the Emperor of Germany, which promised safety to themselves, if they would give the Prophet into his hands. They had treacherously decided to do this at the coronation feast.

In the dungeon the poor old mother had huddled down, no longer in fear, because her grief had rendered her insensible to everything else.

"I forgive him," she sobbed, thinking of her son. "Let no ill come to him for what he has done to me this day." As she was thus plunged in deepest grief, the iron door opened, flambeaux lighted the palace up, and the guard cried the Prophet's name.

"Woman, get upon thy knees; the Prophet is coming to thee," an officer said.

She started up: "He is coming here—I shall see him?" she whispered to herself. Then the guard left, and John of Leyden came in. He ran toward his mother.

"Mother! My mother!" he cried.

"Nay!" she answered. "In the crowd I obeyed thee—I read some strange message in thy face. But here, with only God's eye upon thee, go down on thy knees before me."

"Oh, mother, I love thee!"

But the old mother reproached him with what he had done—how he had brought a people to despair and had imposed himself upon them as the son of God; but all the while she chided him, she loved him dearly.