"Near thee, my daughter, I find all the joy on earth that is left me," he said, trying to control his emotion.

"You love me, father?"

"Aye!—thou art my only comfort."

"Father, there is often something mysterious in thy actions. You have never told me of my mother. Who was my mother, dear father?"

[Music:

Ah why recall in misery, What tempests dread have moved me? An angel once companion'd me, An angel in pity lov'd me]

he sang.

"Hideous, an outcast, penniless, she blessed my lonely years. Ah! I lost her, I lost her. Death wafted her soul to heaven!—But thou art left me," he said tenderly, beginning to weep.

"There, father, say no more. My questions have made thee sad. I shall always be with thee to make thee happy. But, father, I do not know that you are what you tell me. What is your real name? Is it Rigoletto?"

"No matter, child, do not question. I am feared and hated by my enemies. Let that suffice."

"But ever since we came to this place three months ago, you have forbidden me to go abroad. Let me go into the city, father, and see the sights."

"Never! You must not ask it." He was frightened at the very thought. If men like the Duke, his master, should see such a beautiful girl as Gilda, they would surely rob him of her. At that moment the nurse, Giovanna, came from the house and Rigoletto asked her if the garden gate was ever left open while he was away. The woman told him falsely that the gate was always closed.

"Ah, Giovanna, I pray you watch over my daughter when I am away," he cried, and turned suddenly toward the gate upon hearing a noise. "Some one is without there, now!" he cried, running in the direction of the sound. He threw the gate wide, but saw no one, because the Duke—who it was—had stepped aside into the shadow, and then, while Rigoletto was without, looking up the road, he slipped within and hid behind a tree, throwing a purse to Giovanna to bribe her to silence. Giovanna snatched it and hid it in the folds of her gown, showing plainly that she was not to be trusted, as Rigoletto trusted her, with his precious daughter. There was the man whom Rigoletto had most cause to fear, who ran off with every pretty girl he saw, and he had now found the prettiest of them all in the dwarf's daughter.

"Have you noticed any one following Gilda?" the dwarf asked, returning to the garden and fastening the gate behind him. "If harm should come to my daughter it would surely kill me," he sobbed, taking Gilda in his arms. At that the Duke, listening behind the tree, was amazed. So! Gilda was no sweetheart of his jester; but was his daughter instead!

"Now," said Rigoletto, "I must be off, but I caution you once more; let no one in."

"What, not even the great Duke if he should come to inquire for you?"

"The Duke least of all," the dwarf answered in a new panic. And kissing Gilda he went out again.

No sooner had he gone than Gilda turned tearfully to her nurse.

"Giovanna, my heart feels guilty."

"What hast thou done?" the nurse asked, indifferently, remembering the purse of the Duke which she carried in her bosom.

"Ne'er told my father of the youth whom I have learned to love and who has followed me."

"Why should he know it? Would he not prevent it? If you wish that——"

"Nay, nay," Gilda replied, fearfully; and in her loneliness and distress she confided to Giovanna how much she loved the Duke. Mantua, behind the tree, heard all, and, motioning Giovanna to go away, he came toward Gilda. Giovanna went at once into the house, but Gilda cried to her to come back, as the sudden appearance of the Duke frightened her, after the scene she had just had with her father.

Then while the Duke was giving her a false name, and trying to reassure her, they heard voices outside the garden wall. The Duke recognized the voice of Borsa and Ceprano. They seemed to be searching for some house, and again, quite terror-stricken, Gilda started to rush within.

Giovanna met her. "I am afraid it is your father returned. The young gentleman must hasten away," she whispered under her breath, and immediately the Duke went out by another way, through the house. Then Gilda watched off, down the road, and while she was watching, Borsa, Ceprano, and other dare-devils of the Duke's court stole into the garden. Ceprano, who had heard that Gilda was some one beloved by Rigoletto, although it was not known that she was his daughter, meant to carry Gilda off, since he owed Rigoletto a grudge. Having seen the Duke disappear, Gilda had gone within again, and as the kidnappers were about to enter, they heard Rigoletto coming.

It was then their opportunity to plan a great and tragic joke upon the wretched dwarf.

"Listen to this!" Borsa whispered. "Let us tell him we are here to carry off the Countess Ceprano, who has fled here for safety from us. Then when we have blind-folded him, we will make him help to carry off his own sweetheart." Just as that infamous plan was formed, in came Rigoletto. He ran against one of the men in the dark.

"What's this?" he cried.

"H'st! Be silent!"

"Who spoke?" he unconsciously lowered his voice.

"Marullo, you idiot."

"The darkness blinds me, and I cannot see you."

"H'st, Rigoletto! We're for an adventure. We are going to carry off the Countess Ceprano: she has fled here from us. We had the Duke's key to get into her place." He holds out the key which the dwarf felt in the darkness and found the Duke's crest upon it.

"Her palace is on the other side——"

"She fled here, we tell thee. We are stealing her for the Duke. Put on this mask, hurry!" Marullo tied on a mask and put the jester at the foot of a ladder which they had run up against the terrace.

"Now hold the ladder till one of us gets over and unfastens the door." Rigoletto, somewhat dazed, did mechanically what he was told, and the men entered the house.

"Ah, I shall have a fine revenge on that scamp," Ceprano muttered, looking toward Rigoletto through the dark.

"Sh! Be silent," Borsa whispered. "They will bring the girl out muffled so he can't hear her scream. Rigoletto will never hear a sound. No joke of his ever matched the one we are preparing for him." At that moment, Gilda was brought out, her mouth tied with her scarf; but as they were bearing her away, she got the scarf loose and uttered a piercing shriek, and the scarf fell near Rigoletto.

"Father, help, help!" she cried, but the voice seemed to come from afar off. Rigoletto only just heard. He could not collect his senses.

"Here, what does this mean? Aren't you nearly through?" he cried, angrily tearing off the mask and also the handkerchief that bound his ears. "What cry was that? I thought I heard a cry!" He was becoming mad with fear. All the conditions seemed so strange.

"Hello there!" But no one answered; all the men were gone. Then he snatched a lantern one of the men had left near, and suddenly he saw Gilda's scarf. He stared at it, rushed like a madman into the house and dragged out the nurse, tried to shriek "Gilda," but overcome with horror he fell senseless.

ACT II

Now if the Duke of Mantua was ever angry in his life, he was angry when the curtain rose on the second act. There he was, pacing about a sumptuous apartment, fuming with rage.

"If ever I loved any one in my life, it was that girl!" he cried. "And heaven knows what can have become of her." As a matter of fact, the Duke had some misgiving after he had left Gilda in the garden, and, later, he had returned. But he had found the place deserted and could get no news of her from that hour.

"Oh, but I would defend thee, if thou art in trouble," he cried; and in the midst of his excitement Marullo, Borsa, and Ceprano and other courtiers rushed into the room. All were fairly bursting with news of the escapade of the night before.

"Oh, Duke! Oh, Lord! What do you think? We have carried off the jester's sweetheart!"

"What?" The Duke stared and then gave a great cry. "Speak, speak. What have you done?"

"The jester's sweetheart."

"Where is she?" the Duke asked, hardly daring to trust his voice.

"Here, in this house."

"What do you say?"

"Yes, we brought her here."

"Oh, joy!" the Duke exclaimed; then aside: "She is near me," and forgetting all about his friends he went out excitedly.

"Why did he turn away from us?" the men asked each other. "He has enjoyed our adventures before now." They were a little uneasy and were conferring together when Rigoletto came in. He was a pitiful-looking fellow, worn with a night of horror and weeping, but he came singing:

"La, la, la, la, la,"—pretending not to be agitated. "Pray what is the news?" he asked off-hand, seeking not to betray his agony of mind, till he should have learned something about his daughter.

"Pleasant morning, Rigoletto!" the men answered, mockingly, and glancing with grins at each other. "Pray what is the news?" Rigoletto, half dead with anxiety, moved about the room looking for some sign of Gilda.

"Lord! See him fishing about in every corner for her? He thinks to find her under the table," one of them whispered, and the men burst out laughing.

Then Rigoletto discovered a handkerchief on the floor and snatched it, hoping to find a clue, but it was not hers. Just then a page ran in to say that the Duchess was asking for the Duke.

"He is still in bed," one of the men answered, watching the effect of that upon Rigoletto, who was listening to every word.

"He cannot be," the page persisted. "Didn't he just pass me on the stairs?"

"All right, then! He has gone a-hunting," and they laughed.

"With no escort? Hardly. Come, don't think me a fool. Where's the Duke? The Duchess wishes to speak with him."

"It is you who are a dull fool," the men exclaimed, seeming to carry on the conversation aside, but taking good care that Rigoletto should hear. "The Duke cannot be disturbed—do you understand? He is with a lady."

"Ah! Villains!" Rigoletto shrieked, turning upon them like a tiger. "My daughter! You have my daughter—here in this palace. Give me my daughter!" The men all rushed after him as he made for the door.

"Your daughter? My God! Your daughter?" They were horrified at their own doings, hearing it was Rigoletto's daughter.

"Stand back! Don't think to keep me from my daughter." As they still held him tight, hardly knowing what then to do, he sank down in despair. He entreated help of the different courtiers whom he had so often and maliciously misused. Then he wept.

"Oh, have pity on me, my lords! Let me go to my daughter." While everybody was hesitating in consternation, Gilda, having got free, rushed from the next room, and into his arms. She screamed hysterically that she had been carried off by the Duke. Rigoletto nearly foamed at the mouth with rage, and at last the men became truly afraid of him.

"Go, all of you!" he stammered, no longer able to speak plainly. "And if the Duke comes into this room I will kill him." So the courtiers withdrew. The palace was in an uproar.

"It is a mistake to jest with a madman," Marullo whispered to Borsa as they went out. Father and daughter were left alone. After looking at Gilda a moment, trying to recover himself, Rigoletto whispered.

"Now, my child; they have gone. Speak!" Gilda throwing herself into her father's arms, told of her meetings with the Duke, and of how she had grown to love him, and finally of how in the night she had been carried away.

As they were in each other's arms the guard entered with old Count Monterone, who was being taken to his cell. As he was being led across the room, Rigoletto's wild eyes fixed themselves in horror upon the man whose curse had cursed him. The Count paused before the Duke's picture and cursed it.

"I shall be the instrument to fulfill thy curse, old man," Rigoletto whispered as the Count passed out, and he made a frightful oath of vengeance against the Duke of Mantua. His words frightened Gilda, because she dearly loved the Duke even though she believed he had caused her to be carried off. As the jester raised his hand to take the dreadful oath to kill, Gilda fell upon her knees beside him.

ACT III

Rigoletto and Gilda had fled from the palace, for the dwarf meant to hide his daughter away forever; and in the darkness they were hurrying on their way to an old inn, which could be seen near at hand. A swift, rushing river ran back of the inn, and the innkeeper could be seen inside his house sitting at a table polishing an old belt. It was the villainous old cut-throat, Sparafucile, who had stopped Rigoletto on his way home two nights before, offering to kill whomever Rigoletto would for a sum of money.

Gilda was very weary and she and her father were about to stop at the inn for the night. They were speaking in the road:

"Do you still love the Duke, my child?"

"Alas, father! I cannot help it. I think I shall always love him." At that moment Rigoletto espied a man, dressed as a cavalry officer, approaching the inn by another road. Instantly he recognized the Duke in disguise. He peeped through an opening in the wall which surrounded the house and could see the Duke greeting Sparafucile and ordering a bottle of wine, after which he gaily sang, while waiting:

[Music:

Plume in the summer wind, Waywardly playing, Ne'er one way swaying, Each whim obeying, etc.]

The song was gay and thoughtless, and when it should be last heard by Rigoletto it was to have a fearful meaning.

"Ah, ha?" Rigoletto murmured to himself. "This rat of a noble is seeking some new adventure! Let us see if Gilda will continue to love him when she knows the true wickedness of the wretch! when she knows that he is false to all that he has said to her: because there is of course another woman in the case!" While Rigoletto was observing him, the wine was brought to the Duke, who raised his sword and rapped upon the ceiling with its hilt. At that signal a pretty girl ran down the ladder and Mantua embraced her.

That freed Sparafucile and he ran out of the inn to look for Rigoletto, whose coming was expected. In fact, Rigoletto had at last made a bargain with the coupe-jarret to kill the Duke.

"Your man's inside. Shall I do the job at once, or wait a bit?"

"Wait a bit," said Rigoletto, glancing at Gilda, who heard nothing, "I'll give the signal," whereupon Sparafucile went off, toward the river. Then while the father and daughter stood outside the inn they could see all that was taking place within it. The Duke began to make love to the gipsy girl, and she laughed at him.

"You have told fifty girls what you tell me," she declared.

"Well, I'll admit all that. I am an unfaithful fellow—but you don't mind that! Just at this moment I love no one in the world but you," he returned.

"Father, do you hear that traitor?" Gilda whispered, tearfully, and Rigoletto nodded. He was indeed glad; maybe it would cure her of her infatuation.

"I must laugh to think how many girls you have made believe you," the gipsy said again, mocking the Duke. But he only protested the more, and Gilda threw her arms about her father in despair.

"Now, my child, since this traitor is here, you cannot well go in; so return to Mantua, change thy dress for that of a youth; get a horse and fly to Verona. There I will meet thee and see thee safe. You can see that this man is no longer to be trusted."

"Alas, I know that is true;—yet, if I must go—come with me, father," she entreated, feeling very lonely and heartbroken, there in the dark night.

"Not at once. I cannot go at once; but I will soon join thee"; and in spite of her pleading he started her back to the city alone. Then he and Sparafucile stood together in the middle of the road while the dwarf counted out the half of the money to the cut-throat.

"Here is thy money, and I am going away. But at midnight I shall return and help thee throw him into the river. It will make a great noise,—this killing of a man of the Duke of Mantua's fame," he muttered.

"Never mind about coming back. I can dump him into the river, without help. It is going to be a bad night," the fellow said, uneasily looking up at the storm clouds that were gathering. As the lightning began to flash and the thunder to roll distantly, Rigoletto turned toward Mantua, while Sparafucile went into the inn.

"A fine night! Black as thunder and going to storm like Satan," he said as he entered.

"So much the better," the Duke answered, "I'll stay here all night, and you clear out," to Sparafucile;—"go to the devil, will you? I don't want you about."

"You're a nice, soft spoken gentlemen—if a man doesn't care what he says," Sparafucile returned.

"You mustn't stay here," Maddalena said hastily to the Duke. She well knew the tricks her brother was up to when a stranger with money stopped at the house; and after the Duke had made himself so agreeable she didn't care to see him killed under her nose.

"You mind your business," her brother said to her, shortly, seeing his plans interfered with. Then speaking to her aside: "It's worth a pot-full of gold to us. Mind your own business, I say." Then to the Duke: "Sir, I am delighted to have you sleep at my inn. Pray take shelter in my own chamber. Come, I will show you the way." Sparafucile took the candle and went toward the ladder that led to the rooms above.

The Duke then whispered to the gipsy girl, and went laughing up the ladder. Maddalena looked thoughtfully after him. She liked money as well as her brother did. Should she let her brother kill him or not?

"Heavens! That thunder is loud," she exclaimed, as the storm struck the dreadful house. Up in the loft, the Duke was laughing with Sparafucile about the airiness of the chamber.

"Well, well, I'm tired," he said, after the cut-throat had gone down the ladder. "I'll take off my sword and have an hour's sleep, anyway." He removed his protecting sword, and began to hum to himself while he was waiting for more wine. The storm, the gay song, the murder which was about to be committed!—it was a fearful hour.

Down below Sparafucile was saying to his sister: "Go and get my dagger. This affair will give us a tidy sum of money." Maddalena listened to the Duke singing above and hesitated.

"He—he is young and—no—we shall not do this thing, Sparafucile," she declared.

"Come! No foolishness, now," he growled. "Get my dagger and be quick." She reluctantly ascended the staircase again to where the Duke was sleeping. It was not very light. The flickering candle made but a wavering shadow over all, and as Maddalena went up the ladder, Gilda, who had returned, softly stole up to the inn door and began to listen to what went on within, but not daring to enter. She had returned because for some reason unknown to herself she was oppressed with a sense of danger to the Duke who had so ill-treated her. Through the chink of the door she could see the innkeeper at the table drinking. Gilda had already changed her girl's clothing for that of a youth with spurs and boots.

Now she saw Maddalena come back down the stairs with the Duke's sword which she had stolen from his side.

"Oh, it is a horrible night," Gilda whispered to herself, shuddering and cold and frightened there in the dark, with only Sparafucile's wicked face before her.

"Brother," Maddalena began, "I am not going to let you kill that young man up there. I have taken a fancy to him and I won't let you do it."

"You mind your own affairs and get away from here. I'll attend to my business," he snarled. Upon hearing there was a plan to kill the Duke whom after all she truly loved, unworthy as he was, Gilda nearly fainted.

"You just take this sack and mend it," Sparafucile said, throwing an old sack toward his sister.

"What for?" she asked suspiciously.

"It is to hold your fine young man, up there—when I shall throw him in the river." Upon hearing that, Gilda sank down upon the stone step.

"See here! If it were not for the money you are to get, you would let him go, I know," Maddalena urged.

"Well, no—because you see already I have received half my pay, and the fellow I am doing the job for is a nasty customer, and, to tell the truth, I shouldn't dare let the Duke go.

"Then listen to my plan: The hunchback will presently return with the rest of the money." Gilda learned then to her horror that it was her father who had bargained for the Duke's assassination. "When the jester comes, kill him instead and take his money—all of it—and throw him into the river, and let this young man above go." At that Gilda could not longer support herself and she fell down upon the ground.

"No, I won't do it," the fellow said doggedly. "I agreed to kill the man upstairs—and there must be honour among rogues. It wouldn't be right to kill the one I hadn't bargained for. I make it a rule never to kill my employer," the rascal returned piously.

"I'll call him, then, and tell him to defend himself," the girl cried, running toward the stairs.

"Hold on there," Sparafucile cried; "I'll tell you—I agree to kill the first man who enters this house between now and midnight, in the Duke's stead, if that will suit you. Then we shall put him in the sack, and the hunchback will not know the difference. Will that suit you?" he repeated.

"That will do, and see that you keep your word or I will arouse the young man, I promise you."

At that moment the clock struck half past eleven, and Gilda was frantic with fear. Maddalena was in tears, fearing that no one would come along, in that storm, so late at night.

"If no one comes!" Gilda thinks shudderingly. "Oh, how shall I save him?" But no sooner had she that thought than a desperate plan entered her mind. She would go into the inn! She was dressed like a young man and no one would ever know the difference in the darkness and the storm. She would go in and the Duke would be spared. Then she waited a moment, overcome with the fear of death; finally, summoning all her courage, she knocked against the door.

"Who's there?" Both Maddalena and Sparafucile exclaimed, looking in terror at each other. The knock was sudden and ominous. Then another knock.

"Who's there?" again he called.

"A stranger, caught in the storm. Will you give me shelter?" Gilda could hardly speak, with terror. Maddalena and the murderer looked at each other significantly. They knew well what they would do the moment the door was opened. The lightning flashed, the thunder rolled and broke above them, and the scene became terrifying. Sparafucile placed himself behind the door and motioned to Maddalena to open it.

"Thou art welcome," she said, throwing the door back suddenly; and as Gilda stumbled in, Maddalena ran out and closed the gateway. The candle went out in the gust of wind, and all was dark. Gilda stood an instant in the blackness of the room. With one blow of the knife, which could not be seen for the darkness, Sparafucile killed her, and then all was silent. After a moment the storm broke away, the moon came forth, and Rigoletto could be seen coming up the river bank.

"It is the time of my vengeance, now," he muttered to himself. He tried the inn door and found it locked. "He cannot have done the deed yet," he muttered. After waiting a little he knocked.

"Who's there?"

"I am known to thee," he whispered back; at this Sparafucile came out, dragging behind him a sack.

"Bring a light," Rigoletto called, "that I may see him."

"That's all right—but you pay my money first," the cut-throat insisted. Rigoletto impatiently paid him.

"I'll throw him into the river, myself," Rigoletto said triumphantly.

"The tide is shallow here—go farther on—and be sure no one surprises you," Sparafucile advised. "Good night," he said shortly, and went inside the inn. Then Rigoletto stood in the dripping road looking gloatingly at the sack.

"I've got you at last," he chuckled, diabolically, "I have revenge for your treatment of my daughter. My dear daughter! The child of my heart!" At the very thought of what she had suffered the dwarf sobbed. "I'll put my foot upon you, you noble vermin," he cried, kicking the body in the sack. At that moment he heard a song—La Donna e Mobile—The voice! Was he going mad? He knew the voice. He had heard it only a few hours ago, in the inn—he had heard it daily at court—La Donna e Mobile! He looked toward the windows of the inn. La Donna e Mobile! As he looked he saw the Duke and Maddalena step from the window to the terrace that ran by the river bank. "La Donna e Mobile," the Duke sang gaily. With a frightful cry, Rigoletto dragged the sack open and the body of his murdered daughter rolled out upon the road. She moved ever so little.

"Father?" and she gasped out the truth, with a dying breath, while the dwarf shrieked and tore his hair.

"The curse, the curse! Monterone's curse!" he screamed, and went raving mad.

IL TROVATORE

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA, WITH THE ORIGINAL CAST AS PRESENTED AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCE

Leonora Penco Azucena Goggi Inez Quadri Manrico Baucarde Count di Luna Guicciardi Ferrando Balderi Ruiz Bazzoli An old gipsy. Messenger, jailer, soldiers, nuns, gipsies, and attendants.

The story belongs to the fifteenth century in Spain, and tells of the border wars of northern Spain, carried on in the provinces of Arragon and Biscay.

Composer: Giuseppe Verdi. Author: Cammarano.

First sung in Rome, Teatro Apollo, January, 19, 1853; Paris, Theatre des Italiens, December 23, 1854 (in Italian); at the Opera, January 12, 1857 (in French); London, Covent Garden, May 17, 1855; New York, Academy of Music, April 30, 1855.

ACT I

[Music]

There you are, prepared for almost anything in the way of battle, murder, or sudden death, to the accompaniment of beautiful music; opera in true Italian style, at its second best.

Soldiers and servants were gathered about the beautiful columns of a porch of the Aliaferia palace just before midnight awaiting the return of the Count di Luna. Among them was Ferrando, the captain of the Count's guard. All were lounging in the vestibule of the palace gossiping till it was time to go on duty within.

"Hey, wake up! You'll be caught napping," Ferrando called to his comrades. "It is time for the Count to come. I suppose he has been under the Lady Leonora's windows. Ah, he is madly in love with her—and so jealous of that troubadour who sings beneath her windows that some day they will meet and kill each other."

This was an old story to the men, and in their effort to keep awake they clamoured for the story of the Count di Luna's brother, which all had heard told with more or less of truth; but Ferrando knew the whole horrible tale better than any one else; besides, it was a good story to keep awake on.

"Ah, that was a great tragedy for the House of Luna," Ferrando began with a shiver. "I remember it as if it were but yesterday:"

When the good Count di Luna here resided, Two children fair he numbered; One to a faithful nurse was once confided, By the cradle she slumbered.

At morning when she woke and gazed about her, Sorely stricken was she, And what sight do ye think did so confound her? Cho. ... What, oh tell us did she see?

[Music:

Ferrando.

Swarthy and threatening, a gipsy woman, Bearing of fiendish art, symbols inhuman Upon the infant fiercely she gazes, As if to seize him her arm she raises! Spellbound the nurse watch'd at first the beldame hoary But soon her shrieking was answer'd in the distance, And quicker than now I can tell you the story, The servants of the [Transcriber's Note: music ends here]]

The frightful story was sung in a deep bass voice, by Ferrando. He sang of how the cry of the nurse on that morning years before had brought the servants running and they had put the gipsy out; but almost at once the baby grew ill, and the Count and his people believed the old hag had put a spell upon it, so that it would die. They sought wildly for her, and, when they finally found her, they burned her alive.

While that frightful scene was being enacted, the baby was stolen, outright, and the di Luna family saw it thrown upon the fire which had consumed the gipsy.

This deed was done by the daughter of the gipsy whom they had burned alive. There were those who believed that the child burned had not been the Count's, but a young gipsy baby—which was quite as horrible. The name of the young woman who had done this fiendish thing was Azucena, and the di Lunas searched for her year after year without success.

It was believed that the spirit of the hag they had burned had entered into the younger woman's body. The gossiping soldiers and servants sang:

Anon on the eaves of the house-tops you'll see her, In form of a vampire; 'tis then you must flee her; A crow of ill-omen she often is roaming, Or else as an owl that flits by in the gloaming.

While they were talking of this tragedy for the hundredth time, it approached the hour of midnight. The servants, through fear, drew closer together, and the soldiers formed a rank across the plaza at the back.

Each recalled some frightful happening in relation to witches; how one man who had given a witch a blow, had died, shrieking and in awful agony. He had been haunted. It was at the midnight hour that he had died! As they spoke of this, the castle bell tolled the midnight hour. The men, wrought up with fright, yelled sharply, and the face of the moon was hidden for a moment.

Scene II

When the cloud which had hidden the moon's rays cleared away, a beautiful garden belonging to the palace was revealed. The place was very silent, the soldiers and servants, excepting those on guard, having gone within.

The Lady Leonora, whom the Count di Luna loved, was one of the suite of the Princess of Arragon, and when all in the palace were sleeping it was her custom to steal into the lovely gardens with her friend, Inez. Of late, when she came there, she had hoped, secretly, to find a mysterious young troubadour, who sang almost nightly beneath her windows. She loved this troubadour and not the Count.

The first time she had met the handsome youth was at a tournament. There he had come, dressed in a suit of black, and all unknown; wearing a sweeping sable plume in his helmet; and when the jousting took place, he had vanquished all the nobles. It was Leonora, herself, who had placed the wreath of the victor upon his brow. From that very moment they had loved. He had worn no device upon his shield by which he could be known, but she had loved him for a gallant knight.

He belonged to the retinue of a neighbouring prince, who was an enemy of the Princess of Arragon, and he risked his life each time he came to sing in the gardens to Leonora.

"Ah, I fear some harm will come of this love of yours!" Inez said to her friend and mistress. "The Princess awaits thee, dear Countess, and we must go within. I hope your trust will never be betrayed by this unknown knight and singer." The women mounted the gleaming marble staircase, and then Leonora paused for a moment looking down into the garden again.

She had no sooner gone than a man peered out from the shadow of the trees. It was the Count di Luna, jealously watching for the knight who sang beneath the lady's window. Also, he hoped to see Leonora, herself, but all was still, and after watching the balcony a moment, he started toward the marble steps. At that instant a beautiful voice stole through the moonlight.

[Music:

Manrico.

Naught upon earth is left me, Fate of all joy hath bereft me.]

It was Manrico the troubadour!

The Count paused upon the stair and looked down; but Leonora, too, had heard, and ran out upon the balcony, then down the steps, throwing herself into the Count's arms, mistaking him for Manrico. Manrico, still hidden by the shadows, witnessed this, and becoming enraged at the sight, believing Leonora faithless, he rushed upon them just as the moon again shone forth and revealed to Leonora that she was in the Count's arms, instead of the troubadour's.

"Traitress!" Manrico cried.

"Manrico, the light blinded me," she implored, throwing herself at the troubadour's feet.

For thee alone the words were meant, If those words to him were spoken,

she sang.

"I believe thee," Manrico answered; while the Count, enraged in his turn, cried:

"You shall fight with me, Sir Knight!"

"Aye, behold me!" Manrico answered, lifting his visor and standing in the bright light of the moon. At the sight of him di Luna started back:

"Manrico! The brigand! Thou darest——"

"To fight thee? Aye, have at it!" and Manrico stood en garde. Leonora implored them not to fight, but too late. They would fight to the death.

"Follow me," di Luna called, drawing his sword, which he had half sheathed when he had seen that his antagonist was not of noble birth like himself. "Follow me," and he hurried off among the trees, followed by Manrico.

"I follow, and I shall kill thee," the handsome troubadour cried, as he too rushed off after the Count. Whereupon the Countess Leonora fell senseless.

ACT II

This opera of shadows and darkness began again in a ghostly ruin in the mountains of Biscay. A forge fire blazed through a yawning doorway of tumbled-down stones. It was not yet day, but very soon it would be; and Manrico, the handsome knight, brigand, troubadour, lover of Leonora, lay wounded upon a low couch near the forge fire. Azucena, his gipsy mother, sat beside him, tenderly watching. Many months had passed since the night of the duel in the palace garden, when Manrico had had di Luna at his mercy, but had spared him. Since that time there had been war between the factions of Arragon and Biscay, and Manrico had been sorely wounded in his prince's service. Here he had lain ever since, in the gipsy rendezvous, cared for by his mother.

All night the gipsy band had been at work, forging weapons with which to fight, and just before the early dawn they were discovered singing a fine chorus, which they accompanied by a rhythmic pounding upon their anvils.

There, beside him, through the long nights, Azucena had sat, conjuring back memories of her fierce past, and soon she broke into a wild song describing the death of her mother, years before, when Manrico was a baby. She sang how that old mother had been burned at the stake by the di Lunas—by the father of the living Count.

"Di Luna, mother?" Manrico questioned.

"Aye, it was di Luna. Why did ye not kill the young Count when ye fought?" she asked, fiercely.

"I do not know," he murmured, rising upon his elbow. "Mother, do you know when I had disarmed him, something seemed to hold me back, to paralyze my arm. I hated him, but I could not strike the death-blow."

"His father burned my mother at the stake, Manrico. Ye must avenge me." And at that moment a gipsy interrupted the talk between mother and son by crying:

"The sun rises! we must be off!" Thereupon the gipsy band threw their tools into bags, gathered up their cloaks and hats, and one by one and in groups they disappeared down the mountain-side, leaving Azucena and her wounded son alone in the ruined hut. He remained wrapped in his mantle, sword and horn beside him, while the old hag continued to croon about the horrors of the past. In her ever-increasing rage she called again and again upon Manrico to avenge her.

"Again those vengeful words, mother! There is something in thy voice which I do not understand."

"Listen! I will tell thee! I have told thee how my mother was accused, arrested by the old Count and burned alive. Well, in that fearful moment, crazed with grief I crept into the palace, snatched the Count's child, and rushed out, thinking only of my revenge. With maddened mind I tossed the babe into the flames that were consuming my mother—or so I thought! But when I looked around there was the child of noble birth, and my own was gone. It was you who were left to me. My own child had gone into the flames. I snatched thee up and fled."

"What is this that ye tell me?" Manrico cried, his eyes strained, his body stiffened with horror. "Thou who art so tender of me—" and he fell back upon his couch overcome with the frightful deed.

"I was mad! but now you must avenge me. You must ruin my enemy. Have I not tended thee as my own, and loved thee?"

"Oh, tale of woe! Mother, speak no more." Frightful as the deed had been, he tried to soothe the demented old woman who had truly cared for him with a mother's care. He had known no other mother, but the tale had distracted him. The knowledge that the Count di Luna, whose life he had spared, was his own brother, explained much to him. No wonder something had stayed his hand when he might have killed him. Yet, he also recalled that his unsuspecting brother loved Leonora. In all their encounters, di Luna had shown only a hard, unyielding heart, and Manrico had no reason to love him. After all, Manrico was but a wild young brigand, living in a lawless time, when nobles themselves were highwaymen and without violating custom. Such a one had little self-control.

"Show di Luna no mercy, my son," Azucena urged. "Art thou not my son? my own, dear son?" Then suddenly remembering all that her distraught condition had betrayed her into saying, she cried remorsefully:

"I am an old and wretched woman who has seen much sorrow. When I spoke I was distracted with my griefs, but remember the Count di Luna and do not spare him. If you do, he will take the Lady Leonora from thee."

"True, mother, and I will kill him," the troubadour said suddenly. The thought of di Luna's rivalry overcame his sense of humanity.

The forge fire died down, and Manrico, exhausted by his mother's story, lay back upon his couch while his mother continued to sit, lost in her tragic thoughts, but while he rested, half sleeping, the long clear note of a horn was heard, and Manrico started up.

"It is Ruiz," he said anxiously, believing it to be his servant. Snatching his horn from his belt, he blew a clear, answering blast. In a moment a messenger, who was not Ruiz, ran in.

"Quick, what is thy news?" Manrico demanded, made apprehensive by illness and the stories he had heard. He expected misfortune from every quarter.

"A letter for thee, Master," the messenger panted, leaning against the rocky wall, worn with running. Manrico read excitedly:

"Our men have taken Castellar. The Prince's order is that thou shalt come instantly to defend it. Unless thy wounds have laid thee low, I shall expect thee. Know that, deceived by the tidings of thy death, the beautiful Lady Leonora will this day become the elect of Heaven." Manrico started, then stared at the letter again. Leonora to enter a convent where he could never see her again! No!

"Bring me my horse, quick. I shall join thee below the hill. Mother, I go! My mantle!" And snatching his cloak and helmet, his mother threw her arms about him.

"Where do you go, my son?" she cried with anxiety.

"To save Leonora—let me go."

"Thou art still ill. It will kill thee, and I shall die if I lose thee."

"Farewell, mother; I go. Without Leonora, I could not live. I go." Tearing himself from her he rushed down the mountain.

Scene II

Again it was night; there was always an appearance of darkness and gloom about the lovers. From the cloisters of the convent to which Leonora had gone, there stretched away at the back a deep wood. The Count, having heard where Leonora was hidden, had also started with his followers and vassals, to reach the convent before she could take the veil and retire forever beyond his reach. When he reached the convent it was just before day, and with Ferrando he stole into the gardens, wrapped in his long cloak.

"Everything is still; the convent is sleeping. They have ceased their prayers awhile and we are safe, Ferrando," the Count whispered.

"It is a bold adventure, Count. I fear——"

"Do not speak. A man does not fear when he is in danger of losing the woman he loves." He began to sing softly:

[Music:

On the light of her sweet glances, Joy celestial beameth upon me.]

It was a love song to Leonora, who, within the convent, was about to bury herself from all the world, believing Manrico to be dead. As the light of day slowly flushed the scene, a bell sounded from the chapel tower.

"That bell, Ferrando!"

"It is to summon the nuns to prayer. They will pass this way."

"Now to rescue her!" Di Luna motioned to his men, who had lain concealed in the shadows. "She is coming," he whispered, watching the convent door, while a weird chant floated out. The nuns were singing. While di Luna watched, Leonora came from the convent with her beloved friend, Inez, who was weeping.

"Why weep, Inez?" Leonora asked, gently.

"In another hour shall we not be forever parted?"

"Have no regrets for me, dear sister. There is no longer any happiness for me in this life, since Manrico is dead. Come, weep no more. Let us go to the altar."

"No," di Luna cried, rushing upon her, while the nuns from the convent screamed:

"Sacrilege! Help!" They struggled, and the Count's men rushed up to help him. The Count had overcome Leonora and was about to flee with her, when Manrico leaped into the midst of the fight. His men set upon the Count's men, while Manrico himself lifted Leonora and ran off with her.

His men vanquished the Count's. Leonora believed herself in Heaven upon finding herself in Manrico's arms, and as he carried her away he cried to di Luna that he would be revenged upon him. Then he fled to Castellar.

ACT III

At last this tragedy began to see daylight, inasmuch as the third act began in broad day with the banner of the Count floating from his tent, pitched before the ramparts of Castellar, which could be seen in the distance. Soldiers were moving about, brightening their armour, and a band of strong crossbow-men crossed the ravine behind the camp.

"Those are the troops to reinforce us," some of the soldiers sang out.

"We shall vanquish Castellar then, without delay," others cried; and then comes a famous soldiers' chorus. The Count di Luna came from his tent and looked off toward the grim stronghold of Castellar.

"Thy day is over," he said, vindictively, thinking of Manrico, who, with Leonora, in the castle, was defending the domain. His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion in the camp.

"What is the trouble there?" he asked Ferrando, who came from the hill.

"A wandering gipsy has been found near the camp, and the men believe her to be a spy from Castellar. They have arrested her, and are bringing her to you, Count," he announced as Azucena appeared with some men.

"Let me go!" she screamed, struggling to get away from her captors.

"Bring her here," di Luna said, and they released her before him.

"Where is your home?"

"Not here," she replied sullenly.

"Well, where?"

"The gipsy has no home; she wanders. I come from Biscay, if you must know."

Biscay! Di Luna started at the word. Ferrando looked at him quickly.

"Say, old hag, how long hast thou been among the Biscay mountains? Dost thou remember that many years ago—fifteen—a young child was stolen from a noble, by one of thy people?"

"What is that you say?" she screamed in fright.

"I say the child was my brother."

She stared at him in horror. "Well," she muttered, "thy tale is no concern of mine." But Ferrando, who had been watching her closely, believed he recognized her features.

"Count, do not let her go—it is the murderess herself; she who threw thy brother upon the fire."

"Ah, my God!" The Count cried, shrinking away from her. "Let me punish her. To the stake with her!" and she was instantly surrounded by the men.

She twisted and screamed, calling upon Manrico to come and save his mother, but Manrico was in the castle of Castellar defending it and Leonora from the Count below. He was about to marry the Countess and they were even at that moment on their way to the chapel. They entered the great hall, whose windows opened out upon the horrid scene below, where Azucena was to be burned at the stake. It was now dusk, and the clamour of battle could be plainly heard, within the hall. Leonora, being frightened, asked Manrico if the trouble would never end.

"Banish all sad thoughts, Leonora; our soldiers will win and it will soon be over. Think only of joyful things. We shall live and be happy." The organ sounded from the chapel. "That calls us to our marriage," Manrico said, leading her toward the chapel door, but as they were about to enter, Ruiz rushed in.

"Manrico! Look out—that gipsy." He pointed frantically out of the window. Manrico looked, and there he saw his old mother being tied to the stake, the fagots being piled about her. He yelled with horror.

"Leonora! It is my mother. She was my mother before I loved thee. I go to save her. Call our men, Ruiz, I follow!" Embracing Leonora, he rushed wildly away, while the trumpets of war were heard, and the din of battle began.

ACT IV

Back at Aliaferia, Manrico was held prisoner. All was gloom and darkness again, with the prison tower where Manrico was confined looming near, its bars seeming very sinister, the evening more forbidding by contrast with that first moonlight night, when he had sung to Leonora in the gardens.

Leonora, protected by Ruiz, the faithful servant, stole from the shadows, while Ruiz tried to reconnoitre and spy out where Manrico was hidden. The Countess was worn with fear and trouble. While they stood there, outside the prison, the "Miserere" was dolorously chanted. The sound was ominous.

"They chant prayers for the dead!" she whispered, and then the bell tolled.

"It is the bell for the dead," she whispered again, fainting with despair. "What voices of horror. My God! death is very near;" and she stood listening. Then, mingling with the death chant, the troubadour's glorious voice floated out upon the night.

[Music:

Ah send thy beams, Aurora, Light me to early death, Waft her my longing, Waft her my latest breath! I leave thee, Leonora, ah, I leave thee!]

It was the doomed Manrico singing, from his prison, while waiting, wearily, for the dawn.

It was a fearful hour: The death song! The bell for the dead, the lonely troubadour's voice, and prayer for the dead, sounding through the night.

As Leonora listened, her anguish became too great to bear, and she resolved to save his life or die. Then di Luna came, accompanied by his men; he was giving hurried orders:

"The moment the day dawns, bring out the man, and here, on this spot, cut off his head," he commanded. The attendants entered the prison tower, and di Luna, believing himself to be alone, began to sing passionately of Leonora. He thought her dead in the ruins of Castellar, which his soldiers had demolished. While cursing his fate, Leonora came near to him and threw herself at his feet.

"Thou art not dead!" he cried.

"Nay—but I shall die unless you give me Manrico's life," she murmured pleadingly.

"He dies at dawn," di Luna answered.

"Spare him and I will wed thee," she swore. At that di Luna regarded her in amazement.

"You speak the truth?" he demanded, scarcely daring to believe his senses.

"Unbar those gates; let me into his dungeon and take him word that he is free, and I swear to be thy wife," she repeated.

"Hola! You there!" He called to his men. "Show this woman to Manrico's dungeon," he commanded, trembling with joy. Unseen by him, she took a deadly poison from her ring. She would free Manrico with her promise, and before di Luna could reach her she resolved to die. The men stood ready, and she went into the prison with them.

Scene II

In the gloomy tower a lamp swung from the ceiling by a chain, casting a dim uncertain light upon Azucena, whom Manrico had saved from the flames, but who had been imprisoned with him, and was presently to be killed also. She was lying on a low bed with Manrico beside her, and in her half-waking dream anticipated the scorching of the flame, which was soon to be lighted about her. She cried out pitifully.

"Art thou waking, mother?"

"This fearful dungeon, my son! It is a living tomb. But they shall not torture me: I am already dying. I shall be dead before they come to drag me to the stake."

Manrico tried to soothe her to sleep, saying that he would guard her; and gradually the poor wretch slept. As she did so, Leonora slipped into the room, through the door unbarred for her at di Luna's order.

"Leonora! I am dreaming," Manrico muttered.

"Nay, it is I. I have come to save thee. Do not waste a moment. Go!"

"Without thee—never! What have you done? How have you purchased my freedom?" he demanded, shrewdly. "It was by promising to be di Luna's wife," he cried. "Before that can be, I will kill thee and myself." He covered his face with his hands. He was in despair, and Leonora did not at first tell him that she was already dying.

"Go while there is time," she pleaded, feeling the poison in her veins.

Manrico saw her stagger and grow faint. "We shall not part," he whispered, as she fell at his feet! "We shall not part." He lifted her up, but she was already dying.

"Fly before di Luna discovers that I have cheated him," but Manrico still held the dying Leonora to his breast, and at that moment the Count entered.

"I have cheated him," she murmured. "I am dying." Hearing this the Count made an outcry and his guards rushed in.

"Away with him!" he shouted, pointing to Manrico; and Manrico was torn from Leonora, as she sank back dead. He was bound and hustled out, while Azucena was awakened by the confused sounds. She sat up and called desperately:

"Manrico!" Finding him gone and seeing di Luna, "Where hast thou taken him?" she screamed, tearing her gray hair.

"See—" and di Luna dragged her to the barred window. "See! The knife falls—look upon the sight, old fiend." She saw Manrico's head struck from his shoulders as the day dawned. With a frightful shriek she cried:

"Mother, I am avenged! Fiend! he was thy brother!" Di Luna looked first at the dying gipsy, then at the horrid scene below, and staggered back, unable to speak his brother's name. His peace was destroyed forever.

AIDA

CHARACTERS OF THE OPERA, WITH THE ORIGINAL CASTS AS PRESENTED AT THE FIRST PERFORMANCES

CAIRO MILAN

Aida Signora Pozzoni Signora Stolz Amneris Grossi Waldmann Radames Signor Mongini Signor Fancelli Amonasro Steller Pandolfini Ramphis Medini Maini The King Costa Pavoleri Messenger Bottardi Vistarini

Priests, priestesses, ministers, captains, soldiers, officials, Ethiopian slaves, prisoners, Egyptian populace, etc., etc.

The time of the story is when the Pharaohs were puissant, and the scenes are laid in the cities of Thebes and Memphis.

Composer: Giuseppe Verdi. Author: A. Ghislanzoni.

The opera was first sung at Cairo, Egypt, December 27, 1871; at Milan, February 8, 1872.

ACT I

All Egypt was troubled with wars and rumours of wars, and in Memphis the court of the King was anxiously awaiting the decision of the Goddess Isis, as to who should lead the Egyptian army against Egypt's enemies. The great hall of the Memphis palace was beautifully ornamented with statues and flowers, and from its colonnades of white marble one could see the pyramids and the palaces of the city. It was in this vast and beautiful hall that Radames, a gallant soldier and favourite of the Egyptian court, met Ramphis, the High Priest, on the day when the Oracle, Isis, was to choose the general of the army.

Isis had already spoken, and Ramphis knew it, but he did not tell Radames. Together they spoke of Radames's loyal wish to serve his people, either as a great general or as a soldier. He was too modest to think that Isis would choose him, out of all the worthy men of the army, to lead the hosts of Egypt. His desire to do valorous deeds was inspired by his love for a slave girl, who attended the Princess Amneris. The slave's name was Aida. The only thing that saddened him at the moment, was the fact of Aida being an Ethiopian, for it was the Ethiopians whom the Egyptians were about to war against.

After he had spoken with the Priests, Radames sat down alone, in the hall, and fell to thinking of Aida. Presently he sang of her loveliness:

[Music:

Heav'nly Aida, beauty resplendent, Radiant flower, blooming and bright; Queenly thou reignest o'er me transcendent, Bathing my spirit in beauty's light.]

Aida could not be happy in an alien land, serving the daughter of the King who had been the conqueror of her people, and Radames knew this; but what he didn't know was that the Princess, herself, loved him, and therefore that her jealousy might do Aida much harm. While he was thus sunk in deep reflection, Amneris, the Princess, entered the hall, attended by her slave. Radames no sooner looked at Aida than his love could be seen by any one present. He was so sincere and honest that he could not conceal his feelings.

"Ah, Radames, you are very happy to-day! Something has happened to please you! Are you not going to tell me?" Amneris asked, smiling happily at him.

"Nay, Princess," he answered. "I am not more happy than before, only I am thinking of this war that is about to be, and how I should love to do some valiant deed—for us all," he added as an after-thought, but Amneris surprised the look of tenderness that he gave to Aida. From that moment she watched the lovers closely.

"To-day the Goddess is to decide who shall lead the Egyptians against the Ethiops; I would it were to be I," he sighed. Amneris flushed with anger, as she again saw a look of devotion pass between the slave-girl and Radames, the darling of the court. Still, she pretended to be unsuspicious.

"Is there nothing to attract you in Memphis, that you wish to be off to the war?" she asked, narrowly observing him. Radames, so sensitive and so much in love, saw that he had betrayed his love for Aida. All three became ill at ease, but the Princess called the slave girl to her, pretending great affection for her, and said:

"Why do you weep, Aida? Neither you nor Radames seem to be happy to-day."

"Ah, Princess, I weep because of this war rumour. I have known the sadness and terror of war, and the thought of assembled war-hosts gives me pain. It means ruin and despair to so many."

"That is the only the reason for your tears?" she persisted, trying to hide her anger, but her glances belied the softness of her tone. Radames, noting this, trembled for Aida. Even the life of the girl was in the hands of the Princess, and Radames knew it.

"Ah, my love, you are weeping for something besides a nation, and your blush betrays you," Amneris answered, gently enough, but in her heart she determined to punish the helpless girl. As the scene became more and more painful, trumpets, which always preceded the King's coming, were heard near at hand, and in he came, surrounded by guards, ministers, priests, and officers; a brilliant company, making a brilliant picture.

"Greeting!" he cried, "it is a mighty cause which brings us here together. A messenger has this moment arrived among us with news of great import. I need the support of all the gallant men of my kingdom. Now, messenger, come before us, if thou wilt, and tell thy news," the King cried in a fine and haughty manner, motioning the messenger before him.

"I came to tell thee, Sire, that Egypt is invaded by Ethiop's King, and all her border lands are laid waste. Our crops are destroyed, great havoc hath been wrought, and unless thou shouldst send an army to resist the invading hosts, we are lost."

"Ah, the presumptuous bandit!" the King cried, thus regarding his brother ruler, and it is probable that the King of Ethiopia did not feel more temperately toward the King of the Egyptians.

"By whom are the Ethiopians led?" the King asked.

"By one Amonasro—a warrior who hath never been conquered."

"What? the Ethiopian King, himself," all cried, because that was news with a vengeance. Amonasro was known to be an invincible warrior, and, if he was going to take the field in person, Egypt had indeed something to fear. At the name, Aida started.

"Amonasro!" she began to cry, but checked herself. Amonasro was her beloved father! Since she was already a slave, her life would be in danger if it were known that the Ethiopian King was her father. She leaned, almost fainting, against the Princess's throne, and in the excitement her agitation passed unnoticed. The messenger continued to speak:

"All Thebes has risen and sallied forth to check this foe."

"Death and battle, be our cry!" the King shouted; and all his nobles took up the war-cry: "Death and battle, death and battle!"

"War, war, war! fierce and unrelenting," cried Radames, loudest of all, his war spirit and love of country both aroused. At his cry all became still, and the King looked at him with great affection.

"Egyptians, warriors, hear! the chief to lead our hosts against this bold invader has this day been named by the Goddess Isis." Every one leaned breathlessly forward. Many a brave fellow hoped the choice had fallen upon him. None listened more eagerly than the Princess and Aida.

"There is the choice!" the King continued, pointing to Radames. A moment of silence followed, then Radames shouted:

"Ah! ye Gods! I thank thee! My dearest wish is mine." All the court and soldiers burst into shouts of joy and confidence.

"Now to the Temple of Vulcan, Chieftain, and there equip yourself and men for victory," the King cried, and all prepared to follow Radames.

"Take the war-standard from my hand, Radames," Amneris said, smiling at him with affection: but Aida murmured unheard:

"Whom shall I weep for, my lover or my father?" Her heart was breaking, for the defeat of either her father or her lover would be a disaster to one so tender as she.

"Battle, battle," all cried excitedly, all certain of victory at the hands of their beloved leader, Radames. "May laurels crown thy brow!" they shouted, following him to the temple, where they were to don their armour, feel if their swords were sharp, and pray for success.

"Aye, may laurels crown thee," Aida murmured. "I cannot wish thee ruin, yet what a wicked wish, since victory must mean my father's loss. If Radames shall conquer, I may see my father brought here in chains." The unhappy girl prayed in turn for her father and Radames.

Scene II

When the men entered the Temple of Vulcan, a mysterious light came into the temple from above and long rows of columns could be seen, placed one behind the other, while statues stood between. The long rows of columns were lost in the dim distance. In the middle of the temple was placed a high altar, and all the scene was wrapped in the haze of incense which arose from golden bowls. The High Priestess sang a song of mystic beauty in which the High Priest and others joined, and then the Priestesses danced to an exquisite measure.

While this beautiful thing was happening, Radames entered, all unarmed, and went to the altar. There the gallant chief offered prayers for strength and victory.

A fine silver veil was placed upon his head, to show that he was favoured of the Gods and chosen by them.

The weapons, those of the Temple, given him were tempered by an immortal hand and were to bring him success forever in all battles.

While he knelt there before the God of War, all the sacred men and women of Vulcan's Temple joined in praise and in prayers for his safe return. The chorus swelled higher and higher, till at last in one mighty volume of glorious sound their invocations were completed, and Radames departed for war.

ACT II

The return of the Egyptian troops was hourly expected; all Thebes was preparing to receive them with honours and rejoicing; and great fetes were arranged for their amusement. Amneris was in her apartment, surrounded by her attendants. Slave-girls waved feather fans, others were hanging beautiful jewels upon her and anointing her with rare perfumes, all being done to prepare her for the celebration of Radames's return. The air was full of incense which rose from beautiful metal bowls placed on tripods about her chamber, and she, herself, was waiting impatiently for news that Radames and his men were in sight of Thebes.

The Egyptian King had decided to reward Radames for his victories by giving him his daughter for a wife, but all the while Amneris was disturbed and devoured by jealousy for she believed that Radames and Aida loved, though she could not be certain. She had thought and thought of this, till she could not rest longer without some proof, and after her slaves had danced awhile for her amusement, to make the time waiting for the fetes pass more quickly, the Princess dismissed all but Aida. Then she said to her:

"Ah, Aida, my heart goes out to thee in this affliction—because thy people have been beaten in this fearful war, and so many taken captive." Her voice was very soft and affectionate, and she sighed, seeming to be deeply moved. "But I mean to make thee as happy as I may, and——"

"Princess, far from my home, my father's fate uncertain, what happiness is there in this world for me?"

"Time will bring thee comfort, Aida; thou shalt be as my sister; and then this return of our brave men—alas! that the bravest of them all may not return to us." She seemed about to weep, and Aida looked at her anxiously.

"The bravest?" she faltered; "that can mean but one"; and she became pale with fear and apprehension.

"Aye—our brave Radames! He fell in battle; have you not heard?" While the Princess was speaking, Aida clasped her hands wildly and cried out. Thus, she betrayed instantly all her love for Radames, and Amneris was no longer in doubt.

"So, you love him?" she cried. "That was what I wished to know. Now let me tell thee that he lives and is returning with honours—but not for thee. If you love him, so do I. What chance has one like you—a slave—beside a princess like me? I feel nothing but hate now for you, and from this moment you shall know all the humility of a slave. Since you have dared to love Radames, I shall be revenged."

"Not upon him, madame. I care not what my fate is, if he be happy. Surely you can spare a sad and despairing heart? I am poor and far from friends and country. My father is ruined, since he too was a soldier, and may even now be a captive. Can you wish me greater ill than this, Princess?"

"I wish thee every ill. Come, now, while I exhibit thee before Radames and all the court as my slave and servant. You shall see me triumph."

"I have no hope," Aida answered, bowing her head, "but I have not harmed thee." The sound of a trumpet was heard, and outside the people shouted:

"The troops! They come! They are here!"

Scene II

Down an avenue lined with palms and with the Temple of Ammon to be seen near by, the people went. There was a stately throne with a purple and gold canopy, and a vast, triumphal arch under which the returning heroes were to come. The trumpets sounded louder and nearer and the music became martial and triumphant.

First came the King of Egypt and his High Priest and standard-bearers and fan-bearers; then followed Amneris with Aida and her other slaves. The King sat upon his throne and the Princess beside him, while all assembled were vibrating with excitement and pleasure.

Presently all burst into a loud song of celebration and rejoicing, and then the troops began to enter in procession. Trumpets sounded and one rank after another defiled before the King. There came more, more, more, covered with the glory of victory; all glittering in their armour and helmets, and their swords glancing. Then came the dancing girls laden with jewels and golden ornaments, and the fine spoils of war, brought by the soldiers. Then came the war-chariots, and banners borne aloft, and images of gods, and last and greatest came Radames.

The King descended from his throne to embrace him, the soldiers and people shouted his triumphs, and Radames knelt before Amneris to receive the crown of victory from her hands.

"Ask anything thou wilt and I will give it thee," she cried joyfully.

"First, Princess, order the captives of war brought before thee," Radames asked.

"The prisoners!" she called, and the Ethiopians entered surrounded by the guard, and among them marched a splendid figure dressed in an officer's uniform. Now this man's rank was quite unknown to Radames or to any one, but he was really the King of Ethiopia, himself, and Aida's father. She gave a cry upon seeing him, but Amonasro looked at her with a commanding, if agonized, glance, and spoke quickly:

"Yes, I am thy father," he answered cleverly, "and have fought and sought death in vain. My garment," pointing to his officer's dress, "tells that I fought for my King. The King is dead," he said impressively, looking at Aida with meaning; "I would that I were dead, too, my child. But thou, great King of Egypt," he continued, turning to him, "hast conquered, and so I pray you spare the lives of my soldiers. Thou canst generously do so much for us." At this, Aida understanding that she must not let it be known that the King himself was a prisoner, added her entreaties to Amonasro's.

"Nay, ye must face the fortune of war. Death is thy portion," the King answered. Then Aida's grief became pitiful, and Radames, who was watching her lovingly, was sorrowful on her account. While all others clamoured for the death of the Ethiopians, Radames stepped forth and asked the King to hear him.

"My King, thou hast said that I should have whatever I would ask of thee."

"True! Ask!"

"Then give these captives their freedom. Their country is conquered. Oh, King! Do not take their lives," and he looked quickly at Aida, to inspire her with hope.

The King thought upon this for a moment, and was inclined to grant the plea, but Ramphis and the other priests clamoured for their death.

"At least keep this girl's father as a surety," they persisted.

"It shall be so," the King answered. "Aida's father shall remain our prisoner; and since I cannot grant your request, Radames, yet love thee so for thy valour, I give thee instead the greatest prize within man's gift; my daughter, Amneris."

Alas! The King could not well have done worse had he tried. If his gift was most distracting to the lovers, Amneris was overwhelmed with delight, ready to weep with joy and pride.

"You shall reign with her," the King added, but Radames could not speak, so overcome was he with his misfortune. All assumed his silence to mean an overmastering joy at the honour bestowed upon him.

Aida, nearly fainting with pain to see her father a captive, and her lover given to another who was her enemy, stared motionless before her, but Amonasro had observed everything, had seen Radames's glances at Aida, the distraction of the lovers, and suddenly, under his breath to Aida, he said:

"Have courage. I will give thee thy revenge, daughter. Together we shall conquer." Radames roused himself and knelt before the Princess.

ACT III

The eve before her marriage it was proper for Amneris to go to the Temple of Isis to pray. She went accompanied by Ramphis, the High Priest, who promised to remain near till morning, that she might feel safe, and not be lonely. She knew well that Radames's heart was then Aida's, and her prayers were to be appeals for his love. The Temple was built upon a high rock, surrounded by beautiful palms, and the moon, which shone brightly upon it, silvered all the landscape. As Amneris entered the Temple, the chorus of priests and priestesses swelled forth and added to the weirdness of the scene.

Amneris had no sooner disappeared within than Aida approached the place. It was the last night of Radames's freedom, and he and she had arranged to meet near the Temple to speak together, perhaps for the last time of their lives. As she entered the grove she looked sadly about her.

"My griefs and misfortunes are now greater than I can bear," she murmured. "After to-night, all will be over. It is better to drown myself in the Nile than to live alone, without father, mother, country, or friends." Thinking of her lost country, she leaned against the rock and half forgot why she had come. She recalled the warmth and beauty of her childhood's home, and then by contrast her term of slavery in Egypt. While she waited, thinking of these sad things, she saw a man's form coming toward her, through the night; it was not Radames. As he drew nearer she recognized her father, Amonasro.

"Father, what brings thee here?" she whispered.

"A grave cause, my child. Naught escapes my eye. I know thy heart. I know that Radames loves thee and that thou art here to meet him;—also that thou art in the grasp of this Princess, who hates thee."

"Alas, there is no hope," she cried, despairingly.

"That shall be as you may decide, daughter. Our people are waiting for a signal to strike a blow at these Egyptians. Our backbone is not yet broken. All that is needful for our success is to know by what road our enemies will march in their next sortie upon us. That is for thee to find out for us. Radames alone knows—and Radames loves thee," he finished significantly.

"But since he loves me, how can I betray him, father?" she asked.

"Choose—between thy father and the man who is to marry Amneris.—Or—" with a new thought he hesitated a moment—"or why should Radames not leave these cold people for a fairer place and kinder? Why should he not become one of us?" Aida stared at her father in amazement.

"Betray his people?"

"Why not? Since he loves thee, shall not thy people become his people, even as thou wouldst have made his people thine, hadst thou been wedding him. Choose between us, child."

Amonasro looked at her menacingly. "Unless thou doest this, it means the destruction of thy people and of me; and, too, thou must live and die the hated bond-maiden of this cruel woman Radames is about to marry."

"Radames is coming," she whispered in affright. "What shall I do?"

"Thy duty to me and to thy people and to thyself. Make Radames join us. I shall wait near thee." So saying, he stepped within the shadow of the trees as Radames approached.

"Art thou there, Aida?" Radames called softly.

"Alas, why should I meet thee," she sobbed, "since thou wilt marry Amneris to-morrow?"

"Aida, I have come to tell thee there is hope," Radames whispered, trembling with happiness. "The Ethiopians have again risen against us. I am immediately to go forth to battle. I shall crush them this time, and on my return the King will once more be generous to me, and I shall demand then, that for my reward he free me from Amneris and give me thee for my wife. When I have twice saved his kingdom, he cannot refuse me."

"But do you not see that though the King should favour us, yet Amneris's rage would be beyond all bounds?"

"I would defend thee."

"Thou couldst not. She is nearly as powerful as the King. If you slight her we are lost."

"Alas, then, what can I do?"

"But one thing can save us—all of us—my father, you, I."

"Name it," he cried.

"You would not listen to me," she sobbed, wringing her hands in despair.

"I will do whatever you desire," he cried recklessly.

"Then make my people thy people. Fly with us. Even now the Ethiopians are without the gates ready for battle. Join them, lead them, and——"

"A traitor to my country!" he cried, stricken with horror at the thought.

"Then there is no hope. The Princess will drive us to death and despair." She drew a picture that brought it all vividly into Radames's mind. At last with breaking heart he cried:

"I will go with thee—making thy people my people," and he started to leave the Temple with her.

"What path shall we take to avoid the Egyptian soldiers?" she questioned wildly.

"We may go by the same path that the army will take: the gorges of Napata: the way will be free till to-morrow." That was how Aida discovered the way the Egyptians would take, while her father listened.

"Ah! I will post my men there," Amonasro cried, stepping forth into the moonlight, that Radames might see him.

"Who has heard?" Radames said, with a start.

"Amonasro, Aida's father, King of Ethiopia," he answered, proudly facing Radames.

"Thou—thou art the King—Amonasro—Aida thy daughter! Do I dream? I have betrayed my people to thee!" He suddenly realized all that he had done, in wavering between love and duty.

"No, thy people are the people of Aida. The throne is thine, to share with her."

"My name will be forever branded—a coward!" He groaned in despair.

"No blame to thee, son. It was thy fate; and with us thou wilt be far from these scenes that try thy heart: far away where none can reproach thee." But Radames knew that he had better die than live, knowing himself for a traitor. He determined that he would not go; that he would remain and undo the wrong that he had blindly done, but even then Aida was trying to drag him away, and urging him with each loving breath to fly with them. As he would have broken away from her, Amneris, who had heard all, ran from the Temple, crying, "Traitor!"

"Destruction! She would undo us," Amonasro shouted, and as the people began to pour from the Temple, he sprang forward and would have plunged his sword through her had Radames not sprung between them.

"Thou art a madman," he shouted, horrified at the deed Amonasro would have done. Meantime all was confusion. People shouted for the guard, and Radames cried to Aida:

"Fly with thy father. Fly or thou art lost." His voice was so full of agony for her that she suddenly turned and fled.

"Follow them," Ramphis demanded of the soldiers, while Radames said hopelessly:

"Ramphis, I yield to thee."

ACT IV

There was no joy in the court, and Amneris sat in the vast hall of the palace between Radames's prison, on the one hand, and the hall of justice on the other, where the trial of the gallant soldier was soon to be held. He was in prison, and Aida and her father were far away. Amneris still loved him, and hoped yet to save him, and thus to win his love. Presently she called to the guard to bring him before her, and almost at once he was brought through the hall accompanied by the priests who were to try him in the underground dungeon.

"Radames, the priests who are to judge thee are assembled. Consent to clear thyself. Say that thou didst not mean to betray us and I, myself, will kneel to the King, and promise you your freedom. I would give my life and power and country for thee," Amneris pleaded, as he passed before her.

"I would give no less for Aida," Radames declared sadly. "I shall not try to save myself. I shall say nothing in my own defense. I wish to die."

At the mention of Aida, Amneris was enraged.

"I'll hear no more of her!" she cried.

"Ah, you have killed her——"

"No! Her father is slain, but she lives. She has vanished—no one knows where!"

"Then may the gods guide her safe to her home and country, and keep her from knowing how I die."

"If you will swear to see her no more, Radames, I will save thee."

"If I were to live I should find her. I will not swear."

"Then you shall die. If you will not hear me, I shall avenge myself," she answered bitterly, motioning to the guards to take him away.

Radames was taken below to the subterranean hall which was to be his grave and judgment hall alike, while Amneris was left alone, both grief-stricken and revengeful. Her jealousy was certain to bring fearful retribution upon her. As more white-robed priests passed below, looking spectral and ominous, she hid her face in her hands.

"It was I who brought him to this fate," she murmured, and then listened in anguish to the chorus of the priests which sounded dismally from below.

Then a voice called from the crypt, three times:

"Radames, Radames, Radames," and it was his summons to judgment.

"Oh, who can save him now?" Amneris murmured, horrified at what was taking place.

"Defend thyself!" she heard voices from below command. There was no answer.

"Radames, Radames, Radames," the High Priest called again in a fearful voice, and again the Princess shuddered.

"Thou hast deserted the encampment the very day before the combat!—defend thyself." She listened, but still no answer.

"Radames, Radames, Radames," again the High Priest called, and for the third and last time. Still no answer.

"Oh, have mercy on him," Amneris then cried, her love becoming greater than her desire for revenge. Then listening again, she heard the judge say:

"Radames, thy fate is decided. It is to be the fate of a traitor. You shall be buried alive beneath the altar of the God of War, whom thou hast derided and betrayed."

"Oh, horror," Amneris shrieked.

"We have spoken," the priests replied, and then ascended.

"Ye priests of Isis, ye are tigers! demons!" and the Princess assailed them bitterly as they came into the hall. She was now mad with grief. Truly loving Radames, she cursed the priests and even the gods. Then the scene changed, revealing the interior of Vulcan's Temple and the crypt beneath the altar. There were spectral statues, and great marble columns which seemed to vanish in the gloom, and all was gloomy as the grave. Stairs led from the temple above into the vault, and Radames sat down upon the steps as the priests let down again the massive stone that covered the opening beneath the altar. Radames watched the closing of the opening, the descent of the great stone into place.

"I can bear my fate, since Aida may never know. She could not survive such horror," he said, under his breath. The vault, the ghostly cold about him, the rows upon rows of senseless marble, supported by the expressionless stone faces of the gods, these things overwhelmed the great warrior. Then, from the gloom, he saw a white figure emerge. Is it a phantom? At first he thought it some fearful vision. But as he peered through the twilight he recognized—Aida. Perhaps it was her ghost come to comfort him, he thought, and raised himself to stare at the figure.

"Aida!"

"I am here to die with thee," she answered, and Radames clasped her in his arms. He had thought her safe, unacquainted with his fate, but she was there to share it.

"My heart foreboded thy fearful sentence," she said. "I hid here till the stone shut down upon thee, and now I am beside thee till the end."

Radames beat wildly upon the stone above. He called for help. He tried with his great strength to raise the deadly stone with his shoulders, only to sink down, exhausted and horrified. He could not save her. The chorus sung by priests began above; Aida was already dying. At least she would not live slowly to starve. And while Amneris appeared above in black garments, dying of grief for Radames, and threw herself upon the stone, Radames held the dying Aida in his arms and waited for death.

"Peace," Amneris moaned while lying prostrate above on the altar stone.

"Peace," and while the women were dying and Radames losing his senses below, the priests of Isis chanted, "Peace," the light faded out, and the tragedy ended.



WAGNER

Richard Wagner was born in Leipzig, on the 22d of May, 1813. His father was Chief of Police and his mother was Johanna Rosina Bertz.

His brothers and sisters were distinguished singers or actors; thus love of dramatic art was common to all the family. His father died and his mother married an actor, Ludwig Geyer. The stepfather became very fond of young Richard and intended to make a painter of him, but upon hearing him play some of his sister's piano pieces Geyer wondered if it were possible that he had the gift of music!

Wagner was a poor scholar during his school days, the only thing he especially enjoyed being literature, mainly Shakespeare, Sophocles, and Aeschylus; and about the time the dramatic philosophies of these men filled his attention, he wrote a great drama in which there were forty-two characters, every one of whom was killed or died in the course of the play, so that he was compelled to finish his performance with the spectres of his original characters. Later he wished to put music to that remarkable drama, and he did so, much to the distraction of his family. It was actually performed. He thus described his composition:

This was the culmination of my absurdities. What I did, above all things wrong, was a roll fortissimo upon the kettle-drums, which returned regularly every four bars throughout the composition. The surprise which the public experienced changed first to unconcealed ill-humour, and then into laughter, which greatly mortified me.

It was under Theodor Weinlig's teaching that he finally developed a fixed purpose of composition and something like regular study.

When he first wished to marry, he could not for lack of money to provide a home for his wife. In time this difficulty was overcome, and later he started to London with his wife and his dog, which was named Robber. The terrors of that voyage impressed him so much that he was inspired with the idea for "The Flying Dutchman," one of his great operas. He was told the legend of "The Flying Dutchman" by the sailors; but long before he was able to write that splendid opera he was compelled to write music for the variety stage in order to feed his wife and himself. He wrote articles for musical periodicals, and did a great deal of what is known as "hack" work before his great genius found opportunity. One manager liked the dramatic idea of "The Flying Dutchman" so well that he was willing to buy it if Wagner would let him get some one who knew how to write music, to set it.

After the production of "Rienzi" in Dresden, his difficulties were never again so serious, and soon he became Hofkapellmeister (musical director at court), which gave him an income, leaving him free to write operas as he chose.

When "Rienzi" was produced, a great musician said: "This is a man of genius; but he has already done more than he can! Listen to me, and give up dramatic composition!" But he continued to "do more than he could."

When he wrote "Tannhaeuser" he was reduced almost to despair, for nobody liked it. Schumann said of it: "It is the empty and unpleasing music of an amateur." But Spohr wrote: "The opera contains certain new and fine things, which at first I did not like, but to which I became accustomed on repeated hearings."

At last, this composer, whose inspirations had come entirely from historical subjects, found his mythological beginnings in the Scandinavian Eddas; and in a poem of the "Nibelung" he found the germ of "Siegfried."

As Kapellmeister of the court, Wagner did too many indiscreet things: allied himself with revolutionists and the like; and, before he knew it, he found himself an exile. Liszt was his friend, and when, on a visit to Weimar, politics made his presence hazardous, Liszt got him a passport which took him out of the country. He did not return for twelve years.

During his exile, which was passed mostly in Zurich, he had Karl Ritter and Hans von Buelow for pupils, and it was there that he did all of his most wonderful work. There he composed the "Nibelung Ring." He wrote the last of it first, and the first of it ("Das Rheingold") last. This was because his central idea, as it developed, seemed to need explanation, and successive operas upon the same dramatic and mythological theme became necessary.

Wagner's mythology is not the mythology of the Eddas. It is distinctly his own, he having adapted a great and rugged folklore to his dramatic purposes, regardless of its original construction.

In the Ring, the Goddess Fricka is a disagreeable goddess of domesticity, and the story is told of a first reading of the opera series, which involved an anecdote of Fricka and his hostess:

He went to the house of a friend, Wille, to read the poem after it was finished, and Madame Wille happened to be called from the room, while he was reading, to look after her little sick child. When she returned, Wagner had been so annoyed by the interruption that he thereafter named Madame Wille, Fricka.

During a sleepless night in Italy he formed the plan for the music of "Das Rheingold," but not wishing to write on Italian soil, he got up and hastened to Zurich.

He would not come to America to give a series of concerts because he "was not disposed to go about as a concert-pedlar, even for a fabulous sum."

The irony of all the world is epitomized in a single incident that occurred to Wagner in London. He was accused of a grave fault because he conducted Beethoven's symphonies "from memory." Therefore he announced he would thereafter conduct them from the score. He reappeared with the score very much in evidence upon his rack, and won British approval completely. Then he announced that he had conducted from "Il Barbiere de Siviglia" with the Barber's score upside down!