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Ernestina Poli was born in Ferrara, Italy on 3 April 1879, and she studied for only a few years before making her debut at Bergamo in 1902 as Amelia in Un Ballo in Maschera. She had a huge success and was retained for another dozen performances in Il Trovatore and the then very popular Salvator Rosa. She ended the year at Massa. At this point, despite her success, she retreated from the stage for another year of training, after which she debuted at Messina in Andrea Chenier with the tenor Ruggero Randaccio. On 17 Jan, 1904 she sang Micaela for the only time in her career, again with Randaccio as her stage partner. It was not long before the couple announced that they were to be joined in life, and in the summer of 1904, shortly before a tour to South America, they were married. She immediately changed her stage name to Tina Poli Randaccio, and there are interesting and amusing confusions in some South American reviews during the tour of 1904, in which she is listed as the tenor, he the soprano. Poli was assumed to be his first name and Ruggera, hers.

The tour took the couple to Sao Paolo and Rio de Janeiro where Tina appeared as Mimi, the Trovatore Leonora, Desdemona, Aida, Maddalena di Coigny, Gioconda and Santuzza. He sang in Boheme, Andrea Chenier and Cavalleria Rusticana. The year ended at Sao Paolo with an opera called Cristo alla Festa di Purim, after which she added La Forza del Destino, Ballo in Maschera and Ernani to her assignments in Brazil. The couple traveled with the company to Manaus and Pernambuco, then returned to Europe where Ruggero announced his retirement from the stage. They decided that he would be her manager and coach, and from about this point his name was never seen on a billboard again.

On 2 December 1904 Tina debuted at Milan's Teatro Dal Verme in an opera called Jana with Bergamasco and Schiavazzi conducted by Serafin and from there she went to Oporto where she sang in Aida, Il Trovatore, Don Carlo, Pagliacci, Un Ballo in Maschera and Cavalleria Rusticana. After a short respite, the couple sailed for Mexico, and in September 1905 Tina appeared at the capitol in Les Huguenots (in Italian), Aida, Germania, Un Ballo in Maschera and Giordano's recently produced opera Siberia. The company included Virginia Guerrini, Alice Zeppilli, De Marchi and Magini Coletti, and it is not surprising, given those names, that the tour extended for four months and included visits to Guadalajara.

Turin welcomed her back to Italy when she appeared at the Teatro Vittorio Emanuele as Gioconda in January of 1907. A tour to Bucharest was arranged by Randaccio and on 11 November Tina debuted as Aida in a cast that included De Angelo, Angioletti and Bellat. On the 18th, she sang in Ernani with Angioletti, Titta Ruffo and Torres de Luna. Her season continued into the middle of December with Un Ballo in Maschera and Il Trovatore, both with Ruffo, Les Huguenots, and La Gioconda. A visit was made to Kiev and Odessa, but I have no record of her roles.

Tina debuted at Parma's Teatro Regio on 6 January 1908 in Mascagni's brand new opera, Amica and after singing in Red Roses and Damnation of Faust, she undertook a four month tour of Italy with the new work, under Mascagni's direction. The cities visited included, Firenze, Bologna, Modena, Verona, Treviso, Trieste, Ravenna, Ancona, Cesena and Forli, where she received a thunderous welcome and was hailed as the greatest soprano seen there in a generation. At Livorno she sang in the composer's Le Maschere and Iris and the tour ended at Rome's Teatro Adriano, where Tina sang eleven performances of Amica and several of Le Maschere, the latter with Juanita Caracciolo and Carlo Galeffi.

On 26 December, Tina made a much heralded debut at Venice's Teatro la Fenice as Aida with Ladislava Hotkowska and Henderson. The revival was so well received that a scheduled three performances became six. At Fiume, in April, she sang in Ernani and La Gioconda and in October she returned to the Adriano for Tosca, Aida and the world premiere of Raffaelo,by De Lunghi.

In February 1910 Tina debuted at Madrid's Teatro Real as Gioconda in a cast that included Flora Perini, Giuseppe Taccani and Ruffo, after which she sang ten performances of Aida and six of Loreley at Catania's Masimo Bellini. The spring found the Randaccios back in Brazil, where, at Rio de Janeiro, on 27 May, Tina sang Isolde for the only time in her career, though it was a moderate, if not overwhelming success. At Rio, she also sang in Il Trovatore, La Gioconda, Loreley, Tosca, Aida, and Germania, and at Sao Paolo, she added another new work, Boscaiuola. Tina's tour partners included Anna Gramegna, Krismer, Giraldoni and Viglione-Borghese, and, as had been the case in Mexico, this starry roster resulted in an extended season both in Rio and in Sao Paolo.

The most important moment of her career had arrived. On 17 December 1910 Tina debuted at La Scala as the Siegfried Brunnhilde, with the inimitable Giuseppe Borgatti in the title role. There were a dozen performances, and the production was a complete success. Fanny Anitua was an unforgettable Erda according to contemporary reviews, and the hero and heroine received memorable ovations every evening. Though hers would not be a major career in the most important of all Italian theaters, it continued at intervals for a good number of years, and included several world premiers.

In February 1911 Tina returned to Parma for La Gioconda and then took a well needed break from performing. During the summer, she learned the role of Minnie in La Fanciulla del West, and on 10 September, at Puccini's invitation, she sang the first of thirteen performances at Lucca's Teatro del Giglio with Taccani as Dick Johnson. Her success was enormous, in fact, greater than her predecessor, Eugenia Burzio, who had sung in the Italian premiere earlier in the season. Poli was immediately engaged to repeat the opera at Naples' San Carlo with Martinelli and Viglione-Borghese and at Bari's Teatro Petruzzelli with Corti and Mariano Stabile. After a debut at Palermo's Massimo as Gioconda in March 1912, she sang Minnie at Monte Carlo, again with Martinelli and Viglione-Borghese, and in late May she debuted at the Paris Opera as Minnie in a gala performance with Enrico Caruso.

In November, Tina sang in La Gioconda at Genoa and then prepared for the Scala premiere of Fanciulla. There were many sopranos who had vied for the honor, whose partisans had lobbied intensely for them, and the uncertainty had been a major story in Italian newspapers. Burzio reigned at Scala, but it was not to be. Tina's reputation as Minnie was by now so secure that both Scala's management and the composer agreed that she deserved the honor. On 29 December, before a star studded audience, the Milan theater presented La Fanciulla del West for the first time with Poli Randaccio, Martinelli and Galeffi. Tullio Serafin was on the podium, and the clamor was so enormous that the opera was repeated fourteen times.

Tina repeated Minnie at Monte Carlo in February 1913 with Martinelli and George Baklanov, after which she sang the role at the site of its Italian premiere, the Costanzi of Rome. In the spring there were concerts at Modena in honor of the centenary of Verdi's birth and on 15 December, Tina sang in the world premiere of Mascagni's Parisina at La Scala under the composer's baton. The cast included Luisa Garibaldi, Hipolito Lazaro and Galeffi, and there were twelve performances.

On 10 February 1914 Poli sang in the world premiere of Smareglia's Abisso and on 2 April in the world premiere of Alfano's Ombra di Don Giovanni, both at La Scala. In May she sang in Tosca at Milan's Teatro Carcano with Garbin and Viglione-Borghese and in October Tina participated in one of this century's most important stage debuts, that of Beniamino Gigli as Enzo, at Rovigo, on 15 October. It was the scene of veritable riots; a star had truly been born, and there were thirteen performances. Tina's year ended with Un Ballo in Maschera at Piacenza, a revival shared with the equally celebrated Celestina Boninsegna.

Rome's Costanzi welcomed Tina back as Gioconda, Tosca and Minnie in the winter of 1915, and after Gioconda at Naples and Aida at Firenze, she sailed for South America and her debut at the Teatro Colon of Buenos Aires. On 25 May, Poli debuted as Gioconda in a cast that included Perini, Lazaro, and Riccardo Stracciari. La Prensa referred to her as "a major talent whose voice can send shivers down one's spine, so present and immediate is the reaction". On 6 June she sang Santuzza and on the 17th, she sang in a concert with Caruso, Bernardo de Muro, Mario Sammarco and Lazaro. The season ended with Tosca and had included performances with the company at Cordoba and Rosario, where she sang Tosca and Santuzza, and at Tucuman, where she sang Santuzza.

Tina traveled from Argentina to Santiago, Chile, and on 27 August, she opened the season at the Teatro Municipal in La Fanciulla del West. The work was so well received that an additional performance was added; it was the only opera to be seen as many as four times. She stayed at Santiago for two months, singing Tosca, Aida, Gioconda, Santuzza, the Trovatore Leonora and Maddalena di Coigny and appeared as Aida, Tosca, Gioconda and the Trovatore Leonora at Valparaiso. Tina returned to Buenos Aires in late October where, at the Teatro Coliseo, she sang all of her Chilean roles except for Maddalena, and after a brief rest, she undertook a long tour of the Caribbean Basin. World War I was in its most intense period and the safety of the Western Hemisphere certainly seemed more attractive than the dangers of Europe.

On 29 January 1916 Tina debuted at Havana as Aida, and later sang in Tosca, Il Trovatore, Cavalleria Rusticana, Iris, La Gioconda, Les Huguenots, and La Fanciulla del West. Her tenor partners were Lazaro and Zinoviev; Enrico Roggio carried most of the baritone weight and Amelita Galli-Curci appeared with Poli in Les Huguenots (in Italian). The company stayed at the Cuban capitol for nearly two months, then toured to Cienfuegos, Camaguey, Santiago de Cuba, Mananzas and in the late spring, to Costa Rica.

In November Tina returned to Italy for Tosca at Bologna with Aureliano Pertile and Jose Segura-Tallien and in January 1917 she sang at Milan's Dal Verme in a gala concert, including act 3 of Aida and act 4 of La Gioconda. At La Spezia she sang Aida, and in June Tina debuted at Zurich as Tosca with Gubellini and Sammarco. After singing Santuzza at the Swiss theater, she returned to the Dal Verme for Aida and at Genoa, she sang in La Gioconda with Vita Ferluga, Folco-Bottaro and Galeffi.

Tina decided that the climate in Europe was not what the doctor ordered, and in fact, work was difficult to find for nearly everyone in 1917. Many of Italy's most important theaters were closed, and those that remained open presented very shortened seasons. Havana again beckoned and Tina returned in December for Aida, La Fanciulla del West, Les Huguenots, Tosca, La Gioconda, L'Africaine, La Boheme and a new opera, Doreya. Her colleagues included the tenor, Jose Palet, Edith Mason, Maria Barrientos and the basses, Nicoletti-Korman and Virgilio Lazzari. The tour again included Camaguey, Cienfuegos and Santiago. In mid March 1918, the company moved to San Juan and Ponce for a two month season in Puerto Rico. Poli sang the same roles and added Amelia in Un Ballo in Maschera. In June, at Caracas, Venezuela she sang in Aida, Tosca, Les Huguenots, La Gioconda and Cavalleria Rusticana.

The Great War was over and Tina returned to the safety of a victorious Italy for La Gioconda at Bologna, Milan's Teatro Lirico and Firenze's La Pergola. On 18 December she reappeared in glory for the first of eleven performances of Aida at La Scala. The next few months were spent at Turin with Cavalleria Rusticana and Aida. It was during the revival of Aida that Tancredi Pasero made his absolute opera debut as Il Re, substituting for an indisposed colleague. It is with some pride that the author acknowledges this event, since Pasero's debut has always been listed as at Vicenza in La Sonnambula much later in the year. And with pleasure, I also acknowledge that this information was kindly provided by Robert Tuggle of the Metropolitan Opera Archives.

After La Fanciulla del West at Trieste's Teatro Rossetti, in late November, Tina debuted as Aida at Barcelona's Liceo and in December she completed her engagement as Gioconda. In January 1920 Tina sang thirteen performances of Aida at Trieste's Teatro Verdi with the stellar cast of Giuseppina Zinetti, Miguel Fleta and Carmelo Maugeri. Rome's Costanzi welcomed Poli back with seven performances of La Gioconda and Genoa saw her as Santuzza in March. May was spent at the Fenice of Venice, where Tina sang in Suor Angelica with Elvira Casazza and in Aida. In June, she traveled to London for a debut at Covent Garden in Tosca with Fernand Ansseau and Dinh Ghilly and was very poorly received by both public and press who recoiled from her strong vibrato and melodramatic impersonations. Tina left London after one performance, never to return.

However, on 31 July she was welcomed with an enormous ovation at the Verona Arena when she sang in Aida with Zinetti and Pertile. After La Gioconda at Turin's Teatro Chiarella, Tina returned for a very long season at Barcelona, appearing in Aida, La Gioconda, Un Ballo in Maschera, Lucrezia Borgia, Cavalleria Rusticana and Ernani, as well as in act two of Tosca during a gala benefit. Her reviews were nothing short of magnificent and in Gioconda, she was heralded by several critics as the greatest that the city had ever seen or heard. The Liceo and Tina Poli Randaccio would continue their love affair over several more seasons.

In 1921, Tina appeared at Brescia and Trieste for La Gioconda, Palermo for La Gioconda and La Fanciulla del West, Rome for Aida, the Milan Arena for La Gioconda, Vicenza for La Fanciulla del West with Ismaele Voltolini and Stabile, Venice for La Gioconda and at Parma on 29 December in a stellar revival of the Ponchielli work with Giannina Arangi Lombardi as Laura, Irene Minghini Cattaneo as La Cieca, Voltolini as Enzo, Noto as Barnaba and Bruno Carmassi as Alvise.

The new year found her in revivals of La Fanciulla del West at Naples, Milan's Carcano and at Turin where she was joined by Voltolini and Apollo Granforte. The Dal Verme hosted Tina in Il Trovatore with Zinetti, John O'Sullivan and Benvenuto Franci in October, and after eleven performances of Les Huguenots at Bologna with O'Sullivan, Poli returned to Barcelona for Aida with Aurora Buades and Lazaro, Tosca with Lazaro and Les Huguenots with Cassini and Lazaro.

Tina debuted at Cairo on 27 January 1923 as Gioconda and continued her season as Minnie and Santuzza, after which she repeated all three roles at Alexandria. Santuzza was the role of her return to Milan's Teatro Lirico in May and on 11 August she appeared at Venice's Lido di San Nicola in Aida with the riveting Gabriella Besanzoni. In November, Trieste saw Poli as Gioconda and on the 22nd, she sang in a gala performance of Aida at Rome's Costanzi in honor of the King and Queen of Spain. Zinetti, De Muro and Enrico Molinari completed the stellar cast and the conductor was Mascagni. Tina's year ended at Mantua with four performances of Tosca, after which she appeared at Brescia's Teatro Grande in Loreley. Neapolitan audiences appreciated her Trovatore Leonora and Romans admired her in L'Africaine with Pasini, Giulio Crimi, Molinari and Pasero and in Tosca with Crimi and Stracciari.

In the summer Tina debuted at Vienna as Aida with Maria Gay, Giovanni Zenatello and Viglione-Borghese, a revival that had to be repeated sixteeen times before moving to Kaiserdam, Germany in September. Berlin saw her Santuzza before she returned to Barcelona in November for another daunting season. This time Tina sang in Aida, Les Huguenots, L'Africaine and a new work, Suor Beatrice. Though Tina Poli Randaccio is primarily remembered in Italy as the quintessential Italian dramatic soprano, she had by now appeared in twenty countries, and with the singular exception of England, had been rapturously received in all. There would be a twenty first.

1925 began at Naples with L'Africaine and on 30 January, Tina returned to the Costanzi for La Fanciulla del West with Crimi and Parvis. After further performances of Tosca and Aida at the San Carlo in February, she returned to Rome for Il Trovatore and Aida. The Lido di San Nicola at Venice feted Tina to a serata di gala on 1 August as the prelude to an engagement as Aida at the Fenice, after which she sang in Tosca at Rimini with Pertile and Viglione-Borghese. In October, she returned to Genoa for La Gioconda, and on Christmas Night 1925, at Bari's Teatro Piccinni, she sang Norma for the first time. Though she sang six performances, it was not a great critical success, and she decided to drop plans for several other planned engagements in the role.

Trieste's Teatro Verdi hosted Tina in Abisso and Il Trovatore at the outset of 1926, after which she sang in La Fanciulla del West at Genoa's Carlo Felice, in Aida and a Benefit Concert at Rome's Costanzi, and in Il Trovatore at Naples' San Carlo, the last with Ebe Stignani. Poli had been singing for a quarter century and it had been an enormously intense and successful twenty five years, but Father Time, as he will, began to play his inevitable role. After Naples, it was not until September that Tina again appeared on a stage, when she debuted at the Athens Arena in Aida with Franco Battaglia. And so, her year ended.

La Scala beckoned one more time, and, on 9 March 1927, Tina sang in the world premiere of Guarino's Madame de Challant with Francesco Merli and Carlo Morelli, and with these three performances she said farewell to the theater that had presented her as its first Minnie, and in four world premieres.

Naples again welcomed Tina for Il Trovatore and Aida, and she debuted at Modena's Teatro Comunale in April as Gioconda, and, a week later she unveiled the role of Turandot at the Comunale. At Milan's Carcano she sang in Isabeau and at year's end she returned to Barcelona for the last time, appearing in Aida and La Gioconda, with identical casts, Zinetti, Aroldo Lindi, Granforte and Vela.

In February of 1928 Tina sang in Turandot at the San Carlo and in February, she bade farewell to Naples as Gioconda. In April she returned to Rome, where, at the newly named Teatro Reale, she sang for the last time, when she appeared in Il Trovatore. Her last engagement of 1928 was as Isabeau at Livorno in a revival conducted by Mascagni.

In 1929, Tina sang Gioconda and Santuzza at Milan's Lirico, Turandot at Nice, which is listed in the program as the French premiere of the Puccini opera, Aida at La Spezia and Tosca at Firenze's Teatro Verdi. In 1930, her only Italian engagements were at Genoa where she sang Isabeau, Aida, and Santuzza, after which she sailed to Caracas for a season as Gioconda, Tosca, Maddalena di Coigny, Santuzza and Elena in Mefistofele. There would be no further engagements outside of Italy, and few enough in her homeland though she continued to appear for another six years.

In 1931, she sang Santuzza at Bergamo, Gioconda for Italian Radio both at Rome and Turin, Gioconda in Palermo's Teatro Garibaldi, Nedda at Isola, and Aida at Biela and at Rome's Teatro Adriano. In 1932 she sang in Gioconda at Crema and in Tosca at Milan's Teatro Puccini and at Brescia. 1933 found her again at the Puccini for Isabeau, at the Adriano for Minnie and Aida, and at Milan's Politeama for Santuzza.

In 1934 she returned to Norma, which had played so minor a role in her career, and she sang it at both Monza and the Lido of Pesaro. At Pesaro she also sang Santuzza, a role repeated at Milan's Arena. At year's end she sang Aida at Milan's Nazionale and at the Puccini she sang in La Forza del Destino, a role repeated at Foggia in early 1935. At Foggia she also sang Santuzza. The end came in early 1936, where at Asti and finally at Modena Tina Poli Randaccio sang her opera farwell as Santuzza. The career had encompassed nearly fifty roles, and had presented her on the stages of the World over fifteen hundred times, a monumental parade of memories for nearly two generations of opera goers.

After retiring from the stage, Tina abandoned musical life almost entirely, and died at Milan on 10 February 1956.

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opera-ghosts · 12 days

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Delibes - Lakmé - Bell song - Berthe César

Lakmé was one of Patti’s most successful réles, and very few other singers have ventured to attempt it. But Madame Melba has sung it, and her performance, while not obliterating all memory of Patti, has certainly made indelible the memory of Melba.

“Lakmé”’ is composed by Delibes. This name at once recalls that exquisite “‘pizzicato” from the ballet “Sylvia,” a musical fragment that has floated around the world and stuck to the programs of every land. The same delicate fancy and witchery that characterize the ballet are also prominent in the opera. His style is perhaps the furthest removed from Wagner of any modern composer. “Lakmé” has no crescendo worth mentioning, and the themes are, for the most part, left to take care of themselves; but every phrase is fascinating, and there is never a tedious passage.

The prelude opens in the minor key with a group of octaves erect and solemn as pine trees. The next phrase starts up like a blue flame darting from obscurity—a fantastic measure with wild harmonies that plainly suggest India as Lakmé’s home. A pathetic wail from the flute offsets this elfish interlude; the gloom of the minor still hangs over all, and the persistent tremolo of the violins becomes oppressive as the perfume of magnolias. It is like a forest at midnight. Suddenly the gloom and stillness are dispersed by the love-theme of the opera, which is in the major key, and consequently has a purifying effect. Major and minor are the oxygen and nitrogen of musical atmosphere.

A peculiar, rhythmical beating of the triangle accompanies the rising of the curtain, which reveals a luxuriant garden enclosed by a bamboo fence. At the back is a little river, and a modest dwelling stands on the bank; but a pretentious idol at one side characterizes the place as a sanctuary. Day is breaking, and as the light increases those soft, metallic tones of the triangle penetrate the air—like sunbeams. Nuilakantha, a Brahmin priest and owner of the dwelling, comes forward with two slaves, who open the bamboo gates, admitting a group of Hindu devotees, who prostrate themselves before the idol. Beneath the radiance of those unceasing triangle tones arises a languid prayer, soft as the gray morning mist, after which Nilakantha addresses the worshippers. He refers to their recent English conquerors, who have “‘displaced our gods and devastated our temples.” His tones mount higher and ring out with religious ecstasy until he causes a sudden hush. The music of invisible harps fills the air, and as the Hindus again kneel a woman's voice, like a clarion call, renders an incantation that is rare and wondrous. It sounds like the song of an angel, but it is only Lakmé, the Brahmin’s daughter. She comes forward and mingles her prayer with those of the people. Weird and strange, like the tones of a wild bird, her voice soars above the chorus, filling the air with reckless trills and soft staccatos. The worshippers arise and go out, leaving Lakmé and her father alone. She is a “child of the gods,” and her life is dedicated to Brahma. Nilakantha declares it is her pure influence that protects their sacred abode from the enemy. He leaves her for a time in charge of Mallika, a trusty slave.

When he is gone the music assumes a lighter mood, while mistress and maid look about for diversion. After removing her temple jewels and placing them upon a stone table, Lakmé proposes a row on the river. The music of this scene is fraught with a tropical heat and midday languor—dreamy, drowsy violin tremolos that suggest the drone of bees. The two maidens begin a duet whose words—

“Ah, we'll glide

With the tide—”

are set to music that seems to sing itself. It is a fountain of melody with flowing rhythm and rippling runs, staccatos like drops of water, and trills that are light as bubbles. The singers step into the boat, and we hear their song far down the stream, soft as a shadow and lovely as a dream.

After a moment’s silence a new element comes forward—a party of English sightseers. Their appearance in Grand Opera seems to us as much an invasion as their presence in India does to the Hindu. After the costume of Lakmé, which is all spangles and bangles and gauze and fringe, we are astonished to see the modern English waistcoats, fashionable bonnets, and trailing skirts. But it is all compatible with facts and history. Gerald is an officer in the army; Ellen, his flancée, is a daughter of the Governor; the other couple are their friends, and Mrs. Benson is the chaperone.

To enter this enclosure, the party have had to force an opening in the bamboo. It is evident trespassing, but they are too unconcerned to care. ‘Their first rollicking ensemble is an interesting evidence of the composer’s ability to change from the Hindu to the English type.

Instead of weird, uncivilized cadenzas, these are plain, Christianlike harmonies, such as we have been brought up to and can anticipate. Indeed, this song recalls Arthur Sullivan in his best mood.

After inspecting the idol and various points of interest, the party discover Lakmé’s jewels. Ellen admires their workmanship, and Gerald proposes to sketch them; but Mrs. Benson urges the party away. They all go excepting Gerald, who insists on copying the jewels. He prepares his sketching materials and is apparently in haste; but true to the precepts of Grand Opera, he first sings to us a long and beautiful aria about “taking the design of a jewel.”

By the time he has sustained the last high tone through five measures, Lakmé and Mallika have finished their row upon the river. Gerald conceals himself behind a shrub as they enter. The undulating melody of their boat-song is played by the orchestra, first softly, then with increasing strength, until it ends with a sforzando chord as the boat touches shore.

Lakmé brings forward an armful of flowers as an offering to the idol, and she sings a tender little song whose pathetic melody belies the text, which constantly asserts, “I am happy.” The accompaniment is a simple violin arpeggio, swaying back and forth upon the melody like a butterfly on a flower. Between the verses it flutters up in a fanciful cadenza, but soon returns, and, alighting on the melody, it continues to sway as before.

Great is Lakmé’s indignation on perceiving Gerald, the intruder. As she goes toward him, her every step is emphasized by a resolute chord in the orchestra.

“Leave at once!’ she commands. “This ground is sacred, and I am a child of the gods!”

But Gerald has fallen hopelessly in love with the pretty priestess, and he loses no time in telling her. No one has ever dared thus to address Lakmé, and she is incensed at his boldness. She warns him that death will be the penalty of his rash trespassing unless he goes at once. But Gerald only repeats his sweeping song of infatuation.

At last, moved to admiration by his courage, Lakmé ventures to ask by what god is he inspired. Like ripples of sunlight are the next measures, wherein he tells her that the God of Love makes him fearless.

Interested in this new deity, the Hindu maiden repeats after him the sparkling words and music. She sings timidly and a tone too low, but Gerald leads his ready pupil into the right key, and they sing together with full voice this most fascinating melody. ‘The final rapturous tone has scarcely subsided when Lakmé hears her father approach.

Complying with her entreaties, Gerald departs just in time for Nilakantha to perceive the broken fence. He vows vengeance upon the profane foe who has dared to enter here. His followers second the cry, while Lakmé stands aside in fear and trembling.

Tambourines and fifes predominate in the next orchestral prelude. It is a miniature marche militaire, and unmistakably English. The second act discloses a public square filled with Indian shops and bazaars. It is the occasion of a great festival at the pagoda. Merchants and promenaders occupy the stage, and their opening chorus is all bickering and bargaining. The music is very ingenious. A free use of harmonic discords, dazzling scales that seem to clash with their bass, and chromatics that run into each other gives an effect of

Oriental extravagance—gay colors upon crumbling walls, jewels over rags.

The chorus continues until a bell announces the beginning of the festival and time for the venders to disperse. They slowly depart and give place to the ballet, without which Delibes would hardly be himself.

It is interesting to note the specialties that different composers unconsciously assume. Liszt seemed to revel in rhapsodies; while the alliteration, ““Schubert’s Songs,” comes uppermost in spite of our knowledge that he wrote some eleven hundred other compositions. Bach invented more fugues than any one else; while Handel made his most lasting impression with oratorios. Symphonies and sonatas were the life-work of Beethoven; while Chopin had a particular fancy for nocturnes. And Mendelssohn! With all deference to his greater works, it must be conceded that “Songs Without Words” are inseparably linked with his name. Verdi with his tremendous range of operas had little time for anything else. The list could be extended to almost any length; but we will only add that Czerny is known for his scale exercises and Kullak for his octaves; while Weber, in the language of a recent critic, “is famous because he invited all the world to waltz!”

But to return to Delibes and his ballets. The present one is divided into several movements—the first being slow but of throbbing rhythm, while in the second one the melody whirls and spins around like a top. ,It is constantly whipped up by the conductor’s baton, and the dizzy pace continues until this merry melody bumps against a substantial chord.

After the ballet Lakmé and her father come forward. They are disguised as pilgrim mendicants, the better to enable Nilakantha to seek out his foe. It must be understood that this Hindu thirst for vengeance is a matter of religious belief, and the music plainly impresses this fact. A weird theme that was prominent in the overture recurs as Nilakantha explains that the wrath of heaven must be appeased with the blood of a victim. He has cleverly surmised that Lakmé was the attraction inducing the stranger to trespass on sacred ground. Confident that every one will attend this great festival, the Brahmin has brought his daughter as a decoy. She plays the role of a street ballad-singer, and is at the merciless command of her father. He bids her look gay and sing with full voice so as to attract a crowd. The orchestra gives her the keynote, and then, like a necromancer performing wonders with a coin, she executes a cadenza that bewilders and dazzles the senses. Her tones soar away like carrier-birds, and they bring the people from far and near to hear the wondrous singing. When a crowd has collected, Nilakantha announces that she will sing to them the “Legend of the Pariah’s Daughter.” Lakmeé sings as easily as she talks. The first phrase is a simple little narrative about a maiden wandering at eve in the forest, fearless of beast and sprite, for she carries in her hand a little bell that wards off evil with its merry tinkling. Then follows one of the most difficult staccato fantasias in existence, for the voice imitates the tinkle of that silver bell. The tones fall fast as raindrops in a shower, round as beads and clear as crystal. The composer shows no respect or reverence for high notes. Upper B is given a “shake” and any amount of staccato raps, while even high F, that slumbering “spirit of the summit,” is also aroused to action. In fact, this aria is one of the few that can not be poorly sung. To do it at all argues doing it well. Its difficulties protect it like a barricade from attack by mediocre singers. The second verse relates how the maiden meets a stranger, who 1s saved from the surrounding wolves by the tinkle of her magic bell. This stranger was “great Vishnu, Brahma’s son’; and since then—

“In that dark wood The traveler hears Where Vishnu stood The sound of a little bell ringing.”

Soft and clear as a wood-nymph laughing, those marvelous staccatos again peal forth.

During his daughter’s performance Nilakantha has been scanning the faces around him, but none reveals any emotion other than the pleasure of listening. Furious that his plan has not succeeded, he bids Lakmé to sing it again—“‘Louder!’’ But she has suddenly perceived Gerald approaching; and, knowing that if he recognizes her he will betray himself, she does not wish to sing. She pleads and entreats, but her father is obdurate. So she begins with pouting lips and trembling voice. “Sing out! admonishes Nilakantha. As Gerald draws nearer, Lakmé becomes more and more disturbed. The pretty staccatos are all out of place, like blossoms falling to pieces. They are flat where they should be sharp, and minor instead of major; but her tones, like perfect petals, are none the less lovely because detached. Once, twice, three times she recommences, always in a higher key. Suddenly she utters a musical scream as Gerald comes up to her, and Nilakantha exclaims: “Tis he!”

In the meantime, Gerald hears the fifes and tam

bourines of his regiment and goes to answer the roll-call.

Nilakantha summons his Hindu followers and informs them that he has discovered the foe. This solo with chorus of the conspirators is minor, mysterioso, and agitato; it is the most interesting bass solo of the opera. The conspirators go off, leaving Lakmé alarmed and disconsolate. Like a faithful hound, Hadyj1, the slave, draws near to her and whispers that he has seen her tears and heard her sighs: “If you have a friend to save, confide in me.” His words are parlando, but the orchestra illumines them with music clear as a calcium light. Lakmé grasps his hand in gratitude, but motions him aside as she perceives Gerald thoughtfully returning.

The hero has left his comrades at the first opportunity and retraced his steps to the place where he left Lakme. His joy on finding her is portrayed in a musical greeting of such unbounded rapture that one key will hardly hold it. The ensuing love-duet deserves to rank with the best. But Lakmé is more sad than glad, for she knows of impending danger. She urges him to flee, and tells him of “a little cabin hidden in the forest, quite near by,” where he can hide secure from his enemies. This Cabin Song is an idyllic refrain, with gentle harmonies that picture more than the words. She urges him to follow her; but in spite of his infatuation, Gerald realizes his duty as a soldier. He dare not go.

Like dust before a tempest is the succeeding instrumental passage announcing the approach of the great procession. The notes, like atoms, are carried forward faster and higher, until they come so thick that you can not distinguish them. This cloud of music melts away before the mighty chant of the Brahmins as they march to the pagoda. Their weird incantation fills the air like

a trumpet-blast. The greater part of this processional music greets our ears familiarly, because it was given in the overture. Upon this somber background of Hindu harmonies the composer delights in casting gleams of Sullivanesque music in the form of passing remarks from the English onlookers. The contrast is startling as magic-lantern pictures thrown upon the pyramids.

As the procession marches on, we see Nilakantha point out Gerald to the other conspirators, They cautiously surround him, and at the bidden moment he is stabbed by Nilakantha, who then disappears in the crowd. On hearing the victim’s cry, Lakmé rushes forward. The stage is darkened, for it is evening, and the lights of the procession are gone. The Hindu maiden finds Gerald but slightly wounded. She calls Hadj1, the slave, and then, without further explanation on her part, the instruments whisper to us her intention. We hear the soothing harmonies of that lovely song about “a little cabin hidden in the forest quite near by.”

The second entr’acte is performed after the rising of the curtain. We see an Indian forest, dense of foliage and brilliant with flowers. At one side is a hut, half concealed by the shrubbery, and near it are Lakmé and Gerald, the latter reclining upon a bank, while she watches over him as he slumbers. No sound or movement mars the effect of a perfect picture, and beneath it all, like gold letters spelling out the subject, come the tones of that sweet melody of the Cabin Song. The conductor at his desk reminds us of an artist at his easel who, with a magic brush, traces in tone-colors this beautiful inscription.

After the entr’acte Lakmé softly sings a slumber-song, simple as a child’s prayer and as beautiful. There are

only two phrases in it, but they come and go like wandering thoughts. When Gerald awakes he recalls how he was brought here, while Lakmé relates how with wild herbs and the juice of flowers he has been restored. Their rapturous conversation is interrupted by a chorus from without, the voices of young men and maidens on their way to a fountain in the forest from whence, it is said, if two lovers drink they will always be united. Lakmé solemnly explains this beautiful belief and at once proposes to bring a cup of the water. “Wait for me,” she admonishes as she runs out, and we hear her voice mingle with the far-away chorus of the other lovers.

During her absence a comrade of Gerald’s discovers his retreat. The newcomer announces that their regiment has orders to move on, and that if Gerald does not join them he will be dishonored. This visit passes over like a modern railroad through an Arcadian temple. Poor Lakmé soon discovers the devastation. With charming faith she extends her cup of water to Gerald, but at this moment he hears the fifes and drums of his regiment. Lakmé still offers the cup. “Drink and vow to be mine!’ But Gerald does not heed her words, for he is distracted with thoughts of duty and honor. She also hears this English music.

“His love is faltering!’ she piteously cries; and then with a decision as impulsive as her nature she plucks a flower of the deadly Datura and eats it without being observed by Gerald.

She turns to him tenderly and sings of their love— a melody so gentle and pathetic that he can no longer resist. He picks up the fallen goblet, and touching it to his lips vows to love forever. They sing together a song of exaltation.

Suddenly Nilakantha breaks in upon them. He brings his followers and would kill Gerald at once, did not Lakmé rush between them: “If a victim to the gods must be offered, let them claim one in me!” In tones of ecstasy she repeats the final phrase of her love-song; but her voice soon fails, and with a sudden gasp she falls at the Brahmin’s feet—dead.

Like hot flames reaching up at him from the orchestra come the tones of his terrible vow-theme. ‘The victim has been offered, but instead of glory, only ashes fall upon him.

From Opera and its stars; a description of the music and stories of the enduring operas, and a series of interviews with the world's famous sopranos (1924) by Mabel Wagnalls (1871-1946).

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