Great Opera Stories Part 13

Senta began her singing. The girls stopped their wheels to listen, and as they listened, their eyes grew round with wonder. They, too, pitied the poor captain and his unhappy crew. But when Senta described these aimless wanderings that nothing could change except that maiden fair who would be willing to die for love, the girls interrupted her.

"Oh!" cried they. "Where in all the world is there such a maiden?"

"Here!" answered Senta, and she sang:

"Angel above, oh! bring to me The pale man sailing o'er the sea!"

Do you wonder that all the girls, even Marie, started up in alarm when they heard that strange prayer? No doubt they thought Senta had gone out of her mind. Loudly they called, until Eric the hunter came running into the room. He reasoned, he pleaded with Senta, but all in vain. She could think of nothing but the story of the man whose picture hung on the wall.

Just when the excitement was greatest, a cry from without told of the approach of Daland's boat. There was no time for foolish thoughts, then.

A meal must be prepared, the table set, the gla.s.ses filled! Away hurried the girls and old Marie.

In a moment Daland was at the door. Who was that pale visitor, so strangely like the picture above his head, entering behind him? Senta stared from one to the other. She could scarcely greet her father. She knew at once who this stranger was, just as you know and as I know. But Daland knew not.

He, proud and happy, thinking of that ship full of treasures, lost no time in telling Senta that this was the man he had chosen to be her husband on the morrow, if she were willing.

Senta was quite willing, for had she not loved this stranger for a long, long time? As for the Flying Dutchman, he gazed into those trusting eyes, and was filled with a great joy and a greater hope. Often when tossed about on the cruel waves had he dreamed of a maiden just as fair, just as pure as this one who now stood before him. If she would but be constant, all would be well, thought he. And, as he gazed, he heard her sweet voice saying,

"Whoever thou art, whatever thy fate, I will be thy love, I will be thy mate."

IV

The marriage feast was quickly prepared. The jolly sailor boys, the pretty peasant girls, all lent helping hands, and soon the merrymaking on board the gayly lighted ship began. Only on the black ship with the red sails was there darkness and silence.

Suddenly a young girl walked hastily down to the sh.o.r.e. It was Senta, the daughter of Daland, and closely following her, came Eric the hunter.

He begged her to hearken to his wooing once more. He pleaded with her to give up that mysterious stranger who had come between them. Had she forgotten all her promises? Must her father's rash command be obeyed?

Because Eric was an old friend, and because Senta was a kind-hearted girl, she listened patiently to all that he had to say. Not that a single word could have altered her determination to live and to die, if need be, for the Flying Dutchman. She loved him too well for that.

Even while she listened to Eric, she thought tenderly of her new lover and of how good G.o.d had been to allow her to be the maiden fair who would relieve his endless suffering.

Perhaps it was just that tender thought showing in her face that the Dutchman mistook for regret. For, at that very moment, when Eric was pleading so earnestly, and Senta was listening so patiently, the Dutchman came down to the sh.o.r.e.

He looked first at Eric, then at Senta, and like a flash came the thought that here was another girl who would not keep her promise.

There had been so many like that. He did not stop to ask or to reason.

Frantic with disappointment and despair, he rushed blindly over the rocks toward his ship.

"To sea! To sea forevermore!" cried he.

Now, you know Senta had not ceased loving him at all. So, although Eric tried to detain her, she ran swiftly after the Dutchman. She clung to him, crying out her love, and vowing eternal faithfulness again and again. So loudly did she cry, that Daland and Marie came hurrying, too.

The Dutchman managed to loosen her arms, to free himself. He waved her back, and a great change came over his face. Gone were all thoughts of himself and of his sad fate. He thought only of this pure maiden who was willing to die for his sake. He knew now that he loved her too well to let her pay such an awful price. Rather would he sail on and on forever.

Warning her not to come nearer, he leaped into his boat. Then, as the gray sailors unfurled the red, red sails and the black ship plunged forward, he stretched out his arms and told who he was. "The Flying Dutchman am I, the Scourge of the Sea," he shouted.

Daland, Marie, Eric, crossed themselves and looked after him in horror.

Not so, Senta. She had always known who he was. She would save him. She would be faithful until death. With a glad cry, she leaped forward and cast herself into the seething sea.

The waves closed over her. And as they closed a strange thing happened.

At the very same moment, the black ship, the red sails, the sailors, all disappeared. Only a rosy light lay over the water where they had been.

And in that rosy light, which ascended from the blue water to the blue sky, were seen, in close embrace, the angel forms of the Flying Dutchman and his maiden fair, floating onward and upward, toward their eternal rest.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE WARTBURG]

TANNHaUSER, THE MINSTREL KNIGHT

I

This is a tale of long ago. It is a tale of the days of knighthood and minstrelsy; of the days when field and forest rang with the clash of arms, and baronial halls echoed with the sound of harp and voice; when brave knights vied with one another not only in jousts and tourneys at arms, but in tournaments of song as well.

In those strange days a majestic castle, called the Wartburg, stood on a lofty peak overlooking the green and peaceful valleys of Thuringia. The Landgrave Herman and his niece, the beautiful Princess Elizabeth, lived there, and they were attended by a splendid court of n.o.bles, knights, and fair ladies.

The Wartburg was the scene of many gay festivals. Time and again the good people of Thuringia would gather from near and far to watch gallant, armor-clad knights ride out with lance and spear to mimic warfare. But more often they would gather within the great castle hall to listen to the melodies of well-tuned harps and sweet-voiced singers in tournaments of song.

The white hand of the beautiful Princess placed the laurel wreath of victory most often upon the brow of one bold young Minstrel Knight, Tannhauser by name. His was the rarest gift of poetry, his the sweetest voice. Nor was any one more beloved than he. His prowess in battle, his skill with lance and spear, his fearless eye, had made him a favorite of the Landgrave; while his n.o.ble bearing, the light touch of his fingers upon the harp strings, and his clear young voice had won the heart of the proud Princess.

But Tannhauser, unmindful of these great gifts of fortune, had, in a rash moment, quarreled with his companions. Angry beyond reason, forgetful of both friendship and love, he had cast himself away from the Wartburg, and had sought the solace of solitude.

Opposite the Wartburg, black and foreboding against the blue of the sky, like a giant of old, towered a mountain, the Horselburg. And thither, sad to relate, the footsteps of the errant Minstrel Knight led the way.

Now, it seems that when Venus, the G.o.ddess of Love, was banished from the earth, she hid herself away from the eyes of all righteous men, deep within the heart of that very mountain, the Horselburg. Brooding over her fancied wrongs, she lived there and plotted evil against mankind.

Her domain was a wonderful cave, all shadows and mystery; and her subjects were strange creatures of the underworld. And, the story went, from a couch of gold where she sat arrayed in richest garments, she lured guileless wanderers through an unseen portal in the mountain side, straight into her kingdom. And while her siren voice cast its spell, while her fatal beauty wove its charm, the poor wanderer was powerless. He followed, and followed, forever and a day, and knew not where. But the face of the earth saw him no more.

Do you wonder, with such a story abroad, that the Horselburg was shunned by old and young? But what cared the bold Minstrel Knight for strange G.o.ddesses or their powers? Tannhauser was clad in all the trappings of knighthood; he had his armor, his lance; the harp of his minstrelsy hung by his side. So he came to the foot of the Horselburg, dreamily, heedlessly, but unafraid.

Still, as he paused to rest beneath an over-hanging rock at the mouth of a cave, he fancied that he heard the sound of rushing water. He started, looking both to the right and to the left. There was no water to be seen. A moment later the faint tinkle of bells fell upon his ear; then the echo of a distant melody followed. He arose and peered into the cave. His venturesome spirit prompted him to take one step forward,--then another. Through the shadows he detected the glimmer of many lights, now red, now violet, now blue. What was the rosy haze that enveloped him? And the faint music that drew him on and on? A delicate odor a.s.sailed his nostrils. A delicious languor overcame him. "Where am I?" he called. But the only answer was the clang as of a closing door, and the sound of a rippling laugh. A moment later, led by unseen magic, blinded by light and overpowered by sound, he stumbled into a region of enchantment, into the presence of Venus herself.

A fascinating, bewitching G.o.ddess was Venus, and Tannhauser lingered at her feet for a long time. Her magic drew a veil before his eyes, which blinded and enthralled him. And he mistook the mocking cruelty of her face for beauty and the lure of her glance for kindness and love. So he played upon his harp and sang marvelous new songs to her and knelt before her to pay her homage. He forgot all about the past, his knighthood, his minstrelsy, his home, his friends. He even forgot his G.o.d.

Nymphs danced before him, elfin creatures made music for him, strange flowers delighted his eyes, and all was an unceasing round of pleasure day after day. There was no sun to shine, no moon, no stars. Spring never came, nor winter. It was all as though the world had never been.

Still there came a day at last when Tannhauser awoke. He awoke as if from a dream. For a sound had pierced the very rocks and reached his ears. It was the chime of distant church bells.

Tannhauser ran his hand across his forehead and staggered to his feet.

He remembered.

With the remembrance came a loathing and a longing that were pain. He hated the perfume-laden mists about him, the strange flowers, and the nymphs with their songs and endless whirling dances. He longed for a breath of pure woodland air, for the sight of rain-freshened gra.s.s, for the sound of the lark's song at dawn.

So he seized his harp and sang to Venus and begged her to let him go back to earth.

"Oh, G.o.ddess," he implored, "let me go."