Stars of the Opera Part 17

The hostess politely declines to listen to her elaborate suitor.

She busies herself pouring tea, while in the orchestra a delightfully tender, untroubled waltz-theme reflects her tranquil spirit, which is like some quiet mountain pool in the path of a coming avalanche.

Impending disaster is near. Pinkerton's letter contains news that will bring devastation to the little j.a.panese home. He is coming back--but not to see b.u.t.terfly; a new wife comes with him.

The Consul waits until Yamadori has gone, then bravely tries to read the letter, but his eager listener is too excited to hear to the end.

"He is coming!" That is enough! Her joy is unbounded. She speeds from the room and in a moment returns with a sunny-haired child on her shoulders--her "baby-boy!"--her "n.o.ble little American!"--to whom she tells the glad news that his father soon will return.

The distressed Consul has not the heart to enlighten her further. He leaves rather abruptly.

A moment later a signal gun is heard in the distance.

Susuki plunges in, breathless;--"The harbor cannon!" Both women rush to the window. They can see the ship! A man-of-war! The Stars and Stripes!

Oh, the pain of this joy! The audience, knowing all, is torn and racked with emotion as the orchestra reiterates b.u.t.terfly's recent song of confidence about "his sure return."

Now is her "hour of triumph!" She proclaims it to high heaven--to Susuki--and to all "the eight hundred thousand G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses of j.a.pan."

All the world had told her he would forget and never return--but she knew!--she knew! Now, at last, her faith triumphs--he is here!

Superb is the crescendo now sweeping upward on the crest of America's martial theme. The Star-Spangled Banner is bugled by the instruments, while b.u.t.terfly's voice, in high and jubilant accord, sings again the glad words: "He is here!--he loves me!"

In the orchestra the love-theme--the great theme--arises slowly and pa.s.ses by like a spirit of the past, a soul long dead, a memory faded.

Now follows a poetic scene unsurpa.s.sed for picturesque charm and grace.

In accordance with j.a.panese custom, the two women sprinkle the room with flowers, in honor of his home-coming.

Great baskets full of blossoms are brought in by Susuki, while b.u.t.terfly, always singing, showers the room with petals. She sways with the rhythm of joy and music, flinging the flowers in reckless profusion, her voice seeming to follow their flight--up in the air--and down again.

Susuki, too, scatters rainbow-clouds of jasmine, peach-blooms, and violets; her contralto voice at the same time giving depth of color to the music. In the orchestra dainty, fluttering phrases are lightly tossed about, as tho shaken from the instruments by a pa.s.sing breeze.

Full of strange involutions and harmonies, the music of this "flower-duet" possesses the essential quality of all that is lasting and cla.s.sic--hidden beauty beneath the obvious. With the choicest "mixing"

of harmony, orchestra and voice, Puccini has brewed a "blend" most rare, and sugared it with melody.

When the baskets are emptied and the last flower fallen, a few final notes of the refrain still left in the orchestra are hurriedly brushed out by the conductor's baton.

On the stage, as the daylight melts into dusk, b.u.t.terfly, all in a flurry, is decking herself in her wedding gown, while the orchestra calls up memories of the lilac-garden and the fire-flies.

When all is ready, b.u.t.terfly, Susuki, and the little one take positions at the window.

Long and patiently they watch and wait.

The orchestra plays a soft, unchanging staccato accompaniment. The moonlight finds its way into the room.

At last the maid and the child fall asleep. Not so with b.u.t.terfly; rigid and still she stands at the window, her eyes on the distant harbor-lights.

A sound of far-away voices softly humming a sad, weird refrain, fills the scene with mystery, suggesting the moan of guardian spirits. All this while the gentle staccato harmonies in the orchestra continue to flit back and forth, like the changing lights of swinging lanterns.

b.u.t.terfly does not move. The curtain slowly descends.

The prelude to the last act opens with a theme that crashes and tears its way into prominence: a pitiless, gruesome group of notes, that sounds vaguely familiar, tho it has never been emphasized like the tragic-theme and others gone before. In the first act this dire phrase was heard for a moment, buried softly among the harmonies that accompanied b.u.t.terfly's first entrance song. She was happy then, but, nevertheless, this germ of agony was lurking near, as tho to suggest that we, each one, carry within our own temperament the weakness or fault that will eventually lead us to grief.

The orchestra is kept very active during this prelude or intermission.

The past is presented in flashes of old themes, and the coming day is presaged by new phrases of potent meaning. Sounds of the harbor life beginning to stir, distant voices of sailors chanting, are heard even before the curtain rises. When this is lifted, behold poor b.u.t.terfly still at her post! All night she has watched and waited, never moving, never doubting.

Now the dawn, cruel, cold-eyed and leering, begins to peer through the window. The pale, frail figure in her wedding gown still does not move; she still hopes on, counting the stars as they disappear; measuring each moment by her heart's wild beating.

The dawn grows rosy, the music in the orchestra tells of the world's awakening. The sun's glad welcome is proclaimed in a resounding pean of harmonies, pierced with sharp, bright strokes from the triangle.

But all this brilliant daybreak music fails to modify the tragedy of the dawn.

Susuki awakens to despair, but poor little b.u.t.terfly still a.s.serts, "He'll come! he'll come!"

When urged by the maid to rest, she takes the little one up in her arms, soothing him gently with a quiet song as she mounts the stairs to her sleeping-room.

Scarcely has she gone, when Susuki is startled by a knock at the door.

Pinkerton has come--and the Consul with him, but they tell the maid not to summon her mistress--not yet.

The music of the flower-duet fills the air like a faint perfume as Pinkerton observes the withered blossoms, and Susuki explains the decorations and tells of b.u.t.terfly's weary vigil. A moment later she sees through the window a lady waiting in the garden.

It is Pinkerton's wife.

"Hallowed souls of our fathers! The world is plunged in gloom!"

Susuki falls prostrate on her knees.

The ensuing trio is a magnificent musical unfoldment of sympathy from the Consul, remorse from Pinkerton, and consternation from Susuki. It is a splendid mingling of emotion and melody.

The two men are left alone as the maid goes out to speak with the new wife. Pinkerton acts properly distressed over the situation, and his friend, being only human, cannot refrain from saying, "I told you so,"

whereupon the music of his warning remonstrance in the first act is plainly marked in the orchestra, like an underscoring to written words.

Pinkerton sighs over the room and its a.s.sociations, sheds a few tears, and then decides the strain is too great for him. As he leaves the house, his wife and Susuki walk into view at the window.

At this moment b.u.t.terfly comes rushing down the stairs; she has heard voices--"he is here!"

Susuki tries to ward off the evil moment, but the _hour has struck_. The tragic theme rises up supreme--revealing itself in unclothed hideousness: all the other themes have fallen away; they were as mere empty masks over the face of truth--behind life is always death--back of the smile is a skeleton.

Through the open window b.u.t.terfly sees the "other woman."

"Who are you?" Mechanically her lips frame the words, as she stands there, paralyzed--stunned. But the question was perfunctory; the explanations that follow only confirm what she knew at first sight.

Very gently the American wife proposes to b.u.t.terfly to adopt her child and bring him up as her own.

The j.a.panese mother listens dumbly--then slowly realizes that unless she consents to this plan her boy will have no name.

b.u.t.terfly says very little--but she accedes. She asks, however, that Mr.

Pinkerton himself shall come for the child. "Come in half an hour--in half an hour."