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Opera Plots

Le Roi d’Ys by Édouard Lalo

In Le Roi d’Ys, the flawed heroine Margared sacrifices herself by leaping into the sea in remorse at having almost destroyed her country by flooding it. There are many operas in which characters leap off high places for various reasons, and Lalo’s swirling and broody opera le Roi d’Ys is one of the more obscure: Tosca jumps to her death from the roof of the Castel Sant’Angelo in Rome in order to avoid capture; Senta throws herself off a cliff to redeem the soul of the man she loves in The Flying Dutchman; Sappho leaps from the Leucadian Cliff to atone for her criticism of the god Apollo, to find relief from the agony of being rejected by her lover or to escape political retribution, depending on which opera version you choose; Mascagni’s Iris throws herself down a sewer shaft when she is humiliated by her father who believes that she has voluntarily become a prostitute; Cherubino jumps from the Countess’s balcony to avoid being found in her room by the Count in Le nozze di Figaro; Catalani’s Wally leaps into a crevasse when her lover is swept away by an avalanche; and Ariodante throws himself off a cliff in Handel’s opera (or jumps off a bridge in Mayr’s version) because he is tricked into believing that his fiancée is unfaithful. All of these leaps put great demands on stage directors and performers (Sarah Bernhardt had a false leg as a result of breaking her leg badly and then suffering gangrene after performing Tosca’s fatal leap), and it is fun to see how they achieve the right effect. Sadly, the only DVD of Le Roi d’Ys is pretty tame – the leaper Margared sings her final contrite bit and then just wanders off the stage. Even so, the opera is still exciting: it is one of those operas of which people know the title but little else, and it certainly rewards closer examination.

Opéra in three acts, described as a légend bretonne because after Wagner, French opera composers did their best to avoid using the word ‘opera’ to describe their works.

Libretto by Édouard Blau, possibly based on a collection of Breton stories by Émile Souvestre entitled Les Merveilles de la nuit de Noël (which could explain the irrelevant references to Christmas in the opening chorus).

First performed at the Opéra Comique in Paris on 7 May 1888.

Act 1

The story is set in the legendary city-state of Ys, on the coast of Brittany, in the fifth century.

There is an exciting overture with many tender moments, and an overt nod to the influence of Wagner by a direct quotation of the Pilgrim’s Chorus from Tannhäuser. On a great terrace outside the royal palace of the king of Ys (we are not told his name) the people are celebrating the end of a long and bitter war: as part of the peace agreement, one of the king’s daughters, Margared, is to be married to the leader of the enemy force, a warrior named Karnac. In a celebratory hymn which is bizarrely interspersed with elements of a Christmas carol, the people praise Margared for winning over the enemy leader with her heart – something that they could never have achieved in battle. They acknowledge the help of their patron saint St Corentin in bringing them peace. The crowd gradually drift off happily singing of a new era of peace, love … and Christmas. Margared’s sister, princess Rozenn, asks her why she seems to be so unhappy. Margared tells Rozenn that of course she is happy, who wouldn’t be, but Rozen pushes her, telling her that sisterly affection tells her that all is not well. Margared eventually admits that her father has arranged the marriage to Karnac against her will and that she is no less happy than she was yesterday or will be tomorrow because she actually loves a man who is believed to have been lost at sea, in a ship captained by the princesses’ childhood friend, Mylio; she confesses that she feels that she is merely a ransom of war. Ladies-in-waiting come to lead Margared away and Rozenn is left alone to reflect on the fact that the young man she loves, who is of course Mylio, has been lost at sea just as Margared’s so far unnamed lover has been. Rozenn cannot believe that Mylio is gone for ever, and when she longingly calls his name in a passionate aria, he actually appears behind her and it transpires that he has not been drowned after all. They fall ecstatically into one another’s arms and he explains that he and his crew were taken captive, but that now they have returned victorious.

Édouard Lalo (left) and Édouard Blau, the composer and librettist of Le roi d’Ys (author’s collection)

The wedding arrangements are moving fast; fanfares are heard and as the bridal procession enters, Mylio goes off to stand his crew down, and Rozenn stands to one side to watch the ceremony. The king leads Margared in and Karnac, followed by a bodyguard of his soldiers, enters too. Karnac salutes the king in peace, and the old king welcomes him as a son, explaining that he is old, and that although his death will bring grief, it will not bring danger, because Margared’s beauty and Karnac’s strength will protect the people of Ys when Karnac becomes king. The people innocently accept this pledge of peace. Just as the marriage ceremony is about to start, Rozenn whispers to Margared that Mylio not only has not been drowned, but that he has now returned to Ys. Mylio, of course, is the object of Margared’s affections too, and she immediately refuses to go ahead with the marriage to Karnac. The king cannot believe this turn of events, and the people say that Karnac is bound to want revenge for this insult. Karnac, of course, is furious and after a lot of strong words, he announces that the war will resume immediately, and he throws down his gauntlet as a challenge to the people of Ys. Mylio emerges from the assembled throng and picks up the gauntlet, accepting Karnac’s challenge. As Karnac leads his men away, Mylio kneels before the king and bows his head.

Cécile Simonnet created the role of Rozenn and Alexandre Talazac sang Mylio at the opera’s Paris première. All the black and white illustrations in this article appeared in the magazine L’Univers Illustré of 19 May 1888 and show the costumes, performers, scenery and sets of the opera’s first performance (author’s collection)

From the left: Max Bouvet as Karnac, Blanche Deschamps-Jehin as Margared and Arthur Cobalet as the king

Act 2

As Karnac’s troops gather outside Ys, Margared watches from a window in the royal palace. In a great aria, she declares her passion for Mylio, the hero who is now about to lead the army of Ys against Karnac. She suspects, however, that it really is Rozenn whom Mylio loves, and she swears that if this is indeed the case, then her love will turn into implacable hatred. She hears someone approaching and she hides. The king enters, accompanied by Rozenn and Mylio, who sing of their love and the king gives them his blessing. Mylio says that St Corentin will help them to win; he went to the saint’s shrine to pray for help, and the statue of St Corentin seemed to move and he heard a voice from heaven urging to enter the battle confident of victory. The king tells Mylio that when he returns victorious, he and Rozenn can be married. Margared, still in hiding, is incandescent with rage, and when the king and Mylio leave to prepare for battle, she emerges and confronts Rozenn, telling her that she loves Mylio too but that she would rather see him slaughtered in combat than finding comfort in the arms of her rival. Rozenn tries to calm her sister down and appeals to her sense of justice, saying that she and Mylio fell in love completely unexpectedly and that they never intended to hurt anyone. Margared will have none of it and she curses them both. Boldly, Rozenn responds that St Corentin will protect the army of Ys, and Margared replies that if he cares to leave his tomb, he is welcome to hear her curses as well.

The scene changes to a vast plain close to Ys some time later. After the battle, Mylio’s troops have been victorious over Karnac’s army and Mylio is convinced that his success is a consequence of the blessing of St Corentin, and he sets off to give thanks for this divine assistance at the chapel dedicated to the saint.

While Mylio is in the chapel, Karnac turns up. He is exhausted after the battle and his men have scattered, leaving him powerless. He complains that the army of Ys called on St Corentin and he helped them, but when he called on the powers of hell to help him, they did not answer him. He encounters Margared, who tells him that hell does hear him now; at first he thinks that she has come to insult him again, but she tells him of her own desire for revenge and suggests that they collaborate in order to open the sluice gates in the dykes which protect Ys from the sea and flood the whole country. They set off, but as they go past St Corentin’s chapel, Margared defies the saint to save the people of Ys. Suddenly, the sky grows dark and the statue of St Corentin outside the chapel becomes alive and calls on Margared and Karnac to repent, bringing curses down on them with the voice of the dead while angel voices urge them to repent while there is still time. They ignore all this and set off for the lock gates.

Karnac and Margared are urged to repent by the statue of St Corentin (a French trade card advertising coffee, published by Emile Bonzel; from the author’s collection)

Act 3

In the royal palace, there is a different mood altogether. Preparations are in hand for the marriage of Rozenn and Mylio. Following tradition, Rozenn is accompanied by a group of her friends, whose duty is to prevent the companions of her bridegroom from approaching her. Mylio tries to breach this blockade by singling a gentle aubade. Eventually, Rozenn appears, dressed in the traditional Breton bridal gown and her wedding procession makes its way into the royal chapel. As a Te Deum is being sung, Margared and Karnac, lurking in the background, whisper to one another; she is having second thoughts about the plan to destroy her homeland, but Karnac easily inflames her jealousy to keep her eager for revenge. They leave together to carry out their plan to open the sluice-gates.

The wedding ceremony continues, culminating in an ecstatic love duet for the newly-weds. When it is over, Rozenn and her father sing of their sadness that Margared was not there to see her sister get married. Margared overhears this and now does appear, but the king’s happiness is shattered when cries of terror are heard outside. To universal horror, Margared says that the people of Ys are all doomed and Mylio runs in to confirm what she has said – someone has opened the sluice-gates and the sea is rushing in. He tells everyone that he has killed Karnac, but that the water level is rising rapidly. The people call on god for help and start to flee to higher ground; despite the king’s urging, Margared cannot follow them.

The French chocolate company Guérin-Boutron issued a series of collector’s cards in the 1900s depicting composers and scenes from their operas: the final moments of Lalo’s Le Roi d’Ys showing Margared’s leap was number 75 in the series of 78 cards (author’s collection)

After a dramatic watery interlude, the survivors from the flooded city have made their way to a high piece of land overlooking Ys. In desperation, they pray for a miracle to save them and their city, but Margared, almost in a trance, tells them that the only thing that will placate the violence of the sea is the sacrifice of a victim to the ocean. She admits her contribution to their fate and the people curse her and call out for her death. The king, Rozenn and Mylio stand round Margared to protect her from the fury of the crowd, and they appeal to the people to spare her, but Margared herself atones for her crime; she climbs to the summit of a nearby rock and throws herself into the sea, appealing for the safety of her people and crying out ‘Ah! My judge calls me!’ As she disappears beneath the waves, St Corentin appears in a blaze of light and the waters immediately begin to calm down. Everyone joins in a hymn of gratitude for their salvation, thanking God and St Corentin for leading them to calmer waters.

–ooOoo–

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the life and operas of Édouard Lalo
  • the life and librettos of Édouard Blau
  • the stories of other operas which include characters leaping off things for a variety of reasons (Tosca, Senta, Halka, Wally, Iris, Cherubino – there is no shortage of jumpers)
  • the lives and operas of many of Lalo’s contemporaries …
  • … and many opera plots and other stories linked to French operas at the end of the nineteenth century, some influenced by Wagner, others decidedly not

© Roger Witts 2011

Categories
Opera Plots

Antigona by Tommaso Traetta

Just occasionally, an opera comes along which changes the course of operatic history. But just occasionally, operas which should be better-known slip below the horizon and disappear from view. Whilst this is sad in that many operas can stay disappeared for ever, it can also provide opportunities for exciting discoveries. The collaboration between two Italians who had worked together ten years earlier in Vienna, the composer Tommaso Traetta and the librettist Marco Coltellini, who were both now working for Catherine the Great in the Imperial Court in St Petersburg, produced a remarkable opera in Antigona: it breaks all the rules of opera seria, it is full of psychological insight, it has an unprecedented pace and a vibrancy which keep you on the edge of your seat, and it has an ending which ignores the Greek tragedy from which the story is drawn because it is designed to flatter the enlightened rulers of the day, partly Catherine the Great, for whom it was written, but also Frederick the Great of Prussia, to whom Coltellini dedicated the libretto. Antigona is one of those operas which has unjustifiably fallen from view – but it has been rediscovered, revived, performed and recorded. We are lucky – it is a gem.

Tragedia per musica in three acts.

Libretto by Marco Coltellini.

First performed in the Imperial Theatre in St Petersburg on 11 November 1772.

The story is taken from the tragedy Antigone by Sophocles. Antigone is the daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta. In the fulfilment of a prophecy and despite everyone’s efforts to prevent it from coming true, Oedipus had unwittingly killed his father, Laius, the king of Thebes, and then married his mother, Jocasta, thus becoming king. Unaware of what had happened, they lived happily and produced four children, two sons, Polinices and Eteocles, and two daughters, Antigone and Ismene. Twenty years or so later, when eventually the true circumstances are revealed, Jocasta hangs herself and Oedipus blinds himself before being driven into exile from Thebes. Jocasta’s brother, Creon, takes over as regent and decrees that the two brothers, Polinices and Eteocles, should take it in turns to rule Thebes in alternate years. Eteocles has ruled for a year, but then refused to hand over to his brother, who then gathered an army from Argos and invaded Thebes to seize the crown from his brother.

Act 1

Outside Thebes, an arena has been marked out between the city walls and the camp of the Argive army, and crowds of Theban citizens on the one side and Argive soldiers on the other are getting worked up in preparation for a fight to the death between the two rival brothers, which is the agreed method for solving the impasse. Creon, with Adrastes, a leading Theban magistrate, accompanied by two senior adjudicators from the Argive side, arrive and lead the two crowds in prayers to the gods that justice will be done.

In a dumb-show, the brothers arrive; Eteocles hands the crown and the sceptre to Creon, who ceremoniously places them in a neutral spot in full view. After a dance, the spectators sing a running commentary as Polinices and Eteocles start to fight. It is such a vicious conflict that both of them are killed. The four judges mingle with the crowds as soldiers dismantle the arena and two biers are brought out, ready to carry the bodies away. Creon announces that heaven has resolved the conflict, but at a terrible cost, since the royal bloodline is now broken, and the throne is empty. He calls on the Argive forces to respect their promises and end the fighting, and he asks the Thebans to choose a worthy ruler. Adrastes speaks for the Theban people and says that no-one is more worthy than Creon himself. He offers the royal regalia to Creon, who at first declines to accept, but when he is hailed king by the people, he agrees. Adrastes crowns him, commenting that when Antigone marries Creon’s son Hemon, with whom she is already in love, the royal line can be restored. The Theban people endorse this, wishing Creon a long reign and hoping for a peaceful future. Creon acknowledges all this, and then decrees that because Eteocles fought loyally for his country, he will be given a full state funeral, but that because Polinices brought only war to his homeland, his body must lie unburied, hated and prey for the carrion crows. The people agree that this is an appropriate decision, because traitors must make their own way to the underworld, unaided by the usual, respectful funeral honours.

Sadly neglected today, Tommaso Traetta is remembered in his home-town of Bitonto, near Bari in northern Puglia, by this grand statue: the theatre in the town is also named in his honour (author’s photograph)

As the crowds begin to disperse, Antigone and Ismene arrive, breathless and anxious. They clearly know what has happened because they demand to be allowed to embrace their brothers’ bodies, and Antigone comments that yet again the long-running family curse has turned out to be true, and that it is not over yet. The soldiers are carrying out their orders, and Creon reinforces them; Antigone challenges him, reminding him that her brothers’ deaths are the results of the scheme which Creon had hatched, and that since he has now achieved his ulterior motive, he might at least allow the normal rites of mourning for the two men whose deaths are his responsibility. Ismene too demands to know why he is still acting so cruelly towards the dead. Creon expresses sympathy for their distress, but comments that he is a citizen of Thebes, and now its king, and that those who rebel against the city do not deserve either honours or mourning, so Polinices must remain unburied as a warning to others who might want to rebel. Antigone continues to berate him and he reminds her of the penalty for disobedience. She knows that it is death, but she says that she will defy him anyway: she and Ismene remind Creon that it is a cruel severity to disrespect the dead and he responds that it is a just severity to deal harshly with those who rebel, and then sweeps out, along with the remaining soldiers and citizens, leaving Antigone and Ismene alone.

Antigone now contemplates her predicament: is there any more that fate can heap on her family? It was bad enough that her brothers were forced to kill one another, and now a tyrant is pursuing that shame beyond death. Ismene joins in, telling Polinices that there is now no-one who can show his body the respect of a proper burial by sprinkling it with dust. Antigone replies that Jove’s anger will now all fall on her. She tells Ismene that under cover of darkness, they can come out and defy Creon’s edict by performing the funeral rites for Polinices. She counters Ismene’s inevitable reluctance by reminding her that she will never be able to rejoin their parents and brothers unless they do the right thing now. She tells the shades of the dead that she will bring Polinices safely to them, even though it will mean her own death.

Antigone leaves, and Ismene muses on her predicament: she asks the gods to look into her heart and judge whether she too loves her brothers. But surely her responsibility now is to her sister, and her duty is to prevent Antigone from destroying her own life. Hemon, Creon’s son, now joins her and asks her why she is still in such an awful place when all of Thebes is honouring Eteocles and Antigone is noticeably absent from the celebrations. Slowly, she explains to Hemon what Antigone intends to do, and what the consequences for her will be. Hemon is stunned, and Ismene impresses on him the cruelty of Creon in forbidding a proper burial for Polinices, and the courage of Antigone for standing up to him in her determination to bury her brother. It is only a fawning crowd of flatterers who will swarm around the throne of such a tyrant. Hemon tells her that she need not weep, because Jove will not harm her any more and that although Antigone is risking disaster, they can both appeal to the gods not to be offended at the righteous behaviour of an innocent woman, because in heaven, mercy is not a crime.

Act 2

That night, far from the city, Polinices’s body is burning on a funeral pyre; Antigone and her maids dance solemnly round the pyre, throwing precious possessions and incense into the flames and singing their prayers that their lamentations might ensure that his soul can pass safely into everlasting peace: following the ritual, Antigone cuts off a lock of her own hair and throws it into the fire. Her maids then put out the flames with holy water and gather the ashes into an urn. Antigone wonders why Polinices can now rest in peace while she has to remain here on earth, able only to weep and face even more horrors. Her maids bring her the urn containing Polinices’s ashes and remind her that all earthly vanities end up in a pile of dust. Antigone takes the urn and weeps over it, saying that if Polinices’s remains cannot be placed with honour in the royal tomb, then her tears will have to suffice; she tells the maids to clear the site of the pyre and leave no trace of what has happened there.

Hemon arrives in a rush: he tells Antigone that she must flee – Creon’s edict will mean her death, and as soon as Polinices’s funeral becomes known, she will immediately become the suspect. Antigone replies that she fears nothing, and that death will bring an end to her sorrows. Hemon declares his love for her and his hope that their loyal people will support them in the future, but for now, the urn containing the ashes must be hidden: he asks her to let him place it in the family tomb so that all proof will be concealed. He tells her that there is hope, and that just as she has saved her brother, now she must save her beloved. He sees a troop of soldiers approaching, so Antigone gives him the urn and they leave, along with the maids, in different directions.

Adrastes now arrives at the head of a band of soldiers. He recognises the remains of the funeral pyre and tells his men that this was very obviously the place where Polinices has been cremated. Clearly guards have been bribed, an order has been disobeyed and the king has been defied. Now there must be more mourning because heaven is determined to destroy the last of Oedipus’s line. Is it his fault, he wonders, if vengeance still seeks to punish the crime of a guilty father? Or if it is a crime to show mercy once a law has been passed.

Later, at the Temple of Jove the Bringer of Concord in Thebes which has been wonderfully decorated to celebrate the new era of peace, young men and women sing and dance while priests offer a ritual sacrifice. Creon and Ismene, surrounded by Creon’s guards, greet the people of Thebes, telling them that the newly-established peace is a gift from the gods. Ismene recalls the many deaths which have brought so much sorrow, and a chorus of Theban maidens praise Jove for his mercy. Creon declares that this day will be a sacred day from now on and a reminder of the man who brought war to Thebes; he repeats the edict that Polinices’s body will remain unburied and promises that anyone disobeying this law will die a terrible death. Adrastes rushes in and asks Creon to withhold the promise and explains that during the night someone has cremated the corpse and placed the ashes in the royal tomb. Creon is astounded, but Adrastes urges him to revoke the edict and not to plunge Thebes into even greater mourning. Creon, however, is adamant: the punishment stands, even if the criminal is his own son. Adrastes tells him that it is indeed his own son, and Hemon is then led in under guard. He was apprehended trying to place the urn in the royal tomb.

Creon turns on Hemon, accusing him of betraying his father and his country just when his future was secured; he asks Hemon to explain his actions and Hemon says that what he did was a fine deed. Creon continues to berate him, telling him that he must face the penalty because Creon is his judge and no longer his father. The people plead with Creon to show mercy, but he silences them, telling them that to let a crime go unpunished will simply encourage more disobedience, and that if Hemon is guilty, then he must die.

At this critical moment, Antigone arrives and declares that she alone is the guilty one. Ismene and Hemon beg her not to do this, but she ignores them, saying that honour cannot be bought for any price: she was the one who gave the funeral honours to Polinices, and all Hemon has done is to try to save her by taking the urn from her. Creon announces her fate: she will be walled up in the foul tomb reserved for criminals and buried alive so that no shedding of her blood will bring more horror to the city.

Hemon and Ismene plead for mercy but Creon is adamant, so Hemon begs to be immured with Antigone; Creon refuses him, saying that an example must be made – then he leaves and the people disperse, leaving Antigone, Ismene, Hemon and the maids with a platoon of guards. Ismene and Hemon are still pleading with her, but Antigone tells them that she will now happily join her parents and her ancestors, but that one day the people of Thebes will weep for her fate.

Act 3

High up in the mountains is the cave where criminals are entombed; a throne has been set up for the king and there is a temple of Mercury close by. Creon arrives and takes his seat on the throne and a crowd gathers, and to a mournful lament, Antigone is brought in, accompanied by her maids, all with their heads covered. The chorus comments that yet again the cloud of death envelops their city and the maids weep that even all their tears cannot console Antigone.

Antigone bids farewell to Thebes, to daylight and to the world. She asks if this is the marriage-bed which was intended for her, this living tomb. Hovering between life and death, she does not know whether to address the living or the dead. The maids and the gathered citizens express their sympathy and refer to the guilt of her father, Oedipus. She comments on the bitter wound that they have re-opened – her mother’s incestuous marriage and the implacable vengeance which pursues her now. Ismene now joins her and wants to be immured with her, she rushes to Creon and asks that she might share her sister’s punishment. Antigone asks Ismene what crime she has committed, and Ismene pleads with Creon that two sisters should not be parted in this way, and that if heaven is punishing Oedipus through his children, then she too must die so that the blood-line is destroyed for ever. Creon responds coldly that unhappiness is not the same thing as guilt, and when Ismene continues to plead with him, he orders the guards to drag her away. With Ismene gone, Antigone now pleads for a quick end to the proceedings. She is innocent, she insists, and heaven will call her accusers to account: she approaches the temple of Mercury and asks the god to guide her now, then she asks the cave to welcome her and give her rest from her torments. She asks the people of Thebes not to pity her, because this is the moment of her greatest happiness. She enters the cave and as the guards wall up the entrance, everyone present sings of yet more sorrow falling on Thebes.

Adrastes now enters in a hurry and tells Creon that Hemon is dead. He was being held prisoner according to Creon’s orders when Ismene forced her way through the guards and told him that Antigone’s punishment had been carried out. Hemon had snatched a weapon from one of his guards and killed two of them before he was cornered on an open balcony. With no other way of escape, he had thrown himself off it. Creon asks if Hemon is dead, and Adrastes replies that he doesn’t know because he came straight to Creon with the news.

Creon is horror-struck. He imagines himself embracing Hemon’s shattered body and seeing the boy’s mother reproach him for his cruelty. He imagines hearing Antigone’s dying lament and Ismene’s distraught sobbing and he weeps for the loss of his family and his throne, wondering how just one day can have brought so much sorrow. He realises that everything is his own fault, and not the will of the gods, and he rushes out, followed by his guards. As Adrastes ponders on the king’s distress, Hemon arrives; he did not die in the fall, and now he tells Adrastes that he knows of a way into Antigone’s tomb and that he intends to join her in death: he asks that if at some future time Thebes will become free from a tyrant’s rule, then his bones should be mixed with those of Antigone so that they can spend eternity together. Adrastes tries to dissuade him, but Hemon replies that anyone who tries to stop him will only harden his resolve – Creon gave him life, and now he is taking it from him, and he asks Adrastes to promise that if ever Creon weeps over his dead body, he should be reminded that his tears are meaningless compared with the blood that he has shed. He says that his ghost will return to haunt Creon, and he leaves to join Antigone in the tomb. Adrastes is horrified.

In the tomb, Antigone, exhausted and sitting on a boulder, comments on the darkness and the coolness there, and how she too will soon be cold and dust. As she wonders how long she will survive, she hears Hemon’s voice and assumes that he has died before her and is now coming as a spirit to join her. But Hemon, very much still alive, finally reaches her and embraces her, telling her that she need weep no more now that he can die with her. Together they thank the gods that death now holds no fears for them, and when Antigone asks Hemon whether he really has come to die with her, he tells her that he has already tried to take his life, and that when he threw himself through the narrow cleft above them which is the only faint source of light in the cave, he fell heavily but landed on shrubs and small stones which broke his fall and only stunned him, and that it was hearing Antigone’s lament which brought him round. Gloomily, Antigone tells him that all they have to look forward to is slowly starving to death, but Hemon tells her that he has brought a dagger which means that they can decide when to die and not suffer a lingering torment. Antigone begs him to kill her straight away, but he tells her that they need a bit more time to share their love for one another.

Suddenly, they hear noises of blows on the rock, and then they see armed men with torches in the entrance and Hemon, thinking that his father has sent troops to take him from Antigone, prepares to kill himself with the dagger; Antigone stays his hand and Creon, accompanied by Adrastes, soldiers and a crowd of Thebans, bursts into the cave. He says that they are both forgiven and admits that he was blinded by power and a deluded desire for glory and that he lost his natural instincts. Since heaven has preserved them both and saved him from a lifetime of regrets, they can let this happy day crown their love: he says that they can leave this place of grief and enjoy a glorious day of happiness together. Hemon and Antigone are naturally overjoyed.

In a final scene, that evening, in the grounds of the royal palace, a chorus of young women set up a marriage altar and statues of Amor and Hymen; they cover everything with garlands of flowers and prepare two crowns of roses for Antigone and Hemon. A procession of young girls all dressed in white and bearing aromatic pine torches lead in Antigone and Hemon, followed by a huge group of Theban citizens all dancing and singing a marriage hymn. During all this festivity, Antigone and Hemon approach the altar, followed by Ismene, Creon and Adrastes; holding hands, they are crowned with the rose crowns, then they turn to face the jubilant crowd and comment on how quickly love can cause suffering to be forgotten and on how in happiness it is possible to recall even the darkest times with joy. The crowd call upon Juno, the goddess of marriage and pleasure, to bless their union, referring rather enthusiastically to their casta letto, their ‘chaste marriage bed’. Ismene, Creon and Adrastes add a final slightly bizarre observation that a single moment of happiness makes up for a hundred years of sorrow before the people sing a final chorus celebrating the end of grief and the beginning of a new era of peace.

—ooOoo—

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the life and operas of Tommaso Traetta
  • the life and librettos of Marco Coltellini
  • the story of Ifigenia in Tauride, the previous collaboration between Traetta and Coltellini, in Vienna ten years before Antigona
  • what makes Traetta’s and Coltellini’s Antigona such a mould-breaking opera
  • other operas based on the story of Antigone and other members of her ill-starred family, including those by Josef Mysliveček, Antonio Sacchini, Ruggero Leoncavallo, Igor Stravinsky, Carl Orff and Mikis Theodorakis
  • other composers and librettists who served various Russian rulers at the Imperial court in St Petersburg …
  • … and many more aspects of operatic reforms over the centuries.

© Roger Witts 2013

Categories
Opera Plots

The Wreckers by Ethel Smyth

Holidays in Cornwall with friends when she was younger had a lasting effect on Ethel Smyth. Deeply impressed by stories of the determined Old Testament zeal of isolated Cornish communities who made their living by luring ships onto the wild coastline and the unsuccessful attempts of Wesleyan ministers to turn them from what they saw as their God-given right, she wove all these elements into a powerful opera in which the greatest tragedy is that all the characters in the story are convinced that what they are doing is right. Claimed as an English composer (and with The Wreckers, possibly the finest English opera composer since Purcell – in fact, Stephen Banfield in British Opera in Retrospect of 1985 said that The Wreckers “must be the most powerful English opera between Dido and Aeneas and Peter Grimes), Ethel Smyth was actually better known in Europe than in her native country. An ardent supporter of the suffragettes, an energetic golfer, cyclist, mountaineer, adventurer, writer and outspoken lesbian, she could be abrasive, overbearing and insufferable. But those closest to her loved her for all these reasons, and a revival of interest in her music is long overdue.

Lyrical drama in three acts.

Libretto by Henry Brewster, originally written in French under the title Les Naufrageurs and translated into English by the composer in collaboration with Alma Strettell.

First performed (in a German translation by H Decker and John Bernhoff, with a curtailed final act and under the title Standrecht) on 15 November 1906 at the Neues Theater in Leipzig.

Ethel Smyth: outspoken, unconventional, fascinating and impossible to ignore (author’s collection)

Act 1

It is about five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon in a Cornish fishing village; the bell of a small Wesleyan Chapel is ringing and the villagers approach the chapel, singing a suitably devout hymn. On one side is a pub with stone benches and tables outside, and on the right is the home of the village headman and Methodist minister, Pascoe. Tallan, the pub landlord, stops the villagers and suggests that a drink is what will really put the devil to flight. They don’t need much persuading, but Harvey, the lighthouse-keeper’s brother-in-law, reminds them that Pascoe is against drinking on the Sabbath. Tallan responds that Pascoe is away, and that an outsider will be preaching, so they can still drink and then put up with his chiding.

Tallan starts a song about the need for a wind to drive a ship onto their rocks so that they can all avoid starvation, and the villagers all get drinks and join in – clearly they are wreckers, surviving on the plunder from ships which have foundered on their rocks. Suddenly, Pascoe, a man in his mid-fifties, appears and launches into a tirade about the evils of drink. He tells them that he cannot stay because he has to visit a dying sinner, and Harvey asks him who will save them. Pascoe points out that since they have abandoned the ways of the Lord, it is hardly surprising that He has not sent them a decent wreck, but guides the great ships past in safety. He leaves, and the villages ponder his words, some of them falling to their knees and praying.

Lawrence, the lighthouse-keeper, now turns up with his teenage daughter Avis. To disapproving looks all round, Avis asks whether they believe Pascoe’s jibe that God is punishing them by not delivering a decent wreck, and she tells her father to recount what he has seen. Lawrence tells them that as he was walking home from the lighthouse to the village on the previous evening, he happened to look up and he saw a beacon alight on the cliff-top warning ships to keep their distance. There is an immediate outcry to go and find the traitor and kill him like vermin. Lawrence continues, explaining that on stormy nights, he extinguishes his lighthouse light and thus risks his neck for the sake of his duty to the community. Enthusiasm for hanging the mystery beacon-lighter increases, and Avis hints that she knows who it is, but Lawrence silences her, so she just says that women don’t need proof, they just know.

Lawrence signals everyone to be quiet, and Pascoe’s young wife Thirza enters. As she unlocks her house door, they all avoid eye-contact with her, and Harvey sarcastically suggests that she has come to join their prayers. Thirza is in her early twenties, over thirty years younger than her husband, and Tallan comments that Pascoe’s absence is a good example of the mouse playing when the cat is away. Thirza says that she regards them all as ungodly and that her prayers are nothing like theirs, and she goes into the cottage and slams the door. As the chapel bell rings again, the crowd gradually go into the chapel, leaving Harvey and Tallan to question Lawrence further about the beacon and who might have lit it. But he knows nothing, and they join the others in the chapel.

The voice of Mark, a young fisherman, is heard approaching. Avis enters with another village lad, Jack; he asks if he can sit next to her for the service and she agrees, but sends him on into the chapel, so that she can hide, and watch Mark approach. Mark arrives with a basket full of fish, singing a song about a girl whose lover has died. Avis watches him throw a flower up at Thirza’s window, and wonders whether he is just playing and really still loves her. She emerges and challenges him, asking him why he has dropped her. To Mark’s discomfort, she sings a song warning tardy lovers that they should ‘Guard what is thine, lest thou lose it!’ Mark tells her that he did love her once, but that it is all over. Avis asks him who his new lover is, and he denies that there is one. Avis stares at him, and refuses his suggestion that they go into the chapel.

Still staring after him, Avis sings a song about killing a rat, and then collapses at one of the pub tables with her head in her arms. Thirza now comes out dragging some fishing nets which she proceeds to hang up to mend; she pretends not to see Avis, but Avis notices that she is wearing the flower which Mark had thrown at the window. When Thirza acknowledges Avis and comments on her paleness, Avis replies that she just wants to sit there and bother no-one. As Thirza busies herself with mending the nets, Avis wanders off humming to herself, leaving Thirza to sing an impassioned song about love breaking in to her life like a bright sunbeam cutting through a dark cloud.

Her reverie is destroyed by the return of Pascoe, dragging Avis by the arm. He rails at Thirza for working on the Sabbath and at Avis for wearing a necklace, telling her that such baubles should be sold so that the poor can eat. Avis rips it off and throws it to the ground, commenting that some women sin by wearing jewellery, but that others do much worse, and that old men who have young wives should not wonder that their wives will chat to a good-looking fellow – but that a good beating can always solve the problem. She flounces into the chapel, while Pascoe, whose good works with dying sinners have obviously take less time than he had thought, prays (rather pointlessly) that God will keep her pure from sin.

Thirza now emerges, and when Pascoe says that he thought that she would be in the chapel, she replies that she has had enough of his prayers, and to his horror she tells him that his self-righteous hypocrisy disgusts her – that tithes are theft, and that in his world the shedding of blood is justified as God’s will, and the thirst of children is quenched with blood. Incensed, Pascoe trots out his creed: whatever the wild ocean delivers to them is a gift from the Lord, theirs by right as the custom of their land. Thirza, in full flow, now loses it completely, shouting that the wreckers kill and steal like hounds, stabbing to death all their victims who have survived the waves. To her peals of hysterical laughter, the congregation inside the chapel can be heard praying that God will deliver to them their rightful bounty. As she tries to flee, Pascoe grabs her, telling her that the hand of Satan is upon her. He forces her to sit and repeats his mantra about the harvest of the sea and the blood which is shed in God’s good name, just as happened in Canaan, and that the Cornish people and the Lord’s chosen race; Thirza just buries her face in her hands, and shudders when Pascoe lays his hand on her shoulder. Then she rushes off.

The service over, and as the dusk deepens, the congregation pours out of the chapel, heartily congratulating the visiting preacher – he really conjured up a scary vision of Satan, and must be a saint, he thundered so loud; they start praying for the waters of Jordan to cleanse their sins and preserve them from hell and damnation. They all move off, leaving Lawrence, Tallan, Harvey and Jack behind. Avis is among the last to emerge and she stands near her father. Mark comes out and approaches Avis, who turns her back on him, so he just shrugs his shoulders and leaves. Two caretakers come out last and as they lock the door, one of them comments on how light the sky is, and how it might bring them luck.

Lawrence and the others observe Pascoe deep in thought and discuss whether they should disturb him. Eventually, Lawrence rouses him, saying that there is a mist rising and a good tide running, so there should be work tonight. Pascoe, almost in a trance, prays that a pillar of fire might lighten their darkness and keep them all from sin. The others wonder what he might be saying, or even admitting, and Lawrence asks him to tell them what to do; Pascoe tells them to do what they will, and to leave him alone. He wanders off in a dreamlike state.

Avis now announces that it is Pascoe who is the traitor but the others cannot accept this. She persists, saying that he is ruled by his wife, and that ‘an old man’s desire is a fierce blazing fire’; Thirza is an incomer, judging them and he is obsessed by her. Led by Avis’s condemnation, the others recall that Pascoe had avoided the chapel service. So they decide to watch him and keep guard so that they might catch him in the act of lighting the beacon; they allocate various bits of the coastline to one another and agree to keep in touch by horn-calls, and the sign that someone has seen a beacon is to be four long blasts. They wonder whether Pascoe had tried to resist Thirza’s persuasion, but they are interrupted by a horn-call which is a sign that a ship is being driven onto the rocks. A cannon shot is heard from out at sea, and the villagers gather in their excitement at the prospect of a decent wreck – they dance around in Old Testament zeal imagining the white corpses, the blood in the foam and the daggers rising and falling, and then they all rush down to the shore.

Act 2

After a Prelude entitled ‘On the cliffs of Cornwall’, we see Jack patrolling his stretch of the shore. The fog which obscures the almost-full moon is gradually clearing. Jack sees a figure and calls out, but he can find no-one. Avis joins him and accuses him of letting the traitor escape. Jack in turn accuses her of leading him on; clearly he fancies her but she has been toying with him. Avis, realising that she needs his help, kisses him. Mark appears, unseen by both of them, and hides behind a rock. Avis tells Jack that he can be the one who captures Pascoe, and that she can share the glory with him, and Jack rises to the bait. Mark realises just what a flighty piece Avis is, and as Jack and Avis run off, he emerges from his hiding place and begins to collect a pile of driftwood and to build a fire. As he does so, he muses that now there is no residual guilt to prevent him from declaring his love for Thirza and he sings the Ballad of the Bones, a song about two lovers kept apart but eventually united in death.

Just as Mark is about to set fire to the warning beacon, Thirza calls down from the cliff above telling him not to light it tonight. She comes sliding down the cliff and falls into his arms and they sing rapturously of their love for one another. She tells him that she has dark forebodings, and as she looks out to sea, she prays that those on the waters will be kept safe, since there is nothing more that she can do to help them. Mark asks whether someone has betrayed them and Thirza tells him that it was only by chance that the previous beacon was discovered, but that the hunt is on, and if they light a beacon tonight, they will certainly be captured. Mark shouts out his defiance and starts to light the torch, but again Thirza holds him back. He tells her that this will be a last mission, and that they will be able to leave Cornwall together. Thirza sings tenderly of her love for him, but the wreckers’ horn call breaks the moment and Mark tells her that she can do no more to save people after this: as Thirza holds the torch, Mark lights it and they thrust it into the beacon: they sing that it represents the power of love burning in the darkness of their lives, and they embrace one another tenderly. Unseen by them, Pascoe arrives at the cliff-top and calls her name, and as they move away, he stumbles down the path and collapses alongside the fire.

Lawrence, Tallan, Harvey, Jack and Avis now arrive, see the fallen body and check that it is alive – they roll him over and see that it is Pascoe. Avis is exultant and the others are shocked.

The inspiration for an opera: Ethel Smyth visited this cave, known as Piper’s Hole, on the northernmost tip of the island of Tresco in the Isles of Scilly, in 1886 while on a holiday in Cornwall. It clearly impressed her; she described it graphically: ‘On entering it just above high water mark, you go downwards rapidly and alarmingly by an ever-narrowing passage illuminated by torches which are stuck at intervals in rings in the wall; the passage suddenly bends sharply to the left, and you are aware … that you are under the sea … squeezing between two rocks … you behold an unearthly-looking fresh-water lake in which floats Charon’s boat …’. Twenty years later, this experience became the setting for the final act of The Wreckers. The knitwear and the construction of the boat may have changed by the time this postcard was produced in 1940, but the overall effect of the cave is still the same. (postcard in the author’s collection)

Act 3

At dawn the next day, the villagers descend roughly hewn stone steps into a huge cave; the only entrance has a strong iron gate. They have been summoned there by Lawrence, who is the only man who knows the identity of the traitor. Lawrence, accompanied by Tallan, Harvey and Pascoe, is the last to enter. He tells the assembled throng that they are all bound by a secret oath and that he has summoned them to the cave to see justice done; he tells them to light torches and place them in the rings on the walls of the cave. In a sombre ensemble, Avis gloats that Thirza’s betrayal will be revealed, Jack wants to see Mark punished, Pascoe is mumbling, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord’ to himself, and the villagers comment on how like a tomb the cave is. The villagers gather in a semi-circle and Lawrence leads them in a prayer that God will guide them to do what is right. He then tells them that the reason that they have been without food for so long is because a traitor has been warning ships to keep clear of the rocks, and that the previous evening, he, Harvey and Tallan had found a beacon burning on the shore. He goes on to say that they found Pascoe unconscious beside it, but that he has so far not explained his presence there. Pascoe knows the truth, so he must speak now. Pascoe stands and tells them all that no man can give him orders, and that, by the grace of God, he is their leader, and that any man who doubts him does not know him. Lawrence lets him speak, and then cries out that it is Pascoe who has betrayed them. The villagers do not want to believe this, but Avis, Jack, Tallan, Lawrence and Harvey urge him to confess what he was doing on the shore. The villagers ask why Pascoe would betray his flock and Avis comes forward to tell them that Pascoe is besotted with his young wife, who is an outsider and not one of them, and that she has turned his mind; she continues relentlessly, telling them that not only is Thirza absent from the gathering, but that she is a witch, with powers to control men’s minds, and that she ensnared Pascoe into betraying their right to a livelihood. It seems that Pascoe’s fate is sealed as everyone calls on him to try to deny his guilt, and they all demand that he should die.

Suddenly, Mark appears in the entrance of the cave and announces that it was he who betrayed them and that Pascoe is innocent. Pascoe asks him to explain himself and Mark tells them that some men go one way and others take a different path. He was following a path to a better place, but that none of it makes any difference, because death awaits them all sooner or later. He challenges Lawrence to kill him, saying that he is proud of what he has done and will die happy. As Thirza now descends into the cave, Avis, beside herself, begs Mark to withdraw his confession; Thirza however, announces that although it was Mark who lit the beacon, it is she who is the guilty one. There is an outcry, and Avis desperately tries to save Mark by announcing that he spent all the previous night in bed with her. Thirza tells her that no-one will believe that, and Pascoe tries to force Thirza not to broadcast her shame, but Thirza says that Mark had found her in a terrible state and has healed her heart: Mark and Thirza publicly declare their love for one another; Pascoe is overcome with grief, and as the crowd call out for punishment, Avis, now beyond control, screams that they should kill both the man and his whore. Lawrence solemnly orders her out, telling her that she should share their fate and that she is no longer his daughter. Avis leaves, ignored by everyone, and Jack follows her.

As the villagers comment that the tide is rising, Lawrence reminds them that many years ago, one of them betrayed the village and that he was found guilty and left to drown in this cave, which is why he has summoned them there again. He asks them all if it is their wish that the guilty pair, traitors and adulterers, should meet the same fate and the villagers confirm that that is exactly what they want. Sentence is passed on Mark and Thirza – they must drown, with the gulls’ cries ringing like a curse in their ears and their bodies torn on the sharp Cornish rocks. Desperately, Pascoe begs that Thirza should be spared, but Thirza announces that she wants to die. He pleads with her to save her soul, but she laughs and says that she can no more repent on his terms than a stream can flow uphill. She will at least die knowing that she has loved.

To shouts from the villagers that she must die and that to save her would be a sin, Pascoe tries to drag her out of the cave; Thirza struggles against him and some of the villagers hold Mark back to prevent him from going to help her. Thirza then plays on her reputation and cries out that if Pascoe drags her out of the cave she will curse him and that the whole land and the generations to come will be laid low. Pascoe still pulls at her, and with the tide rising rapidly around their ankles, Thirza raises a free hand and calls on God to hear her. Astounded by what they see as blasphemy, the villagers call on Pascoe to let her go, and he does; Thirza runs to Mark, who puts his arms around her. Pascoe, deeply hurt, tells her that she shall die as she has chosen, and leaves the cave.

The water rises and the villagers comment on the judgement which has been passed, while Mark and Thirza ask that God will have mercy on those who have sinned because of love. Everyone leaves the cave, and as Mark and Thirza sing that nothing matters now except that they are together, the iron gates of the cave slam shut with a clang. Thirza sings ecstatically that the sound of the waves is her bridal song and Mark adds that the cry of the wind is like the dancing and singing of spirits. Clutching one another, they wait for the final embrace of the sea to complete their ecstasy.

–ooOoo–

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the life and operas of Ethel Smyth
  • the life of Henry Brewster and his contribution to opera
  • many other operas set in Cornwall
  • other operas featuring lighthouses, notably Peter Maxwell Davies’s The Lighthouse of 1979
  • fish and many other things to eat in operas …
  • … and many other aspects of operas by British composers in the early twentieth century (and all other operas as well, come to that)

© Roger Witts 2008

Categories
Opera Plots

The Boatswain’s Mate by Ethel Smyth

After many years of studying and composing in Germany, Ethel Smyth returned to England after the death of her close friend and collaborator Henry Brewster, and found the opera scene very different to what she had been used to in Germany. After her previous opera The Wreckers, a dramatic story of love, betrayal and death very much in the German romantic style, she surprised and shocked her friends by embarking on a comedy in an essentially English style, combining folk tunes with witty dialogue to produce a tuneful ‘everyday story of country folk’. It has been overlooked for too long: there is a recent CD heralding a gradual return to the stage of this delightful little opera.

A comedy in one act and two parts.

Libretto claimed to be by the composer, but taken directly from a play based on a short story of the same name by William Wymark Jacobs in the collection of stories entitled Captains All (1905).

First performed in the Shaftesbury Theatre in London on 28 January 1916.

Ethel Smyth (left), who wrote The Boatswain’s Mate at the age of 58; WW Jacobs was in his early forties when he wrote the little fable from which the opera was taken (author’s collection)

There is a lively overture which contains no music from the opera, but is built around the rousing ‘March of the Women’ which Smyth had written in 1911 for a suffragette meeting at the Royal Albert Hall and which had been taken up as the anthem for the suffragette campaign: Smyth described it as ‘a few minutes of cheerful music which would serve as overture to a cheerful play’. It was probably this overture rather than the story of the opera itself which led to it being regarded as a feminist opera, but you are welcome to make your own mind up about that.

Part 1

The story tells of a widow named Mrs Waters who has inherited a country pub named The Beehive. On a summer’s evening, a retired boatswain named Harry Benn is sitting outside the pub enjoying a quiet beer and chatting to Mary Ann, the barmaid. He discovers that she is going to spend the night with her mother, and when he tells Mary-Ann that he wonders that she can go off for the night and leave her boss on her own, Mary-Ann responds that Mrs Waters will be fine, because after all she doesn’t need a husband to look after her. Benn expresses surprise but Mary Ann explains that her mum’s husband is not her father, but her mother’s second husband, and a neighbour had said she had only taken him on as a stop-gap. Benn is astounded, but at this point, Mrs Waters comes out of the pub, gives Mary Ann her wages, and warns her not to be late in the morning.

Mrs Waters eyes Benn warily; he rather fancies the idea of being married to her and running a country pub, but she has already rejected his approaches several times. He tells her that he knows what he wants when he sees it, and that he will not give up asking. She reminds him that he always proposes to her after his third pint. She tells him that she needs to get to the village post office before it closes and he offers to accompany her, saying that there is nothing nicer than a stroll across the fields with a lady, but she asks him to mind the bar while she is gone, and she leaves. Benn calls after her that she must have been in a marrying mood once before, and she calls back to him ‘Once bitten, twice shy’. Benn sings rather wistfully of his dream, when he was sailing the world, of settling down and getting married, but he has had no success at all. After all, he muses, a woman on her own is just like ivy without a tree, so he will stick at it and eventually he will succeed.

At a loss as to what to do next, he begins to strut around as if he owns the place, and then a customer arrives at the pub. This is an ex-soldier down on his luck named Ned Travers, and he assumes that Benn is the landlord and orders a drink for them both. Benn brings two mugs and a jug of beer and comments to himself that Travers is just what he has been looking for. He explains that he is only temporarily in charge because the landlady has popped out to the post office. Travers correctly sums the situation up and asks whether there is any work needed. Benn tells him to return the next day. Travers asks when the wedding is to be and Benn tells him about Mrs Waters’s reluctance to accept his offer (five times in the last fortnight, in fact). Travers advises him to stick at it and Benn explains that he has been trying to persuade her that she needs a man to protect her, but she just laughs at him; she likes tall men apparently, and Benn is small. This sparks off a song from Travers about how when he was in the army, he and a small mate were on Ramsgate pier and they saw two girls, one tall and one small. They resolved to approach the appropriate girls, but the girls had a different idea about how to share the two men.

Benn, slightly offended by the risqué song, offers to give Travers a quid for just ten minutes work; he asks whether Travers has ever been in trouble, which offends Travers, but Benn then explains that since what he has in mind is a bit of burgling, it was essential to ascertain Travers’s honesty in advance. Travers, understandably, is confused, but Benn explains that he only wants Travers to pretend to be a burglar; what he has in mind is a scheme to kill two birds with one stone, to prove to Mrs Waters that she really does need to be protected, and to prove to her that he is the right man to do it, because, he claims, she really does love him but just hasn’t realised it yet. What he proposes is that Travers should pretend to burgle The Beehive at night. His plan is to help Travers into the house, and then, at the first cry of alarm from Mrs Waters, he will come rushing in, fight with Travers and win Mrs Waters’s undying love. Travers will escape in the excitement. A foolproof plot; what can possibly go wrong? Travers is not sure about the bit where he gets beaten up, and in a duet the two plotters discuss the advantages (all for Benn) and the disadvantages (all for Travers) of the plan. Benn ups the fee to two quid, pointing out that no-one else lives close enough to hear Mrs Waters if she shouts out, and then to three quid, explaining that Travers will have plenty of time to escape because Benn himself will be occupied with Mrs Waters clinging tightly to him in gratitude. Benn finally wins Travers over by agreeing to put the plan in writing, clearly taking the responsibility and pointing out that Travers is not a real burglar at all. Travers pockets his written guarantee and Benn agrees to hand the three pounds over as soon as Travers is over the window-sill and into the house. He hands over half-a-crown as a down payment, suggests that they meet up again at half-past-two in the morning and offers to show Travers the window which will provide easy access, but he suddenly sees Mrs Waters returning from the village. He sits down and pretends to be reading his newspaper and Travers wanders off out of sight.

Mrs Waters asks Benn how he has got on and he tells her that there has only been one customer, a tramp on the look-out for work, and that they had four beers between them; he hands over the money. Mrs Waters thanks him and bids him goodnight. When Benn starts to tell her that he cannot bear to leave her all alone with night approaching, she tells him not to start all that business again, points out that even the best of friends must part, and repeats her goodnight. Benn slowly wanders away.

Mrs Waters starts to collect up the beer-mugs and calls for her cat – ‘Pussy, pussy, pussy!’; she says that the more she calls the cat, the less she comes, and then admits that she is a bit like that herself. In the lead up to an aria, she muses that when you have decided to do a particular thing, and someone comes along and tells you that you have got to do it, all of a sudden it is the last thing that you want to do. And when you feel a bit lonely and Mr Wrong turns up and tries to comfort you, all of a sudden you want to live in an isolated light-house. She wonders what she would be thinking right now if she could be young again, and she decides that then, just as now, she would cling to her dreams.

Her musing is interrupted by a crowd of men on the way home from work. The shouting and singing get closer and she comments that there is certainly a cure for dreaming, and goes inside The Beehive. The men bowl up, a banjo and a concertina with them, and a lot of manly banter ensues – clearly The Beehive is not the first pub they have visited. One of them launches into a song about his beloved and the others tease him and laugh a lot. Mrs Waters emerges and sternly tells them to clear off. One of the men points out that it isn’t closing time yet and she replies that it is now: she picks one lad out, Sammy Evans, and tells him that he is to be married within the week and should be ashamed of himself. She tells them all to go home, and one by one they sheepishly troop off; Mrs Waters stands with her hands over her ears until they have gone. Then she calls her pussy again, and repeats a couple of lines from one of the men’s songs: ‘O come, in my arms let me hold thee, Content in this bosom to lie …;. ‘O, the impertinence!’, she mutters crossly, then she goes inside and slams the door.

By now you will have formed a mental picture of Mrs Waters (we are not told her first name in the opera), so you can check it with this photograph of the New Zealand soprano Rosina Buckman who created the role. Granted that this photograph was taken around 1930, fifteen years or so after the opera was first performed, so she will have changed a bit, but even so, she certainly looks the part (author’s collection)

Part 2

It is now half-past-two in the morning in the kitchen of The Beehive. There is just enough moonlight to see by. The cats can be heard snarling and spitting and Travers appears at the window and whispers that Mrs Waters must certainly be a sound sleeper if the noise of the cats doesn’t wake her up. Carefully, he climbs in, and Benn, outside the window, hands over the agreed fee and tells Travers to be careful. Travers starts to unlace his boots and asks Benn whether Mrs Waters won’t be curious about how he just happened to be so close at hand to rescue her. Benn replies that he will tells her that his faithful heart makes him watch to keep her safe every night.

Travers tiptoes to the bottom of the stairs and then manages to make quite a lot of noise as he climbs them, singing about how easy it is to move about quietly on your toes, but that he is no ballet dancer, so he has to get along on the flat of his feet. Suddenly, a light comes on and he hears a noise. It is Mrs Waters in her nightie and slippers, with her hair down and a candle in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Travers quickly goes downstairs and hides in a cupboard.

Mrs Waters comes down and first pretends that the noise which she had heard must have been a cat, then she leans on the cupboard door and locks it, trapping Travers inside. She tells him that if he tries to escape, she will shoot. Travers tries desperately to tell her that he is not a real burglar but that he is doing it for a joke on behalf of her friend Benn. To prove it, he pushes the written agreement under the cupboard door and tells her that if she looks into the garden, she will see Benn waiting to make his move. He has no choice but to come clean and he tells her the whole plan, starting from when he met Benn the previous evening.

Mrs Waters quickly cottons on to the ruse and decides to get her own back on Benn. Slowly, she lets Travers out of the cupboard after obtaining his promise that he will do exactly as she tells him. They stare at one another and in a duet express their surprise: Mrs Waters bizarrely says that if she had known he was quite such a young man, she would have put on more clothes and put her hair up; Travers wonders why he should try to win such a glorious woman on behalf of an idiot like Benn.

Mrs Waters explains how she intends to get her revenge, then she fires a shot into a rug and rushes outside to be met by Benn. He tries to embrace her comfortingly, but she tells him that she has just shot a burglar dead, while Travers, hiding upstairs, whispers his admiration for her ruse. She convinces Benn that Travers is dead and enlists his help to dig a grave for the body. Benn is mortified and objects that he can’t dig at all, never mind dig a grave, but she says that there is an ideal spot just behind the potatoes, and she can disguise it by planting cabbages there, so Benn meekly agrees to do as she asks. She hands him a spade and pushes him out of the door. He tries to protest that she will need help bringing the body downstairs but she tells him to come back later, when he will find her ready and waiting.

Mrs Waters and Travers watch him digging from a window, and Travers tries to put his arms around her, but she fends him off and says that the joke has gone far enough. Believing that Benn will be close to losing his mind, she opens the door in order to go out and reassure him, but then suddenly closes it again because she has seen Benn returning with a policeman. She tells Travers to hide in the pantry and then waits for the knock.

She opens the door to admit a stern looking policeman and a pale-looking Benn. Benn groans that it was self-defence and collapses into a chair. The policeman cautions Mrs Waters and tells her that Benn has confessed to being responsible for a murder at The Beehive, and Benn just witters on about the burglar not being able to hurt a fly but Mrs Waters did not know that. She shakes her head sadly and tells Benn that all those times when he used to sit at the bar asking for glass after glass, she had often warned him that something like this would happen. She turns to the policeman and expresses surprise that he should think that a man had been murdered there because there is not a soul even near the place … there is a sound of falling crockery from inside the pantry, and she adds … except for the man who has come to help her with a few jobs. She opens the pantry door and asks Travers if he thinks that that is the way to go about plumbing and gas-fitting. Benn falls back open-mouthed as if he has seen a ghost. Mrs Waters asks Travers if Benn is the man who had told him that he could get a job there and Travers confirms that he is.

In a quartet, Travers, Benn and the bemused policeman comment that drink and women are really the same: one leads to another and before you know where you are, your head is all fuzzy; and Mrs Waters sings that all men are exactly the same, so you always know exactly where you are with them.

Mrs Waters turns on the policeman and threatens to report him for bursting into her house claiming murder on the say-so of a man who clearly cannot hold his drink, but the policeman in turn demands to see the corpse. Ben and Travers tell him that there isn’t one, and Mrs Waters adds that there soon will be two of them if the policeman and Benn don’t leave immediately. The policeman is unconvinced and warns her that she might hear more about the affair but Benn admits that it was all a mistake and that he had been the worse for drink. Mrs Waters loses her patience and she and Travers push Benn and the policeman out of the door.

She lights a spirit lamp and starts to make tea, and when Travers tells her that she is the eighth wonder of the world, she tells him that as soon as the coast is clear, he can be on his way as well. Shyly, he asks whether there are any small jobs he might do for her and she tells him that the boiler tap is a bit stiff. He kneels down to release it, commenting that it is no job for her pretty little hands, and Mrs Waters fusses about producing something for breakfast – a nice bit of bacon and a jar of her home-made gooseberry jam. Travers releases the boiler tap and she rewards him by offering him some breakfast. She asks him why he doesn’t get some regular work. He admits that he really hasn’t even earned the three quid that Benn gave him, and as he hands it to Mrs Waters, their hands touch. He comments that she has very soft hands, and says that there is really only one job he could do now that he has left the army. Mrs Waters falls for it and asks him what job that might be. He replies, of course, being the landlord of a country pub. She tries to get him to go, but he insists on telling her that he is a home-type and as strong as a horse. Eventually, he apologises and says that he will go and leave her alone – but he would like to hear how Benn has taken the joke. Again, Mrs Waters rises to the occasion and tells him that if he happens to be passing one day, and happens to drop in, she will tell him all about it. He cheekily comments that the best joke of all would be for Benn to come round one evening and find him (Travers) installed as the landlord. He tells Mrs Waters to think it over and adds that he might just be passing by this evening. Mrs Waters replies that The Beehive is a licensed free house, open to all and they shake hands, lingering quite a long time over it. In a brief, lyrical duet, they both muse on how nice it would be to walk and talk with a friend.

Travers leaves, and as soon as he is out of sight, Mrs Waters goes to the cupboard and unhooks the mirror. She is satisfied at what she sees, commenting that there might be a wrinkle or two, but she isn’t a girl any more, not in years, anyway. Sunlight floods the room and she dances around, holding the mirror high above her face. Mary Ann now arrives for work and stands open-mouthed at the sight of her employer dancing round and singing that she is dancing for joy at the coming of summer. She says that if Mrs Waters can kick up her heels like that, then so can she. So she joins in, and as soon as Mrs Waters sees her, she stops in her tracks, composes herself and asks Mary Ann what on earth she thinks she is doing, and she wraps her shawl around her shoulders and runs upstairs. Mary Ann collapses on the hearth with a grin, and at the window, Travers’s laughing face appears as the curtain falls.

–ooOoo–

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the life and operas of Dame Ethel Smyth
  • the plot of Smyth’s best known opera, The Wreckers
  • other operas which feature English country pubs
  • gooseberries, and other fruits which appear in operas, including oranges, apples, figs and pomegranates
  • potatoes and cabbages in operas; there are more of both than you might think but none of them planted on the graves of burglars, and …
  • … many more stories from largely forgotten operas written by largely and unjustly forgotten English composers.

© Roger Witts 2015

Categories
Opera Plots

Helvellyn by George Alexander Macfarren

You have to search hard to find an opera set in the English Lake District. In fact, there seems to be only one: Macfarren’s Helvellyn. It is a tale of love set on a remote Lakeland farm with a dark mystery thrown in, and the brooding presence of the great mountain, not to mention a steep cliff which seems to lie, rather impractically, just outside the door of a barn, dominates the story. Characters go up the mountain when they want to be alone, and they come down its slopes when they arrive unexpectedly at the farm (although precisely where they have come from is never explained). John Oxenford’s libretto is typical of its time, full of antiquated phrases and quaint expressions. There is no recording of the opera, and there is never likely to be one – but if you are interested in an opera story which is set on the slopes of the third highest mountain in the Lake District (at 3118 feet) and which ends with the villain being struck by a thunderbolt and hurled down a cliff to his death, then Helvellyn is the opera for you. Read on and revel in it.

Opera in four acts.

Libretto by John Oxenford, based on the novel Der Sonnenwendhof by Salomon Hermann Mosenthal.

First performed by the English Opera Company in Covent Garden Theatre, London, on 3 November 1864, conducted by Alfred Mellon, to whom Macfarren dedicated the opera

The opera is set in Mabel’s farm on the eastern slopes of Helvellyn in the English Lake District, and in the nearby village. It is the beginning of the eighteenth century.

Act 1

In an unusual overture, farm workers and local inhabitants are heard in the distance singing a curse on evil and on the unknown person who started a devastating fire.

Steenie, a grumpy old farm-hand, looks out from the farm and grumbles as first milkmaids, them mowers, then sowers all arrive back at the farm earlier than he had expected – each group explains that their work is done and that the day is almost over and Steenie has to admit that their early return is not the result of idleness. The girls ask him to fill in the time before dinner by telling them a story, flattering him that he tells the best stories around. Steenie launches into a tale about the foundry being set on fire; Ralph a good but surly worker, had been unfairly chastised by the master and had sworn revenge. Not long after, the fire started, and although Ralph’s wife pleaded with the master to rescue Ralph as the flames spread, he would not, and Ralph died in the fire. He finishes the tale by repeating the curse heard in the overture.

The farm owner, Mabel, a widow, arrives and reminds everyone that they must sleep well tonight because the harvest will continue tomorrow. She asks whether Martin has returned yet, and the workers tell her that it is typical of good-hearted Martin that he is always first out to work and last to return home. Right on cue, Martin arrives and sings a jolly song of blessing to honest labour, to the harvest and to the fruitful soil. Mabel greets Martin warmly, and he says that he cannot help but be cheerful when he is with the kind woman who took him in as an orphan. Mabel hushes him up, and then has a shiver of foreboding as she remembers Luke, her husband’s brother, who had worked at the foundry ten years ago, but after the fire, he had disappeared under his father’s curse and has not been seen since. Martin suggests that he might be dead by now, but Mabel replies that whenever she thinks about how well the farm is doing, she remembers Luke, and her happiness is spoiled. Martin tries to cheer her up by telling her that the dreariest of dawns can often bring in a good day.

This postcard of around 1900 shows the western side of Helvellyn across Thirlmere

(author’s collection)

Suddenly, Hannah comes down from Helvellyn; she explains that she is a weary orphan and asks for food and shelter for the night. Mabel and Martin greet her warmly, but Steenie grumbles that they don’t know anything about her. Hannah is welcomed and everyone goes off into the barn for their evening meal, with Steenie grumbling that the new arrival must have cast a witch’s spell over everyone, leaving Mabel to sit alone and contemplate the good life that she has and to thank heaven for her good fortune.

A voice is heard, and a man now descends from the hill. It is Luke, singing cheerfully of his life as a beggar in London – he announces that he has returned home to claim his rightful inheritance now that his brother, Mabel’s husband, has died. Mabel is appalled; she tells him that he may stay the night, but Luke’s intention is to stay much longer than that. The workers now emerge from the barn, their meal over, and old Steenie recognises Luke. Mabel whispers to Martin that her husband left her everything in his will, but that she must go to London to gather evidence against Luke’s claim. She tells the farm workers that in her absence, Martin will be in charge, and she prepares to set off. Martin promises to make sure that everything is done properly while she is away, and Luke quietly expresses his determination to have the farm for himself. Steenie just grumbles that he should have been left in charge, but Mabel’s parting words are that there should be no jealousy and that Martin has her full confidence.

 

George Alexander Macfarren (left) was blind for most of his life; he was 51 when he wrote Helvellyn: the librettist John Oxenford (centre), who provided eight librettos for Macfarren, was a year older: Oxenford formed the libretto from a novel entitled Der Sonnenwendhof by Salomon Mosenthal (right ) (author’s collection)

Act 2

Nearly a month later. Luke is wondering whether his pretence of respectability is getting him anywhere and muses on the troubles which possessions bring – he only respects property when it is his own. He recalls the time that he dared to aspire to the hand of the master’s daughter, and how the fire in the foundry ensued, and old Ralph got the blame. A child goes by, and he remembers how he saw a child in the light of the terrible fire; briefly, he wonders who the orphan girl might be. He shakes off his misgivings and reminds himself that he is an honest man now.

The child reappears, this time with Hannah, who sends her off with some milk for her sick mother. Luke slyly comments that it is easy to be generous with someone else’s property, and is half inclined to send Hannah packing as soon as he is the master, except that she is too pretty to send away. He calls to her, but Hannah is reluctant to speak with him. He tells her that he loves her, and when Hannah says that she is deeply insulted, he tells her that he can woo gently as well as anyone else, and he demands a kiss. The farmhands are heard outside singing a harvest song, and Hannah uses the distraction to grab a reaping hook and threatens to use it on Luke is he continues to pursue her. Luke backs off, commenting as he goes that he would be a better friend than enemy for her.

The happy harvesters arrive hauling a laden handcart, on top of which is Martin (no Health and Safety had reached the remote slopes of Helvellyn yet). They are all pleased to have got the harvest in and Martin promises them a celebration feast. They wander off, leaving Martin and Hannah alone. Martin asks Hannah why she always seems to want to avoid him, but she denies this. He offers her a four-leafed clover that he has found and asks her to wear it for him. Hannah tells him to keep it and goes off back into the dairy: Martin rips the leaves up and throws them away.

The workers return with a huge supper. They begin to lay it out on the table. Singing how Autumn is the best of all the seasons. Martin’s place is set at the head of the table and Steenie is seated at the other end. Martin tells everyone that their mistress would be happy to see them all so cheerful, but Steenie mutters about a younger man having pride of place and about every dog having his day. They all tell the old man to shut up and Martin proposes a toast to the absent Mabel’s health. Luke has joined the group, and he announces that as their late master’s brother, he should by rights be leading the harvest celebrations. He encourages everyone to drink well, repeats the toast to their mistress, and then turns down Martin’s proposal that they should all dance, suggesting instead that he has a tale to relate. He tells them all that he saw Hannah giving milk away and Steenie seizes the opportunity to declare that he knew all along that she is no good and that they do not welcome thieves. Martin springs to Hannah’s defence and Hannah herself explains who she gave the milk to. The workers are sympathetic, and when Hannah says that she is going to leave the farm at once, Martin says that it is Steenie who should leave because he has insulted her. Hannah insists on leaving and Steenie says that nothing will ever get rid of him.

As the workers comment that Steenie’s constant unpleasantness always ruins their pleasures, Mabel returns and asks Martin to tell her what is going on. He explains that Steenie insulted Hannah and despite Hannah’s protestations, Mabel agrees that Steenie should leave. Steenie is shocked, and Mabel goes on to tell Hannah that she too will be banished to live in a shepherd’s hut on the high slopes of the mountain and tend the sheep there. They all contemplate the situation – a long-time workmate who has served the farm all his life has been dismissed; Martin observes that Steenie was beginning to act as if he owned the place. Hannah ruefully accepts her exile.

The workers all leave, and Martin is alone with Mabel. Martin says that the place will be dreary without Hannah, and asks how Mabel’s mission has gone. She replies that she had obtained a copy of her husband’s will leaving everything to her, and that she intends to give Luke a sum of money to help him to end his vagrant ways.

Luke himself now returns – rather drunk; he comments on the merits of the estate, and the strength of its beer. Luke tries to flatter Mabel, but when she tells him the contents of the will, he replies that the only will he acknowledges is the goodwill of the Fair. Mabel offers him the purse of money, and he not only refuses it rudely, saying that he will not give up his rights for a measly bag of coins, but actually proposes to marry Mabel so that he can become master of the estate. Mabel runs to Martin, telling Luke that the master of the farm is already there. Both Martin and Luke are shocked by this and Luke spits out his determination to be revenged. Mabel and Martin together are equally determined to live in peace, but they recognise the obvious danger that Luke represents. Luke repeats his threat, raises his fist and then, as he leaves, unseen by Mabel and Martin, he grabs the purse of money.

Mabel hints again at her intention to marry Martin to make him master of the estate, but Martin sings privately of his confusion: he realises that Mabel is in love with him, but he loves Hannah, and he decides that if Hannah will not return his love, then life will not be worth living.

 

The role of Mabel was created by Euphrosyne Parepa (left) and that of Hannah by Helen Lemmens-Sherrington (right): neither of them look much like strapping Lake District outdoor farming types, but that might be a consequence of early photographic techniques – or it might not. Martin was sung by Henry Haigh and Luke by Alberto Lawrence (author’s collection)

Act 3

High on the slopes of Helvellyn, the estate girls lead Hannah to the hut which is to be her home: an elderly shepherd emerges from the hut and hands over charge of the flock to her. The girls tell Hannah, rather bizarrely, that she can have a tranquil life there, away from the world and its troubles, with only the tinkling of the sheep’s bells to remind her when it is time to rest. As the girls leave, Hannah accepts all this, commenting that she seems to have lived all her life in a state of loneliness, and that here the peace of the mountain will enable her aching heart to rejoice. Martin arrives and comments that what Hannah replies now will seal his destiny. He tells her that Mabel has offered marriage to him, and with it, the ownership of the estate. Hannah says that this is a noble gesture, but Martin tells her that he has turned the offer down, and that Hannah is to blame. Hannah is upset, but Martin goes on to tell her that he cannot marry anybody else because it is her that he loves. Hannah sadly comments that all hope she has of rest is once again ruined by deceit. Martin waits for her response, but she tells him that there can be no comfort for her in this life and that she can never return his love. She reminds him of the blaze which destroyed the foundry and of Ralph, whom everyone blames for it; Martin curses Ralph, but is stopped in his tracks when Hannah tells him that she is Ralph’s daughter, and that Martin must despise her for that. Martin protests that he will share anything with her, but she rushes into the hut and slams the door.

Martin pleads with her to talk to him; he tells her that it is not her responsibility to atone for whatever her father has done, and that he loves her so much that his heart is breaking. There is only silence from the hut. Slowly, Martin leaves, and after a few moments, the door of the hut opens and Hannah emerges. She gazes after Martin, takes a few steps to follow him, but then stops, gazes upwards, and then lowers her head and returns to the hut, her hands clasped in front of her.

On the following morning, down on the estate, the church bell is tolling and all the workers are gathering for the service and commenting on what a nice day it is. They exchange gossip, the women commenting that Mabel is going to marry again, and the men telling one another what a lucky fellow Martin is. Luke ambles up, commenting on what an old-fashioned thing it is to pray in the church and spread gossip outside it. He is determined to have his revenge, and looks around for a pawn to help him to achieve it. He spots Steenie, and as the tolling of the church bell slows down and the people all go into the service, Steenie says that he cannot face anyone now that everyone knows of his disgrace and his banishment. Luke tells him that if that had happened to him, he would be planning his revenge and not moaning about it. Despite his situation, Steenie is affronted at the idea of him doing anything to harm the place where he was born and where he has spent all his life. Luke is about to send the old man packing when Steenie asks what all the gossip is about. Luke tells him that Mable is planning to marry Martin, and Steenie says that the previous evening he saw Martin go to Hannah’s cottage and spend some time there, and then, despite his earlier misgivings, he too goes into the church.

The sound of the congregation can be heard singing a harvest hymn. Mabel approaches, wondering where Martin can be. Luke seizes the opportunity and tells her that if she wants to find Martin, she had better go to Hannah’s cottage, because Hannah is a pretty girl and Martin is ensnared by her. He leaves, letting his poison spread. Mabel refuses to believe it, but she has noticed Martin’s demeanour. He approaches, and she asks him where he has been. Martin does not answer her, so she challenges him directly, asking him if he has been to Hannah’s cottage. He tells her that he needs the solace of the church and that after the service he will explain everything; he tries to lead her into the church but she breaks away from him. He goes, and Mabel says that he obviously loves another, so he must have been bewitched by a spell.

At this point, Hannah climbs over the stile and greets Mabel courteously. Mabel bluntly asks her why she has come – is it to see Martin? Has he been up to the cottage on the fell and confessed his love to her? Hannah is open-mouthed at this, and Mabel takes her silence as a confession. Mabel points to the house and tells Hannah that until she arrived it was a place of calm contentment, but that Hannah’s presence has cursed it. At this taunt, Hannah cries out that she is the one who is cursed and begs heaven to give her the strength to bear the misery. Mabel takes off her necklace and offers it to Hannah, telling her to take everything she has, but to leave her Martin’s heart. Hannah tells her that she will never be Martin’s. As the singing inside the church starts again, Mabel holds up her bible and asks Hannah to swear on it, Hannah says that she will: she swears that she has done nothing to entice Martin, and that she does not seek his love, but when Mabel asks her to swear that she does not love Martin, Hannah falters and cannot repeat the oath. Mabel takes this as proof, and as the people emerge from the church, they hear Mabel’s words ‘guilt’ and ‘perfidy’ and ask what is happening. Mabel accuses Hannah of witchcraft, and in a grand ensemble Martin stands in Hannah’s defence, Mabel comments that she has been betrayed by those she has fostered, Hannah collapses unable to bear it all, Luke gloats that his scheme seems to be working out just fine, Steenie comments that he might be old and crabbed, but he has not yet lost all his senses, and all the people try to work out what is happening and why everyone seems to have gone mad. Hannah says that she will leave for ever, and when Martin tries to follow her, she tells him that it is her duty to go alone. She climbs the stile and rushes away.

This 1900 postcard shows Helvellyn from the west. The mountain stream is Fisher Gill and the cluster of houses known as Fisher Place appears on some maps as Dale Head. Overall, it is not the sort of landscape which would support whole choruses of mowers, sowers and milkmaids all working at the same time, but the opera would be an even bleaker place without them (author’s collection)

Act 4

Later, in the farmhouse, Mabel is spinning, telling herself that there was a time when the spinning of the wheel was a comfort to her, but that now all she can do is weep. Martin arrives, and Mabel plucks up her courage to be able to speak to him. He tells her that he must leave; he came to Helvellyn with nothing, and now he will leave with nothing. Mabel is confused, but Martin tells her that even if she were to give Hannah to him, he would still leave to face the world alone. He explains his feelings when Hannah first came, and how he declared his love to her on the mountain, and how she rejected him. Mabel realises that she has maligned Hannah and tells Martin that when she had pressed Hannah to swear, the only thing that Hannah could not repeat was that she did not love Martin. Mable philosophically accepts that she will not love again and Martin is overjoyed to know that Hannah really does love him. Mabel offers to accompany him to search for Hannah and bring her back.

After they have left, Steenie arrives outside the farmhouse, come to look at it one more time before he leaves for ever. He comments on the lowering sky and the imminent arrival of a storm, and goes up into the loft above the barn for shelter.

Hannah herself now appears, almost incoherent in her distress, wondering why Martin had declared his love for her. There is a convenient cliff right next to the barn, and she prepares to throw herself off it when, suddenly, a shaft of bright sunlight breaks through the grey clouds. It reminds her of the bright flame of the burning foundry and she vividly remembers her father, as he was dying, saying that he was innocent and pointing to someone else holding a burning brand. Now she has taken on the task of clearing her father’s name, and it is this which gives her the strength to bear all life’s burdens. She prepares a fire in the hearth and contemplates the window where Martin had leant as he declared his love for her, and how closely he had looked for some trace of love returned. But now, she recognises the strength of his love and regrets her rejection of it.

Luke interrupts her musings with a jibe and tells her that he has come to cheer her up. Hannah lights a lamp and Luke lights his pipe from it and casually tells her that her case and his are both the same – she wanted Martin, he wanted the farm, but there was no comfort for either of them. So the only recourse they have now is to destroy those who have hurt them. Luke pours out his bitterness, and Hannah says that she fears him more that she fears the storm. There is a flash of lightning and Luke calls exultantly on the power of the storm to guide his vengeful hand.

Hannah is horrified as he tells her that together they can burn the whole farm down, and he seizes a burning brand from the fire. Hannah tells him that in the foundry fire ten years earlier, it was him who she saw and him who her dying father was pointing at. She tells him that he can’t escape now and that she will clear her father’s name at last; she grabs hold of him.

As the storm rages, Luke shouts back that nothing can stop him now and that her name is still cursed. He pushes her away and starts to run, but he reaches the edge of the cliff and starts to fall; he clings to a tree but it is struck by a thunderbolt, and Luke falls to his death in the valley below.

Hannah falls to her knees and says that even though she is the only one who knows that her father is innocent, her spirit is now free. Steenie comes down from the loft and tells her that he has heard every word; he has wronged her, he tells her, but he will make amends. He calls out and the workers begin to gather, all calling Hannah’s name, then he tells everyone that Hannah is Ralph’s daughter and that her father is innocent because it was Luke who started the deadly foundry fire. Everyone tells Hannah that her troubles are now over, and when Mabel and Martin arrive, Mabel joins the lovers’ hands and tells Martin that from now on she will love him like a brother. In a final chorus, everyone sings that the storms which threatened to destroy their peaceful lives are passed and that old Helvellyn is once again at peace.

–ooOoo–

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the life and operas of George Alexander Macfarren
  • the life and writings of the librettist of Helvellyn, John Oxenford
  • the life of Macfarren’s father, George Macfarren, and his contribution to opera
  • the background to the emergence of the Lake District as a tourist attraction and the writing of Helvellyn and its first performances
  • the libretto of Helvellyn on request from the OperaStory site
  • the plots of several other operas by Macfarren
  • the lives and operas of many of Macfarren’s contemporary Victorian composers …
  • … and many opera plots which end in characters jumping or falling to their deaths, and even being swept away by avalanches: there are far more than you might think.

© Roger Witts 2011

Categories
Opera Plots

Sisyphus, King of Ephyra by Baron Félix Bòdog Orczy

This is the opera that never was: Sisyphus, King of Ephyra exists only as a libretto written by Frederick Corder and his wife Henrietta. Known as a composer primarily for his unjustly forgotten opera Nordisa, Corder is best remembered as a music teacher, author, administrator and, along with his wife, as a translator of librettos. Sisyphus was set to music (and may well have been commissioned) by the Hungarian composer Baron Bòdog Orczy in 1882 (Baron Orczy is today less well-known than his daughter, who wrote the Scarlett Pimpernel novels, among other literary works). Although the elderly Liszt played much of the score through privately when he visited the Orczy’s London home in 1886, there is no record of Sisyphus having been performed professionally, so it remains a ghost opera, surviving only in its libretto. I

This also appears to be the only opera on the Greek myth of Sisyphus, the craftiest of all men. He was married to Merope, but he overdid his cleverness and managed to offend just about all the major gods; his punishment was to be condemned for ever to roll a huge boulder to the top of a mountain by day only for it to roll down again to the bottom of the mountain during the night. What this punishment symbolises has been a matter for discussion for many centuries, so you are free to form your own interpretation – although, sadly, you will have to do so without the benefit of any of Orczy’s music to inspire you.

Grand opera in three acts.

Libretto by Frederick Corder and his wife, Henrietta. The story of Sisyphus’s craftiness and his perpetual torment in hell is told in many classical texts, but particularly in Homer’s Odyssey 11:592, Virgil’s Aeneid 6:616 and Ovid’s Metamorphoses IV;459.

Written for the Hungarian exile Baron Bòdog Orczy, but never performed. Although Orczy is constantly described as a composer in biographies of his daughter, he does not appear in any music or opera reference books and no music by him is held in any library; so if he did write any other operas, they are as ghostly as Sisyphus.

Act 1

In the city of Ephyra (which is now Corinth), at the bottom of a deep mine, an army of workmen are digging frantically in the moonlight watched by overseers led by an officer named Phidon. They are working at the command of their king Sisyphus, supposedly the wisest and the wiliest of mortal men, to find a magic wand which will give its possessor total control over all powers, human and divine. Sisyphus’s cousin, Leander, watches them and muses that a search which is intended to benefit the world is bringing the people only distress. Phidon urges the group to work harder and the workmen sing gloomily that a task which challenges the gods is bound to end badly.

Suddenly, they uncover a stone slab covered in mysterious writing. Phidon tells them that their search is ended and that they can all go up out of the mine. Leander is impressed at the find and comments that his doubts have been dispelled. The men throw down their tools and comment that they do not fear the anger of Zeus because they were simply obeying their king. Phidon tells Leander that they can tell Sisyphus that the search is over, and they follow the workers out of the mine.

As their voices die away, a lovely maiden emerges from behind a rock. It is Merope, one of the Seven Sisters, the Pleiades, who is on the final day of a probational visit to the earth, but she is heartbroken because she has fallen in love with king Sisyphus, which means that her immortality as a divine being is forfeit. She is desperate to remain, but her six sisters descend in a cloud and remind her that in a few hours she must return to the heavens. She is determined to see Sisyphus once more and is prepared to give up her divinity for his sake. One sister, Maia, points out that despite his renowned cleverness, Sisyphus in still a man, and that if she stays, Merope, like him, will soon die. Urging her to rethink, the Pleiades climb back into the cloud and it slowly disappears.

Sisyphus now arrives and, finding the mine deserted, is furious that his orders have been disobeyed. He sees Merope and is overwhelmed by her beauty. She tells him that she has come from a star and is an exile on earth. He asks if he can help her to get back and she replies that she wants to stay and share the earth with him. He tells her that he will cherish her and that if she shares his destiny, they will be able to enter the heavens together as immortals. He sees the uncovered stone and is overjoyed that the search has been successful. He tells her that under the stone there is a magic wand which will force even the most divine beings to bow to his will. Delighted, he calls on the gods to recoil in shame at their former deeds, for he is now the all-powerful lord of everything. There is a roll of thunder and Merope is frightened, telling him that Zeus can kill him with a thunderbolt.

Phidon and the workmen now return and proudly tell him that their work is complete. He tells them that it is not, and orders them to lift the stone. Sudden thunder and lightning frighten the men and they refuse, but he orders them to obey, so they set up a block and tackle and slowly raise the stone. A deep chasm is revealed beneath it, and a sheet of flame bursts out. The men are terrified and fall back, but Sisyphus tells them that he has triumphed and he plunges into the flames and disappears. Phidon tells the men to cut the ropes holding the stone and save them all. Merope shouts for them not to do that and calls for Sisyphus, but Phidon grabs her and the men cut the ropes. Miraculously, the stone stays upright: Sisyphus emerges with a fiery wand in his hand and the stone crashes down behind him with a sound like thunder. Sisyphus points the wand at Phidon, who immediately falls down dead. He raises up Merope, who had fainted, and asks her to become his queen, vowing to restore her to immortality by his newly acquired power. The crowd are horrified that their king should marry an unknown woman, and Merope herself hears the voices of her sisters begging her to return to the tranquillity of their eternal peace. She turns to Sisyphus and tells him that although she hears the voices urging her to leave, she will stay, because she loves him. As proof of his newly acquired might, Sisyphus summonses to his feet the Highest One that exists. There is a lot of thunder and lightning, and then a section of earth above the stone falls away and reveals a tall, pale man dressed entirely in white. This is Trophonius, and he announces that he is Death’s deputy. Everyone falls to the ground except Sisyphus, who demands to know when the apparently all-powerful Death will come in person. Trophonius replies that Death will come on Merope’s wedding day. Merope realises that her sisters’ warnings are coming true, but Sisyphus tells her not to be afraid and tells Trophonius to go back and report to Death that he, Sisyphus, now has all the power and that Death cannot affect him. Everyone is horror-struck and all cry out that Sisyphus is a blasphemer.

Frederic Corder: how much time and effort did he put in to writing the opera that never was? (author’s collection)

Act 2

In a hall in Sisyphus’s palace, Merope is asleep. Her sister Maia is standing over her, and as she awakes, Maia gives her one last chance to avoid her fate because Death will come for her within the hour. She must seize the wand from Sisyphus. Merope is heart-broken – she must choose between her own death and that of the man she loves. During their duet, Trophonius appears, unseen, and listens. He then moves forward and urges Merope to ignore Maia because Death will be stern indeed if she betrays her lover. Maia tries desperately to persuade her and she and Trophonius vie to win Merope’s decision. Merope decides, and tells Maia to leave and to trouble her no more. Maia vanishes, and Trophonius congratulates Merope on her decision:

My child, ’twas wisely done! Thy life’s well lost;

Better to die than live at such a cost.

Merope asks Trophonius who he is and he replies that he is the shadow of a mighty king and that his task is to reassure people that they need have no fear of death. Leander suddenly rushes in, saying that he has terrible news for the king. Sisyphus himself arrives, attended by a regal train and a group of courtiers, and asks what the matter is. Leander tells him that Death has now come, in the form of a terrible pestilence which is wreaking havoc in the land and that people are falling dead everywhere as a result of the plague. As if to prove his point, he suddenly collapses writhing on the ground. Everyone falls back, but Merope chides them and says that she will help Leander: she raises him and supports his weight, but Leander begs her not to touch him, the disease is fatal. Sisyphus announces that her courage will be rewarded, but the chorus are terrified at her madness in risking death and at their king’s presumption for challenging it. Still Sisyphus obstinately pursues the wedding festivities, and to great trumpet fanfares, groups of men arrive with gifts for him – weapons, horses, hounds, gold and silver vessels, and groups of women with gifts for the bride – robes and jewels and so on. Dancing girls perform a Greek ballet and then groups of youths arrive with baskets of doves; when the awful form of the Shadowy One appears on the very altar to claim his prey, the king boldly chains it to the wall, a slave to his invincible spell.

Act 3

On the terrace in front of the royal palace, crowds of people who, from age, sickness or simple misery desire to die have come to implore the king to release Death. Some are lying prostrate, others are carried in litters – men and women of all classes and all ages are there.

Death! Death! Death!

We wail and cry – we long to die,

Yet may not yield our breath.

Sisyphus is deaf to all their entreaties; he says that what they crave cannot be granted and asks if this is the thanks he gets for achieving the impossible. A crippled old man and a beautiful young woman step forward and appeal to him pathetically, but he tells them that they do not understand the potential consequences of their rash request. He offers the crowd gems, gold and great wealth in compensation but they ask whether gold will give them the death they so dearly crave. Merope is distraught and assumes that it is entirely her fault that this tragedy has occurred, and Trophonius comments that all his pleas to Sisyphus to reconsider have been a waste of breath. Sisyphus angrily waves the crowd away dismissively and they gradually melt miserably away.

Sisyphus asks if all his efforts to bring a blessing to mankind have been in vain and Merope timidly tells him that he is fighting a greater power and that she drove him to it – she begs to be allowed to die. Sisyphus tells her that if that is how she feels then her love for him was pretty low-key; Merope is amazed at this arrogance and tells him that since his hubris demands a victim, she will sacrifice herself for him and that her love for him has never been stronger. He replies that all he wanted was to restore the immortality which she had given up when she came down to earth as a mortal. She replies that their two souls are forever joined, but he must give a thought to sparing other people. He asks if he should give up the power that he has won, and Trophonius tells him that he must indeed give it up, for the one whom he has chained up is master of them all. He goes on to explain that he himself had once been a great architect and that he had built a temple to the gods so perfect that Zeus offered him a reward, so Trophonius had asked for the greatest gift that any mortal can possess, at which he promptly fell down dead. He was allowed to become Death’s assistant, and he gradually learned to love and appreciate his master who eventually takes all people, without regard to rank or wealth.

Sisyphus is impressed by this and initially starts to show remorse, but then he remembers what will happen to Merope if he releases Death and he cannot break his vow to her. Trophonius announces that Death has recognised Sisyphus’s love for Merope and has agreed that if Sisyphus releases him, Merope can be restored to her place in the constellation and thus regain her immortality. Merope offers to die rather than see her husband’s great wisdom all go for nothing, but Sisyphus ruefully acknowledges his errors and tells her that if she stays with him, they will suffer even greater misery together. Desperately, Merope appeals to the gods to let her die to save the man she loves but Trophonius tells her that her pleas are in vain and he orders Sisyphus to break the magic wand. Sisyphus obeys, and there is immediately a mighty crash of thunder and the stage is plunged into darkness. Merope faints into Sisyphus’s arms as terrified people rush out of the palace carrying lighted torches. They ask why the sun has disappeared, what new misfortune is about to hit them, and is night the new day. Others cry out that the mysterious figure who was chained to the wall has disappeared. They beg their king to save them.

Sisyphus bids them all farewell and tells them that he only wanted to help them. He resigns himself to a life of eternal torture and then, mysteriously, adds that it won’t actually be eternal because the day will come that Zeus and all the gods will pass away and that a higher power will rule the earth.

The six Pleiades descend, stretching out their arms to their fallen sister and calling her home, because all is now forgiven. Sisyphus holds Merope and bids her a heart-rending farewell before handing her over to her sisters, who now slowly ascend back into the heavens.

Death himself now approaches and stands silent over Sisyphus’s inert body which is held by Trophonius; the three figures sink slowly out of sight. The people sing a farewell to their king, wondering what fate awaits him. In a final tableau, Sisyphus is seen in Hades, rolling a boulder uphill as a chorus of Eumenides (the Furies – the Greek goddesses of vengeance) sing that he must now endure ceaseless pain:

Up the steep – up the steep,

Roll thy stone,

There alone

While the ages creep.

The weary figure almost reaches the summit, but the boulder escapes his grip and rolls down again. Sisyphus raises his hands in anguished despair as the Eumenides laugh at him.

–ooOoo–

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the story of Frederick Corder’s life and his principal stage works
  • the plot of Corder’s best-known opera Nordisa
  • endless numbers of opera plots which retell Greek myths
  • the lives and operas of many of Frederick Corder’s contemporary Victorian composers …
  • … and many opera plots and other stories linked to operas at the end of the nineteenth century, most of which, unlike Sisyphus, were actually performed before an audience.

© Roger Witts 2011

Categories
Opera Plots

Nordisa by Frederick Corder

Lost and gone forever. Very popular in its day, Frederick Corder’s best-known opera Nordisa is today so forgotten that the Oxford Concise Dictionary of Opera wrongly states that its plot was taken from the hoax poems of the non-existent ancient Celtic bard Ossian, and Corder himself has received pretty scant recognition in all the reference books. But OperaStories makes a small contribution to maintaining both Corder and Nordisa in the general awareness of the opera-lovers by offering the full plot. And who knows – there is a growing interest in operas of the Victorian period, so someone, somewhere might revive the work and put on a production. If you know anyone you can lobby to hasten this reclamation project, then lobby away.

Grand opera in three acts.

Libretto by the composer.

Commissioned by Carl Rosa for his own touring opera company and first performed in the Royal Court Theatre in Liverpool on 26 January 1887.

Act 1

It is 1750, and in a village at the foot of the Snaeberg mountain in north-west Norway, an autumn fair is just drawing to a close outside the village inn. People from all over the area have been stocking up in preparation for the long winter. Stall-holders are calling out their produce to encourage sales, and various sellers of sheep, goats, cheeses and hay complain that no-one is buying very much. A party of Laplanders are packing up in preparation for the journey home because they have sold virtually nothing and some fishermen add their complaints. When a horse-thief is suddenly spotted, the innkeeper Halvor, sitting outside the inn with his wife Margit, nostalgically observes that everyone used to be honest at the fair, but that times they are a-changing. A young officer, Lieutenant Frederick Hansen, arrives at the inn, asks for some wine and comments that the fair seems a bit dull. Gloomily, Halvor reads out a market report. This is a typically witty bit of writing by the composer/librettist, and merits repeating in full: ‘Cattle quiet, coffee weak, spirits low, meat rather high, pigs have a backward tendency, no demand for soap, linen unchanged since the last fair’.

Frederick asks whether Halvor can accommodate a party of travellers and the innkeeper readily says that he can, but when he discovers that the travellers are Baroness Nymark and her daughter Minna, he says that they have no rooms fit for such nobility, and Frederick says that in that case, the party will stop briefly and then continue on its way in the evening. The Baroness and Minna now arrive, with a pair of footmen. Minna is impatient to enjoy the party which traditionally closes the fair, but the Baroness announces that she is tired, so they will not join the party. Frederick reassures her that he will keep an eye on Minna. Haughtily, the Baroness comments that Minna might be taken for a peasant girl, and Minna replies under her breath that she wishes she was. In the conversation, it transpires that Frederick has risen through the ranks and was promoted for saving the life of the Baron in battle, and that although the Baron has now died, he has remained in the service of the family.

The Baroness, still uneasy about Minna mingling with country folk, asks where someone called Oscar, her nephew, has got to. Oscar is obviously travelling with the Baroness’s party, but he has already gone off to mingle with the crowd. The Baroness looks around and recognises Halvor as the man who brought her daughter back to her many years earlier after the child’s nurse had died; Halvor explains that the nurse was his sister and the Baroness expresses surprise that peasants have relatives. She asks, however, what became of the nurse’s husband, Andreas Brand, and Margit tells her that Andreas is thought to have died in the wars, sixteen years ago. Minna has been listening to this, and asks what became of their daughter, her foster-sister Nordisa, but the dancing starts before anyone can reply. Four dances follow, a Polka, a Ring Dance, a Bear dance with an old blind fiddler accompanying a dancing bear, and a traditional Norwegian dance, the Halling, which gets all the villagers singing – the Baroness is appalled at such common antics, and tries to take Minna away. While Minna is talking to Frederick, Oscar turns up and completely ignores Minna: in a quartet, the Baroness claims that affection is a holy gift while Minna, Frederick and Oscar each claim that it is a wayward thing.

Minna asks Oscar why he is so reluctant to greet her, after all she is the bride whom he is to marry tomorrow. Oscar, however, has other things on his mind and says that the village is a wonderful place. The Baroness now calls for her carriage immediately and takes Minna into the inn with her to await its arrival. Frederick, a childhood friend of Oscar, asks Oscar why he is ignoring Minna, and Oscar explains that he is only marrying Minna because of a deathbed oath that he made to his father that he would marry his cousin, but that he has actually fallen in love with someone else – he was once travelling in these mountains when he heard such a lovely voice singing that he was entranced and fell immediately in love with it, not knowing who it was that was singing.

An old, ragged man now staggers over the bridge into the village. This is Andreas Brand, long since presumed dead but in fact, after years of soldiering, he has been imprisoned in the mines in Siberia for fifteen years and has now been released and has returned home. He tenderly recalls the years when he lived with his wife and daughter, and when Halvor and Margit come out and recognise him, he asks them about his wife, Halvor’s sister and Minna’s old nurse. Gently, Margit tells him that his wife has died and that his daughter, Nordisa, is now a young woman. As they take the old man into the inn to rest, Halvor comments that it is a good thing that the Baroness and her party will soon be going, because it would not be good for them to recognise Nordisa.

Suddenly, one of the villagers starts to ring a bell. The Baroness and her party come out of the inn to see what is going on and Halvor explains that it is the tradition that on the evening of the autumn fair, all the shepherds and cowherds who tend their flocks and herds on the mountains come down home during the winter, and all the animals are tended on the mountain by one village girl on their behalf, the girl with the fewest relatives; this is Nordisa. Oscar starts to get excited, wondering if this could be the girl whose voice he fell in love with.

Nordisa now arrives, accompanied by a crowd of country folk carrying furs, wood and food, and while they sing their thanks to her for her sacrifice on their behalf over the winter, Nordisa urges them to hurry before the weather changes. Minna now recognises Nordisa as her childhood friend and offers to help her prepare for the winter, but Nordisa replies that she has to manage on her own over the winter and needs no help to survive three months trapped in the snow. Oscar reacts to her voice and Nordisa notices him, saying under her breath, ‘That stranger, here!’ She sings an aria about winter in the mountains, saying that God is everywhere to help her; even when the avalanches imprison her and her animals, still God is there, and His word warms her heart.

The Baroness is appalled by all this and offers Nordisa money, but Nordisa replies that she has no need of money, so the Baroness should give it to those who are in real distress. Minna too tries to persuade Nordisa to join their family group, but Nordisa tells her that it is her vocation to share the life of her own people.

The minister now arrives, and Minna quickly gives Nordisa a writing tablet, telling her to use it to summon Minna if ever she needs help. Nordisa leads the villagers in a hymn to the fleeting year and the midnight sun and then sets off, followed by the minister and the crowd with all the supplies for Nordisa’a lonely winter in the mountains. Oscar tries to follow her, but the others hold him back, and Halvor is keen that she should go before her newly-returned father wakes up and meets her. Just as Nordisa and the others have left, however, Brand staggers out of the inn and recognises her. But she is too far away to hear him, and as she disappears from sight, Brand collapses in a heap.

Frederick Corder (left) around the time of the composition of Nordisa; the title role was created by Julia Gaylord (right) (author’s collection)

Act 2

High in the mountains a few hours later, it is sunset; outside a small hut, a saetor, cow-bells can be heard and a young goatherd is waiting for Nordisa to arrive so that he can summon his fellow herdsmen and return with them down the mountain to their families. He sees her coming and calls the others, who arrive outside the hut as Nordisa’s friends are stocking it with all the provisions they have brought. Nordisa thanks them, and the minister leads them in a prayer for Nordisa’s safety from storms, cold and hunger; then they all leave, taking the herdsmen with them.

Alone on the mountain, Nordisa sits in silence and watches them gradually disappear from view. She goes into the hut and as she starts to prepare a fire, she sees a bunch of flowers. Thinking that her friends have left them for her, she is grateful, but she comments that the flowers will die once the sun goes. She goes out to call in the cattle and sheep and while she is out of sight, Oscar arrives at the hut and explains that he has followed her up the mountain and that she is the girl with whom he has fallen in love – his love will turn even a lowly shepherd’s hut into a palace, he says. Nordisa can be heard calling the stock into a cave-pen, and Oscar echoes her call. She sees him, and realises that he is indeed the stranger whom she saw and fell in love with on the mountain before. Oscar tells her his name, and she thinks at first that he is simply lost, but he tells her that his heart has led him there. Nordisa is moved – no-one has spoken to her so tenderly before. He offers her a brother’s love, and they go into the hut together, where Oscar asks her about her life. She tells him about growing up alone after her father had left for the wars and her mother died, but that one day she saw a stranger and her life changed.

Oscar now tells Nordisa that the love he has for her is far more than the love of a brother, and they sing an ecstatic duet, before stepping out hand-in-hand into the cold moonlight. Suddenly, Oscar remembers his promise to his dying father and he tears himself away from Nordisa. He says that he will leave, but before the bewildered Nordisa can react, an avalanche begins and she drags the reluctant Oscar into safety in the hut. As the avalanche buries the hut, Halvor and Brand appear on a nearby mountain peak and look down in horror – they too have followed her up the mountain and Brand is mortified that he will now have to wait for several more months before he can see his daughter again. [The avalanche scene was originally intended for Frederic Cowen’s Icelandic-saga opera Thorgrim, but Cowen was reluctant to set an avalanche to music, so it was later recycled by Corder.}

The Royal Court Theatre in Liverpool as it looked in January 1887 when Nordisa received its first performance there (author’s collection). Carl Rosa was so pleased with the success of the opening night that he held a celebratory supper in the Grand Hotel in Liverpool to mark the success and the newly won operatic presence of Liverpool as a UK venue; Corder, the principal singers, the leading opera impresarios Sir Augustus Harris and Colonel Mapleson, together with some of the country’s leading music critics, attended the supper.

Act 3

Several months later, spring has come to the village of Nymark on the outskirts of Christiana: the snows have gone and Nordisa and Oscar have come down the mountain and parted. In the Baroness’s villa, Minna stands at a window listening to the estate workers singing in her honour: she is wearing a wedding dress.

She sings sadly that although she has everything that should make her happy, she does not have love, so there is no joy in her heart. She sings of a meadow flower that is put into a hothouse when all it wants is the open air, and of a songbird put into a cage when all it wants is to fly free. Frederick arrives with a letter from the King to the Baroness: bit by bit, he and Minna declare their love for one another. The Baroness arrives and reads the King’s letter – it is a wedding present giving a colonel’s commission to Minna’s husband, all Minna has to do is to complete the document by filling in her new husband’s name. The Baroness take Minna off, and Frederick sings wistfully of his long-held dream of a fine castle, military glory and a loving bride who has been a friend since childhood – but all he has now is nothing.

The wedding celebrations begin to get under way. The Baroness welcomes guests, two notaries arrive and start to lay out the paperwork, the staff sing their best wishes for the wedding and their children dance happily around. The Baroness calls Minna and Oscar forward to start the ceremony, but before anything can happen, Nordisa arrives pale and exhausted, and without looking at anyone else, she goes straight to Minna and tearfully explains that she needs Minna’s help. She explains that Oscar has told her about his oath to his father and how the two of them spent the entire winter chastely looking after one another beneath the snow. But now, she explains, the villagers back at the foot of the mountain do not believe her, and have turned against her, convinced that she is a wanton, guilty sinner after her close confinement with Oscar. The Baroness is impatient to get on with the ceremony, and when Nordisa looks around and sees Oscar, she finally realises that it is Minna that he has promised to marry.

In desperation, she turns to go, thinking that she will leave Minna to enjoy happiness and marriage, but both Minna and Oscar beg her to stay. Oscar declares that he is the cause of Nordisa’s plight and Minna is pretty forthright in her condemnation of him as shameful and selfish, and states that she cannot possibly marry him now.

Oscar tells the gathered guests that he is bound by his vow to his father, but that although he loves Nordisa passionately, he is the cause of her present grief, but he has definitely not brought her shame. He bids her a sorrowful farewell, telling her that he has no choice but to marry the daughter of Baron Nymark, and she prays that in time he will forget her and get on with his life.

There is now another interruption; this is Brand, who bursts in, followed closely by Halvor, and demands to know who is speaking of Baron Nymark’s daughter. Everyone asks him to explain this outburst, and he produces a confession written by his wife before she died and which Halvor has kept hidden for many years. The Baroness reads it out. In the document, Christina Brand admits that when she was the nurse to the daughter of Baron and Baroness Nymark, she swapped the child with her own daughter so that she might see her child dressed in fine clothes and admired by everyone. On her deathbed, she charged her brother Halvor with restoring to the Baron and Baroness their real daughter, the girl known as Nordisa, but he gave them Minna instead. Shock, horror.

After a stunned silence, Minna, Nordisa, Oscar and Frederick ponder what this revelation means. It means, of course, that things can work out happily for them all. Nordisa can marry Oscar; Minna, now revealed as Brand’s daughter, can marry Frederick and he can take up the king’s commission as a colonel. Surprisingly, the Baroness magnanimously greets Nordisa as her daughter. The chorus, inevitably, sing happily of the joy that comes with spring and they hail Count Oscar and his rightful bride. God is indeed everywhere.

–ooOoo–

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the strange story of Frederick Corder’s life and his principal stage works
  • the plot of Corder’s libretto for Sisyphus, king of Ephyra – the opera that never was
  • other operas which include avalanches and various natural disasters
  • endless numbers of opera plots which revolve around mistaken identity
  • the lives and operas of many of Frederick Corder’s contemporary Victorian composers …
  • … and many opera plots and other stories linked to operas at the end of the nineteenth century

© Roger Witts 2011

Categories
Opera Plots

Actéon by Marc-Antoine Charpentier

When is an opera not an opera? There are purists who claim that one-act entertainments commissioned by wealthy patrons for private performance do not really count as operas. Marc-Antoine Charpentier’s Actéon certainly comes into that category, but it has all the characteristics of an opera of its time – a strong story, mythological characters, rousing choruses, pathos, tragedy, horror (and even nudity), so there are no apologies for including its plot in OperaStories

Opéra de chasse, a pastorale in six scenes.

The librettist is unknown; the story is taken from the Metamorphoses of Ovid, Book III, 140-250.

Written probably in 1690, most likely for performance as an entertainment during the hunting season, but the date and place of the first performance are unknown.

Marc-Antoine Charpentier (1636-1704) wrote seventeen operas and was one of the most highly respected composers of the second half of the seventeenth century (author’s collection)

Scene 1

A group of hunters, led by Actaeon (a beloved grandson of Cadmus and great-grandson of Mars and Venus), sing of the excitement of the hunt – the sun is high and there is nothing to hold them back. Actaeon calls on Diana, the goddess of hunting, to guide them in their hunt for the bear which is terrorising the countryside. The hunters hear sounds from the woods and rush off enthusiastically after their prey.

Scene 2

At a pretty spring deep in the woods, Diana suggests to the nymphs, her sisters, that they should rest from their labours and enjoy the pure bubbling water, birdsong, the cool shade and the green foliage. The stream, far from the noise of the world, offers them the chance to relax among the silvery ripples where no mortal man would dare to creep up on them; she urges the nymphs not to be afraid of their beauty being observed. The nymphs agree that the spring is very lovely and worthy of their queen; other rivers must be very jealous of the place. Again, Diana tells them that they are far from worldly worries and that no amorous sighing will disturb Diana while she bathes. The nymphs are delighted at the secret place where they can enjoy perfect happiness, but even so, they remind themselves to be on guard against intruding lovers. One of them, Arethusa, observes that such relaxation makes them feel love’s urges and become aware of passions. But what love offers is only a vision and they must not believe it or place any hope in it – so they must all be on their guard against vain trickery.

Scene 3

Actaeon, exhausted by the hunt, tells his men that the shadows creeping over the flowers show that they are half-way through the day and he needs to rest. He bids them leave him to enjoy the solitude and return for him at the end of the day. Alone, he takes in the beauty of the glade, the gentle silence and the opportunity to doze under the cypresses and breathe the fresh air. Thoughts of love are far away, and if love tries to assail him now, all its efforts will be in vain. He praises freedom, the pleasures of the hunt, and the chance to forget love for a while. Suddenly, he sees through the undergrowth Diana and the nymphs bathing and tries to get closer so that he can eavesdrop on what they are saying. Diana, however, hears him, and he is discovered. The nymphs are horrified that he has invaded their privacy, and as Actaeon tries to get away, Diana tells him that his efforts to escape are pointless because her anger is aroused and she can strike him down whether he is close by or far away. Actaeon begs her to hear his defence and she tells him to try to claim innocence in the face of her fury. ‘It was just chance and my bad luck’, says Actaeon, but Diana is implacable and tells him that no apology will help him now, and she will show no mercy. The nymphs too tell him that he will never have the chance to boast that he has seen Diana and her sisters bathing.

At the end of this scene, ‘Icy un grand silence’ is written in the score.

Scene 4

Actaeon, who fears nothing, now feels great dread: he looks into the waters of the spring and is horrified to see his face dissolving and hairs sprouting from his skin; his appearance changes and his words become just a jumble of confusion. He is being transformed into a stag. Desperately, he calls on the gods who gave him royal blood to purge his shame.

Actaeon in the process of being turned into a stag (postcard in the author’s collection)

Scene 5

Elsewhere in the wood, his fellow huntsmen comment that it has been the best day’s hunting they have ever had; they call out to Actaeon to leave his rest and come and see how fierce his hounds are as they pursue a magnificent stag. Is he so deep in the wood that he cannot hear them? He doesn’t know what he is missing – this chase is the kind that doesn’t come twice in a lifetime.

Scene 6

Juno appears and tells them not to call out to one who cannot hear; Actaeon, the beloved hero of Thebes, has been turned into a stag and ripped to pieces by his own hunting dogs. He is dead. And that is the fate which awaits all mortal men who offend the gods. The huntsmen ask what Actaeon has done to deserve this terrible death, and Juno tells them that she delivered the punishment because the insult given to Diana has aroused her own fury. Somewhat irrelevantly, she calls on Jupiter, her unfaithful husband, to take heed of her terrible rage when he considers installing his pretty mistress Europa in her place. Actaeon, she says, is a man, and that is enough to ensure her implacable hatred.

The huntsmen absorb this outburst, and wonder who could not be affected by the fate of their master, struck down in the prime of life. Their cries will fill the air and echo among the mountain and over the waves and in the north wind, and even get down to the underworld, calling out that Actaeon, the best of rulers, is no more.

–ooOoo–

Note: Marc-Antoine Charpentier (c1645/50-1704) is no relation to the composer of Louise, Gustave Charpentier (1860-1956)

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the life and operas of Marc-Antoine Charpentier
  • other operas featuring dogs, especially the hunting dogs of the hapless Actaeon listed by Ovid
  • composers and their dogs
  • (a touch tactless, this, given the fate of Actaeon …) venison, and operatic representations of stags in the hunting field and in the kitchen …
  • … and many more fascinating byways of opera, especially stories about doomed lovers who get it wrong.

© Roger Witts 2011

Categories
Opera Plots

L’Attaque du Moulin by Alfred Bruneau

The French composer Alfred Bruneau is largely forgotten today, but he was a very significant composer in his own time. Of Bruneau’s thirteen operas, no less than eight were based on stories by his friend Emile Zola and for two of them Zola actually wrote the librettos. The influence of Wagner and the excitement generated by the rise of verismo opera in Italy are both visible in Bruneau’s operas, but he refused to be seduced by either of these sirens and trod an essentially French route. A music critic as well as a composer, he made no secret of his determination to unite progress with beauty. Zola’s mission for naturalism rather than romanticism attracted Bruneau and their first collaboration, La Rêve, was snapped up by the impresario Léon Carvalho for the Opéra-Comique in Paris. It was a huge success and led to a long collaboration between the writer and the composer which explored a new route for opera, the ­drame-lyrique in which the drama is driven by the laws of nature rather than the requirements of mythology or of tradition. You will have to look hard for a CD of the opera (there is one from House of Opera); but there is no DVD yet (2020)

Drame lyrique in four acts (French composers at the end of the nineteenth century tried hard to avoid using the word ‘opera’ and devised various other names for their works: drame lyrique is one of these alternative descriptions, but it means the same thing as ‘opera’ and does not imply that the work is a drama with some singing).

Libretto by Louis Gallet, based on a story by Émile Zola in Soirées de Médan (1880), a volume of six short stories by Zola and five of his followers all with military settings. Zola’s contribution, L’Attaque du Moulin, opened the series to set the scene for the other five stories.

First performed in the Opéra Comique in Paris on 23 November 1893.

Act 1

The action takes place in 1870 in a French village in Lorraine during the Franco-Prussian War.

At a country mill, preparations are well under way for a traditional engagement party, Marcelline is busily organising the food and servants are scurrying everywhere. The old miller, Merlier, emerges from the mill and asks Marcelline how things are going. She reassures him that everything is in place – the wine is cooling in the cellar, the tables are set up in the shade and the finest tablecloths and china are all set out. Merlier tells her that the great day has arrived at last, and asks her what she thinks about his daughter’s young man, Dominique. Marcelline tells him to relax and explains that everyone had judged Dominique the same way – he arrived among them as a stranger, a fine, good-looking lad with clear eyes, a bit of a dreamer living from day to day, given to spending his time lying flat on his face in the woods a bit like a lizard. All their people thought that he was an out-and-out lazybones, and Merlier thought the same. Merlier agrees, and says that it came as a real shock to him when his daughter Françoise told him that she had fallen in love with Dominique, but that she is as stubborn as he himself is, and that she also has his passion, so there was no stopping her: she sulked for eight hours, but now they are in perfect agreement, and he can tell himself how brave his Françoise is for wanting an idler in the family! He starts to go in search of Françoise to tell her something, but stops and Marcelline asks him what more is there to say with so much happiness around. Merlier comments that Dominique works well, and Marcelline reminds him that in the month that Dominique has been with them the mill has come back to life. Merlier launches into a hymn of praise for the old mill which he has run for forty years, how the clear, icy water turns the wheel from morning to night singing a song which lulled little Françoise to sleep and still fills the meadows with its happy sound. He wept at the thought of handing it over to a lazybones, but now he is content that when the time comes he will die proud and happy. Marcelline says that if he is happy, then she is too, because she loves Françoise as if she were her own daughter, and Merlier tells her that since Françoise’s mother is no longer with them, then Marcelline really is a mother to the girl. Marcelline adds that since her two sons were killed, Françoise has become very dear to her, but that today is no day for sad memories. She tells Merlier that Françoise will look beautiful in her veil, with her dark eyes shining like stars and her cherry lips and sun bright on her forehead. The lovers make a fine couple, and Merlier knows how the years pass like days and how love grows when there is nothing but kisses and laughter.

The role of Marcelline was created by the great French mezzo-soprano Marie Delna who went on to build a second career as a film actress (from a Felix Potin collector’s card in the author’s collection)

The guests start to arrive and Merlier and Marcelline greet them; Merlier announces that his daughter Françoise is to marry Dominique Penquer in one month’s time on Saint Louis’s Day: he will perform the ceremony himself and, according to custom, marry them in the presence of the whole family: today he has invited everyone to drink the couple’s health on their engagement day. The guests are all delighted at this news and compliment him on his observance of the proper traditions. Merlier checks that everyone has arrived and announces that the ceremony can begin. Marcelline opens a door and a dozen village girls come out, leading Françoise.

In the traditional betrothal ceremony, the girls warn Françoise not to go into the woods because there is a handsome young man there who will try to entice her away, but they will guard her under a fine veil and he will search for her and ask where she is. He must knock, they say.

Along the road now come a group of village lads led by Dominique. They sing about how they are hunting in the woods for a beautiful young girl who is said to be there; they will find her and present her to Dominique. Where is she? He must knock, they tell him. Dominique knocks and calls out ‘Open up, it’s me!’

The girls ask who he is to be so bold, a count perhaps, or the king’s son. Dominique replies that he is a beggar of love who is passing by; he hopes for her favour and his faith has made him bold. The girls, led by one called Geneviève, say that before he can win the lovely maid, he must tell them how he intends to protect her, and he replies that he will protect her with all his might and that he is afraid of nothing. Geneviève asks how he will keep her, and he replies that he will grow everything they need and he will make all he wine they need and that by his hands alone she will have a happy life. Geneviève asks how much he loves her and he replies that he loves her very deeply with all his heart and that they will be strong together and have beautiful children, just like themselves. The girls tell him that he has replied well to their questions and they let the veil fall from Françoise’s face and she tells him that his words of love have won her heart.

One of the young men now announces that they want to be reassured that Dominique too will be happy, and asks Françoise how she intends to look after him and she replies that she will look after him like a mother would want to and care for him like a sister would want to, and that she would take care to make sure that all his worries are lightened.

The youth asks how she will console Dominique and she replies that she would ensure that he has rest when he comes home from work, offer him cheerfulness to console him and help him to forget his tears in her embrace. The next question is how would she love him, and she replies that she will love him just as she does now, and even more if she can; she will also love the children that she gives him and that when they grow old together, they will accept old age with cheerfulness and that their hearts will remain young even when they walk out together with faltering steps and grey hair.

After these traditional courting rituals, the friends announce that the lovers can join hands for ever, and get married. Dominique and Françoise declare their love for one another in a final duet, singing that all unhappiness is now behind them, that when he is working in the woods and she is waiting for him in the mill, their joyous hope will never leave them. They ask that God might bless everything under their roof and that their love-nest might be always full of peace.

Merlier and Marcelline join in their prayer and all those present echo the good wishes for the happy couple. Merlier embraces his daughter and then pushes her gently into Marcelline’s arms and tells her to hug the little girl whom she has brought up and who has brought so much happiness to an old man. He announces that the feasting can now begin, to hell with cares, a glass of wine will cure everything!

The general merriment is rudely broken by a drumroll and the town-crier bursts into the courtyard to announce that war has been declared and that the town council has ordered that all fit men must gather at the town hall ready to march off to the front. Merlier says that the war can wait just a moment; he offers the town-crier a glass of wine and invites him to join them all in drinking a toast to the young couple. Marcelline cries out that she has seen what war can do, it is like a punishment on the land brought by God in flames and steel; horsemen will trample all the crops, there will be cannons, roofs set on fire, bloodshed and pillaging; the poor world will die and hell will come; she curses war, and cries that her two brave sons, Jean and Antoine, saw it all, they faced the storm filled with evil courage, and war took them from her. She sees them now, tall and handsome; they fell in the same battle and they now lie together, even though she has no idea where their grave is. The town-crier tells her not to despise war and that war enlivens the spirit, hardens the resolve and ennobles the soul, so it is worth the price. What should you do when someone takes against you? When someone attacks you head on? Do nothing? He raises his glass to the young couple and also toasts those who will go to the front to fight. Merlier, Dominique and all the men shout ‘Well said’ but Françoise turns to Dominique and says that he will not leave. He replies that it is true that he is Flemish and not French but that within the day the enemy will be at their door and that when danger threatens, you have to go. Merlier urges everyone to eat and tells the town-crier to raise another toast to those of them who will fight at the front.

Alfred Bruneau (left) around the time of the composition of L’Attaque du Moulin; Louis Gallet (centre), the librettist; and Émile Zola (right), who wrote the original story (author’s collection)

Act 2

A month later. There is now a barricade of furniture inside the mill, heavily peppered by bullet holes. Mattresses are stacked against the windows; a wounded soldier leans against a wall, another, kneeling, fires his rifle. Dominique has just fired his, and Merlier, sitting down, has been grazed by a bullet across his forehead. After a period of silence, a French captain orders his men to cease firing. He looks at his watch and says that they have held the position for five hours, as the colonel had ordered, and now they must withdraw. He smiles at Françoise, who is with the troops and is completely exhausted. He tells her that she has had a fright, and that more fear will be bad for her, but that she can see that despite the heavy fire the house has not suffered much. He shakes Dominique’s hand and thanks him, telling him not to waste his powder. There are their own snipers behind them, he says, who can bring a man down with every shot. He orders the squadron to set off, keeping in the shelter of the wood and following the tracks. He bids Merlier farewell, saying that they will be back. Then he salutes Françoise and leads his men away.

Merlier ruefully comments on the state of the mill. Françoise sings that she is brave enough, but that with all the gunshots, the cries and the horrors she thought that the storm would overwhelm them. Even so, she stayed there behind the men, she did not run as long as her Dominique and her beloved father were there with her. She had a knife, and if they had been killed, she would have defended herself, and if necessary she would have killed herself with it. It is true that she is only a woman, she says, but when evil threatens, she would have called on the blade to give them a way out. She notices that her father is wounded, but he says that it is nothing. Dominique, still on edge from the fight, says that he had not thought of them – war should be soldiers’ business. But when he noticed that Merlier was wounded and that Françoise was pale and trembling, he had no fear, and there was no-one braver than him. Rage took hold of him and he wanted to kill them all. This is not his fight, he admits, but he took on the work of four men.

Merlier observes that it is a sad day – and it is St Louis’s Day as well. A battle instead of a wedding! Who would have thought it a month ago when they were celebrating the engagement? Who could have foreseen the evil that would befall the country, France slaughtered and their fields invaded?

Françoise suddenly hears marching footsteps and assumes that it is the French troops returning but Merlier says that the steps are too heavy, these are horses and cannon; it is the enemy. Dominique looks out of the window and tells them that the courtyard of the mill is full of enemy soldiers.

Prussian voices are heard shouting ‘Death to anyone who resists’. Françoise falls into her father’s arms while Dominique stands in front of them both to protect them. The door is kicked open and an enemy captain strides in, followed by his men. He demands to know who is master there, and Merlier says that he is. The captain asks if he is hiding any soldiers and Merlier tells him to look for himself. The captain demands to know where those who were defending the mill have gone and Merlier simply gestures in various directions, saying ‘That way, or that way perhaps; you’ll have to search for them’. The captain announces that his troops will billet themselves there. Merlier says that they can please themselves. When the captain says that they will need provisions, Merlier says that he has nothing to give them, war is war, but that if they don’t hassle him he will do what he can to feed the captain and his men.

The captain asks who Françoise is and Merlier replies that she is his daughter. The captain then turns to Dominique, notices his hands blackened with powder, sees the gun and asks how come he is not with his regiment. Dominique replies that he is not French and gives his name. The captain tells him to admit that he has been firing and Dominique says that it is true. The captain tells him that that is contrary to the rules of war; he orders one soldier to guard Dominique and another to take up post beneath the window, then he tells Dominique that he will be shot. Françoise is terrified but Merlier whispers to her to let him deal with the situation. He tells the captain that such a man should not be shot and tries to divert his attention by explaining that earlier that morning, before the shooting started, he had got the harvest in and built the stacks, because when there is fighting, the harvest is lost, and when it rains, how can the women glean the fallen grains? The captain tells him to please himself, but that his men will need feeding within the hour. Merlier whispers encouragement to Françoise and Dominique and then the captain orders Merlier and Françoise to leave.

The captain looks at Dominique for a long while and then asks him if, even though he is an outsider he knows the nearby forest. Dominique replies that he knows it like the back of his hand, he could find his way with his eyes shut, even the forgotten paths. He explains that his father had land here and as children they used to come and play in the hedgerows – happy days, he muses, a free existence. The captain then asks if Françoise is his wife and Dominique replies that she is his fiancée. The captain says that a young man of Dominique’s age, full of vigour and courage, happy, loved and with every hope for the future should be laughing in his youth because death is a terrible thing. Dominique replies that he does what his heart and his duty require. The captain says that if he offers Dominique a chance to live and spares him, will he do something in return? Dominique asks what, and the captain says that in the morning he must lead the enemy troops the shortest way through the forest to the hilltop which commands the plain. ‘Never’ replies Dominique. He is not of this place, but by free choice he has become a son of it. The girls he loves was born here and when she accepted his hand, all his dreams came true, so even to save his own life he will not betray the bold hearts of his people. The captain pushes him to reconsider, but Dominique is adamant, so the captain tells him that he will be shot on the following day and leaves.

Alone, Dominique goes to the window and looks out on the forest. Night is falling and with a deep shudder the forest is sleeping, its life-giving breath perfumes the purple and gold sky. In what is probably the best-known aria in the opera (Adieu, forêt profonde), he bids farewell to it, the giant friend which has held his dream since he was a sixteen-year-old, where he used to go each evening to surprise it and to settle down in its shade and lose himself on its slopes. If he is to be shot at dawn, let it be among the pines, the ash trees and the elms; he wants to sleep among them, to go on loving them under the swaying branches. And if Françoise should come this way in the future, she can kneel on the moss, weep and mingle her tears with those of the forest, which will bathe him every night. He bids farewell to Françoise, to the forest and to his sweet sorrow.

Françoise, however, has not given up. She climbs down a ladder from the floor above and appears among the ivy and the roses climbing on the trellising. She tells Dominique that her father has tried everything but that the enemy officer will not listen to him, so they have no alternative but to escape as soon as it is dark. Dominque is overjoyed to be with her, happy that despite everything they can be together. They exchange vows of love and he asks her if she could hear his song and she tells him that she heard it and ran towards it, sitting in silence at the door. He tells her that it was her image under the stars in the forest that he was thinking of: they each were thinking of the other and now they can be together, thinking only of being man and wife, and how the old mill will sing its song of cheerful labour and tenderness while their love flourishes under the sun of their youth.

Their reverie is broken by the voices of the enemy soldiers calling one another to share some soup; the captain gives orders for the sentries to be changed. Shocked into reality, Françoise says that she had forgotten the world but that she still has hope. Dominique says that they are mad, but that whatever fate has in store for them, nothing will hold him back now. Françoise explains that there is a ladder leading down to the mill-stream and that the darkness of the night will give him cover. Dominique asks what will become of her if he leaves her, but Françoise tells him that if he remains a prisoner, he can do nothing for them and he will be killed. Despite her tears, she lives only for their love; delay now will be fatal, so if he loves her he must do what she says and escape. Dominique says that he will stay; he wants either to live where she lives, or die. She tells him to save himself, and by the evening she will have found him again. Together in the forest they will be safe and can love one another in peace, far from the world, guarded by his friends, the ancient oaks. Dominique agrees, but asks how they can deal with the sentry by the mill-race. The sentry starts to sing a song about how his heart has died, how he simply exists now and is permanently tired, how a love which is gone leaves him sad and a love which will come again will not make him happy again. Joy is brief but grief is huge, but he takes no notice of what is to come and sometimes it is better that nothing starts if one day it must be forced to finish.

Françoise realises that the sentry is alone; she points out that the local women are preparing the grain for the mill, so she will go and join them and when Dominique starts to come down the ladder, they will distract him. If he sees Dominique, then Dominique must walk straight at him – she gives Dominique the knife which she has kept and tells him to silence the sentry with it. The sentry starts singing again, Françoise goes out of the window and Dominique is left alone, the knife in his hand.

This dramatic scene from Act 3 appeared in Le Monde Illustré on 2 December 1893, just over a week after the opera’s premiere (author’s collection)

Act 3

Seen from the other side, the mill is a fine old building, with irregular windows and its walls covered in ivy. The huge mill-wheel sits in the clear waters of the river Morelle and there is a plank-bridge across the mill-race. Nearby, under a willow, the sentry is leaning on his rifle. Other sentries can be heard calling, and this sentry resumes his melancholy song. The mill girls interrupt him with their song about how the land has produced yet another harvest. Marcelline appears and watches the sentry for some time before commenting on how much he reminds her of her son Jean, young, strong and armed with a heavy rifle. And how he too will fight well and then lie dead in some corner far from his own people. The sentry spots her and shouts a weary ‘Who goes there?’ She asks him if his mother is still alive and he replies that she is, very old and all alone in their village far away. Marcelline says that she hopes that God will take care of her, and the sentry tells her that there is also a pretty girl there, with lovely white hands, blond hair and eyes the colour of periwinkles; he loves her and she loves him. ‘Poor girl’ says Marcelline, and she asks the sentry if he can tell her why he is fighting. He doesn’t know, and she tells him that he has come to kill them all and to destroy their homes. He tells her that he doesn’t know why he has come, but that he would like to return home to his mother and his girl. Suddenly he realises that they are talking too much and orders her to go back. Marcelline again comments to herself how much he reminds her of Jean, and how much joy and sorrow this memory gives her. She calls out to the sentry for God to save him from the war. She leaves and as the sentry relaxes, Dominique and Françoise appear under the willows close to the mill, followed by the mill girls all carrying sheaves of corn.

Françoise tells the girls to hurry, and that a tithe of the harvested corn belongs to them. The planned diversion begins: Geneviève comments on how heavy the harvest is and asks the sentry why he is not helping them; he has strong arms and broad shoulders and could easily carry their heavy bundles. The girls join in, asking him to help them and to lighten their burdens. He tells them all to keep their distance. They leave, but Françoise remains. Other sentries are heard calling out again, and this sentry calls back. Cautiously and unseen, Dominique creeps across the bridge and is about to make his escape when the sentry spots him and challenges him with his bayonet. Dominque evades the point and throws himself at the sentry, stabbing him in the throat with the knife which Françoise gave him; he then runs. Françoise too slips away. Night has fallen now and the sentry’s body lies sprawled in the silence.

Soldiers come running; one of them heard a cry which froze him, but in the darkness they can see nothing. Another stumbles over the sentry’s body and they call out for lights. A sergeant arrives with more soldiers carrying torches and they see that one of their comrades has been killed. They cry for revenge, wanting to burn the village and slaughter everybody. Seeing one of their own fallen, they realise that it was a single blow dealt by a steady hand. The sergeant calls for the captain and he arrives and tells that that one body needs another and they must find and punish whoever was responsible. He orders them to fetch the mill owner and the soldiers push Merlier and Françoise forward.

The captain tells them that one of his men has been murdered and that they are searching for the murderer in order to punish him. An example must be made and he is counting on Merlier and Françoise to help him to ensure swift justice. Merlier says that it was him, and that he acted alone; he will make no trouble. The captain picks up the knife which had fallen near the dead sentry and asks Merlier if he recognises it. Françoise starts at the sight of it, but Merlier simply says that everyone on those parts has a knife like that. The captain says that if he gets angry now, he will set fire to the mill and the whole village. A soldier rushes out to report that the prisoner has escaped and the captain furiously announces that the prisoner is the culprit and that he must be hiding in the forest which he knows so well. Merlier and Françoise look at one another apprehensively and the captain tells them that unless Dominique is captured within the day, the whole village will pay for the murder. He tells Merlier that he must surely know where Dominique has gone. Merlier tells him that searching for a man in the forest will be like looking for a needle in a haystack. The captain is no fool: he tells Merlier that the prisoner is his daughter’s lover and that they helped him to escape, so Merlier will be shot in Dominique’s place in the morning. Françoise cries out and falls, but Merlier says that that is what he wants; it might as well be him as anyone else.

The French chocolate company Guérin-Boutron issued a series of collector’s cards in the early 1900s depicting composers and scenes from their operas: Bruneau’s L’Attaque du Moulin was number 73 in the series of 78 cards (author’s collection)

Françoise begs the captain to show mercy. He must spare her father because it is her alone who is guilty; she made the plan for Dominique’s escape so only she is to blame. Merlier says that she is lying and that she had been with him all the time; Françoise climbs the mill wall and shows how she had got down into the room and how Dominique had escaped. Merlier insists that the captain must punish a man, so it is he who must be shot. The captain tells Françoise that if she can produce Dominique, her father will be spared. Françoise asks how she is expected to find him at night in the forest and again she begs for mercy. Merlier says that there must be an end to it, he will be shot, and the captain tells her again to choose between her father and Dominique. Françoise falls into her father’s arms; the soldiers make a stretcher of branches and put the sentry’s body on it and then, by the torchlight, stand around it as they get ready to carry it away. They start to sing a simple dirge to their fallen brother. He may not have had a glorious death but, if they can, they will take him home to his village and deliver him to his mother, telling her that he did his duty.

Act 4

In the deserted mill courtyard, now under military guard, at daybreak, Marcelline comments on the sleeping soldiers, and how with their pale faces and white cloaks, they look just like dead bodies, wondering how many of them will be dead before nightfall. She goes to open the mill door and encourages Françoise to follow her. Françoise is naturally agitated at having to choose between Dominique and her father. She wants to rescue her father and save him and then die herself because whichever of them dies will mean that she too will die. She collapses, but Marcelline hears faintly the distant sound of a French bugle-call; she looks through a loophole in the defences and says that she can see flashes of red moving among the trees; their own soldiers are getting closer. Françoise revives and looks too, but says sadly that there is no time left; she must do something, and she asks Marcelline which path Dominique took. The old lady says that they must leave and Françoise realises that Merlier had told her to take Françoise to safety and not to come back, and that he will face his fate alone. But her place is with him; she must stay. Marcelline reminds her that she wants to find Dominique and Françoise accepts that they must go to find him and bring him back. Enemy bugle calls are now heard sounding the reveille, answered by others far away.

As Françoise starts to leave, Dominique now reappears and she finds herself face-to-face with him; he is wearing an enemy cloak. He explains that he has spent the night roaming the woods in an agony of indecision wondering if Françoise would follow him but has now fooled the sentries by wearing the cloak, and has come back to see her – but he says that he will go away again in case he has put her in danger. Françoise is torn; now that he has returned, he is at risk, but can she send him away again? Marcelline urges her to have courage; everything is turning out better than she had hoped. The soldiers have gone to pillage the neighbourhood so the two lovers can talk without danger. Marcelline says that she will go to find Merlier, and leaves.

Dominique comments on how cold Françoise’s hands are and how worried she looks. He urges her to tell him everything that has happened. Brightly, Françoise tells him not to be concerned about her, they will be happy when the soldiers have gone, and she hopes that that will be very soon. Dominique says that he will hug her and then go, but she tells him to sit down so that she can tell him what is going round and round in her head. He replies that just to see her is a miracle and that he will stay as long as she wants him to, for ever if she wants. Françoise tells him that he must flee straightaway, but that she must know where to find him. To herself, she prays for help; she forces herself to smile; they both sit, half hidden, behind the well and she starts to tell him what has happened.

The captain now comes into the courtyard, followed by Merlier and Marcelline. He tells them to stay there while he goes to order the sentries to shoot them if they try to flee. He asks if there is any news of Dominique and Merlier shakes his head. The captain tells him that at the first French attack, Merlier will pay the price on Dominique’s behalf and Merlier says that he is ready. As the captain goes into the mill, Merlier sees Françoise and Dominique by the well and whispers that he hopes that they cannot hear; he tells Marcelline that she will have to lie to persuade Dominique to flee. They must tell him that Merlier is still free, that he still controls who goes in and out. Marcelline realises that this will mean Merlier’s death and he tells her that his daughter’s safety is his only concern; he is an old man and if it is to be his blood that is shed, he will happily make the sacrifice. Marcelline realises that he is right, and she agrees to go along with the lie because love is the only truth, she says. And she would happily have lied and borne the consequences to influence the fate of her sons. Her heart agrees where Merlier’s duty lies.

Merlier calls to Dominique and Françoise asks her father to persuade Dominique not to run. He asks her why she asks that, because he believes that Dominique must leave immediately. Dominique realises that Merlier is prepared to be executed in his place and insists that he will stay to face his own punishment. But Merlier tells him that there is nothing to worry about because he has just been told that he is free to go. Françoise suspects that he is lying but he insists that it is true. Françoise is convinced, and agrees that it has been a terrible night because it would have broken her heart to have to choose between her father and Dominique, but now they have been delivered and they can get on with their lives in their old mill. Marcelline whispers to Merlier that to sacrifice your life for those you love is a wonderful gift and that her heart goes out to him.

Both Françoise and Dominique ask him again if he is telling the truth and he reassures them, asking them if they think that he could be so happy if he was lying; he tells them to ask Marcelline, because she too is laughing. Marcelline tells them that when she sees that those she loves are happy, then she is happy too, and she promises that they will all be happy together, so why would they lie at such a moment. Françoise and Dominique accept what she says, and suddenly Marcelline hears a bugle call. Merlier tells Dominique that the French troops are returning and that he should go and urge them to hurry and tell them that there are only a few enemy soldiers at the mill. Dominique, still wearing the enemy great-coat, says that he will take the risk and go and summon the French – he vowed to protect his wife and he will do so with all his heart and all his soul. Merlier embraces him and Dominique leaves. Merlier then asks Marcelline to leave him alone with Françoise and Marcelline bids him an emotional farewell.

Françoise, unaware of the true situation, tells Merlier that at last she can breathe again now that the danger has passed and her father tells her that her smile is the most precious thing for him. He hugs her and tells her how much he loves her; he asks her if she remembers him singing her to sleep when her mother was still alive and she replies that his deep voice was so calming, and he rocked her inside the white linen cover of her cradle. When she was about ten, he recalls, they used to chat together like two old friends and he would tell her that only two things matter in life, to love and to do your duty. She agrees that he brought her up to be an honest girl, and she learned her lessons well. He tells her that when he is no longer here, she must keep these memories for ever. Françoise begins to understand that he is saying goodbye but he tells her not to be silly because everything is going to be all right. He asks her to embrace him again in the way that she used to, and to smile and be brave. Then he steps back and says that he is ready to face his fate.

A voice calls out that the French are coming and Merlier says that it is all over. Françoise sees that Dominique is leading the French troops, but Merlier turns to look at the mill; he tells it that the final assault will destroy it, and that its wheel will never again sing in the clear water of the mill-race. He tells Françoise that she must revive it and love the old mill as he has loved it, making it happy with her youth and growing old happy to hear the song of the wheel. Françoise asks what he means, and suddenly French soldiers appear, bayonets fixed, in a violent attack. The enemy soldiers start to fall back under the onslaught and then, as the gates burst open, scatter in disorder. The enemy captain rushes in, shouting for them to regroup; he sees Merlier standing with Françoise, calls out that the time has come to end the affair and gestures to six soldiers who push the old man against the wall, and, as Françoise falls to her knees and cries out in horror, they fire and Merlier falls dead.

Dominique rushes in with the French captain. He goes joyfully towards Françoise but she silently points to Merlier’s body. As the French captain raises his sword and cries ‘Victory’, Marcelline, Françoise and Dominique stand together in desolation and Marcelline says that war creates heroes but is the scourge of the land.

–ooOoo—

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the life and operas of Alfred Bruneau
  • the life and librettos of Louis Gallet
  • the life of Bruneau’s close friend Émile Zola and his contribution to opera
  • the stories of other operas based on Zola’s works
  • the stories of other operas by Alfred Bruneau
  • the lives and operas of many of Bruneau’s French contemporaries …
  • … and many opera plots and other stories linked to French operas at the end of the nineteenth century

© Roger Witts 2011

Categories
Opera Plots

Creonte by Dmitri Bortnyansky

How do you please a Russian Empress? One way is to produce an opera which tells the story of a ruler who shows mercy and compassion to someone who has disobeyed the law, and by simply changing the title and using an existing libretto, Bortnyansky did just that. In 1772, when Tommaso Traetta’s superb opera Antigona, to a libretto by Marco Coltellini which was dedicated to (and enthusiastically endorsed by) Frederick the Great, was performed, both Traetta and Coltellini were working for Catherine the Great in the Imperial Court in St Petersburg. By a quirk of fate, a young Ukranian composer named Dmitry Bortnyansky missed it. He had studied music and composition with Traetta’s predecessor as director of music to the Russian Imperial Court, Baldassare Galuppi, and when Galuppi returned to Italy in 1769, he took his young Russian pupil, then aged eighteen, with him – funding for his training in Italy was provided by the empress, Catherine. Bortnyansky gained a considerable reputation in Italy for his church music, and in 1776 he branched out into opera: the first libretto he set for performance in Venice was Coltellini’s Antigona libretto. But he made an apparently subtle but crucial amendment: he changed the title, and by that small adjustment he added great strength to an already renowned opera. The story is based on the play Antigone by Sophocles, but Coltellini had changed the ending of the Greek myth so that Antigone does not die, but is pardoned by her uncle Creon, who had previously sentenced her to death. By shifting the title-role focus from Antigone to Creon simply by changing the title, Bortnyansky’s version is even more flattering of the enlightened rulers of the day, especially Catherine the Great and Frederick the Great of Prussia who regarded themselves as humane and clement absolute monarchs. Traetta’s opera survives and has, thankfully, been recorded, but Bortnyansky’s is lost – but since it used Coltellini’s libretto, we can follow the story with the focus shifted from Antigone to Creon: it is an interesting adjustment.

Tragedia per musica in three acts.

Libretto by Marco Coltellini.

First performed in the Teatro San Benedetto in Venice on 26 November 1776.

The story is taken from the tragedy Antigone by Sophocles. Antigone is the daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta. In the fulfilment of a prophecy and despite everyone’s efforts to prevent it from coming true, Oedipus had unwittingly killed his father, Laius, the king of Thebes, and then married his mother, Jocasta, thus becoming king. Unaware of what had happened, they lived happily and produced four children, two sons, Polinices and Eteocles, and two daughters, Antigone and Ismene. Twenty years or so later, when eventually the true circumstances are revealed, Jocasta hangs herself and Oedipus blinds himself before being driven into exile from Thebes. Creon, Jocasta’s brother, takes over as regent and decrees that the two brothers, Polinices and Eteocles, should take it in turns to rule Thebes in alternate years. Eteocles has ruled for a year, but then refused to hand over to his brother, who then gathered an army from Argos and invaded Thebes to seize the crown from his brother.

Act 1

Outside Thebes, an arena has been marked out between the city walls and the camp of the Argive army, and crowds of Theban citizens on the one side and Argive soldiers on the other are getting worked up in preparation for a fight to the death between the two rival brothers, which is the agreed method for solving the impasse. Creon, with Adrastes, a leading Theban magistrate, accompanied by two senior adjudicators from the Argive side, arrive and lead the two crowds in prayers to the gods that justice will be done.

In a dumb-show, the brothers arrive; Eteocles hands the crown and the sceptre to Creon, who ceremoniously places them in a neutral spot in full view. After a dance, the spectators sing a running commentary as Polinices and Eteocles start to fight. It is such a vicious conflict that both of them are killed. The four judges mingle with the crowds as soldiers dismantle the arena and two biers are brought out, ready to carry the bodies away. Creon announces that heaven has resolved the conflict, but at a terrible cost, since the royal bloodline is now broken, and the throne is empty. He calls on the Argive forces to respect their promises and end the fighting, and he asks the Thebans to choose a worthy ruler. Adrastes speaks for the Theban people and says that no-one is more worthy than Creon himself. He offers the royal regalia to Creon, who at first declines to accept, but when he is hailed king by the people, he agrees. Adrastes crowns him, commenting that when Antigone marries Creon’s son Hemon, with whom she is already in love, the royal line can be restored. The Theban people endorse this, wishing Creon a long reign and hoping for a peaceful future. Creon acknowledges all this, and then decrees that because Eteocles fought loyally for his country, he will be given a full state funeral, but that because Polinices brought only war to his homeland, his body must lie unburied, hated and prey for the carrion crows. The people agree that this is an appropriate decision, because traitors must make their own way to the underworld, unaided by the usual, respectful funeral honours.

As the crowds begin to disperse, Antigone and Ismene arrive, breathless and anxious. They clearly know what has happened because they demand to be allowed to embrace their brothers’ bodies, and Antigone comments that yet again the long-running family curse has turned out to be true, and that it is not over yet. The soldiers are carrying out their orders, and Creon reinforces them; Antigone challenges him, reminding him that her brothers’ deaths are the results of the scheme which Creon had hatched, and that since he has now achieved his ulterior motive, he might at least allow the normal rites of mourning for the two men whose deaths are his responsibility. Ismene too demands to know why he is still acting so cruelly towards the dead. Creon expresses sympathy for their distress, but comments that he is a citizen of Thebes, and now its king, and that those who rebel against the city do not deserve either honours or mourning, so Polinices must remain unburied as a warning to others who might want to rebel. Antigone continues to berate him and he reminds her of the penalty for disobedience. She knows that it is death, but she says that she will defy him anyway: she and Ismene remind Creon that it is a cruel severity to disrespect the dead and he responds that it is a just severity to deal harshly with those who rebel, and then sweeps out, along with the remaining soldiers and citizens, leaving Antigone and Ismene alone.

Antigone now contemplates her predicament: is there any more that fate can heap on her family? It was bad enough that her brothers were forced to kill one another, and now a tyrant is pursuing that shame beyond death. Ismene joins in, telling Polinices that there is now no-one who can show his body the respect of a proper burial by sprinkling it with dust. Antigone replies that Jove’s anger will now all fall on her. She tells Ismene that under cover of darkness, they can come out and defy Creon’s edict by performing the funeral rites for Polinices. She counters Ismene’s inevitable reluctance by reminding her that she will never be able to rejoin their parents and brothers unless they do the right thing now. She tells the shades of the dead that she will bring Polinices safely to them, even though it will mean her own death.

Antigone leaves, and Ismene muses on her predicament: she asks the gods to look into her heart and judge whether she too loves her brothers. But surely her responsibility now is to her sister, and her duty is to prevent Antigone from destroying her own life. Hemon, Creon’s son, now joins her and asks her why she is still in such an awful place when all of Thebes is honouring Eteocles and Antigone is noticeably absent from the celebrations. Slowly, she explains to Hemon what Antigone intends to do, and what the consequences for her will be. Hemon is stunned, and Ismene impresses on him the cruelty of Creon in forbidding a proper burial for Polinices, and the courage of Antigone for standing up to him in her determination to bury her brother. It is only a fawning crowd of flatterers who will swarm around the throne of such a tyrant. Hemon tells her that she need not weep, because Jove will not harm her any more and that although Antigone is risking disaster, they can both appeal to the gods not to be offended at the righteous behaviour of an innocent woman, because in heaven, mercy is not a crime.

Typical of his time, Dmitri Bortnyansky was equally at home in Italy and in the imperial court in St Petersburg. He was certainly not the only composer to set out to flatter his patron (author’s collection)

Act 2

That night, far from the city, Polinices’s body is burning on a funeral pyre; Antigone and her maids dance solemnly round the pyre, throwing precious possessions and incense into the flames and singing their prayers that their lamentations might ensure that his soul can pass safely into everlasting peace: following the ritual, Antigone cuts off a lock of her own hair and throws it into the fire. Her maids then put out the flames with holy water and gather the ashes into an urn. Antigone wonders why Polinices can now rest in peace while she has to remain here on earth, able only to weep and face even more horrors. Her maids bring her the urn containing Polinices’s ashes and remind her that all earthly vanities end up in a pile of dust. Antigone takes the urn and weeps over it, saying that if Polinices’s remains cannot be placed with honour in the royal tomb, then her tears will have to suffice; she tells the maids to clear the site of the pyre and leave no trace of what has happened there.

Hemon arrives in a rush: he tells Antigone that she must flee – Creon’s edict will mean her death, and as soon as Polinices’s funeral becomes known, she will immediately become the suspect. Antigone replies that she fears nothing, and that death will bring an end to her sorrows. Hemon declares his love for her and his hope that their loyal people will support them in the future, but for now, the urn containing the ashes must be hidden: he asks her to let him place it in the family tomb so that all proof will be concealed. He tells her that there is hope, and that just as she has saved her brother, now she must save her beloved. He sees a troop of soldiers approaching, so Antigone gives him the urn and they leave, along with the maids, in different directions.

Adrastes now arrives at the head of a band of soldiers. He recognises the remains of the funeral pyre and tells his men that this was very obviously the place where Polinices has been cremated. Clearly guards have been bribed, an order has been disobeyed and the king has been defied. Now there must be more mourning because heaven is determined to destroy the last of Oedipus’s line. Is it his fault, he wonders, if vengeance still seeks to punish the crime of a guilty father? Or if it is a crime to show mercy once a law has been passed.

Later, at the Temple of Jove the Bringer of Concord in Thebes which has been wonderfully decorated to celebrate the new era of peace, young men and women sing and dance while priests offer a ritual sacrifice. Creon and Ismene, surrounded by Creon’s guards, greet the people of Thebes, telling them that the newly-established peace is a gift from the gods. Ismene recalls the many deaths which have brought so much sorrow, and a chorus of Theban maidens praise Jove for his mercy. Creon declares that this day will be a sacred day from now on and a reminder of the man who brought war to Thebes; he repeats the edict that Polinices’s body will remain unburied and promises that anyone disobeying this law will die a terrible death. Adrastes rushes in and asks Creon to withhold the promise and explains that during the night someone has cremated the corpse and placed the ashes in the royal tomb. Creon is astounded, but Adrastes urges him to revoke the edict and not to plunge Thebes into even greater mourning. Creon, however, is adamant: the punishment stands, even if the criminal is his own son. Adrastes tells him that it is indeed his own son, and Hemon is then led in under guard. He was apprehended trying to place the urn in the royal tomb.

Creon turns on Hemon, accusing him of betraying his father and his country just when his future was secured; he asks Hemon to explain his actions and Hemon says that what he did was a fine deed. Creon continues to berate him, telling him that he must face the penalty because Creon is his judge and no longer his father. The people plead with Creon to show mercy, but he silences them, telling them that to let a crime go unpunished will simply encourage more disobedience, and that if Hemon is guilty, then he must die.

At this critical moment, Antigone arrives and declares that she alone is the guilty one. Ismene and Hemon beg her not to do this, but she ignores them, saying that honour cannot be bought for any price: she was the one who gave the funeral honours to Polinices, and all Hemon has done is to try to save her by taking the urn from her. Creon announces her fate: she will be walled up in the foul tomb reserved for criminals and buried alive so that no shedding of her blood will bring more horror to the city.

Hemon and Ismene plead for mercy but Creon is adamant, so Hemon begs to be immured with Antigone; Creon refuses him, saying that an example must be made – then he leaves and the people disperse, leaving Antigone, Ismene, Hemon and the maids with a platoon of guards. Ismene and Hemon are still pleading with her, but Antigone tells them that she will now happily join her parents and her ancestors, but that one day the people of Thebes will weep for her fate.

Act 3

High up in the mountains is the cave where criminals are entombed; a throne has been set up for the king and there is a temple of Mercury close by. Creon arrives and takes his seat on the throne and a crowd gathers, and to a mournful lament, Antigone is brought in, accompanied by her maids, all with their heads covered. The chorus comments that yet again the cloud of death envelops their city and the maids weep that even all their tears cannot console Antigone.

Antigone bids farewell to Thebes, to daylight and to the world. She asks if this is the marriage-bed which was intended for her, this living tomb. Hovering between life and death, she does not know whether to address the living or the dead. The maids and the gathered citizens express their sympathy and refer to the guilt of her father, Oedipus. She comments on the bitter wound that they have re-opened – her mother’s incestuous marriage and the implacable vengeance which pursues her now. Ismene now joins her and wants to be immured with her, she rushes to Creon and asks that she might share her sister’s punishment. Antigone asks Ismene what crime she has committed, and Ismene pleads with Creon that two sisters should not be parted in this way, and that if heaven is punishing Oedipus through his children, then she too must die so that the blood-line is destroyed for ever. Creon responds coldly that unhappiness is not the same thing as guilt, and when Ismene continues to plead with him, he orders the guards to drag her away. With Ismene gone, Antigone now pleads for a quick end to the proceedings. She is innocent, she insists, and heaven will call her accusers to account: she approaches the temple of Mercury and asks the god to guide her now, then she asks the cave to welcome her and give her rest from her torments. She asks the people of Thebes not to pity her, because this is the moment of her greatest happiness. She enters the cave and as the guards wall up the entrance, everyone present sings of yet more sorrow falling on Thebes.

Adrastes now enters in a hurry and tells Creon that Hemon is dead. He was being held prisoner according to Creon’s orders when Ismene forced her way through the guards and told him that Antigone’s punishment had been carried out. Hemon had snatched a weapon from one of his guards and killed two of them before he was cornered on an open balcony. With no other way of escape, he had thrown himself off it. Creon asks if Hemon is dead, and Adrastes replies that he doesn’t know because he came straight to Creon with the news.

Creon is horror-struck. He imagines himself embracing Hemon’s shattered body and seeing the boy’s mother reproach him for his cruelty. He imagines hearing Antigone’s dying lament and Ismene’s distraught sobbing and he weeps for the loss of his family and his throne, wondering how just one day can have brought so much sorrow. He realises that everything is his own fault, and not the will of the gods, and he rushes out, followed by his guards. As Adrastes ponders on the king’s distress, Hemon arrives; he did not die in the fall, and now he tells Adrastes that he knows of a way into Antigone’s tomb and that he intends to join her in death: he asks that if at some future time Thebes will become free from a tyrant’s rule, then his bones should be mixed with those of Antigone so that they can spend eternity together. Adrastes tries to dissuade him, but Hemon replies that anyone who tries to stop him will only harden his resolve – Creon gave him life, and now he is taking it from him, and he asks Adrastes to promise that if ever Creon weeps over his dead body, he should be reminded that his tears are meaningless compared with the blood that he has shed. He says that his shade will return to haunt Creon, and he leaves to join Antigone in the tomb. Adrastes is horrified.

In the tomb, Antigone, exhausted and sitting on a boulder, comments on the darkness and the coolness there, and how she too will soon be cold and dust. As she wonders how long she will survive, she hears Hemon’s voice and assumes that he has died before her and is now coming as a spirit to join her. But Hemon, very much still alive, finally reaches her and embraces her, telling her that she need weep no more now that he can die with her. Together they thank the gods that death now holds no fears for them, and when Antigone asks Hemon whether he really has come to die with her, he tells her that he has already tried to take his life, and that when he threw himself through the narrow cleft above them which is the only faint source of light in the cave, he fell heavily but landed on shrubs and small stones which broke his fall and only stunned him, and that it was hearing Antigone’s lament which brought him round. Gloomily, Antigone tells him that all they have to look forward to is slowly starving to death, but Hemon tells her that he has brought a dagger which means that they can decide when to die and not suffer a lingering torment. Antigone begs him to kill her straight away, but he tells her that they need a bit more time to share their love for one another.

Suddenly, they hear noises of blows on the rock, and then they see armed men with torches in the entrance and Hemon, thinking that his father has sent troops to take him from Antigone, prepares to kill himself with the dagger; Antigone stays his hand and Creon, accompanied by Adrastes, soldiers and a crowd of Thebans, bursts into the cave. He says that they are both forgiven and admits that he was blinded by power and a deluded desire for glory and that he lost his natural instincts. Since heaven has preserved them both and saved him from a lifetime of regrets, they can let this happy day crown their love: he says that they can leave this place of grief and enjoy a glorious day of happiness together. Hemon and Antigone are naturally overjoyed.

In a final scene, that evening, in the grounds of the royal palace, a chorus of young women set up a marriage altar and statues of Amor and Hymen; they cover everything with garlands of flowers and prepare two crowns of roses for Antigone and Hemon. A procession of young girls all dressed in white and bearing aromatic pine torches lead in Antigone and Hemon, followed by a huge group of Theban citizens all dancing and singing a marriage hymn. During all this festivity, Antigone and Hemon approach the altar, followed by Ismene, Creon and Adrastes; holding hands, they are crowned with the rose crowns, then they turn to face the jubilant crowd and comment on how quickly love can cause suffering to be forgotten and on how in happiness it is possible to recall even the darkest times with joy. The crowd call upon Juno, the goddess of marriage and pleasure, to bless their union, referring rather enthusiastically but naïvely to their casta letto, their ‘chaste marriage bed’. Ismene, Creon and Adrastes add a final slightly bizarre observation that a single moment of happiness makes up for a hundred years of sorrow, before the people sing a final chorus celebrating the end of grief and the beginning of a new era of peace. If only.

–ooOoo–

Related OperaStory articles can be found on

  • the life and operas of Dmitry Bortnyansky
  • the life and librettos of Marco Coltellini
  • what makes Coltellini’s Antigona such a mould-breaking libretto
  • other operas based on the story of Antigone and other members of her ill-starred family, including those by Josef Mysliveček, Antonio Sacchini, Ruggero Leoncavallo, Igor Stravinsky, Carl Orff and Mikis Theodorakis
  • other composers and librettists who served various Russian rulers at the Imperial court in St Petersburg …
  • … and many more aspects of operatic reforms over the centuries.

© Roger Witts 2013