Stories from the Operas

by Gladys Davidson

OTHELLO

A handsome Moor, named Othello, a man of noble nature and high intellect, had risen by his own ability and prowess to the envied position of a general in the Venetian Army; and because of his honourable reputation and excellent skill in relating stories of the battles and adventures he had engaged in, he was a welcome guest in many of the great houses of Venice.

But Othello himself cared only to visit at the house of a certain Venetian gentleman named Brabantio, who had a fair daughter named Desdemona; for the beauty, gentleness, and virtue of this lady had completely enslaved the heart of the handsome Moor, who grew to love her with all the strength of his passionate nature. And as the fair Desdemona listened to the glowing tales of peril, adventure, and victory related by the dusky visitor, she hung upon his words with eager interest, weeping for his woes and rejoicing at his escapes; and at last she grew to love him so dearly that all her thoughts became bound up in him.

Othello knew that Brabantio would be horrified at the mere thought of giving his daughter to a Moor; and so he very easily persuaded Desdemona to enter into a secret marriage with him.

Brabantio was filled with great indignation when he was afterwards told of their union, and, accusing Othello of having resorted to magic spells in winning the affections of the maiden, he took the whole matter before the Duke of Venice; but when the royal judge had listened to Othello's simple tale of love, and Desdemona's sweet declaration of trust in her husband, he announced that their mutual affection had come about in a perfectly natural way, and that no magic had been used.

So Brabantio was obliged to give his daughter to her lawful husband; and almost immediately after the case had been settled, Othello, as leader of the Venetian Army, was sent on a military expedition to the island of Cyprus.

The Moor departed first, leaving Desdemona to follow in the care of his lieutenant, Cassio; and upon their arrival in Cyprus great rejoicings were held.

Now, Othello had another confidential officer, whose name was Iago, and who served him as his Ancient; and this Iago, who was of an envious, cruel, and bitter nature, had a grudge against Cassio, because the latter had been made lieutenant, a post he coveted himself. He also envied the happiness of Othello; for he himself had cherished a passion for Desdemona, and had been filled with bitterness at her preference for the noble Moor. He therefore determined to bring Cassio quickly out of favour with his master, so that he himself might be advanced; and with this object he devised the cunning and cruel plan of making Othello believe that Cassio was the lover of Desdemona, and thus, by bringing misery on all, to satisfy his vengeful and envious nature.

He first of all led the unsuspecting Cassio into the folly of drinking too deeply one night when on guard in the camp; and then, as squabbling arose in consequence of this, he brought Othello upon the scene to learn the cause of the disturbance.

The Moor was so displeased with the foolish conduct of Cassio that he would not permit him to be his lieutenant any longer; but the cunning Iago was not yet satisfied, and he determined to use the disgraced officer still further, in order to bring woe upon Othello himself, whose happiness in the possession of the lovely Desdemona he was so eager to destroy.

He therefore now pretended to be Cassio's friend, and advised him earnestly to ingratiate himself with the Lady Desdemona, who might be induced to intercede with her husband on behalf of the erring officer; and as Iago's own wife, Emilia, was chief lady-in-waiting to Desdemona, it was quite easy for the necessary interviews to be arranged.

The gentle Desdemona, with never a thought of evil, received Cassio very kindly, and promised to plead for him with her husband, saying:

"... Assure thee,
If I do vow a friendship I'll perform it
To the last article ...
Therefore, be merry, Cassio,
For thy solicitor shall rather die
Than give thy cause away!"

Unfortunately, just as Cassio bent to kiss the lady's hand in gratitude as he departed, Othello himself appeared, accompanied by Iago, who cunningly drew his attention to this little scene.

The first faint shadow of jealousy thus crept into the mind of Othello; and when Desdemona presently began to plead for Cassio, although he answered her with fair words, he had already begun to doubt her in his heart.

After Desdemona had retired, Iago ruthlessly continued his wicked scheme of sowing the seeds of doubt in Othello's passionate heart; and the Moor quickly began to suffer the sharp pangs of jealousy, and to cherish a secret wrath against his innocent wife.

"Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed!"

said Iago, in a careless tone; and with such enigmatical, subtle words did he set the poison of doubt to work in his master's mind.

Encouraged by the quick success of his villainy, Iago now bade his wife Emilia to procure for him a certain richly worked handkerchief belonging to Desdemona, which had been Othello's first gift to her during their courtship; and Emilia, having no suspicion of treachery, but humbly obedient to her husband's wishes, secured the pretty trifle for him without the knowledge of her mistress. Iago then found an opportunity to make Othello believe that he had discovered this handkerchief amongst the belongings of Cassio, and that it had been given to the ex-lieutenant by Desdemona; and he also added casually that he had often heard Cassio murmur the name of Desdemona with loving emphasis in his sleep.

This announcement filled Othello with such rage that he rushed furiously at Iago, and flung him to the ground; and when next he met Desdemona he broke out into such a stormy tirade that the gentle lady was terrified.

As the days went on the poison of jealousy so artfully administered by the ruthless Iago began to permeate the whole being of the unfortunate Moor to such an extent that he put an evil construction upon the most innocent remarks of Desdemona; and the bewildered wife became very unhappy as she noted the altered behaviour of her husband, being quite unable to account for such a change, since her love for him was as deep and true as ever.

One day there came ambassadors from Venice with letters on State matters for Othello, in which he was bidden to return home; and upon the messengers asking for the absent Cassio, who was to be deputed to the Moor's place, Desdemona replied that the lieutenant had been disgraced, but that she was constantly pleading for his restoration to favour, since she had much regard for him. On hearing these words, spoken in all innocence and kindly feeling for one in trouble, Othello's mad jealousy was roused again; and in a wild outburst of rage he struck Desdemona a rough blow, and then fell to the ground in a convulsive fit brought on by his deep emotion.

That night, as Desdemona retired to rest, she was filled with sad thoughts and strange forebodings of ill; and as Emilia helped her to disrobe, she sang a low, plaintive song, which she declared had been sung to her mother on her death-bed, and which had haunted the unhappy lady all day. These were the words of the song:

"The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh streams ran by her and murmured her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow:
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;
Sing willow, willow, willow!"

When this sad ditty came to an end, Emilia left her mistress in bed; and the troubled Desdemona at length fell asleep.

Presently Othello entered the chamber with his sword in his hand, intending to kill her; but she looked so fair and tranquil as she slept that he could not bear to shed her blood, though he did not mean to go back from his resolve. He still loved her tenderly, in spite of the over-mastering jealousy which had eaten into his heart, and his firm belief that she had permitted Cassio to be her lover; and bending over the bed he kissed her sweet lips passionately, murmuring softly:

"O balmy breath, that doth almost persuade
Justice to break her sword!—one more, one more—
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after:—One more, and that's the last:
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears: This sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love!"

The hot kisses of Othello awakened Desdemona, who was much startled at finding her husband bending over her with such a fierce look in his passionate eyes; nor was she reassured when Othello asked sternly:

"Have you prayed to-night, Desdemona?"

The poor lady assured him that she had offered up her prayers as usual, and asked him the meaning of such a strange question; and then Othello declared that it was his resolve to kill her, again fiercely denouncing her as untrue to her wifely vows.

It was in vain that the hapless Desdemona protested her innocence, and pleaded piteously for mercy; so firmly was Othello convinced of her perfidy, owing to the false insinuations of Iago, that nothing could now make him believe in her innocence, and in a paroxysm of jealous passion he seized the pillows and bed-coverings and pressed them over his victim until she was stifled.

Just then Emilia's voice was heard calling loudly for admission; and thinking she had come to bring news of Cassio, whose death he had already ordered, Othello opened the door and let her into the room. But Emilia reported that Cassio was not dead, though wounded; and as she related this news the weak voice of the expiring Desdemona murmured softly, "A guiltless death I die!"

Emilia hurried to the bedside, just as her beloved mistress breathed her last; and filled with horror as she thus understood that Othello had slain his fair wife, she uttered loud cries of grief and alarm, so that a number of attendants hurried into the room, amongst them Iago and the Venetian Ambassadors.

Othello defended his conduct by relating the false tales of Desdemona which he had heard from Iago, more particularly dwelling upon the incident of the embroidered handkerchief; but when Emilia heard this, her husband's treachery dawned upon her for the first time, and she declared stoutly that she herself had procured the handkerchief for Iago at his own command.

It was in vain that Iago endeavoured to prevent his wife from telling what she knew about this incident, and from proclaiming Desdemona's innocence, which was now plain to all; and finding that she would not be silenced, and that her accusing words had brought his villainy to light, he rushed upon her in fury, and stabbed her to the heart.

The Ambassador immediately ordered his arrest; and then, turning to Othello, who was now filled with agonising remorse and despair on learning that he had slain his beloved wife without cause, since she had been innocent after all, he said:

"O thou Othello, that was once so good,
What shall be said to thee?"

And Othello replied humbly and sorrowfully:

"When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak
Of one that lov'd not wisely, but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one, whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away,
Richer than all his tribe; of one, whose subdued eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinal gum: Set you down this:
And say besides—that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him—thus!"

With these words the unhappy Moor seized his sword, and stabbed himself to the heart; then, as the attendants sprang forward in horror, he fell back dead beside the corpse of his beloved Desdemona.

WAGNER

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN
(Der Fliegende Holländer)

There was once a Dutch sea-captain who was so brave and fearless that no amount of danger seemed to daunt him. Battling with the wild winds and waves was the greatest joy to him, and his light-hearted daring carried him through many a difficult passage.

But at last the crowning test of his courage came; for, on a voyage round the coast of Africa, there arose the most furious tempest that had ever been known in those seas. All prudent seamen at once sought refuge in harbours and sheltering bays, casting their anchors until the storm should abate; but the Dutch captain only laughed at the fears of his crew when they implored him to do likewise, and, casting prudence to the winds, he swore that in spite of the raging hurricane he would double the Cape of Good Hope without delay, even if he kept on sailing for ever.

Now it happened that this foolish vow was over heard by the Evil One, who was in the very heart of the tempest, and, as a punishment for his vain boast, he condemned the rash captain to sail the seas until the Day of Judgment. The only hope of release held out to him was to find a pure and lovely maiden who would be willing to love him faithfully until death; and for this purpose he was allowed to go on shore once in every seven years to seek for such a saviour.

Full of remorse and despair, the unhappy captain began his ceaseless voyage, and the mad recklessness of his speed soon won for him the name of the "Flying Dutchman."

The fame of his terrible plight, and of the evil influence surrounding him, became world-wide, and all good sailors tried to avoid the doomed ship, crossing themselves devoutly whenever its blood-red sails and black masts appeared in sight.

Once in every seven years the Flying Dutchman went on shore; but he always returned disappointed and despairing, for no maiden could be found willing to share his fate and to be loving and faithful to him until death. And so, for years and centuries, the ill-fated man sailed the seas unceasingly, and though he daily courted death, yet death came not to him, and every danger passed him by.

At length, after many hopeless centuries had gone by, the Flying Dutchman steered his ship towards the rugged coast of Norway; and as another seven years' term was just now at an end, he determined to go on shore and begin his hopeless quest once more.

By this time his vessel was laden with gold and jewels gathered from the sea and coasts of many lands; and by bestowing his treasures lavishly, he knew he would soon gain acquaintance with someone.

As he drew near to the shores of a lonely bay, he found a Norwegian vessel already there before him, having sought shelter from a passing storm, and presently he entered into conversation with the captain, and tried to make friends with him.

The Norwegian captain, whose name was Daland, welcomed the stranger very kindly; and he told him that he only waited in this dreary spot until the storm abated, when he should eagerly make for his home, a few miles further along the coast, where his fair daughter was watching for his return.

When the Flying Dutchman heard that the Norwegian had a daughter, he was very glad; and presently he eagerly offered to Daland the whole of his vast treasures, if he would give him in return a few days' hospitality, and his daughter as a bride.

Now Daland, who was somewhat greedy of gold, had long desired to find such a wealthy husband for his beautiful daughter, and, though he knew nothing of the stranger before him, and felt somewhat afraid of his weird looks and mysterious crew, he could not resist the desire to possess the wonderful treasures described to him. So he gladly gave the Dutchman permission to woo the maiden; and a short time afterwards, the storm having passed away, the two ships set sail for Daland's home.

In the meanwhile, the household of the Norwegian captain had been eagerly awaiting his return for some time, and on the day of his expected arrival, his fair daughter, Senta, was spinning with her maidens in the principal room of the house.

Dame Mary, the old nurse, was in charge of the work, and under her directions the pretty maidens were kept busily employed, singing merry songs to the hum of their spinning-wheels.

Only one of the maidens was idle; and this was the beautiful young mistress—Senta herself—who sat with her hands folded, pensively gazing at a picture upon the wall. The picture was a portrait of the Flying Dutchman, who had been once seen by an artist years ago, and whose story told in ballad and legend was well known in Norway; and as Senta looked upon that pale, sad face, a great pity for the poor wanderer's terrible fate arose within her.

This face had such a wonderful fascination for the tender maiden, that a great love and devotion grew up in her heart for the tortured soul she longed to comfort; and on this day of her father's return, she gazed upon the picture with more intentness than usual, for she had dreamed many times of late that its subject stood before her as a real living lover.

But Dame Mary did not care to see her sweet young mistress gaze so frequently upon the face of one whom Satan had claimed for his own; and presently she called out sharply to her: "Thou careless girl! Wilt thou not spin?"

Then the other maidens begged her also to join them in their spinning, and not to waste her sighs and thoughts on one who could never be her lover; but Senta said she was tired of the hum of spinning-wheels, and asked Dame Mary to tell them again the legend of the Flying Dutchman.

But Dame Mary would not do so; and then Senta herself sang the whole ballad through from beginning to end, in her sweet, soft voice.

She described the rash vow of the daring captain, and the awful doom it had brought upon him, and the song excited her to such passionate depths of pity that, at the end of it, she stretched out her arms and cried aloud, as though the spectral seaman himself stood before her:

"I am the one who through her love will save thee!
Oh, may the Angels hither guide thee!
Through me, may new-found joy betide thee!"

As she uttered these wild words, which caused Dame Mary and her maidens to cry out in horror, a handsome young huntsman, named Erik, entered the room, and heard all; and having loved the fair Senta from childhood, and believed himself beloved in return, he rushed to her side in alarm, imploring her not to forsake him.

He then announced that Daland's ship had just arrived, accompanied by another and unknown vessel; and when Dame Mary and the maidens had hastily departed to set food ready for their master's welcome, he turned again to Senta, and begged her to assure him once more of her love, and to help him to gain her father's consent to their marriage, knowing full well that Daland desired a wealthier suitor for his daughter than a poor huntsman.

The beautiful Senta only laughed at his doubts; and when he reproached her with gazing so constantly at the picture on the wall, she declared it was but pity that filled her heart for the subject of it.

But Erik was not satisfied, and he went on to describe a vision he had lately had, in which he had seen Senta give her hand to this very phantom captain, who embraced her rapturously, and led her to his vessel; and when Senta heard this, the glamour of her strange fascination came over her again, and she cried out wildly:

"He seeks for me, and I for him!
For him will I risk life and limb!"

Erik rushed away, wringing his hands with grief, feeling now that Senta must be under some strange and evil spell; and at this moment Daland entered the room with his mysterious guest, whom as yet he did not know to be the Flying Dutchman. He held out his arms lovingly, expecting his daughter to rush forward and embrace him as she had always done before on his return from sea; but Senta, with wide-open, intense eyes, was gazing fixedly beyond him at the stranger in the doorway.

There, in the living flesh, she beheld the face that had fascinated all her maiden days; and, spellbound with astonishment, she turned to embrace her father, as in a trance, saying: "My father, say, who is this stranger?"

Then Daland explained how he had met with the strange captain and taken pity on his loneliness; and he eagerly added:

"Wilt thou, my child, accord our guest a friendly welcome?
And wilt thou also let him share thy kindly heart?
Give him thy hand, for bridegroom it is thine to call him!
If thou but give consent, to-morrow his thou art.
Look on these gems; look on the bracelets!
To what he owns, trifles are these!
Dost thou, my child, not long to have them?
And all art thine, when thou art his!"

As he spoke, Daland, with the gleam of avarice in his eyes, spread out on a table the jewels and gold the Flying Dutchman had already given him from big treasure-laden ship; but seeing that Senta did not even glance at them, he thought it wiser to retire, and leave the stranger to plead his own cause.

When he had gone, the Flying Dutchman, with trembling hope, seized the hands of Senta and implored her to share his lonely fate, declaring that he had seen her in visions long ago, and believed her to be the one who should save him from his woes, and bring him peace and rest at last; and Senta, with rapture, consented to be his bride, telling him that she had also seen him in her dreams, and had longed to release him from his sorrows.

When the Flying Dutchman thus knew that Senta was acquainted with his sad story and willing to break the evil spell that had been cast upon him, he was transported with joy; and yet he nobly begged her to think of the sacrifice she was about to make by sharing his lot. To which the fair maiden replied heroically:

"Him whom I choose, him I love only,
And loving, e'en till death!
Here is my hand! I will not rue!
But e'en to death will I be true!"

At this moment Daland returned, and, full of joy at seeing that Senta was willing to accept the stranger he had chosen for her husband, he gladly joined their hands.

He then invited them to return with him to the shore; for it was always his custom, at the end of a voyage, to give a feast to the crew on board his ship.

When they arrived upon the shore, a gay scene was already taking place. Dame Mary and her merry maidens had brought food and wine on deck, and the jolly sailors were soon greeting their pretty sweethearts, and feasting, laughing, and singing with thankful hearts.

In strange contrast to this merriment, complete silence reigned on board the Flying Dutchman's ship, for though food and wine had also been brought out for the stranger's crew, they kept down below, and gave no sound of life at all. It was in vain that the maidens tried to attract their attention; and at length, alarmed at the strange looks of the silent vessel, they desisted altogether.

And then, when the Norwegian sailors, in their own enjoyment, had almost forgotten the presence of the strangers, the mysterious crew of the Flying Dutchman suddenly roused up and began to sing, in harsh, unearthly tones, a wild song, in which they told the story of their ill-fated master; and at the same time a dark, bluish flame gleamed around them, and loud rumblings of a storm were heard.

At first the startled Norwegians looked on in wonder, and tried to drown these weird sounds with their own gay singing; but after a while they grew alarmed, and, overcome by the dreadful scene, and full of horror, they hurriedly crossed themselves and retired to the cabin. On seeing this, the crew of the phantom ship burst into a peal of shrill, demoniacal laughter; and then the ghastly flame died slowly away, the stormy rumblings ceased, and silence reigned once more.

The Norwegians now knew that the dreaded and shunned Flying Dutchman and his evil crew from the abodes of darkness were in their midst; and Erik the Huntsman, shocked and horrified, rushed towards Senta, and implored her to renounce the stranger whose evil fate she had agreed to share. He passionately pleaded his own faithful love, begging her to accept it once again; and he reminded her of the old sweet days when she had been contented to love him, saying:

"Hast thou forgot that day when thou didst call me,
Call me to thee, yon pleasant vale within?
When, counting not what labour might befall me,
Fearless I climbed, gay flow'rs for thee to win?
Bethink thee, how, upon the headland standing,
We watched thy father from the shore depart,
He, ere we mark'd his gleaming sail expanding,
He bade thee trust my fond and faithful heart,
Why thrill'd my soul to feel my hand clasp'd in thine?
Say, was it not that it told me thou wert true?"

These tender, pleading words were heard by the Flying Dutchman, who was hovering near; and the wretched man, full of disappointment and despair, believing that Senta was about to renounce him, rushed on board his own ship and drew the anchor, crying out wildly: "Abandoned! All is for ever lost! Senta, farewell!"

But Senta, though torn by Erik's pleading, still found her love and devotion to the Flying Dutchman the strongest feeling in her heart; and, rushing forward to follow him, she cried:

"Canst thou doubt if I am faithful?
Unhappy! What has blinded thee?
Oh stay! The vow we made forsake not!
What I have promised, kept shall be!"

Erik, Daland, and others seized the distraught maiden as she fled, full of horror at the sacrifice she was about to make for one whose evil doom affrighted them; and whilst they held her back, the Flying Dutchman, though utterly bereft of hope, nobly vowed that he would release her from her promise to him, and sail away at once.

But Senta was determined to share the sad doom of the hero of her dreams, and by her faithful love to break the cruel spell that had bound him so long; and struggling until she freed herself from those who so vainly tried to hold her back, she ran forward to the edge of an overhanging cliff close by, stretching out her arms, and crying wildly to the hopeless figure on the departing vessel:

"Well do I know thee—Well do I know thy doom!
I knew thy face when I beheld thee first!
The end of thine affliction comes:
My lore till death shall take thy curse away!
Here stand I, faithful, yea, till death!"

With these heroic words, the gentle, devoted maiden, in a transport of joy, cast herself into the sea; and, immediately afterwards, the phantom ship sank beneath the waves, which arose and receded again in a mighty whirlpool.

As the Norwegians gazed with awe and astonishment upon this wondrous sight, they saw, in the golden glow of the setting sun, two ethereal forms rising together from the sea over the wreck, and floating upward towards the heavens.

They were Senta and the Flying Dutchman, their arms entwined in a loving embrace, and a look of perfect peace and everlasting joy upon their radiant, upturned faces.

The ransom had been paid; and the Flying Dutchman was at rest for evermore, with the fair, sweet maiden who had loved him faithfully until death!