Physiology of the Opera

by Scrici

The unhappy bride returns, and hearing her husband entreating the old tyrant so fervently for a respite, unites her supplications with those of her husband. To this the tyrant makes no direct answer, but merely presents a poignard to the trembling outlaw, with a repetition of the words of the poet Tennyson.

"Leave me here, and when you want me
Sound upon the bugle horn."

The outlaw perceiving no mode of escaping from this horn of the dilemma, seizes the poignard, drives it in his breast, and sinks mortally wounded. The poor bride shrieks, and falls upon his body. Now succeeds a scene of pulling and dragging on the floor. The wounded tenor is called upon to struggle and writhe in all the agonies of death, and the prima donna to follow him up in order to raise his head on her knee, and thus give him an opportunity of singing his dying solo. To do this in such a manner as not to render the whole thing ridiculous and farcical, instead of tragic and touching, requires all the grace and ease imaginable. When well done it is impressive; when badly it is laughable; but whether touching or laughable, it is sure to be relished by a large part of the audience, for it always discloses who has done most for the prima donna's bust, dame nature or the mantua maker.

The tenor's head being elevated to the proper height, he expresses it as his dying wish that the prima donna will continue to live and cherish his memory. They then lament their unhappy fate in a short duo. The tenor dies; the prima donna appears to do the same, but the libretto consoles you by declaring that she only swoons. The old tyrant—the basso—chuckles like a wretch over the success of his successful plot, declares it a revenge worthy of a demon; you concur in his sentiments, and the curtain falls.

Gentle reader, are you wearied out with this insufferable nonsense? Do not say that you are, or you will have established a reputation for want of taste, beyond all controversy. Not to admire what we have written in this chapter, is to condemn what we know you have often declared was a "love of an opera." We have merely explained the plot of a well known operatic chef d'œuvre, which, goodness knows, required an explanation.

Now do not be petulant, and very satirically exclaim,—"I wish he would explain his explanation," thereby showing, both that you can be excessively severe, and that you have read Byron. We do not intend to endeavour to render luminous that which is so very clear and evident in its meaning; it would be to "gild refined gold," and all that sort of thing, and therefore we spare you the infliction.

CHAPTER IX.

I'm fond of fire and crickets, and all that,

A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.

Byron.

From this genteel place the reader must not be surprised, if I should convey him to a cellar, or a common porter-house.

Connoisseur. No. 1.