Chapter XI: Part IV: The Twilight of the Gods (10)

Thus it came about that Musetta was gorgeously attired, and was filled with elation at the effect her finery made upon all who knew her amongst the Christmas crowd; but upon observing Marcel taking supper outside the Café Momus, she had hoped specially to attract his attention, and for this purpose had seated herself opposite, for the sight of this man, whom she really loved, had immediately dissatisfied her with her present uninteresting cavalier, of whom she had already tired.

But Marcel at first refused to look in the direction of this coquettish temptress, whom he still so passionately adored; and then, Musetta, annoyed at such tantalising behaviour, resorted to noise in order to make her presence noted. She dropped a plate with a great clatter upon the hard ground, where it broke into many pieces; she talked in a loud voice to her companion, scolding him vigorously when he remonstrated with her for her noisiness; and then, finding that she was still unnoticed, she began, as a last resource, to sing, to the great disgust of old Alcindoro, who irritably endeavoured to make her stop.

The sound of Musetta's sweet singing was more than Marcel was proof against; and, fascinated in spite of himself, he turned his eyes upon the girl with an intense look of passionate entreaty and longing.

Musetta, recognising at once that her lover had capitulated, now sought to rid herself of the tiresome old beau at her side; and, uttering an exclamation of pretended pain, she declared that her foot was pinched beyond bearing. Then, taking off one of her shoes, she thrust it into the hand of Alcindoro, and imperiously bade him to take it to a boot shop in an adjacent street, and bring her a pair of shoes one size larger; and the fussy old gentleman, not daring to refuse, being in wholesome fear of his charming inamorata's wayward temper and sharp tongue, hobbled away with the shoe, grumbling furiously.

The students had watched this little manœuvre with great amusement; and when the foolish old dupe had disappeared, Marcel rushed across to Musetta, and embraced her with loving fervour.

Whilst the reunited lovers were thus rejoicing together, the sound of beating drums announced the approach of a patrol of soldiers; and immediately the crowd of merry-makers in the square gathered to one side to leave a clear space for the picket to march through. The soldiers soon appeared, headed by a band; and as they passed through the square to the main thoroughfare, the crowd quickly followed, anxious to see the tattoo that was about to take place.

The students decided to join this merry throng also; and, having by this time no money left to pay for the luxurious supper they had just enjoyed, Musetta mischievously suggested that they should leave their bill on her table, and tell the waiter that old Alcindoro would pay for it. Hailing this suggestion with hilarious applause, the gay students gave the necessary instructions to the waiter, and hurried quickly from the square, Rudolf and Mimi arm-in-arm, Schaunard playing a new pipe he had just bought, and Marcel and Colline carrying Musetta between them, for, having but one shoe, she could not walk.

When the pompous Alcindoro presently returned with the pair of shoes he had been despatched to buy, he found the supper-table deserted, and his fickle charmer flown; and upon the obsequious waiter presenting him with the long bill run up by the extravagant students, with which had been incorporated his own smaller one, he realised the trick that had been played upon him, and began to storm lustily, though in the end he had to submit and settle the bill, rather than become the laughing-stock of the café.

Marcel and Musetta now passed some months happily together, for though the coquettish girl still took every possible opportunity for a flirtation with anyone who might happen to admire her, yet she really loved Marcel only. But she would not be tyrannised over, for her high spirit could not brook restraint; and if Marcel showed signs of wishing to curb her inordinate love of fine clothes and admiration, she quickly resented it. The two, however, fared better than Rudolf and Mimi, who, in spite of their passionate love, yet spent a miserable existence together.

For Rudolf's love was of that all-absorbing and madly jealous nature, that was for ever imagining and fostering suspicions of the object of his affections; and not a glance nor a word could he bear Mimi to bestow elsewhere. Their life was, therefore, passed in a constant state of misunderstandings; for though they might be deliriously happy one day, they would suffer for this by many weeks of misery. Often they were on the point of separating for ever; and, indeed, at last they finally agreed to this.

At the time when Mimi, after a great mental struggle, came to this resolution, she had been avoided by Rudolf for some little time; and, having learnt that he had joined Marcel and Musetta at an inn on the borders of the Latin Quartier, she made her way there one cold wintry morning.

As she stood waiting outside the inn for Marcel, to whom she had sent a message desiring him to help her to carry out her resolve, she was seized with a violent fit of coughing; for of late the wasting disease to which she had always been inclined had developed with alarming rapidity, and her frail form was constantly shaken by a racking cough.

When Marcel presently appeared, he was shocked at her wasted looks, and anxiously tried to draw her into the inn; but Mimi refused to enter for fear of meeting with Rudolf. She then told Marcel of the constantly strained relations between herself and Rudolf, whose mad jealousy made them both wretched; and she implored him to help her to part finally from her lover, since she felt that their lives would be at least more peaceful apart.

Whilst she was still speaking of this, Rudolf himself appeared in the doorway of the inn; and, fearing to meet him just then, Mimi crept behind a group of plane trees as he approached. As Marcel turned to greet his friend, Rudolf declared that he had come to seek his assistance in effecting his final separation from Mimi, describing their strained relations in very much the same way as the poor girl herself had done; and then, his bitter tone giving way to a softer mood, he admitted that his jealous suspicions were really groundless, being caused only by his great love for her. He next began to speak in anxious tones of Mimi's frail health, declaring that her constant cough, wasted form, and feverish looks filled him with despair, since he knew that they were the unmistakable heralds of an early death; and Mimi, who could not fail to hear all that passed, thus realising for the first time the doom that awaited her, was so overcome with woe that her sobs quickly made her presence known to her lover.

In a moment Rudolf was at her side, embracing her tenderly, and entreating her to enter the inn for warmth and refreshment; but this Mimi again refused to do, declaring that she had come to bid him a final farewell, having at last made up her mind to see him no more, since they could not be happy together. Rudolf, refusing to believe her in earnest, passionately pleaded his cause with her, so that her resolution soon melted away; and whilst the once more reconciled lovers were thus happily engaged, Marcel, hearing Musetta's saucy laugh pealing forth from the inn, dashed within, fully convinced that she was carrying on a lively flirtation in his absence. His conviction proved to be a right one, for presently the two emerged from the inn squabbling violently, Marcel jealously accusing the girl of accepting the attentions of a new admirer, and declaring that he would not permit her to be so free with her smiles. The high-spirited, admiration-loving Musetta resented this interference with her pleasure, for her wayward nature would not brook restraint; and hotly declaring that she should flirt just whenever she pleased, she impetuously bade Marcel farewell, and flounced away in a pet.

Mimi and Rudolf, however, were by this time quite reconciled to each other, and yet once again they entered upon a phase of delirious joy. But this happy phase, like the many others that had preceded it, also quickly came to an end; and the separation that followed was the longest they had yet endured.

Rudolf and Marcel, both being thus deprived of their loved ones, joined their student friends once more, and tried to interest themselves in their work as formerly, endeavouring to heal their sore hearts in the pursuit of art. But neither could forget the joy that had been theirs; and one day as they sat working together in the same old attic in which pretty Mimi had first introduced herself, the thoughts of both turned back to the days of their happy love. Marcel, whenever his companion's glance was averted, would press to his lips a bunch of ribbons that had once belonged to Musetta; and Rudolf, when he thought himself unobserved by his friend, would take from a drawer beside him the little rose-trimmed bonnet Mimi had left him as a keepsake, and tenderly caress it.

Though it was now many months since they had parted, they had seen the girls from time to time, though from afar; and observing that they were richly clad, knew that they had found new admirers. They were speaking of this as they sat at work, making a sorry pretence of not caring about the circumstance, which, however, revived all the pain in their hearts; and since this attempt at mutual comfort was a dismal failure, they gladly hailed the arrival of Colline and Schaunard, who brought with them a very meagre meal, consisting of four small rolls and a herring. For the friends were just at that time going through one of their frequent penniless stages; but with their usual careless good-humour, they sat down to the humble food with as much hilarity as though it had been a feast of the highest order, gaily inviting one another to imagine that the crusts were dainty dishes, and pledging one another in water, as though it had been champagne.

Whilst they were thus making merry, the door was suddenly opened; and to the astonishment of all, Musetta entered, wearing an anxious face, and appearing much agitated. In answer to the eager questions poured upon her, she announced that Mimi was without, but was too weak and exhausted to mount the stairs, being, in fact, in a dying condition; and upon hearing that his beloved one was so near, Rudolf rushed to her assistance, and, with the help of his friends, brought her into the room, and laid her tenderly upon the bed.

Mimi and Rudolf embraced one another passionately; and whilst they were thus absorbed in their joy, Musetta related to the others the reason of their sudden visit. Having heard that Mimi had left her rich admirer, and was now lying in the last stages of consumption, she had hastened to her side; and upon the poor exhausted girl expressing a passionate desire to see Rudolf once more before her death, she had undertaken to bring her to him, and by half carrying her had succeeded in this difficult enterprise. She now asked the students if they had any food or cordials with which to revive the fainting girl, and was sadly informed that they had nothing in their store, and no money either; but Colline and Schaunard presently left the room, taking with them an overcoat which they meant to pawn.

Mimi presently motioned Marcel to her side, and, placing Musetta's hand in his, desired that they would be reconciled once more for her sake; and she was filled with joy when the two embraced, and declared that they still loved one another dearly.

Then Musetta, anxious to leave the dying girl alone with her lover, that they might have a last happy talk together, suggested to Marcel that they should go to fetch Mimi's little muff, which she had asked for, being unable to keep her hands warm; and so the two presently departed on this kindly errand.

Finding that they were now alone, Mimi lay happily in Rudolf's arms, and told him again and again that her love for him had never changed; and the young student, overjoyed at thus learning that he was still beloved by the being he himself adored, declared passionately that they would never again be parted, in his gladness failing to realise that Mimi's little spark of life was even now almost extinguished.

Schaunard and Colline presently returned with food and a cordial they had bought with the money obtained by pawning the coat, saying also that a doctor would shortly arrive; and soon after Marcel and Musetta appeared with the muff they had been to fetch.

Mimi placed her tiny hands in the muff with childish pleasure; and presently, declaring that she now felt quite warm, she closed her eyes and seemed to rest.

Rudolf then gently moved away, and questioned his friends in a low voice as to when the doctor would arrive; but when Musetta approached the bed with the cordial she had poured out, she saw to her sorrow that Mimi was already dead.

Hearing her exclamation of consternation, Rudolf ran forward and took Mimi's cold little hand in his; and then, gradually realising the terrible truth, he uttered a cry of anguish and sank, overcome with grief and despair, beside her lifeless form.

MADAM BUTTERFLY

In a quaint little house perched at the top of a steep hill in Nagasaki, great preparations for coming festivities might have been observed one bright sunny afternoon; for within the next few hours, a young American naval officer, Lieutenant B. F. Pinkerton, was to be wedded to Cho Cho San, a pretty little geisha maid, and was even now inspecting his new abode with old Goro, the broker, who had arranged this "Japanese Marriage" for him.

For the young American, like many others of his class, had sought to relieve the monotony of his sojourn in Nagasaki by amusing himself with the pretty maids of the town; and having conceived a sudden passion for the fairest of them all, Cho Cho San, or Butterfly, as she was more generally called, whose bewitching daintiness and sweet nature had quickly enthralled his heart, he had determined to indulge his love at all costs, and for this reason had engaged the services of Goro.

The old marriage broker, delighted at having secured such a desirable client, to whom dollars seemed of little count, assured the eager lover that the matter was quite an easy one to arrange; and not only did he undertake to draw up the marriage contract (which, however, could be annulled monthly!), and to assemble the relations and necessary legal officials, but also secured for him a house in which to spend this blissful dream, a nest which he well knew would sooner or later be deserted.

And so well had Goro managed his commission, that the "marriage" was successfully arranged, and about to take place; and now, as Pinkerton followed the obsequious old broker from room to room of the charming retreat that had been prepared for his pleasure, he was delighted with everything he saw, admiring the wonderful mechanical contrivances by which the building could be altered according to fancy, and praising his guide for his careful work. For Goro had forgotten nothing, not even the Japanese servants, whom he presently introduced to their new master; nor the wedding guests, the relations of pretty Butterfly, who were expected to shortly appear for the ceremony.

Just as Pinkerton was beginning to tire of the old broker's loquacity, the first of the wedding guests arrived. This was Sharpless, the American Consul, who had come in his official capacity, and also as the friend and compatriot of the bridegroom. He was an older man than Pinkerton, for whom, however, he had much affection; so much, indeed, that he had come with the intention of persuading his friend to abandon this Japanese so-called "marriage," knowing that little real happiness was likely to come of it. Although he had not actually seen the little bride, he had heard her speaking when she called the day before at the Consulate about her marriage, and had been so impressed by the thrilling charm of her voice that he was persuaded she regarded this step with intense seriousness, not as a mere temporary amusement; and in his own large-hearted tenderness, it pained him to think that one so fragile and innocent should be called upon to suffer when the awakening should come.

He therefore seriously asked Pinkerton to reflect again before he entered into this connection, of which he would doubtless quickly tire and have no compunctions in severing, since it seemed that the Japanese maiden's love was so deep that she believed her future husband would regard their marriage as a binding one; and with sincere earnestness, he besought his young friend not to gratify what was to him a mere passing fancy, at the expense of bruising the wings of this trusting little Butterfly. Pinkerton, however, impatiently refused to listen to his friend's counsel, for he had no compunctions himself as to the course he was pursuing, which was one frequently practised by others of his class with no serious consequences, since the deserted little Japanese "wives" were afterwards usually contented to accept new husbands of their own race; and gaily assuring the prudent Consul that no harm was likely to come of his pleasure, he ran to greet his little bride, who at this moment appeared on the open terrace, accompanied by a bevy of merry girl friends.

A veritable little butterfly in appearance was Cho Cho San, sweet and dainty as a freshly-opened flower bud; sunny-hearted and gay, yet full of quaint and thoughtful fancies; childish, fragile and fairy-like, yet possessing a woman's heart, pure, true, and capable of a deep and abiding passion. She had bestowed this treasure of love upon the handsome Pinkerton with childish and implicit trust; and her belief in his professed love for her was so intense that she never gave a single thought to the future possibility of his affection waning, but considered herself the happiest girl in all Japan.

She now greeted him with bright smiles, introducing him with pride to her friends; and then, with simple artlessness, she began to prattle merrily to the two Americans, telling them of her family history, how her mother was poor, and how she herself had been obliged to become a geisha to earn a living. When asked about her father, she grew suddenly sad, and merely stated that he was dead; but later on they learnt that he had met his death bravely by "_Hara-kiri_," a sword having been sent to him by the Mikado with a message to despatch himself. Presently, Butterfly herself, when asking Pinkerton's permission to retain a few girlish treasures she had brought with her, showed him this very sword, which she revered as her greatest possession. As a further proof of her perfect trust in her future husband, she now whispered in his ear the startling fact that she had the day before visited the Christian mission-house, to adopt his faith, having been willing for his sake to renounce her old religion, a fact which, if known to her relations, would cause them to regard her as an outcast.

By this time, the relations who had been bidden to the wedding had arrived; and a motley enough group of undesirables they were in the eyes of Pinkerton, who, however, received them graciously, accepting their flowery compliments with gay good-nature. The Registrar and Commissioner having also arrived, the wedding took place without further delay, being concluded in a few minutes, the ceremony merely consisting of the reading of the marriage contract by the Commissioner, and the signing of the same by the bride and bridegroom.

This simple proceeding over, the guests crowded round to congratulate the happy pair, and having wished the young American good luck, Sharpless and the other officials took their leave at once. Pinkerton now tried to rid himself of the wedding guests, longing to be left alone with his dainty little bride; but this he found to be a very difficult matter, for the impecunious relations of the pretty Butterfly had come with the intention of enjoying themselves to the full at the expense of the rich American, and were not to be deprived of such a treat. Finding this to be the case, Pinkerton resigned himself to the inevitable; and, inviting the expectant guests to the refreshment tables, he plied them lavishly with wines, sweetmeats, and all the fanciful Japanese delicacies that had been provided by the ingenious Goro, encouraging their unrestrained greed in the hope that satiety would shortly bring about the fulfilment of his desires.

Just as the hilarity was at its height, however, there came an unexpected interruption; for suddenly an uncouth individual of weird aspect burst in amongst the guests, wildly brandishing his arms, and uttering cries of furious rage. This unwelcome intruder was Butterfly's most important uncle, a Bonze, or Japanese priest, who, having by some means learnt of his niece's visit to the hated Christian mission, had now come to denounce her for her apostasy; and, alarmed at the threatening aspect of one whom they held in awe, the guests drew back in frightened groups. Butterfly, in fear and trembling, also tried to crouch from the sight of her outraged relative; but the Bonze sought her out, and ruthlessly declaring to the relations that she had of her own free will renounced them all and forsaken the religion of her forefathers, he furiously called down curses upon her, in which he was immediately joined by the now angry guests, in whose eyes such an offence was unpardonable.

Pinkerton had at first laughed at the extravagant speeches and ridiculous gesticulations of the weird-looking Bonze; but when the relations took up the denunciation also, he grew angry, and unceremoniously turned them all out of the house.

As the imprecations of the departing guests died away in the distance, poor little Butterfly buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears; but Pinkerton folded her in his arms, and soon succeeded in restoring her to smiles and joyousness once more.

"I do not mind anything, if you will only love me!" she said, as she kissed his hand with quaint humility. "Though they have cast me off, yet am I full of joy! I am with you; and you are my people and my life!"

Night had now closed in, and as they presently wandered out together on to the moonlit terrace, Pinkerton folded his fair bride in his arms in a passionate embrace; and in that moment of ecstasy, the lovers felt that the world was indeed well lost.

A period of intense happiness now followed; but, alas! it was but a short one. For Pinkerton's love for his little Japanese wife, though passionate at the time, was, as Sharpless had declared, but a passing phase; and when, after a few months had drifted pleasantly by in this pretty dream, his ship had received orders to return to America, he had departed with little real regret. For he did not intend to return to the nest he was now deserting for ever; and in his careless way he felt no compunctions, for he believed that the pretty Butterfly would as easily forget him, and eventually take unto herself a Japanese husband. Yet to ease the pain of his departure, he promised the weeping girl that he would return to her when the robins began to nest; and Butterfly, believing implicitly in this promise, was satisfied, and daily declared to her faithful maid and sole companion, Suzuki, who had no such trusting faith, that this happy event would certainly come to pass.

Later on, when a fair, blue-eyed baby boy was born to her, she rejoiced at the little one's birth the more because of the additional pleasure she felt was in store for the surely-returning father; and even when three years had passed since her wedding-day, and no word had yet come from the faithless Pinkerton, she still hoped and waited patiently, confident that her hopes would be realised. It was quite useless for the handmaid, Suzuki, whose knowledge of such "marriages" was wider, to suggest to her mistress that her hope was a vain one; for the trusting little Butterfly would only grow angry, and refuse to listen to her.

But, at last, the money which Pinkerton had left for their temporary support (thinking that they would soon be established in some other household) became exhausted; and now, towards the end of the third year, they found themselves within a few coins of destitution. Even on the day when this sad discovery was made, the deserted little bride bid her handmaid not to trouble, since the waiting-time would now soon be over; and rousing herself up to a transport of happy expectation, she reminded Suzuki of Pinkerton's promise to return when the robins should nest, and carried away by her eager thoughts, began to describe the arrival of the expected ship, from which her beloved husband would most assuredly land and hasten to her side.

But Suzuki, knowing that the robins had already nested several times since the young officer's departure, only muttered gloomily that it was not known for a Western husband to return to a Japanese nest; but when on hearing this Butterfly sprang up with eyes blazing with anger, to soothe and comfort her once more the faithful handmaid repeated the eager girl's own hopeful words.

Whilst they were thus talking, a visitor suddenly appeared; and to the delight of Butterfly, this proved to be none other than Sharpless, the American Consul, who had come on a very difficult mission. For he had just received a message from Pinkerton, who was returning at last to Nagasaki, and whose ship was expected to arrive that very day; and in this letter the young lieutenant announced that he was now married to a beautiful American lady, and asked his old friend to seek out the pretty Butterfly, and if she still remembered him, to break this news as gently as he could.

Butterfly received the Consul with joy; and on hearing that he had a letter from Pinkerton, she clapped her hands and became very excited, declaring that her hopes were about to be realised, and that her beloved husband was really returning to her, as she had never for a moment doubted, or ceased to believe. Her eager anticipation and childish delight quite unmanned the tender-hearted Sharpless, who now saw only too plainly how right he had been when warning Pinkerton that the Japanese maiden regarded their marriage as a binding one, and that her love was a deep and abiding passion, the very breath of life to her; and though he essayed many times to explain his cruel mission, his efforts to do so were quite in vain. For, upon every sentence he read from the letter, Butterfly put her own happy construction, finding in each line an imaginary message of hope for herself; and so vivid was her delusion, that Sharpless despaired of ever making her realise the fatal truth.

He was therefore somewhat relieved by the unexpected appearance of old Goro, the marriage broker, who brought with him Prince Yamadori, a wealthy Japanese suitor, whom he had for a long time past tried vainly to induce the deserted wife to accept as a husband, for one so young and pretty was still a tempting prize to offer to his amorous clients. Yamadori had now come to plead his own cause with the obdurate Butterfly, who, however, still refused to listen to him; and, full of indignation, she turned to Sharpless, and cried "You hear what he and that wicked Goro wish me to do! How can I marry him, when I have a beloved husband already, who is now returning to claim me once again?"

Even when Goro, eager to secure her for his wealthy client, reminded her that in Japan desertion constituted divorce, and that she was therefore perfectly free to marry again, she was not to be convinced, but declared scornfully: "But the law of Japan is not the law of my husband's country!"

Seeing that argument was useless in her present state, old Goro and his disappointed client withdrew, hoping for better success on their next visit; and when they had gone, Sharpless, distressed beyond measure at the poor girl's absolute blindness to the fact that Pinkerton had really deserted her, and that he had never even regarded his marriage with her in a serious light at all, but merely as a pleasant interlude made possible by the easy law of Japan, again tried to tell her the real reason for his visit. Having once more dismally failed in this, he next tried to persuade her to accept the wealthy Japanese suitor who desired to make her his bride; but such a suggestion coming from one she trusted so deeply wounded her that he did not venture to press the point.

As the final strengthening of her argument, and crowning proof of the utter uselessness of trying to persuade her that she was forgotten, Butterfly ran to fetch her bonny baby boy, and, holding him up before the eyes of the amazed Consul, who had no idea of the child's existence, cried with passionate pride: "Do you think he could forget _this_ proof of our love?"

Sharpless, knowing that Pinkerton had no knowledge that a son had been born to him, was now so overcome with deep emotion that he could scarcely control his feelings of pity for the deserted little Japanese wife; and, utterly unable to reveal the truth to her just then, he hastily took his leave, inwardly railing at his friend for entrusting him with such an impossible mission.

No sooner had the Consul departed than the roar of cannon was heard from the harbour; and, hurrying to the terrace, Butterfly discovered that this was a salute to an arriving ship, which, to her indescribable joy, she saw was flying the American flag, and by the aid of a telescope made out its name to be the _Abraham Lincoln_, which she knew to be Pinkerton's vessel. Full of delirious joy, and feeling fully convinced that her beloved one would now without doubt be with her in an hour or two's time, she called to Suzuki, and bade her to quickly bring in the fairest flowers from the garden, that she might adorn the little home with garlands in honour of the master's return.

Though Suzuki had still no belief that the young American would return, she went in haste to gather the flowers, in order to humour her beloved mistress; and as quickly as she brought the lovely fragrant blooms into the house, Butterfly placed them in every available space, calling continually for more, until each room was a perfect bower of roses, violets, lilies, and blossoms of every kind the garden could produce.

Having even strewed sweet-scented petals lavishly upon the floors, Butterfly next dressed her baby in his finest clothes, and arrayed herself in her wedding garments; and then, calling Suzuki, and making three holes in the _shoshi_, the three settled down to watch for Pinkerton's approach. Many hours passed, and still the expected visitor did not appear; and when darkness set in, Suzuki and the child, tired out with watching, fell fast asleep. But Butterfly would not sleep; and all through the long weary night, she kept a constant watch, never losing hope, but still believing that her beloved one would surely come.

When daylight dawned, Suzuki awakened, and, shocked at her poor little mistress's tired looks, insisted that she should retire to her chamber to rest; and Butterfly, now overcome with fatigue, and wishing to look well when her eagerly expected husband should arrive, was at last persuaded to retire.

When she had departed to the little chamber upstairs, Suzuki, having seen that the little boy was playing happily outside, returned to the flower-decked room, and sank upon her knees before the image of Buddha to pray for her mistress's comfort. Whilst she was thus engaged, there came a gentle tap at the door; and upon opening it, she admitted, to her amazement, not only Sharpless, but Pinkerton also, who, after hearing of the Consul's unavailing visit of the day before, had now come with his friend to seek advice thus early in the morning from the faithful handmaid as to a means of acquainting the expectant Butterfly with the true position of affairs.

Suzuki, thinking for the moment that Pinkerton had indeed returned to claim his little Japanese wife, received him gladly, telling him of Butterfly's preparations for his arrival, and of her trust in him and eager longing for his arrival, each word of which was as a knife in the heart of the now remorseful Pinkerton, who at last realised the cruelty of his conduct, and was filled with grief at the pain he was about to inflict upon the gentle heart of one who loved him so truly and deeply.

The handmaid, however, was quickly undeceived upon observing a tall and beautiful lady waiting in the garden; and upon learning from Sharpless that this was the "real" wife of Pinkerton, she fell to the ground, overcome by this realisation of her fears. The kindly Consul gently raised her, and explaining that Mrs. Pinkerton had come to offer protection and care for the helpless baby boy, that his future welfare might be assured, begged her to assist them in this matter by all the means in her power.

Pinkerton, who had been wandering round the flower-decked room, noting with increased emotion the many signs of Butterfly's deep love for him, now declared that he could not bear the anguish of meeting her, and rushed away, leaving the Consul to perform his painful task alone; and as he departed, full of remorse and grief, his wife entered from the garden.

Kate Pinkerton was a beautiful and kind-hearted woman, and the Japanese girl's sad story had filled her with great pity; and she also added her entreaties that Suzuki would help them to be of service to her poor little mistress.

Whilst they were discussing this matter, Butterfly was heard calling from the chamber above; and having heard the sound of voices, she immediately afterwards appeared, full of excitement, and expecting to greet her husband. At the sight of Kate, she stopped short, gazing intently upon her; and though no word was spoken, she knew instinctively that this was the woman for whose sake she herself had been cast aside.

Sharpless now expected an outburst of passionate reproach; but to the surprise of all, Butterfly remained quite calm, and bore this sudden shattering of all her cherished hopes with a quiet dignity, so touching that all were moved. When Kate entreated forgiveness for the pain she had so unconsciously been the means of bringing upon her, she answered gently that she only wished that every happiness might be showered upon her. Then, when asked to give up her baby boy to the guardianship of his father, that his future welfare and prosperity might be assured, she promised quietly that Pinkerton should have his child if he would himself come for him in half an hour's time; and having thus succeeded in their mission, Kate and Sharpless departed, unable to bear any longer the heart-rending sight of such resigned suffering.

When they had gone, Butterfly dismissed Suzuki, and, taking down her father's sword, which she had always carefully cherished, with great reverence kissed the blade. For now that she at last realised the terrible truth that Pinkerton was her husband no longer, and that for his own good she must part with her child also, she had no further desire for life; and as she lifted the sword, she murmured broken-heartedly to herself: "If I can no longer live with honour, at least I can die with honour!"

At that moment, the door was opened to admit the baby boy, who was pushed gently within by Suzuki; and, dropping the sword, Butterfly rushed forward, and clasped her child in her arms in a last passionate embrace.

Then, laying him carefully upon the ground, she suddenly seized the sword once more, and plunged it into her bosom.

When, a little later, Pinkerton entered the room to claim fulfilment of her promise, Butterfly was lying motionless and still; and the faithful heart that had loved him with such true devotion was at rest for ever!

THE BARBER OF SEVILLE
(_Il Barbiere di Seviglia_)

One early morning during the eighteenth century, just as the rosy dawn appeared, the sound of soft, sweet music arose from one of the streets of Seville; for a group of picked musicians had been stationed in front of a private house to accompany a serenade to a certain fair lady who dwelt within.

A little apart from the musicians stood the singer, a tall, handsome cavalier, wrapped in a dark cloak; and as his song proceeded, the serenader kept his gaze rivetted upon a window that led out upon the balcony of the house, as though expecting the form of his adored one to appear in that spot.

This cavalier was the Count Almaviva, a rich nobleman, who, having beheld one day, on a visit to Seville, a lovely maiden upon the balcony of this house, had straightway fallen in love with her; and, in consequence of this he had left his country estate and taken up his abode in Seville, that he might be near the object of his affections, and seek an opportunity to woo her.

He learnt that the young lady's name was Rosina, and that she was the ward of a fussy old physician named Dr. Bartolo; and by means of nightly serenades and frequent strolls past her dwelling-place, the young Count endeavoured to bring himself to the notice of the maiden. Nor was he unsuccessful; for the lovely Rosina, although kept almost a prisoner by her jealous guardian, who desired to wed her himself, managed to obtain sight of her serenader and quickly conceived a romantic passion for him.

In spite of the mutual understanding between them, the pair had never yet met, nor spoken with each other; and to-night the Count had hoped to attain this object. But Rosina was too closely watched by her guardian and her duenna; and when the dawn at length broke Almaviva sadly dismissed his musicians, sending them away with a handsome reward.

After the delighted musicians had departed, the Count remained dejectedly near the abode of his beloved one; and here he was presently accosted by the popular barber and general factotum of the town, a merry roguish fellow named Figaro, whose quick wit and lively mercurial temperament caused him to be in constant request by his many patrons for their jokes and intrigues.

Quickly noticing the dejected looks of the strange cavalier, Figaro entered into conversation with him, offering his services, should he need them; and merrily he described his numerous valuable qualities to the Count, declaring that he was the best match-maker, plotter, and gossip in all Seville, to say nothing of being the most fashionable adept in his more legitimate occupation of chirurgeon-barber.

Almaviva quickly succumbed to the charm of the roguish barber; and seeing at once that Figaro might be of great use to him, he confided to him the secret of his love for Rosina, and engaged him to assist in his suit, promising to reward him very handsomely for his services.

Figaro readily agreed to devote himself to the interest of this new patron; and very quickly his inventive wit suggested ways and means for bringing the lovers together. He informed the Count that old Dr. Bartolo desired to wed his charming ward himself, regardless of the disparity in their ages and the indifference of the lady; in which ridiculous project he was being aided and abetted by another equally fussy old fellow, one Don Basilio, a music-master. However, as the barber was constantly in and out of the house, he assured the Count that he would find means to communicate with Rosina, and to hood-wink her guardian; and with this assurance the Count departed, greatly cheered.

Figaro's artful plans succeeded so well that Rosina soon learnt that her love was returned by the handsome cavalier who haunted the precincts of her home, and whom the barber described as a young student named Lindoro; and she now managed to send him a note, in which she declared that his love was acceptable to her.

The Count was thus filled with joy; and, with the aid of the inventive barber, an interview between the enamoured pair was now devised. At the suggestion of Figaro, the Count disguised himself one evening as a common soldier; and pretending also to be intoxicated, he forced his way with a rowdy, roystering manner into the house of Dr. Bartolo, from whom he demanded a night's lodging as the rightful due of one who served his country; and during the stormy altercation that ensued between the indignant Doctor and himself, Rosina, attracted by the noise, made her appearance.

Quickly lurching to her side, the pretended soldier managed to reveal his true identity to her; and though instantly separated by the angry and jealous Doctor, the lovers contrived dexterously to exchange letters. The interview was soon brought to an end by the arrival of the guard, drawn thither by the commotion, into whose charge the Doctor gladly handed over his unwelcome guest; but as the officers hurried him away the Count declared to them his real name, and showed them, in proof of his assertion, the high orders and decorations he wore beneath his disguise, upon which they set him free, and respectfully departed, the richer by a substantial gift.

Shortly afterwards the indefatigable Figaro devised another scheme for the meeting of the lovers; and this time, Almaviva, disguised as a poor musician, was unsuspectingly admitted into the house of Dr. Bartolo, to whom he explained that his name was Don Alonzo, and that he had been sent by his friend Don Basilio, whom he declared to be ill.

Finding himself not very well received by the old guardian, he handed to him the note he had received from Rosina, pretending he had found it in the inn where Count Almaviva lodged, and offering to show it to the young lady and declare to her that it had been sent by one of the Count's other numerous admirers, that she might thus become estranged from him.

Dr. Bartolo, quite unsuspicious of trickery, readily agreed to this ruse, being very anxious to put an end to his ward's infatuation for the Count, who, as he of course knew by this time, was haunting the neighbourhood; and he thus consented to allow the music lesson to proceed, in order that this disturbing communication might be made to his ward.

He thereupon brought Rosina into the room, and introduced her to the supposed Don Alonzo, in whom, however, she quickly recognised her lover; and at that moment Figaro most opportunely arrived in his capacity as barber to Dr. Bartolo, in order to keep the old gentleman obligingly occupied with his toilet so that the lovers might make arrangements for their elopement, which the Count desired to carry out that night.

Very cleverly, also, the barber managed to secure the keys of certain doors usually kept locked at night, so that Rosina, at the appointed time, could reach the balcony, from whence, by means of a ladder, she could escape to her lover.

In order to disarm the Doctor's still evident suspicion, the form of a singing lesson was gone through; but, thanks to Figaro's constant chatter and deft manipulation of his client's beard, the lovers managed to exchange confidences between the snatches of music, and made all the arrangements for their elopement and secret marriage that night.

All went well until, quite suddenly, the old music-master himself appeared on the scene, very much astonished at finding his place and occupation usurped by a strange young man. Figaro, however, with his usual versatility, saved the situation by pretending that Don Basilio really looked extremely ill, and, feeling his pulse with mock anxiety, declared him to be in a high fever, and entreated him to return home to bed. The Count also, by the judicious offer of a well-filled purse, succeeded in persuading the confused professor to depart for the time being.

Dr. Bartolo's suspicions, however, were now fully roused, so that it became necessary for the Count to make a quick escape; and when he had gone the old guardian fussily produced the letter given him by the pretended musician, and endeavoured on his own account to poison Rosina's mind against her lover in the manner agreed upon. Rosina's jealousy against some unknown rival was thus quickly kindled; and angry and distressed at having been deceived, as she supposed, by the Count, she revealed the secret arrangement for her elopement that night.

The wily old Doctor quickly followed up the vantage he had scored, and now pressed his own suit; and Rosina, in a fit of pique, giving him her consent, he hurried away to make arrangements with a notary to unite them that day. Meeting with Don Basilio, and now learning from him that the strange musician and Count Almaviva were one and the same, he hurried on his plans with still greater eagerness, feeling that with such a daring rival he could not consider himself safe until his marriage contract with Rosina had been signed; and having arranged with the music-master to bring the notary along that same night, he went away to procure the officers of justice to be in readiness to arrest the Count and Figaro should they appear and endeavour to upset his plans.

But success was to be with love and youth; for the star of the Count was in the ascendant, and, with the aid of the irrepressible Figaro, he was able to accomplish his ends.

Fortunately, the elopement had been planned for the early part of the night; and as soon as darkness set in Almaviva and the barber made their appearance in front of the Doctor's house, and, by means of a ladder, succeeded in reaching the balcony. Here they were presently joined by Rosina, who, though already repenting of her jealous fit, at first repulsed her eager lover, charging him with unfaithfulness; but upon the cavalier explaining the whole matter of the letter, at the same time revealing his true identity as the Count Almaviva, she was quickly reconciled to him.

Whilst the now happy lovers were thus engaged in tender converse, the alert Figaro discovered that the ladder by which they were to reach the ground below had been taken away; and at the same moment Don Basilio appeared on the balcony with the notary, who had brought the contract for the marriage of Rosina with Dr. Bartolo.

Seeing that no time was to be lost, the three plotters hurried forward, the Count declaring to the notary that Rosina and himself were the parties who were to sign the document; and drawing the amazed Don Basilio aside, he slipped a valuable ring on to his finger, and advised him to be amenable to reason, at the same time judiciously showing him a loaded pistol as an even more persuasive argument.

The old music-master prudently accepted the forced situation with a good grace; and the Count and Rosina immediately signed the marriage contract in the presence of the notary, with Figaro and Don Basilio as their witnesses.

Just as the joyful lovers were thus lawfully united, Dr. Bartolo arrived with the officers of justice; and seeing that the Count and Figaro had indeed appeared, as he had suspected they would, he furiously denounced them as thieves and rogues, and commanded the officers to arrest them.

However, Almaviva advanced readily, and with great dignity announced himself as a Grandee of Spain and the newly-made husband of the fair Rosina; and eventually, after a somewhat stormy scene, enlivened by the witty raillery of the lively Figaro, the old Doctor acknowledged his defeat, and reconciled himself to the inevitable with excellent good-humour, even magnanimously bestowing a fatherly blessing upon the triumphant pair.

Thus did these determined lovers gain their hearts' desire; and when Count Almaviva returned home with his charming bride, he took with him as his confidential body-servant the man whose fertile wit had helped him to win his happiness--Figaro, the merry Barber of Seville.

DER ROSENKAVALIER
(_The Rose-Bearer_)

In Vienna, during the early years of the reign of Maria Theresa, love intrigues formed one of the chief amusements of persons of quality; and, therefore, it was no strange thing that, early one bright summer morning, the Princess von Werdenberg should be enjoying an interview with an ardent lover in her boudoir, whilst her sleepy, but faithful, lackeys kept watch outside to prevent interruption.

The Princess's husband, Field-Marshall Prince von Werdenberg--an elderly man, too much engrossed in matters of war and sport to be greatly interested in the doings of his pretty wife--was abroad on a hunting expedition; so what more natural than for the Princess--still young and beautiful enough to be one of Cupid's victims--to invite her young kinsman and devoted lover, Octavian, to visit her and to pour forth into her willing ears the sweet words of love she delighted to hear.

Octavian, a handsome youth, sat at the feet of his beloved Princess in an adoring attitude, every now and again rising to draw her into his eager embrace; and the Princess listened indulgently to his extravagant expressions of admiration and adoration--for, in spite of his extreme youth, she loved the boy dearly and delighted in his ardently responsive passion.

Their golden hours of sweet dreaming this morning, however, were doomed to a rough awakening; for there suddenly came the sound of an arrival in the courtyard below, and the Princess exclaimed in deep alarm, as she heard approaching heavy footsteps: "Ah, woe! My husband has returned unexpectedly! Quick, conceal thyself, my beloved Octavian!"

Octavian hastily retired to a cupboard in a recess; and the Princess paced restlessly up and down her room, listening to the voices of her zealous lackeys arguing with the newcomer, whom she soon realised was not her husband, after all, but a near kinsman, the Baron Ochs von Lerchenau, a middle-aged and dissipated _roué_, for whom she had little affection and less respect.

In a few moments Octavian emerged from the recess, attired in female garments, and entreated the Princess to pass him off to her intruding cousin as a new waiting-maid; and his royal sweetheart, delighted with his charming appearance--for he made an extremely pretty "girl"--and ever ready for a joke, gladly agreed to do so.

At this moment the visitor burst into the room, angrily expostulating with the dismayed attendants for having kept him waiting outside so long; and seeing that he was indeed her kinsman, the Baron Ochs von Lerchenau, the Princess gave him a gracious welcome and inquired the reason for his unexpected appearance so early in the morning.

The Baron, however, was immediately so struck with the fair fresh beauty of the dainty "waiting-maid," that he could scarce take his eyes away, and kept casting languishing glances at her, making frequent inviting signs for her to approach nearer to him--to the secret entertainment of the Princess, who more than once had to bid him keep his hands off the "girl," whom she addressed as "Mariandel"; but the flirtatious visitor was at last induced to sit down and state his business whilst partaking of a cup of chocolate.

The Baron now explained to his royal cousin that he had decided to marry, and was, in fact, about to enter into a contract that day with a very young girl named Sophia, the daughter of Faninal, a wealthy merchant who had recently been ennobled; and when the Princess expressed surprise that he should stoop to wed with one of such plebeian origin, he airily confessed that the father's money-bags were of more service to him in his present impecunious state than a long pedigree, declaring that enough blue blood flowed in his own veins for himself and his wife.

The marriage contract was to be signed later during that day; but, in the meantime, he required the services of a noble youth to bear to his promised bride a silver rose as the pledge of his love, in accordance with the pretty custom of such ancient families as his own--and he begged the Princess to name one of their kinsmen for this important mission.