100 Great Operas and Their Stories: Act-By-Act Synopses (20 page)

Everyone pays homage to the newly elected Emperor Charles V, and he begins his reign by disposing of the conspiracy he has overheard: the noble leaders are to be beheaded, the common herd is to be imprisoned. Ernani, never one to forgo a chance to die conspicuously, steps forward and claims his right, as John of Aragon, to die with the best of them. Elvira, however, once again assumes her role of angerallayer, and pleads so eloquently for Ernani that Emperor Charles is persuaded to begin his reign with an act of genuine clemency. Not only does he pardon all the conspirators; he restores Ernani to his titles and lands and blesses his union with Elvira. The utterly preposterous scene ends with a truly magnificent concerted number—
O sommo Carlo!

ACT IV

And now the happy couple have been wedded and they are enjoying the briefest of marriages in a duet on the terrace of Ernani’s castle in Aragon. But Silva has not forgotten his agreement. He sounds the dread horn, and Ernani, waiting for only one more tenor aria, accepts his fate. Silva offers him a choice of poison or dagger; Ernani chooses the dagger; he stabs himself; and at the close of a most effective trio Elvira falls on her husband’s body.

    
Postscript for the historically curious:
There seems to be some historical basis for the strange and sudden change in the character of Don Carlos in the third act. As a young man he was described as weak and vain; later in life he developed real strength of character, generosity, even idealism. He was a grandson of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain and a nephew of Henry VIII’s first wife, Catherine. His election and coronation at Aix la Chapelle, which form the background of Act III, occurred in 1520. At the time he was barely twenty years old—rather young for a robust baritone but quite old enough for a Renaissance Spanish lover and soldier. His son, Philip II, and his grandson, who was named after him, are principal figures in Verdi’s
Don Carlos
(see
this page
).

EUGEN ONEGIN

(Yevgeny Onyegin)

Opera in three acts by Peter Ilyitch Tchaikovsky
with libretto in Russian largely by the composer
based on the narrative poem of the same
name by Alexandre Sergevich Pushkin

Time: early 19th century

Place: Russia

First performance at Moscow, March 29, 1879

    In May of 1877, a singer named Elizaveta Lavrovskaya suggested to Tchaikovsky the subject of Pushkin’s poem
Eugen Onegin
as the subject for an opera. During the same month he received a letter from one Antonina Milyukova, a twenty-eight-year-old conservatory student whom he could scarcely remember having ever met. It said that she had long been in love with him.

In
Eugen Onegin
the heroine, Tatiana, writes Eugen a letter saying that she has long been in love with him. Eugen tells her that he cannot love her in return. The result is disaster.

Tchaikovsky, more than half in love with the heroine Tatiana, thought Eugen a cad. But he was not in love with his real-life correspondent, so he tried to do as Eugen had done and put Antonina off. He wrote a polite, cool answer; he received a warm one in reply; he went to see her; he became convinced that she would never survive his loss; he proposed; he was accepted; he was married. Disaster.

The parallel between the story of the opera Tchaikovsky was working on and the tragedy he was working out in real life can, of course, be pushed too far. There are some striking differences. Tatiana was beautiful, wealthy, intelligent, sensitive; Antonina was plain-looking, poor, bird-brained, insensitive. (When Nikolai Rubinstein, acting for Tchaikovsky, came to ask her to consent to a divorce, she seemed to be more impressed with having so distinguished a guest for tea than with the important message he carried.) Onegin was an independent, blandly brutal, philandering man of the world; Tchaikovsky was a dependent, neurotically sensitive, impractical homosexual. Yet he quixotically tried to act as nobly as he believed Onegin should have acted, and the fearful emotional upheaval that followed, including a serious but ineffectual attempt at suicide, must in some way have been reflected in the opera that he began with his odd courtship and that he completed not very long after the marriage had broken up.

It is a strongly melodic, nervous score, and of all his ten operas only
Onegin
and
The Queen of Spades
remain a permanent part of Russia’s repertoire and have made their way all around the world.

ACT I

Scene 1
Madame Larina is a well-to-do upper-middle-class woman who rejoices in her two daughters and large estate. In her garden she and her servant Filipievna, with whom she appears to be on pretty intimate terms, are preparing jam, while inside the house, her two daughters, Tatiana and Olga, are practicing a duet. The duet becomes a female quartet when Madame Larina confides in her servant how romantic
she was as a young girl. Deeply affected, she says, by the novels of Richardson, especially
Sir Charles Grandison
, she made a loveless marriage which nevertheless turned out pretty well. A chorus of peasants approaches the domestic scene, and then dances and sings folk music (or at least folk-like music) for the ladies. Tatiana is made rather romantically pensive by the performance; Olga, on the other hand, is made to feel gay; and she gives voice to her pleasantly extrovert philosophy of life in a little aria.

When Filipievna has led the peasants off to reward them with wine, Tatiana is warned by her mother not to be too moody, not to take those romantic novels she has been reading so seriously. There are no real heroes in everyday life, as she herself has learned.

At that moment Tatiana’s hero-to-be enters the story. He is Eugen Onegin, a wealthy young fellow who has been so much a man about town that he is, at the moment, weary of it all. He comes for a polite call with his friend Lenski, a neighboring poet engaged to Olga. The mother of the two girls leaves them to entertain the two young men, and in the ensuing quartet it becomes evident that Lenski is in earnest puppyish love with his Olga (he hasn’t seen her for a whole day!), while Onegin is rather casually attracted to Tatiana. Tatiana, for her part, is at once attracted to Onegin, and she wanders off to the lake with him, leaving the happy fiancés to moon sweetly to each other.

Supper is ready in the house, and Filipievna summons the two wanderers. When they reappear, Onegin continues his conquest of Tatiana by simply relating a bit of family history. The wise old Filipievna knows exactly what is happening, even if Tatiana does not realize it as yet.

Scene 2
Past ordinary bedtime, and already undressed, Tatiana finds sleep impossible and begs Filipievna to tell her a story. The servant obliges with a recital of her own loveless marriage, thus inspiring Tatiana to confide that she herself is dreadfully in love. She begs Filipievna not to tell anyone, asks for her writing desk, and wishes her a good night.

Now begins the famous
Letter Scene
, which Tchaikovsky
composed even before he prepared the libretto for the rest of the opera. It was the passage in Pushkin’s narrative which most strongly attracted him at the time, and this fact lends color to the idea that the poem was at least in part the inspiration for his own unwise behavior in relation to Antonina Milyukova.

The scene begins as she summons up courage to compose a letter to Onegin; she then writes portions of it, reads it aloud, and finally completes it. The letter tells Onegin that she is completely committed to him and asks only for pity in return. Tatiana is inspired by the idea that she has been predestined to love Onegin and Onegin only; and though the letter admits that if she had not met him she might have loved another, yet she herself is convinced that she has been reserved for him by fate.

By the time the letter is signed and sealed, it is dawn, and Filipievna coming to wake her mistress, is surprised to find her already out of bed. Tatiana begs her to ask her son to deliver the letter, and tries to avoid naming Onegin by saying it is for “a neighbor.” Filipievna mischievously pretends to be deaf and forces the girl to repeat the name of her lover. She had known all along, of course; and when Tatiana is left alone once more, she wonders what the result of her bold advance may be.

Scene 3
In “another part of the garden” peasants are singing, with dramatic appositeness, about the danger to girls if they choose a wrong lover. Tatiana, very much upset, rushes in. She has seen Onegin approaching and is already regretting her rash impulse.

When they are alone, Onegin tells her, in his aria, almost exactly what Tchaikovsky had tried to tell Antonina in his letter. He is entirely respectful, even friendly, but he makes it clear that marriage is not for the likes of him, and that what might begin as love would surely grow cold. Tatiana is utterly devastated; and off-stage the chorus repeats its folk wisdom about girls who choose wrongly.

ACT II

Scene 1
It is Tatiana’s birthday, and Madame Larina has arranged a dance to celebrate the occasion. All the gentry within calling distance have been invited, and to the tune of the waltz that is sometimes played as a concert piece, the older guests comment on the goings-on. The most interesting thing to note is that Onegin is dancing with Tatiana, and the wiseacres predict a possible wedding, even though the groom has a somewhat unsavory reputation. Onegin is annoved, and, besides, he is angry at his friend Lenski for having brought him to so dull a provincial assembly. By way of retaliation he dances off with Lenski’s fiancée, Olga, at the first opportunity; and when that dance is over, Lenski accuses the girl of flirting. Onegin pursues his tormenting tactics by reminding Olga that she has promised him the next cotillion, and, to punish her jealous swain, she walks off with Onegin.

The tension is temporarily relieved when the elderly Monsieur Triquet entertains the company with a formal, gallant song he has composed for the occasion in praise of the birthday child, Tatiana. The verses, being quite neatly turned and in French (the language of all nineteenth-century Russian snobs), pleases everyone but Tatiana, who is plainly embarrassed.

Now the old-fashioned cotillion begins, and when the first turn is over, Onegin taunts Lenski with the observation that he looks as severe as Childe Harolde himself. Lenski becomes more and more outraged and, with the guests crowding around, he finally challenges his friend to a duel. A great ensemble develops, in which each of the characters-as well as the chorus—expresses appropriate sentiments, that of Onegin being regret over having carried his teasing of his friend too far. There is now, however, no help for it, and he accepts the challenge for a duel to take place the next morning. Tatiana weeps and Olga faints.

Scene 2
Beside a mill, beside a stream, early in the morning Lenski and his second, Zaretski, are awaiting Onegin, who
is late. The second goes off to talk to the miller, and Lenski sings what is known as
Lenski’s Air
, the second-best-known tenor aria in Russian opera. (The most familiar of all is the
Song of India
from
Sadko.)
It is his passionate farewell to Olga, to love, to youth.

Finally Onegin appears with his second, Gillot, a servant who is frightened by the prospect of a duel and hides behind a tree when the shooting begins. First, however, the two principals sing a duet in canon form—that is, one begins the tune, which the other takes up a moment later. Each shows how he would prefer to resume the old friendship; each decides that the formalities must nevertheless be observed. The duet ends with a dramatic “No!” from both of them. Zaretski then gives the formal instructions; each of the principals steps forward three paces; Onegin fires first; and Lenski is killed. Anguish overwhelms Onegin.

ACT III

Scene 1
In the St. Petersburg home of a wealthy and middle-aged retired general, Prince Gremin, a fashionable ball is in progress, and the music to which the ballet dances is the
Polonaise
, often heard at orchestral concerts. It is three or more years since the duel, and Onegin has been spending them wandering in many places and trying to forget. He is now only twenty-six but feels much older, and he has turned up at the home of his distant kinsman in one more effort to overcome his remorse.

Tatiana is now the Princess Gremin, and, not recognizing her distinguished-looking young guest, she asks who he is and is much moved when she hears the name. Meantime, on the other side of the stage, Onegin is asking Gremin the analogous question about Tatiana. In an impressive aria Prince Gremin sings the praises of his wife, telling Onegin how her love has stood out for him as the one truly ennobling thing in all the wicked world he has known. But when Tatiana and her old lover are formally introduced, she pleads tiredness as an excuse to leave the festivities.