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But the infinite number of scenic problems, some half solved, some perhaps insolvable; the undue length of the scores, which were never intended for the every-day repertoire; the traditional poses and the tempi sanctioned by Bayreuth, must be preserved at any price.

Here one must not see, not think, not listen, not question, but blindly obey. Wagner is the only master who is to be exempt from arbitrary treatment.

And yet has the general public ever quite clearly understood the true significance of Wagner's great idea of the dramatic festival play-one of the most elevated phases of Hellenic culture-and realized his effort to imbue this with the German spirit? By no means!

His great idea did not "draw," and the festival plays were obliged to sink to the niveau of ordinary theatrical performances, and then have thrown about them the nimbus of the festival play, before appealing to the masses. In Bayreuth a woman who is a dilettante has won more friends than ever the master himself would have been able to do. The Wagnerian music dramas, so nobly conceived and intended for such a high cultural purpose, have gradually taken the place once occupied by the Meyerbeer operas, and become box-office attractions.

Each year Festspiele are pompously announced in the larger and smaller cities, which differ from the ordinary performances only by the participation of a few well-known artists whose exorbitant demands preclude a rehearsal. The result is that the excellence of the ensemble is diminished, while in inverse ratio the scale of prices is increased. But every one is contented, and the municipal authorities have attained their purpose, which is to attract a larger number of tourists to their city.

No one disturbs himself about the fact that one of the most beautiful and exalted ideas of a later musical age-viz., the purification of the dramatic art from the dross and sordidness of the every-day world-has been completely lost sight of.

Nor does any one seem to be particularly disturbed because the fine feeling for vocal perfection is growing weaker and weaker.

On the contrary, other qualities are championed as being more vital; and, by many, a beautiful voice, and one which has received a thorough schooling, is regarded as a direct hindrance to the expression of "dramatic

gifts "this latter being the high-sounding title used to cover up absence of voice, lack of musicianship, and the hysterical distortions of the "human form divine which pass for dramatic instinct.

In the case of the Wagner operas this lack is less distinctly felt, at least by the greater operatic public, which accepts and applauds alike good and bad Wagnerian performances. Here, too, the orchestra mercifully conceals the inadequacies of the artists, but the earlier operas suffer greatly under such conditions, as without a beautiful vocal art and interesting artistic personalities they fail to reach their fullest expression.

It is this which explains the ever-increasing attention which is being given to the stage-setting and accessories. In every art work presented on the stage all factors must work together for a harmonious and artistic mise-en-scène, and therefore the setting cannot be disregarded. But if we take an opera well sung and acted with mediocre setting, and the same opera abominably sung and projected, in acting, upon a set of magnificent decorations, there would scarcely be two minds as to the superiority of the former. In spite of its enormous significance, the decorative element must be relegated to a secondary place, and the prominence given to it on the modern operatic stage is greatly exaggerated.

It, in fact, becomes dangerous when the setting is opposed to the style of the work, and when, by its magnificence, it is expected to compensate for the mediocre work of the artists.

To make a performance dependent upon the man who stages it would be like judging of the qualities of a conductor by the name of the tailor who had taken the measure for the coat he wears.

Such ideas are possible only in an antimusical age, and later it will undoubtedly be found necessary to characterize the postWagnerian epoch as one antagonistic to the development of the opera. Even Wagner's reformatory ideas must be considered in a certain sense as hostile to this development, because a misunderstood application of his ideal has led to an extended and dangerous crisis. The "programmatic" phase, in which Music paints and poetizes, but dares not sing and sound, as her heart really prompts, is indirectly due to Wagner, who, however, denied his step-child when brought face to face with her.

Music has passed safely through this crisis;

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One party follows Wagner blindly to the point of sheer extravagance; the other is coquetting with the earlier opera, but these composers have not yet found themselves, and are producing works which are neither fish, flesh, nor fowl.

It is the fashion to renounce melody and themes altogether and content one's self with projecting the dramatic action upon an orchestral background of riotous coloring. The machine for "composing" literary productions admits of encompassing the scantiest ideas by the longest score, and all weakness of invention is drowned by the mighty current of modern orchestral technic.

And the composer who best understands how to deflect to his purposes the potent help of modern advertising methods finds himself raised to the position of the greatest promi

Just beyond this shifting operatic ground stands a seductive figure which threatens to exercise a peculiar charm upon the presentday nervous and recreation-seeking publica public which is not able to find satisfaction in the productions of the legitimate stage. This is the operetta.

It is not the works of the genial old Johann Strauss nor the spirited Offenbach that are luring the malcontents from the places dedicated to the higher forms of art, but works constructed wholly with a view to catering to the frivolous instincts of the shallow masses.

In this direction lies a danger against which it behooves us to take a decided stand. Let us endeavor to win the public back to the legitimate stage by writing music which is melodious and singable.

If

Let us remember that the opera-whether it appears under this or that title is in reality nothing less than a musical art work, notwithstanding the fact that the sister arts play a conspicuous rôle in its construction. Wagner's reform concerned itself essentially with the poetic idea, the future development of the opera, which has been so widely diverted from its original source, must come through a fresh attempt to revive the spirit of music; not of mere combinations of sounds, which can be construed to possess a certain dramatic significance, but a noble, divine language which reveals to us the highest and fullest beauty of a new heaven and a new earth.

One man, and one only, among the many, rightly understood Wagner, although he very probably never became thoroughly familiar with his work, and that was the old master

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Verdi. In "Othello" and "Falstaff" he created masterpieces of tragic and comic opera of the greatest imaginable purity of form. In no single measure did he lose sight of the dramatic moment, and yet each measure is filled with beautiful music. There are no dead or futile moments in the entire

score. Melody is united to the sharpest dramatic expression, and the orchestra is rich and highly colored, and yet ever subordinated to the vocal line. The general opera-going public has no conception of these works, but they signify the first step towards a future of the opera.

H

BILLIE

BY JAMES OPPENHEIM

ARVESTING brought good money that autumn; I came tramping into Costigan with eighty-seven dollars in my trousers pocket, blithe as a boy on his first pay-day. The air had that curious nervous intimacy of gray autumn, something queerly human about it. Lord, how I wanted people! Alone, with knapsack over shoulder, I had tramped forty miles that day through a shorn country of stubble and ruined corn-fields and wind-spoiled woods, with no companionship save that of autumn's dust keenly eddying, or wild geese honking south in the lonely skies, or the panting far-off freight train whose mogul engine kept releasing smoke like the convolutions of a man's brain. So

I exulted in the gray squat streets of Costigan, the shabby mill houses crowding together for social warmth, and the cobbles, the trolley, the pole-strung wires, and the cheap shops of Main Street.

To the habitually moneyless, spending money freely is a gay miracle; the fingering of a few dollars causes genii to spring up bearing in their hands the labors of men and the fruits of earth; strange and selfish trades become transient slaves; it is indeed a kingly joy. Now I hadn't indulged for months, and I was in rags, numb with cold, footsore, and hungry. So I went into Grabie's Emporium, and the boss himself appareled me in winter garments, and I knew that some poor devil had sweated that I might go warm in delightful woolens; Bates, in his shop's twilight, shod me in lustrous, cunningly constructed leather; Nathan, among a glory of haberdashery, stuck a soft hat over my brow and fitted me with gloves that were snug on my fingers; and, last, Costello, the barber, with shining scissors clipped my overgrowth of beard and slapped the wet fragrance of the

lily-of-the-valley on my cheeks while I sank at ease in his cushioned chair. All humanity served me through these storekeepers just because I had toiled for a month or

So.

Out again in the last of the day, standing attired in fresh clothes, I saw overhead a black snowfall of sparrows blowing south in keen wind, and the bluish street up and down seemed indescribably lonesome with its few electric lights and its tarnished shop-fronts. Then my stomach clamored for supper and my heart for comrades. I could go, of course, to the Railway Young Men's Christian Association; but no, that was too respectable. Despite the power of my pocket, I felt common and cheap, and wanted some human nature raw. So, swinging down a couple of blocks, I picked out a low dive, a black-front saloon, labeled

"THE SONS OF SMOKE" and stepped down into its reeking, gas-lit warmth.

O'Malley himself wiped the shiny table with his white apron and advised me in a hoarse whisper

"To get wise to a slab of sirloin, cooked crisp and juicy, a platter of French-fried, some creamed cauliflower, and a meaty sweet melon, iced-an' wash it down with Pilsener."

"I give you carte blanche, O'Malley," I murmured, admiringly.

"Which, being interpreted, is?" "Go as far as you like."

He did. I was sleepy with joy at the end, puffing on a quarter cigar. Surely there is a use in getting down to elementals, going ragged, hungry, footsore, for a while. Then life shows its miracles truly. No art could

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have stirred me more than my new clothes, my shave, and my supper. As for eating, is it not a sacrament, our ever-recurring union with nature, with life that flowing through us which becomes dream, thought, love, deeds?

Full of happy philosophy, puffing smoke in that disreputable back room, with its mirrors, sawdust, low ceiling, gaslight, and a noise of women from a compartment adjoining, I was ripe for people. They came, a rich assortment.

A party of young fellows, big and friendly, crowded all about me-mill-toilers-gayly chaffing, drinking, and smoking. Their rough talk and savage jokes and easy comradery pleased me. When one is among people as cheap and common as one's self, one can relax, sink back, as it were, into the arms of humanity, and know the freedom of carelessness; so I laughed, joked, and drank with the rest. Then they arose, standing with arms chalantly resting on each other's shoulders, and all friendly-wise opened their mouths and sang a full-voiced, throbbing song:

"Wherefore do you pine, dears,

Women left at home?"

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"That's Ludlow-foreman or sumthin' up to the Iron Works. Maybe he's a clerk, though. A great gentleman sober; a low hyena drunk. He's got all female Costigan in love with him-a widower, you know, and wild. Of course I can't refuse him the stuff."

O'Malley was called front; my young men started a game of poker; the air grew dense, the hour late, and fumes of liquor made me in love with the world. I was all for love, and wondered why hitherto there had been so much discord on earth. So I kept smiling at sullen Ludlow till I caught his furtive glance.

He scowled, seized up his whisky bottle in one fist, his glass in the other, and started to lurch toward me.

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Stranger," he said, standing before me with feet spread and fists about glass, "G. Washington's no better'n I. I tell you,

G. Washington's no better'n I-nor any man. I'm a gentleman. I was born silver spoon 'mouth. I've fallen low.'

He sat down, carefully placed and replaced the bottle and glass on the table, and continued:

"It's a shame they make me work like a common laborer "-he raised his voice-“ a common laborer ! I won't stand it, Billie or no Billie! I've knocked her down before, sir, and I shall again. I shall again."

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"Never mind," I said, amiably; "we're all human, after all."

He pounded the table with his fist.
"Let me see your hand."

I complied easily, and he examined my nails :

"Rotten fingers-rotten, I tell youought to be ashamed of yourself. You wouldn't be let into a Bowery dive with them" -he began to sob strangely—" rotten fingers !"

Just then life in that place came to a standstill; the card-players turned, again the women showed in the doorway, and Ludlow looked up, startled. I followed his submissive glance, and felt a queer pang. A little girl, dressed in long tan coat and tan shoes and stockings, no hat on her head, was advancing upon him; she was between eleven and twelve, straight, sturdy, one full braid down the back, her rough hair a goldish tan, and her eyes, which were gray, remarkable in their unflinching directness; her cheek-bones were a bit high, and her cheeks slightly tight about the strong jaw. And, though she was oddly out of place in that dive, her graceful solidity did not permit me to worry about her, and her simplicity and directness showed that she had a recipe for getting through the world on her own two feet.

One might have expected the time-honored "Father, dear father, come home with me now, The clock in the steeple's struck one;"

but instead, she stood right up to Ludlow, and her voice was crisp:

"You come out of here, dad, and get home !"

He tried to meet her flashing eyes, and failed.

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"But you'll come home first!" she snapped. "Good work, kid!" cried one of the big card-players.

"I'll count three-" she warned. I tapped Ludlow on the shoulder. "Better go, old man.'

"I'm a gentleman, sir," he began.

"I know," I said, rising, and my brain began to clear. "Come on, my girl, we'll help him home."

"I'll kick- -" he was beginning, but suddenly she whispered in his ear in a strange voice full of warning and hate :

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Dad, if you don't come now, I'll never have anything more to do with you!"

He was plainly frightened, staggered upward, and Billie and I got him out with the warm applause of the roomful. It was hard work up the dark, blue-spotted street and over a long bridge, beneath which the tide lashed angrily. We saw a mile up the glow of some mill flashing over the water, and a cleansing wind blew us together.

Now and then a little phrase from the girl hinted of a hard anger against her father that amazed me.

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"Catcher yet; see if I don't !" We dragged him up the hilly street, and then down a shabby side street, found the dark house, poor, mean, with shining kitchen window. The three of us lurched bodily against the door, and as the lamp blew dim I saw a scurry of mice over the warped floor.

"There !" snapped Billie; "you'll be snoring soon enough!"

He sank, cursing, on a corner chair, and while I stood mopping off the sudden sweat and glancing at the snug, clean kitchen, with its warm stove and cheap furniture, Billie flew out of the room and I heard her flying steps on the stairs. Then in the silence Ludlow's head dropped on his chest and he began to snore, and subtly the rhythm of a sleepy house began to wave through medelicious comfort, security, warmth, like the purring of a cat. Billie reappeared. I liked the proud, straight swing of her body on her firm legs.

For the first time she seemed to realize that I was there, and the change that came to her face was dramatic-hatred fled

before girlish loveliness. hand:

Out went her

"I hadn't time to say thanks; so, thanks!" "No," I laughed; "I sha'n't leave you alone with him. Can't I curl up in the other corner?"

She stood, gazing at me with a girl's candor, and yet dreaming. All the sadness of a darkened childhood came upon her.

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Billie," I pleaded, "I may-may I not?"

She gave me her heart through her eyes with the most exquisite candor, but she smiled doubtfully. Then I leaned and spoke

man to woman:

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See, here! I've tramped forty miles to-day; I'm dead. I'm looking up a boardinghouse; I'm just dust through and through."

Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she seemed to change straightway into a woman, melting with mothering pity.

"You'll have to stay, of course-and I guess you ought to have a hot bath." That thrilled me.

"Bless you, Billie, no. All I need is a basin."

Her lips quivered bitterly.

"We didn't always use to live this waynot till my mother died. It's all dad's drinking."

She was at the edge of tears, and I saw that it was a matter of household prideancient usage with the guest.

So what could I do but help her heave on to the stove a large wash-boiler, while she stuffed the stove with her street-gathered kindling? The bath-room was a mere shed attached to the house, the tub tin, but no one since the days when my mother took me as a tot and bathed and tucked me in bed ever made a hot bath more of a blessing than did Billie, flying to and fro, testing the water, loaning me towel and her father's bathrobe.

When I emerged at last in slippers and bathrobe, feeling tender, serene, and purified, she was sitting at the table, thinking, cheek on hand-her face fairly tragic with hate. But hearing me, she leaped up, smiling.

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Billie," I said, "I'm starting life all over again."

She laughed softly; then turned toward the drunken sleeper and spoke with quivering harshness:

"I suppose we may as well leave him here. I'll lower the light."

The upper floor was divided into four attic rooms, and the air was chill. My room was

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