MUSIC
TURANDOT : PUCCINI'S LAST OPERA THE first representation of the eagerly awaited opera, Turandot, on Monday, April 26th, at the Scala in Milan, drew an immense audience. It was something more than an ordinary " first- night," for not only Puccini's music but his personality was very familiar to a large number of those present, who came to hear this his final opera almost with a sense of solemnity.
Taken from a seventeenth-century play by the Venetian poet, Carlo Gozzi, whose plot was " freely adapted " by Schiller, it bears traces of its origin in the three grotesque characters, Ping, Pang and Pong, types taken from the Pantaleone, Arlequino and Brigella of Italian comedy. One character, however, appears in neither the Gozzi nor the Schiller version, and in the third act, creates a divergence in the plot favourable to the dramatic denouement. This is Liu, the subject of some of the loveliest music in the score.
There was an instant hush as the lights went down, and a momentary pause before Toscanini's baton could be discerned in the gloom, as it was poised for the first attack. There were only six bars of prelude before the great curtains swung away, revealing the Imperial City, Peking, in the warm glow of sunset, but it was already evident that we were in China and that tragedy was abroad, this being established by a chord of D minor in conjunction with one in C sharp major, further enriched with one of F minor in a short figure contributed by the xylophone. As the scene is disclosed a mandarin reads, from the centre of a gallery or rampart of the wall enclosing the Royal Palace, the death decree of Turandot's most recent suitor, the decapi- tation to take place at moonrise. As the mandarin stalks away the kneeling crowd jump up, and intoxicated with the prospect of so glorious a show, shout for the executioner to perform the decapitation at once, in their frenzy invading the Royal precincts, only to be driven back brutally by the guards, who pursue them into the piazza before the wall. Several people are thrown to the ground, amongst them an old man whom a young girl vainly endeavours to raise. A young man hastens to her assistance, and so Timur, the dispossessed King of Tartary, discovers in his rescuer the son he believed to be dead, having lost all traces of him in the flight from Tartary. After the first joy, Calaf asks his father about the young girl attending him. She answers, " I am nothing, only a slave." And when Calaf asks her why she has devoted herself to the old man, following him in his long flight, and even begging necessaries for him, she replies, " Once in Tartary thou didst smile on me." It is impossible to follow all the details of this act,—the beheading of the unhappy suitor by the huge knife, sharpened on a wheel by the executioner's assistants (who sing a most effective song which may be described as jolly and sinister) and the lovely Turandot's appearance on a balcony. Suffice it to say that Calaf falls headlong in love and is deaf to all remonstrances, even to those made by the shades of Turandot's suitors. He strikes the gong suspended before the Palace door, a sign that he has entered the lists as Turandot's suitor.
The first scene of the second act gives us a colloquy between the three masked Imperial Ministers, Ping, Pang and Pong. They are in a pavilion and describe their longings for private life. This scene is a gem, but has the defect of holding up the action, being a sort of intermezzo. The second scene is reached with no break. The pavilion vanishes and the great piazza is before us where the contest between Turandot and her latest aspirant is to take place, the music subtly changing its grotesquely Chinese character for a larger style. A great staircase leads to the Imperial Throne, and incense is burnt before its occupant. A gorgeous company assembles, making obeisance to the Emperor. Wooden drums beat, wild arpeggi come from the violins, leading up to the moment when the Emperor speaks, explaining his hatred of the situation in which his daughter Turandot has involved him. He addresses Calaf, standing at the foot of the great staircase, begging him to do his utmost so that he, the Emperor, need not bear the responsibility for his young life. Turandot now appears, a gorgeous figure with a halo of white peacocks' feathers. She declaims her reasons for remaining unmarried in a fine dramatic passage and proceeds to the test. At first coldly scornful, as one after the other of her enigmas are answered, she becomes enraged, and when the assembled Court con- gratulate Calaf on his success, she rushes to the foot of her father's throne, imploring him not to throw his daughter into the arms of a stranger. He coldly replies that his oath binds him. But Calaf cannot bear her mortification and mag- nanimously proposes a new test. Turandot must find out his name before sunrise (for to her he is the Unknown Prince). If she succeeds, his head will pay forfeit ; if not, she becomes his bride. The Court breaks up and Turandot retires with her maidens.
In the third act search is made for the name. It is night, but by edict of Turandot no one may sleep. The soldiers are searching for a clue and 'come upon Timur and Lill. They drag the pair before Turandot. Li$ to shield Timur, says that she alone knows the secret, but will never tell. Turandot asks her what gives her the force to refuse. Liu replies, " Love," for she realizes only too well that Calaf's life hangs on her silence. She is threatened with torture, and fearful of being unable to resist, seizes a dagger from a soldier and stabs herself.
On Monday night this was the end of the opera, for with Lia's death and the subsequent and beautiful Dead March, Puccini's music comes to an end. It was Toscanini's wish that none other, on this " first night," should be heard. Sub- sequent representations will include the finale provided by Puccini's friend, Maestro Alfano, in which all comes right and Turandot learns that Calaf's name is Love.
There were innumerable calls at the close and great enthu- siasm was shown. Of course it is too early to decide upon the place of Turandot in the series of Puccini's operas, but it may be confidently said that for (1-.:pth of sentiment, imagination, and brilliant choral and orchestral writing it is second to none.
Z. K. H.
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