PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 103.

October 29, 1892.

IMPRESSIONS OF "IL TROVATORE."

(By a Matter-of-Fact Philistine at Covent Garden.)

ACT I. SCENE 2.—Leonora's confidant evidently alive to the responsibilities of her position. Watch her, for example, when her Mistress is about to confide to her ear the dawn of her passion for Manrico. She walks Leonora gently down to the footlights, launches her into her solo, like a boat, and stands aside on the left, a little behind, with an air of apprehension, lest she should come to grief over the next high note, and a hand in readiness to support her elbow in case she should suddenly collapse. Then, feeling partially reassured, she goes round to inspect her from the right, where she remains until her superior has completed her confidences, and it is time to lead her away. Operatic confidant sympathetic—but a more modern heroine might find one "get on her nerves," perhaps. Manrico a very robust type of Troubadour—but oughtn't a Troubadour to carry about a guitar, or a lute, or something? If Manrico has one, he invariably leaves it outside. Probably doesn't see why, with so many competent musicians in the orchestra, he should take the trouble of playing his own accompaniments. And why does the Curtain invariably come down as soon as swords are drawn? Tantalising to have all the duels and fighting done during the entr'actes.

Manrico, a rather full-blown "Ghost in Hamlet."

ACT II. SCENE 1.—Azucena insists on telling Manrico a long and rather improbable story of how, in a fit of absorption, she once burnt her own son in mistake for the Conte di Luna's, Manrico listens, as a matter of filial duty—because, after all, she is his mother—but he is clearly of opinion that these painful family reminiscences are far better forgotten. Perhaps he suspects that her anguish may be due to a severe fit of indigestion—the symptoms of which are almost indistinguishable from those of operatic remorse. At all events, he does not find his parent a cheerful companion, and, as soon as he finds a decent excuse for escape, takes it.

SCENE 2.—The Cloisters of a Convent. Enter the Conte di Luna, with followers, to abduct Leonora. The followers range themselves against a wall in the background, until the Count has finished "Il Balen." If their opinion was asked, they would probably be in favour of his making rather less noise about it, if he really means business—but of course it is not their place to interfere. Leonora enters to take the veil, with procession of nuns, preceded by four female acolytes—or are they pages?—in white tights, carrying tapers. The Count and his followers are evidently a little taken aback—an abduction not quite so simple an affair as they expected. While they are working themselves up to it, Manrico appears, as the stage-direction says, "like a phantom." In a helmet, with a horsehair tail, and a large white cloak, he does look extremely like the Ghost in Hamlet, and which is, perhaps, why the Count, under the impression that he is an apparition from some other Opera, allows him to Walk off with Leonora under his very nose. Swords are drawn—with the usual result of bringing down the Curtain.

"Azucena," or, "My pretty Chain!"

ACT III. SCENE 1.—Soldiers discovered carousing, as wildly as is possible on four gilded cruets, and a dozen goblets. Azucena is brought before the Count, and manacled. Operatic handcuffs—a most humane contrivance—with long links, to permit of the freest facilities for entreaty and imprecation. Soldiers, who have been called to arms, but stayed, from a natural curiosity to hear what the Conte di Luna had to say to the Gipsy, go off, as she is led away to prison, with a sense that they have seen all there is to be seen, and a vague recollection that there is some fighting to be done somewhere.

SCENE 2.—Leonora, and Manrico are about to be married; everything prepared—four apathetic bridesmaids, and the four acolytes in tights—who have possibly been kindly lent by the Convent for the occasion—in a vacuous row at the back of the scene. Fancy Manrico has forgotten to give them the usual initial brooches, and they feel the wedding is a poky affair, and take no interest in it. Leonora herself is in low spirits—seems to miss the confidant, and to be oppressed with a misgiving that the wedding is not destined to come off. Misgivings on the stage are never thrown away—the wedding is interrupted immediately by a crowd of men, in small sugar-loaf caps, who carry the bridegroom off to fight—whereupon, of course, the Curtain falls.

Luna and the Star of the Evening.

ACT IV. SCENE 1.—Leonora listening outside the tower in which Manrico is being tortured, after having been taken prisoner in a combat during the entr'acte. Here a confidant might have comforted her considerably by representing that they couldn't be torturing the poor Troubadour so very seriously so long as he is able to take part in a duet—but unfortunately Leonora seems to have discharged the confidant after the Second Act—an error of judgment on her part, for she is certainly incapable of taking care of herself. A cool-headed, sensible confidant, for instance, would have taken care that the bargain with the Conte di Luna was conceived and carried out in a more business-like spirit.

"Now do be careful," she would have said. "Make sure that the Count keeps his word before you break yours. Don't go and see Manrico yourself—it can do no good, and will only harrow you! If you really must go, don't take a quick poison first—or you'll die in his dungeon, and spoil the whole thing!" Which is just what Leonora—like the impulsive operatic heroine she is—proceeds to do, and is cruelly misunderstood by Manrico, in consequence, besides hastening his doom by disappointing the Count, whose irritation was only natural, and pardonable, under the circumstances.

Don't quite see myself why the Count should be so horrified on learning that the person he has just had executed was his long-lost brother. It is not as if they had ever been friendly, or were at all likely to become so, considering their previous relations. Depend upon it, when he has time to think the matter over calmly, he will recognise that things are better as they are, and that Fate has solved his domestic difficulties in the only possible manner. A Troubadour Brother, with a revengeful and quite unpresentable gipsy foster-mother, would have proved very trying persons to live with.

"A CHIEL'S AMANG YE MAKING NOTES."—Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN sat next to Sir HENRY HAWKINS during part of the recent sensational trial at the Ancient Bailey, making, of course not taking, notes. Sir HENRY occasionally conversed with the Knight of Music. Did the latter hum,