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Updated: May 19, 2025
But the fact remained that Cavalleria Rusticana flourished at the Opera Comique, and Pagliacci at the Opera: Massenet and Gounod were more frequently performed than anybody else, and the musical trinity Mignon, Les Huguenots, and Faust had safely crossed the bar of the thousandth performance. But these were only trivial accidents: there was no need to go and see them.
Mary chanced upon this piece of information and brought it straight to Paula. "Tell them to go ahead with Pagliacci, then," Paula said. "I'll sing 'Nedda' myself. Get LaChaise on the phone and let me talk to him." She did sing it without any rehearsal at all.
I know it so well; everyone knows it; it's either Pagliacci or Boheme, or something. No, isn't it really? What is it? All the old Italian operas are coming in again, by the way, you know, my dear... Rigoletto, Lucia, Traviata the bel canto that sort of thing; there's nothing like it for showing off the voice. Paul La France still clings to Brahms Brahms suits his voice better than anyone else.
It was not so, however, with the little two-act opera "I Pagliacci," which was produced May 21, 1892, at Milan, and met with an instantaneous and enthusiastic success. His next work was a chorus with orchestral accompaniment, the text based upon Balzac's rhapsodical and highly wrought "Seraphita," which was performed at Milan in 1894.
Schoenberg is new; is he therefor to be considered better than Beethoven? Stravinsky is new; is he therefor to be considered worse than Liszt? Is an opera better than a song? Compare Pagliacci and Strauss's Ständchen. Is a string quartet better than a piece for the piano?
I sat looking up at the mountains, and he leaned on the rail, looking down at the lake. Somewhere a woman was singing from Pagliacci, and I slowly arrived at a consciousness that I had sighed aloud once or twice, not so much sadly, as of longing to see that lady, and that my companion had permitted similar sounds to escape him, but more mournfully.
"'A fine opera is "I Pagliacci." Now listen for the answer." A moment elapsed, then, "Not without Gennaro," came a gruff voice in Italian from the dictograph. A silence ensued. It was tense. "Wait, wait," said a voice which I recognized instantly as Gennaro's. "I cannot read this. What is this 23-1/2 Prince Street?" "No, 33-1/2. She has been left in the back yard," answered the voice.
A wag searched for the Pagliacci record, and set the gramophone to churn out "Vesti la Giubba." The guests stayed to listen politely to a few revue melodies, and then slipped away. The rest turned in immediately, in view of the jobs at early dawn. "Night, everybody," said one of the flight-commanders. "Meet you at Mossy-Face in the morning!"
His eye twinkled, his face beamed in the gray stubble, his voice was rollicking with the fun of life the same as ever. And like Pagliacci in his masque there was not the slightest exterior sign of the fear and despair that chilled his heart. "What have you and your poor victim been talking about, all this time?" Ben asked. "Oh, just a gab-fest a tat-i-tat as you'd call it.
"'Ah, yes, Pagliacci, they murmur, as the opening strains follow hot upon the soup, and if no contradiction is forthcoming from any better-informed quarter they break forth into subdued humming by way of supplementing the efforts of the musicians.
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