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Updated: May 19, 2025
It was not the Prologue to Pagliacci, which rose ever and anon on hot evenings from an Italian tenement on Thompson Street, with the gasps of the corpulent baritone who got behind it; nor was it the hurdy-gurdy man, who often played at the corner in the balmy twilight.
He took it out, and as he did so, a flush swept over his face, and every nerve of his body tingled. "That way out?" he thought. "How easy and how selfish.... If one's life only concerned oneself.... But it's only partly one's own from first to last." ... Then his thoughts turned again to the man who was playing "Pagliacci."
He drummed a nervous accompaniment to the Pagliacci music and looked about him, telling himself over and over that it had paid. He reflected drowsily, to the swell of the music and the chill sweetness of his wine, that he might have done it more wisely. He might have caught an outbound steamer and been well out of their clutches before now.
She said softly: "The wonder in the faun's face, Procris's closed eyes; the dog, and the swans, and the pity for what might have been!" Summerhay repeated: "Ah, for what might have been! Did you enjoy 'Pagliacci'?" Gyp shivered. "I think I felt it too much." "I thought you did. I watched you." "Destruction by love seems such a terrible thing! Now show me your favourites.
Sometimes the melody starts on level terms with the soup, in which case the banqueters contrive somehow to hum between the spoonfuls; the facial expression of enthusiasts who are punctuating potage St. Germain with Pagliacci is not beautiful, but it should be seen by those who are bent on observing all sides of life.
You must provide yourself with $10,000 in bills hidden in Saturday's Il Progresso Italiano. In the back room you will see a man sitting alone at a table. He will have a red flower on his coat. You are to say, "A fine opera is 'I Pagliacci." If he answers, "Not without Gennaro," lay the newspaper down on the table. He will pick it up, leaving his own, the Bolletino.
"I Pagliacci," an Italian opera in two acts, words by the composer, Ruggiero Leoncavallo, was first performed at Milan, May 21, 1892, and was introduced in this country in the spring of 1894, Mme. Arnoldson, Mme. Calvé, and Signors Ancona, Gromzeski, Guetary, and De Lucia taking the principal parts. The scene is laid in Calabria during the Feast of the Assumption.
Leoncavallo, though older than Mascagni, must be regarded as in a certain sense his follower, since his most popular work, 'Pagliacci, was undoubtedly inspired by 'Cavalleria Rusticana. The story begins with the arrival of a troupe of travelling comedians, or Pagliacci, in an Italian village. All is not harmony in the little company.
At the opera, that Friday evening, they were playing "Cavalleria" and "Pagliacci" works of which Gyp tolerated the first and loved the second, while Winton found them, with "Faust" and "Carmen," about the only operas he could not sleep through.
Only, how to know whether to recoil and fly, or to pass beyond the dread of letting herself go, of plunging deep into the unknown depths of love of that passion, whose nature for the first time she had tremulously felt, watching "Pagliacci" and had ever since been feeling and trembling at! Must it really be neck or nothing?
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