Eadgar, Aethelwold, Aelfrida

The Metropolitan Opera House hummed its loudest and busiest. Every half minute, a notable trod down a plush aisle: a social lioness, jewels agleam, stalked her stately way into a well-known box; this distinguished musician, that famed diplomat--they kept the audience craning necks, peering into programs, discussing personalities. The most brilliant gathering of the, year, had assembled to hear the first U. S. opera commissioned by Gatti-Casazza, The King's Henchman. A half-hour before the tall yellow curtains parted, the standees were under full pressure. Many of these people were skeptical. They said: "Gatti is a shrewd impresario. He will tickle U. S. vanity by presenting native opera, if they insist upon it. This is the twelfth such production. None of its predecessors amounted to much." Before long they changed their minds.

Other "native" operas had come through competition for prizes, forced hot-house flowers, that wilted soon after exposure. Some were independent experiments, brilliant in spots, dull on the whole. An opera requires musicianship but it fails without the accompaniment of theatre. So Signor Gatti-Casazza selected the creators of the Henchman. Edna St. Vincent Millay, poetess with a dramatic sense, was to write the libretto (TIME, Jan. 17); Deems Taylor, composer of concert music, onetime music critic of the N. Y. World, would provide the score.

They were to find a "native" theme. Indians? Witchcraft? Skyscrapers? No, the most native to U. S. spirit, decided Miss Millay, is the old Saxon legend. The Saxon is nearer than the redman; the turbulent warrior dearer than the Puritan, to our age. Theirs was a forthright, swaggering, romantic spirit. Mr. Taylor would write his music true to the hunt, the forest, the clash of sword, the misty superstitions, the feudal ideals of loyalty.

The story parallels Wagner's Tristan and Isolde--a king, a vassal sent a-wooing. The first scene disclosed King Eadgar's (Lawrence Tibbett's) banquet hall, its rough-hewn table boards, trophies of woodland kills, crude spears, armor: discloses also the royal widower's conceit to take a second wife. Aelfrida, daughter of the Thane of Devon, famed for beauty, is in his mind. With Saxon stolidity, however, he withholds decision until assured that the lady, whom he has never personally inspected, merits her reputation. On the errand of verification and summons (if justified), he despatches his loyal foster-brother, Aethelwold (Edward Johnson), whose attitude toward ladies is thus described: "Should a wench but breathe upon him in the dark, he would bury himself till the smell of her were off him." Aethelwold rides off on his mission, to a lusty-spirited folk tune, sung by the chorus (and later, through the corridors, by the audience). "I climb to my saddle," he sings, "and I ride and I ride." He will say to the maiden: "If thou be as fair as men say, do on thy hood and come along o' me; and sooner than a weasel can suck a duck's egg, thou shalt be Queen of England." Near the lady's home, he loses his way, falls asleep, while Mr. Taylor's wood pieces whisper sylvan enchantments and the chorus, offstage, hums the forest mysteries. It is All-Hallow's Eve, when a maid, by performing runic rites in the woodland, may catch a glimpse of her future husband. Ravishing Aelfrida (Florence Easton) comes upon the royal emissary. They fall in love at once. Aethelwold keeps the real purpose of his errand a secret, marries the beauty himself, sends word to the King that she is neither passing fair nor lustrous but meet spouse for one, who, like himself, is without earthly possessions--"sparing the king's love."

Unexpectedly Eadgar comes to visit their worried household, where Aelfrida yearns for glamorous court life and Aethelwold's treachery burns constantly in his heart. Mr. Taylor's cellos breathe chromatic sights. The henchman is driven to reveal to his wife his perfidy: how he deprived the King of her beauty, her of a queen's throne. If she loves him, let her hurry to make herself appear ugly, bent, broken, scarred, withered, that the King may find his brother innocent of treason.

Here, Miss Millay strikes a tone of modern cynicism. Aelfrida appears before the royal guest in all her glory, wearing a golden robe, splendid in her favorite gems. The betrayer is betrayed. He plunges his dagger into his heart. He commits suicide in a "nice" way, explains Miss Millay. No fuss, tenor solo, orchestral pomposity; no sentimental worblings of lost love and noble remorse. Like a true Saxon, he quietly takes his life, "for himself," not glory or revenge. Aelfrida weeps but Eadgar says to her: "Thou hast not tears enough in thy narrow heart to weep him worthily. . . ."

The yellow curtains folded. A moment of silence, then storms of applause and 37 curtain calls. No one fled for his limousine. This ovation was sincere. Critics hailed a triumph: The Henchman, they said was more than the greatest U. S. opera; it took rank with the great music of the world. Though Composer Taylor showed traces of Wagnerian influence, his music held enough ingenuous wealth to need no comparison, to point to far greater possibilities of creation.

The reports were carried on the front pages of the press. Miss Millay's libretto was superb: "sensible and singable," quaintly flavored. Only the gum-chewers' Daily News, whose music critic signs herself "Debutante," found the opera lacking in distinction. She falsely announced: "Alas! Those who came . . . may not have scoffed but they certainly did not remain to pray."

P: It was announced that Composer Taylor had been commissioned to create another opera, for the opening, two years hence, of the Metropolitan's new auditorium. He said: "So far as opera is concerned I feel I have just about graduated from grammar school."

P: Miss Millay (Mrs. Eugen Jan Boissevain), blond and sprightly in crimson and gold Florentine brocade with a long train, burst out after the curtain calls: "No one sleeps tonight! It is our New Year's!" She had worked steadily, through illness, for two years.

P: Experts estimated that the cost of producing The King's Henchman, with its 28 roles and large chorus, ran near to $75,000. Each performance would cost $15,000 running expense. The box office took in $15,504 the first night. The authors' reward was guessed at $15,000, share alike.

P: Singing honors went to tall Lawrence Tibbett. He came to fame two years ago with a sensational "Falstaff" (TIME, Jan. 12, 1925). Upon that beginning, critics said warmly, he has built very soundly.

P: High praise was accorded Conductor Tullio Serafin and Stage Designer Joseph Urban.