PUCCINI
MADAME BUTTERFLY
Navy Lieutenant
Pinkerton glories in his role as the enterprising Yankee, exploring this
quaint, odd little country known as
Japan:
The wide world over,
The roving Yankee revels,
Eager for enterprise,
However risky.
Where luck or chance decree
He throws out his anchor --
Some punch or whiskey? --
And on the open sea
He braves the storm
To dominate and conquer.
On land his time is wasted
If a plum or a peach
Is left to go untasted . . .
He is much drawn to a
a very young, pretty, charming Japanese geisha girl named Cio Cio
San:
I’m still undecided what to call it:
A round of sport or a frenzy of passion?
One thing for sure,
She’s sweet and demure,
Skin of pure alabaster,
Fine as a glass figure
Spun by a master.
Such an enchanting
Dear little creature!
Pining and panting,
Much I could teach her!
Sheer as the gold
Of the sun when it rises,
Lo and behold!
She is full of surprises.
No figurine on a silk-covered screen,
No doll made of glass, she
could pass for a queen.
I must have my Butterfly!
My heart has spoken --
A pity if her fragile wings get broken.
They are in fact
getting married. Cio Cio San is
ecstatic:
There’s none in all Japan,
Not a person in the world
So happy as I,
For today I’m getting married
To the man I adore,
By love itself transported.
Child no longer,
In rapture, here on high
I’ll dwell evermore . . .
I want you to love me,
If even just a little,
The way I’ve seen in children
Growing up close to nature.
Love me the way I love you.
My people tend to favor
The small and the simple.
Often our love is silent,
Modest as the flower
That few would stop to notice,
But reaching far
As the sky and the ocean . . .
Later that night:
Ah! Night of rapture, warm and tender!
Never have the stars burned brighter.
Trembling, sparkling,
They dazzle and amaze the eye,
Like diamonds on a velvet sky,
Stars that light the halls of
heaven,
Eyes of angels looking down,
From over the mountains
To the calm reflecting waters .
. .
Oh, night of rapture!
Night of ecstacy that cries,
All is well!
Pinkerton has sailed
back to America. Though he has now
been gone for three years, Butterfly
remains supremely confident that he will return any day:
On the day I dream of,
We first will see a tiny thread of smoke
On the far horizon,
And then his ship of splendor!
As the flags are waving,
Proudly it enters the harbor
To the sound of cannon fire.
Homeward comes my hero!
I’ll not go down to greet him,
no, no!
I’ll wait here on the hill overlooking.
Too excited, I’ll wait,
Never mind how many hours,
For he remembered.
Emerging from the distant
crowded city,
No bigger than a needle,
I see a man slowly climbing.
Is it he? Is it he?
And as he draws still closer,
I can hear! I can hear
As he cries, “Butterfly,
My love, where are you?”
Silent, I dare not answer,
But stay a while in hiding,
Though partly teasing, in part
afraid
To die of joy to see him.
Uneasily he looks around and calls,
“Butterfly!
My Oriental blossom!
My delicate verbena!”
And other pretty names that I found so charming.
It will happen exactly as I told you.
So put aside your fears,
For my own faith remains
Unshaken!
When a cannon shot
announces the arrival of a magnificent warship, she takes out a telescope and points it toward the harbor, trembling with emotion:
Help me hold it steady so I can read the name.
The name is . . .I’ll find it .
. . There it is!
Ah! ABRAHAM LINCOLN!
They all said never,
never, never!
I alone knew and trusted,
I alone who loved him!
Now can you see how little you knew him?
My prayer is answered!
He comes back after everyone said over and over,
He has forgotten.
But love saw me through.
My belief and my trust are now rewarded
Because he loves me!
Shake the bough that bears the cherry blossoms,
Let the petals pour down.
I want to drown in the shower
That cools my burning forehead.
While waiting through
the long night, Butterly sings to her
sleeping baby:
Sleep, little darling,
Safe in mother’s care.
You play with angels,
She wrestles with despair.
But where you are, her heart is
there.
Sleep on, my little one . . .
Pinkerton has returned,
bringing his American wife with him,
with the in-tention of taking his little son back to America. Sharpless,
the sympathetic con-sul, tries
to assuage the fears of Suzuki,
Butterfly’s faithful servant:
There is no medication.
But her child’s life we can salvage
In a land where doors are still open.
That kind woman
Who dares not enter
Will give him motherly care and love.
Come out and greet her.
Extend a welcome
And invite her inside.
If Butterfly should see and guess,
never mind.
There’s no way, no way to break
it gently,
And delay will not make it easier.
Go, reassure this kind-hearted
lady.
Persuade her to join us inside.
Go and talk to her.
Broken-hearted, Butterfly says goodby to her baby:
My smiling cherub!
My joy, my love, my angel,
Made of lilies and roses.
May you never, never know
Your mother died out of love for you
And your sparkling eyes,
And so that later on,
Across the ocean,
You will not live tormented
Because your mother
Gave you away to a stranger.
My love, sent down from heaven,
Stare long and hard, my baby.
May you some day remember
How she smiled as she held you
As the last tender traces
Linger on.
Goodby, my darling!
My blessed angel, goodby!
Go . . . play . . . play.