An attempt to treat a modern dramatic incident according to the approved methods of grand opera.
[Mr. and Mrs. Tyler are seated in their apartment on the fifth floor of the Behemoth residential flat building. Mrs. Tyler arises, places her hand on her heart, and moves to the center of the room. Mr. Tyler follows her, with his right arm extended.}
Mrs. Tyler:
I think I smell smoke.
Mr. Tyler:
She thinks she smells smoke.
Mrs. T.:
I think I smell smoke.
Mr. T.:
Oh. What is this? She says she thinks she smells smoke.
Mrs. T.:
What does it mean, what does it mean?
This smell of smoke may indicate
That we'll be burned oh-h-h, awful fate!
Mr. T.:
Behold the smell grows stronger yet,
The house is burning, I'd regret
To perish in the curling flames;
Oh. Horror! horror!! horror!!!
Mr. and Mrs. T.:
Oh, sad is our lot, sad is our lot,
To perish in the flames so hot,
To curl and writhe and fry and sizz,
Oh, what a dreadful thing it is
To think of such a thing!
Mrs. T.:
We must escape!
Mr. T.:
Yes, yes, we must escape!
Mrs. T.:
We have no time to lose.
Mr. T.:
Ah, bitter truth, Ah, bitter truth,
We have no time to lose.
Mr. and Mrs. T.:
Sad is our lot, sad is our lot,
To perish in the flames so hot etc.
Mr. T.:
Hark, what is that?
Mrs. T.:
Hark, what is that?
Mr. T.:
It is the dread alarm of fire.
Mrs. T.:
Ah, yes, ah, yes, it is the dread alarm.
Mr. T.:
The dread alarm strikes on the ear
And chills me with an awful fear.
The house will burn, oh, can it be
That I must die in misery,
That I must die in misery,
The house will burn, oh, can it be
That I must die in misery?
Mrs. T.:
Come, let us fly!
Mr. T.:
'Tis well. Tis well. We'll fly at once.
(Enter all the other residents of the fifth floor.)
Mr. T.:
Kind friends, I have some news to tell.
This house is burning, it were well
That we should haste ourselves away
And save our lives without delay.
Chorus:
What is this he tells us?
It must be so;
The building is on fire
And we must go.
Oh, hasten, oh, hasten, oh, hasten away,
Our terror we would not conceal,
And language fails to express the alarm
That in our hearts we feel.
Mr. and Mrs. T.:
Ah, language fails to express the alarm
That in their hearts they feel.
(Enter the Janitor.)
Janitor:
Hold, I am here.
Mr. T.:
Ah, it is the Janitoro.
Mrs. T.:
Can I believe my senses
Or am I going mad?
It is the Janitoro,
It is indeed the Janitoro. Janitor:
Such news I have to tell.
Mr. T.:
Ah, I might have known
He has such news to tell.
Mrs. T.:
Speak and break the awful suspense.
Mrs. T.:
Yes, speak. Janitor:
I come to inform you
That you must quickly fly
The fearful blaze is spreading,
To tarry is to die.
The floors underneath you
Are completely burned away,
They cannot save the building,
So now escape I pray.
Mrs. T.:
Oh, awful message
How it chills my heart. Janitor:
The flames are roaring loudly,
Oh, what a fearful sound!
You can hear the people shrieking
As they jump and strike the ground.
Oh, horror overtakes me,
And I merely pause to say
That the building's doomed for certain
Oh, haste, oh, haste away.
Mrs. T.:
Oh, awful message.
How it chills my heart.
Yet we will sing a few more arias
Before we start.
Mr. T.:
Yes, a few more arias and then away.
Chorus:
Oh, hasten, oh, hasten, oh, hasten away, etc., etc.
Mrs. T.:
Now, e'er I retreat,
Lest death o'ertakes me
I'll speak of the fear
That convulses and shakes me.
I sicken to think what may befall,
Oh, horror! horror!! horror!!!
Mr. T.:
The woman speaks the truth,
And there can be no doubt
That we will perish soon
Unless we all clear out.
Chorus:
Oh, hasten, oh, hasten, oh, hasten away, etc., etc.
(But why go further? The supposition is that they continued the dilatory tactics of grand opera and perished in the flames.)
