The Standard Operaglass Detailed Plots of One Hundred and Fifty-one Celebrated Operas — Text and Context

Compression and Scene Shifts

Annesley’s method is to collapse multiple stage events into a single, breathless sentence. In Philémon et Baucis, the transformation of the hut into a palace, the couple’s rejuvenation, and Jupiter’s courtship are all reported in quick succession: “second act Philémon's hut is changed into a palace; he awakes to find himself and his wife young again.” The effect is a kind of narrative shorthand, where the reader is expected to fill in the visual and emotional gaps. Similarly, in The Three Pintos, the arrival of Don Pinto—so corpulent he can barely dismount—is followed immediately by his revelation of a marriage contract, with no pause for description. This compression suggests Annesley prioritizes plot progression over atmosphere, a choice that makes the Operaglass a functional reference rather than a literary retelling.

Recurring Image: Transformation and Its Costs

Both excerpts hinge on physical or social transformation, but Annesley highlights the unease that accompanies change. In Philémon, the gift of youth leads to jealousy and a “first quarrel”; Baucis prays to be made old again, and the bronze statue of Jupiter is knocked down but unharmed. The image of the indestructible statue—a god made of metal—contrasts with the fragile human happiness it disrupts. In The Three Pintos, transformation is comic: the student Gaston offers to teach the gawky Don Pinto how to court a lady, with Ambrosio acting the bride. The “Kater-romance” sung by Ines is described as “gracefull as it is droll,” blending charm with absurdity. Annesley’s phrasing—wishing for wrinkles back, or imitating a bride—repeatedly ties change to loss or awkwardness.

Narrative Voice and Editorial Asides

Annesley does not merely summarize; he interjects opinions and observations. Of The Three Pintos, he notes that the text “is well done, though not important enough for three acts; two would have been quite sufficient.” This critical aside, placed within a plot summary, reveals the author’s role as a connoisseur who judges structure. In Philémon, he remarks that Vulkan “consoles himself with the reflection that he is not the only one, to whom a fickle wife causes sorrow”—a wry, almost novelistic comment. These interjections give the Operaglass a personal tone, as if a knowledgeable friend were whispering stage directions and critiques. The effect is uneven: sometimes illuminating, sometimes jarring against the otherwise factual recitation of events.

Movement Between Scenes and Characters

Annesley’s transitions are abrupt, often signaled by a character’s entrance or a change in location. In Philémon, the action moves from the hut to the palace to the threshold where Philémon spies the kiss, then to Vulkan listening, then back to Baucis weeping. Each shift is marked by a new character’s reaction: Vulkan hearing the quarrel, Philémon cursing the gift, Baucis repenting. In The Three Pintos, the scene opens in a village, then follows Don Pinto’s arrival, then shifts to the inn where Gaston flirts with Ines. The movement is linear but rapid, with little connective tissue. This technique mirrors the operatic convention of discrete scenes, but in prose it can feel breathless. Annesley’s reliance on “now” and “then” as transitional words reinforces the sense of a stage manager calling cues.

Readers approaching The Standard Operaglass should expect a brisk, opinionated guide rather than a neutral synopsis. Annesley’s entries reward those who enjoy spotting his editorial fingerprints—the wry asides, the compressed scene shifts, the recurring fascination with transformation and its discontents. The excerpts from Philémon et Baucis and The Three Pintos offer a representative sample of his method: efficient, occasionally tart, and always focused on the mechanics of plot.

Flipping through the old Standard Operaglass, I kept pausing on that odd transformation scene in Philémon et Baucis, the way Gounod lets the furniture quietly come alive. It reminded me, without any clear reason, of sitting with my mother's worn copy of Operas Every Child Should Know Descriptions of the Text and Music of Some of the Most Famous Masterpieces — Inside the Classic—that same gentle patience for explaining a story's magic simply, without rushing the wonder.