Prelude to a Fable

Music and Texts of GARY BACHLUND

Prelude to a Fable - (1994)

Libretto by Gary Bachlund

After a story by Hans Christian Andersen

For lyric tenor (Storyteller) and character tenor (Dog) and chamber ensemble.

Lyric and character sopranos may also portray these parts, if required.

Also in German translation by Annette Zühlke: Vorspiel zu einer Fabel.

The piano-vocal score for Prelude to a Fable is available as a free PDF download, though any major commercial performance or recording of the work is prohibited without prior arrangement with the composer. Click on the graphic below for this score.

For inquiries and the arrangement of performance rights, click here for Contact Information

[ 18 pages with cover, circa 10 minutes ]

Storyteller:
Storytellers,
the wisest spirits of each age,
teach us tales.
Stories filled with
entertainments.
Strange, exotic tales.
Wondrous tales.
Spectacles of words and worlds,
and vision's sharp details.
We are compelled
to see ourselves in them.
A mirror of our secret heart.
Our foolish flights of fancy.
Our foibles' face.
The farce and folly in our lives.
Stories for the smallest,
the youngest of children.
Fables for the tallest
who no longer are children,
that we might see ourselves
in them. As, for example:

[ The Dog appears.]

There once were two castles
on two lofty hills.
One dog was in between.

Dog:
Woof!

Storyteller:
A meager table scrap or two
fulfills its choice cuisine.

Dog:
Ah-ooo!
Table scraps!?
Did I hear table scraps?
Woof!

Storyteller:
When fanfares flourish
from one lofty height,
then dinner there is served.
Those fanfares nourish
our dog's appetite,
as Pavlov once observed.

Dog:
Table scraps?
Did I hear table scraps?
Did he say "table scraps?"
Please! Please! Please!

Storyteller:
Our dog awaits the trumpet call.
Its food is soon foreseen.

Dog:
Ah-ooo!

Dog:
If dogs could speak, I'd surely say:
I'd rather have table scraps any old day!
That's what I'd say, if I had my way.
I'd rather eat table scraps any old way.
Cold canapé? Maybe soufflé?
I'd rather taste table scraps. Slice of filet?
Piquant purée? Consommé?
Give me my table scraps!
What's the delay?
It's not so nice to munch on mice.
Fur and claws and tail?
To dine on bird is most absurd.
Feathers taste so stale.
I'd rather eat table scraps any old day.
That's what I'd say if I had my way.
I'd rather eat table scraps any old way.
For fabulous, fragrant,
flavorful, first-class food,
I gladly would stray quite far away,
quite far away, but dogs can't speak!
So? [ Dog sounds, ad lib.]

Storyteller:
A festive feast is sallied forth
into one banquet hall.
And from that castle in the north
there comes the dinner call.

[ Trumpet call.]

Dog:
Table scraps? Wow!
Bow-wow-wow-wow! Wow!
I feel my table scraps coming on! Ah-ooo!

[ The Dog begins to go towards the castle.]

Storyteller:
While on his way to the north,
the southern castle's fanfare cries aloud.

[ Trumpet call.]

Its banquet feast is set
before the southern crowd.

Dog:
Tasty morsels to the north!
Savory victuals in the south!
Now I must choose which one to lose?
I'll scratch the north, and thus catch
the southern banquet's crumbs.
Oh, Bow-wow-wow!
Wow-wow-wow!
Bow-wow-wow! Wow! Oh, wow!

Storyteller:
Then from the north is heard yet again
the call unto their table.

[ Trumpet call.]

'Tis thus our furry comedian
is caught up in this fable.

Dog:
Then again, the northern folk
do serve quite well;
'tis there I'll heed their dinner bell.
Oh, Bow-wow-wow!
Wow-wow-wow!
Bow-wow-wow! Wow! Oh, wow!

Storyteller:
And, yet once more,
the southern call to suppertime is blared.

[ Trumpet call.]

Our famished cur is all astir
and in its thrall ensnared.

Dog:
I do believe the southern folk
serve better, fresher fare.
My chance, perhaps,
to snap table scraps
is better over there.
Bow-wow-wow!
Wow-wow-wow! Wow!

Storyteller:
These bright fanfares alternate
from rampart walls
in the north and the south.
Our second guessing dog
is all caught up with
mere options to fill it mouth.
And so it goes.

[ Many fanfares, beginning to fade away.]

Dog:
Woof?

Storyteller:
The fanfares end,
as all things must,
and thus amend our hero's lust.
For options lost,
like rivers never crossed,
insist upon some certain cost.

Dog:
Table scraps?
Bow-wow-wow-wow.
Somehow, no chow.
Woof? Ooo....

Storyteller:
We are compelled
to see ourselves in him.
One mirror of our secret heart.
His foolish flights of fancy
might be our own.
The farce and folly in our lives.
Might we learn a lesson
through such a moral?
In such simple stories
with which we cannot quarrel?
That we might find ourselves in them?

Dog:

Grrr.... Grrr.... Grrr....

Gary Bachlund, June 1994