CHAPTER XXV.
CURIOSITIES OF THE OPERA.
MODERN COMPOSERS, AND CONCLUSION.
Our series of sketches now draws towards its close. The rise of the many-voiced harmony in Italy, France, Germany, England, and the Netherlands, the contrapuntal works of Palestrina, Dufay, De Lattre, etc., come rather under the head of the history and science of music, than within the scope of a work which only endeavors to collect the curiosities of the art, and things not generally known. But in the rise and progress of the opera, we find some interesting facts which belong to our subject, and which bring our chain of sketches down to the music of our own times.
The opera was the legitimate offspring of the Miracle plays of the Middle ages, which were only sacred operas or oratorios, wherein some events in the life of a holy personage were represented with songs and acting. The first opera (being exactly like a “mystery play,” except that the subject was a secular one) was “Orpheus,” by Angelo Poliziano, and was performed in Rome in 1480. The libretto was by Cardinal Riario (nephew of Pope Sixtus IV.)
Pope Clement IX., wrote seven librettos for operas. All was not sung in these: they were rather tragedies with choruses.[279]
In 1500 the popes possessed a theatre, with decorations and machinery. The paintings in this edifice were by Balthazar Peruzzi, who may be said to be the father of scene painting. His scenery is said to have been very realistic.
Julian de Medicis, brother of Leon X., on being proclaimed a citizen of Rome gave public plays, and had a comedy of Plautus presented for two days, the music of which was much admired.
In 1574, Claudio Merulo, organist at St. Mark’s, composed music to a drama, which was performed in the presence of Henry III., of France.
Vincent Galileo, father of the astronomer, and Giovanni Bardi invented the recitative at about the same time.
Peri and Caccini, two of the best musicians of Florence were engaged by two rich noblemen to write for them a complete opera; Dafne, produced in Florence (1597,) was the result, and was the first complete opera in modern form; these composers were therefore the originators of the opera.
An opera by the same writers was given at the wedding of Henry IV., and Marie de Medici. Rinucci, the author of the libretti of both the above was silly enough to imagine that Marie de Medici loved him, and followed her into France the ridicule which he received for his conceit soon sent him back to Italy.
The score of “Orpheus,” by Monteverde, 1608, allows us to see the construction of his orchestra.
There were,—
2 Clavichords,
2 Lyres, or Grand Viols (13 strings),
10 Violas,
3 Bass Viols,
2 Double Bass,
1 Double Harp (2 rows of strings),
2 Small French Violins,
2 Great Guitars,
2 Organs (wood),
4 Trombones,
1 Pair of Regals (small organ),
2 Cornets,
1 Small Flute,
1 Clarion,
3 Sourdines (muted trumpets).
These instruments gave to each chorus and character a different effect, thus the double basses accompanied Orpheus; the viols, Euridice; the trombones, Pluto; the regals, Apollo. The shepherd’s choruses were accompanied by flute, cornets, sourdines and clarion, and most singular of all, Charon sang to the light tones of the guitar.[280]
In Italy, from this time forth, opera followed opera.
In France it was not known till much later plays “with songs” were known however, and one of these, “in the Italian style,” was performed in Paris, before the King and Royal family, on the occasion of the victory of the Duke of Guise at Calais, 1558.
The chief representations for years after, lay rather in the direction of ballets, than of operas. Religious plays also still were given at Paris, but after the ordinance, of 1548, that no Catholic ceremony should be represented on the stage, they disappeared.[281]
The theatres, that is those which were public, were at this time very poorly appointed, but through the constant festivities of the court, many inventions came into use.
The Court of France had always a penchant for music, the drama, and dancing. Henry IV., was very fond of the latter.
Louis XIII., cultivated music with much success, he composed many airs, and several motets which he had performed in his Chapel. Music was his ordinary recreation when he could not go hunting. At the siege of La Rochelle, there being no musicians or singers with the army, he himself wrote out the vespers for Pentecost, that they might be ready in time. Three weeks before his death, and after he had received the extreme unction, feeling himself somewhat better, he begged Nyert, his first valet de garderobe to sing a paraphrase of David, which he had set to music, to give thanks to God.
Saint-Martin and Campeforte who were present, each sang a part, and thus made a concerted piece which they sang around the bed, the king from time to time joining in with his own voice.
He also wrote a “de Profundis,” which was sung over him after his death.[282] The words still exist which were written by him for his now well-known “Amaryllis;” they were written for Madame de Hauteforte, and one of the verses runs:—
Tu crois, o beau soleil!
Q’ua ton eclat rien n’est pareil;
Mais quoi! tu palis
Auprès d’Amaryllis.[283]
Tallement speaks of a concert given once where one of his songs was sung four times, the king beating the measure. To these gatherings he would admit none who were not musical, and no women whatever, “for” said he, “they cannot keep silent."[284]
Under Louis XIV., the opera became well known in France, nor was it any longer a borrowed spectacle, for Lulli in 1664 associated himself with Moliere in writing; the latter furnishing the libretti, which were in themselves of the best order. In 1672 he built a permanent opera house, (Academie Royale de Musique) and thus gave to France, what it had never before possessed,—a national opera.
There were, to be sure, a few French operas, before his enterprise; one given at Paris, by Cardinal Mazarin, in 1645; one entitled “Akébar, King of Mogul,” by the Abbeé Mailly and “La Pastorale en musique,” by Cambert,[285] but these do not deprive Lulli of the claim of being the “founder of French opera.”
La Fontaine tried to write some libretti for Lulli, which were total failures, and declined by the musician.
The King (Louis XIV.), was passionately fond of Lulli’s music, and would hear scarcely any other.
About this time, the idea of whistling and hissing to show disapproval, was invented. It is said that Corneille’s “Baron de Fondrieres” has the questionable honor of being the first play that ever was hissed.
The hiss, spread rapidly, but on some one having injudiciously hissed the opera of Orpheus, by the sons of Lully, the hiss was interdicted by law in 1690.[286]
The repression was not very effectual, and innumerable epigrams (some of which still exist),[287] showed the derision of the public.
The singers of Lulli’s operas had all the faults of their later brethren. Dumenil, the tenor, used to steal the jewelry of the prime donne, and get intoxicated with the baritone. He is said to have drank six bottles of champagne every night, and only the sixth deteriorated his performance.
Marthe Le Rochois, another of the troupe, on being accused of too much intimacy with the bassoon of the orchestra, exhibited a promise of marriage from the fond performer, written on the back of an ace of spades.
Mlle. de Maupin was the wildest scapegrace the stage ever saw: her adventures read like the most improbable sensational novel, and would take as much space to reproduce.
England’s first opera was performed in 1656. It was entitled the “Siege of Rhodes,” and was composed by five persons in collaboration. Musicians and players were at this time held in low esteem, and were liable to arrest as vagabonds at almost any moment.
England possessed in Henry Purcell (1658-1695) a musician of whom any country might be proud. This composer soon turned his pen to the writing of operas; the music to “The Tempest” was excellent, while his “King Arthur” contains music which is still loved by Englishmen everywhere.
Now that opera was established firmly, the rivalries of the singers at once began.
In 1726 a bitter rivalry sprang up in London between Cuzzoni and Faustina Bordoni, in which the whole town took part. It lasted over two years, and was throughout causeless, as the styles of the two were entirely dissimilar, Bordoni being unapproachable in the lightness and rapidity of her runs and embellishments, and Cuzzoni excelling in the pathetic quality, and breadth of her tones.[288]
But to follow the absurdities which constantly arose in the rivalries of the various composers, singers and performers, would require, not one, but very many volumes by itself; we need only allude to the disputes and rivalries between Gluck and Piccini (in the composition of operas,) the singers Mara and Todi, in France, and Billington and Mara in London.
The names of those who have established a reputation as wonderful operatic singers, also make a formidable list. Among the very greatest may however be mentioned Farinelli (male soprano) Catalani, and Lablache, and among the most successful of operatic writers, Gluck, Mozart, Meyerbeer, Rossini, Verdi, Gounod. Of course many names could be added, but these may stand as representatives.
It is not singular that the great masters, Händel, Beethoven and Mendelssohn failed in this branch of composition. None of them had the ability to stoop to the musical finesses, and coups de theatre, which were necessary to make a successful opera. They might have succeeded, if the pure style of Gluck, with libretti taken from the Greek tragedies, had continued, for these were in their vein. But the public demanded a more spicy operatic diet which they were not able or desirous to finish.
It is well that it was so, for to this fact we owe our grandest oratorios.
Händel had trouble enough with opera, before he finally left it. He had a temper which was simply frightful (and an appetite which was the same), and when he came in contact with the conceited and irascible singers of his day, an explosion was sure to follow.
Cuzzoni (who had the sweetest of voices, and the harshest of tempers), was the hardest of all for him to get along with.
One day she refused absolutely to sing a part which he had assigned to her; his patience, small at the best, gave out totally, and he was going to throw her out of the window, when she hurriedly gave her consent to sing.
Händel’s losses and trials as operatic manager, temporarily drove him crazy.
Rossini also had his troubles in the operatic field. Once a manager, whose libretti he was bound by contract to set to music, took offence at some action of the composer, and sought to revenge himself by writing a wretched opera for him. The result nearly brought both to ruin, for Rossini retorted by writing a terribly poor score to the words; in the overture, during an allegro movement, the violins were arranged so as to stop at every bar, and tap the tin shades of their lamps with their bows. The audience nearly demolished the theatre. The “Barber of Seville” was a failure at its first performance.
There is a note to be made here, of a passage in one of his operas, which is of interest to conductors.
The overture to “William Tell” had been played from its first representation, August 3, 1829, for more than thirty years, with a major trill in the violincello at the cadence of the first part; (the andante at the beginning of the work), but on the 16th of November, 1861, the piece was played before the composer, who stigmatized as “a great fault,” the major trill in the third measure of the cadence.[289] “It should be minor” he said. And since that date it has been played so. But it is very uncertain whether the abrupt remark was not a mere whim of the composer. The trill is more satisfactory with G sharp, than with G natural; the earlier editions have none of them any mention of a minor trill and it is scarcely possible that “a great fault” like this, should have escaped notice so long.
Meyerbeer, was in all respects, a person well calculated to popularize opera. He knew how to work up dramatic effects, in which he was well seconded by his French librettists, and he did not hesitate at any innovation to ask if it were classical, or belonged to pure art; and he succeeded far better than the martinets who condemned him.
At the first representation of his “Robert le Diable,” an accident occurred which nearly resulted in disaster. In the last act, Bertram, the tempter, has to descend to the infernal regions, alone; Levasseur (who performed the character) leaped down the trap, and Robert (represented by the tenor Nourrit), who should have remained on earth, saved by the prayers of Alice,—after a moment of indecision (not remembering the denouèment) leaped after him.
There was general consternation on the stage, for all thought that Nourrit was injured. In the audience they must have thought that the opera had a rather immoral ending, since Bertram, the tempter, had triumphed over the prayers of Alice.
Fortunately the mattresses had not been removed; and Bertram was vastly astonished to find that he had bagged his victim after all; he asked Nourrit in amazement.—“Has the plot been changed?” but Nourrit recollecting his mistake, hastened back to the stage, where the audience were astonished to see him reappear, but soon grasping the situation burst into loud applause.
The curiosities of the opera of to-day are even greater than those of twenty years since, for the world has found an iconoclastic composer who is endeavoring to reform all that went before him, by pulling it to pieces. Yet he has done opera precisely the service which it at present needed, in showing composers the importance of bestowing a greater attention upon the libretto, and elevating the orchestra as well as the scene painter to their proper places; his idea that an opera should be a “perfect chrysolite,” a complete picture in all its accessories, is the true one, though his mode of effecting it may not be.
His zeal has allowed him to commit a ludicrous “curiosity of music” in attacking almost all that the Jews have ever done in music, and endeavoring to depreciate the most prominent talent of that race; a talent which has been acknowledged ever since the days of the Babylonian captivity.
Yet a still greater curiosity (and the most recent of all) has been written by one of his defenders. Of course his attacks upon all who differed from him, provoked retorts innumerable; these have been collected and published in a compact form, and the work is entitled “A Dictionary of Impoliteness.”
With this “curiosity” our catalogue appropriately ends. We have not mentioned some of the great names in music (Haydn, Cherubini, Palestrina, Schumann, Schubert, etc.), and have touched but lightly upon others. They did not seem to come within our scope.
The incidents in the lives of the musical giants have all been sought out by persons possessing facilities which no American writer can have, and are generally so well known that they can no longer be called curious. We have endeavored to show that music is a very uncertain and fickle art, and continually changing, and that there never can be absolute laws laid down in this free art, as if it were a fixed science. If we have done this and amused our readers at the same time, we consider our work brought to a satisfactory conclusion.
THE END.