Velluti's demeanour on entering the stage was highly prepossessing. Mr. Ebers says that "it was at once graceful and dignified," and that "he was in look and action the son of chivalry he represented."
He adds, that "his appearance was received with mingled applause and disapprobation; but that "the scanty symptoms of the latter were instantly overwhelmed." The effect produced on the audience by the first notes Velluti uttered was most peculiar. According to Mr. Ebers, "there was a something of a preternatural harshness about them, which jarred even more strongly on the imagination than on the ear;" though, as he proceeded, "the sweetness and flexibility of those of his tones which yet remained unimpaired by time, were fully perceived and felt." Lord Mount Edgcumbe informs us, that "the first note he uttered gave a shock of surprise, almost of disgust, to inexperienced ears;" though, afterwards, "his performance was listened to with great attention and applause throughout, with but few audible expressions of disapprobation speedily suppressed." The general effect of his performance is summed up in the following words:—"To the old he brought back some pleasing recollections; others, to whom his voice was new, became reconciled to it, and sensible of his merits; whilst many declared, to the last, his tones gave them more pain than pleasure." However, he drew crowded audiences, and no opera but Meyerbeer's Crociato was performed until the end of the season.
Some years after the production of Il Crociato, Meyerbeer had written an opéra comique, entitled Robert le Diable, which was to have been represented at the Ventadour Theatre, specially devoted to that kind of performance. The company, however, at the "Théâtre de l'Opera Comique," was not found competent to execute the difficult music of Robert, and the interesting libretto by M. M. Scribe and Delavigne, was altered and reduced, so as to suit the Académie. The celebrated "pruning knife" was brought out, and vigorously applied. What remained of the dialogue was adapted for recitative, and the character of "Raimbaud" was cut out in the fourth and fifth acts. With all these suppressions, the opera, as newly arranged, to be recited or sung from beginning to end, was still very long, and not particularly intelligible. However, the legend on which Robert le Diable is founded is well suited for musical illustration, and the plot, with a little attention and a careful study of the book, may be understood, in spite of the absence of "Raimbaud," who, in the original piece, is said to have served materially to aid and explain the progress of the drama.
If Robert le Diable had been produced at the Opéra Comique, in the form in which it was originally conceived, the many points of resemblance it presents to Der Freischütz would have struck every one. Meyerbeer seems to have determined to write a romantic semi-fantastic legendary opera, like Der Freischütz, and, in doing so, naturally followed in the footsteps of Weber. He certainly treats these legendary subjects with particular felicity, and I fancy there is more spontaneity in the music of Robert le Diable, and Dinorah, than in any other that he has composed; but this does not alter the fact that such subjects were first treated in music, and in a thoroughly congenial manner, by Karl Maria von Weber. Without considering how far Meyerbeer, in Robert le Diable, has borrowed his instrumentation and harmonic combinations from Weber, there can be no doubt about its being a work of much the same class as Der Freischütz; and it would have been looked upon as quite of that class, had it been produced, like Der Freischütz, with spoken dialogue, and with the popular characters more in relief.
Robert le Diable, converted into a grand opera, was produced at the Académie, on the 21st of November, 1831. Dr. Véron, in his "Mémoires d'un Bourgeois de Paris," has given a most interesting account of all the circumstances which attended the rehearsals and first representation of this celebrated work. Dr. Véron had just undertaken the management of the Académie; and to have such an opera as Robert le Diable, with which to mark the commencement of his reign, was a piece of rare good fortune. The libretto, the music, the ballet, were all full of interest, and many of the airs had the advantage (in Paris) of being somewhat in the French style. The applause with which this, the best constructed of all M. Meyerbeer's works, was received, went on increasing from act to act; and, altogether, the success it obtained was immense, and, in some respects, unprecedented.
Nourrit played the part of "Robert," Madame Cinti Damoreau that of "Isabelle." Mademoiselle Dorus and Levasseur were the "Alice" and the "Bertram." In the pas de cinq of the second act, Noblet, Montessu, and Perrot appeared; and in the nuns' scene, the troop of resuscitated virgins was led by the graceful and seductive Taglioni. All the scenery was admirably painted, especially that of the moonlight tableau in the third act. The costumes were rich and brilliant, the mise en scène, generally, was remarkable for its completeness; in short, every one connected with the "getting up" of the opera from Habeneck, the musical conductor, to the property-men, gas-fitters and carpenters, whose names history has not preserved, did their utmost to ensure its success.
In 1832, Robert le Diable was brought out at the King's Theatre, with the principal parts sustained, as in Paris, by Nourrit, Levasseur, and Madame Damoreau. The part of "Alice" appears to have been given to Mademoiselle de Méric. This opera met with no success at the King's Theatre, and was scarcely better received at Covent Garden, where an English version was performed, with such alterations in Meyerbeer's music as will easily be conceived by those who remember how the works of Rossini, and, indeed, all foreign composers, were treated at this time, on the English stage.
In 1832, and, indeed, many years afterwards, when Robert and Les Huguenots had been efficiently represented in London by German companies, Meyerbeer's music was still most severely handled by some of our best musical critics. At present there is perhaps an inclination to go to the other extreme; but, at all events, full justice has now been rendered to M. Meyerbeer's musical genius. Let us hear what Lord Mount Edgcumbe (whose opinion I do not regard as one of authority, but only as an interesting index to that of the connoisseurs of the old school), has to say of the first, and, on the whole, the most celebrated of Meyerbeer's operas. He entertains the greatest admiration for Don Giovanni, Fidelio, Der Freischütz, and Euryanthe; but neither the subject, nor even the music of Robert le Diable, pleases him in the least. "Never," he says, "did I see a more disagreeable or disgusting performance. The sight of the resurrection of a whole convent of nuns, who rise from their graves, and begin dancing, like so many bacchants, is revolting; and a sacred service in a church, accompanied by an organ on the stage, not very decorous. Neither does the music of Meyerbeer compensate for a fable, which is a tissue of nonsense and improbability. Of course, I was not tempted to hear it again in its original form, and it did credit to the taste of the English public, that it was not endured at the Opera House, and was acted only a very few nights."
Meyerbeer's second grand opera, Les Huguenots, was produced at the Académie Royale on the 26th of January, 1836, after twenty-eight full rehearsals, occasioning a delay which cost the composer a fine of thirty thousand francs. The expense of getting up the Huguenots (in scenery, dresses, properties, &c.), amounted to one hundred and sixty thousand francs.
In London, and I believe everywhere on the continent except in Paris, the most popular of M. Meyerbeer's three grand operas is Les Huguenots. At the Académie, Robert le Diable seems still to carry away the palm. Of late years, the admirable performance of Mario and Grisi, and of Titiens and Giuglini, in the duet of the fourth act, has had an immense effect in increasing the popularity of Les Huguenots with the English. This duet, the septett for male voices, the blessing of the daggers and the whole of the dramatic and animated scene of which it forms part, are certainly magnificent compositions; but the duet for "Raoul" and "Valentine" is the very soul of the work. At the theatres of Italy, the opera in question is generally "cut" with a free hand; and it is so long, that even after plentiful excisions an immense deal of music, and of fine music, still remains. But who would go to hear Les Huguenots, if the duet of the fourth act were omitted, or if the performance stopped at the end of act III.? On the other hand, the fourth act alone would always attract an audience; for, looked upon as a work by itself, it is by far the most dramatic, the most moving of all M. Meyerbeer's compositions. The construction of this act is most creditable to the librettist; while the composer, in filling up, and giving musical life to the librettist's design, has shown the very highest genius. It ends with a scene for two personages, but the whole act is of one piece. While the daggers are being distributed, while the plans of the chief agents in the massacre are being developed in so striking and forcible a manner, the scene between the alarmed "Raoul" and the terrified "Valentine" is, throughout, anticipated; and equally necessary for the success of the duet, from a musical as well as from a dramatic point of view, is the massive concerted piece by which this duet is preceded. To a composer, incapable or less capable than M. Meyerbeer, of turning to advantage the admirable but difficult situation here presented, there would, of course, have been the risk of an anti-climax; there was the danger that, after a stageful of fanatical soldiers and monks, crying out at the top of their voices for blood, it would be impossible further to impress the audience by any known musical means. Meyerbeer, however, has had recourse to the expression of an entirely different kind of emotion, or rather a series of emotions, full of admirable variations and gradations; and everyone who has heard the great duet of Les Huguenots knows how wonderfully he has succeeded. It has been said that the idea of this scene originated with Nourrit. In any case, it was an idea which Scribe lost no time in profiting by, and the question does not in any way affect the transcendent merit of the composer.
Le Prophète, M. Meyerbeer's third grand opera, was produced at the Académie on the 16th of April, 1849, with Roger, Viardot-Garcia, and Castellan, in the principal characters. This opera, like Les Huguenots, has been performed with great success in London. The part of "Jean" has given the two great tenors of the Royal Italian Opera—Mario and Tamberlik—opportunities of displaying many of their highest qualities as dramatic singers. The magnificent Covent Garden orchestra achieves a triumph quite of its own, in the grand march of the coronation scene; and the opera enables the management to display all its immense resources in the scenic department.
In passing from Masaniello to Rossini's Guillaume Tell, and from Rossini to Meyerbeer, we have lost sight too soon of the greatest composer France ever produced, and one who is ranked in all countries among the first composers of the century. I mean, of course, M. Auber, of whose works I should have more to say, if I had not determined, in this brief "History of the Opera" to pay but little attention to the French "Opéra Comique," which, with the exception of a very few examples (all by M. Auber)[96] is not a genre that has been accepted anywhere out of France. In sketching, however, the history of the Grand Opera, it would be impossible to omit Gustave III. Gustave ou le Bal Masqué, composed on one of the two librettos returned to M. Scribe by Rossini,[97] was performed for the first time on the 27th of February, 1833. This admirable work is not nearly so well known in England, or even in France, as it deserves to be. The government of Louis Philippe seems to have thought it imprudent to familiarize the Parisians with regicide, by exhibiting it to them three or four times a week on the stage, as the main incident of a very interesting drama; and after a certain number of representations, Gustave, which, taken altogether, is certainly Auber's masterpiece, was cut down to the ball-scene. In England, no one objected to the theatrical assassination of Gustavus; but unfortunately, also, no scruple was made about mutilating and murdering Auber's music. In short, the Gustavus of Auber was far more cruelly ill-treated in London than the Gustavus of Sweden at his own masqued ball. Mr. Gye ought to produce Gustavus at the Royal Italian Opera, where, for the first time in England, it would be worthily represented. The frequenters of this theatre have long been expecting it, though I am not aware that it has ever been officially promised.
The original caste of Gustave included Nourrit, Levasseur, Massol, Dabadie, Dupont, Mademoiselle Falcon, Mademoiselle Dorus, and Madame Dabadie. Nourrit, the original "Guillaume Tell," the original "Robert," the original "Raoul," the original "Gustave," was then at the height of his fame; but he was destined to be challenged four years afterwards by a very formidable rival. He was the first, and the only first tenor at the Académie Royale de Musique, where he had been singing with a zeal and ardour equal to his genius for the last sixteen years, when the management engaged Duprez, to divide the principal parts with the vocalist already in office. After his long series of triumphs, Nourrit had no idea of sharing his laurels in this manner; nor was he at all sure that he was not about to be deprived of them altogether. "One of the two must succeed at the expense of the other," he declared; and knowing the attraction of novelty for the public, he was not at all sure that the unfortunate one would not be himself.
"Duprez knows me," he said, "and comes to sing where I am. I do not know him, and naturally fear his approach." After thinking over the matter for a few days he resolved to leave the theatre. He chose for his last appearance the second act of Armide, in which "Renaud," the character assigned to the tenor, has to exclaim to the warrior, "Artemidore"—
To which "Artemidore" replies—
The scene was very appropriate to the position of the singer who was about to be succeeded by Duprez. The public felt this equally with Nourrit himself, and testified their sympathy for the departing Renaud, by the most enthusiastic applause.
Nourrit took his farewell of the French public on the 1st of April, 1837, and on the 17th of the same month Duprez made his début at the Académie, as "Arnold," in William Tell. The latter singer had already appeared at the Comédie Française, where, at the age of fifteen, he was entrusted with the soprano solos in the choruses of Athalie, and afterwards at the Odéon, where he played the parts of "Almaviva," in the Barber of Seville, and Ottavio," in Don Juan. He then visited Italy for a short time, returned to Paris, and was engaged at the Opéra Comique. Here his style was much admired, but his singing, on the whole, produced no great impression on the public. He once more crossed the Alps, studied assiduously, performed at various theatres in a great number of operas, and by incessant practice, and thanks also to the wonderful effect of the climate on his voice, attained the highest position on the Italian stage, and was the favourite tenor of Italy at a time when Rubini was singing every summer in London, and every winter in Paris. Before visiting Italy the second time, Duprez was a "light tenor," and was particularly remarkable for the "agility" of his execution. A long residence in a southern climate appears to have quite changed the nature of his voice; a transformation, however, which must have been considerably aided by the nature of his studies. He returned to France a tenore robusto, an impressive, energetic singer, excelling in the declamatory style, and in many respects the greatest dramatic vocalist the French had ever heard. As an actor, however, he was not equal to Nourrit, whose demeanour as an operatic hero is said to have been perfection. Guillaume Tell, with Duprez, in the part of "Arnold," commenced a new career, and Rossini's great work now obtained from the general public that applause which, on its first production, it had, for the most part, received only from connoisseurs.
In the meanwhile, Nourrit, after performing with great success at Marseilles, Toulouse, Lyons, and elsewhere, went to Italy, and was engaged first at Milan, and afterwards at Florence and Naples. At each city fresh triumphs awaited him, but an incident occurred at Naples which sorely troubled the equanimity of the failing singer, whose mind, as we have seen, had already been disturbed by painful presentiments. Nourrit, to be sure, was only "failing" in this sense, that he was losing confidence in his own powers, which, however, by all accounts, remained undiminished to the last. He was a well-educated and a highly accomplished man, and besides being an excellent musician, possessed considerable literary talent, and a thorough knowledge of dramatic effect.[98] He had prepared two librettos, in which the part adapted for the tenor would serve to exhibit his double talent as an actor and as a singer. One of these musical dramas was founded on Corneille's Polyeucte, and, in the hands of Donizetti, became I Martiri; but just when it was about to be produced, the Neapolitan censorship forbade its production on the ground of the unfitness of religious subjects for stage representation. Nourrit was much dejected at being thus prevented from appearing in a part composed specially for him at his own suggestion, and in which he felt sure he would be seen and heard to the greatest advantage. A deep melancholy, such as he had already suffered from at Marseilles, to an extent which alarmed all his friends, now settled upon him. He appeared, and was greatly applauded, in Mercadante's Il Giuramento, and in Bellini's Norma, but soon afterwards his despondency was increased, and assumed an irritated form, from a notion that the applause the Neapolitans bestowed upon him was ironical.
Nothing could alter his conviction on this point, which at last had the effect of completely unsettling his mind—unless it be more correct to say that mental derangement was itself the cause of the unhappy delusion. Finally, after a performance given for the benefit of another singer, in which Nourrit took part, his malady increased to such an extent that on his return home he became delirious, threw himself out of a window, at five in the morning, and was picked up in the street quite dead. This deplorable event occurred on the 8th of March, 1889.
The late "Académie Royale de Musique," the Théatre Italien of Paris, and all the chief opera houses of Italy are connected inseparably with the history of Opera in England. All the great works written by Rossini and Meyerbeer for the Académie have since been represented in London; the same singers for nearly half a century past have for the most part sung alternately at the Italian operas of Paris and of London; finally, from Italy we have drawn the great majority of the works represented at our best musical theatres, and nearly all our finest singers.
German opera, in the meanwhile, stands in a certain way apart. Germany, compared with Italy, has sent us very few great singers. We have never looked to Germany for a constant supply of operas, and, indeed, Germany has not produced altogether half a dozen thoroughly German operas (that is to say, founded on German libretti, and written for German singers and German audiences), which have ever become naturalized in this country, or, indeed, anywhere out of their native land. Moreover, the most celebrated of the said thoroughly German operas, such as Fidelio and Der Freischütz, exercised no such influence on contemporary dramatic music as to give their composers a well-marked place in the operatic history of the present century, such as clearly belongs to Rossini. Beethoven, with his one great masterpiece, stands quite alone, and in the same way, Weber, with his strongly marked individuality has nothing in common with his contemporaries; and, living at the same time as Rossini, neither affected, nor was affected, by the style of a composer whose influence all the composers of the Italian school experienced. Accordingly, and that I may not entangle too much the threads of my narrative, I will now, having followed Rossini to Paris, and given some account of his successors at the French Opera, proceed to speak of Donizetti and Bellini, who were followers of Rossini in every sense. Of Weber and Beethoven, who are not in any way associated with the Rossini school, and only through the accident of birth with the Rossini period, I must speak in a later chapter.
SIGISMONDI, the librarian of the Neapolitan Conservatory, had a horror of Rossini's music, and took care that all his printed works in the library should be placed beyond the reach of the young and innocent pupils. He was determined to preserve them, as far as possible, from the corrupt but seductive influence of this composer's brilliant, extravagant, meretricious style. But Donizetti, who at this time was studying at Naples, had heard several of the proscribed operas, and was most anxious to examine, on the music paper, the causes of the effects which had so delighted his ear at the theatre. The desired scores were on the highest shelf of the library; and the careful, conscientious librarian had removed the ladder by means of which alone it seemed possible to get to them.
Donizetti stood watching the shelves which held the operas of Rossini like a cat before a bird cage; but the ladder was locked up, and the key in safe keeping in Sigismondi's pocket. Under a northern climate, the proper mode of action for Donizetti would have been to invite the jailor to a banquet, ply him with wine, and rob him of his keys as soon as he had reached a sufficiently advanced state of intoxication. Being in Italy, Donizetti should have made love to Sigismondi's daughter, and persuaded her to steal the keys from the old man during his mid-day siesta. Perhaps, however, Sigismondi was childless, or his family may have consisted only of sons; in any case, the young musician adopted neither of the schemes, by combining which the troubadour Blondel was enabled to release from captivity his adored Richard.[99] He resorted to a means which, if not wonderfully ingenious, was at least to the point, and which promised to be successful. He climbed, monkey-like, or cat-like, not to abandon our former simile, to the top shelf, and had his claws on the Barber of Seville, when who should enter the library but Sigismondi.
The old man was fairly shocked at this perversity on the part of Gaetan Donizetti, reputed the best behaved student of the Academy. His morals would be corrupted, his young blood poisoned!—but fortunately the librarian had arrived in time, and he might yet be saved.
Donizetti sprang to the ground with his prey—the full score of the Barber of Seville—in his clutches. He was about to devour it, when a hand touched him on the shoulder: he turned round, and before him stood the austere Sigismondi.
The old librarian spoke to Gaetan as to a son; appealed to his sense of propriety, his honour, his conscience; and asked him, almost with tears in his eyes, how he could so far forget himself as to come secretly into the library to read forbidden books—and Rossini's above all? He pointed out the terrible effects of the course upon which the youthful Donizetti had so nearly entered; reminded him that one brass instrument led to another; and that when once he had given himself up to violent orchestration, there was no saying where he would stop.
Donizetti could not or would not argue with the venerable and determined Sigismondi. At least, he did not oppose him; but he inquired whether, as a lesson in cacophony, it was not worth while just to look at Rossini's notorious productions. He reminded his stern adviser, that he had already studied good models under Mayer, Pilotti, and Mattei, and that it was natural he should now wish to complete his musical education, by learning what to avoid. He quoted the well known case of the Spartans and their Helots; inquired, with some emotion, whether the frightful example of Rossini was not sufficient to deter any well meaning composer, with a little strength of character, from following in his unholy path; and finally declared, with undisguised indignation, that Rossini ought to be made the object of a serious study, so that once for all his musical iniquities might be exposed and his name rendered a bye-word among the lovers and cultivators of pure, unsophisticated art!
"Come to my arms, Gaetano," cried Sigismondi, much moved. "I can refuse nothing to a young man like you, now that I know your excellent intentions. A musician, who is imbued with the true principles of his art, may look upon the picture of Rossini's depravity not only without danger, but with positive advantage. Some it might weaken and destroy;—you it can only fortify and uphold. Let us open these monstrous scores; their buffooneries may amuse us for an hour.
"Il Barbiere di Siviglia! I have not much to say about that," commenced Sigismondi. "It is a trifle; besides, full justice was done to it at Rome. The notion of re-setting one of the master-pieces of the great Paisiello,—what audacity! No wonder it was hissed!"
"Under Paisiello's direction," suggested Donizetti.
"All a calumny, my young friend; pure calumny, I can assure you. There are so many Don Basilios in the musical world! Rossini's music was hissed because it was bad and because it recalled to the public Paisiello's, which was good." "But I have heard," rejoined Donizetti, "that at the second representation there was a great deal of applause, and that the enthusiasm of the audience at last reached such a point, that they honoured Rossini with a torch-light procession and conducted him home in triumph."
"An invention of the newspapers," replied Sigismondi; "I believe there was a certain clique present prepared to support the composer through everything, but the public had already expressed its opinion. Never mind this musical burlesque, and let us take a glance at one of Rossini's serious operas."
Donizetti wished for nothing better. This time he had no occasion to scale the shelf in his former feline style. The librarian produced the key of the mysterious closet in which the ladder was kept. The young musician ran up to the Rossini shelf like a lamp-lighter and brought down with him not one but half-a-dozen volumes.
"Too many, too many," said Sigismondi, "one would have been quite enough. Well, let us open Otello."
In the score which the old and young musician proposed to examine together, the three trombone parts, according to the Italian custom, were written on one and the same staff, thus 1º, 2º, 3º tromboni. Sigismondi began his lecture on the enormities of Rossini as displayed in Otello by reading the list of the instruments employed.
"Flutes, two flutes; well there is not much harm in that. No one will hear them; only, with diabolical perfidy, one of these modern flutists will be sure to take a piccolo and pierce all sensitive ears with his shrill whistling.
"Hautboys, two hautboys; also good. Here Rossini follows the old school. I say nothing against his two hautboys; indeed, I quite approve of them.
"Clarionets! a barbarous invention, which the Tedeschi might have kept them for themselves. They may be very good pipes for calling cows, but should be used for nothing else.
"Bassoons; useless instruments, or nearly so. Our good masters employed them for strengthening the bass; but now the bassoon has acquired such importance, that solos are written for it. This is also a German innovation. Mozart would have done well to have left the bassoon in its original obscurity.
"1st and 2nd Horns; very good. Horns and hautboys combine admirably. I say nothing against Rossini's horns.
"3rd and 4th Horns! How many horns does the man want? Quattro Corni, Corpo di Bacco! The greatest of our composers have always been contented with two. Shades of Pergolese, of Leo, of Jomelli! How they must shudder at the bare mention of such a thing. Four horns! Are we at a hunting party? Four horns! Enough to blow us to perdition."
The indignation and rage of the old musician went on increasing as he followed the gradual development of a crescendo until he arrived at the explosion of the fortissimo. Then Sigismondi uttered a cry of despair, struck the score violently with his fist, upset the table which the imprudent Donizetti had loaded with the nefarious productions of Rossini, raised his hands to heaven and rushed from the room, exclaiming, "a hundred and twenty-three trombones! A hundred and twenty-three trombones!"
Donizetti followed the performer and endeavoured to explain the mistake.
"Not 123 trombones, but 1st, 2nd, 3rd trombones," he gently observed. Sigismondi however, would not hear another word, and disappeared from the library crying "a hundred and twenty-three trombones," to the last.
Donizetti came back, lifted up the table, placed the scores upon it and examined them in peace. He then, in his turn, concealed them so that he might be able another time to find them whenever he pleased without clambering up walls or intriguing to get possession of ladders.
The inquiring student of the Conservatory of Naples was born, in 1798, at Bergamo, and when he was seventeen years of age was put to study under Mayer, who, before the appearance of Rossini, shared with Paer the honour of being the most popular composer of the day. His first opera Enrico di Borgogna was produced at Venice in 1818, and obtained so much success that the composer was entrusted with another commission for the same city in the following year. After writing an opera for Mantua in 1819 Il Falegname di Livonia, Donizetti visited Rome, where his Zoraide di Granata procured him an exemption from the conscription and the honour of being carried in triumph and crowned at the Capitol. Hitherto he may be said to have owed his success chiefly to his skilful imitation of Rossini's style, and it was not until 1830, when Anna Bolena was produced at Milan (and when, curiously enough, Rossini had just written his last opera), that he exhibited any striking signs of original talent. This work, which is generally regarded as Donizetti's master-piece, or at least was some time ago (for of late years no one has had an opportunity of hearing it), was composed for Pasta and Rubini, and was first represented for Pasta's benefit in 1831. It was in this opera that Lablache gained his first great triumph in London.
Donizetti visited Paris in 1835, and there produced his Marino Faliero, which contains several spirited and characteristic pieces, such as the opening chorus of workmen in the Arsenal and the gondolier chorus at the commencement of the second act. The charming Elisir d'Amore, the most graceful, melodious, moreover the most characteristic, and in many respects the best of all Donizetti's works, was written for Milan in 1832. In this work Signor Mario made his re-appearance at the Italian Opera of Paris in 1839; he had previously sung for some time at the Académie Royale in Robert and other operas.
Lucia di Lammermoor, Donizetti's most popular opera, containing some of the most beautiful melodies in the sentimental style that he has composed, and altogether his best finale, was produced at Naples in 1835. The part of "Edgardo" was composed specially for Duprez, that of "Lucia" for Persiani.
The pretty little opera or operetta entitled Il Campanello di Notte was written under very interesting circumstances to save a little Neapolitan theatre from ruin. Donizetti heard that the establishment was in a failing condition, and that the performers were without money and in great distress. He sought them out, supplied their immediate wants, and one of the singers happening to say that if Donizetti would give them a new opera, their fortunes would be made: "As to that," replied the Maestro, "you shall have one within a week." To begin with, a libretto was necessary, but none was to be had. The composer, however, possessed considerable literary talent, and recollecting a vaudeville which he had seen some years before in Paris, called La Sonnette de Nuit, he took that for his subject, re-arranged it in an operatic form, and in nine days the libretto was written, the music composed, the parts learnt, the opera performed, and the theatre saved. It would have been difficult to have given a greater proof of generosity, and of fertility and versatility of talent. I may here mention that Donizetti designed, and wrote the words, as well as the music of the last act of the Lucia; that the last act of La Favorite was also an afterthought of his; and that he himself translated into Italian the libretti of Betly and La Fille du Regiment.
When Lucrezia Borgia (written for Milan in 1834) was produced in Paris, in 1840, Victor Hugo, the author of the admirable tragedy on which it is founded, contested the right of the Italian librettists, to borrow their plots from French dramas; maintaining that the representation of such libretti in France constituted an infringement of the French dramatists' "droits d'auteur." He gained his action, and Lucrezia Borgia became, at the Italian Opera of Paris, La Rinegata, the Italians at the court of Pope Alexander the Sixth being metamorphosed into Turks. A French version of Lucrezia Borgia was prepared for the provinces, and entitled Nizza di Grenada.
A year or two afterwards, Verdi's Hernani experienced the same fate at the Théâtre Italien as Lucrezia Borgia. Then the original authors of La Pie Voleuse, La Grace de Dieu, &c., followed Victor Hugo's example, and objected to the performance of La Gazza Ladra and Linda di Chamouni, &c. Finally, an arrangement was made, and at present exists, by which Italian operas founded on French dramas may be performed in Paris on condition of an indemnity being paid to the French dramatists. Marsolier, the author of the Opéra Comique, entitled Nina, ou la Folle par Amour, set to music by Dalayrac, had applied for an injunction twenty-three years before, to prevent the representation of Paisiello's Nina, in Paris; but the Italian disappeared before the question was tried. The principle, however, of an author's right of property in a work, or any portion of a work, had been established nearly two centuries before. In a "privilege" granted to St. Amant in 1653, for the publication of his Moise Sauvé, it is expressly forbidden to extract from that "epic poem" subjects for novels and plays. These cautions proved unnecessary, as the work so strictly protected contained no available materials for plays, novels, or any other species of literary composition, including even "epic poems;" but Moise Sauvé has nevertheless been the salvation of several French authors whose property might otherwise have been trespassed upon to a considerable extent. Nevertheless, the principle of an author's sole, inalienable interest in the incidents he may have invented or combined, without reference to the new form in which they may be presented, cannot, as a matter of course, be entertained anywhere; but the system of "author's rights" so energetically fought for and conquered by Beaumarchais has a very wide application in France, and only the other day it was decided that the translators and arrangers of Le Nozze di Figaro, for the Théâtre Lyrique must share their receipts with the descendants and heirs of the author of Le Mariage de Figaro. It will appear monstrous to many persons in England who cannot conceive of property otherwise than of a material, palpable kind, that Beaumarchais's representatives should enjoy any interest in a work produced three-quarters of a century ago; but as his literary productions possess an actual, easily attainable value, it would be difficult to say who ought to profit by it, if not those who, under any system of laws, would benefit by whatever other possessions he might have left. It may be a slight advantage to society, in an almost inappreciable degree, that "author's rights" should cease after a certain period; but, if so, the same principle ought to be applied to other forms of created value. The case was well put by M. de Vigny, in the "Revue des Deux Mondes," in advocating the claims of a grand-daughter, or great grand-daughter of Sedaine. He pointed out, that if the dramatist in question, who was originally an architect, had built a palace, and it had lasted until the present day, no one would have denied that it descended naturally to his heirs; and that as, instead of building in stone, he devoted himself to the construction of operas and plays, the results of his talent and industry ought equally to be regarded as the inalienable property of his descendants.
But to return to Lucrezia Borgia, which, with Lucia and La Favorite, may be ranked amongst the most successful of Donizetti's productions. The favour with which Lucrezia is received by audiences of all kinds may be explained, in addition to the merit of much of the music, by the manner in which the principal parts are distributed, so that the cast, to be efficient, must always include four leading singers, each of whom has been well-provided for by the composer. It contains less recitative than any of Rossini's operas—a great advantage, from a popular point of view, it having been shown by experience that the public of the present day do not care for recitative (especially when they do not understand a word of it), but like to pass as quickly as possible from one musical piece to another. From an artistic point of view the shortness of Donizetti's recitatives is not at all to be regretted, for the simple reason that he has never written any at all comparable to those of Rossini, whose dramatic genius he was far from possessing. The most striking situation in the drama, a thoroughly musical situation of which a great composer, or even an energetic, passionate, melo-dramatic composer, like Verdi, would have made a great deal, is quite lost in the hands of Donizetti. The Brindisi is undeniably pretty, and was never considered vulgar until it had been vulgarised. But Donizetti has shown no dramatic power in the general arrangement of the principal scene, and the manner in which the drinking song is interrupted by the funeral chorus, has rather a disagreeable, than a terrible or a solemn effect. The finale to the first act, or "prologue," is finely treated, but "Gennaro's" dying scene and song, is the most dramatic portion of the work, which it ought to terminate, but unfortunately does not. I think it might be shown that Lucrezia marks the distance about half way between the style of Rossini and that of Verdi. Not that it is so much inferior to the works of the former, or so much superior to those of the latter; but that among Donizetti's later operas, portions of Maria di Rohan (Vienna, 1843), might almost have been written by the composer of Rigoletto; whereas, the resemblance for good or for bad, between these two musicians, of the decadence, is not nearly so remarkable, if we compare Lucrezia Borgia with one of Verdi's works. Still, in Lucrezia we already notice that but little space is accorded to recitative, which in the Trovatore finds next to none; we meet with choruses written in the manner afterwards adopted by Verdi, and persisted in by him to the exclusion of all other modes; while as regards melody, we should certainly rather class the tenor's air in I Lombardi with that in Lucrezia Borgia, than the latter with any air ever composed by Rossini.
When Donizetti revisited Paris in 1840, he produced in succession I Martiri (the work written for Nourrit and objected to by the Neapolitan censorship), La Fille du Regiment, written for the Opéra Comique, and La Favorite, composed in the first instance for the Théâtre de la Renaissance, but re-arranged for the Académie, when the brief existence of the Théâtre de la Renaissance had come to an end. As long as it lasted, this establishment, opened for the representation of foreign operas in the French language, owed its passing prosperity entirely to a French version of the Lucia.
Jenny Lind, Sontag, Alboni, have all appeared in La Figlia del Reggimento with great success; but when this work was first produced in Paris, with Madame Thillon in the principal part, it was not received with any remarkable favour. It is full of smooth, melodious, and highly animated music, but is, perhaps, wanting in that piquancy of which the French are such great admirers, and which rendered the duet for the vivandières, in Meyerbeer's Etoile du Nord, so much to their taste. L'Ange de Nigida, converted into La Favorite (and founded in the first instance on a French drama, Le Comte de Commingues) was brought out at the Académie, without any expense in scenery and "getting up," and achieved a decided success. This was owing partly to the pretty choral airs at the commencement, partly to the baritone's cavatina (admirably sung by Barroilhet, who made his début in the part of "Alphonse"); but, above all, to the fourth act, with its beautiful melody for the tenor, and its highly dramatic scene for the tenor and soprano, including a final duet, which, if not essentially dramatic in itself, occurs at least in a most dramatic situation.
The whole of the fourth act of La Favorite, except the cavatina, Ange si pur, which originally belonged to the Duc d'Albe, and the andante of the duet, which was added at the rehearsals, was written in three hours. Donizetti had been dining at the house of a friend, who was engaged in the evening to go to a party. On leaving the house, the host, after many apologies for absenting himself, intreated Donizetti to remain, and finish his coffee, which Donizetti, being inordinately fond of that stimulant, took care to do. He asked at the same time for some music paper, began his fourth act, and finding himself in the vein for composition, went on writing until he had completed it. He had just put the final stroke to the celebrated "Viens dans une autre patrie," when his friend returned, at one in the morning, and congratulated him on the excellent manner in which he had employed his time.
After visiting Rome, Milan, and Vienna, for which last city he wrote Linda di Chamouni, Donizetti returned to Paris, and in 1843 composed Don Pasquale for the Théâtre Italien, and Don Sebastien for the Académie. The lugubrious drama to which the music of Don Sebastien is wedded, proved fatal to its success. On the other hand, the brilliant gaiety of Don Pasquale, rendered doubly attractive by the admirable execution of Grisi, Mario, Tamburini, and Lablache, delighted all who heard it. The pure musical beauty of the serenade, and of the quartett, one of the finest pieces of concerted music Donizetti ever wrote, were even more admired than the lively animated dialogue-scenes, which are in Donizetti's very best style; and the two pieces just specified, as well as the baritone's cavatina, Bella siccome un angelo, aided the general success of the work, not only by their own intrinsic merit, but also by the contrast they present to the comic conversational music, and the buffo airs of the bass. The music of Don Pasquale is probably the cleverest Donizetti ever wrote; but it wants the charm which belongs to that of his Elisir d'Amore, around which a certain sentiment, a certain atmosphere of rustic poetry seems to hang, especially when we are listening to the music of "Nemorino" or "Norina." Even the comic portions in the Elisir are full of grace, as for instance, the admirable duet between "Norina" and "Dulcamara;" and the whole work possesses what is called "colour," that is to say, each character is well painted by the music, which, moreover, is always appropriate to the general scene. To look for "colour," or for any kind of poetry in a modern drawing-room piece of intrigue, like Don Pasquale, with the notaries of real life, and with lovers in black coats, would be absurd. I may mention that the libretto of Don Pasquale is a re-arrangement of Pavesi's Ser Marcantonio (was "Ser" Marcantonio an Englishman?) produced in 1813.