it so excited the Venetians that they joined in to the full of their voices and showed such other manifestations of uncontrollable feelings, that not only the police, but the military had to be called in.

The composer was now due with an opera for Mr. Lumley; a work to be written expressly for England, and I Masnadieri was the result. That persevering and to-be-pitied impresario's version of the affair runs thus:—

"Of the expected new operas to be produced on the stage of Her Majesty's Theatre, that of Verdi alone remained available. For many years I had been in correspondence with the young Italian composer, for the purpose of obtaining from him a work destined for the London boards. An opera on the subject of "King Lear" had already been promised by Verdi, the principal part being intended for Signor Lablache. But, on that occasion, the serious illness of the composer had prevented the execution of the design. Verdi now offered his I Masnadieri, composed upon the subject of Schiller's well-known play, Die Raüber, and with this proposal I was obliged to close. On Thursday, 2nd July 1847, I Masnadieri (after wearying rehearsals, conducted by the composer himself), was brought out, with a cast that included Lablache, Gardoni, Coletti, Bouche, and, above all, Jenny Lind, who was to appear for the second time only in her career, in a thoroughly original part composed expressly for her. The house was filled to overflowing on the night of the first representation. The opera was given with every appearance of a triumphant success; the composer and all the singers receiving the highest honours—indeed, all the artists distinguished themselves in their several parts. Jenny Lind acted admirably, and sang the airs allotted to her exquisitely. But yet the Masnadieri could not be considered a success. That by its production I had adopted the right course was unquestionable. I had induced an Italian composer, whose reputation stood on the highest pinnacle of continental fame, to compose an opera expressly for my theatre, as well as to superintend its production. More I could not have done to gratify the patrons of Italian music, who desired to hear new works. It may be stated in confirmation of the judgment of the London audience, that I Masnadieri was never successful on any Italian stage. The libretto was even worse constructed than is usually the case with adaptations of foreign dramas to the purpose of Italian opera. To Her Majesty's Theatre the work was singularly ill-suited. The interest which ought to have been centred in Mademoiselle Lind was thrown on Gardoni; whilst Lablache, as the imprisoned father, had to do about the only thing he could not do to perfection—having to represent a man nearly starved to death."[25]

Poor Mr. Lumley! For the benefit of a generation who will not set eyes on Signor Lablache, it should be stated that he was of Herculean proportions, a giant in height, and so portly that he made a superb Falstaff. His voice shook the walls of Her Majesty's Theatre, and he had a heart as big as some men's bodies.

It is well to know something of this "excessive" book. Two brothers, Carlo and Francesco, are the sons of Maximilian Moor, an old Bohemian noble. The younger brother Francesco is envious of the fortunate first-born, and poisons his father's heart against him. Carlo driven from home, joins a robber band, and Francesco impatient to reap the fruits of his wickedness seeks to accelerate the old man's death by telling him that his first-born has met with his death. Francesco's next scheme is to implore Amalia, the betrothed wife of Carlo, to marry him, but she resents his odious suit. Quite by chance she meets Carlo, to whom she tells everything, and as he, in one of his raids in the forest, has discovered his father almost starved to death in a cave, the desire for vengeance cannot be restrained. He summons his co-outlaws, who swear to avenge the wrongs of the infamous Francesco. This done, Carlo reveals himself to his father and bride, but the horrible revelation that he is a robber does not hinder their sympathy and tenderness towards Carlo. Amalia offers to marry him just as he is, bound by oath to outlawry. This is impossible. Maddened by despair, he thrusts his poniard into her bosom, and thus meets her appeals for relief by death. Thus ends this most tragic story; the music keeping pace with the varied emotions of horror, of melancholy, and tenderness, which the subject alternately excites.

There were beautiful numbers in I Masnadieri, or "The Brigands," notably the grand scena "Tu del mio Carlo al seno," with its cabaletta "Carlo Vive," which Jenny Lind could sing entrancingly; the duet between Amalia and Francesco; the air "Lo, sguardo," deliciously accompanied by the wind instruments; the quartet "Tigre feroce"; the tenor air "O mio castel paterno," wherein Gardoni's beautiful voice, and manner, were so noticeable; the trio in which the superlative powers of Jenny Lind, Gardoni, and Lablache were united; and, to name one more number, the air "Volasti alma beati," with its beautiful harp accompaniment. Notwithstanding many attractions, it was a dead failure, and only kept the boards two or three nights. "I Masnadieri," an authority afterwards wrote, "turned out a miserable failure, as it deserved to do, since it could but, at all events, as was rightly said, increase Signor Verdi's discredit with every one who had an ear, and was decidedly the worst opera that was ever given at Her Majesty's Theatre, the music being in every respect inferior even to that of I Due Foscari."[26]

All the critics did not decry the opera. Writing of I Masnadieri the Illustrated London News said of it:—"The story is in many respects a horrible one; it represents passions and crimes which, if they are unhappily not untrue to human nature, are yet better excluded from theatrical representation, and cannot be considered as within the scope of the tragic art; with all this, however, for the groundwork of an opera it is exceedingly effective, and admirably suited to the character of Verdi's music, which is here dramatic in the extreme, and somewhat excels the masterpieces of Meyerbeer and other composers of the German "Romantic School" of music.... The opera was highly successful. The talented maestro, on appearing in the orchestra to conduct his clever work, was received with three rounds of applause. He was called before the curtain after the first and third acts, and at the conclusion of the opera amidst the most vehement applause. The house was crowded to excess, and was honoured by the presence of Her Majesty and Prince Albert, the Queen-Dowager, and the Duchess of Cambridge."[27]

I Masnadieri gave the leaders of public musical taste another chance—a legitimate opportunity which they did not fail to embrace. The opera was one of those decided failures which occur betimes in every walk of art, very often giving the lie direct to the maker's estimate of his work. Gounod, for instance, used constantly to express, and has done so within our hearing, that Mireille was his best opera. Yet the public has set its seal upon Faust, a work that has brought more money to impresarial coffers than any other opera that could be instanced. Who has heard Mireille, compared with the thousands who have listened to the beautiful and picturesque music of Faust, elevating in its very loveliness? I Masnadieri, to quote the Athenæum, "at all events, must increase Signor Verdi's discredit with every one who has an ear. We take it to be the worst opera which has been given in our time at Her Majesty's Theatre.... There is not one grand concerted piece—a condition hard upon a composer whose only originality has been shown in his concerted music.... The performance must be recorded as the failure of a work which richly deserved to fail, in spite of much noisy applause."[28] "Since our last," continued the Athenæum in a subsequent notice, "I Masnadieri has been played and sang twice. Surely the question of our good (or bad) taste in rejecting Il Maestro as an authority is finally settled, and the field is left open for an Italian composer. Signor Verdi has left England."

Our comment upon this piece of prophetic egotism is that the master is to-day admired by the artistic universe, is unrivalled by any living master of music, and for a while, at least, will be unsurpassed, if ever closely approached, by a composer of his own country.

The Times's notice of I Masnadieri was more favourable. To find some glimmering of good, therefore, in a Verdi score of this period affords, certainly, relieving reading. Jenny Lind's singing is particularly noted, and strangely enough, airs, duets, cabalette, etc. (involving that melodic fancy and invention said to be so wholly wanting in Verdi), are expressly cited as "points" of the opera, to wit—"The duet with Gardoni in the third act was another piece of great effect, and the pleasing cabaletta 'Lassu resplendere' earned the singers a call."[29]

Verdi rushed from England disgusted with the critics; but to be fair to that sagacious regiment, in this instance, their verdict was well found; for nowhere was I Masnadieri successful, not even when as Les Brigands it was produced in France in 1870. This took place at L'Athenée Theatre, when Mademoiselle Marimon filled the part of Amalie.

The failure of I Masnadieri did not lessen Mr. Lumley's unbounded faith in Verdi; and when Signor Costa threw down the bâton (this opera being the last he conducted at Her Majesty's) to assume the post of chef d'orchestre at the rival Covent Garden house, Mr. Lumley offered the young Italian maestro the vacancy. A tempting offer of a large salary, a three years' engagement, and the right to put a new opera of his own composition upon the stage each year was made. What tremendous art issues hung in the balance! A consent from Verdi, and his later works might never have been written, for the turmoil of a conductor's life knocks out of a man all energy for composition; besides which, when once the bâton is taken up, the creative faculty invariably disappears. Fortunately, the maestro could reply only in the negative, since he was pledged to write two new operas for Lucca the publisher, and a theatre engagement would prevent his fulfilling this contract, the cancelling of which Lucca would not entertain.

The end of this business was that Verdi, on the ne sutor ultra crepidam principle, stuck to his last, and instead of turning conductor remained composer.[30]

In a short time there appeared Il Corsaro and La Battaglia di Legnano, which advanced their composer's reputation but little. Il Corsaro was first given at the Grand Theatre, Trieste, on the 25th October 1848. It had words by Piave, based upon Byron; and Lucca, the publisher, paid Verdi £800 for the score, but it was never a success. A somewhat better reception fell to La Battaglia di Legnano, produced at Rome in 1849, because it afforded the sensitive Italians a further political outlet. The libretto was patriotic in its drift, and Verdi, true to himself, had imparted to the music an ardent aggressive character, which had already won political friends.

Verdi's next opera, however, was to make amends for these scores. The management of the San Carlo Theatre at Naples, the exchequer of which was not in a healthy state, had arranged with Verdi for a new opera, the price for which was to be £510. The libretto was by M. Cammerano, and has been adjudged as one of the best of opera books. It tells of Luisa Miller, the daughter of an old soldier, who has two lovers, the favoured one being Rudolpho, the son of Count Walter, the lord of the village, of whose rank, however, she and her father are ignorant until the latter is informed of it by Wurm, the Count's Castellan, Luisa's rejected suitor, who out of jealousy also informs the old Count Walter of his son's attachment. The Count, on hearing the news, is enraged, and insists upon his son marrying his cousin Federica, the widow of the Duke of Oldstheim, to secure which he imprisons the old soldier Miller, only releasing him upon Rudolpho's threatening to divulge a murder which his father has committed. In the second act Wurm is met urging Luisa to write a letter renouncing Rudolpho, the conditions upon which the Count will release her father, which letter is to prefer the choice of Wurm, and to be witnessed. The document is then taken to Rudolpho, who, maddened, challenges Wurm; while the Count, to accentuate matters, pretends that he is now willing for his son to marry Luisa, but that, as she has betrayed him, he should show his revenge by marrying the Duchess. All advanced tenor singers will recall the fine recitative, "Oh! fede negar potessi agli occhi miei!" and aria, "Quando le sere al placido," in which Rudolpho's anguish is expressed at this crisis of the story. The third act introduces Luisa in the greatest despair, praying for death as a relief to her grief. Here Rudolpho appears, and learning from Luisa's own lips that she wrote the letter, puts poison into a cup, drinks it himself, and offers it to Luisa, who takes a draught. Knowing that her last hour is come, she reveals the plot, when Rudolpho's cries of despair are so intense that Miller, villagers, and Wurm rush to the scene. Suddenly Rudolpho stabs Wurm, and then lays himself down to die by the side of Luisa. The whole is a shocking story, but not more horrible and repulsive than the Rigoletto, Traviata, and Trovatore libretti.

Verdi finished the score, and leaving Paris, where the cholera had broken out, he reached Naples in time to find the San Carlo house in a state of bankruptcy. The production of, as well as the payment for, the opera was delayed; but eventually, Luisa Miller came out on the 8th December 1849. Verdi was present at the first performance, and while standing on the stage surrounded with friends, had a somewhat ominous experience. A side scene suddenly fell, and would have crushed Verdi, but for his presence of mind in throwing himself back. A superstitious story attributes the accident, and the cold reception of the last act of the opera, compared with the boisterous triumph of the others, to the influence of an evil genius—jettatore—in the person of one Capecelatro, who, evading vigilance, had gained admission to the theatre and to the presence of the composer, just as he had succeeded in doing when Alzira was so coolly received.

It has to be observed that the Neapolitans are renowned for their superstition, and that Capecelatro was credited with possessing the evil eye.

Withal Luisa Miller was a success at Naples, if not later on in London and Paris. Madame Gazzaniga took the part, singing the music superbly, and on all sides it was agreed that the composition was one of Verdi's grandest efforts. Later opinions have somewhat confirmed this, while not a few connoisseurs have regarded Luisa Miller as the most coherent and consistent of the composer's works, excepting always his latest operas.

Luisa Miller was another of the operas which Mr. Lumley produced during his unfortunate reign at Her Majesty's Theatre. Here is the account of its introduction:—

"On Tuesday the 8th June (1858) was given for the first time on the Anglo-Italian boards, Verdi's opera of Luisa Miller, and both Mademoiselle Piccolomini and Madame Alboni were included in the 'cast.' Of this work some Italian critics had been accustomed to speak as the chef d'œuvre of this favourite composer. But the production of Luisa Miller did not greatly benefit the management. The 'Little Lady' (Piccolomini) displayed all her attractive qualities as an actress, and as an actress reaped her harvest of applause. But by general accord, on the part of Verdi-ites, the opera was declared to be the weakest of his many productions. It was considered to be wanting in melody, a charge seldom brought against Signor Verdi. There were no particular salient points to be looked forward to as the grands bouquets of Signor Verdi's musical fireworks, as is the case in most of his other operas. The libretto, also, founded upon Schiller's early tragedy of Kabale und Liebe, a subject, it might be thought, highly favourable to lyrical working out, had lost so much of its true dramatic metal in passing through the crucible of the Italian poeta, that it had come out a mass of unattractive and unsightly ore. Passages of interest and passion could not be altogether wanting with a subject in which the dramatic instincts of the composer could not be utterly silent; but the true element, both musically and dramatically speaking, was evidently absent, at least to English minds. Signor Giuglini sang the one pleasing romanza to the delight of a crowded audience; and Alboni poured forth her mellifluous notes in an interpolated cavatina; but Luisa Miller failed to win the suffrages of the frequenters of Her Majesty's Theatre. It lingered, hoping for success 'against hope,' on the boards of Her Majesty's Theatre for a very few nights, and then fled them to return no more."[31]

An able critic, writing of this feature of the 1858 season, says:—

"The only real novelty that Mr. Lumley ventured to mount and bring forward was Verdi's Luisa Miller ... the result of which was unequivocal failure, for dull and mawkish as is the work itself, Mademoiselle Piccolomini had not the slightest pretension to have been thrust into the leading character, and Madame Alboni made nothing of the small part of the Duchess Fredrica, although she evidently tried to do so, by substituting a cavatina for the original duet of the opera. Giuglini alone was appreciated, the music being somewhat suited to his style; but he began to manifest the bad taste of relying upon long breaths, loud A's, and other meretricious devices, instead of singing legitimately and sensibly. Beneventano, Vialetti, and Castelli, who undertook the other parts, trenched so closely upon the grotesque, that they produced amusement rather than pleasure. In spite of its being said that Luisa Miller had thoroughly succeeded, its immediate withdrawal from the bills positively enough proved the contrary."[32]

Luisa Miller found no favour in the eyes of the Athenæum critic.

"There is little from first to last in the music to reconcile us to the composer.... As regards the solo music, Luisa Miller contains nothing so good.... The heroine might be Gilda, Violetta, or Abigaille for any touch that marks her life or her country.... The want of local colour, however, might be overlooked (in consideration of the master's school and country), were there any compensating beauty of melody. Everything that is not trite in the score is unpleasant.... The songs are in the known Verdi patterns, full of fever, empty of feeling.... The music of I Due Foscari was meagre and dismal enough, but the music of Luisa Miller, so far as idea is concerned, seems yet more meagre and dismal."[33]

In these and similar terms did Mr. Chorley dismiss Luisa Miller. Nor was The Times criticism more hopeful, since that summed up the opera "as an uninterrupted series of commonplaces, pale, monotonous, and dreary, which may fairly be symbolised as the sweepings of our composer's study or the rinsings of his wine-bottles.... The music of Luisa Miller is not worth the consideration to which an ambitious failure might be entitled."[34]

If Verdi studied his press notices at all attentively—Press Cutting Agencies were not institutions of those days—he could have been under no apprehension as to what two at least of the English journals thought of his endeavours. Yet, here was the opera containing among other beautiful music that really fine piece of declamatory song-writing, the recitative and romanza "Quando le sere al placido." Any one fortunate enough to have heard the late Gardoni sing this beautiful song—neighbours in Duke Street, Portland Place, where Gardoni several years back lodged in the same house with Pinsuti, often heard it—would assuredly apply to it some better epithet than "wine-bottle rinsings" or "sweepings." Thousands of pounds in royalties are to-day being paid on maudlin, semi-religious, and other songs which, for sterling musical worth and merit, are no more to be compared with this one song by Verdi than a rush-light is to be likened to the illumining power of the glorious mid-day orb.

Not even in his Recollections was Mr. Chorley able to forget his bête noir. Speaking of the 1858 season, he says: "Also there was presented a third work, new to our Italian stage, Signor Verdi's Luisa Miller.... It has seemed to me that, as one among Signor Verdi's operas, Luisa Miller, taken on its own terms, of fire, faggot, and rack, is the weakest of the weak. There are staccato screams in it enough to content any lover of shocking excitement; but the entire texture of the music implies (I can but fancy) either a feeble mistake, or else a want of power on the part of an artificer who, obviously (as Signor Verdi does) demanding situation and passion and agony to kindle the fire under his cauldron, has, also, only one alphabet, one grammar, one dictionary, whatsoever the scene, whatsoever the country—one cantabile, one spasmodic bravura, one feverish crescendo, as the average tools, by pressure of which the stress on the public is to be strained out."[35]

Feeble criticism, indeed, so far as the genius of penetration is concerned, but powerful enough in all conscience in its egotism and exuberance of etymology.

It was given on the 7th December 1852 at the Théâtre Italien in Paris, when Mademoiselle Sophie Cruvelli (La Baronne Vigier) took the title rôle, but neither Cruvelli, nor, a few weeks later, the admirable Bosio, could give wings to the work. As recently as 1874 Madame Adelina Patti achieved a genuine success with the part, albeit she was badly supported by her colleagues in the cast. During the London Italian Opera season of that year, Madame Patti, much to her credit, added this work to her already extensive répertoire.

Two operas—one Stiffelio, produced unsuccessfully at Trieste on the 16th November 1850, the other, Il Finto Stanislas, belonging to the same year—require mentioning only, before we pass to the period of those successful operas which brought Verdi universal fame.

CHAPTER VI
RIGOLETTO TO AÏDA—SECOND PERIOD OPERAS

Turning-point in Verdi's career—The libretto of Rigoletto—Production of Rigoletto in Venice, London, and Paris—Great success of the opera—Athenæum and The Times on Rigoletto—"La Donna è mobile"—A Second period style—Il Trovatore written for Rome—The libretto—Its reception at the Apollo Theatre—The work produced at the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden—Its cast and Graziani's singing therein—Lightning study of the Azucena rôle—Athenæum and The Times on Il Trovatore—La Traviata—The libretto and argument—The first performance at Venice a fiasco—Judgment reversed—Brilliant success of the opera in London—Piccolomini's impersonation of Violetta—Mr. Lumley's testimony—The Press and La Traviata—Athenæum and The Times criticism of La Traviata—Les Vêpres Siciliennes—Prima donna runs away—Reception of the opera in Paris and London—Verdi in Germany—The Times criticism—Simon Boccanegra a failure—Un Ballo in Maschera—Trouble with the authorities—Production and success of Un Ballo in Maschera—Its reception in London—The Times on the opera—La Forza del Destino unsuccessful.

We here reach a period in the composer's career where unmistakable signs of a change in Verdi's musical manner present themselves. Verdi was a born musician. So too, were Bellini and Donizetti, but Verdi, by industry and study, has done immeasurably more for Italy's art than these or any other of her sons. A musical progressivist, he has ever been on the art march. Not content with writing opera after opera of the normal Bellini stamp, we find him at this stage improving upon his model, and engaging in the construction of a series of opera compositions which, analysts declare, constitute a Second period in Verdi's artistic development. The first of these works was Rigoletto.

Verdi had entered into an agreement with impresario Lasina to write another opera for the Fenice Theatre, and Piave had prepared a libretto based upon Victor Hugo's drama, Le Roi s'amuse. Everybody knows the tragedy, and that it was suppressed lest the cap should fit, because the principal part of François Premier showed a depraved libertine, whose capers were not unreflected in Royalty. The libretto provoked the Austrian supervision, and brought in the police. The original title of the book was La Maledizione, but this was dropped. It closely follows the French play, the locality and the personages only being changed. There is the deformed jester or fool of the Court, who is prostrated by a malediction from a father whom he has mocked, and who is punished for his witticism by Gilda, his daughter, being made the victim of his Sovereign. This unfortunate girl is then seen giving up her own life to save that of her betrayer, the Duke having been entrapped into a lone house to be assassinated by the jester's orders.

Eventually, all points being arranged, Verdi set to work upon Rigoletto, Buffone di Corte, which was produced with signal success on the 11th March 1851. That world-famed melody "La Donna è mobile" made an instantaneous hit, and has been hummed and sung to death in every quarter of the globe ever since. To make quite sure that the public should not get wind of this tune before the night of the performance, Verdi did not put it upon paper until within a few hours of the time when Mirate, the tenor, had to sing it.

As soon as it could be arranged, the opera was introduced at London and Paris, being brought forward at the Italian Opera, Covent Garden, for the 1853 season, and at the Théâtre Italien in the French capital on the 19th January 1857. Rigoletto was a brilliant success in London; indeed, of three operatic novelties which Mr. Gye produced in that season, it was the only one that proved attractive or profitable. On this occasion the cast was:—Gilda, Madame Bosio; Duke of Mantua, Signor Mario; Rigoletto, Signor Ronconi; Sparafucile, Signor Tagliafico; while subordinate characters were represented by Mlle. Didiée (Magdalen), Madame Temple, Signor Polonini, and others. Mario's singing was splendid, and the acting of Ronconi was greatly admired. "Great as was the histrionic genius of Ronconi admitted to be, his Rigoletto has combined displays of comedy and tragedy that can only recall the well-known picture of Garrick between Thalia and Melpomene. Let us instance the scene in the Ducal palace in the second act" (wrote an eye-witness) "in which Rigoletto strives to smile with the courtiers, whilst his heart is breaking at the abduction of his child—an abduction in which he himself has been made, innocently, to assist. The expression of Ronconi's face in this scene, one-half of the face a court jester, the other half that of the bereaved father, can never be forgotten."[36]

In Paris a French translation of Rigoletto was equally well received.

The musical characteristics of Rigoletto were immediately discerned and discussed. The general drift of the criticism was that in Rigoletto melody was wanting, that there were no fine concerted pieces, and that the opera possessed everything save living properties. The truth was, Verdi was expressing himself in something of a new language that had yet to be learned.

Here is what an impartial critic thought of Rigoletto at the time of its production:—

"We have never been the champions nor the detractors of Verdi, and we recognise in Rigoletto a higher order of beauty than struck us even in Ernani and the Due Foscari, and an abandonment, at the same time, of his most palpable defects. Rigoletto cannot be ranked, however, as a masterpiece; it is full of plagiarisms and faults, and yet abounds with the most captivating music."[37]

The following is what the Athenæum had to say of Rigoletto, a work which, by the bye, was performed at the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden, as recently as last season, when it was received with well-nigh unbounded applause and real pleasure:—"Such effect as Rigoletto produces is produced not by its dramatic propriety of sound to sense. There is hardly one phrase in the part of the Buffoon which might not belong to Signor Verdi's Doge in I Due Foscari or to his Nabucco. The music of combination and dramatic action, again, is puerile and queer—odd modulations being perpetually wrenched out with the vain hope of disguising the intrinsic meagreness of the ideas, and flutes being used for violins, or vice versâ, apparently not to charm the listener but to make him stare. Thus, the opening ball scene, accompanied throughout by orchestras on the stage, the abduction finale, the scene between Rigoletto and the courtiers, and the storm in the last act, are alike miserable in their meagre patchiness and want of meaning.... Signor Verdi is less violent in his instrumentation in Rigoletto than he was in his earlier operas; but he has not here arrived at the music of intellect and expression, which is French or German, as distinguished from the music of melody, which is Italian.... The air of display for Gilda in the garden scene, called in the published copies of the music a Polacca, though in common tempo, is as ineffective a mixture of commonplace and eccentricity as it ever fell to the lot of a prima donna to deliver."[38]

The Times spoke thus of Rigoletto:—"The imitations and plagiarisms from other composers are frequent, while there is not a single elaborate and well-conducted finale, or even morceau l'ensemble. In aiming at simplicity, Signor Verdi has hit frivolity. In other operas he has often, with a certain degree of success hidden poverty of idea under a pompous display of instruments; but in the present, abandoning that artifice, and relying upon the strength of his melodic invention, he has triumphantly demonstrated that he has very few ideas that can be pronounced original. In short, with one exception (Luisa Miller), Rigoletto is the most feeble opera of Signor Verdi with which we have the advantage to be acquainted, the most uninspired, the barest, and the most destitute of ingenious contrivance. To enter into an analysis would be a loss of time and space."[39]

And yet, after forty years or more of musical progress, a crowded fashionable house, to say nothing of the wisdom of the management, will assemble to give its time, attention, and money to listen to an opera which, if we are to believe these two sapient leading critics of a past age, was scarcely worth the paper upon which it was written! Both old and new journalism to-day appears to have everything to say in favour of Rigoletto! Instead of the opera dying, it has proved, we repeat, one of the most admired of Verdi's early works, and we who are living the years of this closing nineteenth century can see what a fitting connecting link Rigoletto forms between Verdi's First and Third period works. The composer bridges us quietly over from impulsive musical youth to a ripe artistic fulness which, natural as it all seems to us who can look back upon Verdi's gradual development towards perfection of style, must have bewildered his closely scrutinising contemporaries. No previous work of his had shown similar masterly force and originality. Apart from the evergreen "La Donna è mobile" air, such attractive numbers as the soprano romance, and the soprano, tenor, and bass duos in the second act, are beauties of the opera that will always tend to keep it on the stage; while no praise would be too much to bestow upon the quartuor in the last act, a piece of concerted music which competent judges are agreed would of itself be sufficient to stamp Verdi as a composer of rare fancy and imagination.

Since its style and merit were maintained in several works that followed it, this opera well lends itself as the starting-point of a Second era in Verdi's career as a leading composer for the Italian lyric stage.

Rigoletto was the first of a series of fine examples of dramatic art, which brought world-wide fame and ample profit to Verdi, lifting him, at the same time, into the first rank of operatic composers. In the face of its alleged defects—absence of melody and concerted pieces, together with a subdued, restricted orchestration—the audiences accepted it, the general feeling being that it stood unsurpassed by any Italian opera. Every habitué of the opera-house to-day is familiar with the sparkling beauties of Rigoletto, and fittingly enough, the opera finds a place in almost every season's programme. The strongest proof of its merits, however, is the fact that performances of the work, extending over a period of forty years, have neither diminished its attractiveness nor prejudiced a new and rising generation against either the book or the music. Several of Verdi's early operas have weathered the test of time and fashion bravely, especially if we remember the evanescent nature of opera generally; but not one, not the Trovatore among his early works, is more highly regarded by musical people to-day than is Rigoletto, the Court Jester.

With the composer's next opera we meet Verdi the melodic universalist.

It was at the Apollo Theatre in Rome that the Trovatore first saw the light on the 19th January 1853. Cammarano the Italian poet found subject in El Trovador, a brilliant drama by Guttierez, a talented Spanish author of only nineteen summers. The story, a revoltingly horrible one, is well known. A gipsy woman put to death by a nobleman on a charge of witchcraft, has a daughter to whom she bequeaths the task of avenging her death. The daughter steals the Count's younger child, and brings him up as her own, instilling into his mind a hatred of his own brother, whom he knows not to be such. The brothers become rivals in love; the reputed son of the gipsy (who has risen to distinction) being preferred by the object of their passion. The quarrel becomes deadly; the younger brother falls into the hands of the elder, who orders his execution. The gipsy witnesses the death of her supposed son; and when the axe has fallen, turns exultingly to the Count exclaiming, "My mother is avenged; you have murdered your own brother!" The lady who is beloved by the rival brothers, unable to save her lover's life, swallows poison. The epoch is the fifteenth century.

Undaunted by frailties of his collaborateur, the maestro went to work, and in a short time Il Trovatore was clothed in musical garb. What that harmonious garment proved the world well knows—too well, say some who, like the late Mr. Babbage, mathematician and calculator, have been almost driven to death by organ-grinders. Whatever was confused and improbable in the book was amply atoned for by the music, for Verdi set it to some of his most passionate-human melody and harmony.

The first representation was awaited with feverish excitement, akin to the musical sensibilities of the Italian people. The day proved wet and cold, but not sufficiently so to damp the ardour of the enthusiastic Romans. At early morn the theatre doors were besieged, and as the hour of the performance drew near the pitch of fervour was intense. Eventually the crowd got into the theatre, packing it from floor to ceiling with marvellous rapidity and dangerous discomfort. Then amid alternate periods of strained attention and agitation, the opera was performed. Each scene and situation brought down thunders of applause until the very walls echoed with the shoutings. Outside, the people took up the cry, and there arose such shouts of "Long live Verdi!" "Verdi and Italy!" "Italy's greatest composer!" "Viva Verdi!" as could be heard again inside the theatre.

The artists at this memorable performance were Signore Penco (Leonora) and Goggi; and Signori Grossi (Manrico), Baucarde, Guicciardi, and Balderi.

The spread of the Trovatore music was electrical. Theatre after theatre produced the work, so eagerly did subscribers and patrons clamour. At Naples three houses were giving the opera at about the same time.

It was at this time that Verdi was meeting with a determined opposition from a brother craftsman from whom better treatment might reasonably have been expected. "In Naples," states an eye-witness, "Mercadante reigned supreme. He would not listen to the sound of Verdi's name. He declared even Rigoletto was bosh,—you know I was then singing Gilda at the Teatro Nuovo;—he had the Court and the highest society for his patrons, and managed to set everybody against poor Verdi. Things went so far that he organised a cabal against him at Court, and when Trovatore—which by the way, after Rome, the people would have—was brought out at San Carlo, Mercadante had so ingratiated himself with the censor Lord Chamberlain, and I don't know who else, that they only allowed two acts of Trovatore to be sung, and there was a perfect revolution in the town until the third and fourth acts were accorded by the management. I was the first one to sing the full score at little Teatro Nuovo. The subscribers who were three nights at San Carlo were the other three nights at my theatre; and to my dying day I shall never forget the success it had! Happily Teatro Nuovo was the first in the field with the complete opera.... It is impossible to conceive the tricks and cabals against Verdi put up by old Mercadante. One would have thought that as he was old and nearing his grave, and as his last opera at San Carlo had been a failure, he would have had some consideration for the young and struggling artist; but, on the contrary, he kept Verdi out of Naples as long as he could. The people finally wouldn't stand it any longer; they weren't going to put up even with Mercadante at his best when there was a fresh new composer taking Italy by storm—when every Italian capital was singing his operas, and Naples, according to all, the very seat of fine arts, the only city deprived of hearing Verdi and acclaiming his works."[40]

Not only in Italy did the Trovatore "take." It went the round of the European capitals in an unprecedentedly short time, and nowhere was it admired more than in that stronghold of contrapuntal prejudice, Germany, where its alluring melodies proved simply irresistible.

In 1854 it was given at the Paris Théâtre Italien, and the following year saw its production in London. The management of the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden, brought it forward on Thursday, 11th May, when it was received with warm applause, which increased with every representation. On this occasion the principal parts were filled by Madame Viardot[41] (Azucena), Mdlle. Jenny Ney (Leonora), Signor Tamberlik (Manrico) and Signor Graziani (Conte di Luna), who did full justice to Verdi's captivating music.

Referring to this remarkable performance, an experienced writer says:—

"The favourable impression Graziani had made in the Ernani induced the management to put him forward in another of Verdi's operas, Il Trovatore, a work which has brought more money into theatrical treasuries than any other production of modern times. If Graziani had sung nothing else in this opera than the air 'Il balen del suo sorriso,' as the Conte di Luna, he would have permanently established himself; yet whoever witnessed the clumsy manner in which he 'loafed' down to the footlights as the symphony of this air was being played—as he still does—could by no means have anticipated anything else than a manifestation of the most positive vulgarity, instead of hearing the beautiful voice and suave cantabile with which he invested that somewhat commonplace, yet not the less popular, invention. Mdlle. Ney was the Leonora on this occasion, and was singing and acting with care, according to the habit of German stage usage, but nothing more. The event of the evening, however, was Madame Viardot's Azucena, the part she had 'created' in Paris, and one of the most remarkable performances of its time. The savage, credulous, restless Spanish gipsy, strong in her instincts, but whose reason amounts to little beyond a few broken ideas of revenge, was manifested in every word, look, and gesture. Since Pasta and Rubini left the stage, nothing of nicer vocal finish, and nothing in dramatic utterance more true and beautiful than her delivery of the andantino, 'Si la stanchezza,' had ever been listened to. The Royal Italian Opera had never, indeed, heard such singing as hers in such music, which lay thoroughly within her compass, the middle portion of which had gained both body and sweetness. Tamberlik undertook the part of the Trovatore, and gained ground with his audience as the opera proceeded; but his magnificent voice gave unwelcome evidence of wear and tear in its diminished resonance, when he desired to use it to advantage in the most exacting passages."[42]

It will be allowed, we suspect, that no dramatic-lyric work is so well known, or has enjoyed a more amazing popularity than has Verdi's opera of The Troubadour. Whatever may be its merits and demerits, it is unquestionably a work which has delighted a generation fast passing away; while it bids fair to afford equal pleasure to a new and rising one, judging by the hearty reception given to the opera at recent performances. For long and long have ominous words been uttered predicting the decline and death of Il Trovatore, with all Italian opera of its kin. But behold it is alive and well! Thanks to the efforts of "apostles" of music like Hullah and others, musical education has gone on apace since Il Trovatore first appeared here; but with all this, and all the classicism which it has been fashionable to ape in music, there yet remains something in Verdi's opera that still attracts, not merely the "mob," but educated people. This suggests merit of some kind. What said critics forty years ago:—

"By the choice of his subjects," says the Athenæum, "we sometimes can gauge a composer, as well as by his melodies. Bellini may have known even less of the scientific processes of composition than Signor Verdi (whom report declares to be a thoughtful, cultivated gentleman, as anxious according to his measure of light for dramatic reality in opera as Herr Wagner himself), nevertheless Bellini contrived to appropriate two of the best Italian books ever written, those of Norma and La Sonnambula.... But in Il Trovatore, as throughout every opera by the master with which we are acquainted, these gleams of purpose and intelligence are relieved and contrasted against a general ground of commonplace, than which little more monotonous in its mannerism can be conceived. The dash which may be found in the cabaletta 'Ditale amor' with its staccati and its sighs and sobbings, and its snatch at high notes by way of brilliancy, is as old as Ernani. The cantabile for the tenor, in 3/4 time, and with a plurality of flats for key, has been written for tenor and baritone one hundred times, if once, by Donizetti. The movement of the stretto to 'Cruda Sorte' in Signor Rossini's Ricciardo e Zoraide, the employment of principal voices in unison, whether it be placed or misplaced, are anew resorted to here, with a coolness nothing short of curious, in one who believes that he has a mission and professes to write a 'system.'"[43]

The Times notice of Il Trovatore was more appreciative than usual. There was a desire to find something good in the musician, and although the criticism hardly conveys the idea that the work referred to would ever attain the extraordinary popularity which it has done, a popularity extending to this hour, yet it must, in justice, be noted that certain favourable points in the work did appeal to, and were duly chronicled by the critic. Not that we can admit that the notice was one to induce the composer to feel at ease. A spirit of antagonism to Italian art still reigns, and throughout it seems to ring out the old familiar theme, that no good thing could come out of Italy. Nor could it have greatly served Verdi's art-progress.

"Il Trovatore," to quote a few of its strains, "though it exhibits Signor Verdi in his best holiday attire, is hardly destined to raise him in the estimation of real judges.... The kind, and degree of merit, the direct influence of his music, and its chance of outliving an ephemeral reputation are questions apart.... He is neither a Rossini, nor an Auber, nor a Meyerbeer; far from it; but he is not, as some would insist, a nonentity, almost as far indeed from that as from the other.... The weaker part of the first act" (we are told) "is the trio, where the Count (Signor Graziani) surprises the troubadour in the presence of Leonora, which is rambling and incoherent, and after all but an apology for a trio, since the tenor and soprano are in unison almost throughout. The last movement is vulgar and commonplace, ill-written for the voices, and extremely noisy."[44]

This is what the Illustrated London News thought of Il Trovatore:—

"The production of Il Trovatore at the Royal Italian Opera has been attended with complete success.... On its first performance (on Thursday) it was received with warm applause, and on the Saturday and Tuesday following its reception was more and more enthusiastic. It is evident that the Trovatore will be a permanent addition to the répertoire of the theatre. We expected this. Verdi's latest opera had not only been received with acclamations in his own country; it had achieved triumphs in the principal theatres of Germany; and, last of all, in Paris; and it was not likely that London would reverse the judgment pronounced by the most authoritative tribunals of the Continent. Verdi has long been popular as a dramatic composer; and his popularity has been literal—gained by the voice of the multitude in opposition to that of criticism. While writers learned in musical lore have been labouring to prove that Verdi is a shallow pretender, his operas have been giving delight to thousands in every part of Europe."[45]

Wherever performed, in Italy, France, Germany, Russia, or England, the tale has always been the same respecting the Trovatore. It has been truly enjoyed by the public who have flocked to hear it; and those pieces which are favourites now were favourites from the first. It did not pretend to be a classic, but times and oft it has done the trick for managers in filling their coffers; and after all, any legitimate work which accomplishes this for many years together must not be lightly regarded. Even to-day, forty years and more after its first production, Il Trovatore when well presented never fails to make a deep impression upon audiences. In the 1895 season it was given (May 18) at the Covent Garden Opera with Signor Tamagno in the title-role, when the entire opera was listened to with breathless attention. The enthusiasm was unbounded, and the favourite old work roused as much excitement as if it had been a brand new opera.

La Traviata, a name familiar almost as the Trovatore, was the title of the composer's next opera. The maestro had witnessed younger Dumas' La Dame aux Camelias, that none too delicate play, which, in its day, startled even the Parisians, and he suggested the work to Piave the librettist as an opera book. The Traviata was to satisfy an engagement with the direction of the Fenice Theatre, and by working double tides, i.e. during the while he was composing Il Trovatore, Verdi had the score ready for production on the 6th March 1855, some ten weeks after the Trovatore "first night."

Opera-goers are familiar with the pathetic story and the sorrows of the erring, interesting heroine. La Traviata, i.e. the outcast or lost one, is a youthful beauty and reigning favourite, who gives a splendid entertainment at her house. Among the gay company is a young gentleman, Alfredo by name, who really loves her, and who inspires her with a similar attachment. Actuated by a pure and mutual passion, they retire to the country, where they live together in happy seclusion. One day, in Alfredo's absence, Violetta receives a visit from a venerable old gentleman, who announces himself as the father of her lover. He represents to her the ruinous consequences of his son's present course of life, and urges her to save him, by consenting to leave him. Resolving to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of his welfare, she departs on the instant for Paris, leaving him in the belief that she is faithless, and has forsaken him for another. She returns to her former life, and afterwards meets her lost lover at a party given by one of her friends. Alfredo is furious at the sight of her, insults her grossly, challenges the man whom he considers his successful rival, and the poor girl is carried fainting from the apartment. Her heart is now broken, and nothing remains for her but to die. In the last scene, she is in her bedchamber, extremely weak, but sustained by hope, for her lover's father moved by her sufferings has written to say that he will bring his son to her. They arrive. The lover flies to her and for a moment there is rapture; but the shock is fatal. The dying flame goes out, and she dies of joy in his arms.

The success of Il Trovatore had brought Verdi immense popularity throughout Europe. Great things therefore were expected at this performance of La Traviata. Signora Donatelli was the Violetta, Signori Graziani and Varesi filling the parts of the lover and the father respectively. The work was a failure!

"La Traviata last night was a fiasco. Am I to blame, or the singers? Time will prove," wrote Verdi to friend Muzio. The fiasco might have been avoided had all the contributing circumstances been as evident as the astonishing disparity that existed between the imaginary Violetta and the lady filling that rôle, who to a commanding stature added a splendid physique with embonpoint, weighing some twelve stone, which made it madness to imagine that the ravages of a galloping consumption had left her but a few short hours to live! Of course, the house burst into a roar, and went off into an uncontrollable fit of laughter that drove everybody off the stage.

Verdi was distracted, but felt confident that this judgment could be reversed. He made alterations, substituted Louis XIII. costumes for "swallow-tail and white choker" dress, and with a new cast, including a Violetta that could be encompassed, the work was given at the San Beneditto Theatre. The éclat was immense, La Traviata that had been hissed and hooted was acclaimed to the skies. Speedily it spread over Italy, and in the following year was brought to London. The irresistibly affecting story—one which the sternest moralist could barely listen to unmoved—was chosen by Mlle. Piccolomini for her London début in the 1856 season. To quote Mr. Lumley's own words:—

"Mlle. Piccolomini, a young Italian lady of high lineage, made her curtsey on the boards of Her Majesty's Theatre on Saturday the 24th May in Verdi's opera La Traviata, since become so famous and (it may be said at once, in spite of all that may be stated hereafter) so great a favourite, but produced for the first time on that occasion on the Anglo-Italian boards. The enthusiasm she created was immense. It spread like wildfire. Once more frantic crowds struggled in the lobbies of the theatre, once more dresses were torn and hats crushed in the conflict, once more a mania possessed the public. Marietta Piccolomini became the 'rage.' From the moment of her début the fortunes of the theatre were secured for the season."[46] "Opera and singer both were new," continues Mr. Lumley. "Curiosity and interest were excited both for the one and the other. There was an overflowing house. As through the coming season, so through her first night was the charming young lady's success unquestionable. After a warm reception, such as English audiences are wont to give by way of welcome to a meritorious stranger, Mlle. Piccolomini was to be heard and judged, and (what, as it turned out, was more to the purpose), she was to be seen. Applause followed her opening efforts. The charm of manner had begun to work. The second act produced at its conclusion a burst of genuine enthusiasm. At the end of the opera it was a frenzy. The whole house rose to congratulate the singer when recalled. The charm was complete. The vivacity of acting (especially in the death-scene of the finale) had worked their spell. Marietta Piccolomini was adopted at once as the pet (and afterwards how much petted!) child of Her Majesty's Theatre.

"Verdi's music now shared the same fate as its fortunate exponent. It pleased, it was run after, it became one of the most popular compositions of the time. It is true that musical 'purists' cavilled and criticised severely; that anti-Verdists denounced it with all the epithets of their stereotyped vocabulary as 'trashy, flimsy, and meretricious'; but, in spite of opposition and of bigotry, it not only attracted (perhaps even more than any other of Verdi's operas) countless crowds when the favourite 'charming little Piccolomini' was its exponent, but achieved a marked and lasting popularity at other theatres, as well as in every music hall throughout the land. Notwithstanding the accusation that the 'Traviata was weak and commonplace,' the 'catching' melody and, above all, the dramatic force and expression of a composer whose principal merit consisted in the peculiarity that he really was dramatic, gained upon the masses. It attained considerable popularity, moreover, in spite of a dangerous and equivocal subject; one which was denounced from the pulpit, denounced by mighty authority in the press, denounced even at one time by popular sentiment itself."[47]

Quite a contrast to the state of things when the work was howled at by the merry Venetians!

On the night of its first performance in this country, the caste included, besides Mlle. Piccolomini, Signori Calzolari and Beneventano, who filled the parts of the lover and father respectively.

A critic, one by no means usually ill-disposed towards Verdi, wrote of the performance as follows:—

"A new production from the prolific pen of Maestro Verdi is a thing to which we are pretty well accustomed, and it happens that the new production in question, La Traviata, is the weakest, as it is the last, of his numerous progeny. It has pretty tunes, for every Italian has more or less the gift of melody; but even the tunes are trite and common, bespeaking an exhausted invention, while there are no vestiges of the constructed skill, none of the masterly pieces of concerted music, which we find in the Trovatore or in Rigoletto."[48]

A section of the English press made a dead set against the opera, but the test of time has given the lie to detractors. Despite the heroine's damaged reputation, the music has proved sufficiently good, lasting, and attractive to keep the opera on the English boards, not to mention Continental theatres, for full forty years. The "highly immoral" story did not prove destructive to England's youth and age. The British character survived it!

When La Traviata was ready to be played before the British public, there was a great outburst of moral indignation. Mr. Lumley gives his version of the affair: "Permission was in vain demanded of the Lord Chamberlain to allow adaptations of the drama to appear upon the English stage. That this prohibition should have been enforced on a stage where George Barnwell, and more especially Jane Shore (the heroine of which old tragedy is also a sympathetic Traviata, who dies a miserable death), are upheld as 'fine old legitimate' plays, and were once produced on the chief assemblage of the youth of the age at Christmastide, did not appear very consistent or even logical; and the Traviata appeared. And a considerable surprise (in spite of all previous minor 'grumblings') fell upon the public when it found its favourite opera morally crushed to the earth by the mighty thunder of the press. The 'foul and hideous horrors' of the Traviata were held up as proper objects for 'deep and unmitigated censure' in the leading journal. One clap of thunder followed on the other. In a long letter I published an elaborate defence of my opera against the accusation of its blatant 'immorality.' This letter appeared duly in the columns of The Times, as an appendix to a still more crushing denunciation. Minor journals flashed their own smaller lightnings in sympathetic response to this storm from the 'Thunderer.' But the public was not to be lectured out of its treat. It would not consider its morality endangered. It still flocked to Verdi's opera, and the fascinating Piccolomini."[49]

The Times easily disposed of Verdi's share in the work. "The book," the criticism runs, "is of far more consequence than the music, which, except so far as it affords a vehicle for the utterance of the dialogue, is of no value whatever, and, moreover, because it is essentially as a dramatic vocalist that the brilliant success of Mlle. Piccolomini was achieved.... For the present, it will be sufficient to treat La Traviata as a play set to music. To Dumas fils, who invented the situations, and Mlle. Piccolomini, who delineated the emotions of the principal character, belong the honours of a triumph with which the composer has as little to do as possible."[50]

The Athenæum lost no time in "going for" Verdi over La Traviata. The first process was an examination of the "arranged score of Signor Verdi's setting of the Dame aux Camelias," whereupon the critic was in a position to say: "It seems written in the composer's later manner, grouping with his Rigoletto and Trovatore, without being equal to the latter opera; to demand from its heroine a less extensive soprano voice than Signor Verdi usually demands; to contain in the finale to its second act a good specimen of those pompous slow movements in which the newer Italian maestro has wrought out a pattern indicated by Donizetti; also throughout an unusual proportion of music in triple, or waltz tempo.... The masquerade music is fade and trivial.... There is some of Signor Verdi's effective instrumentation in the opening of the final terzetto. All these good points summed up, the new opera, as a whole, is poor and pale—consumptive music, which can only be relished in the absence of some healthier novelty."[51]

Subsequently, when the Lord Chamberlain of the period came down upon La Traviata on account of its questionable story, we read: "Neither Signor Verdi's music (which is Signor Verdi's poorest) nor Mlle. Piccolomini's singing (which every one concedes is on a very small scale) have made the fame and the furore of the opera, and the lady.... The music of La Traviata is trashy; the young Italian lady cannot do justice to the music, such as it is. Hence it follows that the opera and the lady can only establish themselves in proportion as Londoners rejoice in a prurient story prettily acted ... granted that La Traviata at her Majesty's Theatre has been the poorest music, poorly sung, which has been allowed to pass for the sake of its 'dear improper story,'" etc.[52]

Whatever the story, whatever the music of La Traviata it still lives as an opera, and is among the best of its class. This is due again, we believe, to the quality of the music, not to the nature of the story, for surely Londoners did not, forty years back,—nor would they now—betake themselves with their wives and daughters to the theatre to enjoy a lustful, itching story. The Traviata contains much of that warm, emotional, melodic profuseness which the public likes, and which it demands, when it throws off its working garb to take a little pleasure, sadly as, we are told, it takes this. The popular nature of the music, its freedom from technical and theatrical perplexity, which the public at large is glad to be without, its ever-changing colour, variety and expression—all this contributes to the vitality of La Traviata. Has it been, too, the sensuous nature of the story which has led so many nervous débutantes, highly attuned in temperament, to select the rôle to win an artistic fame in, perhaps, the highest, as it is the most difficult of all art pursuits? We believe not.