The artists entrusted with the first rendering of this chef d'œuvre were Signora Pasqua (Mrs. Quickly), Signorine Emma Zilli (Mrs. Ford), Virginia Guerrini (Mrs. Page), and Adelina Stehle ("Sweet Anne"); with Signori Garbin (Fenton), Pini-Corsi (Ford), Pellegalli-Rosetti (Bardolph), Arimondi (Pistol), Armandi (Caius), and M. Maurel (Falstaff). Signor Mascheroni conducted, and one after another the successive beauties of the work were poured forth amid a scene of excitement such as can only be witnessed in La Scala, and which was unprecedented even there. The interest of the audience was arrested from the first scene; but, as climax after climax was reached, the enthusiasm of the brilliant assemblage began to lose bounds, until, at the close of the opera, there was such a tumultuous applause, such calls for Verdi, as to be deafening. No fewer than thirty times was Verdi called on during the performance.

There was but one admission to make—Verdi, doyen of composers, past-grandmaster of music, had crowned his artistic career with the finest, the most scholarly work that ever issued from his pen. Little wonder that the people almost carried him back to his hotel, that they cried for him from the crowded streets, that they called him, time after time, to the balcony of his apartment in order that he might receive their acclamations.

King Humbert sent the eminent composer the following telegram:—"The Queen and myself, being unable to attend the first performance of Falstaff, anticipate the applause about to greet this fresh proof of an inexhaustible genius, by sending you our best wishes and the expression of our great admiration. May you be preserved for many years to come, to the honour of art, to our affections, and to enjoy the recognition of Italy, which, even in her saddest days, found patriotic comfort in your triumphs."

From that day to this, interest in Falstaff has never ceased, the point most dwelt upon being the remarkable freshness, the youth and gaiety, the fun and frolic, on every page of the music. Could it be old-age work? or, was it that with his decline in physical powers Verdi's mental capacity was reaching greater perfection, suggesting perhaps the splendid spectacle of an after condition when, it is to be hoped for all of us, the mental portion of these sorry frames of ours will be doing its perfect work undeterred, unhampered.

Paris had the work at the Opéra Comique in April 1894, when the performance was rendered more interesting by the presence of the composer himself, who received a tribute of enthusiastic applause from a crowded house containing two thousand of the most notable representatives of the Parisian world. The scene was a very striking one when Verdi, in his eighty-first year, yet carrying his age exceedingly well, was led forward between Victor Maurel and Mlle. Delna, the two principal interpreters of this version of the Merry Wives of Windsor.

In May 1894, Falstaff was given for the first time in London, at Covent Garden, with the Scala troupe of artists, the occasion furnishing the musical event of the season. The performance was witnessed by a brilliant audience, royalty being represented by the Prince of Wales, and the Duchess of Saxe-Coburg and her daughter, while the general gathering included nearly all the personages of "light and leading" in the London musical world. The comic masterpiece was a complete and unqualified success.

Signor Mancinelli conducted, and the principal rôles were filled by Signorine Kitzu (Meg), Giulia Ravogli (Dame Quickly), Olga Olghina (Nanetta), and Zilli (Alice); Signor Pessina represented an excellent fat knight (the part created by M. Maurel in Milan), and Signori Pellegalli-Rosetti, Arimondi, Armandi, and Pini-Corsi, were capital as Bardolph, Pistol, and Dr. Caius, and Ford, respectively. The reception of the opera, from beginning to end, was most enthusiastic, and time after time the curtain descended amid tumultuous applause, and the calling forward of the singers.

Where a work is replete with splendid points and brilliant episodes—uniform in its excellence from opening to close—it is unnecessary to particularise one number more than another. Yet it is well to record the most "taking" pieces, even in a composition so consistently beautiful, both in libretto and in music, as Falstaff admittedly is. The first act opens in the interior of the Garter Inn, and amid the animated scene which follows, there is some excellent music to the doings of Bardolph, Pistol, and Dr. Caius. The canonic "Amen" is amusing, and Sir John's soliloquy upon "honour," gives the baritone a capital chance of displaying his powers. Another attractive number, where all is so attractive, is the chattering quartet of women, at the end of the first act. With the second act, we still are in the Garter hostelry—and the fun thickens. Mrs. Quickly and Ford, in turn, "interview" Falstaff, and here, as in the scene in Ford's house, and the search for the missing knight, the music is of the liveliest, happiest character. The fat knight's solo, "When I was page to the Duke of Norfolk, slender of figure," the love duet, and Anne Page's song in the forest scene are further superlatively beautiful instances among many in this richly-gemmed work. The opera has been given in Milan, Berlin, Vienna, Paris, and London—here several times, as recently as the last season—and whenever performed, the sparkling numbers enumerated are always encored, and re-demanded.

Critically regarded, the music is unquestionably the best that Verdi has written. Its leading features are its freshness, spontaneity, irresistible humour, and youthfulness; yet, its finished character, the carefully conceived and highly wrought detail, involving much technical skill and learning, bespeak unmistakably the ripened master-mind. What a reply, too, it is to all the early critical opposition which made out that there was nothing in Verdi beyond the power of adapting his countrymen's melodic commonplaces, and stringing them together suitably for a speedy oblivion!

"The age of miracles is supposed to be past, but those who declare it so would do well to consider the miracle of Verdi's persistent artistic vitality.... When count is taken of the quality as well as of the quantity of Verdi's achievements, these must be confessed well-nigh miraculous. The list of his operas is an epitome, one might say, of the development of operatic music. Trace the steady march of his genius from the period of I Lombardi to Otello, remember the successive stages typified by Trovatore, Ernani, Rigoletto, Aïda,—each a masterpiece after its kind,—and you find yourself in the presence of a man who has never swerved from the search after the highest ideal. Between I Lombardi and Otello there is a gap which it might seem no one man could span. And yet, however different the methods of expression which Verdi has chosen in each stage of his development, the form has always been inevitable, and the man's personality is as apparent and as potent in one as in the other. Aïda seemed likely to be his last work; but with Otello came a new apocalypse. He had not been afraid to modify his method, that it might fit his subject more completely, and there was not wanting those who (wrongly) saw in it a confession of conversion to the Wagnerian gospel. No one believed that the octogenarian composer would find anything fresh to say or any fresh way of saying it. The miracle has been repeated, for in Falstaff, produced at Milan on the 9th inst., we have a work which proclaims itself the expression of a phase of Verdi's nature quite unguessed at. The antiquaries of music, who care less to enjoy a work than to classify it, will not find the task in the case of Falstaff easy, for Falstaff does not fall readily into any of the required classes. It belongs to no school, not even to that of Verdi himself, for there was little in any of his other operas to show that he possessed the supreme gift of humour, though indeed we might have remembered that so exquisite a sense of proportion as his never goes unaccompanied with humour, and is dependent on it for perfection."[66]

Following this fulsome preamble is a highly flattering detailed account of Verdi's music to Falstaff—which stands in strange contrast to much that we have read of the maestro in the pages of the Athenæum. Such phrases as the following, to be found in the notice, must indeed have proved balm to Verdi after his years of castigation at the hands of this journal:—

"Petulant contempt" (referring to the part where Falstaff harangues his servants on the point of honour) "is no easy thing to express in music, but here the difficulty is overcome without effort, and we are launched, so to say, on that sparkling sea of humour which has yet had but few successful navigators. The scene ends as Falstaff chases his chivalrous servants from the room.... Of the music it is enough to say that the ensemble of the nine voices is treated with consummate skill, and that the chattering quartet in E major for the women's voices, unaccompanied, is one of the most delightful passages in the whole score.... The great scene in which Falstaff is obliged to take refuge in the buck-basket is handled with immense skill by librettist and composer alike. Putting aside Wagner's treatment of the street scene in Die Meistersinger, there is nothing in comic music to be set beside the ensemble of this (second) act, in which Verdi has brought together with magnificent skill such incongruous elements as the lovers behind the screen, etc.... In the music to this" (the last act) "the highest level is reached: poetry, grace, and humour are balanced and combined with marvellous delicacy. The whole scene is a triumph; in the matter of sheer beauty of form Mozart himself could not have surpassed it.... The charm that comes of absolute simplicity is the chief; and the presence of humour, now broadly laughing and now quaintly fantastic, need not be further insisted on. The manner is not less simple than the matter. There is nothing approaching the use of representative themes; and though no resource of the modern orchestra is left untried, the outlines of the music are as clear, its colouring as pure, as is a picture by Perugino."[67]

The score of Falstaff is something of an alpha and omega of a musical life—there is the young and the old, the youth and the philosopher present and apparent, in rare harmonious weaving. The symmetry of the whole is striking indeed; while the clever construction throughout shows not merely the educated, but also the painstaking composer. All the music is not of such superlative grace as that delicious scene where the animated quartet of merry wives are reading Falstaff's love-letters; or the duet for Falstaff and Ford—the orchestration of which is so perfect, that even the merry jingling that accompanies Ford's rattling of the gold bag has not been missed. Such a standard of artistic excellence could not be maintained throughout any opera by any master; nevertheless, not a weak or unworthy number can be pointed to throughout the score. Even the penultimate tableau preceding the fugue finale of the opera—justly declared to be somewhat poor—suffers more than would otherwise be the case by comparison with the uniformly high order of the other music in the opera.

It is one of the most difficult tasks which even a master-musician can have set him to write comic music that shall be at once original and humorous. Yet, here Verdi succeeded at his first attempt. True, he has left Falstaff, and the style thereof, until the eve of his artistic career; yet, what a crowning work it stands! Lyric tragedy occupied the master's mind for nearly the whole of his long life, until it appeared almost that he could write nothing else but lyric tragedy. Then to show that this was otherwise, he went to comedy—he composed one comic opera. What an example it is! Its proportions are colossal: its comedy is equal to Mozart; its technique, ingenuity, and construction rival Wagner. No grander piece of work could crown the master's career. Through Verdi, national opera as made in Italy stands to-day on as high ground as the lyric drama—the grand opera of France and Germany. England, unfortunately, cannot yet be considered in the matter.

CHAPTER IX
POLITICIAN AND CITIZEN

A born politician—Attempt to draw Verdi—The revolutionary ring of Verdi's music—Signor Basevi on this feature—National and political honours and distinctions—An inactive senator—England's neglect—The composer's nature and character—Bluntness of speech—A dissatisfied auditor—Verdi's alleged parsimony—Verdi and the curate—The gossips and his fortune—Life at St. Agata villa—An "eighty-two" word-portrait—Verdi's old-age vigour—Love of flowers—His hobby at the Genoa palazzo—Independence of character.

Had Verdi not been a musician, he would probably have proved an ardent, daring politician. Italy would be loving and honouring him to-day for his political principles and amor patriæ, not less admiringly, not less fervently, than she now regards him for his vast harmonious gifts. As it was, he persistently declined to meddle with the tapes and wires of State matters. An attempt to draw Verdi politically was made in the spring of 1894, during the rehearsal of Falstaff in Paris. One of the singers put out a "feeler." "Don't, for goodness' sake," he answered, "talk to me about politics. I have never paid any attention to them, and I am not likely to do so at my time of life; I have quite enough to do with my music." We have seen how his countrymen made him their political idol, and would assuredly have him know that they were looking to him as a deliverer from the Austrian yoke, even though he spoke through a medium that is usually resorted to for peaceful, rather than for revolutionary ends. The temper of his music was just to their liking, and Verdi took no pains to hide his sympathy with his countrymen under their yoke of foreign overlordship, albeit the success of opera after opera turned upon his peace with the authorities.

In the chorus, "O mia patria, si bella e perduta," chanted by Hebrew slaves in I Lombardi, the Milanese saw a reflection of their own wretchedness. Purposely did Verdi write ardent exciting melodies. They had power to, and did move the populace; and if at times they seem commonplace, and even vulgar, they were thoroughly suited to the singers, auditors, and conditions with which he had to deal. Thus Verdi was an enlisted chief, an instrument, in the fortunes of the House of Savoy. V E R D I spelt the name of the composer. The capitals stood for the initials of "Victor Emmanuel, Ré d'Italia." How the impatient Lombardians seized hold of what seemed to them to be an inspired coincidence! Under cover of the name Verdi, avowedly their musical god, they could shout for Italian liberty and independence, right into the ears of Austrian spies and sentinels. "Viva Verdi! Viva Verdi!" from the mouths of the populace meant not only a tribute to the patriotic musician whom they idolised, but was another way of demanding Victor Emmanuel in lieu of the Archduke Francis. If the police interfered with the patriots, it was their beloved musician that had so moved them, and for whom they were shouting! "The streets," says a chronicler, referring to the time, "were filled with placards in white, red, and green, the Italian colours: VERDI in such big letters that nothing else was visible on the posters."[68]

Thus was Verdi, the musician and patriot, entwined inseparably round the hearts of his countrymen, to the lasting advantage of both, at a time when Italy stood in great need of the support and succour of all her sons.

In the eyes of Verdi the national liberty was a thing to be accomplished, and if he did not shoulder the rifle in the struggles of 1859 and 1860, which, beginning with the freeing of Lombardy, ended in a free and united Italy, the clarion he sounded was so certain that no one would mistake its intent. Directly he began to sing, the inflammatory ring of his music arrested and stirred the Venetians. Rossini may well have dubbed Verdi "le musicien qui a un casque" (the musician with a helmet). The first signs were detected in Nabucco, then in I Lombardi,[69] and with Ernani there was a further outburst of the musical liberator's mind. The highest pitch of enthusiasm followed his ardent strains, and scarcely a performance of the Ernani went by without political demonstration. Attila fired a further desire for liberty. The feelings of the Venetians—still clamouring for independence —when they heard the air, "Cara patria, già madre e regina," knew no bounds, and for a while the performance could not proceed. At the verse, "Avrai tu L'universo vesti L'Italia me!" the whole audience, seized with frenzy, shouted with one voice, "A noi!" "L'Italia a noi!" Then when Palma, the Spanish tenor, sang his air, "La patria tradita," in Macbeth, the people were so reminded of the foreign despotism they were suffering from that they became uproarious, and the Austrian Grenadiers had to be called in. La Battaglia di Legnano was purposely pitched in an aggressive key. Signor Basevi has said—"From 1849 onwards, during ten years of national strife and protests, Verdi carried on politics in music, as we have all done in literature and humour. He carried on politics in music because, perhaps, without himself being conscious of it, he drew from the restlessness and tumult of his soul a kind of music which responded precisely to the restlessness and tumult of our minds; but when these tumults, these spasms burst forth, then he no longer sought for subjects of the present day to render extrinsic in action the sentiments which he had divined so marvellously when they were shut up in the mind of the public for whom he wrote."[70]

Not alone were the eyes of Italy fixed upon Verdi. He was the recipient of honours and marks of esteem which were far from confined to his own land. As a member of the National Assembly of Parma, to which the citizens of Busseto elected him in 1859, he voted for the annexation of the duchy to Sardinia. The French nation made him Corresponding Member of the Académie des Beaux Arts in the same year. In 1861 Verdi was elected a Deputy of the Italian Parliament. Cavour wanted to see in the first national parliament the real blood and sinew of the country—the men who, as he said, "had helped to make Italy, whether in literature, art, or science." The composer hesitated, and at last yielded to the statesman's entreaty; but he only attended a meeting or two, for, as he said, he loved and preferred retirement to political excitement. In the year 1862 Verdi was decorated with the Grand Cross of the Russian Order of St. Stanislaus, of the Paris Académie des Beaux Arts, being head of the poll with twenty-three votes. His own country has honoured him. Knowing how much Verdi had at heart the musical keeping of his country, the Italian Minister of Public Instruction, in 1871, selected him to visit Florence, to assume the post offered him for the improvement and reorganisation of the Italian Musical Institute. Then his sovereign recognised him. In 1872 he was created a Grand Officer of the Order of the Crown of Italy, and in the same year the Khedive of Egypt conferred on him the Order of Osmanie. The offer of the title of Marquis of Busseto was made to him after the production of Falstaff, but he declined it, preferring to remain plain Signor Verdi.

Following this recognition, Victor Emmanuel (by a decree dated 22nd November 1874) created him a Senator of the Italian Kingdom. The musician attended in due course to take the customary oath of office; but beyond this solitary occasion he attended no meeting of that solemn body. The honour was not a useless one, however, for one day an enterprising entrepreneur was found announcing Aïda as the work of Maestro Senatore Verdi, thinking evidently of his political as well as of his musical status. With the year 1875 further honours were bestowed upon the illustrious composer. He was decorated with the Cross of Commander, and Star, of the Austrian Order of Franz Joseph; and, being already a member of the Legion of Honour, he was in May of this same year nominated a Commander of the Legion. The Italian Minister at Paris was charged to present him with the insignia of the Order, accompanied by a flattering letter from the Duke Decazes. Many and various other honours have fallen upon Verdi. When Otello was first performed in Paris, for instance, the President of the Republic (M. Casimir-Périer), before the beginning of the second act, invested the composer with the Grand Cordon of the Legion of Honour. Only England has done nothing. Good old insular England, that can distinguish and single out successful pickle-makers and milliners, but cannot find an honour to bestow on many a worthy and wondrous slave to Art and Science!

Many and many have been the less public attentions which Verdi has received at the hands of his fellow-countrymen. An early mark of recognition was the presentation by Prince Poniatowski of a gold laurel crown each leaf of which was inscribed with the title of one of his works. This was upon the occasion of the performance of Macbeth at Florence. When Aïda was first performed, the artists presented the composer with an ivory sceptre ornamented with a star of diamonds; the title Aïda was set in rubies, whilst Verdi, worked in precious stones, stood out on a branch of laurel. A further memento fell to the composer when Aïda was given at the Paris Opéra. Delegates from the Italian colony waited upon the distinguished musician and handed him a crown of pure gold designed of laurel branches, the whole resting on a velvet cushioned stand, suitably inscribed. The Parisians placed a fine bust of the composer in the Grand Opéra foyer. It was by Danton, who had already made some capital out of the composer by caricaturing him at the keys of the piano, with a lion's mane and claws.

We venture the opinion that no better presentment of the famous composer's features than the full-length portrait at the opening of this volume has ever been given to English people. It is thoroughly characteristic of the man to-day. His face is fairly familiar to most of us. We all remember his thoughtful countenance and well-shaped head, with its finely-chiselled features, and dark eyes full of the fire of genius, the whole set off with a liberal gift of hair on the head and face. The slender build and highly-strung temperament at once arrest the eye; nor can we fail to be attracted by the tidily-attired exterior of the master. Verdi is best seen under the ordeal of some operatic triumph. Then through all the excitement he remains what he is—a quiet, calm, modest gentleman, one of those intellectual giants who scorn to trade upon their greatness.

Verdi is a man of deep human sympathy. The loss of his first wife and his children shrouded him in a sad mood, which he cannot throw off, and the peculiarly gloomy and tragic nature of many of his operas has been attributed to his domestic afflictions. Again, when the great poet and distinguished author of I Promessi Sposi died, Verdi was quite overcome. Only when he had poured forth his Requiem to his dead friend's honoured memory, did he feel that his tribute of affection towards Manzoni had been at all adequately made. Verdi's goodness of heart is seen in his treatment of his favourite librettist Francesco Piave, when dire misfortune befell him. The man who had written the libretti of I Due Foscari, Macbeth, Il Corsaro, Stiffelio, Rigoletto, Traviata, Simon Boccanegra, and La Forza del Destino, was one day discovered unhinged in body and mind, unfit for every place save the lunatic asylum. Finding his patient poet thus afflicted, Verdi settled a pension on him for life, and quieted the poor fellow's mind by undertaking the charge of an only child and providing for her welfare. Nothing weak marks Verdi's character; on the contrary, he, like most good musicians, has a firm will, rather prone at times to be susceptible and suspicious. One day, during the rehearsal of Les Vêpres Siciliennes in Paris, the maestro received a slight from the members of the orchestra, who did not relish the pains which Verdi was taking to secure his points. Upon explaining to the chef d'orchestre, the next attempt was a plain annoyance; whereupon the master seized his hat, and did not appear again at the theatre! Stories of his bluntness of speech are plentiful. At a rehearsal of Falstaff at Milan, the singers and musicians gave him an ovation when he entered the Opera-house. In response he said, "I thank you all; but will thank you more if you do better in your performance than last time." When La Traviata was a failure at Venice, Varesi, the baritone, and other interpreters of the work, thinking to console Verdi, paid him their condolences; but he only exclaimed, "Make them to yourself and your companions, who have not grasped my music." Withal, the master can enter into the spirit of a joke. When the Aïda was produced at Milan in 1872, a certain person named Bertoni went from a neighbouring village to hear it; his outing, including supper, cost him fifteen francs ninety centimes. He happened not to like the opera. However, the next day, on finding it praised on all sides, he resolved to give it another trial. Accordingly, when it was again performed, he went for a second time to hear it, spent twenty francs, and was more dissatisfied than ever. Full of anger, he wrote to Verdi, telling him that the opera was a failure, doomed to early oblivion, and asking for the return of thirty-five francs ninety centimes, which sum, he alleged, he had wasted on going to hear it! Verdi was not offended. He sided with the aggrieved one. Taking a pen in hand, he authorised his publisher to send Signor Bertoni thirty-one francs fifty centimes, adding, "It is not quite as much as the gentleman demands, but I think he could have had his supper at home!" The composer made the stipulation, too, that the melomaniac should not again attend the representations of the composer's works at his expense, except upon his written order. Quite natural too!

He has a great love for his fellow-men, especially the poor people. Thus he often creates work on his estate in the shape of quite unnecessary alterations and buildings, chiefly to give occupation to the poor people. One day the inevitable organ-grinder struck up the strains of Il Trovatore within hearing of his studio. Carducci, the Tennyson of Italy, was with him, and seemed irritated. "How do you like it?" said he. "Let him go on—it pleases me; and besides, we must all live somehow," was the reply.

Verdi has been charged with being mean, but the above anecdotes do not tell against him; nor indeed does his long and unbroken association with his music publishers (the famous house of Ricordi) show that Verdi has been asking impossible prices for his works. Naturally he fixes his figure with his publisher; but with a bargain once struck the matter ends. As a point of fact the maestro is a very benevolent man, who often sends gifts of money anonymously to those in distress and poverty. But he has a great dislike to his gifts being made public.

Numerous philanthropic works, and in particular the hospital at Busseto, owe their existence to Verdi. Thereof an anecdote is told. The hospital is directed by the Mayor of the Commune. One day he went to Verdi to complain of the curate, who, as chaplain of the hospital, took advantage of his position to meddle with all the affairs of the administration. The curate was of a certain age, and very despotic; and the Mayor, in order to get rid of him, asked Verdi what he should do. The maestro grew tired of the long details produced by the Mayor in support of his complaint, suddenly cut him short, and said, "The curate is charged with the confession of the patients, and their burial when they die. If he interferes with anything else, kick him out of doors."

The gossips have been busy with the disposition of Verdi's supposed enormous fortune. The following is a sample of many tales that have been the round of the European press: "Verdi is credited with the intention of doing something both handsome and original with the fortune which he has accumulated during his lifetime.... Verdi has no son, and he does not recognise any obligation to enrich any distant relations that he may possess. He therefore directs that the ten million lire which he will leave behind him shall be employed in making happy those who helped him to earn them—namely, musicians and lyric artists. A magnificent palace is to be built in his grounds, and this is to form the home of any Italian musicians and singers who may find themselves in straitened circumstances at the close of their career."

In the summer of 1849 Verdi bought the villa St. Agata, some two miles from Busseto, which ever since has remained his favourite residence. The house is well off the high road, concealed from view by large trees and shrubs—a condition which probably favoured the operations of the "crack and jemmy knights," who a year or two back succeeded in burglariously disturbing the peaceful harmony of the composer's home. Adjoining are all the appurtenances of a country gentleman's estate. Some years after the loss of his first wife and children Verdi married Madame Strepponi, who happily is to-day spared to the master. Most of the year is passed at St. Agata, the winter months being spent at Genoa, where the climate is more genial.

Certain reports have credited Verdi with living the life of a recluse, whose only companions are two enormous Pyrenean hounds, while days are said to be spent by the master in his studio, which is shut off from the castle, and from which room Verdi is credited with emerging only for the purpose of obtaining sleep. No one, the wild reports went, was admitted save those who came by special invitation; so that often a distinguished personage would make his way to the guarded stronghold only to be met by the information that there was no admission. Naturally shy and reserved, Verdi has ever studiously avoided the public stare, and repeatedly, when he has been petitioned to visit this or that town, he has firmly but respectfully declined, especially when he has foreseen that no purpose was to be served beyond that of honour to himself. The artistic temperament, especially in a great musician, differs from that of the city man and merchant, and precludes him from living ostentatiously, often vulgarly, or keeping so-called open house. All his close artist acquaintances, and many a musical stranger, have been visitors or guests at either the luxurious villa St. Agata or the Genoa Palazzo Doria, and there are many living who could testify to the charm and hospitality of the composer at home.

One of the best word-portraits of Verdi was drawn by the Paris correspondent of The Globe in 1894, at the time when the maestro was presiding over the rehearsals of his Otello, which was to be produced at the Grand Opéra:—"Verdi, in spite of his great age," the sketch ran—"he is now close on eighty-two—has preserved, both as a man and as a composer, the ardour and warmth of his youth. He is reproached with being short-tempered, and even violent; thus it is that, in spite of his well-known kindness, it is not always easy to get on with him. He wears his white hair and beard long. His features are a little hard, but remarkably intelligent. His customary attitude is that of meditation. He walks with his head bent down, and with long and measured steps. Few persons have seen him smile, much less laugh. It is said he has never been able to console himself for the loss of his two sons (son and daughter), who died in the same year as their mother. Neither fortune nor glory has sufficed to make him forget his terrible bereavements."

The secret of Verdi's wonderfully maintained vitality is the old mens sana in corpore sano principle. He is an early riser, and after his cup of black coffee, the early morning finds him about his garden or farm. Flowers form his favourite hobby. Behind the old palazzo at Genoa is a terrace with a large garden, beyond which may be seen the fine expanse of the Gulf of Genoa. This garden is Verdi's care; but that the attentions of its gardener are often unequal to the energy of Nature may easily be discerned. Sometimes the lines of pots of camellias and geraniums on the terrace present rather a dried-up and neglected appearance. But no one must meddle with them. It is Verdi's special duty to tend and water these, although they are evidently often disregarded. No one dare tamper with these flowers, and if a visitor appropriates a blossom unasked, it annoys Verdi considerably. Yet never is the musician prouder, or more the grand man, than when presenting any particular visitor with one of his horticultural specimens. He rides almost daily, and composes a little each day. Then he lives sparingly, and is most abstemious, taking, after the Italian fashion, more cheese and eggs than meat. Verdi cares little for music in his home, and seldom visits the opera save for business purposes. "At St. Agata," he wrote to Filippi, the Italian critic, "we neither make nor talk about music; you will run the risk of finding a piano not only out of tune, but very likely without strings." To talk "shop" in Verdi's hearing is objectionable to him, and no act of indiscretion could be greater than the one of begging a musical question or discussion. His chief indoor amusement is a game of cards or billiards with his wife and relations. All reading he leaves until the evening, and this partakes mostly of poetry and philosophy.

All through life Verdi has been a God-fearing man. Pandering to nobody, he has maintained a perfectly independent, straightforward method. Nor has he countenanced any but honest dealings; while to place himself in the hands of his artists, great or small, has been quite beyond him. He has demanded only the best efforts of his workers. Thus on the eve of the production of Aïda he wrote to a friend: "I wish nothing more than a good, and, above all, intelligent vocal and instrumental execution and mise en scène. As to the rest, à la grace de Dieu; for thus I began, and thus I wish to finish my career."

CHAPTER X
GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF STYLE

Verdi's popularity—An important personality in music—Most successful composer of the nineteenth century—Verdi's opportuneness—Keynote of future struck in Nabucco—Its characteristics—Distinguishing features of Verdi's music—Stereotyped pattern operas—Change of style imminent in Luisa Miller—Altered second period style of Rigoletto—This maintained in Il Trovatore—La Traviata forebodings—Basevi's charge of an altered style therein—La Traviata and débûtantes—True Verdi style in Les Vêpres Siciliennes—Simon Boccanegra and Un Ballo in Maschera—Third period works—Aïda—Alleged Wagner influence—Mistaken criticism—Orchestration of Otello—Its style and technique compared with Aïda—Falstaff—Its position as an opera—A saviour of Italian art—The Illustrated London News defends Verdi from early critics—Later critics silenced—Verdi vindicated.

There is no need to ask "Who is Verdi?" He is that Italian master who has put a girdle of melody literally round the world. Not to the accomplished musician, the cultured amateur, the plodding student, and the happy home musical circle is he known only, but, to take England alone, he is familiar by name and tune to thousands of the poorest and lowest, whose only music is the street organ, and whose main musical literature is the opera-house announcements on the theatre doors and public hoardings. Men and women who cannot pronounce the name of Mendelssohn articulate Verdi, and outcasts and arabs, whose opera-house is the wide, wide metropolis, and whose only orchestra is engined by the Saffron Hill fraternity, have the Italian maestro, in name and tune, at their tongue-tips. All this may not be art, but it is magnificent.

Verdi becomes a great art-study. He stands distinctly an epoch-making musician. A composer who in 1845 had not been heard in England, and who at the present time commands the lyric stage of this and every European country, to say nothing of other continents, furnishes necessarily solid ground for critical musical inquiry. His artistic career is most instructive in its steady growth to mature ripeness. His efforts, too, have been almost entirely confined to opera, and if we examine Verdi's operas from first to last, it will not be difficult to trace the change that has taken place in the fashion of opera during the past three-quarters of a century. This has been as progressive as it has been emphatic, and no composer's works reflect it so decidedly as do Verdi's. The man and the musician went on in company. As he matured, so his art-work ripened. The three periods of his artistic career furnish a history of nineteenth-century operatic fashion and style.

While the most popular musician of the nineteenth century, he is, of all Italy's famous exponents of dramatic-musical art, indisputably the greatest. The land of song has produced many notable musicians, many wondrous melodists; but not one of them, not even Rossini, has so modified and influenced the national art as has Verdi. The entire extent of his impress will only be fully known when the Italians come to write their country's musical history. Verdi will be found to be the master who made Italian opera a grand national art-form, something of a social requirement in this closing nineteenth century.

To win a reputation such as belongs to Verdi, even if some discover it to be ephemeral only, is, indeed, a great achievement. Other pre-eminent musicians have laboured in every branch of their art—sacred and secular, vocal and instrumental, oratorio and opera, symphony and quartet, song and dance—with all which some of them have hardly become known during their lifetimes outside the range of their own country. There seems to be a profound musical problem here, but the solution is at hand. The greatest of the great composers were each and all before their time. Bach, Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and Schumann came in an age that was all unprepared for them. Verdi, on the other hand, whose phenomenal success is unlike theirs, was born at the moment. The musical world was waiting with open arms for him; for it had been satiated with opera music of a meretricious order, though written by his own countrymen, from which any deliverance could not fail to be a relief. The rescuer proved eventually to be Verdi.

Certain critics seem assured that Verdi copied, imitated, and transferred Bellini, Donizetti, Rossini, and other composers. If this be true, then, in a sense, they stand indebted to him; for Verdi is the best-heard Italian composer to-day. Verdi, however, was something more than a musical chef, with the knack of serving up the rechauffés of brother musicians.

The public, apt to be blamed for the majority of its judgments, made no mistake concerning Nabucco. Verdi's countrymen were "lifted along" by the magic music, and, from Nabucco to Falstaff—an unparalleled instance of consistent artistic unfolding—this distinct power of the master's has acted similarly upon thousands who have flocked to hear the Verdi operas. Their passion, fire, and strong dramatic character have proved irresistible.

The Milanese had heard Rossini, Mercadante, and Bellini to the full; of the melodious phrases of Donizetti they were already tiring, when, suddenly, a musician with rare force and passionate melodiousness came upon them. Donizetti, mainly through his melodic prolificness, had brought Italian grand opera to a level of triviality and mediocrity; Verdi, with his depth of feeling and breadth of melody, promised an exactly opposite musical manner. The public, ever ready for some new thing, seized hold, willing to stand by him only as long as he could stir and amuse them. This he has ever been able to do.

The natural qualities which characterise Verdi's music so decidedly, stamped his first work, as they mark his latest. The underlying secret of it all is furnished in the word Advance. It is not only Verdi's superior, or particular melody and harmony which operate; it is the common-sense, up-to-date way in which the composer has always regarded his subject. By intuition, he took a greater and a deeper view of Italian opera than any of his predecessors, and he went on advancing with the times. His countrymen had melody mainly at their pen-tips. Verdi used this and much more, and, while Wagner, for example, came along "great guns" with his German national opera, Verdi was proceeding to show that Italian grand opera could be brought to equal importance, musically and materially. Verdi, in his first work, unquestionably gave the lovers of opera something more than they had ever had before. That "something" was below the surface, and did not affect the outward forms so much as the hidden soul of the music. It was, however, discernible enough. In this direction mainly did Verdi's early operas differ from other Italian dramatic musical compositions. His later works, dating from Aïda, are illustrations of the new Italian national operatic art-form, which can never be surpassed, and will rarely be approached in Italy.

I Due Foscari, a colourless, tame work which followed Nabucco, did not enhance its composer's reputation. Of all Verdi's operas, it would be difficult to find one showing fewer traces of his undoubted steady development of style than this. Giovanna d'Arco, Alzira, Attila, Macbeth, I Masnadieri, Il Corsari, La Battaglia di Legnano, were all on the accepted Italian lines of Bellini and his predecessors; but in Luisa Miller there came a decided and suggestive advance. There was a greater heightening of the dramatic interest, while many of the vocal and instrumental combinations had never been equalled in Italian opera. Certainly, Verdi was already doing more than perpetuating the accepted Bellini-Donizetti method. It was yet early to give the world an Aïda; but Verdi, we shall believe, was feeling his way towards a more perfect Italian opera-form. What did the country's opera lack that was so distinctly a born quality in him? Dramatic fire, continuity, oneness of conception,—a whole, instead of a piecemeal dramatic-musical composition. The first strivings after this—a perfection that has been so undoubtedly attained in Verdi's most advanced operas—were apparent in Luisa Miller.

Therein the choruses are exceedingly attractive with their striking contrasts, while the brilliancy of, say the bravura, "Lo vedi," and the pathos and fire of other solos and concerted pieces, combine to produce a truly fine opera. Verdi has also so developed the situations and heightened the interest, that a climax of overwhelming effect is reached in the last act. The orchestration is replete with richness and variety. The whole style of Luisa Miller is musician-like to a degree, despite occasional reflections of his own and other men's compositions. The alleged defect of Luisa Miller was a lack of melody. None of the fervour and force that were heralded in Nabucco were wanting, but the composer's melodic vein appeared to be drying up! So thought the critics. Not quite! Verdi was contemplating greater things, and in a while was to step into a new plane of creative musical art. His first opera had been unrestrained melodic settings—after the Italian fashion—of morbid and gloomy stories. He was to curb all this; and what in Luisa Miller were merely indications of this change became realities in Rigoletto.

In a critical examination into Verdi's artistic development, Rigoletto occupies an important place. In it the composer, throwing off his early First style, adopts a less popular mould, which, while new in the history of Italian operatic art, was more characteristic of himself. As it has been well put—"Verdi is the rough, fiery composer no longer. Charm and grace are more to him now than mere noise and hubbub. In Rigoletto and Trovatore he gets rid of all that. Consequently we, who have often blamed him, have now only praise to bestow upon him—a change that he himself has brought about, and on which we congratulate him sincerely."[71]

This criticism describes exactly the situation. Not only was melodic exuberance stemmed in Rigoletto for a mixture of tune and recitative or musica parlante, but the orchestration had met a chastening process. While vocally the score was adjudged poor in melody and entirely deficient in pezzi concertanti, the orchestration was decidedly less noisy— its general character being uniformly calm and tranquil.

The Trovatore music is an excellent embodiment of Verdi's Second period style. It is less studied and more spontaneous than Rigoletto, but it sustains the advance in style. Uninviting as the libretto was, it had striking situations, with its black story and its gross improbabilities, which afforded Verdi scope for passionate expression and effect in more than one vivid scene. It found the people's favour immediately, and continues to hold audiences, despite the dinning suggestions that it is "not popular," "is dying out," and should be "placed on the retired list."

Though the public stamped Il Trovatore with the imprimatur of its approval, it did not altogether please the critics. There has ever been an endeavour to depreciate the opera, probably because so vast a success was gained by such simple means. Thus it has been described as "from beginning to end a direct plagiarism of Beethoven,"[72] as if such a charge could be sustained either to the discredit of Verdi, or to the credit of the Bonn master. Notwithstanding censorship, the work has proved one of those few operas that have been "the rage" all over Europe, and we repeat it still possesses the power to charm and attract large, if not fashionable, audiences. Yet, what a span divides it from Otello! No two of the master's works show his change and development of style more distinctly than these operas. To say nothing about conception and construction, the vocal and instrumental music in one and the other is as removed as a storm is from the rippling of a rivulet. The two works have to be heard in the same week—as they were at Covent Garden during the 1895 season with the hidden orchestra—to realise and appreciate rightly, the mighty step (especially in the instrumental department) between the two operas. La Traviata foreshadowed something of what was to be accomplished in Aïda, Otello, and Falstaff. There was the familiar appeal to the popular ear, through that never-failing and ever-welcome channel—melody; and the construction was similar to the Trovatore; the treatment orchestrally and vocally, if curtailed and controlled, being much after the old Verdinian manner. There was undoubtedly a lessening of excessiveness, due more to the melancholy nature of the book probably, than to a striving for a fresh style.

Basevi, the Italian critic, has thus written of La Traviata: "It is a composition which, by the quality of the characters, by the nature of its sentiment, by the want of spectacle, bears semblance to a comedy. Verdi has discovered a third manner, which in several points resembles the French method of the Opéra Comique. This style of music, although it has not been tried on the stage in Italy, is, however, not unknown in private circles. In these latter years, we have seen Luigi Gordigiani and Fabio Campana making themselves known principally in this style of music, called da camera. Verdi with his Traviata has transported this chamber-music on to the stage, and with happy success, to which the subject he has chosen well lends itself. We meet with more simplicity in this work than in the others of the same composer, especially as regards the orchestra, where the quartet of stringed instruments is almost always predominant; the parlanti occupy a greater part of the score; we meet with several of those airs which repeat under the form of verses; and, finally, the principal vocal subjects are, for the most part, developed in short binary and tertiary movements, and have not in general the extension which the Italian style demands."[73]

That the music indicates another and Third style in Verdi's musical manner we prefer to forget; such a classification would need to rest upon this single score, and would involve us in a Fourth style, if we wished to classify the operas of the composer's closing years. Three periods in which to locate Verdi's art-progress and work are quite sufficient. Wagner was yet not influencing Verdi! No one will doubt that its music gave the opera its permanent position. Not only the nervous débutante, but every prima donna has seen in the character of Violetta a rôle admitting of the finest touches and varied emotions which a leading lady can be called upon to express in the exercise of her art. From the day when Piccolomini roused the excited habitués of Mr. Lumley's house to a fever enthusiasm, a long list of singers—including a Patti, Nilsson, and Albani—have studied and played the part with varying advantage and delight, and whatever the verdict has been, the grace and charm of the music has always commanded the admiration of opera-singers, whether soli or chorus. And vocalists are as a rule better judges than are reporters and critics of what music should be.

Notwithstanding criticisms, good, bad, and indifferent, the fact remains that La Traviata, like Il Trovatore, is still with us; and although we have long been warned that it is "declining in popularity, like other operas of its period,"[74] it defers its final departure! Why does the music continue to please the public?—the uneducated section let us say. How is it that the cantatrice and queen of song loves the part still? The answer is found in the natural and graceful character of Verdi's music, and in nothing else. To us it has always seemed a more original and satisfactory opera than Il Trovatore. More equal throughout in quality, it contains some of the most touching natural music that has ever been heard from the opera stage.

Spontaneous beauty and brilliant period were not wanting in Les Vêpres Siciliennes, or in Un Ballo in Maschera, albeit the master-mind appears disturbed. No Italian opera music could be more thoroughly Verdi's than the numbers, "Giorno di Pianto," a reflection of the Donna è mobile canzone, and "Ma se m'e forza perderti" romanza in Les Vêpres Siciliennes and Un Ballo in Maschera respectively.

As has been already suggested, in La Forza del Destino and Don Carlos came unmistakable traces of a change in Verdi's manner. Although in these operas his habit of portraying human passions at their strongest pitch—in their noblest and sometimes their basest moods—still remains, Verdi's mature or Third period works embody to the fullest extent all that was generating in his mind nine years previously. Aïda in form and conception is clearly based upon La Forza del Destino and Don Carlos. Strikingly successful as the master has been with his First and Second period operas, they were not productions that reflected the fullest power of the high-minded musician. Profitable financially they had indeed proved to their composer; but they did not take Italian art one great step onwards. Verdi was keenly sensible of this. The desire to achieve something that would really advance his country's art taking possession of him, therefore, and what was more, finding grand, speedy expression at a time of life when most successful men seek repose—all this was, indeed, most admirable and artist-like.

The instant Aïda appeared, critics discovered much that was novel in its style. It was a combination of old and new—the accepted Italian opera mixed up with the best and latest in French and German Grand opera. No one expected it of Verdi, yet here it was before the world's eyes. On its production, doubts were freely expressed concerning its permanent qualities. "It is easy to see that the work will never achieve the lasting success of Rigoletto, the Trovatore, and the Traviata," wrote one critic. Another said, "Except as a spectacle, that it will be preferred by Verdi's old admirers to some of his earlier and less pretentious works, or that it will gain for him new disciples, we cannot think is in any high degree probable." Unhappily for these predictions, the work saw something like a hundred representations in Paris within the next three or four years!

A score of years and more have now passed, and yet Aïda draws crowded Royal Italian opera audiences, from which we conclude that the work has always possessed real musical merit—merit which the critics, as a body, first failed to recognise and acknowledge. The splendid opera also, has proved one of a triad which have raised Verdi considerably in the estimation of every right-minded musician. Before Aïda, Otello, and Falstaff, he was dubbed by critics the "sanguinary Italian melodist," the "morbid imitator of Meyerbeer," the "sensational, commonplace composer," with other similarly inelegant, inaccurate, and offensive epithets. Those who have lived long enough, however, have discovered something more than the musical blackleg in Verdi.

The opera of modern times must possess merit as a drama; it does not suffice for it to be but a peg, hanging upon which is a series of pretty tunes. The old-fashioned plan of chopping up each act into a series of recitatives, airs, duets, etc., is now discarded in favour of more musical declamation. In the new opera there are less frequent repetitions of the words, and consequently the dramatic action gains in continuity. The orchestra too plays a more exalted part, being resorted to not only to accompany and illustrate the text, but to provide a general local colour throughout. All this Verdi supplied in Aïda, and the cry at once raised was that he had been Wagner-hunting. Critics in the musical profession and out of it—critics who know a little about music, and a considerably larger number who knew nothing of the art—declared that Italy had at last gone over to the German musical method. But thirty years previously we were told that "Signor Verdi's forte is declamatory music of the highest passion"; also that "the composer's music becomes almost intolerable, owing to his immoderate employment of brass instruments." Undoubtedly in Aïda the master adopts a deeper and more dramatic character than had been usually shown by Italian masters; but he could have as easily done this had Wagner never lived. The ambition of a master-mind like Verdi's would be to raise his country's art to the level of other countries; and the crowning life-work of Verdi has been to place Italian opera on a higher plane, and to furnish an example of Italian national opera that would compare with that of France and Germany. To accomplish this the Bellini-Donizetti type of opera needed to be newly planned, orchestrated, and shaped into a far more comprehensive homogeneous whole. It was all this that Aïda pretended to meet; and it, Otello, and Falstaff have left their composer's mind thoroughly at ease probably concerning the place of Italy in dramatic music for the future. Certainly they should have done.

In composing Aïda Verdi had something more in view than pleasing the ears of the Khedive and his Egyptians. He had before him the operatic universe; and it was to arouse this that he sat him down to write when almost a septuagenarian. To cut himself adrift from the conventionalities of Italian opera, and place before the public a grand and beautiful dramatic lyric work, comparable with any opera that had preceded it, was indeed a great proceeding. With its modern characteristics the first alarm raised by musical public and critics alike was Wagner; but after many years' experience and trial of the work it is discovered that there is very little, if any, Wagner device or manner in it!

In the nineteen numbers of which the opera consists there is much that is musically novel and beautiful. The descriptive music, especially when removed from the tragic parts of the work, shows the composer in his happiest mood. The emotional (even sensational) nature of the music too is very marked, and this is where the master, retaining his country's manner, rises triumphantly over French and German dramatic music. The vocal music is thoroughly characteristic of Verdi. There are few solos, yet the charm of such pieces as "Celeste Aïda," "L'insana parola," and Aïda's romance, "O cieli azzurri," wherein she recalls the beauty of her own country, makes ample amends in quality for the absence of quantity. The duets, of which there are six, are not unusually striking, but the finales are exceedingly fine, and the effect of the ensemble is most imposing. The vocal and instrumental combinations are undoubtedly happy and effective.

It was the orchestration of Aïda mainly which led public and critics away concerning Verdi's supposed conversion to the Wagner or some other "ism." No sooner were heard the grand choral and orchestral combinations in the finales of the work,—movements remarkable alike for their breadth, grandeur, and dramatic reality,—than it was bellowed forth that Verdi had been imitating Berlioz, and the host of modern manipulators of the orchestra. The ponderous instrumentation, some say too much so, carried all minds at once to Wagner, when, really, Verdi could still be Verdi if, exercising his privilege, he elected to blow his theatre down with brass. "The work," wrote a critic, "is very heavily scored, over-instrumented in the brass particularly, and it would exact double the number and twice the tone of the strings at Covent Garden to counterbalance the blatant effects,"[75]— from which we are to believe, we suppose, that in this opera the talented, experienced composer had taken leave of his senses! Quite an unlucky hit, coming as it did at a time when the musical world was only too ready to see in such criticism a hidden suggestion of Wagnerian influence. It was unfortunate, too, inasmuch as the charges of "over-instrumenting" and "undue declamation" were arraigned against Verdi as far back as 1846, when Nabucco was produced—long before Wagner was heard of. "As we have had occasion to remark more than once,"[76] wrote the Athenæum critic, speaking of Nino, i.e. Nabucco, "its composer's music becomes almost intolerable, owing to his immoderate employment of brass instruments." Again, "Signor Verdi's forte is declamatory music of the highest passion."

Yet, thirty years afterwards, these very characteristics are traced to some recent French or German influence! Some few think otherwise. The Aïda subject, in its Eastern origin and character, calls for an excess of broad, semi-barbaric effects, as any one acquainted with oriental manners, life, and literature knows. Brass instruments convey this admirably, better than all the "string" and "wood" in the world. It is from this profuse employment of brass instruments, particularly the six genuine Egyptian trumpets used in the triumphal march of Radamès and his army, that the charge of imitating Wagner, or of becoming "Germanised," has probably arisen. But if the truth be told, this Verdi development has as much to do with Wagner as with Adam, the departures being a consequence of the master's desire to write a thoroughly up-to-date national opera, which his talent and learning fully warranted him in doing. Both vocal and instrumental music aimed at that illustrative local colour which the book and situation needed; hence the lavish use of oriental scales, Persian songs, the dance of black boys, with all the resplendent paraphernalia of Eastern temple, pagoda, and palace.

With all its "new style," the effort to get away from old methods by the employment of theoretical devices, novel and extreme harmonies, abundant recitative, curtailed melody, magnificent finales, and unlimited stage resources, Aïda is still distinctly Verdinian. The solos are peculiarly in Verdi's vein, and frequently suggestions of Trovatore and other works crop up, while the entire opera abounds in dramatic, passionate expression peculiar to Verdi. All this is as it should be from the Verdinian point of view; but if the result of this laudable attempt to formulate a modern Italian opera must be to brand it with some guiding influence or subject-model, then, instead of making Wagner that power, it should be Meyerbeer. If Verdi has followed any model at all, which we do not admit, it is the sumptuous richness and picturesque variety of the composer of Les Huguenots, Le Prophète, and L'Africaine. But Verdi wanted no model. At a distance of twenty years we can look back and discover that Verdi had something more in his mind when composing Aïda than the slavish imitation of this or that composer. He was about to crown his career with an opera, or more, of a style which many circumstances debarred him from attempting earlier.

All told, there is ample evidence in this first great work of Verdi's Third period to show that the composer is still wholly himself. That faculty, which was particularly Verdi's, of expressing extreme emotion, and of raising his audience to the highest pitches of sensational excitement, is present, notably in the finale of the second act. Then the composer's old command of melodious imagery and pathos, together with the expression of varied and conflicting passions, stamp the work from beginning to end—the love duet in the second act, between soprano and tenor, a romance in the third act, a soprano and contralto duet, a quartet and chorus, and all the music, from the consecration of Radamès down to his victorious return with Aïda's captive father, being particularly Verdinian. Even the composer's supposed weaknesses are present in Aïda. The whole subject is melodramatic; the principal characters are killed, as usual; his alleged morbid preference for dismal dirge-music finds ample vent in the funeral of the lovers, and other tragic parts of the opera; from beginning to end can be heard melodic suggestions recalling the old familiar operas. All this, and page after page of imaginative, fancy tone-painting, Aïda contains, and yet we have been asked to believe that it is not Verdi!

The student of comparative musical science will see in Otello a further development of style. The composer confirms Aïda, and while further stultifying the detractory criticism passed on Aïda, furnishes ample proof of a marvellous vitality, and a freshness and originality, with depth of learning, which his greatest of admirers could scarcely have expected. Even with Aïda thrown in (as a sort of operatic abnormalism) many still regarded Verdi as the mere seductive, melodramatic Italian melodist; the profound musician never. Otello settled matters. The majesty, power, inspiration, and learning, the command of theoretical device, and orchestral technique, were overwhelming. Nobody expected it from Italy, still less from Verdi. Quite a surprise! Here was a work wherein all the lights and shades of human passion were depicted with a truthfulness and reality which no living musician could equal. The greatest of the world's poets and dramatists was set in a fashion to dispute which, or to disparage, would be useless. There could be no other conclusion, and whether performed in Italy, France, or in England, one opinion only has been possible as to the Otello music. This must be held to be a great triumph for the justly famed, though long abused, musician, especially when, as we contend, this perfected art-style is Verdi's own—the man's musical genius, characteristics, and great learning at their highest pitch, uninfluenced, unaffected (save in that legitimate manner which experience brings) by any foreign composer or school. The developed mind and man in Verdi's case gives us the splendid spectacle of the developed musician, particularly en evidence in Otello. If we delight to watch the growth and ripening of Verdi's genius from Oberto, Conte di S. Bonifacio, to the Missa di Requiem, we can become still more interested in pondering over the nuova maniera which marked Aïda, a manner which is heightened in the Otello masterpiece, and accentuated in Falstaff.

Otello is a perfectly modern opera, thoroughly up-to-date in design, material, and construction. Of its four acts, the last is distinctly the most masterly; the second being a little inferior to the third. The initial act is marked with Verdi's matured manner less than either of the others. Though somewhat fragmentary in places, the opera holds together with perfect homogeneity, and it must be regarded as a wholly uninfluenced score, more so than Aïda. The "Love duet" and Iago's "Credo" are the only pieces in the opera that recall Wagner, and they have too much of the Verdi and the intensely Italian about them to be mistaken. No! Otello is an opera which only an Italian could write; a work which will always rank as a brilliant example of latest Italian grand-opera. In advanced thought and reasoning, together with depth of learning and exercise of the declamatory branch of vocal art, it is somewhat superior to Aïda, but it is doubtful whether it will ever become as popular, because it lacks the glorious picturesqueness and inspiration of that grand work.