# A Dictionary of Music and Musicians/Verdi, Giuseppe

​VERDI, Giuseppe, one of the greatest and most popular operatic composers of the 19th century, born at Roncole, Oct. 9 [App. p.811 "Oct. 10"], 1813. Though very often called 'il maestro Parmigiano,' and 'il cigno di Busseto,' in point of fact neither Parma nor her smaller sister town Busseto, can boast of having Verdi's name in the rolls of their inhabitants; and the good luck of having been his birthplace fell to a cluster of labourers' houses, called 'Le Roncole,' some three miles from Busseto, and, before the unification of Italy, in the Duchy of Parma. The following certificate ​will settle once for all the questions so often raised concerning the place and the date of Verdi's birth.
Anno Dom. 1813, die 11 Octobris.—Ego Carolus Montanari Praepositus Runcularum baptizavi Infantem hodie vespere hora sexta natum ex Carolo Verdi q$^m$. Josepho et ex Aloisia Utini filia Caroli, hujus Parocciae jugalibus, cui nomina imposui—Fortuninus, Joseph, Franciscus.—Patrini fuere Dominus Petrus Casali q$^d$. Felicia et Barbara Bersani filia Angioli, ambo hujus Parocciae.
In the long run of Verdi's life—which happily bids fair still to be preserved for an indefinite number of healthy and vigorous years—we do not meet with any startling and romantic incidents: everything seems to have gone with him, though not smoothly, yet with the common sequence of good and bad turns to which all mortals are liable, let their calling and station in life be what they will. Verdi's biography exhibits nothing heroic or startling, as some would have us believe it does. The connecting-link between his life and his works is indissoluble: the man and the artist proceed abreast, hand in hand toward the same goal, impelled and guided by the same sentiments and emotions. 'Homo sum et nihil humanum a me alienum puto' is the proper motto for the gate of his villa at S. Agata, and the title-page of each of his works. This 'humanity' of his is the reason and explanation of his life, as well as the key to the perfect understanding of his works, and to their popularity wherever there are ears to hear and hearts to feel.
M. Pougin, who, together with other difficult achievements, has successfully continued Fétis's 'Dictionnaire des Musiciens,' has written a biographical sketch of Verdi in the right spirit, confining himself within the strict limits of the plain facts. Of this sketch an Italian translation was made by a well-known Paris correspondent of the Italian papers, under the nom de plume of 'Folchetto,' with notes and additions, forming altogether a volume of more than 150 pages, full of accurate and valuable information. Through the combined shrewdness and skill of 'Folchetto' and M. Giulio Ricordi we are enabled to present to our readers the most important period of Verdi's career, in words that are almost the great composer's own. A conversation that he had with Giulio Ricordi was by the latter faithfully put on paper the very night following the interview, and sent to 'Folchetto' for publication. Such is the basis of the following article.
Unlike many musicians that have passed their infancy and childhood amongst artistic surroundings, Verdi's musical genius had to fight for its development against many difficulties. Nothing that he could hear or see was fit to give him the slightest hint of anything grand and ideal: the two hundred inhabitants of Le Roncole were poor and ignorant labourers, and the very nature of the country—an immense, flat, monotonous expanse—however gratifying to a landowner, could hardly kindle a spark in the imagination of a poet. Carlo Verdi and his wife Luigia Verdi Utini kept a small inn at Le Roncole, and in addition a little shop, where sugar, coffee, matches, tobacco, spirits, and clay pipes were sold at retail. Once a week the good Carlo walked up to Busseto with two empty baskets, and returned with them full of articles of his trade, carrying them on his strong shoulders for all the three miles of the dusty and sunny way. His purchases were chiefly made from a M. Barezzi, dealer in spirits, drugs, and spices, a prosperous and hearty man who was destined to serve as a bridge to Giuseppe Verdi over many a chasm in his glorious way.
Giuseppe, though good and obedient, was rather of a melancholy character, never joining his playmates in their noisy amusements; one thing only, we are told, could rouse him from his habitual indifference, and that was the occasional passing through the village of a grinding organ: to the child who in after years was to afford an inexhaustible répertoire to those instruments for half-a-century all over the world, this was an irresistible attraction—he could not be kept indoors, and would follow the itinerant player as far as his little legs could carry him. This slight hint of his musical aptitude must have been accompanied by others which the traditions of Le Roncole have not transmitted, since we know that even in early childhood the boy was possessed of a spinet. For an innkeeper of Le Roncole, in 1820, to buy a spinet for his child to play on, is an extravagance which we could hardly credit if the author of 'Aida' had not preserved to this day the faithful companion of his childhood. M. Ghislanzoni, who saw it at S. Agata, thus speaks of it:—
At the villa of S. Agata, I saw the first instrument on which his little fingers had first practised. The spinet emeritus, has no strings left, its lid is lost, and its keyboard is like a jaw with long and worn-out teeth. And yet what a precious monument! And how many recollections it brings back to the mind of the artist who during his unhappy childhood has so often wetted it with bitter tears! How many sublime emotions are caused by the sight of it!
I have seen it and have questioned it. I took out one of its jacks, on which I thought something had been written, and indeed I found some words as simple as they are sublime, words that while revealing the kind attention of a good-hearted workman, contain something of a prophecy. My readers will be grateful to me for setting before them the inscription in its original simplicity. It would be a profanation to correct the mistakes in its orthography.
'Da me Stefano Cavaletti fu fato di nuovo questi Saltarelli e impenati a Corame, e vi adatai la pedagliera che io ci ho regalato: come anche gratuitamente ci ho fato di nuova li detti Saltarelli, vedendo la buona disposizione che ha il giovanetto Giuseppe Verdi d'imparare a suonare questo istrumento, che questo mi basta per essere del tutto sodisfatto. Anno domini 1821'—
a quaint inscription which cannot be translated literally:—
I, Stephen Cavaletti, made these jacks anew, and covered them with leather, and fitted the pedals; and these together with the jacks I give gratis, seeing the good disposition of the boy Giuseppe Verdi for learning to play the instrument, which is of itself reward enough to me for my trouble.
How the spinet happened to be in such a condition as to require the workmanship of M. Cavaletti to set it right, is thus explained by ​'Folchetto,' who had it from an old friend of Verdi's father:—
Nobody can imagine with what earnestness the boy practised on the spinet. At first he was satisfied with being able to play the first five notes of the scale: next he most anxiously endeavoured to find out chords. Once he was in a perfect rapture at having sounded the major third and fifth of C. The following day, however, he could not find the chord again, whereupon he began to fret and fume, and then got in such a temper, that taking up a hammer he began to break the spinet to pieces. The noise soon brought his father into the room, who seeing the havoc his son was playing, landed so heavy a blow on Giuseppe's ear, as once for all cleared his mind of any thought of again punishing the spinet for his inability to strike common chords.
Another evidence of Giuseppe's musical aptitude is given by the following fact, which occurred when he was only seven years old. He was then assisting the priest at the Mass in the little church of Le Roncole. At the very moment of the elevation of the Host, the harmonies that flowed from the organ struck the child as so sweet, that he stood motionless in ecstasy. 'Water,' said the priest to the acolyte; and the latter evidently not heeding him, the demand was repeated. Still no reply. 'Water,' a third time said the priest, kicking the child so brutally that he fell headlong down the steps of the altar, knocked his head against the floor, and was brought unconscious into the sacristy. After this event Giuseppe's father engaged M. Baistrocchi, the local organist, to give him music lessons. At the end of a year M. Baistrocchi made a declaration to the effect that the pupil had learned all that the teacher could impart, and thereupon resigned his position as Verdi's teacher.
Two years after, having completed this first stage in his musical education, Verdi then but ten years old—was appointed as organist in the room of old Baistrocchi. The dream of his parents was thus for the time realised: yet before long the mind of the elder Verdi began to be haunted with the thought that some knowledge of the three R's could but bring good to his son in after life: and after debating his scheme with his wife, he resolved upon sending Giuseppe to a school in Busseto. This would have been beyond the small means of the good Verdi, but for the fact that at Busseto lived a countryman and friend—a cobbler known by the name of Pugnatta. This Pugnatta took upon himself to give Giuseppe board and lodging, and send him to the principal school of the town, all at the very moderate price of threepence a day. And to Pugnatta's Giuseppe went: and while attending the school most assiduously, kept his situation as organist of Le Roncole, walking there every Sunday morning, and back to Busseto after the evening service.
It may not be devoid of interest to the reader to cast a glance at Verdi's financial condition at that period of his life. Except clothing, which did not represent an important item, and pocket-money, which he had none, his expenditure amounted to 109 francs 50 centimes a-year—that is, £4 7s. 3d. His salary as the organist of Le Roncole was £1 8s. 10d., which, after one year's service and many urgent appeals, was increased to £1 12s. To this add a profit of £2 or £2 10s. from weddings, christenings, and funerals; and a few shillings more, the product of a collection which it was then customary for organists to make at harvest time—collected in kind, be it remembered, by the artist himself, with a sack on his shoulders, at each door of the village. Life, under these unfavourable conditions, was not only devoid of comforts, but full of danger. One night, while the poor lad was walking towards Le Roncole, worn down by fatigue and want of sleep or food, he did not notice that he was in the wrong track, and of a sudden, missing his ground, he fell into a deep canal. It was dark, it was bitter cold, and his limbs were absolutely paralysed; and but for an old woman who was passing by the spot and heard his cries for help, the exhausted and chilled boy would have been carried off by the current.
The following story of another very narrow escape from death we give on the entire responsibility of M. Pougin. In 1814 Russian and Austrian troops had been passing through Italy, leaving death and destruction everywhere. A detachment having stopped for a few hours at Le Roncole, all the women took refuge in the church; but not even that holy place was respected by these savages. The doors were unhinged, and the poor helpless women and children ruthlessly wounded and killed. Verdi's mother, with the little Giuseppe in her arms, was among those who took refuge in the church; but when the door was burst open she did not lose her spirits, but ascending the narrow staircase of the belfry, hid herself and her baby among some timber that was there, and did not leave her hiding-place until the drunken troops were far beyond the village.
Giuseppe Verdi, after two years schooling at Busseto, had learned to write, read, and cypher: whereupon the above-mentioned M. Barezzi began to take much interest in the talented Roncolese, gave him employment in his business, and opened a way to the development of his musical faculty.
Busseto must have been the Weimar of the Duchy of Parma. Music was uppermost in the minds of the Bussetesi, and no name of any inhabitant is ever mentioned without the addition of his being a singer, composer, or violinist. M. Barezzi himself was first flute in the cathedral orchestra; he could produce some notes on all kinds of wind instruments, and was particularly skilful on the clarinet, French horn, and ophicleide. His house was the residence of the Philharmonic Society, of which he was the president and patron, and it was there that all rehearsals were made, and all Philharmonic concerts given, under the conductorship of M. Ferdinando Provesi, maestro di cappella and organist of the cathedral.
This was the fittest residence for a lad of Verdi's turn of mind, and he immediately felt it. Without neglecting his chief occupation, he regularly attended the rehearsals, and undertook the task of copying out the parts from the score; ​and all this in such earnest that old Provesi began to notice Giuseppe with approval, and give him the foundation of a sound musical knowledge. Provesi may be considered the man who led the first steps of Verdi into the right track, and lucky it was for the pupil to have come across such a man. He was an excellent contrapuntist, a composer of several comic operas, of which he had written both words and music, and a man well read in general literature. He was the first man in Busseto to understand Verdi's real vocation, and to advise him to devote himself to music. Don Pietro Seletti, the boy's Latin teacher, and a fair violinist, bore a grudge to Provesi for a certain poem the latter had written against the clergy. The fact that Provesi encouraged Verdi to study music was therefore enough for Don Pietro to dissuade him as strongly from it. 'What do you want to study music for? You have a gift for Latin, and it will be much better for you to become a priest. What do you expect from your music? Do you fancy that some day you may become organist of Busseto? … Stuff and nonsense … That can never be!'
But a short time after this admonition there was to be a mass at a chapel in Busseto where Don Pietro Seletti was the officiating priest. The organist was unable to attend, and Don Pietro was induced to let Verdi preside at the organ. The mass over, Don Pietro sent for him. 'Whose music did you play?' said he; 'it was a most beautiful thing.' 'Why,' timidly answered the boy, 'I had no music, and I was playing extempore, just as I felt.' 'Ah! indeed,' rejoined Don Pietro; 'well, I am a fool, and you cannot do better than study music, take my word for it.'
Under the intelligent guidance of Provesi, Verdi studied till he was 16. During this period he often came to the help of his old master both as organist and as conductor of the Philharmonic Society. The archives of the society still contain several works written by Verdi at that time, and composed, copied, taught, rehearsed, and conducted by himself. None of these compositions have been published, though it would be a matter of interest to examine the first attempts of his musical genius. [See p. 254b.]
It became evident that Busseto was too narrow a field for the aspirations of the young composer, and efforts were made to afford him the means of going to Milan, the most important Italian town, musically speaking. The financial question came again to the front, and, thanks to the good-will of the Bussetesi, it had a happy solution. The Monte di Pietà, an institution granting four premiums of 300 francs a year, each given for four years to promising young men wanting means for undertaking the study of science or art, was induced by Barezzi to award one of the four premiums to Verdi, with the important modification of allowing him 600 francs a-year for two years, instead of 300 for four years. M. Barezzi himself advanced the money necessary for music lessons, board and lodging in Milan; and Seletti gave him an introduction to his nephew, a professor there, who most heartily welcomed him, and would not hear of his finding lodgings for himself.
We come now to an incident of Verdi's artistic life, to which a very undue importance has been often attached; we mean his being refused a scholarship at the Conservatorio di Musica of Milan, on the ground of his showing no special aptitude for music. If a board of professors were now to be found to declare that the author of 'Rigoletto,' 'Ballo in Maschera,' and 'Aida,' had no musical disposition, such declaration would undoubtedly reflect very little credit on the institution to which the board belonged, or on the honesty and impartiality of the professors; but things were not so bad at that time as we are made to believe they were—nay, it is probable that in the best conducted musical schools of the world, some Verdi, Beethoven, or Bach is every year sent back to his home and his country organ, as was the case with Verdi. Without following Fétis in his study of the preposterous fact, we think that a true idea may be formed of it by looking at the way in which matters of this kind proceed now-a-days, and will proceed so long as there are candidates, scholarships, and examiners.
To a vacant scholarship—for pianoforte, singing or composition—there is always a number of candidates, occasionally amounting to as many as a hundred. A committee of professors, under the presidence of the Principal is appointed to examine all the competitors, and choose the best. The candidates, male and female, have each a different degree of instruction, ranging from mere children with no musical education, to such as have already gone through a regular course of study. To determine whether there is more hope of future excellence in a girl who plays sixteen bars of an easy arrangement of a popular tune, or a boy who can perhaps sing something by heart just to show that he has a certain feeling and a right perception of rhythm and tonality, or in an advanced pupil who submits the score of a grand opera in five acts (not impossibly written by some friend or fore-father)—to be able to determine this is a thing beyond the power of the human intellect. The committee can only select one amongst those that have the least disqualifications, but nobody can accuse them of ignorance or ill-will if the chosen candidate, after five years' tuition, turns out to be a mere one-two-three-and-four conductor of operettas, while one of the ninety-nine dismissed, after ten years' hard study elsewhere, writes a masterpiece of operatic or sacred music. Not to get a scholarship does not imply that a candidate is unable to pursue a musical career; it means only that there being but one place vacant, and twenty who passed as good an examination as he, he shares with nineteen others the ill luck of not being the happy one chosen. Moreover there are no settled rules as to the time when musical genius breaks out in unmistakeable light. We are ready ​to believe that Mozart, when only three years old, gave unmistakable hints of what he was afterwards to become; yet we can say, as an eye-witness, that M. Boito, the author of 'Mephistopheles,' a man of undeniable musical genius, did not reveal any decided aptitude for musical composition till nineteen; while several amongst his school-fellows who promised to be the rightful heirs of Rossini and Bellini are now teachers and conductors of provincial schools or second-rate theatres. Let us then bear no grudge to Basily, the then principal of the Conservatoire of Milan, nor let us depreciate him for not having been so gifted as to recognise in the young and unprepossessing organist of Le Roncole the man who was destined to write 'Il Rigoletto' twenty years afterwards.
But though failing to be admitted to the Conservatoire, Verdi stuck to the career which he had undertaken, and, on the advice of Alessandro Rolla, then conductor of 'La Scala,' he asked M. Lavigna to give him lessons in composition and orchestration. Lavigna was a distinguished musician and a composer of no ordinary merit; his operas, 'La Muta per amore,' 'L'Idolo di se stesso,' 'L'Impostore avvilito,' 'Coriolano,' 'Zaira,' and several others, having been performed several times with favourable success. He consented to give the lessons, and to him actually belongs the honour of being the teacher of Verdi.
This was in 1831, when Verdi was eighteen. The two years from 1831 to 1833 passed in an uninterrupted succession of exercises in harmony, counterpoint, and fugue, and a daily study of Mozart's 'Don Giovanni.' In 1833 the death of Provesi brought an entire change to Verdi. He went back to Busseto for five years, and after this lapse of time returned to Milan to take his start as a composer. We give, in the words of M. Ercole Cavalli—for this particular period the best-informed of the biographers—the lively description of Verdi's residence at Busseto.
'In 1833 M. Ferdinando Provesi died. The trustees of the Monte di Pietà, of Busseto, and the other contributors towards Verdi's musical training, had acted with the intention that, after Provesi's death, Verdi should be his successor both as Maestro di Cappella and Organist of the Cathedral, and also Conductor of the Philharmonic Society. Verdi felt very sorry for the death of Provesi; with him he had lost the man who first taught him the elements of his art, and showed him the way to excellence; and though Verdi felt a call to something nobler in life, yet he kept his word to his countrymen and went to Busseto to fill the place left vacant by his deceased professor. The appointment rested with the churchwardens of the Cathedral, men who either belonged to the clergy or were fanatic bigots, and therefore had but little liking for Verdi, whom they called "the fashionable maestrino," as being versed only in profane and operatic music; they preferred somebody cut a little more after their own pattern, and were anxious for a maestro well grounded in the Gregorian chant.
'Verdi's competitor, one M. Giovanni Ferrari, played indifferently on the organ, but had the strong support of two bishops; he gathered all the votes of the churchwardens, and the pupil of Provosi and Lavigna, for whom so many sacrifices had been made by the town, was black-balled. Upon hearing this decision, the Philharmonic Society, which for many years had made it a rule to enhance the solemnity of all the services in the cathedral by co-operating with their orchestra, lost all patience, and bursting tumultuously into the church, rummaged the archives and took away from them every sheet of music paper belonging to the Society; thereby beginning a civil war that lasted several years, in a town that was formerly an example of tranquillity and peace.
'On this followed satires, insults, affrays, riots, imprisonments, persecutions, banishments and the like; ending in decrees whereby the Philharmonic Society was prohibited to meet under any pretence whatever.'
Verdi next fell in love with Margherita, Barezzi's eldest daughter, whose father, unlike most fathers, did not oppose Margherita's union to a talented though very poor young man.
'In 1836 they were married. The whole Philharmonic Society attended the weddings; it was a happy and glorious day, and all were deeply moved by the prospect already opening before the young man: who, though born in the poorest condition, was at twenty-three already a composer, with the daughter of a rich and much respected man for his wife.'
In 1838 Verdi, with his wife and two children left Busseto and settled in Milan, with the hope of performing his opera 'Oberto Conte di S. Bonifacio.' We are now to witness the vicissitudes of a talented but nearly unknown young man, who comes to a large town, one of the most important musical centres of those days, with no fortune but the manuscript of a melodrama, and nothing to help him on but the golden opinions which his genius and honesty have previously won for him from a few friends; and we shall see this young man transformed in a short time into the favourite composer of all opera-goers. And we are glad to be able to give the relation of this most important period of an artist's career, in words that may be said to be Verdi's own.
The first part of the narrative refers to the time when he was in Milan, studying with Lavigna. On his return there his kind old master was gone—died while his pupil was at Busseto. And here is Verdi's narrative:—
'About the year 1833 or 34 there was in Milan a Philharmonic Society composed of first-rate vocalists, under the direction of one M. Masini. The Society was then in the bustle and hurry of arranging a performance of Haydn's Creation, at the Teatro Filodrammatico. M. Lavigna, my teacher of composition, asked me ​whether I should like to attend the rehearsals, in order to improve my mind, to which I willingly answered in the affirmative. Nobody would notice the young man that was quietly sitting in the darkest corner of the hall. Three maestri shared the conducting between them—Messrs. Perelli, Bonoldi, and Almasio; but one day it happened that neither of the three was present at the time appointed for rehearsal. The ladies and gentlemen were growing fidgetty, when M. Masini, who did not feel himself equal to sitting at the piano and accompanying from the full orchestral score, walked up to me and desired me to be the accompanyist for the evening: and as perhaps he believed in my skill as little as he did in his own, he added, "It will be quite enough to play the bass only." I was fresh from my studies, and certainly not puzzled by a full orchestral score; I therefore answered "All right," and took my place at the piano. I can well remember the ironical smiles that flitted over the faces of the Signori dilettanti: it seems that the quaint look of my young, slender and rather shabbily dressed person was not calculated to inspire them with much confidence.
'However, the rehearsal began, and in the course of it I gradually warmed up and got excited, so that at last, instead of confining myself to the mere piano part, I played the accompaniment with my left hand, while conducting most emphatically with my right. It was a tremendous success, all the more because quite unexpected. The rehearsal over, everybody congratulated me upon it, and amongst my most enthusiastic admirers were Count Pompeo Belgiojoso and Count Renato Borromeo. In short, whether the three maestri were too busy to attend the rehearsals, or whether there was some other reason, I was appointed to conduct the performance, which performance was so much welcomed by the audience that by general request it had to be repeated in the large and beautiful hall of the Casino dei Nobili, in presence of the Archduke and Archduchess Ranieri, and all the high life of those days.
'A short time afterwards, I was engaged by Count Renato Borromeo to write the music for a cantata for chorus and orchestra, on the occasion of the marriage of some member of the Count's family—if I remember right. I must say, however, that I never got so much as a penny out of all that, because the whole work was a gratuitous one.
'M. Masini next urged me to write an opera for the Teatro Filodrammatico, where he was conductor, and handed me a libretto, which after having been touched up by M. Solera, became Oberto, Conte di San Bonifacio.
'I closed immediately with the proposition, and went to Busseto, where I was appointed organist. I was obliged to remain there nearly three years, and during that time I wrote out the whole opera. The three years over, I took my way back to Milan, carrying with me the score in perfect order, and all the solo parts copied out by myself.
'But here difficulties began. Masini being no longer conductor, my chance of seeing my opera produced there was at an end. However, whether Masini had confidence in my talents, or wished to show me some kindness for the many occasions on which I had been useful to him, rehearsing and conducting for nothing, he did not give up the business, and assured me he would not leave a stone unturned until my opera was brought out at the Scala, when the turn came for the benefit of the Pio Instituto. Both Count Borromeo and Dr. Pasetti promised me their influence on Masini, but, as far as I am aware, their support did not go beyond some scanty words of recommendation. Masini, however, did his best, and so did Merighi, a cellist who had played under my direction, and had a certain opinion of the young maestro.
'The result was that the opera was put down for the spring of 1839, to be performed at La Scala for the benefit of the Pio Instituto; and among the interpreters were the four excellent artists Mme. Strepponi, Moriani, Giorgio Ronconi, and Marini.
'After a few rehearsals Moriani falls seriously ill, everything is brought to a standstill, and all hope of a performance gone! I broke down utterly, and was thinking of going back to Busseto, when one fine morning one of the theatre attendants knocked at my door and said sulkily, "Are you the maestro from Parma who was to give an opera for the Pio Instituto? Come with me to the theatre, the impresario wants to speak to you."
'Is it possible? said I, but … and the fellow began again—I was told to call on the maestro from Parma, who was to give an opera; if it is you, let us go. And away we went.
'The impresario was M. Bartolomeo Merelli. One evening crossing the stage he had overheard a talk between Strepponi and Ronconi, wherein the first said something very favourable to Oberto, and the second endorsed the praise.
'On my entering his room, he abruptly told me that having heard my "Oberto" spoken of very favourably by reliable and intelligent persons, he was willing to produce it during the next season, provided I would make some slight alterations in the compass of the solo parts, as the artists engaged were not the same who were to perform it before. This was a fair proposition. Young and unknown, I had the good luck to meet with an impresario willing to run the risk of mounting a new opera, without asking me to share in the expenditure, which I could not have afforded! His only condition was that he should share with me the sale of the copyright. This was not asking much, for the work of a beginner. And in fact, even after its favourable reception, Ricordi would give no more than 2000 Austrian livres (£67) for it.
'Though Oberto was not extraordinarily successful, yet it was well received by the public, and was performed several times; and M. Merelli even found it convenient to extend the season and give some additional performances of it. The principal interpreters were Mme. ​Marini, M. Salvi and M. Marini. I had been obliged to make some cuts, and had written an entirely new number, the quartet, on a situation suggested by Merelli himself; which proved to be one of the most successful pieces in the whole work.
'Merelli next made me an offer which, considering the time at which it was made, may be called a splendid one. He proposed to engage me to write three operas, one every eight mouths, to be performed either at Milan or Vienna, where he was the impresario of both the principal theatrical houses: he to give me 4000 livres (£134) for each opera, and the profits of the copyright to be divided between us. I agreed to everything, and shortly afterwards Merelli went to Vienna, leaving instructions to Rossi to write a libretto for me, which he did, and it was the Proscritto. It was not quite to my liking, and I had not yet brought myself to begin to set it to music, when Merelli, coming hurriedly to Milan during the spring of 1840, told me that he was in dreadful want of a comic opera for the next autumn, that he would send me a libretto, and that I was to write it first, before the Proscritto. I could not well say no, and so Merelli gave me several librettos of Romani to choose from, all of which had already been set to music, though owing to failure or other reasons, they could safely be set again. I read them over and over and did not like any; but there was no time to lose, so I picked out one that seemed to me not so bad as the others, Il finto Stanislao, a title which I changed into Un Giorno di Regno.
'At that period of my life I was living in an unpretentious little house near the Porta Ticinesa, and my small family was with me—that is, my young wife and my two sons. As soon as I set to work I had a severe attack of angina, that confined me to my bed for several days, and just when I began to get better I remembered that the third day forward was quarter-day, and that I had to pay fifty crowns. Though in my financial position this was not a small sum, yet it was not a very big one either, but my illness putting it out of my mind, had prevented me from taking the necessary steps; and the means of communication with Busseto—the mail left only twice a week—did not allow me time enough to write to my excellent father-in-law Barezzi, and get the money from him. I was determined to pay the rent on the very day it fell due, so, though it vexed me very much to trouble people, I desired Dr. Pasetti to induce M. Merelli to give me fifty crowns, either as an advance on the money due to me under the agreement, or as a loan for ten days, till I could write to Barezzi and receive the money wanted. It is not necessary to say why Merelli could not at that moment give me the fifty crowns, but it vexed me so much to let the quarter-day pass by without paying the rent, that my wife, seeing my anxieties, takes the few valuable trinkets she had, goes out, and a little while after comes back with the necessary amount. I was deeply touched by this tender affection, and promised myself to buy everything back again, which I could have done in a very short time, thanks to my agreement with Merelli.
'But now terrible misfortunes crowded upon me. At the beginning of April my child falls ill, the doctors cannot understand what is the matter, and the dear little creature goes off quickly in his desperate mother's arms. Moreover, a few days after the other child is taken ill too, and he too dies, and in June my young wife is taken from me by a most violent inflammation of the brain, so that on the 19th June I saw the third coffin carried out of my house. In a very little over two months, three persons so very dear to me had disappeared for ever. I was alone, alone! My family had been destroyed; and in the very midst of these trials I had to fulfil my engagement and write a comic opera! Un Giorno di Regno proved a dead failure; the music was, of course, to blame, but the interpretation had a considerable share in the fiasco. In a sudden moment of despondency, embittered by the failure of my opera, I despaired of finding any comfort in my art, and resolved to give up composition. To that effect I wrote to Dr. Pasetti (whom I had not once met since the failure of the opera) asking him to persuade Merelli to tear up the agreement.
'Merelli thereupon sent for me and scolded me like a naughty child. He would not even hear of my being so much disappointed by the cold reception of my work: but I stuck to my determination, and in the end he gave me back the agreement saying, "Now listen to me, my good follow; I can't compel you to write if you don't want to do it; but my confidence in your talent is greater than ever; nobody knows but some day you may return on your decision and write again: at all events if you let me know two months in advance, take my word for it your opera shall be performed."
'I thanked him very heartily indeed; but his kindness did not shake my resolution, and away I went. I took up a new residence in Milan near the Corsia de' Servi. I was utterly disheartened, and the thought of writing never once flashed through my mind. One evening, just at the corner of the Galleria De Cristoforis, I stumbled upon M. Merelli, who was hurrying towards the theatre. It was snowing beautifully, and he, without stopping, thrust his arm under mine and made me keep pace with him. On the way he never left off talking, telling me that he did not know where to turn for a new opera; Nicolai was engaged by him, but had not begun to work because he was dissatisfied with the libretto.
'Only think, says Merelli, a libretto by Solera, marvellous … wonderful … extraordinary … impressive dramatic situation … grand … splendidly worded … but that stubborn creature does not understand it, and says it is a foolish poem. I don't know for my life where to find another poem.
​'Well, I'll give you a lift out of your trouble. Did you not engage Rossi to do Il Proscritto for me? I have not yet written one blessed note of it, and I will give it back to you.
'The very thing! clever fellow! good idea!
'Thus we arrived at the theatre; M. Merelli forthwith sends for M. Bassi, poet, stage-manager, buttafuori and librarian, and bids him find a copy of Il Proscritto. The copy was found, but together with it M. Merelli takes up another manuscript and lays it before me—
'Look, says he, here is Solera's libretto that we were speaking of! such a beautiful subject; and to refuse it! Take it, just take it, and read it over.
'What on earth shall I do with it? … No, no, I am in no humour to read librettos.
'My gracious! … It won't kill you; read it, and then bring it back to me again. And he gives me the manuscript. It was written on large sheets in big letters, as was the custom in those days. I rolled it up, and went away.
'While walking home I felt rather queer; there was something that I could not well explain about me. I was burdened with a sense of sadness, and felt a great inclination to cry. I got into my room, and pulling the manuscript out of my pocket and throwing it angrily on the writing-table, I stood for a moment motionless before it. The book as I threw it down, opened, my eyes fell on the page, and I read the line
Va, pensiero, sull' all dorate.
I read on, and was touched by the stanzas, inasmuch as they were almost a paraphrase of the Bible, the reading of which was the comfort of my solitary life.
'I read one page, then another; then, decided as I was to keep my promise not to write any more, I did violence to my feelings, shut up the book, went to bed, and put out the candle. I tried to sleep, but Nabucco was running a mad career through my brain, and sleep would not come. I got up, and read the libretto again not once, but two or three times, so that in the morning I could have said it off by heart. Yet my resolution was not shaken, and in the afternoon I went to the theatre to return the manuscript to Merelli.'
'Isn't it beautiful? says he.
'More than beautiful, wonderful.
'Well, set it to music.
'Not in the least; I won't.
'Set it to music, set it to music.
'And so saying he gets off his chair, thrusts the libretto into my coat pocket, takes me by the shoulders, shoves me out of his room, slams the door in my face, and locks himself in. I looked rather blank, but not knowing what to do went home with Nabucco in my pocket. One day a line, the next day another line, a note, a bar, a melody … at last I found that by imperceptible degrees the opera was done!
'It was then the autumn of 1841, and calling to mind Merelli's promise, I went straight to him to announce that Nabucco was ready for performance, and that he might bring it out in the coming season of Carnevale Quaresima (Carnival before Lent).
'Merelli emphatically declared that he would stick to his word; but at the same time he called my attention to the fact that it was impossible to bring out the opera during the Quaresima, because the repertoire was all settled, and no less than three new operas by known composers already on the list; to give, together with them, a fourth, by a man who was almost a debutant was a dangerous business for everybody, especially for me; it would therefore be safer to put off my opera till Easter, when he had no engagements whatever, and was willing to give me the best artists that could be found for love or money. This, however, I peremptorily refused:— either during the Carneval or never;—and with good reason; for I knew very well that during the spring it was utterly impossible to have two such good artists as Strepponi and Ronconi, on whom, knowing they were engaged for the Carneval season, I had mainly built my hopes of success.
'Merelli, though anxious to please me, was not on the wrong side of the question; to run four new operas in one season was, to say the least, rather risky; but I also had good artistic reasons to set against his. The issue was, that after a long succession of Yes, No, Perhaps, and Very likely, one fine morning I saw the posters on the walls and Nabucco not there.
'I was young and easily roused, and I wrote a nasty letter to M. Merelli, wherein I freely expressed my feelings. No sooner was the letter gone than I felt something like remorse, and besides, a certain fear lest my rashness had spoiled the whole business.
'Merelli sent for me, and on my entering his office he says in an angry tone: Is this the way you write to your friends? … Yet you are right; I'll give Nabucco; but you must remember, that because of the outlay on the other operas, I absolutely cannot afford new scenes or new costumes for you, and we must be content to make a shift with what we have in stock.
'I was determined to see the opera performed, and therefore agreed to what he said, and new posters were printed, on which Nabucco appeared with the rest.
'I remember a droll thing happening about that time: in the third act Solera had written a love-duet between Fenena and Ismaele. I did not like it, as it seemed to me not only ineffective, but a blur on the religious grandiosity that was the main feature of the drama. One morning Solera came to see me, and I took occasion to make the remark. He stoutly disputed my view, not so much perhaps because he thought I was wrong, as because he did not care to do the thing again. We talked the matter over and over and used many arguments. Neither of us would give way. He asked me what I thought could be put in place of the duet, and I suggested a prophecy for Zaccaria: he thought the idea not so bad, and after several buts and ifs said he would think over it and ​write it out. This was not exactly what I wanted; because I knew that days and weeks would pass before Solera would bring himself to write a single line. I therefore locked the door, put the key in my pocket, and half in jest and half in earnest said to him: I will not let you out before you have finished the prophecy: here is a Bible, and so more than half of your work is done. Solera, being of a quick temper, did not quite see the joke, he got angrily upon his legs and … Well, just for a moment or two I wished myself somewhere else, as the poet was a powerful man, and might have got the better of me; but happily he changed his mind, sat down, and in ten minutes the prophecy was written.
'At the end of February 1842 we had the first rehearsal, and twelve days later, on March 9, the first performance. The principal interpreters were Mmes. Strepponi and Bollinzaghi, and Messrs. Ronconi, Miraglia and Derivis.
'With this opera my career as a composer may rightly be said to have begun; and though it is true that I had to fight against a great many difficulties, it is no less true that Nabucco was born under a very good star: for even the things which might reasonably have been expected to damage its success, turned out to have increased it. Thus, I wrote a nasty letter to Merelli; and it was more than probable that Merelli would send the young maestro and his opera to the devil. Nothing of the kind. Then the costumes, though made in a hurry, were splendid. Old scenes, touched up by M. Peroni, had a magical effect: the first one especially the Temple elicited an applause that lasted nearly ten minutes. At the very last rehearsal nobody knew how and when the military band was to appear on the stage; its conductor, Herr Tusch, was entirely at a loss; but I pointed out to him a bar, and at the first performance the band appeared just at the climax of the crescendo, provoking a perfect thunder of applause.
'But it is not always safe to trust to the influence of good stars: it is a truth which I discovered by myself in after years, that to have confidence is a good thing, but to have none is better still.'
So far the maestro's own narrative.
Eleven months later (Feb. 11, 1843), Verdi achieved a still more indisputable success with 'I Lombardi alia prima Crociata,' interpreted by Mme. Frezzolini-Poggi, and MM. Guasco, Severi, and Derivis. Solera had taken the plot from the poem of Tommaso Grossi, the author of 'Marco Visconti.' This opera gave Verdi his first experience in the difficulty of finding libretti unobjectionable to the Italian governments. Though five years had still to elapse before the breaking out of the Milan revolt, yet something was brewing throughout Italy, and no occasion was missed by the patriots in giving vent to their feelings. As soon as the Archbishop of Milan got wind of the subject of the new opera, he sent a letter to the chief of the police, M. Torresani, saying that he knew the libretto to be a profane and irreverent one, and that if Torresani did not veto the performance, he himself would write straight to the Austrian Emperor.
Merelli, Solera, and Verdi were forthwith summoned to appear before Torresani and hear from him what alterations should be made in the opera. Verdi, in his usual blunt manner, took no notice of the peremptory summons. 'I am satisfied with the opera as it is,' said he, 'and will not change a word or a note of it. It shall be given as it is, or not given at all!' Thereupon Merelli and Solera went to see Torresani—who, to his honour be it said, besides being the most inflexible agent of the government, was an enthusiastic admirer of art and artists—and so impressed him with the responsibility he would assume by preventing the performance of a masterpiece of all masterpieces, like the 'Lombardi,' that at the end Torresani got up and said, 'I am not the man to prevent genius from getting on in this world. Go on; I take the whole thing upon myself; only put Salve Maria instead of Ave Maria, just to show the Archbishop that we are inclined to please him; and as for the rest, it is all right.' The opera had an enthusiastic reception, and the chorus,
O Signore, dal tetto natio,
had to be repeated three times. The Milanese, the pioneers of the Italian revolution, always on the look-out, knew very well that the Austrian Governor could not miss the meaning of the applause to that suggestively-worded chorus.
Of Verdi's first three operas 'I Lombardi' has stood its ground the best. In Italy it is still very often played, and as late as 1879 had the honour of twenty-six performances in one season at Brussels. On Nov. 26, 1847, it was performed with considerable alterations in the music, and a libretto adapted by Vaez and Roger [App. p.811 "Royer"], but with little success, under the title of 'Jerusalem,' at the French Opéra. The experiment of retranslating the work into Italian was not a happy one, and 'Gerusalemme' in Italy was little better welcomed than 'Jerusalem' had been in Paris.
Verdi's works were soon eagerly sought after by all the impresarios, and the composer gave the preference to Venice, and wrote 'Ernani' (March 9, 1844) for the Fenice theatre there. The success was enormous, and during the following nine months it was produced on fifteen different stages. The libretto, borrowed from Victor Hugo's 'Hernani,' was the work of F. M. Piave, of Venice, of whom we shall have occasion to speak again. The police interfered before the performance, and absolutely would not allow a conspiracy on the stage. This time many expressions in the poem, and many notes in the music had to be changed; and besides the annoyances of the police, Verdi had some trouble with a Count Mocenigo, whose aristocratical susceptibility treated the blowing of the horn by Sylva in the last act as a disgrace to the theatre. In the end, after much grumbling, the horn was allowed admittance. The chorus 'Si ridesti il ​Leon di Castiglia' gave the Venetians an opportunity for a political manifestation in the same spirit as that at the production of 'I Lombardi' at Milan.
'I due Foscari' (Nov. 3, 1844) followed close on 'Ernani.' It was brought out in Rome at the Argentina, but notwithstanding several beauties, the opera is not reckoned amongst the maestro's best. Three months after 'I due Foscari,' 'Giovanna d'Arco' was given at the Scala in Milan (Feb. 15, 1845). The overture alone survives. 'Alzira' (Aug. 12, 1845), performed at the San Carlo at Naples, neither added to nor detracted from its author's popularity; while 'Attila' (March 17, 1846), produced at the Fenice, was the most successful after 'Ernani.' In this opera a cue to political demonstration was given by the aria,
Cara Patria gia madre e Regina,
and by the no less popular line,
Avrai tu l'Universo, resti l'Italia a me.
The habitués of Covent Garden have little idea what 'enthusiastic applause' means in Italy, and in Venice especially, and in what acts of sheer frenzy the audiences of 1846 would indulge to give the Austrian Government an unmistakable sign of their feelings. The overcrowded house was in a perfect roar: clapping of hands, shouts, cries, screams, stamps, thumps with sticks and umbrellas, were heard from every corner, while hats, bonnets, flowers, fans, books of words, newspapers, flew from the galleries and boxes to the stalls, and from the stalls back to the boxes or to the stage—the noise often entirely covering the sound of both orchestra and chorus, and lasting till the police could restore order, or till there was no breath left in the audience.
'Attila' was followed by 'Macbeth' (March 17 [App. p.811 "March 14"], 1847), at the Pergola of Florence. The book was again the work of M. Piave, though to please the poet and the composer, Andrea Maffei, the renowned translator of Byron, Moore, Sohiller and Goethe, did not disdain to write some portions of it. This opera, owing chiefly to the lack of a tenor part, received scant justice in Italy, and still less abroad.
Verdi's fame was now firmly established, and England, following out her programme of attracting everything and everybody with real artistic worth, made a step towards him. Mr. Lumley, the manager of Her Majesty's Theatre, proposed to him to write a new opera, an offer which the composer gladly accepted. 'King Lear' was first named as a fit subject for an English audience, but as love—the steam-power of all operatic engines—had no share in the plot, it was feared that the work would want the first requisite for success. It was therefore settled to take the plot from Schiller's 'Robbers.' Maffei himself was engaged to write the poem, and no less artists than Jenny Lind, Lablache, and Gardoni to interpret it. On this occasion the Muse did not smile on her devotee, and the first performance in London (July 23, 1847), proved no more than what in theatrical jargon is called a succès d'estime; a judgment afterwards endorsed by many audiences. 'I Masnadieri' was not only Verdi's first work for the English stage, but was the last opera conducted by Costa at Her Majesty's previous to his joining the rival house at Covent Garden. This coincidence all but shunted Verdi's intellectual activity into a new track. Lumley, deserted by the fashionable conductor, made a liberal offer to Verdi, if he would act for three years as conductor. Verdi had a strong inclination to accept the offer, but there was a drawback in the fact that he had agreed with Lucca, the publisher, of Milan, to write two operas for him. Negotiations were set on foot with the view of breaking off the agreement, but Lucca would not hear of it, and Verdi had therefore to leave London, take a house at Passy, and write the 'Corsaro' and the 'Battaglia di Legnano.' Had he handled the bâton for three years he would probably not have put it down again, and his greatest works might never have appeared; for a man brought face to face with the practical side of musical business cannot take the flights which are found in 'Rigoletto,' the 'Trovatore,' and the 'Traviata.'
'Il Corsaro' (Oct. 26 [App. p.811 "Oct. 25"], 1848, Trieste) was a failure. 'La Battaglia di Legnano' (Jan. 27, 1849, Rome), though welcomed on the first night, was virtually another failure. Those who can remember the then political condition of Italy, and the great though unsuccessful struggle for its independence, will very easily see how the composer may be justified for not having answered to the call of the Muse. While so stirring a drama was being played in his native country, the dramatis personæ of the Corsaro and the Battaglia di Legnano were too shadowy to interest him. During the summer of 1849, when the cholera was making ravages in France, Verdi, at his father's request, left Paris and went home, and he then bought the villa of S. Agata, his favourite residence, of which we shall give a description further on.
It was in the solitude of the country near Busseto that 'Luisa Miller' was composed for the San Carlo of Naples, where it was produced with great and deserved success on Dec. 8, 1849. The poem, one of the best ever accepted by an Italian composer, was the work of M. Cammarano, who took the plot from Schiller's drama, and adapted it most effectively to the operatic stage.
In connection with Luisa Miller we shall relate an authentic incident illustrating the way in which the superstitious blood of the south can be stirred. The word 'jettatore' is familiar to anybody acquainted with Naples. It means somebody still more to be dreaded than an evil angel, a man who comes to you with the best intentions, and who yet, by a charm attached to his person, unwittingly brings all kinds of accidents and misfortunes upon you. There was, at this time, one M. Capecelatro, a non-professional composer, and a frantic admirer of all musicians, and, welcome or not welcome, an unavoidable friend to them. He was looked upon as a 'jettatore,' and it was an accepted fact in all ​Neapolitan circles that the cold reception of Alzira at San Carlo four years before was entirely due to his shaking hands with Verdi, and predicting a great triumph. To prevent the repetition of such a calamity, it was evident that M. Capecelatro must not be allowed to see, speak, or write to Verdi under any pretence whatever before the first performance of Luisa Miller was over. Therefore a body of volunteers was levied amongst the composer's many friends, whose duty was to keep M. Capecelatro at a distance. Upon setting his foot on Neapolitan ground, Verdi found himself surrounded by this legion of friends; they never left him alone for a minute: they stood at the door of his hotel; they accompanied him to the theatre and in the street; and had more than once to contend fiercely against the persistent and unreasonable M. Capecelatro. All went smoothly with the rehearsals, and the first performance was wonderfully good. During the interval before the last act—which, by the bye, is one of Verdi's most impressive and powerful creations—a great excitement pervaded the house, and everyone was anxious to see the previous success crowned by a still warmer reception of the final terzetto. Verdi was standing on the stage in the centre of his guards, receiving congratulations from all, when suddenly a man rushes frantically forwards, and crying out 'At last!' throws his arms fondly round Verdi's neck. At the same moment a sidescene fell heavily on the stage, and had it not been for Verdi's presence of mind, throwing himself back with his admirer hanging on him, both would have been smashed. We need not say that the admirer was Capecelatro, and that the last act of Luisa Miller had, compared to the others, a very cold reception.
'Stifellio' (Nov. 16, 1850, Trieste) was a failure; and even after being re-written and reproduced under the title of 'Aroldo' (Aug. 16, 1857, Rimini), it did not become popular, though the score contains some remarkable passages, amongst others a great pezzo concertato and a duet for soprano and bass, which would be almost sufficient of themselves, now-a-days, to ensure the success of an Italian opera.
We are now going to deal with the period of the artist's career in which he wrote the masterpieces that have given him his world-wide fame—'Rigoletto,' 'Trovatore,' and 'La Traviata.' Wanting a new libretto for La Fenice, Verdi requested Piave to adapt the 'Le Roi s'amuse' of Victor Hugo, and one was soon prepared, with the suggestive French title changed into 'La Maledizione.' Widely open to criticism as is Victor Hugo's drama, the situations and plot are yet admirably fit for opera-goers who do not trouble themselves about the why and the wherefore, but are satisfied with what is presented to them, provided it rouses their interest. Verdi saw the advantages offered by the libretto, and forthwith sent it to Venice for approval. But after the political events of 1848–49 the police kept a keener eye than before on all performances, and an opera in which a king is made to appear under such a light as François I. in 'Le Roi s'amuse,' was met by a flat refusal. The direction of La Fenice and the poet were driven almost mad by the answer; the season was drawing near, and they would probably have to do without the 'grand opera d'obbligo.' Other subjects were proposed to the composer, who, with his Olympian calm, always refused on principle, saying, 'Either La Maledizione or none.' Days went on without any solution to the problem, when it was brought to an unexpected end in a quarter where help seemed least likely. The chief of the Austrian police, M. Martello, who, like Torresani, had as great a love for the interests of art as he had hatred to patriotic ideas—came one morning into Piave's room, with a bundle of papers under his arm, and patting him on the shoulder, said 'Here is your business; I have found it, and we shall have the opera.' And then he began to show how all the necessary alterations could be made without any change in the dramatic situations. The king was changed into a duke of Mantua, the title into 'Rigoletto,' and all the curses were made to wreak their fury on the head of the insignificant duke of a petty town. Verdi accepted the alterations, and after receiving the complete libretto, went to Busseto and set furiously to work. And his inspiration served him so well that in forty days he was back at Venice with Rigoletto ready, and its production took place on March 11, 1851. This was as great and genuine a success as was ever achieved by any operatic composer; since no change, either of time or artistic taste, during more than thirty years, has been able to dim the beauty of this masterpiece.
Nearly two years passed before the appearance of 'Il Trovatore,' which was performed at Rome at the Teatro Apollo on Jan. 19, 1853; and in little more than a month later 'La Traviata' was brought out at the Fenice at Venice (March 6, 1853). The reception of the two works was very different: Il Trovatore from the very first hearing was appreciated in full; La Traviata was a dead failure. 'Caro Emanuele,' wrote Verdi to his friend and pupil Muzio, 'Traviata last night made a fiasco. Is the fault mine or the actors'? Time will show.' Time showed that the responsibility was to be laid entirely to the singers, though they were amongst the best of the day. The tenor, M. Graziani, took cold and sang his part throughout in a hoarse and almost inaudible voice. M. Varesi, the baryton, having what he would call a secondary rôle, took no trouble to bring out the dramatic importance of his short but capital part, so that the effect of the celebrated duet between Violetta and Germond in the second act was entirely missed. Mme. Donatelli, who impersonated the delicate, sickly heroine, was one of the stoutest ladies on or off the stage, and when at the beginning of the third act the doctor declares that consumption has wasted away the young lady, and that she cannot live more than a few hours, the audience was thrown in a state of perfectly uproarious glee, a state very different from that necessary ​to appreciate the tragic action of the last act. Yet the failure at Venice did not prevent the opera from being received enthusiastically elsewhere. In connection with the Traviata we may add that at its first performance in French, at Paris, Oct. 27, 1864, the heroine was Miss Christine Nilsson,—her first appearance before the public.
Next to the 'Traviata' Verdi wrote 'I Vespri Siciliani,' which appeared in Paris on June 13, 1855. It is strange that writing for the French stage an Italian composer should have chosen for his subject a massacre of the French by the Sicilians. Messrs. Scribe and Duveyrier may be complimented upon their poetry, but not upon their common sense in offering such a drama to an Italian composer, who writing for the first time for the Grand Opéra, could hardly refuse a libretto imposed on him by the then omnipotent Scribe. However, the music was appreciated to its value by the French public, who overlooking the inopportunity of the argument, welcomed heartily the work of the Italian maestro. In Italy—where the opera was reproduced with a different libretto, and under the title of 'Giovanna di Guzman,' the Austrian police not allowing a poem glorifying the revolt of Sicily against oppressors—it did not actually fail, but its many beauties have never been fully appreciated.
'Simon Boccanegra'—by Piave, expressly composed by Verdi for La Fenice and produced March 12, 1857—was a total failure, though the prologue and last act may be ranked amongst his most powerful inspirations. The failure was owing to the dull and confused libretto, and to a very bad interpretation. Both book and music were afterwards altered—the former by Arrigo Boito—and the opera was revived with success in Milan on April 12 [App. p.811 "March 24"], 1881.
'Un ballo in Maschera,' though written for the San Carlo of Naples, was produced at the Teatro Apollo of Borne. Its original title was 'Gustavo III'; but during the rehearsals occurred the attempt of Orsini against Napoleon III (Jan. 13, 1858), and the performance of an opera with so suggestive a title was interdicted. Verdi received a peremptory order from the police to adapt his music to different words, and upon his refusal the manager of San Carlo brought an action against him for 200,000 francs damages. When this was known, together with the fact that he had refused to ask permission to produce his work as it was, there was very nearly a revolution in Naples. Crowds assembled under his window, and accompanied him through the streets, shouting 'Viva Verdi,' i.e. 'Viva Vittorio Emanuele Re Di Italia.'
In this crisis M. Jasovacci, the enterprising impresario of Rome, called on Verdi, and taking the responsibility of arranging everything with the Roman police, entered into a contract to produce the work at Rome. Richard, Governor of Boston, was substituted for Gustavo III; the opera was re-christened 'Il [App. p.811 "Un"] ballo in Maschera,' was brought out (Feb. 17, 1859), and Verdi achieved one of his greatest successes. This was his last opera for the Italian stage. The next three were written for St. Petersburg, Paris, and Cairo.
'La Forza del Destino'—the plot borrowed by Piave from 'Don Alvar,' a Spanish drama by the Duke of Rivas—was performed with moderate success on Nov. 10, 1862, at St. Petersburg. Seven years later Verdi had the libretto modified by Ghislanzoni, and after various alterations in the music, the opera was again brought before the public.
'Don Carlos,' the words by Méry and Du Locle, was enthusiastically received at the Opera in Paris, March 11, 1867. Verdi has since (1883) introduced some changes in the score, materially shortening the opera.
His latest operatic work is 'Aida,' which was produced at Cairo Dec. 27 [App. p.811 "Dec. 24"], 1871. During the last thirteen years Verdi has given nothing but his Requiem, produced at Milan on the occasion of the anniversary of the death of Manzoni, May 22, 1874; in 1880 a 'Pater Noster' for 5 voices, and an 'Ave Maria' for soprano solo. Artists and amateurs are anxiously waiting for 'Othello,' to a libretto by Arrigo Boito; but it would appear that the composer is not satisfied with his work, since there are as yet no intimations of its production.
Amongst Verdi's minor works are the 'Inno delle Nazioni,' performed at Her Majesty's Theatre in [App. p.811 "May 24"] 1862, and a string quartet in E minor, written at Naples in 1873, and performed at the Monday Popular Concerts, London, Jan. 21, 1878. A complete list of all his compositions will be found at the end of this article.
Of Verdi as a man, as we have already hinted, little or nothing can be said.
From the earliest moment of his career, his dislike of the turmoil of the world has never varied. Decorations, orders, titles have been heaped upon him at home and abroad, but he is still annoyed if addressed otherwise than 'Signor Verdi.' In 1860 he was returned as member of the Italian parliament for Busseto, and at the personal wish of Count Cavour took the oath, but very soon sent in his resignation. In 1875 the king elected him a senator, and Verdi went to Rome to take the oath, but never attended a single sitting. Some years after the loss of his wife and children he married Mme. Strepponi, but from this second marriage there is no family. He lives with his wife all the year round at his villa of S. Agata, near Busseto, excepting only the winter months which he spends in Genoa. Passing by the villa every one may see that our representation of his turn of mind is quite true. It stands far from the high road, concealed almost entirely by large trees. Adjoining it is a large and beautiful garden, and this again is surrounded by the farm. Verdi himself looks after the farming operations, and an Englishman will find there all the best agricultural implements and machines of modern invention.
Verdi's life at S. Agata is not dissimilar from that of other landed proprietors in the district. He gets up at five o'clock, and takes, according ​to the Italian custom, a cup of hot black coffee. He then goes into his garden to look after the flowers, give instructions to his gardener, and see that his previous orders have been carried out. The next visit is to the horses, as the maestro takes much interest in them, and his stud is well known as the 'Razza Verdi.' As a rule this visit is interrupted at eight o'clock by the breakfast bell—a simple breakfast of coffee and milk. At half-past ten the bell again summons the maestro and his wife to a more substantial déjeuner, after which he takes another walk in the garden.
At two o'clock comes the post, and by this Verdi is for a while put in communication with the world, and has for a few hours to remember—with regret—that he is not only a quiet country-gentleman, but a great man with public duties. At five in summer, and six in winter, dinner is served: before or after this he drives for an hour, and after a game at cards or billiards, goes to bed at ten. Friends sometimes pay him a visit: they are always welcome, provided they are not interviewers, or too fond of talking about music. In a letter addressed to Filippi—the leading musical critic of Italy—the maestro discloses his views of critics and biographers:—
'If you will do me the honour of a visit, your capacity as a biographer will find very little room for displaying itself at S. Agata. Four walls and a roof, just enough for protection against the sun and the bad weather; some dozens of trees, mostly planted by me; a pond which I shall call by the big name of lake, when I have water enough to fill it, etc. All this without any definite plan or architectural pretence: not because I do not love architecture, but because I detest every breach in the rules of harmony, and it would have been a great crime to do anything artistic in a spot where there is nothing poetical. You see it is all settled: and while you are here you must forget that you are a biographer. I know very well that you are also a most distinguished musician and devoted to your art … but Piave and Mariani must have told you that at S. Agata we neither make, nor talk about music, and you will run the risk of finding a piano not only out of tune, but very likely without strings.'
Shunning everything like praise, as an artist, he shuns even more the reputation of being a benevolent man, though the kindness of his heart is as great as his genius. Money is sent by him, often anonymously, to those in want, and the greater part of the works done at his villa are done with the view of affording his workmen the means of getting their living during the winter. Of the strength of his friendship and gratitude, he gave an undeniable proof in what he did for his humble associate, the poet or—as he would call himself the librettista—F. M. Piave. As soon as Verdi heard that the old man had had an attack of paralysis, he took upon himself all the expenses of the illness, during the many remaining years of Piave's life gave him a yearly allowance, which enabled the old poet to surround himself with all requisite comfort, and after his death paid for the funeral, and made a large provision for the little daughter of his poet and friend.
Whether M. Verdi will ever give the last touches to 'Othello,' and whether it will prove, a success or a failure, are facts of interest to the author and the opera-goers only. For the musical critic, 'Othello,' whatever it may be, can neither add to nor detract from the merits of its author. From 'Oberto Conte di S. Bonifacio' to the 'Messa di Requiem' we can watch the progressive and full development of Verdi's genius, and though we have a right to expect from him a new masterpiece, still nothing leads us to believe that the new work may be the product of a nuova manicra. [App. p.811 "add that Verdi's latest work, 'Otello,' set to a poem founded on Shakespeare by Boito, was produced at the Scala, under Faccio's direction, on Feb. 5, 1887."]
If popularity were a sure test of merit, Verdi would indisputably be the greatest operatic composer of the second half of this century. In 1850 the great Italian composers had all passed away: Bellini and Donizetti were gone; Rossini, though still living in Paris, was practically dead to music. Of the old school there were in Italy only Mercadante, Petrella, and Parisini: out of Italy there were Meyerbeer, Auber, Gounod, and Wagner, though Meyerbeer and Auber are to be reckoned amongst the operatic composers of the first half of this century. Since 1850 Italy has produced Boito, Ponchielli, and Marchetti; France, Massenet and Bizet; Germany, Goetz and Goldmark. Among these, fame designates Verdi, Wagner, and Gounod as the three greatest composers of their respective nations. The three, however, enjoy different degrees, and even different kinds of popularity. Gounod's fame is almost solely based on 'Faust.' Wagner's operas, or rather his early operas, may be said to be familiar to everybody in Germany, and German-speaking nations: but outside of Germany only large towns, like London, St. Petersburg, and Brussels, are really acquainted with his works. Paris has notoriously shut her ears to him; and New York appears as yet not to have heard one of his operas. As for the Latin races—Italy, Spain, France—nobody has been yet brought to a right understanding, not to mention the 'Niebelungen,' even of 'Rienzi.' Of Verdi, on the other hand, we may safely affirm that there is not an opera-house in the world, the Bayreuth Theatre excepted, where most of his operas have not been performed, and a season seldom passes without at least a performance of the 'Traviata,' the 'Trovatore,' or 'Rigoletto.' Amongst Italians, no matter what their opinion of the composer is, there is a general belief that Verdi enjoys the greatest popularity of all living musicians: and we do not hesitate to endorse this opinion. Music is a universal language, and operatic music is, of all branches of that art, the one which most forcibly imposes itself upon the attention of the public, as the indefinite musical expression is rendered definite by the meaning of the words, and by the dramatic action on the stage. Moreover, music is of all arts the one that can be most easily and cheaply brought home to everybody. This is the reason ​why we think that Verdi is more known to the million than any other man in the world.
In comparison to what Verdi has done in the opera and the church, we can hardly reckon him amongst composers of instrumental music. A Quartet for strings, the Overtures to 'Nabucco,' 'Giovanna d' Arco,' 'Vespri Siciliani,' 'Aroldo,' 'Forza del Destino,' and other less important compositions, constitute all his répertoire in that branch of art. Leaving out his one Quartet, to which he attaches no importance, and only reluctantly allowed to be played out of his own drawing-room, the Overtures, though some of them effective and full of inspiration, can hardly be taken as specimens of instrumental music. They are almost entirely constructed on the melodies of the opera; and the choice is made (excepting in the case of the Prelude to 'Aida' and a few bars of that to 'Il Ballo in Maschera') rather with a view to presenting the audience at the outset with the best themes of the work, than on account of the fitness of the melody for instrumental development. Italians have an instinctive tendency toward vocal music. Distinct rhythm, simply harmonised and well-balanced musical periods, are to them the highest musical expression: fugues, canons, double-counterpoint, have no charm for them: they appreciate variations on a theme, but fail to catch in full the meaning of development. Now, without development proper there can be no absolute instrumental music, and for this reason we say that Verdi has done nothing in the way of adding to the small repertoire of Italian instrumental music; and in fact none of his Overtures can bear comparison with those of the German school, nor even with those of his countrymen and contemporaries, Foroni, Bazzini, Sgambati, and Smareglia or Catalani.
It is certainly not on his Overtures that Verdi will rest his fame. He is by nature, inclination, and education an operatic composer, and whatever he has done in other directions must be considered only as accessory. In this light we will consider his 'Requiem,' though by that work one can fairly guess at his power in religious composition. It was chance that led the composer to try his hand at sacred music, and a few words spent on the origin of the 'Messa' will not be here out of place, inasmuch as not even M. Pougin is well informed on this particular fact.
Shortly after Rossini's death (Nov. 13, 1868), Verdi suggested that the Italian composers should combine to write a Requiem as a tribute to the memory of the great deceased; the Requiem to be performed at the cathedral of Bologna every hundredth year, on the centenary of Rossini's death, and nowhere else and on no other occasion whatever. The project was immediately accepted, and the thirteen numbers of the work, the form and tonality of each of which had been previously determined, were distributed as follows:
* Requiem æternam (G minor), Buzzola.
* Dies irse (C minor), Bazzini.
* Tuba mirum (E♭ minor), Pedrotti.
* Quid sum miser (A♭ major), Cagnoni.
* Recordare (F major), Ricci.
* Ingemisco (A minor), Mini [App. p.811 "Nini"].
* Confutatis (D major), Bouchenon [App. p.811 "Boucheron"].
* Lacrymosa (G major, C minor), Coccia.
* Domine Jesu (C major), Gaspari.
* Sanctus (D♭ major), Platania.
* Agnus Dei (F major), Petrella.
* Lux æterna (A♭ major), Mabollini [App. p.811 "Mabellini"].
* Libera me (G minor), Verdi.
The several numbers were duly set to music and sent in, but, as might have been expected, when performed in an uninterrupted succession, they were found to want the unity and uniformity of style that is the sine qua non of a work of art: and, though every one had done his best, there were too many different degrees of merit in the several parts; so that, without assigning any positive reason, the matter was dropped, and after a while each number was sent back to its author. But M. Mazzucato, of Milan, who had first seen the complete work, was so much struck by Verdi's 'Libera me,' as to write him a letter stating the impression he had received from that single number, and entreating him to compose the whole Requiem. Shortly after this, Alessandro Manzoni died at Milan; whereupon Verdi offered to write a Requiem for the anniversary of Manzoni's death; and this is the work, the last movement of which was originally composed for the Requiem of Rossini.
The piece has been enthusiastically praised and bitterly gainsaid. The question can only be decided by time, which, so far, seems inclined to side with Verdi's admirers. In Italy, unbiassed criticism on the subject has been rendered impossible by a letter written to a German paper by Dr. Hans von Bülow, declaring the work to be a monstrosity, unworthy of an ordinary pupil of any musical school in Germany. This language could not but create a strong reaction, not only among Verdi's countrymen, but among all persons to whom his name was associated with enjoyment,—and from that moment even those who might have reasonably objected to the Requiem understood that it was not the time to do so.
We leave to technical musicians the task of finding out whether there are, as an anonymous writer asserts, more than a hundred mistakes in the progression of the parts, or not. Even were this the case it is doubtful whether the mistakes rest with the composer or with those who pretend to establish certain rules for his inspiration. Be this as it may, it is certainly not by looking at Verdi's Requiem in that way that we shall discover what place he is likely to hold among writers of sacred music. Not to mention Palestrina, whose music can now-a-days only be heard and fully understood in the Cappella Sistina, if even there, but looking at the sacred music of Handel and Bach, and setting up the oratorios, cantatas, and masses of these two giant artists against Verdi's Requiem, we cannot but urge that no comparison is possible. Widely different as Bach's mind was from Handel's, there is in both the expression of a similar feeling. In Verdi's work we may easily recognise the presence of another kind of feeling, requiring quite another mode of musical manifestation. There ​is mysticism in Bach and Handel, while there is drama in Verdi, and the dramatic character of the work is the chief fault that has been found with it, and apparently on good ground. Still, though commonly believed, and blindly—we would almost say instinctively—accepted that the Messiah and the 'Matthew-Passion' are the patterns and diapason for all religious music, it remains to be proved whether this is an axiom or not: and whether the musical forms adopted by Bach and Handel were chosen because of their being abstractedly the fittest for the expression of the subject, or simply because at that time the purely melodic development was nearly unknown.
No doubt Bach and Handel are up to this day unsurpassed by any religious composer. Neither Marcello nor Lotti, Mozart, Beethoven, Cherubini, Mendelssohn nor Berlioz, have in their sacred music on the whole come up to the mark of the two great Germans: this, however, means that the genius of the latter was greater than that of the former, but does not at all show that they were in the right and others in the wrong track of composition. A man of genius can convey to the mind of an audience the full and deep meaning of a religious passage by a mere melody with a simple accompaniment, or even without any at all: while a learned musician may make the same passage meaningless and even tedious by setting it as a double fugue. Of this fact we might quote many instances: but it will be enough to hint at Schubert's Ave Maria, and even that of Gounod, though founded on another work—noble and simple melodies, and certainly fuller of pathos and religious feeling than many of the elaborate works in which for centuries the church composers have exercised their skill and their proficiency in the architectural and ornamental branch of their art.
It is equally safe to assert that no special form can be declared to be the only one suitable for sacred music, and that even Bach and Handel wrote their masterpieces as they did, because that was the then universally accepted style of composition. There is certainly something in the stilo fugato nobler and sterner than in a purely melodic composition; still, we repeat that even simple melodies rouse high and noble feelings, and we see no objection to the praises of God being sung in melodies, instead of 'chorales,' or 'fugatos,' or Gregorian themes. Verdi's Requiem, it has been said, puts the hearer too often in mind of the stage; its melodies would do as well for an opera; its airs, duets, and concerted pieces would be wonderfully effective in 'Rigoletto,' 'Trovatore,' and 'Aida,' and are therefore too vulgar to be admitted in a sacred composition, in which everything that has any connection with earth must be carefully avoided. But this is our judgment and not the composer's. Did Palestrina choose for his sacred music a different style from the one in which he wrote his madrigals? Did not Handel in the 'Messiah' itself adapt the words of the sacred text to music that he had previously written with other intentions? And why should not Verdi be allowed to do as they did, and give vent to his feelings in the way that is most familiar to him? Of all branches of art there is one that must necessarily be in accordance with the feelings of the multitude, and that is religious art; and on that ground we think that Verdi has been right in setting the Requiem to music in a style that is almost entirely popular. Whether it was possible for him, or will be possible for others to do better while following the same track, we willingly leave the musical critics to decide.
As an operatic composer, we have already said that Verdi is the most popular artist of the second half of the present century—we might say of the whole century, because, not in quality, but in number, his operas that still enjoy the honour of pleasing the public, surpass those extant of Bellini, Rossini, and Donizetti. How he won his popularity in Italy can be easily explained; how his name came to be almost a household word amongst all music-loving nations, is more difficult to understand when we think that no less men than Wagner, Meyerbeer, and Gounod were, at the same time, in the full bloom of their glory—the last two, of their activity: for this widespread popularity there are however very good reasons, arising entirely from Verdi's intellectual endowments and not from fashion, or mere good fortune.
Though Italian operatic composers may be reckoned by scores, yet after Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti, only one man has had power enough to fight his way up. After Donizetti's death Verdi remained the only composer to uphold the glory of Italian opera, and from 1845 to this day nobody in 'the land of music' has shown any symptom of rivalling him, with the exception of Arrigo Boito, and he, notwithstanding the promise of his Mefistofele, has as yet brought out no other work.
As regards Italy, the attention of foreign audiences was naturally enough concentrated on Verdi. But on the other side of the Alps there were men who could stand comparison with him on every ground, viz. Wagner, Gounod, and Meyerbeer. To run the race of popularity with these men, and win the prize, would seem to require even a greater power than that of Verdi; still, by looking carefully at the peculiar qualities of each composer we may be able to discover why the Italian maestro, with endowments and acquirements perhaps inferior to those of the German and French artists, has left them behind as far as public favour is concerned.
The opera or musical drama considered from a philosophical point of view, is undoubtedly the highest artistic manifestation of which men are capable. All the most refined forms of art are called in to contribute to the expression of the idea. The author of a musical drama is no more a musician, or a poet, or a painter: he is the supreme artist, not fettered by the limits of one art, but able to step over the boundaries of all the different branches of aesthetic expression, and find the proper means for the rendering of his thought wherever he wants it. This was ​Wagner's aim, and the 'Niebelungen Ring,' or still better 'Tristan and Isolde,' are the actuation of this theory, or at least are works showing which is the way towards the aim. Unhappily the grand scheme has not been carried out by the great artist, nor is it probable that it will ever be so; because if a man has the power to conceive the type of ideal beauty, it is very doubtful whether he will find the practical means for expressing it; and as the opera or musical drama is at present, we must reckon it to be the most impressive and most entertaining branch of art, but the least ideal, and the farthest from the ideal type of perfection. Let musical critics and philosophers say what they will, audiences in every quarter of the world will unanimously declare that the best opera is the one that amuses them best, and requires the least intellectual exertion to be understood. Taking this as the standard it is undeniable that Verdi's operas answer perfectly to the requirement.
To deliver a lecture on Astronomy before a select number of scientific men is quite a different thing from holding a course of lectures on Astronomy for the entertainment and instruction of large and popular audiences: if one means to give something to another, one must give what that other is able to receive, and give it in the fittest way. And this is what Verdi did during all his musical career; and his manner of thinking, feeling and living made it quite natural to him. Verdi felt much more than he learnt, that rhythm, the human voice and brevity, were the three elements apt to stir, to please and not to engender fatigue in his audiences, and on them he built his masterpieces. In the choice of his libretto he always preferred plots in which the majority of the public could take an interest. Wotan protecting Hunding against Siegmund's sword, with the spear on which the laws of the universe are cut in eternal runes, is certainly one of the highest dramatic situations that can be brought on the stage; but unhappily it is not a thing whose real meaning can be caught by everybody; while in the poems of 'Traviata,' 'Rigoletto,' 'Trovatore,' etc., even the most unlearned men will have no trouble in bringing home to themselves the feelings of the dramatis personæ.
Three different styles have been distinguished in Verdi's operas—the first from 'Oberto Conte di S. Bonifacio' to 'Luisa Miller'; the second from 'Luisa Miller' to 'Don Carlos'; while the third comprises only 'Don Carlos' and 'Aida.' [See too the able remarks in vol. iii. p. 301 of this Dictionary.] We fail to recognise these three different styles. No doubt there is a great difference between 'Attila,' 'Ernani,' 'Rigoletto,' and 'Aida': but we submit that the difference is to be attributed to the age and development of the composer's mind, and not to a radical change in his way of rendering the subject musically, or to a different conception of the musical drama. The more refined expression of 'Aida' compared to 'Il Trovatore,' and of 'Il Trovatore' compared to 'Nabucco' or 'I Lombardi,' answers to the refinement of musical feeling which audiences gradually underwent during the forty years of the artistic career of the great composer; he spoke a higher language, because that higher language had become intelligible to the public; but what he said the first day is what he always said, and what he will say again, if he should ever break his long silence. Amongst living composers Verdi is undoubtedly the most universally popular: what posterity will think of this judgment passed by Verdi's contemporaries we do not know, but certainly he will always rank among the greatest composers of operatic music of all ages and amongst all nations, because seldom, if ever, is to be found such truth and power of feeling expressed in a clearer or simpler way.
We subjoin a complete catalogue of Signor Verdi's works.
OPERAS.
Oberto Conte di S. Bonifacio, Nov. 17, 1839. Milan. Un giorno di Regno, Sep. 5, 1840. Milan. Nabucodonosor, March 9, 1842. Milan. I Lombardi, Feb. 11, 1843. Milan. Ernani, Mar. 9, 1844. Venice. I due Foscari, Nov. 3, 1844. Rome. Giovanna d' Arco, Feb. 15, 1845. Milan. Alzira, Aug. 12, 1845. Naples. Attila, Mar. 17, 1846. Venice. Macbeth, Mar. 12 [App. p.811 "March 14"], 1847. Florence. I Masnadieri, July 22, 1847. London. Jerusalem, Nov. 25, 1847. Paris. Il Corsaro, Oct. 25, 1848. Trieste. La battaglia di Legnano, Jan. 27, 1849. Rome. Luisa Miller, Dec. 8, 1849. Naples. Stifellio [App. p.811 "Stiffelio"], Nov. 16, 1850. Trieste. Rigoletto, Mar. 11, 1851. Venice. Il Trovatore, Jan. 19, 1853. Rome. La Traviata, Mar. 6, 1853. Venice. Les Vêpres Siciliennes, June 13, 1855. Paris. Simon Boccanegra, Mar. 12, 1857. Venice. Aroldo, Aug. 16, 1857. Rimini. Un ballo in Maschera, Feb. 17, 1857 [App. p.811 "1859"]. Rome. La forza del Destino, Nov. 10, 1862. St. Petersburg. Macbeth (revised), Apr. 21, 1865. Paris. Don Carlos, Mar. 11, 1867. Paris. Aida, Dec. 24, 1871. Cairo. S. Boccanegra (revised) Apr. 1881, Milan.
DRAWING-ROOM MUSIC.
Sei Romanze.—Non t'accostare all' urna. More Elisa, lo stanco poeta. In solitaria stanza. Nell' orror di notte oscura. Perduta ho la pace. Deh pietosa. L' esule, a song for bass. La Seduzione, a song for bass. Notturno a tre voci. S. T. B. Guarda che blanca luna, with flauto obbligato. Album di sei Romanze. Il Tramonto. La Zingara. Ad una stella. Lo spazza camino. Il mistero. Brindisi. Il Foveretto. Romanza. Tu dici che non m'ami. Stornello.
INNO DELLE NAZIONI.
Composed on the occasion of the London Exhibition, and performed at Her Majesty's Theatre on May 24, 1862.
QUARTETTO.
For two violins, viola and violoncello; written at Naples, and performed in the author's own drawing-room on April 1, 1873.
SACRED MUSIC.
Messa da Requiem. Performed in S. Mark's church in Milan, May 22, 1874. Pater Noster, for 2 soprani, contralto, tenor, and bass. Ave Maria, soprano and strings. Both performed for the first time at La Scala of Milan, on April 18, 1880.
[ G. M. ]
* ↑ The mention of 'leather' and 'pedals' seems to show that the 'spinet' was some kind of pianoforte. [App. p.811 "omit note 1, as there is nothing in the mention of 'leather' and 'pedals' which militates against the instrument having been a spinet, as stated in the text."]
* ↑ We hare omitted some unimportant sentences.
* ↑ This opera was performed in some theatres under the title of 'Il finto Stanislao.'
* ↑ This opera is a re-arrangement of 'I Lombardi.'
* ↑ This is an adaptation of the music of 'Stifellio' [App. p.811 "Stiffelio"] to a new poem.
* ↑ Reproduced, with alterations and additions, at La Scala of Milan Feb. 20, 1869.
* ↑ The first performance in Europe was on Feb. 8, 1872, at La Scala of Milan.