History of the Opera from its Origin in Italy to the present Time

"Rubini went on singing," says M. Castil Blaze, "and I do not think any one who heard him in 1831 could tell that he was listening to a wounded singer – wounded gloriously on the field of battle. As a musical doctor I was allowed to touch his wound, and I remarked on the left side of the clavicle a solution of continuity, three or four lines[101 - That is to say, a quarter or a third part of an inch.] in extent between the two parts of the fractured bone. I related the adventure in the Revue de Paris, and three hundred persons went to Rubini's house to touch the wound, and verify my statement."

TAMBURINI

Two other vocalists are mentioned in the history of music, who not only injured themselves in singing, but actually died of their injuries. Fabris had shown himself an unsuccessful rival of the celebrated Guadagni, when his master, determined that he should gain a complete victory, composed expressly for him an air of the greatest difficulty, which the young singer was to execute at the San Carlo Theatre, at Naples. Fabris protested that he could not sing, or that if so, it would cost him his life; but he yielded to his master's iron will, attacked the impossible air, and died on the stage of hæmorrhage of the lungs. In the same manner, an air which the tenor Labitte was endeavouring to execute at the Lion's theatre, in 1820, was the cause of his own execution.

I have spoken of the versatility of talent displayed by Rubini in his youth. Tamburini and Lablache were equally expert singers in every style. In the year 1822 Tamburini was engaged at Palermo, where, on the last day of the carnival, the public attend, or used to attend, the Opera, with drums, trumpets, saucepans, shovels, and all kinds of musical and unmusical instruments – especially noisy ones. On this tumultuous evening, Tamburini, already a great favourite with the Palermitans, had to sing in Mercadante's Elisa e Claudio. The public received him with a salvo of their carnavalesque artillery, when Tamburini, finding that it was impossible to make himself heard in the ordinary way, determined to execute his part in falsetto; and, the better to amuse the public, commenced singing with the voice of a soprano sfogato. The astonished audience laid their instruments aside to listen to the novel and entirely unexpected accents of their basso cantante. Tamburini's falsetto was of wonderful purity, and in using it he displayed the same agility for which he was remarkable when employing his ordinary thoroughly masculine voice. The Palermitans were interested by this novel display of vocal power, and were, moreover, pleased at Tamburini's readiness and ingenuity in replying to their seemingly unanswerable charivari. But the poor prima donna was unable to enter into the joke at all. She even imagined that the turbulent demonstrations with which she was received whenever she made her appearance, were intended to insult her, and long before the opera was at an end she refused to continue her part. The manager was in great alarm, for he knew that the public would not stand upon any ceremony that evening; and that, if the performance were interrupted by anything but their own noise, they would probably break everything in the theatre. Tamburini rushed to the prima donna's room. Madame Lipparini, the lady in question, had already left the theatre, but she had also left the costume of "Elisa" behind. The ingenious baritone threw off his coat, contrived, by stretching and splitting, to get on "Elisa's" satin dress, clapped her bonnet over his own wig, and thus equipped appeared on the stage, ready to take the part of the unhappy and now fugitive Lipparini. The audience applauded with one accord the entry of the strangest "Elisa" ever seen. Her dress came only half way down her legs, the sleeves did not extend anywhere near her wrists. The soprano, who at a moment's notice had replaced Madame Lipparini, had the largest hands and feet a prima donna was ever known to possess.

TAMBURINI

The band had played the ritornello of "Elisa's" cavatina a dozen times, and the most turbulent among the assembly had actually got up from their seats, and were ready to scale the orchestra, and jump on the stage, when Tamburini rushed on in the costume above described. After curtseying to the audience, pressing one hand to his heart, and with the other wiping away the tears of gratitude he was supposed to shed for the enthusiastic reception accorded to him, he commenced the cavatina, and went through it admirably; burlesquing it a little for the sake of the costume, but singing it, nevertheless, with marvellous expression, and displaying executive power far superior to any that Madame Lipparini herself could have shown. As long as there were only airs to sing, Tamburini got on easily enough. He devoted his soprano voice to "Elisa," while the "Count" remained still a basso, the singer performing his ordinary part in his ordinary voice. But a duet for "Elisa" and the "Count" was approaching; and the excited amateurs, now oblivious of their drums, kettles, and kettle-drums, were speculating with anxious interest as to how Tamburini would manage to be soprano and basso-cantante in the same piece. The vocalist found no difficulty in executing the duet. He performed both parts – the bass replying to the soprano, and the soprano to the bass – with the most perfect precision. The double representative even made a point of passing from right to left and from left to right, according as he was the father-in-law or the daughter. This was the crowning success. The opera was now listened to with pleasure and delight to the very end; and it was not until the fall of the curtain that the audience re-commenced their charivari, by way of testifying their admiration for Tamburini, who was called upwards of a dozen times on to the stage. This was not all: they were so grieved at the idea of losing him, that they entreated him to appear again in the ballet. He did so, and gained fresh applause by his performance in a pas de quatre with the Taglionis and Mademoiselle Rinaldini.

LABLACHE

Lablache was scarcely seventeen years of age, and had just finished his studies at the Conservatorio of Naples when he was engaged as "Neapolitan buffo" at the little San Carlino theatre. Here two performances were given every day, one in the afternoon, the other in the evening, while the morning was devoted to rehearsals. Lablache supported the fatigue caused by this system without his voice suffering the slightest injury, though all the other members of the company were obliged to throw up their engagements before the year was out, and several of them never recovered their voices. He had been five months at San Carlino when he married Teresa Pinotti, daughter of an actor engaged at the theatre, and one of the greatest comedians of Italy. This union appears to have had a great effect on Lablache's fate. His wife saw what genius he possessed, and thought of all possible means to get him away from San Carlino, an establishment which she justly regarded as unworthy of him. Lablache, for his part, would have remained there all his life, playing the part of Neapolitan buffo, without thinking of the brilliant position within his reach. There was at that time a celebrated Neapolitan buffo, named Mililotti, who, Madame Lablache thought, might advantageously replace her husband. She not only procured an engagement for Lablache's rival at the San Carlino theatre, but is even said to have packed the house the first night of his appearance (or re-appearance, for he was already known to the Neapolitans) so as to ensure him a favourable reception. Her intelligent love would, doubtless, have caused her to hiss her husband, had not Mililotti's success been sufficiently great to convince Lablache that he might as well seek his fortune elsewhere, and in a higher sphere. He had some hesitation, however, about singing in the Tuscan language, accustomed as he was to the Neapolitan jargon, but his wife determined him to make the change, and procured an engagement for him in Sicily. Arrived at Messina, however, he continued for some time to appear as Neapolitan buffo, a line for which he had always had a great predilection, and in which, spite of the forced success of Mililotti, he had no equal.

Lablache will be generally remembered as a true basso; but, before appearing as "Bartolo" in the Barber of Seville, he for many years played the part of "Figaro." I have seen it stated that Lablache has played not only the bass and baritone, but also the tenor part in Rossini's great comic opera; but I do not believe that he ever appeared as "Count Almaviva." I have said that he performed bass parts (the Neapolitan buffo was always a bass), when he first made his début; and during the last five-and-twenty years of his career, his voice – marvellously even and sound from one end to the other – had at the same time no extraordinary compass; but from G to E all his notes were full, clear, and sonorous, as the tones of a bronze bell. Indeed, this bell-like quality of the great basso's voice, is said on one occasion to have been the cause of considerable alarm to his wife, who, hearing its deep boom in the middle of the night, imagined, as she started from her slumbers, that the house was on fire. This was the period of the great popularity of I Puritani, when Grisi, accompanied by Lablache, was in the habit of singing the polacca three times a week at the opera, and about twice a day at morning concerts. Lablache, after executing his part of this charming and popular piece three times in nine hours, was so haunted by it, that he continued to ring out his sounding staccato accompaniment in his sleep. Fortunately, Madame Lablache succeeded in stopping this somnambulistic performance before the engines arrived.

LABLACHE

Like all complete artists, like Malibran, like Ronconi, like Garrick, the great type of the class, Lablache was equally happy in serious and in comic parts. Though Malibran is chiefly remembered in England by her almost tragic rendering of the part of "Amina" in the Sonnambula, many persons who have heard her in all her répertoire, assure me that she exhibited the greatest talent in comic opera, or in such lively "half character" parts as "Norina" in the Elixir of Love, and "Zerlina" in Don Giovanni. Lord Mount Edgcumbe declares, after speaking of her performance of "Semiramide" ("Semiramide" has also been mentioned as one of Malibran's best parts) that "in characters of less energy she is much better, and best of all in the comic opera. She even condescended," he adds, "to make herself a buffa caricata, and take the third and least important part in Cimarosa's Matrimonio Segretto, that of an old woman (the Mrs. Heidelberg of the Clandestine Marriage), generally acted by the lowest singer of the company. From an insignificant character she raised it to a prominent one, and very greatly added to the effect of that excellent opera." So of Lablache, Lord Mount Edgcumbe, after remarking that his voice was "not only of deeper compass than almost any ever heard, but, when he chose, absolutely stentorian," tells his readers that "he was a most excellent actor, especially in comic operas, in which he was (as I am told) as highly diverting as any of the most laughable comedians." Yet the character in which Lablache himself, and not Lablache's reputation, produced so favourable an impression on this writer – not very favourably impressed by any singers, or any music towards the close of his life – was "Assur" in Semiramide! Who that remembers Lablache as "Bartolo" – that remembers the prominence and the genuine humour which he gave to that slight and colourless part – can deny that he was one of the greatest of comic actors? And did he not communicate the same importance to the minor character of "Oroveso" in Norma, in which nothing could be more tragic and impressive than his scene with the repentant dying priestess in the last act? What a picture, too, was his "Henry VIII." in Anna Bolena! A picture which Lablache himself composed from a careful study of the costume worn by the original, and for which nature had certainly supplied him in the first place with a most suitable form. Think, again, of his superb grandeur as "Maometto," of his touching dignity as "Desdemona's" father; then forget both these characters, and recollect how perfect, how unique a "Leporello" was this same Lablache. One of our best critics has taken objection to Lablache's version of this last-named part – though, of course, without objecting to his actual performance, which he as well, or better than any one else, knows to have been almost beyond praise. But it has been said that Lablache (and if Lablache, then all his predecessors in the same character) indulged in an unbecoming spirit of burlesque during the last scene of Don Giovanni, in which the statue seizes the hero with his strong hand, and takes him down a practicable trap-door to eternal torments. "Leporello," however, is a burlesque character, and a buffoon throughout; cowardly, superstitious, greedy, with all possible low qualities developed to a ludicrous extent, and thus presenting a fine dramatic contrast to his master, who possesses all the noble qualities, except faith – this one great flaw rendering all the use he makes of valour, generosity, and love of woman, an abuse. "Leporello" is always thinking of the bad end which he is sure awaits him unless he quits the service of a master whom he is afraid to leave; always thinking, too, of maccaroni, money, and the wages which "Don Juan" certainly will not pay him, if he is taken to the infernal regions before his next quarter is due. "Mes gages, mes gages," cries the "Sganarelle" of Molière's comedy, and "Sganarelle" and "Leporello" are one and the same person. We may be sure that Molière and Lablache are right, and that Herr Formes, with his new reading of a good old part is wrong. At the same time it is natural and allowable that a singer who cannot be comic should be serious.

In addition to his other great accomplishments, Lablache possessed that of being able to whistle in a style that many a piccolo player would have envied. He could whistle all Rode's variations as perfectly as Louisa Pyne sings them. As to the vibratory force of his full voice, it was such that to have allowed Lablache to sing in a green house might have been a dangerous experiment. Chéron, a celebrated French bass, is said to have been able to burst a tumbler into a thousand pieces, by sounding, within a fragile and doubtless sympathetic glass, some particular note. Equally interesting, in connexion with a glass, is a performance in which I have seen the veteran,[102 - "What a pity I did not think of this city fifty years ago!" exclaimed Signor Badiali, when he made his first appearance in London, in 1859.] but still almost juvenile basso, Signor Badiali, indulge. The artist takes a glass of particularly good claret, drinks it, and, while in the act of swallowing, sings a scale. The first time his execution is not quite perfect. He repeats the performance with a full glass, a loud voice, and without missing a note or a drop. To convince his friends that there is no deception, he offers to go through this refreshing species of vocalization a third time; after which, if the supply of wine on the table happens to be limited, and the servants gone to bed, the audience generally declares itself satisfied.

MADAME GRISI

Giulia Grisi, the last of the celebrated Puritani quartett, first distinguished herself by her performance of the part of "Adalgisa," in Norma, when that opera was produced at Milan, in 1832. Giulia or Giulietta Grisi, is the younger sister of Giuditta Grisi, also a singer, but to whom Giulietta was superior in all respects; and she is the elder sister of Carlotta Grisi, who, from an ordinary vocalist, became, under the tuition of Perrot, the most charming dancer of her time. When Madame Grisi first appeared, lord Mount Edgcumbe having ceased himself to attend the opera, tells us that she possessed "a handsome person, sweet, yet powerful voice, considerable execution, and still more expression;" that "she is an excellent singer, and excellent actress;" in short, is described to be as nearly perfect as possible, and is almost a greater favorite than even Pasta or Malibran. In his Pencillings by the Way, Mr. N. P. Willis writes, after seeing Grisi, who had then first appeared at the King's Theatre, in the year 1833; "she is young, very pretty, and an admirable actress – three great advantages to a singer; her voice is under absolute command, and she manages it beautifully; but it wants the infusion of soul – the gushing uncontrollable passionate feeling of Malibran. You merely feel that Grisi is an accomplished artist, while Malibran melts all your criticism into love and admiration. I am easily moved by music, but I come away without much enthusiasm for the present passion of London." The impression conveyed by Mr. N. P. Willis is not precisely that which I received from hearing Grisi fourteen or fifteen years afterwards, and up to her last season. Of late years, at least, Madame Grisi has shown herself above all "a passionate singer," though as "accomplished artists" superior to her, if not in force at least in delicacy of expression, she has, from the time of Madame Sontag to that of Madame Bosio, had plenty of superiors. It seems to us, in the present day, that the "incontrollable passionate feeling of Grisi," is just what we admire her for in "Norma," beyond doubt her best character; but it is none the less interesting, or perhaps the more interesting for that very reason, to know what a man of taste in poetry and the drama, and who had heard all the best singers of his time, thought of Madame Grisi at a period when her most striking qualifications may have been different from what they are now. She was at all events a great singer and actress then, in 1833, and is a great actress and singer now, in 1861 – the year of her final retirement from the stage.

CHAPTER XIX.

ROSSINI – SPOHR – BEETHOVEN – WEBER AND HOFFMANN

ROSSINI

BELLINI and Donizetti were contemporaries of Rossini; so were Paisiello and Cimarosa; so are M. Verdi and M. Meyerbeer; but Rossini has outlived most of them, and will certainly outlive them all. It is now forty-eight years since Tancredi, forty-five since Otello, and forty-five since Il Barbiere di Siviglia were written. With the exception of Cimarosa's Matrimonio Segretto, which at long intervals may still occasionally be heard, the works of Rossini's Italian predecessors have been thrown into utter obscurity by the light of his superior genius. Let us make all due allowances for such change of taste as must result in music, as in all things, from the natural changeableness of the human disposition; still no variation has taken place in the estimation in which Rossini's works are held. It was to be expected that a musician of equal genius, coming after Paisiello and his compeers, young and vigorous, when they were old and exhausted, would in time completely eclipse them, even in respect to those works which they had written in their best days; but the remarkable thing is, that Rossini so re-modelled Italian opera, and gave to the world so many admirable examples of his own new style, that to opera-goers of the last thirty years he may be said to be the most ancient of those Italian composers who are not absolutely forgotten. At the same time, after hearing William Tell, it is impossible to deny that Rossini is also the most modern of operatic composers. That is to say, that since William Tell was produced, upwards of thirty years ago, the art of writing dramatic music has not advanced a step. Other composers have written admirable operas during Rossini's time; but if no Italian opera seria, produced prior to Otello, can be compared to Otello; if no opera, subsequent to William Tell, can be ranked on a level with William Tell; if rivals have arisen, and Rossini's operas of five-and-forty years ago still continue to be admired and applauded; above all, if a singer,[103 - Joanna Wagner.] the favourite heroine of a composer[104 - Richard Wagner.] who is so boastfully modern that he fancies he belongs to the next age, and who is nothing if not an innovator; if even this ultra modern heroine appears, when she wishes really to distinguish herself in a Rossinian opera of 1813;[105 - Tancredi.] then it follows that of our actual operatic period, and dating from the early part of the present century, Rossini is simply the Alpha and the Omega. Undoubtedly his works are full of beauty, gaiety, life, and of much poetry of a positive, passionate kind, but they are wanting in spiritualism, or rather they do not possess spirituality, and exhibit none of the poetry of romance. It would be difficult to say precisely in what the "romantic" consists; – and I am here reminded that several French writers have spoken of Rossini as a composer of the "romantic school," simply (as I imagine) because his works attained great popularity in France at the same time as those of Victor Hugo and his followers, and because he gave the same extension to the opera which the cultivators and naturalisers in France of the Shakspearian drama gave, after Rossini, to their plays.[106 - Once more, I may mention that the "romantic opera" (in the sense in which the French say "romantic drama,") was founded by Da Ponte and Mozart, the former furnishing the plan, the latter constructing the work – "The Opera of Operas."] I may safely say, however, that with the "romantic," as an element of poetry, we always associate somewhat of melancholy and vagueness, and of dreaminess, if not of actual mystery. A bright passionate love-song of Rossini's is no more "romantic" than is a magnificent summer's day under an Italian sky; but Schubert's well known Serenade is essentially "romantic;" and Schubert, as well as Hoffmann, (a composer of whom I shall afterwards have a few words to say), is decidedly of the same school as Weber, who is again of the same school, or rather of the same class, as Schubert and Beethoven, in so far that not one of the three ever visited Italy, or was influenced, further than was absolutely inevitable, by Italian composers.

SPOHR

As a romantic composer Weber may almost be said to stand alone. As a thoroughly German composer he belongs to the same class as Beethoven and Spohr. Spohr, greatly as his symphonies and chamber compositions are admired, has yet never established himself in public favour as an operatic composer – at least not in England, nor indeed anywhere out of Germany. I may add, that in Germany itself, the land above all others of scientific music, the works which keep possession of the stage are, for the most part, those which the public also love to applaud in other countries. The truth is, that the success of an opera is seldom in proportion to its abstract musical merit, just as the success of a drama does not depend, or depends but very little, on the manner in which it is written. We have seen plays by Browning, Taylor (I mean the author of Philip Von Artevelde), Leigh Hunt, and other most distinguished writers, prove failures; while dramas and comedies put together by actors and playwrights have met with great success. This success is not to be undervalued; all I mean to say is, that it is not necessarily gained by the best writers in the drama, or by the best composers in the opera; though the best composers and the best writers ought to take care to achieve it in every department in which they present themselves. In the meanwhile, Spohr's dramatic works, with all their beauties, have never taken root in this country; while even Beethoven's Fidelio, one of the greatest of operas, does not occupy any clearly marked space in the history of opera; nor is it as an operatic composer that Beethoven has gained his immense celebrity.

BEETHOVEN

All London opera-goers remember Mademoiselle Sophie Cruvelli's admirable performance in Fidelio; and like Mademoiselle Cruvelli (or Cruwel), all the great German singers who have visited England – with the single exception of Mademoiselle Titiens – have some time or other played the part of the heroine in Beethoven's famous dramatic work: but Fidelio has never been translated into English or French, – has never been played by any thoroughly Italian company, and admired, as it must always be by musicians – nor has ever excited any great enthusiasm among the English public, except when it has been executed by an entire company of Germans, – the only people who can do justice to its magnificent choruses. It is a work apart in more than one sense, and it has not had that perceptible influence on the works which have succeeded it, either in Germany or in other countries, that has been exercised by Weber's operas in Germany, and by Rossini's everywhere. For full particulars respecting Beethoven and his three styles, and Fidelio and its three overtures, the reader may be referred to the works published at St. Petersburgh by M. Lenz in 1852 (Beethoven et ses trois styles), at Coblentz, by Dr. Wegeler and Ferdinand Ries in 1838, and at Munster, by Schindler (that friend of Beethoven's, who, according to the malicious Heine, wrote "Ami de Beethoven" on his card), in 1845. Schindler's book is the sourse of nearly all the biographical particulars since published respecting Beethoven; that of M. Lenz is chiefly remarkable for the inflated nonsense it contains in the shape of criticism. Thus Beethoven's third style is said to be "un jugement porté sur le cosmos humain, et non plus une participation à ses impressions," – words which, I confess, I do not know how to render into intelligible English. His symphonies in general are "events of universal history rather than musical productions of more or less merit." Those who have read M. Lenz's extravagant production, will remember that he attacks here and there M. Oulibicheff, author of the "Life of Mozart," published at Moscow in 1844. M. Oulibicheff replied in a work devoted specially to Beethoven (and to M. Lenz), published at St. Petersburgh in 1854;[107 - The gist of M. Lenz's accusations against M. Oulibicheff amounts to this: that the latter, believing Mozart to have attained perfection in music, considered it impossible to go beyond him. "Ou ce caractère d'universalité que Mozart imprime à quelques-un de ses plus grandes chefs-d'œuvre," says M. Oulibicheff. "M'avait paru le progrès immense que la musique attendait pour se constituer définitivement, – pour se constituer, avais-je dit, et non pour ne plus avancer." According to M. Lenz, on the other hand, Mozart's master-pieces (after those which M. Lenz discovers among his latest compositions), are what preparatory studies are to a great work.] in which he is said by our best critics not to have done full justice to Beethoven, though he well maintains his assertion; an assertion which appears to me quite unassailable, that the composer of Don Juan combined all the merits of all the schools which had preceded him. I have already endeavoured, in more than one place, to impress this truth upon such of my readers as might not be sufficiently sensible of it, and moreover, that all the important operatic reforms attributed to the successors of Mozart, and especially to Rossini, belong to Mozart himself, who from his eminence dominates equally over the present and the past.

BORROWED THEMES

Karl Maria von Weber has had a very different influence on the opera from that exercised by Beethoven and Spohr; and so much of his method of operatic composition as could easily be imitated has found abundance of imitators. Thus Weber's plan of taking the principal melodies for his overtures from the operas which they are to precede, has been very generally followed; so also has his system of introducing national airs, more or less modified, when his great object is to give to his work a national colour.[108 - New form of his overtures, national melodies, &c. – (Straker). Love of traditions, melancholy, fanciful, spiritual; also popular. – (Der Freischütz).] This process, which produces admirable results in the hands of a composer of intelligence and taste, becomes, when adopted by inferior musicians, simply a convenient mode of plagiarism. Without for one moment ranking Rossini, Bellini, or Donizetti in the latter class, I may nevertheless observe, that the cavatina of La Gazza Ladra is founded on an air sung by the peasants of Sicily; that the melody of the trio in the Barber of Seville (Zitti, Zitti), is Simon's air in the Seasons, note for note; that Di tanti palpiti was originally a Roman Catholic hymn; that the music of La Sonnambula is full of reminiscences of the popular music of Sicily; and that Donizetti has also had recourse to national airs for the tunes of his choruses in La Favorite. In the above instances, which might easily be multiplied the composers seem to me rather to have suited their own personal convenience, than to have aimed at giving any particular "colour" to their works. However that may be, I feel obliged to them for my part for having brought to light beautiful melodies, which but for them might have remained in obscurity, as I also do to Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn, for the admirable use they also have occasionally made of popular themes. It appears to me, however, (to speak now of operatic composers alone) that there is a great difference between borrowing an air from an oratorio, a collection of national music, or any other source, simply because it happens to be beautiful, and doing so because it is appropriate to a particular personage or scene. We may not blame, but we cannot praise Rossini for taking a melody of Haydn's for his Zitti, Zitti, instead of inventing one for himself; nor was there any particular merit, except that of civility, in giving "Berta," in the same opera, a Russian air to sing, which Rossini had heard at the house of a Russian lady residing at Rome, for whom he had a certain admiration. But the Ranz des Vaches, introduced with such admirable effect into Guillaume Tell, where it is marvellously embellished, and yet loses nothing of its original character; this Ranz des Vaches at once transports us amongst the Swiss mountains. So Luther's hymn is in its proper place in the Huguenots;[109 - I will not here enter into the question whether or not Meyerbeer desecrated this hymn by introducing it into an opera. Such was the opinion of Mendelssohn, who thought that but for Meyerbeer and the Huguenots, Luther's hymn might have been befittingly introduced in an oratorio which he intended to compose on the subject of the Reformation.] so is the Persian air, made the subject of a chorus of Persian beauties by the Russian composer Glinka, in his Rouslan e Loudmila; so also is the Arabian march (first published by Niebuhr in his "Travels in Arabia"), played behind the scenes by the guards of the seraglio in Oberon, and the old Spanish romance employed as the foundation to the overture of Preciosa.

WEBER

Weber had a fondness not only for certain instrumental combinations and harmonic effects, but also for particular instruments, such as the clarionet and the horn, and particular chords (which caused Beethoven to say that Weber's Euryanthe was a collection of diminished sevenths). There are certain rhythms too, which, if Weber did not absolutely invent, he has employed so happily, and has shown such a marked liking for them (not only in his operas, but also in his pianoforte compositions, and other instrumental works), that they may almost be said to belong to him. With regard to the orchestral portion of his operas generally, I may remark that Weber, though too high-souled a poet to fall into the error of direct imitation of external noises, has yet been able to suggest most charmingly and poetically, such vague natural sounds as the rustling of the leaves of the forest, and the murmuring of the waves of the sea. Finally, to speak of what defies analysis, but to assert what every one who has listened to Weber's music will I think admit, his music is full of that ideality and spirituality which in literature is regarded in the present day, if not as the absolute essence of poetry, at least, as one of its most essential elements. Read Weber's life, study his letters, listen again and again to his music, and you will find that he was a conscientious, dutiful, religious man, with a thoroughly musical organization, great imaginative powers, inexhaustible tenderness, and a deep, intuitive appreciation of all that is most beautiful in popular legends. He was an artist of the highest order, and with him art was truly a religion. He believed in its ennobling effect, and that it was to be used only for ennobling purposes. Thus, to have departed from the poetic exigencies of a subject to gratify the caprice of a singer, or to attain the momentary applause of the public would, to Weber, with the faith he held, have been a heresy and a crime.

Weber has not precisely founded a school, but his influence is perceptible in some of the works of Mendelssohn, (as, for instance, in the overture to a Midsummer Night's Dream) and in many portions of Meyerbeer's operas, especially in the fantastic music of Robert le Diable, and in certain passages of Dinorah– a legend which Weber himself would have loved to treat. Meyerbeer is said to have borrowed many of his instrumental combinations from Weber; but in speaking of the points of resemblance between the two composers, I was thinking not of details of style, but of the general influence of Weber's thought and manner. If Auber is indebted to Weber it is simply for the idea of making the overture out of the airs of an opera, and of colouring the melodic portion by the introduction of national airs. Only while Weber gives to his operas a becoming national or poetic colour throughout, the musical tints in M. Auber's dramatic works are often by no means in harmony. The Italian airs in La Muette are appropriate enough, and the whole of that work is in good keeping; but in the Domino Noir, charming opera as it is, no one can help noticing that Spanish songs, and songs essentially French, follow one another in the most abrupt manner. As nothing can be more Spanish than the second movement of "Angèle's" scene (in the third act) so nothing can be more French, more Parisian, more vaudevillistic than the first.

DER FREISCHÜTZ

But to return to Weber and his operas. Der Freischütz, decidedly the most important of all Weber's works, and which expresses in a more remarkable manner than any other of his dramatic productions the natural bent of his genius, was performed for the first time at Berlin in 1821. Euryanthe was produced at Vienna in 1823, and Oberon at London in 1826. Der Freischütz is certainly the most perfect German opera that exists; not that it is a superior work to Don Giovanni, but that Don Giovanni is less a German than a universal opera; whereas Der Freischütz is essentially of Germany, by its subject, by the physiognomy of the personages introduced, and by the general character of the music. There is this resemblance, however, between Don Giovanni and Der Freischütz: that in each the composer had met with a libretto peculiarly suited to his genius – the librettist having first conceived the plan of the opera, and having long carried its germ in his mind. Lorenzo da Ponte, in his memoirs (of which an interesting account was published some years ago by M. Scudo, the accomplished critic of the Revue des Deux Mondes) states, that he had long thought of Don Juan as an admirable subject for an opera, of which he felt the poetic truthfulness only too well, from reflecting on his own career; and that he suggested it to Mozart, not only because he appreciated that composer's high dramatic genius, but also because he had studied his mental and moral nature; and saw, from his simplicity, his loftiness of character, and his reverential, religious disposition, that he would do full justice to the marvellous legend. Frederic Kind has also published a little volume ("Der Freischütz-Buch"), in which he explains how the circumstances of his life led him to meditate from an early age on such legends as that which Weber has treated in his master-piece. When Weber was introduced to Kind, he was known as the director of the Opera at Prague, and also, and above all, as the composer of numerous popular and patriotic choruses, which were sung by all Germany during the national war of 1813. He had not at this time produced any opera; nor had Kind, a poet of some reputation, ever written the libretto of one. Kind was unwilling at first to attempt a style in which he did not feel at all sure of success. One day, however, taking up a book, he said to Weber: "There ought to be some thing here that would suit us, and especially you, who have already treated popular subjects." He at the same time handed to the musician a collection of legends, directing his attention in particular to Apel's Freischütz. Weber, who already knew the story, was delighted with the suggestion. "Divine! divine!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm; and the poet at once commenced his libretto.

DER FREISCHÜTZ

No great work ever obtained a more complete and immediate triumph than Der Freischütz; and within a few years of its production at Berlin it was translated and re-produced in all the principal capitals of Europe. It was played at London in English, at Paris in French, and at both cities in German. In London it became so popular, that at the height of its first success a gentleman, in advertising for a servant, is said to have found it necessary to stipulate that he should not be able to whistle the airs from Der Freischütz. In Paris, its fate was curious, and in some respects almost inexplicable. It was brought out in 1824 at the Odéon, in its original form, and was hissed. Whether the intelligent French audience objected to the undeniable improbability of the chief incidents in the drama, or whether the originality of the music offended their unprepared ears, or whatever may have been the cause, Weber's master-piece was damned. Its translator, M. Castil Blaze, withdrew it, but determined to offer it to the critical public of the Odéon in another form. He did not hesitate to remodel Der Freischütz, changing the order of the pieces, cutting out such beauties as the French thought laughable, interpolating here and there such compositions of his own as he thought would please them, and finally presenting them this remarkable medley (which, however, still consisted mainly of airs and choruses by Weber) nine days after the failure of Der Freischütz, under the title of Robin des Bois. The opera, as decomposed and recomposed by M. Castil Blaze, was so successful, that it was represented three hundred and fifty-seven times at the Odéon. Moreover, it had already been played sixty times at the Opéra Comique, when the French Dramatic Authors' Society interfered to prevent its further representation at that theatre, on the ground that it had not been specially written for it. M. Castil Blaze, in the version he has himself published of this curious affair, tells us, that his first version of Der Freischütz, in which his "respect for the work and the author had prevented him from making the least change" was "sifflé, meurtri, bafoué, navré, moqué, conspué, turlupiné, hué, vilipendié, terrassé, déchiré, lacéré, cruellement enfoncé, jusqu'au troisiéme dessous." This, and the after success of his modified version, justified him, he thinks, in depriving Weber's work of all its poetry, and reducing it to the level of the comprehension of a French musical audience in the year 1824.

Strangely enough, when Berlioz's version of Der Freischütz was produced at the Académie in 1841, it met with scarcely more success than had been obtained by Der Freischütz in its original musical form at the Odéon. The recitatives added by M. Berlioz, if not objectionable in themselves, are at least to be condemned in so far that they are not Weber's, that they prolong the music beyond Weber's intentions, and, above all, that they change the entire character of the work. I cannot think, after Meyerbeer's Dinorah, that recitative is an inappropriate language in the mouths of peasants. Recitative of an heroic character, would be so, no doubt; but not such as a composer of genius, or even of taste or talent, would write for them. Nevertheless, Weber conceived his master-piece as a species of melodrama, in which the personages were now to sing, now to speak, "through the music," (to adopt an expressive theatrical phrase), now to speak without any musical accompaniment at all. If, at a theatre devoted exclusively to the performance of grand opera, it is absolutely necessary to replace the spoken dialogue by recitative, then this dialogue should, at least, be so compressed as to reduce the amount of added recitative to a minimum quantity. Der Freischütz, however, will always be heard to the greatest advantage in the form in which it was originally produced. The pauses between the pieces of music have, it must be remembered, been all premeditated, and their effect taken into account by the composer.

DER FREISCHÜTZ

But the transformations of Der Freischütz are not yet at an end. Six years ago M. Castil Blaze re-arranged his Robin des Bois once more, restored what he had previously cut out, cut out what he had himself added to Weber's music, and produced his version, No. 3 (which must have differed very little, if at all, from his unfortunate version, No. 1), at the Théâtre Lyrique.

Every season, too, it is rumoured that Der Freischütz is to be produced at one of the Italian theatres of London, with Mademoiselle Titiens or Madame Csillag in the principal part. When managers are tired of tiring the public with perpetual variations between Verdi and Meyerbeer, (to whose monstrously long operas my sole but sufficient objection is, that there is too much of them, and – with the exception of the charming Dinorah– that they are stuffed full of ballets, processions, and other pretexts for unnecessary scenic display), then we shall assuredly have an opportunity of hearing once more in England the masterpiece of the chief of all the composers of the romantic and legendary school. In such a case, who will supply the necessary recitatives? Those of M. Berlioz have been tried, and found wanting. Mr. Costa's were not a whit more satisfactory. M. Alary, the mutilator of Don Giovanni, would surely not be encouraged to try his hand on Weber's masterpiece? Meyerbeer, between whose genius and that of Weber, considerable affinity exists, is, perhaps, the only composer of the present day whom it would be worth while to ask to write recitatives for Der Freischütz. The additions would have to be made with great discretion, so as not to encumber the opera; but who would venture to give a word of advice, if the work were undertaken by M. Meyerbeer?

Weber's Preciosa was produced at Berlin in 1820, a year before Der Freischütz, which latter opera appears to have occupied its composer four years – undoubtedly the four years best spent of all his artistic life. The libretto of Preciosa is founded on Cervantes' Gipsy of Madrid, (of which M. Louis Viardot has published an excellent French translation); and here Weber, faithful to his system has given abundant "colour" to his work, in which the Spanish romance introduced into the overture, and the Gipsies' march are, with the waltz (which may be said to be in Weber's personal style), the most striking and characteristic pieces.

EURYANTHE

Euryanthe was written for Vienna, where it was represented for the first time in 1823, the part of "Euryanthe" being filled by Mademoiselle Sontag, that of "Adolar," by Heitzinger. The libretto of this opera, composed by a lady, Madame Wilhelmine de Chézy is by no means interesting, and the dulness of the poem, though certainly not communicated to the music, has caused the latter to suffer from the mere fact of being attached to it. Euryanthe was received coldly by the public of Vienna, and was called by its wits – professors of the "calembourg d'à-peu-près" —Ennuyante. If such facetiousness as this was thought enlivening, it is easy to understand how Weber's music was considered the reverse. I have already mentioned Beethoven's remark about Euryanthe being "a collection of diminished sevenths." Weber was naturally not enchanted with this observation; indeed it is said to have pained him exceedingly, and some days after the first production of Euryanthe he paid a visit to Beethoven, in order to submit the score to his judgment. Beethoven received him kindly, but said to him, with a certain roughness which was habitual to him: "You should have come to me before the representation, not afterwards…" Nevertheless," he added, "I advise you to treat Euryanthe as I did Fidelio; that is to say, cut out a third."

Euryanthe, however, soon met with the success it deserved, not only at Berlin, Dresden, and Leipzig, but at Vienna itself, where the part created by Mademoiselle Sontag was performed in 1825 by Madame Schrœder-Devrient, in a manner which excited general enthusiasm. The passionate duet between "Adolar" and "Euryanthe," in the second act, as sung by Heitzinger and Madame Schrœder, would alone have sufficed to attract the public of Vienna to Weber's opera, now that it was revived.

Oberon, Weber's last opera, was composed for Covent Garden Theatre, in 1826. Some ingenious depreciators of English taste have discovered that Weber died from grief, caused by the coldness with which this work was received by the London public. With regard to this subject, I cannot do better than quote the excellent remarks of M. Scudo. After mentioning that Oberon was received with enthusiasm on its first production at Covent Garden – that it was "appreciated by those who were worthy of comprehending it" – and that an English musical journal, the Harmonicon, "published a remarkable article, in which all the beauties of the score were brought out with great taste," he observes that "it is impossible to quote an instance of a great man in literature, or in the arts, whose merit was entirely overlooked by his contemporaries;" while, "as for the death of Weber, it may be explained by fatigue, by grief, without doubt, but, above all, by an organic disease, from which he had suffered for years." At the same time "the enthusiasm exhibited by the public, at the first representation of Oberon, did not keep at the same height at the following representations. The master-piece of the German composer experienced much the same fate as William Tell in Paris."

OBERON

Weber himself, in a letter written to his wife, on the very night of the first performance, says: – "My dear Lina; thanks to God and to his all powerful will, I obtained this evening the greatest success in my life. The emotion produced in my breast by such a triumph, is more than I can describe. To God alone belongs the glory. When I entered the orchestra, the house, crammed to the roof, burst into a frenzy of applause. Hats and handkerchiefs were waved in the air. The overture had to be executed twice, as had also several of the pieces in the opera itself. The air which Braham sings in the first act was encored; so was Fatima's romance, and a quartett in the second act. The public even wished to hear the finale over again. In the third act, Fatima's ballad was re-demanded. At the end of the representation I was called on to the stage by the enthusiastic acclamations of the public, an honour which no composer had ever before obtained in England. All went excellently, and every one around me was happy."

In spite of the enthusiasm inspired by Weber's works in England, when they were first produced, and for some years afterwards, we have now but rarely an opportunity of hearing one of them. Oberon, it is true, was brought out at Her Majesty's Theatre at the end of last season, when, not being able to achieve miracles, it did not save the manager from bankruptcy; but the existence of Weber's other works seems to be forgotten by our directors, English as well as Italian, though from time to time a rumour goes about, which proves to be a rumour and nothing more, that Der Freischütz is to be performed by one of our Italian companies. In the meanwhile Weber has found an abundance of appreciation in France, where, at the ably and artistically-conducted Théâtre Lyrique, Der Freischütz, Oberon, Euryanthe and Preciosa have all been brought out, and performed with remarkable success during the last few years.

A composer, whose works present many points of analogy with those of Weber, and which therefore belong essentially to the German romantic school, is Hoffmann – far better known by his tales than by his Miserere, his Requiem, his airs and choruses for Werner's Crusade of the Baltic, or his operas of Love and Jealousy, the Canon of Milan, or Undine. This last production has always been regarded as his master-piece. Indeed, with Undine, Hoffmann obtained his one great musical success; and it is easy to account for the marked favour with which that work was received in Germany. In the first place the fantastic nature of the subject was eminently suited to the peculiar genius of the composer. Then he possessed the advantage of having an excellent libretto, written by Lamotte-Fouqué, the author of the original tale; and, finally, the opera was admirably executed at the Royal Theatre of Berlin. Probably not one of my readers has heard Hoffmann's Undine, which was brought out in 1817, and I believe was never revived, though much of the music, for a time, enjoyed considerable popularity, and the composition, as a whole, was warmly and publicly praised by no less a personage than Karl Maria von Weber himself. On the other hand, Undine, and Hoffmann's music generally, have been condemned by Sir Walter Scott, who is reported not to have been able to distinguish one melody from another, though he had, of course, a profound admiration for Scotch ballads of all kinds. M. Fétis, too, after informing us that Hoffmann "gave music lessons, painted enormous pictures, and wrote licentious novels (where are Hoffmann's licentious novels?) without succeeding in making himself remarked in any style," goes on to assure us, without ever having heard Undine, that although there were "certain parts" in which genius was evinced, yet "want of connexion, of conformity, of conception, and of plan, might be observed throughout;" and that "the judgment of the best critics was, that such a work could not be classed among those compositions which mark an epoch in art."

HOFFMANN'S UNDINE

Weber had studied criticism less perhaps than M. Fétis; but he knew more about creativeness, and in an article on the opera of Undine, so far from complaining of any "want of connexion, of conformity, of conception, and of plan," the author of Der Freischütz says: "This work seems really to have been composed at one inspiration, and I do not remember, after hearing it several times, that any passage ever recalled me for a single minute from the circle of magic images that the artist evoked in my soul. Yes, from the beginning to the end, the author sustains the interest so powerfully, by the musical development of his theme, that after but a single hearing one really seizes the ensemble of the work; and detail disappears in the naïveté and modesty of his art. With rare renunciation, such as can be appreciated only by him who knows what it costs to sacrifice the triumph of a momentary success, M. Hoffmann has disdained to enrich some pieces at the expense of others, which it is so easy to do by giving them an importance, which does not belong to them as members of the entire work. The composer always advances, visibly guided by this one aspiration – to be always truthful, and keep up the dramatic action without ceasing, instead of checking or fettering it in its rapid progress. Diverse and strongly marked as are the characters of the different personages, there is, nevertheless, something which surrounds them all; it is that fabulous life, full of phantoms, and those soft whisperings of terror, which belong so peculiarly to the fantastic. Kühleborn is the character most strikingly put in relief, both by the choice of the melodies, and by the instrumentation which, never leaving him, always announces his sinister approach.[110 - Another proof that this device is not new in the hands of Herr Wagner.] This is quite right, Kühleborn appearing, if not as destiny itself, at least as its appointed instrument. After him comes Undine, the charming daughter of the waves, which, made sonorous, now murmur and break in harmonious roulades, now powerful and commanding, announce her power. The 'arietta' of the second act, treated with rare and subtle grace, seems to me a thorough success, and to render the character perfectly. 'Hildebrand,' so passionate, yet full of hesitation, and allowing himself to be carried away by each amorous desire, and the pious and simple priest, with his grave choral melody, are the next in importance. In the back-ground are Bertalda, the fisherman, and his wife, and the duke and duchess. The strains sung by the suite of the latter breathe a joyous, animated life, and are developed with admirable gaiety; thus forming a contrast with the sombre choruses of the spirits of the earth and water, which are full of harsh, strange progressions. The end of the opera, in which the composer displays, as if to crown his work, all his abundance of harmony in the double chorus in eight parts, appears to me grandly conceived and perfectly rendered. He has expressed the words – 'good night to all the cares and to all the magnificence of the earth' – with true loftiness, and with a soft melancholy, which, in spite of the tragic conclusion of the piece, leaves behind a delicious impression of calm and consolation. The overture and the final chorus which enclose the work here give one another the hand. The former, which evokes and opens the world of wonders, commences softly, goes on increasing, then bursts forth with passion; the latter is introduced without brusqueness, but mixes up with the action, and calms and satisfies it completely. The entire work is one of the most spiritual that these latter times have given us. It is the result of the most perfect and intimate comprehension of the subject, completed by a series of ideas profoundly reflected upon, and by the intelligent use of all the material resources of art; the whole rendered into a magnificent work by beautiful and admirably developed melodies."

M. Berlioz has said of Hoffmann's music, adding, however, that he had not heard a note of it, that it was "de la musique de littérateur." M. Fétis, having heard about as much of it, has said a great deal more; but, after what has been written concerning Hoffmann's principal opera by such a master and judge as Karl Maria von Weber, neither the opinion of M. Fétis, nor of M. Berlioz, can be of any value on the subject. The merit of Hoffmann's music has probably been denied, because the world is not inclined to believe that the same man can be a great writer and also a great musician. Perhaps it is this perversity of human nature that makes us disposed to hold M. Berlioz in so little esteem as an author; and I have no doubt that there are many who would be equally unwilling to allow M. Fétis any tolerable rank as a composer.

FINIS

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