Memoirs of Rossini

PREFACE.

THERE is no man, who, during the last twelve years, has been more frequently the subject of conversation from Moscow to Naples, from London to Vienna, from Paris to Calcutta, than the subject of these memoirs. His glory already knows no other bounds than those of civilization, and yet he has scarcely attained his thirty-second year.

The object of the following pages is to attempt a sketch of the circumstances that have tended to place him, at so early an age, on such a point of eminence.

The title upon which the present writer founds his claim to the confidence of the reader, is his having resided during the last ten years, in the cities which Rossini has delighted by the master-pieces of his art. The author has journeyed many a league, in order to be present at the first representation of several of his operas; he has, therefore, been placed in the way of hearing all the little anecdotes current in society, as well at Milan and Venice, as at Rome and Naples, at the time these operas were claiming the public attention.

The author of this work has also written two or three others, mostly upon subjects of a light nature. The critics have told him, that, before putting pen to paper, he ought to have furnished himself with certain oratorical and academical requisites, &c.—that he would never be able to make a book, &c.—that he would never have the honour to be a man of letters. Well, be it so, and yet certain persons whom I leave it to the public to name, have so modified the latter title, that certain other persons may, perhaps, think themselves very lucky in never being honoured with it.

Let the present book, therefore, be considered as no book at all. After the fall of Napoleon, the writer, unwilling to pass the best season of his life a dupe to political animosities, set out upon his rambles through the world. Finding himself in Italy at the time Rossini was enjoying such extraordinary success, and being then engaged in a correspondence with some friends in England and Poland, this subject naturally formed a prominent feature in it.

It is from the letters written at this period, that the author has, in a great measure, drawn the materials which form the present volume: it will not be read from any merits of its own, but merely from the interest that is felt with regard to Rossini. In whatever manner, say they, his history be written, it cannot fail to please, and the greater portion of the present materials were collected on the spot, and while the little events they record possessed a living interest.

I make no doubt but that some inaccuracies will be found amidst the variety of little details that fill the following pages. It is no easy task to write the memoirs of a cotemporary, much less those of Rossini, whose life leaves few other traces than the recollection of the agreeable sensations which he has awakened in our minds. It were to be wished that this great artist, who is, at the same time, one of the most agreeable of men, had undertaken the task of writing his own Memoirs, after the manner of Goldoni. As he is possessed of a hundred times more wit than Goldoni, and never waives his joke upon any occasion, his Memoirs could not have been otherwise than piquant and interesting. All I hope is, that the present life of Rossini may be found incorrect enough to put him out of humour with my temerity, and stimulate him to write one himself. But, before he does get out of humour, let me hasten to assure him that I feel the highest respect for his person and talents; more, indeed, than for any other man living, however great his wealth, or exalted his rank. The latter—to use a phrase of Rossini’s own—has gained a prize in the lottery of fortune, while he himself has gained the same in the lottery of nature;—and I may be allowed to add, a prize, the value of which no years will impair.

Montmorency, Sept. 30, 1823.

INTRODUCTION.

To enable the reader to form a correct idea of the talents of Rossini, and the rank he is entitled to hold in the art, it will be proper to take a rapid view of the inter-regnum that took place between Cimarosa and the subject of the present memoir, from 1800 to 1812.

It is a melancholy reflection, but the truth of which cannot, after due examination, be Called in question, that the beau ideal of music undergoes a change about every thirty years. Hence, in seeking to give a correct idea of the revolution brought about by Rossini, it will not be necessary to revert to a more distant epoch than that of Cimarosa and Paisiello.

Cimarosa died at Venice, the 11th of January, 1801, in consequence of the barbarous treatment he had experienced at Naples, where, on account of his having devoted his talents to celebrate the new state of things, he was doomed to linger for some time in prison.

Paisiello died only in 1816; but it may with truth be said, that, during the present century, the genius of the amiable and graceful, rather than brilliant and energetic, author of "Il Re Teodoro, and La Scuffiava," had ceased to be productive. The musical talent developes itself early, and but too frequently is as rapidly extinguished.

Cimarosa produces an impression on the imagination by long musical periods, which, to great richness, unite great regularity. In proof of this, I might cite the two first duets of the "Matrimonio secreto; and particularly the second, Io ti lascio perche finiti." These airs are the most beautiful that the human mind can conceive; but they are perfectly regular, and it is a regularity which the mind perceives without an effort. This is the misfortune: once acquainted with one or two of his airs, we know the rest, and, from the very beginning, foresee in some measure all that is to follow. The whole mischief lies in this word foresee, and it is in the secret of avoiding this error, that we shall find much of the success and glory of Rossini to consist.

Paisiello has not the power to awaken such profound emotions as Cimarosa; the images he awakens in the mind of his hearers seldom rise beyond the graceful; but he is admirable in this respect. His grace is that of Corregio, tender, rarely piquant, but seductive and irresistible. In proof of this I might adduce the quartett from "La Molinara, Quelli là." Paisiello has the remarkable custom of repeating the same trait in an air several times over, and yet every time with a fresh grace, that impresses it more forcibly on the mind of the hearers. Nothing is more opposite to the style of Cimarosa, sparkling with fancy, and full of energy and passion. Rossini also repeats himself, but he does it not expressly; what is a grace in Paisiello, is but indolence with him. But, lest I should be ranked among the detractors of this amiable man, I hasten to add, that he alone, among the moderns, deserves to be compared to the two great masters who ceased to shine towards the commencement of the nineteenth century.

After Cimarosa, and when Paisiello had ceased to write, music languished in Italy, and felt the want of an original genius. Rossini had composed something previous to 1812, but it was not till this year that he found an opportunity of composing for the grand theatre of Milan. In order to form a just estimate of his talents, we must take a rapid view of the composers who obtained any success from 1810 till 1812. After Cimarosa, and before the appearance of Rossini, two names present themselves, Mayer and Paër.

Mayer, a German, who finished his education in Italy, and has resided for a number of years at Bergamo, has written some fifty operas between 1795 and 1820, and obtained considerable success. There is much in his works to surprise and to please the ear. His talent principally consists in his orchestra, and the rich stores of harmony, which he has lavished to profusion in his ritornellos,* and the accompaniments of his airs. If his fort does not lie in making the human voice sing, at least he has made his instruments speak.

His "Lodoiska, given in 1800, eclipsed all the music of that period. This was followed, in 1801, by Le due Gironate; and, in 1802, by the Misteri Eleusini, which made as much noise in that day, as Il Don Giovanni has in our own; but the latter opera was not then known in Italy, and was considered as of too difficult execution. I Misteri Eleusini," passed for the most-brilliant and powerful work of that period. The march of the art was extraordinary; rapid strides were made from melody to harmony. The Italian masters quitted the easy and the simple, for the difficult and the learned.

Messrs. Mayer and Paër, being possessed of profound science, made a grand dash, and accomplished that which the other maestri only attempted with timidity, and by committing at every step a hundred faults against grammar. This gave these composers a false air of genius; and what tended to complete the illusion was, that they were really possessed of considerable talent.

It was a misfortune for these authors that Rossini came ten years too early. The epoch of a composer’s musical era is, as we before remarked, limited to a period of about thirty years; these masters have, therefore, to lament that it was not allowed them quietly to finish their stated period. Had Rossini not appeared till 1820, Messrs. Mayer and Paër might have figured in the annals of music, and ranked with a Leo, a Durante, a Scarlatti, &c. great masters of the first order, who enjoyed their period of renown.

Mayer is the most learned, as well as the most prolific, master of the inter-regnum; every thing with him is correct and according to rule. You may examine all the scores of his "Medea, Cora, Adelasio, and Elisa" without finding a single fault. It is the desperate perfection of a Boileau; one cannot imagine why one is not moved. Pass from this to an opera of Rossini, and you find yourself at once in the fresh and pure air of the Alps; you seem to breathe more at large; you at once feel the difference between the productions of genius and those of science. The young composer scatters abroad his ideas with a liberal hand; sometimes he is successful, at others he fails of his object. It is all negligence, all disorder; it is a thoughtless squandering of riches that have no end. To sum up all in one word, Mayer is the most correct composer; Rossini the greater artist. Mayer is to music, what Johnson was to English prose, he created a powerful and emphatic manner of his own, which was very far from nature and true beauty, but which nevertheless has its merit, and pleases, especially when we become accustomed to it. But Rossini came with his more free and natural style, and at once drew off the attention of the world from the ponderous magnificence of Mayer. Such is the fate that awaits all affectation in the fine arts: nature and true beauty are sure to predominate in the end, and the world feels astonished how it could have been a dupe so long.

M. Paër, in spite of his German name, is a native of Parma; and, after M. Mayer, is, of all the composers of the inter-regnum, the one that has enjoyed the greatest success. This, independent of his great and incontestable talents, may be attributed to other causes. He is a man of very agreeable manners, much wit, and considerable address. His being able to keep the Parisians for eight years strangers to Rossini, is cited as a proof of the eminent degree in which he excels in the latter qualification. For, if ever there was a composer formed to please the French, it is Rossini; Rossini is the Voltaire of music.

One of the first productions of M. Paër, is "L’Oro fa tutto, which was composed in 1793. La Griselda," his chef-d’œuvre, appeared in 1797. But why speak of an opera that has made the tour of Europe? Besides this, all the world admires "Sargine, which was produced in 1803. I should not hesitate to rank these two operas above all the rest of M. Paër’s productions. L’Agnese" does not appear to me to merit a place in the same class. It owes its success to the powerful fidelity with which it paints one of the severest inflictions with which humanity can be visited. The dreadful spectacle of a father driven to madness by the desertion of his daughter, is calculated to produce a powerful effect upon the mind, and easily dispose it to receive the impressions of music. Galli, Pellegrini, and particularly Ambrogetti, have been sublime in this character. But, however successful the attempt, I cannot but think that the fine arts ought never to avail themselves of subjects of horror. The filial piety of Cordelia consoles me for the madness of Lear; but nothing can render the frightful situation to which the father of Agnese is reduced, supportable. Music only serves to double our sensibility, and to render the scene more painful, by giving it an additional reality.

After speaking thus in full of the two leading names of this period, it only remains to give a list of composers of secondary abilities: they are as follows:—Anfossi, Coccia, Farinelli, Federici, Fioravanti, Generali, the two Guglielmi (father and son), Manfroce, Martini, Mosca, Nazolini, Nicolini, Orgitano, Orlandi, Pavesi, Portogallo, Salieri, Sarti, Tarchi, Trento, Weigl, Winter, Zingarelli.

The reader will doubtless be surprised to find me introducing the name of Mozart, as belonging to this period: I intreat his indulgence till he hears the reasons that have induced me so to do. While the musical scene in Italy was occupied by the composers above named, who all flattered themselves with being the legitimate successors of Cimarosa and Paisiello; and at the moment the public were beginning to persuade themselves of the same, a colossus was suddenly seen to appear in the midst of these lesser composers, who were only great by the absence of great men.

Mayer, Paër, and their imitators, had for a long time been endeavouring to adapt the German to the Italian taste, and, as half-measures please the feeble-minded of both parties, they gained considerable success with those whose admiration is not difficult of attainment. Mozart, on the contrary, like all great artists, had no other wish than to please himself, and those of his stamp: he never once dreamed of flattering or being flattered.

Besides, his personal presence was wanted; he was not there to pay his court to the great,—to bribe the venal journalist, in order to have his name in every mouth: the consequence was, that, till after his death, he was scarcely known beyond the limits of Germany. His rivals were always on the spot,—wrote their music for the voices of particular actors,—composed little duos for the prince’s mistress,—and found a thousand other little ways of securing interest and protection: and, yet, what is one of their operas when placed by the side of Mozart? Nay, the public feeling in Italy, about the year 1800, was altogether the reverse of favorable. At that time Mozart was considered little better than a romantic barbarian, who sought to invade the classical territory of the fine arts. It must not be imagined that this revolution, which seems so very simple now it is brought about, took place in a day.

Mozart, when still a lad, had composed two operas for the theatre of the Scala at Milan: "Mitradate, in 1770, and Lucio Silla," in 1773.* These operas were not wanting in success; but it is not probable that a lad of fourteen could stem the current of fashion. Besides, whatever might be the merit of these works, they were soon swallowed up in the torrent, and overwhelmed by the then all-powerful names of Sacchini, Piccini, and Paisiello.

About the year 1803, the news of the splendid triumphs which Mozart’s music was obtaining at Munich and Vienna, reached the ears of the dilettanti of Italy. At first it excited some little commotion, but it was soon quieted by their resolute incredulity. A barbarian reap laurels in the field of the arts! They had long been acquainted with his Symphonies and Quartettos; but, Mozart compose music for the voice! The same was said of him in Italy, as had been said of Shakspeare in France, by the partisans of the old system. He is a barbarian, not wanting in energy; some grains of gold were found in the refuse of Ennius; had he but been fortunate enough to profit by the lessons of Zingarelli or Paisiello, he might have done something. They contented themselves with these observations, and nothing further was said respecting Mozart.

In 1807, some Italians of distinction, whom Napoleon had taken into his suite, and whom circumstances brought to Munich, fell into conversation about Mozart; the result of which was, that they came to a resolution of trying one of his pieces,—the "Entführung dem Serail, I believe. But, to do justice to this opera, it was requisite to be a perfect symphonist; above all, it was necessary to be an excellent timist, and never to take any liberty with the text. It was no longer a question of music that can be repeated by rote, on hearing it sung once or twice over, like the C’est l’Amour, or the Di tanti palpiti." The Italian symphonists set to work, but nothing could they make of the ocean of notes that blackened the score of this northern artist. Above all, it was necessary that time should be scrupulously observed; that they should start together and come out at the last note, exactly at a given moment. Indolent amateurs would term such scrupulosity mere barbarism: this word was on the point of escaping from their lips, and they were on the very verge of abandoning Mozart for ever. However, certain young men of consideration, whom I could name, and who had more pride than vanity, could not persuade themselves but that it was ridiculous for Italians to give up music as too difficult. They threatened to withdraw their protection from the theatre, if the German opera, then in rehearsal, was not produced; and at last the work of Mozart was given, but

Heu! quantum mutatus ab ilio.

Poor Mozart! Many of those who were present