MODERN ITALY
VERDI--BOITO--PONCHIELLI--PUCCINI--MASCAGNI--LEONCAVALLO--GIORDANO
The death of Verdi occurred so recently that it is still possible to
speak of him as representing the music of modern Italy in its noblest
and most characteristic manifestation, but his life's record stretches
back to a very dim antiquity. His first work, 'Oberto, Conte di San
Bonifacio,' was performed in 1839, when 'Les Huguenots' was but three
years old, and 'Der Fliegende Holländer' still unwritten. It is
thoroughly and completely Italian in type, and, though belonging to a
past age in the matter of form, contains the germs of those qualities
which were afterwards to make Verdi so popular, the rough, almost brutal
energy which contrasted so strongly with the vapid sweetness of
Donizetti, and the vigorous vein of melody which throughout his career
never failed him. Verdi's next work, a comic opera known alternatively
as 'Un Giorno di Regno' and 'Il Finto Stanislao' (1840) was a failure.
'Nabucodonosor' (1842) and 'I Lombardi' (1843) established his
reputation in his own country and won favour abroad; but the opera
which gave him European fame was 'Ernani' (1844). The story is an
adaptation of Victor Hugo's famous play. Elvira, the chosen bride of Don
Silva, a Spanish grandee, loves Ernani, an exiled nobleman, who has had
to take refuge in brigandage. Silva discovers their attachment, but
being connected with Ernani in a plot against Charles V., he defers his
vengeance for the moment. He yields his claim upon Elvira's affection,
but exacts a promise from his rival, that when he demands it, Ernani
shall be prepared to take his own life. Charles's magnanimity frustrates
the conspiracy, and Silva, defeated alike in love and ambition, claims
the fulfilment of Ernani's oath, despite the prayers of Elvira, who is
condemned to see her lover stab himself in her presence. Hugo's
melodrama suited Verdi's blood-and-thunder style exactly. 'Ernani' is
crude and sensational, but its rough vigour never descends to weakness,
though it often comes dangerously near to vulgarity. 'Ernani' is the
opera most typical of Verdi's earliest period. With all its blemishes,
it is easy to see how its masculine vigour and energy must have
captivated the audiences of the day. But there were political as well as
musical reasons for the instantaneous success of Verdi's early operas.
Italy in the forties was a seething mass of sedition. Verdi's strenuous
melodies, often allied to words in which the passionate patriotism of
his countrymen contrived to read a political sentiment, struck like a
trumpet-call upon the ears of men already ripe for revolt against the
hated Austrian rule. Such strains as the famous 'O mia patria, si bella
e perduta' in 'Nabucodonosor' proclaimed Verdi the Tyrtæus of awakened
Italy.
'Ernani' was followed by a series of works which, for the sake of
Verdi's reputation, it is better to pass over as briefly as possible.
His success provided him with more engagements than he could
conscientiously fulfil, and the quality of his work suffered in
consequence. There are some fine scenes in 'I Due Foscari' (1844), but
it has little of the vigour of 'Ernani.' 'Giovanna d'Arco' (1845),
'Alzira' (1845), and 'Attila' (1846), were almost total failures. In
'Macbeth' (1847), however, Verdi seems to have been inspired by his
subject, and wrote better music than he had yet given to the world. The
libretto is a miserable perversion of Shakespeare, and for that reason
the opera has never succeeded in England, but in countries which can
calmly contemplate a ballet of witches, or listen unmoved to Lady
Macbeth trolling a drinking-song, it has had its day of success.
'Macbeth' is interesting to students of Verdi's development as the first
work in which he shows signs of emerging from his _Sturm und Drang_
period. There is some admirable declamatory music in it, which seems to
foreshadow the style of 'Rigoletto,' and the sleep-walking scene, though
old-fashioned in structure, is really impressive. After 'Macbeth' came
another series of works which are now forgotten. Among them was 'I
Masnadieri,' which was written for Her Majesty's Theatre in 1847.
Although the principal part was sung by Jenny Lind, the work was a
complete failure, and was pronounced by the critic Chorley to be the
worst opera ever produced in England. Passing quickly by 'Il Corsaro'
(1848), 'La Battaglia di Legnano' (1849), 'Luisa Miller' (1849) and
'Stiffelio' (1850), all of which have dropped completely out of the
current repertory, we come to the brilliant period in which Verdi
produced in succession three works which, through all changes of
taste and fashion, have manfully held their place in popular
favour--'Rigoletto,' 'Il Trovatore,' and 'La Traviata.' 'Rigoletto'
(1851) is founded upon Victor Hugo's drama, 'Le Roi s'amuse.' The
_locale_ of the story is changed, and the King of France becomes a Duke
of Mantua, but otherwise the original scheme of the work remains
unaltered. Rigoletto, the Duke's jester, has an only daughter, Gilda,
whom he keeps closely immured in an out-of-the-way part of the city, to
preserve her from the vicious influence of the court. The amorous Duke,
however, has discovered her retreat, and won her heart in the disguise
of a student. The courtiers, too, have found out that Rigoletto is in
the habit of visiting a lady, and jumping to the conclusion that she is
his mistress, determine to carry her off by night in order to pay the
jester out for the bitter insults which he loves to heap upon them.
Their plan succeeds, and Gilda is conveyed to the Palace. There she is
found by her father, and to his horror she confesses that she loves the
Duke. He determines to punish his daughter's seducer, and hires a bravo
named Sparafucile to put him out of the way. This worthy beguiles the
Duke, by means of the charms of his sister Maddalena, to a lonely inn on
the banks of the river, promising to hand over his body to Rigoletto at
midnight. Maddalena pleads tearfully for the life of her handsome lover,
but Sparafucile is a man of honour, and will not break his contract with
the jester. Rigoletto has paid for a body, and a body he must have.
However, he consents, should any stranger visit the inn that night, to
kill him in the Duke's place. Gilda, who is waiting in the street, hears
this and makes up her mind to die instead of her lover. She enters the
house, and is promptly murdered by Sparafucile. Her body, sewn up in a
sack, is handed over at the appointed hour to Rigoletto. The jester, in
triumph, is about to hurl the body into the river, when he hears the
Duke singing in the distance. Overcome by a horrible suspicion, he opens
the sack and is confronted by the body of his daughter.
The music of 'Rigoletto' is on a very different plane from that of
'Ernani.' Verdi had become uneasy in the fetters of the
cavatina-cabaletta tradition--the slow movement followed by the
quick--which, since the day of Rossini, had ruled Italian opera with a
rod of iron. In 'Rigoletto,' although the old convention still survives,
the composer shows a keen aspiration after a less trammelled method of
expressing himself. Rigoletto's great monologue is a piece of
declamation pure and simple, and as such struck a note till then
unheard in Italy. The whole of the last act is a brilliant example of
Verdi's picturesque power, combined with acute power of
characterisation. The Duke's gay and lightsome _canzone_, the
magnificent quartet, in which the different passions of four personages
are contrasted and combined with such consummate art, and the sombre
terrors of the tempest, touch a level of art which Verdi had not till
then attained, nor was to reach again until the days of 'Aida,' twenty
years later.
'Il Trovatore' (1853) is melodrama run mad. The plot is terribly
confused, and much of it borders on the incomprehensible, but the
outline of it is as follows. The mother of Azucena, a gipsy, has been
burnt as a witch by order of the Count di Luna. In revenge Azucena
steals one of his children, whom she brings up as her own son under the
name of Manrico. Manrico loves Leonora, a lady of the Spanish Court, who
is also beloved by his brother, the younger Count di Luna. After various
incidents Manrico falls into the Count's hands, and is condemned to
death. Leonora offers her hand as the price of his release, which the
Count accepts. Manrico refuses liberty on these terms, and Leonora takes
poison to escape the fulfilment of her promise.
The music of 'Il Trovatore' shows a sad falling off from the promise of
'Rigoletto.' Face to face with such a libretto, Verdi probably felt that
refinement and characterisation were equally out of the question, and
fell back on the coarseness of his earlier style. 'Il Trovatore' abounds
with magnificent tunes, but they are slung together with very little
feeling for appropriateness. There is a brutal energy about the work
which has been its salvation, for of the higher qualities, which make a
fitful appearance in 'Rigoletto,' there is hardly a trace.
'La Traviata' (1853) is an operatic version of Dumas's famous play, 'La
Dame aux Caméllias.' The sickly tale of the love and death of Marguerite
Gauthier, here known as Violetta, is hardly an ideal subject for a
libretto, and it says much for Verdi's versatility that, after his
excursions into transpontine melodrama, he was able to treat
'drawing-room tragedy' with success. Alfredo Germont loves Violetta, the
courtesan, and establishes himself with her in a villa outside Paris.
There his old father pays Violetta a visit, and, by representing that
the matrimonial prospects of his daughter are injured by Violetta's
connection with Alfredo, induces her to leave him. Alfredo is indignant
at Violetta's supposed inconstancy, and insults her publicly at a ball
in Paris. In the last act Violetta dies of consumption after an
affecting reconciliation with her lover. The music of 'La Traviata' is
in strong contrast to Verdi's previous work. The interest of Dumas's
play is mainly psychological, and demands a delicacy of treatment which
would have been thrown away upon the melodramatic subjects which Verdi
had hitherto affected. Much of his music is really graceful and
refined, but his efforts to avoid vulgarity occasionally land him in
the slough of sentimentality. Nevertheless, the pathos which
characterises some of the scenes has kept 'La Traviata' alive, though
the opera is chiefly employed now as a means of allowing a popular prima
donna to display her high notes and her diamonds.
'Les Vêpres Siciliennes,' which was produced in Paris in 1855, during
the Universal Exhibition, only achieved a partial success, and 'Simon
Boccanegra' (1857), even in the revised and partly re-written form which
was performed in 1881, has never been popular out of Italy. 'Un Ballo in
Maschera' (1861), on the other hand, was for many years a great
favourite in this country, and has recently been revived with remarkable
success. The scene of the opera is laid in New England. Riccardo, the
governor of Boston, loves Amelia, the wife of his secretary, Renato.
After a scene in a fortune-teller's hut, in which Riccardo's death is
predicted, the lovers meet in a desolate spot on the seashore. Thither
also comes Renato, who has discovered a plot against his chief and
hastens to warn him of his danger. In order to save Riccardo's life
Renato resorts to the time-honoured device of an exchange of cloaks.
Thus effectually disguised Riccardo makes his escape, leaving Amelia,
also completely unrecognisable in a transparent gauze veil, in charge of
her unsuspecting husband, who has promised to convey her home in safety.
Enter the conspirators, who attack Renato; Amelia rushes between the
combatants, and at the psychological moment her veil drops off. Tableau
and curtain to a mocking chorus of the conspirators, which forms a
sinister background to the anguish and despair of the betrayed husband
and guilty wife. In the next act Renato joins forces with the
conspirators, and in the last he murders Riccardo at the masked ball
from which the opera takes its name. 'Un Ballo in Maschera' is one of
the best operas of Verdi's middle period. Like 'Rigoletto' it abounds in
sharp and striking contrasts of character, the gay and brilliant music
of the page Oscar, in particular, forming an effective foil to the more
tragic portions of the score. The same feeling for contrast is
perceptible in 'La Forza del Destino,' in which the gloom of a most
sanguinary plot is relieved by the humours of a vivandière and a comic
priest. This work, which was produced at St. Petersburg in 1862, has
never been popular out of Italy, and 'Don Carlos,' which was written for
the Paris Exhibition of 1867, seems also to be practically laid upon the
shelf. It tells of the love of Don Carlos for his stepmother, Elizabeth,
the wife of Philip II. of Spain, and apart from the dulness of the
libretto, has the faults of a work of transition. Verdi's earlier manner
was beginning to lie heavily upon his shoulders, but he was not yet
strong enough to sever his connection with the past. There are scenes in
'Don Carlos' which foreshadow the truth and freedom of 'Aida,' but their
beauty is often marred by strange relapses into conventionality.
'Aida' (1871) was the result of a commission from Ismail Pacha, who
wished to enhance the reputation of his new opera-house at Cairo by the
production of a work upon an Egyptian subject from the pen of the most
popular composer of the day. The idea of the libretto seems to have been
originally due to Mariette Bey, the famous Egyptologist, who had
happened to light upon the story in the course of his researches. It was
first written in French prose by M. Camilla du Locle in collaboration
with Verdi himself, and afterwards translated by Signor Ghislanzoni.
Aida, the daughter of Amonasro, the King of Ethiopia, has been taken
prisoner by the Egyptians, and given as a slave to the princess Amneris.
They both love the warrior Radames, the chosen chief of the Egyptian
army, but he cares nothing for Amneris, and she vows a deadly vengeance
against the slave who has supplanted her. Radames returns in triumph
from the wars, bringing with him a chain of prisoners, among whom is
Amonasro. The latter soon finds out Aida's influence over Radames, and
half terrifies, half persuades her into promising to extract from her
lover the secret of the route which the Egyptian army will take on the
morrow on their way to a new campaign against the Ethiopians. Aida
beguiles Radames with seductive visions of happiness in her own country,
and induces him to tell her the secret. Amonasro, who is on the watch,
overhears it and escapes in triumph, while Radames, in despair at his
own treachery, gives himself up to justice. Amneris offers him pardon
if he will accept her love, but he refuses life without Aida, and is
condemned to be immured in a vault beneath the temple of Phtha. There he
finds Aida, who has discovered a means of getting in, and has made up
her mind to die with her lover. They expire in each other's arms, while
the solemn chant of the priestesses in the temple above mingles with the
sighs of the heart-broken Amneris.
'Aida' was an immense advance upon Verdi's previous work. The Egyptian
subject, so remote from the ordinary operatic groove, seems to have
tempted him to a fresher and more vivid realism, and the possibilities
of local colour opened a new world to so consummate a master of
orchestration. The critics of the day at once accused Verdi of imitating
Wagner, and certain passages undoubtedly suggest the influence of
'Lohengrin,' but as a whole the score is thoroughly and radically
Italian. In 'Aida' Verdi's vein of melody is as rich as ever, but it is
controlled by a keen artistic sense, which had never had full play
before. For the first time in his career he discovered the true balance
between singers and orchestra, and at once took his proper place among
the great musicians of the world. Special attention must be directed to
Verdi's use of local colour in 'Aida.' This is often a dangerous
stumbling-block to musicians, but Verdi triumphed most where all the
world had failed. In the scene of the consecration of Radames, he
employs two genuine Oriental tunes with such consummate art that this
scene is not only one of the few instances in the history of opera in
which Oriental colour has been successfully employed, but, in the
opinion of many, is the most beautiful part of the whole opera. Another
magnificent scene is the judgment of Radames, in the fourth act, where
an extraordinary effect is gained by the contrast of the solemn voices
of the priests within the chamber with the passionate grief of Amneris
upon the threshold. The love scene, in the third act, shows the lyrical
side of Verdi's genius in its most voluptuous aspect. The picture of the
palm-clad island of Philae and the dreaming bosom of the Nile is
divinely mirrored in Verdi's score. The music seems to be steeped in the
odorous charm of the warm southern night.
Sixteen years elapsed before the appearance of Verdi's next work. It was
generally supposed that the aged composer had bidden farewell for ever
to the turmoil and excitement of the theatre, and the interest excited
by the announcement of a new opera from his pen was proportionately
keen. The libretto of 'Otello' (1887), a masterly condensation of
Shakespeare's tragedy, was from the pen of Arrigo Boito, himself a
musician of no ordinary accomplishment. The action of the opera opens in
Cyprus, amidst the fury of a tempest. Othello arrives fresh from a
victory over the Turks, and is greeted enthusiastically by the people,
who light a bonfire in his honour. Then follows the drinking scene.
Cassio, plied by Iago, becomes intoxicated and fights with Montano. The
duel is interrupted by the entrance of Othello, who degrades Cassio
from his captaincy, and dismisses the people to their homes. The act
ends with a duet of flawless loveliness between Othello and Desdemona,
the words of which are ingeniously transplanted from Othello's great
speech before the Senate. In the second act Iago advises Cassio to
induce Desdemona to intercede for him, and, when left alone, pours forth
a terrible confession of his unfaith in the famous 'Credo.' This, one of
the few passages in the libretto not immediately derived from
Shakespeare, is a triumph on Boito's part. The highest praise that can
be given to it is to say, which is the literal truth, that it falls in
no way beneath the poetical and dramatic standard of its context.
Othello now enters, and Iago contrives to sow the first seeds of
jealousy in his breast by calling his attention to Cassio's interview
with Desdemona. Then follows a charming episode, another of Boito's
interpolations, in which a band of Cypriotes bring flowers to Desdemona.
Othello is won for the moment by the guileless charm of her manner, but
his jealousy is revived by her assiduous pleading for Cassio. He thrusts
her from him, and the handkerchief with which she offers to bind his
brow is secured by Iago. Left with his chief, Iago fans the rising flame
of jealousy, and the act ends with Othello's terrific appeal to Heaven
for vengeance upon his wife. In the third act, after an interview of
terrible irony and passion between Othello and Desdemona, in which he
accuses her to her face of unchastity, and laughs at her indignant
denial. Cassio appears with the handkerchief which he has found in his
chamber. Iago ingeniously contrives that Othello shall recognise it, and
at the same time arranges that he shall only hear as much of the
conversation as shall confirm him in his infatuation. Envoys from Venice
arrive, bearing the order for Othello's recall and the appointment of
Cassio in his place. Othello, mad with rage and jealousy, strikes
Desdemona to the earth, and drives every one from the hall. Then his
overtaxed brain reels, and he sinks swooning to the floor. The shouts of
the people outside acclaim him as the lion of Venice, while Iago, his
heel scornfully placed on Othello's unconscious breast, cries with
ghastly malevolence, 'Ecco il Leone.' The last act follows Shakespeare
very closely. Desdemona sings her Willow Song, and, as though conscious
of approaching calamity, bids Emilia a pathetic farewell. Scarcely are
her eyes closed in sleep, when Othello enters by a secret door, bent on
his fell purpose. He wakes her with a kiss, and after a brief scene
smothers her with a pillow. Emilia enters with the news of an attempt to
assassinate Cassio. Finding Desdemona lead, she calls for help. Cassio,
Montano, and others rush in; Iago's treachery is unmasked, and Othello
in despair stabs himself, dying in a last kiss upon his dead wife's
lips.
In 'Otello' Verdi advanced to undreamed-of heights of freedom and
beauty. 'Aida' was a mighty step towards the light, but with 'Otello' he
finally shook off the trammels of convention. His inexhaustible stream
of melody remained as pure and full as ever, while the more declamatory
parts of the opera, down to the slightest piece of recitative, are
informed by a richness of suggestion, and an unerring instinct for
truth, such as it would be vain to seek in his earlier work. Rich and
picturesque as much of the orchestral writing is, the voice remains, as
in his earlier works, the key-stone of the whole structure, and though
motives are occasionally repeated with exquisite effect--as in the case
of the 'Kiss' theme from the duet in the first act, which is heard again
in Othello's death scene--Verdi makes no pretence at imitating Wagner's
elaborate use of guiding themes. There is an artistic reason for this,
apart from the radical difference between the German and Italian views
of opera. In 'Otello' the action is rapid for the most part, and in many
scenes the music only aims at furnishing a suitable accompaniment to the
dialogue. A symphonic treatment of the orchestra, in such scenes as that
between Iago and Othello in the second act, would tend to obscure the
importance of the dialogue upon the stage, every word of which for the
proper comprehension of the drama, must be forcibly impressed upon the
listener's attention. In such a scene as the handkerchief trio, in which
the situation remains practically the same for some time, a symphonic
treatment of the orchestra is thoroughly in place, and here Verdi
displays extraordinary skill in working out his theme, though even here
his method has very little resemblance to that of Wagner.
Six years after 'Otello' came 'Falstaff,' produced in 1893, when Verdi
was in his eightieth year. Boito's libretto is a cleverly abbreviated
version of Shakespeare's 'Merry Wives of Windsor,' with the addition of
two or three passages from 'Henry IV.' There are three acts, each of
which is divided into two scenes. The first scene takes place in the
Garter Inn at Windsor. Falstaff and his trusty followers, Bardolph and
Pistol, discomfit Dr. Caius, who comes to complain of having been
robbed. Falstaff then unfolds his scheme for replenishing his coffers
through the aid of Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page, and bids his faithful
esquires carry the famous duplicate letters to the comely dames. Honour,
however intervenes, and they refuse the office. Falstaff then sends his
page with the letters, pronounces his celebrated discourse upon honour,
and hunts Bardolph and Pistol out of the house. In the second scene, we
are in Ford's garden. The letters have arrived, and the merry wives
eagerly compare notes and deliberate upon a plan for avenging themselves
upon their elderly wooer. Dame Quickly is despatched to bid Falstaff to
an interview. Meanwhile Nannetta Ford, the 'Sweet Anne Page' of
Shakespeare, has contrived to gain a stolen interview with her lover
Fenton, while the treacherous Bardolph and Pistol are telling Ford of
their late master's designs on is wife's honour. Ford's jealousy is
easily aroused, and he makes up his mind to carry the war into the
enemy's country by visiting Falstaff in disguise. The second act takes
us back to the Garter. Dame Quickly arrives with a message from Mrs.
Ford. Falstaff is on fire at once, and agrees to pay her a visit between
the hours of two and three. Ford now arrives, calling himself Master
Brook, and paves his way with a present of wine and money. He tells
Falstaff of his hopeless passion for a haughty dame of Windsor, Mrs.
Alice Ford, begging the irresistible knight to woo the lady, so that,
once her pride is broken, he too may have a chance of winning her
favour. Falstaff gladly agrees, and horrifies the unlucky Ford by
confiding the news to him that he already has an assignation with the
lady fixed for that very afternoon. The second scene is laid in a room
in Ford's house. The merry wives are assembled, and soon Falstaff is
descried approaching. Mrs. Ford entertains him for a few minutes, and
then, according to their arrangement, Dame Quickly runs in to say that
Mrs. Page is at the door. Falstaff hastily hides himself behind a large
screen, but the jest changes to earnest when Mrs. Page herself rushes in
to announce that Ford, mad with jealousy and rage, has raised the whole
household and is really coming to look for his wife's lover. The women
quickly slip Falstaff into a huge basket and cover him with dirty linen,
while Nannetta and Fenton who have been indulging in another stolen
interview slip behind the screen. Ford searches everywhere for Falstaff
in vain, and is beginning to despair of finding him, when the sound of a
kiss behind the screen arrests his attention. He approaches it
cautiously, and thrusts it aside only to find his daughter in Fenton's
arms. Meanwhile Mrs. Ford calls on her servants. Between them they
manage to lift the gigantic basket, and, while she calls her husband to
view the sight, carry it to the window and pitch it out bodily into the
Thames. The first scene of the third act is devoted to hatching a new
plot to humiliate the fat knight, and the second shows us a moonlit
glade in Windsor Forest, whither he has been summoned by the agency of
Dame Quickly. There all the characters assemble disguised as elves and
fairies. They give Falstaff a _mauvais quart d'heure_, and end by
convincing him that his amorous wiles are useless against the virtue of
honest burghers' wives. Meanwhile Nannetta has induced her father, by
means of a trick, to consent to her marriage with Fenton, and the act
ends with a song of rejoicing in the shape of a magnificent fugue in
which every one joins.
Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about 'Falstaff' is that it was
written by a man eighty years old. It is the very incarnation of youth
and high spirits. Verdi told an interviewer that he thoroughly enjoyed
writing it, and one can well believe his words. He has combined a
schoolboy's sense of fun with the grace and science of a Mozart. The
part-writing is often exceedingly elaborate, but the most complicated
concerted pieces flow on as naturally as a ballad. The glorious final
fugue is an epitome of the work. It is really a marvel of contrapuntal
ingenuity, yet it is so full of bewitching melody and healthy animal
spirits that an uncultivated hearer would probably think it nothing but
an ordinary jovial finale. In the last act Verdi strikes a deeper note.
He has caught the charm and mystery of the sleeping forest with
exquisite art. There is an unearthly beauty about this scene, which is
new to students of Verdi. In the fairy music, too, he reveals yet
another side of his genius. Nothing so delicate nor so rich in
imaginative beauty has been written since the days of Weber.
It is impossible as yet to speak with any degree of certainty as to
Verdi's probable influence upon posterity. With all his genius he was
perhaps hardly the man to found a school. He was not, like his great
contemporary Wagner, one of the world's great revolutionists. His genius
lay not in overturning systems and in exploring paths hitherto
untrodden, but in developing existing materials to the highest
conceivable pitch of beauty and completeness. His music has nothing to
do with theories, it is the voice of nature speaking in the idiom of
art.
Of the composers who modelled their style upon Verdi's earlier manner,
the most important were Petrella (1813-1877); Apolloni (1822-1889), the
composer of 'L'Ebreo,' a melodrama of a rough and ready description,
which was produced in 1855 and went the round of all the theatres of
Italy; and Carlos Gomez (1839-1896), a Brazilian composer, whose opera,
'Il Guarany,' was performed in London in 1872. In him Verdi's vigour
often degenerated into mere brutality, but his work is by no means
without power, though he has little claim to distinction of style. Of
the many operas written by Marchetti (1835-1902) only one, 'Ruy Blas,'
founded upon Victor Hugo's play, achieved anything like permanent
success. In form and general outline it owes much to Verdi's influence,
but the vein of tender melody which runs through it strikes a note of
individual inspiration. It was performed in London in 1877.
Arrigo Boito, to whom the University of Cambridge accorded the honour of
an honorary degree in 1893, has written but one opera, 'Mefistofele,'
but his influence upon modern Italian music must be measured in inverse
ratio to his productive power. When 'Mefistofele' was originally
produced in 1868, Verdi's genius was still in the chrysalis stage, and
the novelty and force of Boito's music made 'Mefistofele,' even in its
fall--for the first performance was a complete failure--a rallying point
for the Italian disciples of truth and sincerity in music. In 1875 it
was performed in a revised and abbreviated form, and since then has
taken its place among the masterpieces of modern Italy. Boito's libretto
reproduces the atmosphere of Goethe's drama far more successfully than
any other of the many attempts to fit 'Faust' to the operatic stage. It
is a noble poem, but from the merely scenic point of view it has many
weaknesses. Its principal failing is the lack of one continuous thread
of interest. The opera is merely a succession of episodes, each nicely
calculated to throw fresh light upon the character of Faust, but by no
means mutually connected. The prologue opens in Heaven, where the
compact is made regarding the soul of Faust. The next scene shows the
Kermesse, changing to Faust's study, where Mephistopheles appears and
the contract is signed which binds him to Faust's service. We then pass
to the garden scene, in which Faust is shown as Margaret's lover. Then
come the Witches' Sabbath on the summit of the Brocken, and the prison
scene with the death of Margaret. After this we have two scenes from the
second part of Goethe's 'Faust,' the classical Sabbath, in which the
union of Helen and Faust symbolises the embrace of the Greek and
Germanic ideals, and the redemption of Faust with the discomfiture of
Mephistopheles, which ends the work. Although 'Mefistofele' is
unsatisfactory as a whole, the extraordinary beauty of several single
scenes ought to secure for it such immortality as the stage has to
offer. Boito is most happily inspired by Margaret, and the two scenes in
which she appears are masterpieces of beauty and pathos. In the garden
scene he has caught the ineffable simplicity of her character with
astonishing success. The contrast between her girlish innocence and the
voluptuous sentiment of Gounod's heroine cannot fail to strike the most
careless listener. The climax of this scene, the delightfully tender and
playful quartet, which culminates in a burst of hysterical laughter, is
a stroke of genius. In the prison scene Boito rises to still greater
heights. The poignant pathos of the poor maniac's broken utterances, the
languorous beauty of the duet, and the frenzied terror and agony of the
finale, are beyond praise.
Amilcare Ponchielli (1834-1886) owed much to both Verdi and Boito, and
his best work, 'La Gioconda,' which was produced in 1876, bears
unmistakable traces of the influence of 'Mefistofele' and 'Aida.' The
libretto of 'La Gioconda' is founded upon a gloomy play by Victor Hugo,
'Angelo, Tyran de Padoue.' La Gioconda, a Venetian street singer, buys
the safety of her lover Enzo from the spy Barnaba with her own hand,
only to find that the former uses his new-found liberty to prosecute an
intrigue with another woman. She generously contrives to save the lives
of Enzo and his mistress, which are threatened by the vengeance of the
latter's husband, and commits suicide in order to escape falling into
the hands of Barnaba. Ponchielli's opera overflows with melody of a
rather commonplace description. He has, besides, a certain dramatic
gift, and the concerted music in 'La Gioconda' is powerful and
effective. The ballet music is unusually good, and shows many favourable
examples of Ponchielli's fondness for fanciful melodic designs, a
mannerism which has been freely imitated by his pupils and followers.
Another meritorious composer of the same school was Alfredo Catalani
(1854-93), whose 'Lorelei' (1890) and 'La Wally' (1892) still hold the
stage.
The most important of the younger men is Giacomo Puccini, a composer who
during the last decade has come to the front in a decisive manner. His
first opera, 'Le Villi,' was produced in 1884. The subject is a strange
one to have taken the fancy of a southern composer. It is founded upon
one of those weird traditions which seem essentially the property of
Northern Europe. Villi, or in English, Wilis, are the spirits of
affianced damsels, whose lovers have proved untrue. They rise from the
earth at midnight, and assemble upon the highway attired in all their
bridal finery. From midnight until dawn they wheel their wild dances and
watch for their faithless lovers. If one of the latter happen to pass,
he is beguiled into the magic circle, and in the grasp of the relentless
Wilis is whirled round and round until he sinks expiring upon the
ground. In Puccini's opera, the scene is laid in the Black Forest. The
characters are three in number--- Anna, her _fiancé_ Robert, and her
father Wilhelm Wulf. The first act opens with the betrothal of the
lovers. After the usual festivities Robert departs for Mayence, whither
he has to go to claim an inheritance. Six months elapse between the
first and second acts. Robert has fallen into the toils of an abandoned
woman, and is still at Mayence; Anna has died of a broken heart. The
second act opens with two orchestral movements, 'L'Abbandono,' which
describes the funeral of Anna, and 'La Tregenda,' the dance of the
Wilis. Robert now appears, torn by remorse, and pours forth his
unavailing regrets. But the hour of repentance is past. Anna and her
attendant Wilis rush on. The unfortunate man, in a kind of hypnotic
trance, is drawn into their circling dance. They whirl him round and
round in ever wilder and more fantastic gambols, until he drops lifeless
upon the ground, and the avenging spirits disappear with a Hosanna of
triumph. There is little attempt at local colour in 'Le Villi,' but the
music is full of imaginative power. In the purely orchestral parts of
the work the composer seems to have escaped from convention altogether,
and has written music instinct with weird suggestion and unearthly
force.
Puccini's next opera, 'Edgar' (1889), was a failure, but in 'Manon
Lescaut' (1893) he once more achieved success. His treatment of the Abbé
Prévost's romance, as may well be imagined, differs _in toto_ from that
of Massenet. The libretto, in the first place, is laid out upon an
entirely different plan. It consists of a string of detached scenes with
but little mutual connection, which, without some previous knowledge of
the story, would be barely comprehensible. The first act deals with the
meeting of the lovers at Amiens and their flight to Paris. In the second
act we find Manon installed as the mistress of Géronte di Lavoir,
surrounded by crowds of admirers. Des Grieux penetrates to her
apartment, and after a scene of passionate upbraiding persuades her to
fly with him. But before they can depart they are interrupted by the
entrance of Manon's irate protector, who, in revenge for her
faithlessness, summons the police and consigns her to St. Lazare. The
third act shows the quay at Havre, and the embarkation of the _filles de
joie_ for New Orleans; and the last act, which takes place in America,
is one long duet between Manon and Des Grieux, ending with Manon's
death. Puccini looked at the story of Manon through Italian spectacles.
His power of characterisation is limited, and there is little in his
music to differentiate Manon and her lover from the ordinary hero and
heroine of Italian opera. The earlier scenes of the opera demand a
lighter touch than he could then command, but in the tragic scene at
Havre he is completely successful. Here he strikes the true note of
tragedy. The great concerted piece with which the act ends is a masterly
piece of writing, and proves that Puccini can handle a form, which as
employed by lesser men is a synonym for stereotyped conventionality,
with superb passion and sincerity.
But Puccini's earlier successes sank into insignificance by the side of
the triumph of 'La Bohème,' which was produced in 1896. It was
impossible to weave a connected story from Murger's famous novel.
Puccini's librettists attempted nothing of the kind. They took four
scenes each complete in itself and put them before the audience without
any pretence of a connecting thread of interest. In the first act we see
the joyous quartet of Bohemians in their Paris attic--Rodolphe the poet,
Marcel the painter, Colline the philosopher, and Schaunard the musician.
Rodolphe sacrifices the manuscript of his tragedy to keep the fire
going, and Marcel keeps the landlord at bay, until the arrival of
Schaunard with an unexpected windfall of provisions raises the spirits
of the company to the zenith of rapture. Three of the Bohemians go out
to keep Christmas Eve at their favourite café, leaving Rodolphe to
finish an article. To him enters Mimi, an embroiderer, who lodges on the
same floor, under pretence of asking for a light. A delicious love-duet
follows, and the lovers go off to join their friends. The next scene is
at the Café Momus, where Musette appears with a wealthy banker. She
speedily contrives to get the banker out of the way and rushes into the
arms of her old lover, Marcel. This scene, which is very short, is a
carnival of bustle and gaiety, and is a brilliant example of Puccini's
happy knack of handling concerted music. The next scene is a series of
quarrels and reconciliations between the two pairs of lovers, while in
the last act Mimi, who has deserted Rodolphe, comes back to see him once
more before she dies, and breathes her last on the little bed in the
attic. Puccini's music echoes the spirit of Murger's romance with
marvellous sincerity. It paints the mingled joy and grief of Bohemian
life in hues the most delicate and tender. Like Murger, though dealing
with things often squalid and unlovely, he never forgets that he is an
artist. The sordid facts of life are gilded by the rainbow colours of
romance. Puccini has caught the fanciful grace of Murger's style with
the dexterity of genius. His music is thoroughly Italian in style, but
he never strikes a false note. He dashes off the irresponsible gaiety of
the earlier scenes with a touch which though light is always sure, and
when the action deepens to tenderness, and even to pathos, he can be
serious without falling into sentimentality and impressive without
encroaching upon the boundaries of melodrama. 'La Bohème' is one of the
few operas of recent years which can be described as a masterpiece.
With 'La Tosca,' which was produced in 1899, Puccini won another
success, though for very different reasons from those which made 'La
Bohème' so conspicuous a triumph. The libretto is a clever condensation
of Sardou's famous drama. The scene is laid in Rome in the year 1800. In
the first act we are introduced to Mario Cavaradossi, a painter, who is
at work in a church, and to Flora Tosca, his mistress, a famous singer,
who pays him a visit and teases him with her jealous reproaches.
Cavaradossi befriends Angelotti, a victim of Papal tyranny, who has
escaped from the castle of St Angelo, and despatches him by a secret
path to his villa in the outskirts of Rome. Scarpia, the chief of
police, who is close upon Angelotti's heels, suspects Cavaradossi of
being implicated in Angelotti's escape, and uses La Tosca's jealous
suspicions to help him in securing the prisoner. In the next act
Angelotti is still at large, but Cavaradossi has been arrested. Scarpia,
who has meanwhile conceived a violent passion for La Tosca, extracts
from her the secret of Angelotti's hiding-place by putting her lover to
the torture in an adjoining room, whence his cries penetrate to her
distracted ears. La Tosca buys her lover's safety by promising herself
to Scarpia. The latter gives orders that Cavaradossi's execution shall
only be a sham one, blank cartridge being substituted for bullets. When
they are left alone, La Tosca murders Scarpia with a carving-knife when
he tries to embrace her. In the last act, after a passionate duet
between the lovers, Cavaradossi is executed--Scarpia having given a
secret order to the effect that the execution shall be genuine after
all--and La Tosca in despair throws herself into the Tiber.
In 'La Tosca' we are in a world very different from that of 'La Bohème.'
Here there is very little scope for grace and tenderness. All is deadly
earnest. The melodramatic incidents of the story crowd one upon another,
and in the rush and excitement of the plot the music often has to take a
secondary place. Whenever the composer has a chance he utilises it with
rare skill. There are passages in 'La Tosca' of great lyrical beauty,
but as a rule the exigencies of the stage give little room for musical
development, and a great deal of the score is more like glorified
incidental music than the almost symphonic fabric to which we are
accustomed in modern opera.
The history of 'Madama Butterfly' (1904), Puccini's latest opera, is a
strange one. At its production in Milan it was hissed off the stage and
withdrawn after a single performance. No one seems to know why it failed
to please the Scala audience, with whom Puccini had previously been a
great favourite. Possibly the unfamiliar Japanese surroundings
displeased the conservative Milanese, or the singers may have been
inadequate. At any rate, when it was revived a few months later at
Brescia, in a slightly revised form, it won more favour, and its London
appearance the following year was a brilliant triumph. Since then it has
gone the round of Europe and America, and is now probably the most
popular opera in the modern repertory. The story of 'Madama Butterfly'
is familiar to English hearers, the opera being founded upon the drama
by David Belasco, which was played here with great success some years
ago. Peculiarly apt for musical setting is the tale of the fascinating
little 'mousmé' who contracts a so-called Japanese marriage with a
lieutenant in the American navy, and after a brief union is driven by
his perfidy to suicide. That the story is what may be called edifying
can hardly be claimed, but the world has long since ceased to
expect--perhaps even to desire--that opera should inculcate a lofty
moral code.
However, to come to business, the scene opens in the garden of a country
house among the hills above Nagasaki. Lieutenant Pinkerton and his
friend Sharpless, the American consul, are inspecting the retreat which
the former has prepared for his Japanese wife. The voices of Butterfly
and her girl friends are soon heard in the distance as they ascend the
hill. After an amusing scene of greeting and introduction comes the
marriage ceremony and its attendant festivities, which are interrupted
by the arrival of Butterfly's uncle. This venerable person, who is a
priest in a neighbouring temple, has discovered that Butterfly has
renounced her own religion and adopted that of her 'husband.' He
pronounces the most portentous maledictions upon her and is bundled out
by Pinkerton. The act ends with a love-duet of extraordinary beauty,
breathing tenderness and passion in strains which seem to embody all the
charm and mystery of the perfumed eastern night. Three years have passed
when the next act begins. Butterfly is deserted and lives with her
two-year-old baby and her faithful maid Suzuki, praying and waiting for
the husband who never comes. The friendly consul tries to break to her
the news of Pinkerton's marriage with an American girl, but Butterfly
cannot comprehend such perfidy. She sees Pinkerton's ship entering the
harbour and calls Suzuki to help her deck the house with flowers. The
music of this scene is exquisite, as is also that of the scene in which
Sharpless reads Pinkerton's letter to Butterfly; but the whole act is a
treasure-house of delicious melody and tender pathos. It ends curiously,
but not the less effectively, with a short orchestral movement, played
whilst Butterfly, Suzuki, and the child post themselves at the windows
to watch through the night for the coming of Pinkerton. The grey dawn
shows Butterfly still at her post, though the others have fallen asleep,
but no Pinkerton appears. A little later that singularly unheroic person
sneaks in with his wife, whom he commissions to interview Butterfly
while he waits in the garden outside. Mrs. Pinkerton rather
cold-bloodedly offers to take charge of the child, to which Butterfly
agrees, and, after a passionate farewell, kills herself behind a
screen. Puccini's music is unquestionably the strongest thing he has
done yet. The score is richer and more solid than that of any of his
earlier works, and the orchestration shows no falling off in ingenuity
and resource. Melodically 'Madama Butterfly' is perhaps not so fresh or
abundant as 'La Bohème,' but the composer's touch is firmer and surer in
handling dramatic situations. 'Madama Butterfly' is unquestionably one
of the most interesting and important operas of modern times, as it is
one of the most attractive. It has established Puccini more firmly than
ever in the position of the leading operatic composer of the day.
The name of Pietro Mascagni is chiefly connected in the minds of
opera-goers with 'Cavalleria Rusticana,' This work, which was produced
in 1890, lifted its composer at once into popularity. The story is
founded upon one of Verga's Sicilian tales. Turiddu, a village Adonis,
is beloved by the fair Lola. He enlists as a soldier, and on his return
from the wars finds that the fickle damsel has married Alfio, a carter.
He looks round him for fresh conquests, and his choice falls upon
Santuzza. This arouses all Lola's latent coquetry, and she soon
contrives to win him back to her side. The deserted Santuzza appeals in
vain to his love and pity. He repulses her roughly, and in despair she
tells Alfio the story of his wife's inconstancy. Alfio challenges
Turiddu to mortal combat, and kills him as the curtain falls. Squalid as
the story is, it is full of life and movement, and has that simple
directness which is essential to success. The music is melodious, if
not very original, and vigorous even to brutality. Mascagni here shows a
natural instinct for the theatre. His method is often coarse, but his
effects rarely miss their mark. At its production 'Cavalleria' was
absurdly overpraised, but it certainly is a work of promise.
Unfortunately the promise so far has not been fulfilled. 'L'Amico Fritz'
and 'I Rantzau,' two adaptations of novels by Erckmann-Chatrian,
produced respectively in 1891 and 1892, have almost disappeared from the
current repertory. The first is a delicate little story of an old
bachelor's love for a pretty country girl, the second a village 'Romeo
and Juliet,' showing how an internecine feud between two brothers is
ended by the mutual love of their children. Mascagni's melodramatic
style was ill suited to idylls of this kind. He drowned the pretty
little stories in oceans of perfervid orchestration, and banged all the
sentiment out of them with drums and cymbals. Yet, in the midst of the
desert of coarseness and vulgarity came oases of delicate fancy and
imagination. The 'Cherry Duet' in 'L'Amico Fritz,' and the _Cicaleccio_
chorus in 'I Rantzau,' are models of refinement and finish, which are
doubly delightful by reason of their incongruous environment.
Unfortunately such gems as these only make the coarseness of their
setting the more conspicuous, and on the whole the sooner the world
forgets about 'L'Amico Fritz' and 'I Rantzau' the better it will be for
Mascagni's reputation. 'Guglielmo Ratcliff' and 'Silvano,' both produced
in 1895, have not been heard out of Italy, nor is there much
probability that they will ever cross the Alps. 'Zanetto' (1896), on
the other hand, seems to contain the best work which Mascagni has yet
given to the world. It is founded upon Francois Coppée's charming
duologue, 'Le Passant,' a graceful scene between a world-weary courtesan
and a youthful troubadour who passes beneath her balcony. Mascagni's
music, which is scored only for strings and harp, is both delicate and
refined, and instinct with a tender melancholy, for which it would be
vain to look in his earlier works. 'Iris' (1898), an opera on a rather
unpleasant Japanese story, has met with a certain degree of favour, but
'Le Maschere' (1901), an attempt to introduce Harlequin and Columbine to
the lyric stage, failed completely, nor does 'Amica' (1905) seen to have
done much to rehabilitate the composer's waning reputation. Mascagni has
as yet done little to justify the extravagant eulogies with which his
first work was greeted, and his warmest admirers are beginning to fear
that the possibility of his doing something to redeem the early promise
of 'Cavalleria' is getting rather remote.
Leoncavallo, though older than Mascagni, must be regarded as in a
certain sense his follower, since his most popular work, 'Pagliacci,'
was undoubtedly inspired by 'Cavalleria Rusticana.' The story begins
with the arrival of a troupe of travelling comedians, or _Pagliacci_, in
an Italian village. All is not harmony in the little company. Tonio (the
Taddeo, or clown) loves Nedda (Columbine), the wife of Canio
(Pagliaccio), but she already has a lover in the shape of Silvio, a
young villager, and rejects the clumsy advances of the other with scorn.
Tonio overhears the mutual vows of Nedda and her lover, and bent upon
vengeance, hurries off to bring the unsuspecting Canio upon the scene.
He only arrives in time to see the disappearance of Silvio, and cannot
terrify his wife into disclosing her lover's name, though he is only
just prevented by Beppe, the Harlequin of the troupe, from stabbing her
on the spot. The second act is on the evening of the same day, a few
hours later. The curtain of the rustic theatre goes up and the little
play begins. By a curious coincidence the scheme of the plot represents
something like the real situation of the actors. Columbine is
entertaining her lover Harlequin in the absence of her husband
Pagliaccio, while Taddeo keeps a look-out for his return. When he
returns we see that the mimic comedy is to develop into real tragedy.
Canio scarcely makes a pretence of keeping to his rôle of Pagliaccio.
Mad with jealousy, he rushes on his wife and tries to make her confess
the name of her lover. She refuses, and in the end he stabs her, while
Silvio, who has formed one of the rustic audience, leaps on to the stage
only to receive his death-blow as well. As in 'Cavalleria,' the theme of
the story is squalid and unpleasant, though lucid and undeniably
effective for stage purposes. The music makes an effective accompaniment
to the exciting incidents of the plot, but it has few claims to
intrinsic interest. Leoncavallo is never much of a melodist, and
'Pagliacci' teems with reminiscences. The opera was probably written in
a hurry, in order to pander to the taste for melodrama which
'Cavalleria' had excited. In 'I Medici' (1893), a tale of the Florentine
Renaissance, Leoncavallo aimed far higher. Here, too, however, his music
is for the most part a string of ill-digested reminiscences, though
scored with such extraordinary cleverness and fertility of resource as
almost to disguise the inherent poverty of the score. 'Chatterton'
(1896) was a failure, but 'La Bohème' (1897), though somewhat cast into
the shade by Puccini's work upon the same subject, scored a decided
success. Leoncavallo's music is conceived in a totally different mood
from that of Puccini. He has little of Puccini's grace and tenderness,
but he treated the scenes of Bohemian life with amazing energy and
spirit, if with an occasional suggestion of brutality. 'Zaza' (1900),
founded upon a French play which recently achieved a scandalous
notoriety, has found little favour even in Italy. Leoncavallo's latest
work, 'Der Roland,' was written in response to a commission from the
German Emperor, who believed that he had found in the composer of 'I
Medici' a musician worthy to celebrate the mighty deeds of the
Hohenzollerns. 'Der Roland' was produced in a German version at Berlin
in 1904, and in spite of Court patronage failed completely.
Umberto Giordano, who during the last few years has steadily worked his
way to the front rank of Italian composers, started his career with a
_succès de scandale_ in 'Mala Vita' (1892), a coarse and licentious
imitation of 'Cavalleria Rusticana.' There is far better work in 'Andrea
Chénier' (1896), a stirring tale of the French Revolution set to music
which shows uncommon dramatic power and in certain scenes a fine sense
of lyrical expression. After a good deal of preludial matter the plot
centres in the rivalry of Chénier the poet and Gérard, a revolutionary
leader, for the hand of Madeleine. Gérard condemns Chénier to death, but
is melted by Madeleine's pleading, and rescinds the order for his
execution. The pardon, however, comes too late, and Madeleine and
Chénier ascend the scaffold together, in an ecstasy of lyrical rapture.
'Fedora' (1898), an adaptation of Sardou's famous drama, has less
musical interest than 'Andrea Chénier,' the breathless incidents of the
plot giving but little scope for musical treatment. The first act shows
the death of Vladimir, the police investigation and Fedora's vow to
discover the murderer. In the second Fedora extorts from Loris Ipanoff a
confession of the vengeance that he wreaked upon the perfidious
Vladimir, and, finding Loris innocent and Vladimir guilty, in a sudden
revulsion of feeling throws herself into Loris's arms, bidding him stay
with her rather than leave the house to fall into the hands of spies. In
the third act Fedora, certain of detection, confesses to Loris her
previous machinations against him, which have resulted in the deaths of
his mother and brother, and takes poison before his eyes. Giordano
touched a far higher level in 'Siberia' (1903), a gloomy tale of
Russian crime and punishment. Stephana, a courtesan, among all her
lovers cares only for the young sergeant Vassili. Vassili, who has
learnt to love her, not knowing who she is, when he discovers the truth,
bursts in upon a fête she is giving, quarrels with a lieutenant and
kills him on the spot. He is condemned to exile in Siberia, but is
followed by Stephana, who overtakes him at the frontier, and gets leave
to share his fate. In the mines they find Globy, Stephana's original
seducer, whose infamy she exposes to the assembled convicts. In revenge
Globy betrays to the authorities a project of escape devised by Stephana
and Vassili, and the lovers are shot just as liberty appears to be
within their grasp. The music of 'Siberia' is more artistic than
anything Giordano has previously written. The situations are skilfully
handled, and the note of pity and pathos is touched with no uncertain
hand. The opera is unequal, but the scene of the halt at the frontier is
treated in masterly fashion.
Francesco Ciléa won no marked success until the production of his
'Adriana Lecouvreur' in 1902. The plot is an adaptation of Scribe's
famous play, but so trenchantly abbreviated as to be almost
incomprehensible. The opening scene in the _foyer_ of the Comédie
Française is bright and lively, the handling of the score arousing
pleasant reminiscences of Verdi's 'Falstaff,' but the more dramatic
passages in the struggle of Adrienne and her rival the Princess de
Bouillon for Maurice de Saxe seem to be outside the scope of the
composer's talent, and the great moments of the piece are somewhat
frigid and unimpressive. There is a note of pathos, however, in
Adrienne's death-scene, and the character of Michonnet is elaborated
with skill and feeling. Ciléa's latest opera, 'Gloria' (1907), a
blood-thirsty story of the struggle between the Guelphs and Ghibellines,
does not appear to have won much favour in Italy.
Edoardo Mascheroni's early laurels were won as a conductor, but in 1901
he sprang into fame as the composer of 'Lorenza,' an opera which has met
with much success in various cities of Spain and Spanish America as well
as in Italy. 'Lorenza' is a Calabrian version of the time-honoured story
of Judith and Holofernes, though in this case the Judith, so far from
slaying her brigand Holofernes, falls in love with him, and ends by
disguising herself in his cloak and allowing herself to be shot by the
soldiers who come to capture the bandit chief. Mascheroni's score
overflows with thoroughly Italian melody, and shows considerable
knowledge of dramatic effect, which from a conductor of his experience
was only to be expected.
Of the numerous other Italian composers who bask in the sunshine of
popularity south of the Alps very few are known to fame beyond the
frontiers of Italy. The younger men follow religiously in the steps of
Mascagni or Puccini, while their elders still hang on to the skirts of
'Aida.' Giacomo Orefice won a success of curiosity in 1901 with his
'Chopin,' a strange work dealing in fanciful fashion with the story of
the Polish composer's life, the melodies of the opera being taken
entirely from Chopin's music.
Spinelli's 'A Basso Porto' (1895), which has been performed in English
by the Carl Rosa Opera Company, is redolent of Mascagni's influence, but
the nauseating incidents of the plot make 'Cavalleria,' by comparison,
seem chaste and classical. The libretto deals with the vengeance wreaked
by a villainous Neapolitan street loafer upon a woman who has played him
false--a vengeance which takes the form of ruining her son by drink and
play, and of attempting to seduce her daughter. In the end this
egregious ruffian is murdered in the street by the mother of his two
victims, just in time to prevent his being knifed by the members of a
secret society whom he had betrayed to justice. The music is not without
dramatic vigour, and it has plenty of melody of a rough and ready kind.
There is technical skill, too, in the treatment of the voices and in the
orchestration, but hardly enough to reconcile an English audience to so
offensive a book. Salvatore Auteri-Manzocchi has never repeated the
early success of 'Dolores,' and Spiro Samara, a Greek by birth, but an
Italian by training and sympathies, seems to have lost the secret of the
delicate imagination which nearly made 'Flora Mirabilis' a European
success, though his 'Martire,' a work of crude sensationalism, enjoyed
an ephemeral success in Italy. Franchetti, the composer of 'Asrael,'
'Cristoforo Colombo,' and other works, conceived upon a scale grandiose
rather than grand, appears anxious to emulate the theatrical glories of
Meyerbeer, and to make up for poverty of inspiration by spectacular
magnificence, but none of his operas has yet succeeded in crossing the
Alps.